by Mike Morris
CRY HAVOC
MIKE MORRIS
CONTENTS
Untitled
1. In the year 702 Post Nostros
2. 702 Pn
3. 702 Pn
4. 702 Pn
5. 702 Pn
6. 702 Pn
7. 702 Pn
8. 702 Pn
9. 702 Pn
10. 702 Pn
11. 702 Pn
12. 702 Pn
13. 702 Pn
14. 705 Pn
15. 705 Pn
16. 708 Pn
17. 708 PN
18. 708 Pn
19. 708 Pn
20. 712 Pn
21. 712 Pn
22. 712 Pn
23. 712 Pn
24. 712 Pn
25. 712 Pn
26. 712 Pn
27. 712 Pn
28. 712 Pn
29. 712 Pn
30. 712 Pn
31. 713 Pn
32. 713 Pn
33. 713 Pn
34. 713 Pn
35. 713 Pn
36. 713 Pn
37. 713 Pn
38. 713 Pn
39. 713 Pn
40. 713 Pn
41. 713 Pn
42. 713 Pn
Afterword
"Cry, 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war."
Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare
For Tee, Dee and Zee as ever and always
1
IN THE YEAR 702 POST NOSTROS
“I’m going to murder you when I catch you!”
Jack Frey ran as if all the demons in the world chased after him. His bare feet pounded the cobbled stone as he tried to keep up with his brother but Brendan, at ten years old was two years his senior, and that much quicker, and a gap soon opened between them.
Behind him, the shouts grew closer.
"Stop! Thief! Thief!"
The wide avenue was full of traders and shoppers. Everyone turned to see what the commotion was as the two boys raced past. A man half-heartedly reached out a hand to grab Jack's collar but he dipped down, leaving the man grasping air. A horse reared up as Brendan zigzagged past, its red-faced rider shouting abuse as he struggled to keep the animal under control. A coal cart made its way across the pathway, blocking the brothers' escape. Brendan jumped up, onto it and leaped to the ground on the other side while Jack scrambled beneath it. He stole a cheeky backward glance and saw their pursuers clatter into the cart. The fat man, whose house they robbed, looked even unhappier behind his silly black mustache. Desperation filled his voice for one last plea. "Someone stop them! Please stop them!"
Fat chance fat man. Rich folks don't get involved. Too much trouble, too many chances of getting their hands dirty. In Jack's neck of the woods, it was a different story. Someone would have a go. Of course, it wouldn’t be out of good will. They’d want a reward, or nick whatever they had stolen for themselves. They'd do anything for a penny in Brixteth because no one had anything — so everything was up for grabs. That's why he and his brother ventured over the river to Grayston. If you are going on the rob, you need to be where the money is. There was no point stealing from the poor after all.
Up ahead, Brendan swung around a corner into an alley. Jack followed, plunging into the shadows between two stone houses and slipped as he turned. The sack in his hand clanged against the ground as he rolled across the cobbles. Jack hoped nothing was dented — his brother would beat him if it were. Jack scrambled back to his feet and chased after his brother, eager to get away.
A wooden fence blocked off the far end of the alley. Brendan didn't hesitate. He jumped, caught the top of the fence and pulled himself up. He straddled it, throwing a hand out towards Jack. "Throw me the sack. Be quick."
Jack hurled the sack at his brother with all his might but he missed Brendan's fingers by inches. The bag fell to the ground. His brother didn't say anything. The glare was more than enough. Jack had let him down again. He could feel the burn on his cheeks as he picked up the sack. He swung again, harder. This time it worked. Brendan caught the sack.
"See you at home," said Brendan as he winked at his brother before dropping to the ground on the other side of the fence.
"Brendan!" Jack stood there, ready for his brother to reappear and hoist him up. Brendan was just teasing him. He’d come back. Jack stared at the top of the fence, willing his brother to return, hoping it wasn’t another one of his lessons in growing up.
"There he is!" Jack spun around. His pursuers bundled into the alley, trapping him.
"We got you now, son. It's the hangman for you," panted the fat man, waddling into the alleyway. Sweat covered his face as he fought for breath, his beady eyes locked on Jack. His lackeys stood behind him, laughing at Jack's plight.
There wasn’t any waiting for Brendan anymore. Jack leaped; snatched at the top of the fence but his fingers caught only splinters. He felt very small as he fell back down.
The fat man cracked his knuckles as he walked towards Jack, his lackeys following. Jack's stomach lurched. He blinked away the forming tears. No way was he going to show these rich fools that he was scared.
"Nowhere to run now," said the fat man. "You aren't going anywhere except the magistrates — after I've beaten you to hell and back. Not even a Nostros would want to eat you when I'm done."
Jack looked around for someway to escape, a weapon to use but the alley was empty. If this were Jack's neighborhood, they'd be broken crates and piles of garbage to help climb him over the fence. Or half the fence would be missing, having been taken for firewood. But, in Grayston, there wasn't a crate to step on or even a stick that could be used as a club. Bloody rich people. Couldn't count on them for anything. He tried jumping once more but the fence hadn't shrunk.
The fat man grabbed him before he could try a third time, yanked him off his feet. The man's breath stunk of roasted onions as he pulled Jack closer, grinning all the while behind that silly mustache.
"Now where's my silver, you little runt." The man's face burned with self-righteous fury.
"I ain't got your stuff," said Jack, wriggling in the man's grasp. "I didn't do nothing."
"He's the one who stole it, sir," said one of the other men, a doorman by the looks of him; all stiff collared and tailed coat. He whacked a truncheon into the palm of his hand. "I saw him coming out of the window, sure as day follows night." The other two lackeys nodded in agreement.
"He's a liar!" shouted Jack. He struggled but there was now ay to break the fat man's grip.
The doorman jabbed the truncheon at him. "You're the liar. And a thief. His lordship will see you hung." The servant next to the doorman looked only a few years older than Jack, but there was no help there. The third one, with mottled veins all over his beak nose, smirked at Jack dangling in his boss' grasp.
Jack didn't want to be hung. He knew that for certain.
He grabbed the man's mustache, yanking hard. The fat man screamed as tufts of hair came away in the Jack's hands and he released the boy. The doorman and the young man both lunged for but he skipped past, sprinting back towards the main street.
The crowds consumed Jack. He ran, darting through people standing around talking about nothing important, pushing his way past servants trailing their masters. He cut left then right then left again.
Horse drawn carriages filled the avenue in both directions but Jack didn't pause as he sprinted across the road and into the crowd on the opposite side. He lost himself amongst the press of bodies until he was sure he wasn't being chased anymore.
Only when he didn't recognize any faces around him or hear any cries of pursuit, did he slow down and stop. He stepped to one side, out of the crush, and felt his heart begin to slow down. He was fre
e.
Leaning against a tree, Jack looked around. It was different in Grayston, the northern quarter of Arbour, in so many ways. People were happy, well-fed, smiling. With their stone walled houses and clean streets and big trees, they didn't have a care in the world as they strolled past stalls filled with too much food to choose from. Jealousy flared inside Jack. None of these people would last a day in Jack’s neighborhood. Maybe not even an hour. He’d like to see them cope with the dirt and the lice and the rats. They wouldn’t last a day with no food in their belly.
As if on cue, Jack's stomach rumbled. He’d not eaten since early the day before. Hopefully, Brendan would get the silver plates to Mr Giles in time. They could pay the rent owed and have some left over for dinner with any luck.
Brendan. He still didn't believe his brother had left him. He looked across the sea of faces, half—expecting to see his brother waiting for him, laughing at the close call at the hands of the fat man. His brother had a cruel sense of humor sometimes.
"'Ere." A hand clipped him around the ear. A shop owner stood over him. "I'm not having your sort hanging around my shop, wanting to steal something and driving off my good customers. Sling your 'ook back to Brixteth, before I sling it for you."
Jack glared back but wasn't going to argue with the man. He flicked two fingers at the man instead and spat at his feet, then Jack was off at a run. He might be defiant but he wasn’t bloody stupid. he’s pushed his luck enough for one day. There was no need for the police to come looking. One look at Jack in his tattered, filthy clothes and they’d lock him up, even without a crime to pin it on.
A man walked past with a frilly, ruffled collar sticking out of a gold embroidered doublet and Jack tried not to laugh. The man had more money than sense. Why anyone would want to waste cash on looking ? He’d rather keep the money or spend it on food.
Jack trudged on towards the river and home. It was a long walk back to the southern quarter of Arbour, a long walk empty-handed on an empty stomach, so better he get it over with quick as he could.
It took Jack a good hour to get to the river and there everything changed. The sun seemed to know it as well, ducking behind a cloud and the world lost all color. Over the bridge was a different world from Grayston with its space and big homes with hardly anyone in them. In Brixteth, people made use of every square inch they had. They didn't even waste the riverfront. Houses of every size perched on stilts over the water. Washing lines dangled between them and fishing lines dropped into the sludge-covered surface. Little boats nipped between and under the buildings, ferrying people home or selling scrap.
Once over the bridge, the air even lost its freshness. The stink of sweat was on everyone as they hustled past. It always seemed worse than it was at first but that was because Jack had been over to Grayston, breathing the rich man's air.
Where Grayson had its wide, tree-lined avenues, Brixteth was a rabbit warren of buildings squeezed together. Some streets were no more than two people wide. Buildings climbed up into the only space left — the sky, stopping the sun from ever reaching the pavements.
There was an equal hustle and bustle on the streets in Brixteth but faces here had a determined set to them. People were going to work, coming home from work or looking for work. Might not be lawful work but there wasn't anyone who wasn't on the graft of some sort. Brixteth didn't put up with any passengers. It would chew you up before you knew it.
Still, Jack loved it here. These were his cramped streets, his dirty people, and his stinking air. He'd lived here all his life with his mum and Brendan. He belonged here. Arbour was the capital of Abios and every type of person lived there. The rich had Grayston, the Royals the West and Hampford and the traders had the Docklands in the East but Brixteth was his.
Old Mrs Waters waved as he passed, asked him to pass on her love to his old mum. A chicken squawked in her other hand, soon to be in her famous pot. Maybe if Brendan got enough money, they'd be able to buy a bowl of stew from her tonight. The thought got his mouth watering something bad. He loved her stews. He nodded at Big John who was arguing the odds with Hamish from the house next door. Those two were always at each other over something. Probably the same row had been going on for their entire lives. Hamish's two daughters were running rings around his legs as he shouted over from one stoop to the next. The girls were younger than Jack. All wild blonde hair and non-stop mischief. Their dog lay on the doorstep, looking down on them all with disapproval. Heather, the youngest, claimed it was part wolf but it always wagged its tail at everyone.
He passed the church with the usual crowd gathered outside, listening to the Preacher. Father Heath stood on a wooden box with his staff, topped with a silver circle, in one hand, and his battered holy book in the other. Behind him, two of the church ladies stood behind huge urns of soup on a trestle table. After Father Heath finished his sermon, they would dish up a free meal to who’d listened. Jack had tried sneaking in line many a time but the women knew who had been there for the service and who hadn't. Most times all he got was a cuff around the ear.
After a while, Jack stopped trying and walked on by. His mother told him often enough the church was a waste of time and God was just a way for the rich to get more money off the poor. Maybe that was the case up in Grayston but Father Heath never looked well off. His gaunt face had two or three days stubble and his robes were as ragged as any of his parishioners'.
"Across the sea lurk the Nostros. Demons, ready to eat your souls. Only by God's good will do we still stand free here, in Abios. Be grateful for the gift of life He has given us. Be worthy of His love so He does not forsake us." Father Heath's voice was full of emotion. Mutterings of "amen" fluttered through the crowd. He held his staff aloft, drawing all eyes to the circle. "The Circle is the Holy symbol of our His Church. It represents the journey of life we all undergo, from birth to death to rebirth in the Heavens above. It represents His eye under which we strive. It represents His shield that protects us from the evil of the Nostros and the shelter His sun gives us." Father Heath's face reddened. "I ask you now to bow down before it and join me in prayer lest we ever forget. Join me in thanking God for all he has done and continues to do in tending to His flock here in Abios."
Jack watched the crowd drop to their knees. Father Heath caught his eye and smiled, gesturing for Jack to join them. For a moment he nearly did. He liked the preacher — the man had a way of talking that made you listen. But then he remembered his mother's words and the ribbing Brendan would give him.
Jack nodded to the preacher and ran off. Five minutes later, he turned into Elgin Street. He lived in one of the old houses, blackened from fire and half fallen down. The old timers said dragons burned it but that was just a tale they told the kids to keep them from misbehaving. Jack had never seen a dragon nor had anyone he knew. It didn't stop him from checking the skies though. It would be stupid to get eaten just because he hadn't seen something with his own eyes.
Jack jumped over some rubble scattered across the street. Most of the buildings in the road had collapsed in some way but there was no money to fix them; people just blocked off what they could or moved somewhere else. He passed the Butcher's son squatting in a pile of rubble doing his business. Jack's mother made him go down by the water for that but a lot of people just couldn't be bothered. What was another pile of muck in Brixteth?
The stairs to Jack's home were just as broken as the rest of it. The third step threatened to collapse if you put any weight on it and only a fool would trust the left railing. Inside was dark as always. Mold added to the damp in the air.
Jack and his family lived in a single room at the top, on the third floor. Mr Giles rented it to them for two coppers a week. For that, they got four walls and a roof that didn't leak. The floor and walls were warped and half rotten, but at least they still did what they were supposed to do. The door didn't lock but they'd only had to fight off squatters once. Mr Giles’ reputation managed to keep most troublemakers away. Still, they kept a few good bricks
hidden to deal with anyone trying their luck.
Inside, his mother slept in the single cot in the room. It was a few hours before she started work at Jerry's bar so Jack crept in. She didn't like being woken early. At least he could only see only the one bottle at the foot of the bed.
Jack hated her drinking, as it didn't make her happy like it did other people. She'd either get angry or sad or start screaming and shouting. Often she'd hit one of her boys, depending upon who was nearest — but more often than not it would be Brendan. His brother said it was because she didn't love him like she loved Jack but he couldn't see that. She didn't appear to love either of them that much when she drank. She'd been like that ever since his father died.