Chapter 8
There was always work in this place. Though Locke hated every minute of it, he couldn't deny that the food was worth it. Alice, that woman, knew what she was doing in the kitchen. And in his nine years living in this hellhole of the world, it was the best food he had.
"Ouch! Fucking bitch! Fuck this shit. Damn it all to hell. I hate this motherfucking shithole!"
But Locke was on the verge of breaking down. Chopping wood, sweeping the floor, washing the clothes—and the most annoying chore of all—sewing those motherfucking clothes. He had stabbed his fingers with the needle a hundred times by now. And all he did was bloody the cloth that he would have to wash afterward.
It was bullshit. Every morning, he had to wake up first and tire himself out chopping enough wood for the day. Then he had to wash the clothes. Not only was there no hot water, but the bloodstains were impossible to clean. Then, after dinner, he would sweep the floor.
Not only was it dirty, but there was always vomit, ale, and blood everywhere. And if he finished it all in time, he had to sew some fucking clothes. And for what? So, he could have some hot food and a place to sleep? This was bullshit.
He couldn't believe the other kids weren't complaining. They were forced to work all day, and if that wasn't enough, they still had to pay to stay in this place. So, either they were sent elsewhere to earn coin, or they had to try their luck on the streets.
The older kids wisely chose to play it safe and work for blacksmiths, woodcutters, or charcoal burners. But the younger ones were too small and weak to do that kind of work. So, it was begging or stealing—it didn't matter, as long as it was coin.
"You need to be more careful, Locke," Klara said as she quickly cleaned the blood from his fingers to save the cloth. "And don't curse. Ma doesn't like it."
"She isn't even your mother," Locke snapped, too pissed to hold back. "She's just a cocksucker who's using you. Pretending to be sick so that you'll get her extra coin. I'm telling you—the moment you're no longer useful, she'll tie a noose on you herself."
"Liar!" Of course, they were too stupid to realize it and would never accept the truth. "I told you not to talk about Ma like that."
"Or what, you little shit?"
Klara's answer was to pinch Locke's cheek. Usually, he'd just swat her hand away and be done with it. But his face had only just started to heal after he was slapped to death three days ago, and even a simple touch hurt like hell.
And that was the only reason he did these chores. The swelling was fine—it only showed the wounds were healing. But he really didn't want to take another beating, especially not now. So, he had no choice but to do as he was told.
But once his face healed, he would get his coin and use it to boss the other kids around. And then all he'd have to do was steal some more and enjoy all the benefits of this place. Thinking like that, this place didn't sound so bad.
He was safe. As long as he didn't let the bigger kids bully him, no harm could come to him. He didn't need to worry about where to get food or where to sleep. He could get everything he needed to survive in this place. And he didn't even need to pay the boss lady anything to stay.
He probably wouldn't find a better place in Flea Bottom. This winesink was pretty big, and not many dared to cause trouble for them. Even though he hated to admit it, it was far better than living on the streets on his own. Or at least it would be—once he got his coin.
"The trees see all." And there were the colorful characters of this place, like this old priest who didn't even remember what he was worshiping. "Blood calls to blood, and lies rot in the roots. As silent as the weeping tree, they watch and they listen. The memories of the old are still whispered in the forgotten leaves."
Locke hated that he had to work in the storeroom just next to the main hall of the tavern, and those fuckers lingered here all day, doing nothing but annoying Locke with their nonsense. If he were a bit bigger he would have kicked their asses long ago.
"Shut it, you old coot," Locke threw a cup at the priest.
"Old gods in trees, they see my pee.
I trip, I fall, they laugh at me.
Red leaves cry blood, or maybe wine...
Either way, I feel just fine."
But it was too late—the damned singer had already started to make up shit about what the priest said. It was never-ending torture to listen to those drunk fools. However, he'd still rather deal with them than with that old man, sitting in silence like nothing around him existed.
He was creepy as hell, with white hair and a white beard covering most of his face, as he just drank his ale and ate his meals every single day. Not a word escaped his mouth, and at most, he gave people a blank glance that gave Locke chills.
Even after three days here, Locke had no idea who he was. Everyone else ignored him and even forgot he existed. At first, Locke thought it was a ghost only he could see. When he asked about the man, people had completely forgotten he even existed until Locke pointed him out.
Everyone Locke had asked didn't know or just ignored the question, which made it all the creepier. Aside from him and an old woman, everyone else was quite normal, making it a proper gang with a score of men capable of fighting. And bunch of kids helping the place and getting extra coin.
So far, Locke noticed Hal the most. He seemed to be in charge. And even though he didn't look that rough—and was quite small compared to the others—nobody ever disagreed with him. If he said something, everyone listened. Everyone except Locke, of course—but Locke did that more out of spite than anything else.
"Tavish! Alice! Come in quickly!" So, Locke was surprised to hear Hal yell for the fake priest and the cook. He never needed to raise his voice.
He gave a questioning look to Klara, who was now huddled with her knees to her chest. Locke quickly realized Klara was in shock. He had no time to ask why, so he rushed to her and held her shoulders, forcing her to look at his swollen, ugly face.
"Breathe," Locke instructed. "Deep and slow. Good, very good."
"It's happening again," Klara said as tears formed in her eyes.
Even though Locke wanted to ask what she meant, he decided it was better to see for himself. Seeing Klara was holding herself together, even if she continued to huddle, Locke left the storeroom and walked through the main hall of the tavern, heading for the back.
He had to squeeze through the crowd in the backroom. Even the creepy old man was there, though he still kept to the wall, far away from others. The singer sat on the other side, playing a slow, sad melody on his lute.
"We found the boy a few alleys away," Locke overheard a man say. "He was dragged here and left for us to find."
"Did anyone see anything?" Hal asked.
"We'll look into it," another man replied. "But you know how it is. If they wanted to be found, they'd have come to us."
"Henry, and now this poor boy," the old woman sighed. "Alice? Is there anything that can be done?"
"I'm sorry."
Finally, Locke got through the crowd and saw what everyone was staring at. A boy, maybe four or five years older than Locke, lay on the floor. His legs and arms were broken. When the priest opened his mouth, Locke saw that his tongue had been cut out. His eyes were gouged, and blood dripped from his ears. But the boy still breathed.
It was a disturbing sight, seeing a boy completely rendered in this kind of state. He was completely crippled, blind, could not speak a word and from the way Alice tried to get his attention, and for him not reacting, deaf too. But still alive. At this point, Locke couldn't think of a worse fate.
The few kids around looked so horrified that they couldn't even move. But nobody guarded them from the sight; if they didn't want to see it, it was up to them to walk away. But most, even with pale faces, continued to stay.
"Tavish?"
"May the gods welcome you to their embrace." The priest placed his hands on the boy's neck and, with a quick twist, snapped it. "May the new gods recognize your plea. May the old gods lessen your pain. May the Lord of Light show you the way."
Locke looked over the boy's body, then glanced at the few kids in the room. Arin seemed to be frantically looking for something, his eyes darting from corner to corner. Locke caught his attention and pointed toward the storeroom. And Arin rushed out.
"For fuck's sake," one of the men cursed. "Someone doesn't know how fucked they are. When I get my hands on them, I'll remind them why nobody fucks with the Pigs."
"It has to be someone new," the old woman said coolly. "They're trying to provoke us. No existing gang is stupid enough to do this to us."
"Aye," Hal agreed, covering the boy with his cloak. "Some upstarts think they're clever. We'll hit our informants and see what we can find. But with it happening so soon after Henry's death, I'm inclined to think they're connected. Not many knew Henry worked for us."
"Could it be a message?" Alice asked.
"Could be," Hal said. "But if it were, they'd have left something. It's probably some new fools who think they can take us on, since we're not as big as other gangs, as Marin said."
"Or someone is using them to get at you," Locke said, drawing every eye in the room. "I mean, there are dozens of kids like him in the streets. How could someone new know who he belonged to? And it's clearly not a message since there's no message. To me, it looks like a scare tactic."
"Scare tactic?" Marin asked.
"Well, he was left for others to see. More specifically, for the other kids to see. After a few more cases like this, the kids will be too scared to go out. And they'll stop bringing in coin."
"Tch. The stray is probably right," one of the men muttered. "Someone who knows us is targeting us. It's a declaration of war."
"Umm… I think the war already started," Locke said again, drawing everyone's eyes. "First, they scare the kids so they stop bringing in coins. Without that coin, your people don't get paid, or paid as much. Some will leave for better opportunities. That leaves gaps for whoever's doing this to make their move. I think someone has set their eyes on you and will strike no matter what your reaction is to it."
"Who the fuck are you, stray?" Hal asked. "No—doesn't matter. Just disturbing how much sense you make. And aren't you scared?"
"I watched my mother get murdered in front of me." Locke gave Hal a look full of malice as he replied. "I saw a man being eaten alive a few days later. And then I got beaten to this state by you. I'm far beyond being scared."
"Boaz, double security around our territory. No one walks alone. Hal, hit the streets. I want eyes and ears everywhere. I'll visit our old friends."
Marin calmly gave orders and turned away, but not before giving Alice a look and a nod—a silent command. With that, the crowd dispersed, some men carrying away the covered boy.
Of all that Locke saw, what surprised him most was how angry the men were about the boy's death. To his knowledge, the boy wasn't anything special—Locke couldn't even remember his name. And yet, these people cared for him.
Maybe it was because of the hit to their gang that riled them up. But then why did the singer play his lute in that sad melody? Why did Alice look like she was on the verge of tears?
Locke had expected a colder atmosphere, and was surprised to find it wasn't like that at all.
A.N. As always, thanks for reading and supporting me, so I can continue writing without any concerns, and if you want more, up to 7 more chapters and 28 chapters in total with all my other stories, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852.