Galows Pole

by Will Molinar

  “And kidnapping me accomplishes this? How?”

  Zandor sipped his drink. “Well, see, that’s the thing. We got some information that it’s them folks up north in Sea Haven what’s got you.”

  Harper’s face twisted. “What? Are you working for them now, Zandor? Are you a mercenary again?”

  Zandor laughed and poured himself another drink, downing it with one gulp. “Sounds a little self-serving if you ask me. No, I’m an agent in and of myself. Believe it or not, I’m on your side as well.”

  “Then act like it and let me go. My office will not stand for this kind of treatment.”

  “Sign this note and put your seal in some wax. Then we’ll do it. Not a bad place to be as it is. Can’t see why you’d complain.”

  “What’s in this letter, then? Some kind of ransom demand, is it?”

  Zandor sighed as the liquor burned deep in his belly. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and hard, “Listen here, you. You do what I tell you, or I might start getting angry. I’m getting that signature one way or another.”

  Harper’s eyes grew cold, but he saw darkness flash in Zandor’s face. He looked around at the cabin like a cornered animal. The realization of his situation perhaps dawned at last.

  “You’re finished, Zandor. Forever. You’ll never work in Janisberg again.”

  “Be that as it may, you need to sign this and put your stamp on it. Got it all set up for you.”

  Zandor pulled out a blue stick of wax and handed the sheet of paper to Magistrate Harper. Harper looked back and forth between it and Zandor. “You play a dangerous game, Zandor. I pray for your soul.”

  “It’s already spoken for. Now sign it.”

  Chapter Four

  Castellan called a meeting with the five Dock Masters, three from the Western Docks and two from the Southern Docks. It was with a sense of pride they met him in the city council room. It seemed fitting. They were now the true masters of Sea Haven.

  Strange that none of them were merchants, yet they were members of The Merchants Guild. They looked bored and sat in line with their geographical stations. All the men from the Western Dock on one end and the two from the Southern Dock on the other. Castellan called the meeting to order. The Guild Master pulled a stack of papers from a bag by his feet and placed it on the table. “The Guild will be implementing a new tariff on any incoming ships, regardless of anchorage proportion to any value of stock on board. Please look these over.”

  A young aide, a leftover from Falston’s staff, handed out a copy of the order to each Dock Master. They muttered to each other as they read. They were impressed though somewhat confused.

  “This is a new tax,” Castellan said. “It will be called the Guild Levy, a new price to pay for anyone to use our illustrious docks. Only members of the Guild will benefit from this annuity. No one else will see a single coin. It is time we reaped the benefits of membership. Thus, your personal profits and salaries will increase as a direct result of this new mandate.”

  They mulled it over. Castellan knew the key to their acquiescence was money. It was simple; most men would fall prey to the same motivation.

  Del Maggur, the most senior of the Dock Masters, yet second in overall command being the nominal head of the smaller Southern Docks, looked to Castellan. Maggur was an older man, very ugly and scabby. When he spoke, it sounded as if the man gargled rocks. “We are already taxing every ship that comes in. Many will resist an additional charge. What do you suggest we do with them?”

  “What choice do they have?” Mal Dollenger said. This Dock Master was tall and thin, as old as Maggur but didn’t look it. “If they want to use our docks, they pay the fee. Simple.”

  Samuel Becket, younger and more energetic, agreed. “Some might complain but so what? They’ll have no choice, as Mal has said. None can use our docks without adhering to our demands. I’m fine with it.”

  “Then you bargain out your contracts with them,” Maggur said. “See how your numbers fall in the process.”

  “We’re already at peak capacity,” Dollenger said. “Those that want to sell their goods would even pay extra to pass through to or the market. More so with the perishables. They’ll want to get them through before spoilage. I see no problem with this new tariff, Master Castellan. Well past time, I say.”

  Maggur didn’t look pleased but let the topic drop. “Master Castellan, what of these mercenaries? Are they at our disposal if the incoming merchants give us hassle about new tax? What say you?”

  Castellan smiled. “The man I put in charge of them is named Drake. I will give you the necessary information to contact him, and you can use them as you please.”

  “What of the city council?”

  “I am now a member of the City Council, and they are, how should I say, agreeable to our agenda. We are in a position of supreme control and must now turn our attention to improving the reputation of the city. Only then can we achieve total salvation.”

  They looked confused at that, but Castellan didn’t notice their stares. He was in tuned with his inner desires. The Guilder Master walked around the table, all eyes on him.

  “Think of what we can do with this power! With it we can change the city of ‘Murder’ Haven forever. It is an insult, this petty moniker. We will make it undeserved. We will clean up the streets, curtail crime, and help the people rise above the poverty they are chained with.

  “The Guild will have the responsibility to help everyone as we help ourselves. Remember, people together are people the same. Just as the Arc Lector has taught us. When all the forces of this city come together, all shall live in harmony. It is the only way.”

  The Dock Masters stared him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

  “Don’t you gentlemen agree?”

  No one answered with dissent.

  * * * * *

  “And you’ve seen this?” Muldor said. “Seen it change hands?”

  The man before him nodded his young face eyes wide. “Yes-yes, sir. I seen ‘em clear as day.”

  “Good. When do you report for your next shift?”

  “Right away. They have us running double shifts all week. Got us on tight schedule these days.”

  Muldor nodded, mulling over the implications of the information. He patted the young man on the shoulder and handed him a coin. “Good work, Styles. Go back to work as if you didn’t see anything. Remember, we never met.”

  Styles nodded and scampered off.

  Muldor headed for the far side of town, to the east. He didn’t often visit The Thieves Guild’s assignment center, the Old Mill Inn. Castellan’s take-over was complete. The thieves were disorganized and demoralized. Their assignments drawn up by the Dock Masters. But Cutter, the scabby old man, Muldor’s counterpart in the Thieves Guild, knew more than it seemed.

  Muldor went to the back of the tavern and through the secret, boarded doorway and into the labyrinthine back room. Winding his way through the stacks of bags and boxes, all collecting dust, lost among the rafters, Cutter sat behind his desk. He crouched over like the bent old man. Muldor had a flash of future sight and saw himself sitting there, broken and old.

  Cutter glanced up, and his eyes flashed with both annoyance and surprise. He sat back and clicked his tongue.

  “What do you want, Muldor? I’m quite busy.”

  Muldor wasted no time with a preamble. “You allowed the former leader of the Thieves Guild, Goodwin Turner, to be murdered by Castellan. You have sold out the other members of your Guild in order to line your own pockets by assigning them menial tasks at the docks, to the betterment of Castellan’s plan. Thus, you are complicit in the current state of affairs.”

  Cutter’s face changed a mere shade paler. The wizened old man sat back and regarded Muldor like a snake charmer eyeing a crazed cobra. “I’ll repeat my question, Muldor. What do you want?”

  Muldor told him.

  * * * * *

  Most nights found her at the Southern Docks, filtering in and out of the s
hips. Those beautiful ships, so tall and proud and wonderful. Marissa loved the pretty sails. She wanted to wrap herself in them, though she knew their corporeal threads would do little to embrace her.

  The vestiges of her mortal brain bemoaned. The wraith could transform into the image of a young girl, for it had developed the ability some days ago, but it did not like how it felt. It was painful; hunger gnawed at her belly, and sickness drained her mind.

  There were men about the docks. Lots of men were always there even into the wane hours of the night. Her work had garnered a reputation already. They called her the Spectral Woman or Ghost Girl, though the latter was stupid. It was no girl that terrorized them.

  The docks were full that night, with men either working or drinking or smoking. They stood by the wharf yard, an open space at the southern docks where excess cargo was kept under guard. They talked and laughed and even sang from time to time. Marissa watched them from the crow’s nest of the tallest ship in the water.

  The cold air blew through her ethereal form. She faded back into her mortal guise when the mood struck, but that was happening less and less often as the days went on. There was no need to be human any longer.

  So many men. They appeared to her as glowing lights, like floating embers in a roaring fire. They flittered along the dock. Her desire to rush out and grab one was very strong, almost too strong to resist. But there were too many.

  Marissa needed to catch one alone, so she floated down from the top of the mast and glided through the ship, down to the surface of the water where no one could see. She slinked underneath the boardwalk and rose near the edge of a building, off the main beat. A man smoked and talked with two of his fellows.

  Patience was a necessity though the desire was powerful. Pain flooded her form as the spectral girl crouched like a starving animal. Two of the men walked off, leaving their companion to his fate, laughing about something she didn’t understand, something about a woman.

  Marissa changed to a more corporeal form of a young girl, still with the slight appearance of a specter. It sauntered towards the man. Ambient noises from the dock filtered back: a hammering from somewhere, the loud clack of a wooden box as it hit the ground, a man shouted, smatterings of conversation.

  The man turned and dropped his cigarette. The burning stick was an irregular, bastardized brightness in comparison to his glowing life force.

  Marissa limped and held up a hand. “Help… help me… please….”

  She stepped closer and fell to the ground. Her head lolled to the side, feigning unconsciousness.

  The man muttered a surprise and came closer. He crouched down and peered at her, close enough to see something was not as it seemed.

  Marissa sprang, and her body flowed back into her spectral form. It exuded a supernatural aura, dripping with terror-inducing palpitations. She grabbed the side of his face as he gasped. Her body wrapped around him and pulled the man’s body down.

  The man was too terrified and shocked to do anything but convulse. Only a slight trill escaped his throat.

  Marissa made a gasping sound, like an airy hiss, and bucked in ecstasy. She drained him. It didn’t take long, for she had become better at it. She sucked the very essence of life from the already dying body. Shouts of dismay and confusion sang out behind her, but Marissa was too engaged to notice.

  Even as the men came close enough to see her, she heard only the slight buzzing of noise, a slight annoyance not to be bothered with.

  “By all that’s holy!”

  “What’s happening?”

  A group of three or four soon became ten. Marissa wasn’t finished and wanted more.

  “Dear god! It’s a monster!”

  Someone yelled in shock; another bellowed for dock security. The braver ones among the crowd stood to her, and Marissa became aware of their presence. Her features and demeanor was feral. She snarled and crouched over the body like a wolf protecting its kill. People murmured and backed away. Most were still as stone, but a couple of men with torches came forward and waved them at her.

  “Back, demon! Back!”

  She hissed and slashed with her claws. The men moaned in pain and stood back. Their skin grew pale where her ethereal flesh touched and slackened on their bones. One fell to the ground and convulsed in agony.

  The other brave man fell back as the others gasped in fright. Most looked ready to flee at any moment. Some shouted and yelled at her like frightened children.

  Sated by the first man’s life force, she no longer cared about these people and what they might give her.

  Marissa only wanted to hurt them.

  * * * * *

  Somehow, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, Giorgio recognized a familiar feeling in the air. He knew without doubt he had experienced it before. A chill permeated the area near the southern docks. It was a spiritual force encountered on one of the most frightening nights of his life. Being drawn to it, his body compelled to it. His thieving instincts kicked in and every ounce of self-preservation told him to run away, but it was too late.

  It hung in the air, a strange kind of energy that pulled him along. Giorgio could no more turn away than cut off his own arm. It didn’t feel evil or malicious but rather like vengeance incarnate, something Giorgio knew well.

  Shouts of dismay and cries rented the air. Yells of stark terror sent a shiver of fear into his gut, but Giorgio picked up his pace. The young thief turned a corner and stopped short, staring at the backs of a crowd.

  A tangible vibe of terror comingled with the overriding curiosity of humanity. Giorgio caught his breath and stared along with the others as a few men battled with futility at an ethereal creature. The amorphous limbs spilled them backwards, like leaves before a tempest.

  For many nights Giorgio had believed what had rescued him was a figment of his imagination. This self-induced madness had unhinged him more than admitted, but here it was on the street, and this reinvigorated his mind and body.

  Gaining strength from the realization that he wasn’t crazy, and seeing it there on the street added a strange kind of courage. Pushing passed the gawking crowd; Giorgio approached the apparition, and held up his hands. The men fighting it had given up or been downed. Two lay on the street unmoving while another three gasped in pain.

  The creature snarled an inhuman gurgle and snapped its eyes towards him. It hovered in the air, cautious, but Giorgio saw the barest glimmer of recognition in its countenance.

  “Hold there,” he said and stepped closer. “Just… hold on, okay?”

  A portion of his mind screamed to run, not only from the supernatural being but also from the crowd. These people might’ve knew him. It was close enough to the southern docks to make him nervous, for he could be arrested and hanged in the blink of an eye.

  But something else played in his mind. There in those strange surroundings, watching the figure as it stood still there, a hint of connection. Some intriguing spark told him this was important, that it was necessary to make contact.

  “Take it easy, there. Settle down.”

  The crowd murmured but had calmed some. The creature didn’t attack him, so that was a victory in itself. Giorgio reached out towards the figure, so soft, like a silken curtain at Madam Dreary’s. Yet it was so real and terrifying. It hissed deep in its being; its countenance darkened.

  “Easy there, easy. No harm here, no harm.”

  It settled, like a dog learning to trust its master. The crowd grew larger and muttered amongst itself at the incredible sight. The thief reached out a calm steady hand and almost touched. But he let it hang and studied the reaction of the ghost.

  It kept looking at him, its eyes cool lights like the lanterns along the streets of Sea Haven. The specter snatched his steady hand out of the air and held it in an embrace that took his breath away. The crowd gasped, and he shivered from the supernatural chill.

  He cried out and stumbled, but it did not let go. His knees bent, and Giorgio moaned in pain, but it did not le
t go. It held him tight in an icy grasp, cold as death.

  Then the pain was a paralyzing shock, like dropping into freezing water. His body locked up, stuck in mid-motion, unable to do a thing save focus his attention on the spectral beast. When it let him go, the man gasped. His breath caught tight in his throat, and tears rolled unbidden down in a torrent. A cascade of grief and despair grabbed in such a way no mortal should have the misfortune to bear.

  Giorgio knew everything possible about the millennia of spirits responsible for her condition and now his. The young thief shared something more in those moments.

  The spirit turned and drifted away and left Giorgio with an incredible sense of longing and anger. He wanted her back and stumbled after the apparition. He pushed through the stunned crowd as the onlookers gapped and muttered to themselves. The spirit was easy to follow, as left a trail of spooked frights for his tortured mind.

  It didn’t matter where or how far she went, Giorgio was determined to follow her to the ends of the earth. So great was his desire, for more of what she had given. Her aura faded as she distanced herself, turning corners and bobbing to the rhythm of her own current, like a fish in the sea. Giorgio was forced to jog along to keep up.

  She turned a corner, then another, and soon he dropped from weariness. A little girl squatted down in the alley. The spirit was gone.

  Giorgio looked up from the cold ground. “What is this?” he said to the girl.

  It was child perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. She looked like a frightened rabbit, hunted and beaten. Giorgio held out a hand. “Hey, there. Everything’s fine, dear. Look at me.”

  It was difficult to believe it as the same creature as before, but when she looked up, he knew. Marissa took his hand and stood straight and tall. Recognition dawned on them both.

  “I know you,” Giorgio said.

  * * * * *