The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

“Traz,” Larten said with surprising softness. If he’d screamed, maybe the foreman would have sensed danger and jerked aside. As it was, Traz simply paused and looked back, half smiling the way he would if an old friend hailed him in a park on a Sunday.

Larten stepped forward and drove his hand up. The boy’s eyes were flat, as devoid of expression as Vur’s, but his mouth was twisted into a dark, leering grin, as something vile and inhuman inside him rejoiced at being set free.

When Larten lowered his hand, whatever he’d picked up was no longer in his palm. The object was now buried deep in Traz’s throat.

Traz stared at Larten through a pair of wide, bulging eyes. He didn’t drop Vur. Indeed, his grip on the boy tightened. With his free hand he tried to pull out the object that was stuck in his windpipe. But there was no strength in his fingers and the flesh around his neck was slippery with blood. His arm fell by his side. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but only blood gurgled out.

Still staring at Larten, Traz fell to his knees, swayed for a moment, then slumped. He lost hold of Vur and the boy’s body rolled away from him.

The silence in the room was more frightening than any bellow of Traz’s had ever been. The children were transfixed. Vur’s death had been unexpected, but it hardly counted as a cataclysmic event in this factory of misery. But the slaying of Traz had shaken their world to its core. Nothing could be the same after this.

Larten licked his lips and began to lean forward. The hateful thing inside him wanted to retrieve the object from Traz’s throat and use it to stab out the dead foreman’s eyes. But as his fingers stretched out before him, he shuddered and blinked, then took a step backwards, shocked by what he had done and had been planning to do.

Feeling sick and bewildered, Larten took a couple more steps away. As he was backing up, his gaze flickered from Traz to Vur, and realisation of what he’d done struck him like a lightning bolt. He had killed a man. And not just any man, but Traz, the darling of the owners. Nobody in the neighbourhood liked Traz, but he had been respected. Larten would have to answer for the foreman’s death, and he knew what form that answer would take — a carefully knotted hangman’s noose.

Larten didn’t try to appeal to the other children, to ask them for help or to lie on his behalf. They owed him nothing. If they stood by his side or tried to hide his identity, they would suffer too.

Turning wildly, fighting against a wave of bile, Larten searched desperately for the door — he had become disoriented and didn’t know where it was. As soon as he sighted it, he ran for his life.

As if the children had been waiting for this signal, one of them raised a finger, pointed at the fleeing boy and screeched, “Murderer!”

Within seconds they were all screaming Larten’s name, pointing, howling like banshees. But they did nothing except scream. No one tried to follow him. There was no need. Others would take care of that. A full, fearsome mob of righteous executioners would soon be hot on Larten’s trail, each member of the pack eager to be the first to string up the cold-blooded, orange-haired killer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Larten ran without any real sense of direction. He hadn’t explored much of the city beyond his own neighbourhood, but he knew every last inch of the area around the factory, all the alleys, roads, ruins and hiding places. If he had been thinking straight, he could have slipped away quickly and cleanly, or found a spot where he could hide until night.

But Larten was in a panic. His best friend had been murdered in front of him and he’d killed a man in response. His heart was pounding and he fell often, scraping his legs and hands. His head was a bedlam of noise and terror, his only clear thought, “Run!”

If a mob had formed swiftly, they would have found Larten flailing around the streets outside the factory, losing his way and backtracking, an easy target. But the adults who answered the calls of the children were thunderstruck. They pressed the witnesses for detailed descriptions of Traz’s last moments. If anyone had thought to give chase, others would have immediately joined them. But in the chaos, everyone assumed that a group was already in pursuit of the boy, so precious minutes passed without anybody making a move.

Outside, Larten had turned down a dead-end alley. He was looking behind him for pursuers, so he ran into a wall and fell with a cry. As he picked himself up and rubbed his head, he spotted a girl no more than four or five, sitting on a step and studying him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Larten shook his head.

“You’re hurt,” the girl said.

Larten didn’t know what she was talking about. When she pointed at his head, he rubbed it again, looked at his fingers and saw that he was bleeding. Now that he was aware of his wound, pain kicked in and he grimaced.

“My mummy can fix you,” the girl said. “She fixes me when I get hurt.”

“That’s all right,” Larten croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

“She gives me a cup of tea with sugar,” the girl said. “Sugar,” she repeated boastfully. “Have you ever had sugar?”

“No,” Larten said.

“It’s lovely,” she whispered.

Larten stared around. The worst of the panic had passed. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t feel so afraid any more. He was still a long way from normal, yet he began thinking of what he should do and where he could go. He had to get away quickly, but he’d only be able to do that if he held his nerve.

“Thank you,” he said to the girl and headed back up the alley.

“For what?” the girl asked.

“Calming me down.”

She giggled. “You’re silly. Come back and play.”

But Larten had no time to waste on play. There was only one game of any interest to him now — beat the hangman.

From the alley he took a right turn and had soon left behind the neighbourhood where he’d spent all his life. Though he wasn’t sure of the surrounding area, he had a vague idea of the shape of the city and moved in an eastern direction. That was his quickest route to the outskirts. He didn’t run, but walked briskly, head down, not making eye contact with anyone.

Nobody paid attention to the thin, dirty, bloodied, trembling boy. The city was full of lost, wounded strays just like him.

At the factory, someone finally asked what had become of Traz’s killer. When people realised the boy had escaped without even a half-hearted challenge, they were outraged — nobody had liked Traz, but a rebellious brat like Larten Crepsley couldn’t be allowed to stab a hard-working foreman to death and waltz away freely. A gang took to the streets and was soon joined by dozens of others as word of the murder spread. Life was monotonous in those parts and a chase was a major attraction. Men, women and teenagers joined the workers from the factory, brandishing knives, hooks and any other sharp implements they could find. More than one also took the time to root out a good length of rope. Mobs were never shy of volunteers when it came to the office of hangman.

By the time the mob was fully formed and storming through the streets, Larten was out of danger’s immediate range. Their cries didn’t reach him or alert any of the people he was passing. With no sign of a chase party, he was able to keep calm and carry on at a steady pace.

It never crossed his mind to go home. He knew that was the first place the mob would look for him, but that wasn’t the reason he avoided it. If he thought his parents would try to protect him, he might have returned. If he believed people would grant him a fair hearing, maybe he wouldn’t have fled. If there was any justice in the world, perhaps he’d have thrown himself at the feet of his accusers and begged for mercy.

But nobody would care about Vur Horston. Children in factories were killed all the time. As long as the owners made money, they didn’t mind. But the killing of a foreman was a scandal. An example would have to be made, to stop other workers from following Larten’s lead.

Larten’s father was a thoughtful, caring man, and his gruff mother loved him in her own way, but life was hard and poor people had to be practical. They couldn’t save him from the mob, and Larten didn’t think they’d even try. He figured they would hand him over and curse him for being a fool and losing his temper.

Larten had never heard the phrase, “burning your bridges”. But he would have understood it. There was no home for him in this city any more. He was all alone in the world, and marked for death.

It was evening by the time Larten cleared the city. The sky had been dark all day, and now it began to blacken with the coming of night. There was a cruel bite to the air. Larten had no coat and he shivered in his short-sleeved shirt. He was hungry and thirsty, but the cold was his main concern. He had to find shelter or he’d end up like one of the stiff, frozen street people he’d often seen.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Larten walked along the main road for a while, then took a dirt track. His vague plan was to find a village and lay up in a cowshed or barn. He didn’t know how long a walk it would be, but he guessed it couldn’t be more than a few miles.

If it hadn’t started to rain heavily, Larten would have kept going. Maybe he’d have slipped along the way, twisted an ankle and perished of the wet and cold in the open. Or maybe he’d have made good time and found shelter, stolen a few eggs in the morning and set off in search of a job. He might have scraped by, worked hard, earned some money. Perhaps he’d have lived a good life, married and had children, and died at the ripe old age of forty or forty-five.

But Larten’s destiny didn’t lie in a ditch or any of the nearby villages. Rain soaked him, forcing him to look for immediate shelter. A tree would have been fine, but the clouds looked thundery and he’d heard tales of people who had been struck by lightning under trees. There were no caves that he knew of. That left…

Larten looked around, praying for inspiration, and through a brief break in the rain his prayers were answered. He spotted the heads of tombstones and realised he was close to a graveyard.

Larten had only been to a graveyard once before, one Sunday when he and Vur had trekked to the northern part of town where a large cemetery stood. They’d gone hoping to see ghosts, having heard tales of headless horsemen roaming the rows of graves. Of course they didn’t see any – ghosts mostly came out at night – but they saw plenty of monuments to the dead.

The poor of the city were carted off to be dumped in mass graves, nothing to mark the spot where they lay. Those with money secured a grave. Wealthy people bought tombs.

Graves and tombs were of no use to Larten, but some of the truly rich invested in family crypts, small houses for the dead. If they kept the dead dry, they could keep the living dry too, at least for a night.

Larten didn’t know if this small graveyard would boast any crypts. But on the off-chance he abandoned the path and splashed through sodden fields, fearfully edging his way towards the home of the (hopefully) sleeping dead.

CHAPTER SIX