A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (23 page)

“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.

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.

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.