The Patron – Part 7

What the fog conceals

What the fog conceals

Well, it’s been a long time since our mysterious noir-hero last graced our blog.  I’m sorry to have left you dangling, literally since that’s where we left our hero too, but I’ll make it up to you soon.  Here’s the tag for the previous installments if you want to catch up, or indeed if you’ve foolishly missed out.

In the mean time, here we go :

The Patron – Part 7

There was a thud that jarred his body as The Patron smashed against the floor. The rope around his neck went slack. He choked on the fresh air, coughing, trying not to vomit at the clean feel of breath down his throat. Then next to him there was the impact of flesh against the hard ground. He groaned, rolling over to look. The grinning man who moments before had held The Patron’s life on the end of the rope was crumpled, bloody against the concrete. His legs twitched, then went still.

The Patron got to his feet, wincing at the pain in his left side. Something was broken, he could feel it like jolts of electricity through his body as he moved. He gritted his teeth and reached down for his fallen cane and sheath. There would be more than just a few ribs broken by the time the night was done. A tear leaked out from his eye as he stood straight again with cane in hand. He leaned heavy against the cold metal of the container next to him. There was a pounding in his ears, different from the pressure before. Each beat played him closer to the end. A trickle of blood slowly rolled down the right side of his face. He wiped it off on the back of his hand. He was better off than the fool lying in a pool of it at his feet.

BloodThe whole night ached. It ached of blood, and the pressure of the past. The Patron wanted it over. He hobbled slowly deeper into the yard, towards the one who waited. The night ahead was a blur through the seep of blood from his head and the thick mist that gathered still over the metal graveyard of the docks.

The silence was deeper now. There were no quiet scrapes of cloth against skin as stalkers followed him through the mist. The denizens of the shadowy gauntlet had done their best, they’d had their fill now. There were others waiting still. They could deal with the angry silhouette with the liver bird cane.

A horn blasted out from the darkness. The metal containers echoed it’s call on and through the labyrinth, shivering at the sound. It was a welcome note. It was a warning. It was where The Patron needed to go. He carried on towards it, the hand holding the sheath pressed hard against his injured side. The soft gleam of his blade lead the way. And just for a moment a gust of breeze cleared the path ahead. And The Patron could see the dark impression of a ship rising up, before it was lost again to the gathering fog.

Rising from the shadows

Rising from the shadows

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Posted in The Patron, Writing

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