8

 The streets were quiet, they were cold and damp. The flicker of flames in glass cases on long steel posts lit up the main walkway as much as it could, the moon lit up the rest. The stones on the ground in front of me appeared black under the thin veil of water that gave them a shiny gloss. The smell of garbage wafted over me, food lay strewn about on the walkway, a robbery had probably taken place and probably by some hungry homeless men or women or even children.

 Few people walked the streets, I walked past one or two, leaning against the walls of buildings, their faces lit up by their cigarettes held between tight lips.

 I pulled my coat a little tighter, the moisture in the air held a chill with a slight breeze that caught the hairs on the back of my neck. I rubbed them for warmth.

 The cylinder danced between my fingers in my pocket. It felt hot, then cold and almost never stayed still. I tried to resist it, to resist touching its smooth surface but I couldn’t. It became a habit.

 I patted my pockets down for matches with my right hand; my left had my pipe in it and brought it up to my mouth. I stopped and kept searching, wondering if I had left them behind in Don’s house. I really didn’t want to go back, but shops wouldn’t be open this time of night. I frowned, looking out into the night.

 Something caught my eye. An unusual glow came from behind a building. It shone like a white fire out into the night. I tucked my pipe back into my pocket and took a right heading into an alley which joined the source of the glow. I stood with my back to the corner, leant out slightly and peered out onto the narrow back alley.

 I squinted into the light. It burned my eyes but I had seen it before. I stepped out, confronting it head on. The light wasn’t a fire, it was a soul. Just like the souls I saw when I entered the Netherworld.

 “What are you doing here?” I called out, “How?” My voice wavered unsure of what stood in front of me. I stepped forward, what I lacked in courage I made up in curiosity. I wondered whether it was possible for them to follow me back, for them to enter our world.

 The glow dimmed, just like when I was unconscious. A body stood in front of me, tall and thin. The man from the photo and the Netherworld peered over his thin framed glasses at me, sadness in his eyes. Unlike the emotionless state he was in before. Tears rolled down his high cheekbones.

 I approached him, still squinting at the small sun like glow that radiated from his chest. His thin goatee twitched around his thin lips.

 “Who are you?”

 He didn’t answer; again he just stared at me.

 “If you’re a soul, how could you be here? How can I see you?” I stepped back. I was confused. “I thought you were stuck in the Netherworld. Souls couldn’t cross....” I stopped short; I put my hand into my pocket and took out the cylinder. The familiar man looked at the cylinder then back into my eyes. His were hollow, empty, despite the emotion now being displayed on his face his eyes still remained dark.

 The cylinder burned, the metal turned a flame red. I dropped it. A clink rang out as it hit the stones at my feet. It rolled across the ground until it hit my boot. “It is a soul, isn’t it?”

 Slowly he nodded. The man still looked at me. The glow in his chest grew brighter, the white light consumed me. I felt its warmth, it grew hotter and brighter, it was like standing in the sun’s rays in the height of summer. I began to breathe heavier, sweat gathered on my forehead as I held a hand up.

 “Stop!” I called out but there was no response. My hands felt hot against the soul’s light.

 The heat was unbearable. Falling to one knee, I looked once again into the blinding white light and saw something, a flash of an image. I saw myself. My own light blue eyes, my dark hair stuck to my forehead from sweat. I wore the green and silver armour of the Royal Guard. My eyes showed something I’d never seen before, not on anyone. Panic, shock, despair, sorrow, tears.

 Then the image was gone.

 The light dimmed. Died away like an extinguished flame. One moment it was there and if I had blinked, I wouldn’t have seen it disappear.

 I attempted to blink away the white spots that danced in front of my eyes but every time I closed my eyes, my own face appeared. It seemed to be etched into the inside of my eyelids.

 Standing up I looked around wildly wondering if anyone else had seen what I had just seen. No one stood behind me, no one in the windows of the buildings on either side. It would appear that I was the only one. I would have thought someone would have seen the light and come to investigate. Apparently not.

 I picked up the cylinder; it felt quite cool to the touch. I looked at it for a moment before tucking it away.

 A cheer came from a few blocks away. Probably a rowdy tavern. I took out my pipe and, with shaking hands, attempted to continue looking for a light. Finally I found one. I rubbed my neck as the soothing tobacco smoke filled my lungs and eased my mind.

“I could do with a drink.”

 I turned out from the alley and onto the main street, the commotion sounded like it was coming from the East. Following the cheers and music, I began walking.

 ‘The King’s Inn’ stood cramped between two shabby buildings. It wasn’t a pretty sight itself but sturdy enough to withstand a history of bar fights and the riots of sixty years before. The riots were because taxes were on the rise, which meant so were prices of stock. The people couldn’t live like that. Riots were inevitable when the rich sat in their silk and dined on steak. A battered sign displaying the emblem of a stoutly looking king riding a white horse and pointing a thin sword into the air swung against the breeze, creaking as it did so.

 A few men stood outside, bracing the cold wind for a few moments of fresh air before allowing another wave of liquor to blur their vision and music to move their heavy feet.

 “Hey,” one said to me pointing whilst steadying himself against the wall. “Hey, don’chu remember me?” A laugh gargled into a cough as he continued to point at my face.

 “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.” I dipped my head as I walked past him, hoping he would drop the subject and move on to another drunken story to share with his drinking partners.

 Another cough. “Eli?”

 I stopped dead. I didn’t even look up to acknowledge the man. The smoke poured out of the Inn, the sound of cheering and shouting, and music and merriment must have drowned his bumbling voice. I heard him wrong, I was sure of it.

 I heard the drunk’s footsteps stumbling over to me, toes scraping across the uneven floor.

 “Eli, righ’?”

 I hadn’t misheard. There were only a handful of people in Seren who knew me by that name. One was my brother, the other was Jak, Giles, and lastly, whoever was left in the battalion that attacked Ragstaffe, and there weren’t many of them here.

 A hand fumbled for my shoulder. I jumped back, my fists up and ready. One of my hands brushed past my belt.

 I instantly recognised the man upon a proper sighting. Temur Manning, a stocky man, a little shorter than me, square jaw and square head. He was a bald man, dark skinned and dark eyed amongst the bloodshot whites. He had a heavy beard which hid his little neck. Temur was good man, and he was a friend from the army. Was.

 “You’ve got the wrong man.” I made another attempt to leave but he caught my arm.

 I looked into his eyes; they were dead set on mine. He was serious now, a moment of fixation from his drunken haze. His grip was tight against my bicep.

 “I know it’s you, Eli. Don’ worry, wha’ name d’you go by these days?”

 I considered for a moment, he had made me, no doubt about that. I was recognised either way. Two ways I could play this. One, I could leave, run away and take the chance that Temur wouldn’t go blabbing. Two, we could talk.

 Sighing, I made up my mind. “Cal.” I turned to face him square on, “Name’s Cal.”

 Temur held out a hand which I shook, his rough palms grated against mine. “Pleased to meet you, Cal.” He held open the door for me to enter, the noise doubling in volume.

 We walked over the threshold. The music and noise engulfed us, a small band played on stage, a few instruments commonly found in a tavern were on display, an accordion, a fiddle, a mandolin, tambourine and harmonica, all creating a rhythm for dancers to stomp and clap along to. Smoke lingered, dancing across the ceiling. Smoke from cigars, cigarettes and pipes, each with an interesting and different smell which had its own owner and with each owner comes with their own story. Men of different styles, different shades of grey and brown and black talked and mingled across the tavern floor. Some stood, some danced with women, some sat, and one even lay on the floor laughing insanely about the room spinning. Men of different sizes and shapes, large and burly from a lifetime of fighting or lifting, some were slimmer and smarter with sharp eyes peering into every nook and cranny of people’s moves and conversations. For me, a man without a blade on his body, I needed to be all of these characteristics rolled into one.

 Temur showed me to a little booth in a corner. On the way he ordered two glasses and a bottle of brown liquor. He sat opposite me and poured me a glass. The oak table in front of us had a dark surface, slightly sticky to the touch. Markings and carvings were left from other customers. A table in a taproom held many stories, and many secrets had been shared across its surface.

 I gulped my drink down in one. It burned the back of my throat as it slid its way past my tongue but it was smooth enough.

 “So, you one o’ these guys now, huh?” Temur nodded to the population of the Tavern before downing his glass and pouring two more.

 “Yeah, had to. You?”

 Temur shook his head. “No, I decided to go for an hones’ life.” He chuckled.

 “That supposed to mean something?” I stared at him.

 “No, just sayin’. You’re livin’ an easy life doin’ s**t; I’m strugglin’ to get by bein’ good. Hardly righ’, is it?”

 “Point being?”

 He looked at me, dark eyes staring into my own. I knew he could probably take me, sober that is, hopefully I could beat him while he couldn’t stand straight. The air was quiet between us, around us however the party was in full swing. Another cheer added to the noise as two men pitted their ability to drink against each other, as the band continued to play.

 “Let’s move on, shall we?” Temur gave a smile; his eyes were still serious though.

 “Let’s.” I took another drink. My eyes began to lose focus, my shoulders became more relaxed.

 “Wha’ happened when you left? Your head wasn’ all there.”

 “Ragstaffe was it. Done. Had enough. Walked away after seeing those bodies burning.”

 Temur nodded, agreeing to the memory being too much, the smell of blood in the air being so thick, you could almost taste it, and the black smoke.

 “Couldn’t do it again.”

 “Do wha’?”

 “Another Ragstaffe, another massacre.”

 “They had it comin’.” Temur shook his head.

 “Nobody deserved that, Temur, no one. What we did wasn’t human.”

 “They burned down the Eastern Port.”

 “And we killed and burned farmers and their families.” I stared at Temur, resentment from seven years of memories in my eyes. “Not soldiers, Temur, farmers.” I looked at the table and sighed, the tension had grown further between us. Finally I said, “What about you? What are you doing now?”

 He waited before he answered, clearly wary about my attitude. “Left two years ago now, been workin’ as a smithy on Plinth.”

 “You good at it?”

 Temur chuckled again, the tension eased. “I’m ok.”

 We sat in silence for a few more moments; Temur blew out a breath and stared at his refilled drink. I thought back to Ragstaffe, how we both pulled through without ending up in the gutters or dead or worse, up in the asylum having docs poking around inside your brain to see what makes you tick. The thought of fire made my stomach churn, of the people that were strewn about across the grass and footpaths. Their empty eyes staring up at me. I thought of the house at the end of the path, of the general sat atop his horse, ordering me to enter and kill the occupants. I thought of opening the small brown door of a short, squat, white house. The people inside screamed, a small family, two little girls with their mother’s arms clutching them close, they still screamed, and cried, and begged for their lives. I remember standing there, in the doorway, sword drawn and staring at them. My heart pounding, my legs quivering, it would be the first time I would have killed.

 A man jumped from the side, he appeared to come from nowhere. We bundled to the ground, and he landed on my sword. Realisation hit me there and then. Sat opposite Temur in the tavern. I searched my pockets and pulled out the photograph Lowri had found in Little Rich’s flat. The man from my memory was the man standing next to Little Rich, the same man who I saw in the Netherworld and in the alley. I killed him. I can still hear the screaming, even amongst the heavy atmosphere of the tavern.

 “Cal?” Temur tried to coax me out of my nightmare, his voice sounding like a distant echo. “Cal?”

 I put the photograph on the table and pushed it over to him. I watched him pick it up, mull it over and then put it back on the oak table.

 “Wha’s this?”

 “See him?” I pointed to the tall, thin man. “I killed him in Ragstaffe.” I pulled the bottle of liquor to me and took a long swig.

 “And?”

 I sighed, “You know anything about a diary? Or a Vladimir Fűdd?”

 “No, wha’ of them?”

 “Nothing.” I stood up, swaying a little more than I felt I would. I dropped a few coins on the table for the drinks. “See you around.” I made a move to walk away, “Oh, Temur?”

 “Yeah?”

 “You really think it was worth it?”

 “An eye for an eye, righ’?”

 I left the Tavern feeling as if a weight had been lifted. The distant memory of this man had been discovered. For that I was happy. All those years I was blocking out memories, if I hadn’t been blocking them out I would have remembered. S**t.

 I headed for Lowri’s.

 The walk was unsteady; the walls were my guide across an uneven floor. The darkness of the night was eerie, it allowed people to come out, bad people, people who like to do stuff for fun and not for employment. Shadows moved, eyes followed, but no signs of danger that I could identify, although I may have been in no state to judge anyone on their movements and motives.

 I stopped and closed my eyes, feeling the world turn around me. I leaned against the wall closest to me. It felt good to lean against something solid. I heard voices in the slight distance, one of them familiar through the drunkenness.

 Sidling along the wall, I avoided a large crate of rotting fruit, probably ready to be taken to the fields outside the walls of the city. The voices grew nearer the closer I got. One of them clearly angrier than the other.

 “You let him leave.”

 “We didn’t let him, he left without anyone seeing.”

 “It was your job to watch him,” fury in his voice. “That’s your job isn’t it? A Watcher?” there was a loud clatter, something had been thrown.

 I sidled along even further and peeked around the corner into the dark alley lit only by a lamppost. I could make out two shapes; one was pacing back and forth, a slight build, shoulder length hair and a quick step. The other shape was a larger man leaning against the wall, his build was expected of a Watcher, rolling shoulders and a bald head, but it was the slighter figure I was interested in. The way he walked and talked was bugging me, it seemed so obvious but my mind was blunted by the liquor of the King’s Inn.

 “We’ll hire a Tracer to find him,” the Watcher said casually.

 “Who?” the slight figure stopped and looked. His shoulders hunched, his hands fumbling for something, a cigarette.

 “Lowri. She always knows where he is.”

 My foot slipped on a loose cobble stone, I looked up to see if they heard the noise. They hadn’t. The slight figure had lit a match and lifted the light to his cigarette, his face illuminated in the flickering light. It was Handy Jak, Don’s financial advisor.

 “No. She can’t be trusted. Their friendship will cloud her judgement.”

 Lowri’s friendship would never cloud her judgement; she was professional enough to do her job properly.

 “Yes, Boss.”

 “Use Omar, and tell Breaches to keep an eye out for him.”

 “Does he still think he’s looking for Little Rich?”

 “Yes, I want him found, he has it. Keep your distance though. Don’t spook him.”

 The larger figure began walking towards me, I stumbled, he was going to see me if I didn’t find a place to hide. I looked around; it took a while for my sight to catch up with my actions. The only place was the crate of fruit. Naturally, I hesitated. The smell was enough to drive a skunk away, not to mention the flies and sight of the collapsed fruit. The footsteps of the Watcher drew nearer. I dove behind the crate, a black, misshapen apple dropped on my shoulder. The footsteps came and went, leaving me gagging on the stench.

 I sat up, the world spinning, the stench of the rotting fruit and the pain of being stabbed a few days before left me sick. I vomited.

 If I hadn’t been so intoxicated I may have noticed the alleyway, or the overturned wheelbarrow both of which would have been better than the sludge of rotten fruit.

 The walk to Lowri’s didn’t take much longer, after vomiting my head felt clearer. Handy Jak hadn’t been around the corner, he must have left shortly after his and the Watcher’s conversation. Lowri’s home was small; she lived just above a florist in a flat. In my drunken state, I should have realised that this late at night, the florist wouldn’t open the door to me, and so, after creating a loud racket at the front of the building, I decided to try the back entrance.

 I had always complained to Lowri about having too many ways in to her home, and she would reply with, ‘Too many ways in, or enough ways out?’ a statement which was true but still didn’t leave my point moot.

 To the back entrance I had to take the stairs, a thin metal frame clinging to the wall for dear life. I put one foot on the first step and felt it bow a little under my weight. The next step, like a frail old man, invited a creak from its joints; it whimpered of pain and trembled under my footing.

 Now I understood why this entrance wasn’t much of a problem for Lowri, it made too much noise for anyone to sneak up on her. I looked up and there she was, standing in the doorway of her flat, eyes half closed and her hair ruffled into a beehive.

 I could do nothing but smile stupidly at her. “Is this a bad time?”

 “What do you think?” she retorted, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “You look better.”

 “Shall I come back?” I slurred.

 She sighed angrily, “Get in here,” she called walking into her flat, leaving her door wide open.

 I hurried up the stairs, the wailing of the metal probably waking a few neighbours.

 “Can I help you, Cal?” Lowri sat on a wooden chair with shapely armrests. Lowri’s flat was, like mine, bare. It wasn’t a surprise due to our nomadic nature. It did however, have a more homely feel. A rug was laid on the floor, the style similar to a common import from the east, a deep maroon colour with swirls and diamonds. A shelf stood against the wall with a few books and a table between us. I took a seat opposite Lowri, a smaller and what must have been less comfortable chair was available. I was right.

 “I know why the Jűr attacked me.”

 “Why?” she leaned forward, suddenly interested.

 “Because of a diary.”

 “What?”

 “I came across a diary, don’t ask how, it contains the life of Vladimir Fűdd, a farmer from Ragstaffe. This farmer just so happens to be in this.” I handed her the photograph of Little Rich and Fűdd. “He’s friends with Little Rich. The Jűr that attacked me asked for his diary.”

 I would have told her everything, about Ragstaffe, the army, Giles and Eli, all of it. But I couldn’t. Lowri was the closest friend I had; we watched out for each other, cheered each other up and relied on our knowledge and skill to help us survive. I couldn’t risk that. I didn’t know how she would react.

 “So what does this mean?” Lowri pulled her blond hair out of her face, still looking as beautiful as ever despite her drowsy state.

 “Well, it’s a start to figuring out why people want me dead.”

 “How do you know this is this Fűdd?”

 “I just do.” I told her about Fűdd’s soul in the alley.

 “Why do you think he’s back?”

 I shrugged.

 “Can’t you just read this diary?”

 I shook my head. “It’s written in Jűr. There’s another thing, the wetman said the diary contained instructions on how to cross over into the Netherworld and become immortal.”

 “Immortal?” Lowri snorted.

 “Oh, that’s where you draw the line? Immortality? But some woman in the stars and souls in cylinders is hunky dorey?”

 “You believe it?”

 “I’m willing to believe in dragons after seeing what I’ve seen.” Lowri laughed. “He also said something else, when I asked if the Jűr wanted to bring souls back, he said ‘not us’, the way he said it, like he’s implying it’s one of our own who’s doing this.”

 Lowri frowned and scratched her beehive. “Who would?”

 “I don’t know. Marv must have had something to do with it though, if I can find out who Marv worked for when I caught him, maybe I could find out who had the cylinder.” I pulled out the metal tube and rolled it over in my fingers, the heat of it warmed my hands. “S**t.”

 “What?”

 “I need to look through Marv’s things.”

 “That’s for the morning, I think. You also need to meet Noemi for us to get into that library.”

 “Oh yeah. Great,” I said with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. I stood up, the realisation hit me that I was still slightly drunk and had a potential bounty on my head with an unsafe home. “Lowri? Can I sleep here tonight?”

 She huffed, “I suppose so.” She walked through to her bedroom. My eyes lit up and a grin found my face until she came back with a sheet and wiped the smile off my face.

 Lowri’s floor wasn’t comfortable; neither were the chairs, nor the table. The floor it was then.

Reviews

[Morrigan Nicole]

Brilliant! Loved the ending. F I were in his position, I'd be begging for a drink as well. Loving this!

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good chapter. I like the meeting and need for a drink. I look forward to the up-coming conversation in the tavern. A excellent chapter. I had to do a complete re-read.
Coyote

[jennifer little]

not bad .... i liked it .... great job on this chapter ...... i really loved it it was amazing .... keep up the good work .. and thanks for sharing it with me ...... .
i give you a 100 on rating for your review

[Calypso]

Not bad. It was a good length and it kept the reader wanting more.
I like the overall time of this chapter. It's very dark and mysterious.

[SuicidePact.]

I don't know what to say.

:)

too good for my words..

thanks for sharing this kind sir

xx S.P