A Tailor's Son (Valadfar)

by Damien Tiller

  “Father, please wait, Can I have a moment ?” Harold said, his throat still filled with sorrow that made his voice weak. Harold didn’t know at the time what made him call out, nor did he know why he felt the need to speak with the priest at all but when Paul didn’t stop Harold became more determined. He called out again, quickening his step. “Father, please wait. I need to speak to you.”

  “ Harold, what are you doing?” Muriel whispered next to him, her bemusement clear on her face. Reluctantly, the vicar stopped and turned to look at him. His stone cold eyes glazed staring past Harold and Harold could sense his frustration at his interruption during his escape.

  “ What is it my child?” Was what Paul actually said, but Harold could tell it was not what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell them to get lost and leave his church. The words might not have been said but it was clear from the way he looked towards them.

  “I just wanted to say thank you for the service, my father would have loved it.” Harold lied, not that his father would have not been satisfied with his send off for he would have been.

  “Why, thank you my child.” Paul said, but again, his words didn’t match his attitude and his eyes hungrily fell on Muriel. She noticed it too and stepped behind Harold for comfort.

  “ Harold, I think we should get going.” Muriel said, turning away from the priest’s ravenous stare. “The coach is waiting.” She added, and begun pulling away from Harold but not letting go of his hand so he would be forced to go with her.

  “ Harold?” The Reverend Paul questioned and Harold nodded, before being forced to turn around by Muriel’s quickening retreat towards the open door. Her hand still in his was clasped down tighter giving him no choice but to follow, trotting behind Muriel. They quickly made their way outside. Whatever it was that had been so urgent to the Reverend behind that curtain seemed to have slipped his mind as he stood staring at them as they left. At the time Harold wondered if he was still eyeing up Muriel but Paul was looking at him. Paul had thought he recognised the name from when the O’Brien’s had mentioned it. Harold Spinks should be a dead man. Paul realised Harold was the one he had hired the O’Brien’s to kill.

  Chapter 27: Good Little Sacellum Boys It is strange how things turn out and Harold sometimes wondered if everything was pre-ordained. After they left the intrusive stare of Paul behind they slowed down to a more normal walking pace. The main chapel behind them, they had walked through the solemn crowds, the coaches already filling fast by the time they got there. Harold glanced around for his mother but she was nowhere to be seen. She had been led away by some well-meaning relative. The burial over and the family all made their way back to Harold’s house. They drank far too much and ate the food brought in by distant relatives whose faces Harold had long ago forgotten. It was the night to begin the mourning of his late father but also for Harold it would turn out to be one graced by hidden blessings. Ernest and Neill had been searching for him since they had retreated from Harold’s father’s rather surprising turn of strength. Their interest in seeing him dead had doubled by the embarrassment of the defeat by an old man. The O’Brien gang had been losing face ever since the Queens burnt down, and having a tailor’s son eluding them just added to their problems. The harbour had already started battling for control over vice. Several would-be gang lords had appeared and brawls had become even more common in the sea salt coated streets. If the O’Brien’s clung to any chance of holding onto the dominance their father had built up, then they had to show they still had might enough to be reckoned with. They had to step up their hunt for Harold and in doing so it was only a matter of time until they came back to the site of their defeat looking for him.

  While Harold and his family sat drinking and reminiscing, his father’s body still cooling in Saint Anne’s catacombs, Ernest and Neill closed in on them. Word had got back to them about the old man’s funeral passing through the streets earlier that day and they could only hope that Harold would be at the wake. The plan was a simple one. Block the front door, the only way in or out of the Spinks household and, with a fistful of Fire Sticks and pound and a half of gunpowder, they would turn the inside into an inferno. Ernest stomped in front of Neill who kept rubbing his arm that had swollen in size and looked like he was smuggling golf balls under his skin the bones obviously broken. Ernest swigged down the last of some unknown alcohol before he pushed the dirty brown bottle back into its resting place inside his jacket. Life seemed a little easier after a tipple.

  The city streets were dark because of the heavy rain dowsing the candle lit street lamps making it hard to see. The wet cobbles were slippery and already half-drunk, the two muddled on through the wettest night of the year with difficulty. A sharp crash and clatter followed by a sharp outburst from behind made Ernest stop.

  “ Sacellum-n-dam” Neill called out; kicking the small tin soldier figure he had tripped over into the road. “Bloody brats ‘ere are rich enough to leave their toys out to rust in the rain then, kids, I bloody hate kids.” He continued rubbing his sore shin that had been stabbed by the tiny tin warriors’ sword.

  “ You hate everyone you báltaí.” Ernest chuckled as they turned another blind corner in the dark. They were greeted by an empty road, and the lights here had been snuffed too. Only the faint glow from house windows shone off the surface water along the road marking the edge of the footpath that ran either side of the gutter.

  “ Téigh trasna ort féin” Neill replied in native Drow. His ankle was still throbbing as he hobbled close behind. “You even know where we are going?”

  “ Of course I know where we are going. You think I’m daft or something?” Ernest stopped abruptly. He couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the lack of people on the streets around them. They were both unaware that something had tracked them down. They’d made their way lurking in shadows in the foulest of nights and they’d thought they were completely alone but something had been following the odour of tobacco and spirits trailing behind them. That something was William. They had paved a clear and colourful path through the night and now he watched from the darkness like a mountain lion waiting to pounce.

  “Come on you half wit try to keep up and leave the kids toys alone.” Ernest said, fighting the nagging feeling he was being watched. He turned his back on Neill and made his way onwards, now only two roads from Harold’s house.

  William had tracked the two since they left the pub. The cold and rain really did not bother him but it kept the working girls inside and his hunger never seemed to fade. Male flesh was not his preferred meal but beggars could not be choosers and it was better than the rats or dogs he snacked on normally. By now, any trace of William, the husband and father, had died to the Rakta Ishvara. He was the blood god of the small tanned skinned people from the beautiful Green Stone Isles. It was amazing the knowledge and history he had thrust upon him. He knew everything that the Rakta did, from the first days when the tribe of man encountered the Rakta lava, the leech. The glory years when the Rakta had hunted in packs ripping through the weak humans, taking some to make their numbers greater. He knew how those golden years had ended with the fall of the titans. Tribes of men fell on the encampments killing every last Rakta Ishvara and burning the bodies. William felt their pain just as every single host had. The Rakta had gone into hiding, until only one survived. It had learnt of the humankind’s stupid need for a god and used this to control them. William felt the burn of the spearhead that had pressed into the chest from the chieftain as if it was his own. The face of Reverend Paul burned into his mind like a jack lantern. The priest that had brought Rakta Ishvara to this place was the same man who killed the last blood god and now William was experiencing a new feeling. The shared conscious knew that the weak and frail creature named Paul had forced itself inside. They could not allow this. The Rakta could not risk a weak link. For so long they had remained hidden from man they had been able to survive. Now this fool would ruin it. All this information sloshed around William’s mind as he skulked in the
shadows. The two thugs walked past the Cheapside school only moments away from Harold’s home. As they turned onto the Greenway the sound of the hard rain crashing against the windows hid their footsteps. They were close now and William could sense this, fearing he would lose his prey. He had to take his chance to strike now and he wasted no time.

  His turn of speed would have left a stallion standing as he literally pounced towards them. He went for Ernest first. The smell of testosterone oozing from his pores signalled that he would be the harder prey to bring down. Ernest spun on his heels as he heard footsteps splashing through the puddles aligning the pavement. He pressed his hand down into his jacket trying to grab for his knife but his reaction was too slow. William closed in like a bull and knocked him to the floor. The impact hurt but Ernest was tough and he would not go down without a fight. With William on top of him Ernest threw a punch at his attacker, but his hand was stopped in mid air, being clamped by Williams own. Ernest yelped as his bones shattered like a broken window. William’s unmatched strength crushed Ernest’s hand flat as if it was nothing more than a grape. Ernest was sure he would die right there and then but Neill moved quickly and sunk his blade into William’s lower back puncturing a kidney. This would not kill William, not now, not much could. The only true living part of him was the parasite deep within his ribcage, but he still felt the pain. His concentration lapsed for just a second but that was long enough for Ernest who seized his chance and kicked out with both legs. This sent William staggering back a few paces before he regained his balance. He glared at Ernest and watched as the little Drow gasped for breath and scrambled backwards, away from his attacker. Ernest, his right hand hanging lifelessly from his wrist watched William pull the knife from his back with a roar of agony. Neill had managed to push it in so deep that removing it sent a spray of blood into the rain from the torn artery. As William stood holding the blade Ernest noticed his eyes. Those pure black pits that made it feel like looking into a gateway to hell. William seemed to grow bored of his prey and was more interested in what was going on behind him. He dropped the blade to the floor inches in front of Ernest before spinning, his injury seemingly not disabling him in the slightest, and closed the same crushing strength that had ruined Ernest’s hand around Neill’s throat. What happened next would scare and sicken Ernest more than anything he had seen before in his life. William opened his mouth with his jaw parting wide like a snake swallowing a rat and he bit down into Neill’s neck. Neill opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He tried to fight off William bashing him with both his good and fractured arm, but without success. Soon his body began shaking violently with uncontrollable spasms as William drank from him. A steady trickle of blood escaped Williams’ mouth and ran down his chin mixing with the rain it dripped onto the ground. The colour drained from Neill and his eyes rolled back leaving him looking like a waxwork. By the time William dropped Neil to the ground he was dead.

  William turned his attention to Ernest who was still where he had left him, paralysed in shock watching his brother’s last moments literally sucked into nothingness. A mix between pain and panic blended inside Ernest’s stomach as he sobbed, trying to roll himself onto his knees. As the shock faded into realisation Ernest tried to crawl away but he was unable to stand. His legs had turned to jelly. William laughed and slowly walked around until he blocked Ernest’s escape.

  “ No please, please don’t.” Ernest begged. William ignored the plea and pressed his foot onto Ernest’s back kicking him to the floor hard enough to sever Ernest’s spine from his pelvis with a crack. William reached down and grasped Ernest’s short cut hair and wrenched his neck back until he heard a snap and saw as the skin pulled taught over sinew and bone. He felt it free from the rest of the body. The fight over, William knelt down to finish his meal. When sated, William stood and walked away without looking back. The night was growing late and dawn was not far away. He knew he would feel weak then. It was time to return to the sewers, time to rest. William did not know at the time but he had saved Harold that night. Saved Harold but doomed the harbour to a bloody war to stake claim to the whores of the docks. The remaining Drow would have to fight hard if they wanted to keep their place in the city and there was many an Iron Giant and White Flag that would happily kill to take the money to be made that the last O’Brien would no longer collect, but this bloody story is one for another time.

  Chapter 28: Realisation On Midwek morning, Harold was still unaware of how lucky he was to be alive. The first of his family left just before daybreak to head home. Once the sun had risen the day was not much brighter with the rain still pelting down outside. Only his mother, aunt and a cousin remained. He was so glad to see his mother when he had arrived home. Part of him had worried needlessly that she may have done something stupid after they left the church, but Harold would not have admitted that to her. The room was uncomfortably silent and Harold tried to warm the atmosphere with small talk.

  “Will you be going to church today Auntie ?” Harold asked. She was renowned for her talking and Harold hoped getting her going would lighten the mood. His father used to say she never shut up and that was what had sent Uncle Peter to his grave, just so he could get a rest.

  “No not today. Are you still fine with the idea of your mother coming to stay with me?” She asked, stuffing another pastry into her mouth. She was a larger woman and it seemed the loss of his beloved father and her distraught sister did little to dampen her appetite.

  “Yes, I think it will do her good .” Harold said, thankful at the thought of his mother being away from the house.

  “What about you?” His aunt asked, meaning no doubt for him to go with his mother and stay with her. It allowed her to feel important in the family but Harold had no interest in going. He had to finish what he had started with William.

  “I have Muriel, I’ll be alright here.” He said, hoping she wouldn’t ask any more questions. Harold could tell she wanted to pry by the glint that flashed across her eyes as she looked over at Muriel, who was warming her hands by the fire, but Harold was thankful of her reserve that his aunt managed to refrain from asking.

  “We better get going soon. I want to get us home before the city wakes.” She said reaching for the dregs of wine in her glass. The liquor cupboard had been drunk bare overnight. It had been stocked rather well and Harold couldn’t help but feel that people hadn’t just used the wines and spirits to soften the pain, but instead had taken the liberty to use the excuse to drink to excess.

  “Let me grab your coats.” Harold replied, keen to see the last of his guests leave so he could think about heading up to bed. The goodbye was swift, his mother, still in shock, said nothing to him as he kissed her on the cheek. He waited and watched as they climbed into the black carriage and waved them off before stepping back inside and closing the door. Harold rested his back against it and closed his eyes, far too tired to even make the trek upstairs. Harold sat down on the floor and listened as his aunt’s coach rattled off southwards out of Greenway. Harold would later be so glad that they left that way instead of heading north. Moments after the last clip clop sound of their departure, his eyes were snapped open as the sound of a woman screaming somewhere just north of his door echoed into the night. His body found an energy pocket from somewhere, and Harold stood and threw the door open. With no shoes on, Harold ran through the puddles, striding as wide as he could and covered the few hundred yards to where the scream had come from in seconds. The noise had actually come from a young girl who now sat cuddled up against a neighbour’s front door, sobbing. She did not look up as Harold approached and he soon saw why. Ernest and Neill lay dead in the street. The pavement was stained red and a morbid trail led into the centre of the road, making it look as if it had rusted.

  Harold did not know who to go to first, the crying child or the thugs. Self-preservation drove him to examine them first. He had not forgotten their faces from his hospital bed and it didn’t take much to realise they were there for him. H
arold went to Neill who was slumped against the front wall of the Briers, an elderly couple who had lived down the street from them for a few years. Neills’s neck had been ripped open and Harold did not need to check his pulse to know that he was dead. Stepping over him, trying not to think too hard about what had happened, Harold checked on Ernest and noticed not only the same gaping neck wound but also that his neck had been snapped in two. His hand was a mess, bone poking through the skin and blood congealed over it making it look like sliced bacon left too long in a stewing pan. Again, Harold did not need to check his pulse but for some reason he went closer. His tiredness having drained any emotions Harold may have had left, he pulled Ernest onto his side, and began to search him. Harold almost cut himself as his hand pressed into his chest pocket where a broken bottle of absinth rested. There was something made of paper in there and Harold pulled it free quickly, putting it in his own pocket. Harold would read it later when he didn’t have the eyes of the neighbours’ all over him. His hand was about to move lower to check the rest of Ernest’s pockets when a door opened and Mr. Briers came out holding an old worn rapier, probably his weapon of choice in his younger days. He looked at Harold expecting some kind of explanation.