Birth of a Killer. Darren Shan
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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
The graveyard was larger than Larten had imagined, and while it was no match for the lavish city of the dead to the north, there were a few crypts jutting out of the crop of crosses and tombs.
Larten scrambled across the graves, muttering prayers to every god he’d ever heard of, eyes cast low. He wanted to look every which way at once, to check for ghosts, witches, demons. But he thought that if he saw them, they would see him too. By not looking, he hoped no ghosts would notice him, so he kept his eyes on the ground. It was a foolish notion, but it gave Larten the courage to go on.
He couldn’t get into the first crypt that he tried — the doors were sealed shut. There was a chain on the woven copper gates of the next. He tugged at the gates as hard as he could, and the chain gave a little, but not enough.
Larten thought he heard movement behind him. He stood, head lowered, expecting an attack. When nothing leapt out of the growing darkness, he looked around for another crypt, then hurried towards it.
He almost didn’t try this door. It was on hinges and slightly ajar, but it was carved of stone and he doubted he had the strength to move it. But rain was lashing down, exhaustion had set deep into his bones, and the next crypt was some way off. So, with no real hope, he grabbed the edge of the door and pulled.
The door slid open so smoothly that he slipped and fell. Landing with a splash in a puddle of rain and mud, he tensed and peered into the darkness. Maybe the door had opened so easily because something inside had pushed out at the same time that he’d pulled. But if a ghost was lurking within, Larten couldn’t see it.
“Are you mad?” a voice very much like Vur’s whispered inside his head. “Don’t go in there. It’s a place for the dead.”
But Larten was out of options. If he didn’t find shelter here, he doubted he’d find it anywhere. As terrified as he was by the thought of spending the night in a crypt, he had a better chance in there than out here. So, with one last quick prayer, he got to his feet, wiped his hands dry on his trousers, then ducked and entered the crypt.
At first he thought it was pitch black. But he closed his eyes for a while, and when he opened them again he could see fairly well. There were glass panels in the ceiling. That seemed strange to Larten, but maybe some of the people buried here had been afraid of the dark.
He remained by the door while his eyes adjusted, then studied the crypt. There were brick walls on either side, behind which the coffins were stacked. A strange sort of ornamental fountain in the middle. No sign of any ghosts.
Growing braver, Larten moved away from the door, into the centre of the crypt. It was cool here, but warmer than outside and a lot drier. He rubbed his arms up and down, trying to generate heat. He’d have to take his clothes off later to let them dry, but he was wary of undressing too soon in case a ghost rose from one of the coffins and attacked. He didn’t want to have to flee naked through the graveyard!
Larten chuckled weakly at the image. Then his stomach rumbled and he winced. He’d been hungry for a long time, but had been able to ignore it. Now his hunger kicked in hard. If only the owner had come to the factory after lunch. The children didn’t get much in the middle of the day, but a few scraps of bread and some slops of watery soup would have made a big difference. Trust Traz to pick the worst possible time to get killed.
Larten chuckled again. He knew murder was wrong, and he wished he could go back and change this day, but in all honesty he wasn’t sad that Traz was dead. He and Vur had often prayed for the gods to strike down their bullying foreman. He didn’t think too many people would shed tears on Traz’s account.
As Larten approached the fountain, he saw that it was covered in cobwebs. He scanned the strands for spiders – he’d eaten insects before