by Will Molinar
A ragged cheer went up from the men battling on the docks, and Giorgio felt a clearer sense of clam than a moment ago. They might have a chance. Then a shot hit where some of the crossbowman were. They clumped together and ripped apart wooden crates and human bodies just as easy. Men died. Others fought on, but panic was taking hold in some quarters. There were a lot of men running toward the wooden palisades. They were constructed in only minutes to keep out the rioting crowds.
Giorgio coughed. His throat felt raw and tight. He couldn’t get a lump passed down low enough. It was painful to swallow. Smoke billowed around them, the cannon making a mess of every sense he possessed. They blasted off another round and got two hits. One cracked the hull of a galleon. They were improving.
The three home side war vessels wheeled around to get broadside against the enemy. It looked so small and ineffectual, Giorgio couldn’t see how it could matter at all. It wasn’t fair. The enemy was too many, too strong. But they had the angle on the Janisberg ships, due to their northern sweep down from the shipping yards.
That might mean something.
The boardwalk was fast becoming a wreck of smoke and splintered wood. Giorgio felt unsteady on his feet. Men ran and shouted orders. Some tried to get more crossbows, but they rushed with a sense of futility. There was so much confusion and fear running through them, Giorgio couldn’t understand how they could fight them off for long.
A moment later, the cannon next to him exploded.
* * * * *
The streets were a charnel house in quick order. The dusty cobble stones picked up spilt blood like the cleanup crew at an abattoir.
Footing became treacherous in places due to blood, but most of the participants could care less. Many of them wound up on the ground anyway, wrestling with their foes in a manic grip of rage. Screams of sheer hate echoed along the street.
Muldor took it all in stride. This was the penance he and his people had to endure in order to cleanse themselves of their sins even though the sound and sights were sickening. He held his mace but hadn’t swung it yet. The Guild man was too busy directing each section of their motley entourage, trying to keep them working in concert, but he gave up.
It wouldn’t work. Each faction fought together, somewhat. The police stayed together, the city watch members that had come along with the common people fought with the mob, and the arena fighters fought whomever they wanted to. The Royal Guard stayed close to him.
The mercenaries were disorganized and backed on their heels. The mob’s initial burst of violence, combined with their terrific fury and pent up frustration, made the mercenaries think twice about what they were getting paid for. Getting hit by rocks and boards while facing screaming, crazed people would make anyone quail.
But the common men and women of the mob were not fighters. They weren’t armed with anything other than household items, and they stayed on the outskirts of the fight. They threw objects at the mercenaries wherever they could. Some of these objects struck fighters on their own side. In the chaos of battle, missile weapons were a double sided boon.
Some of the tougher ones, former members of various brute squads put together over the years, had solid weapons like swords or axes. These men fought alongside the police and royal guard Muldor sent into the fray. The arena fighters were skilled but fought individual battles, the style to which they were accustomed, and this led to a disorganized combat front.
Thruck was a monstrous killing machine, and everyone avoided him, friend and foe alike. The mercenaries died that faced him, and few ran when they could. Soon a huge gap of space formed around him. He stalked some of them, but they were wise not to give him a chance to kill.
Muldor knew the ogre would lose interest and walk off after a time. He had read these beasts were smarter than people gave them credit for, and the initial scare factor was waning.
They were killing mercenaries, lots of them, but it was beginning to turn against them. The fighting spread to the side streets, and more mercenaries joined in the battle. They wore dark clothes, heavy padded leather armor with metal nubs for extra protection. They had cruel faces and well organized attacks. They stayed in groups of twenty or more and hacked at the mob that wasn’t fast or smart enough to get out of the way.
The mob hampered as time went on. They lashed out, with anger and pure emotion. They hit whatever they could, including royal guardsmen, police, and city watch alike. They also ran away in small groups. Their bloodlust satiated for the time being. The shock of real violence made them realize their folly at attacking people better armed and skilled than they.
The mercenaries pushed them backwards. They plowed down the center of the main street, and the mob splashed away like so much water in a bath tub. The number of the enemy had grown to a sufficient bulk to do what they wanted.
Muldor told the Royal Guard captain to keep the guardsmen in tight formation. They were to be the bulwark they needed to fight back the swell. Cubbins was off away, leading the police together with some of the city watch. They fared well, but it would not be enough. The mercenaries were too many and too tough.
The tiny block of sell swords gave them all kinds of trouble, and they represented a mere pittance compared to the total number of them present in the city. Not good. They had to do something fast, or the mob would break. Once that happened, he and his trained men would be overwhelmed and forced to retreat. They would be back to where they started from, or even worse.
Muldor pointed his mace at the solid front of mercenaries pushing up the street. They beat back a few of the arena fighters that put up a tenacious struggle against them. “Point your attention there, gentlemen, bring it to bear. We must disrupt them post haste.”
Several of the Royal Guardsmen had crossbows strapped to their backs, and they used them with skill and precision. The mercenaries were scarred and toughened men, but they died the same as any.
A yell rose from some of the dispersed mob and some surged forward, back into the fight. The mercenaries killed them.
Muldor kept his men close by, hoping to somehow join again with Cubbins’ men, but they had their own troubles. Their little island of strength and stability did what they could to shove back the mercs trying to edge in and disrupt them. The mercenaries yelled obscenities and cursed their mothers and fathers, very colorful metaphors that were both impressive and varied.
Thruck was nowhere to be found, and Muldor bemoaned his loss. It could have worked, maybe it had a little, but now things were going from bad to worse. The mob, mere regular people faced with the trained professionals that would kill them without a moment’s notice, lost their desire for blood. They wilted like a sapling before a tempest. Most of the crowd ran off.
The tide began to turn and not in Sea Haven’s favor.
* * * * *
Castellan stood at the window and peered at his city. The angle offered a view of the southern reaches of Sea Haven, towards the heaviest fighting. The Lord Governor’s office had become a command center earlier in the day. Right after Muldor had left and Lord Peterson killed, messengers ran back and forth to give news of the individual battles all over the city between various groups. Only two were under his direct command.
Jerrod represented the leader of one of those forces, and he leaned against the opposite wall by the desk. His annoyance was clear on his face, but Castellan didn’t take notice of it.
Their city was under attack. The place Castellan had made his own, where he found his fortune and destiny, where he had lived for over a decade, where the Guild Master prayed and looked for redemption at a place of worship. The thought of his church being struck by the enemy armada’s attacks made him sick, for it could happen.
Someone was telling him something, right behind him, but Castellan did not hear it. It tugged at his consciousness, but he was numb to the call. It broke through, just enough, and he turned away from the window.
“Yes?”
“My lord, the main dock is taken. Five ships have made a
nchor at Piers One, Two, and Five. They have disgorged many soldiers, my lord. Two enemy vessels have been sunk, along with our entire naval force. The dockside workers and defense has fled for the most part. The rest is sure to follow.”
Castellan stared at the messenger. For Janisberg to send an armada against him, that they could take the wharf, was unthinkable. It couldn’t be true. This was more evidence of the conspiracy. People were lying to him. The docks were still his.
He dismissed the messenger and looked at Jerrod and motioned the assassin over. Jerrod sniffed before moving, a wary look in his eyes.
“Confer with Captain Drake and Strangeways. Move up the bulk of our mercenaries to the docks. Divert any you see on the streets to fight our enemies to the west. Have that policeman Dillon coordinate with the city watch commanders to shore up the riots. Our priority is the docks.”
Jerrod grunted. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Also, Jerrod,” Castellan said with a certain relish in his voice. “I want you to get your men together, all of them. Tell Marko to round up as many as he can, and go to the heart of the resistance. Cut them out for me. These are my orders. It is time for you to get involved.”
Castellan turned back to the window without another word. He would let the violence of the streets punish the guilty.
* * * * *
Giorgio coughed. It was the first and only thing his battered body would allow him to do. He regained consciousness amid loud noises, shouting, the heavy stomping of iron shod boots on wood, and the screams of the injured.
His mouth sputtered as he coughed again and tasted the sharp, coppery tang of blood. His head rang as he attempted to sit up. A squishy wetness dwelled under his lap, and the thief shook his head. The sharp crack of pain almost brought him back down. Something hot and stiff stabbed his upper arm.
Smoke floated along in the air with particles of wood and some kind of dusty powder he couldn’t identify. Something had happened he couldn’t recollect. There was a sharp retort, another cannon shot off to his left.
The other cannon crew, the sole remaining one left, tried to keep up the bombardment. Another crew sprawled to his right. Two men were dead, with twisted body parts off to the side in a bloodied mess. A third moaned face down in a pool of blood.
The thief tried to move and pain shot up his left arm. He felt around and discovered a shard of metal stuck in his shoulder. His dusty fingers probed, and he sucked his teeth as the pain made him reel. Warm fluid trickled down his arm and his hand wet. He girded himself and yanked it out.
There was only a little pain, a dull ache where the metal slid out from flesh. He held it in his hand and looked at how the blood glistened on the piece of shrapnel.
A smoldering black spot lay where the cannon had been. Bits and pieces of the machine still evident. The biggest part was the back end, cracked open and sprawling like a flower waiting morning light.
He heard the stomping of many boots, the shouts of many men. Someone near pier six screamed like he was on fire. Giorgio couldn’t see well enough to know. There was a cry close to him. The thief rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but his mind felt dull and heavy as if everything took place under water.
There were soldiers everywhere. They wore light blue colors like the sky with grey highlights. The dull glare of their metal weapons and armor looked as if it was viewed through a dirty pane of glass. They didn’t belong here, not in his city.
People behind him shouted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the remaining cannon crew running away. Giorgio felt calm for some reason. He should’ve been running too. His shirt hung on him in tatters. Bits of the cannon smoldered all around him. He should be bleeding in a multitude of places, but only his pierced shoulder bled, but that had already stopped.
A deafening crunch plied him out of his ruminations, and all of a sudden the boardwalk started to sway under his body. The boards to the right showed a slight split and sloshing water far below. It was something never thought of. The actual structure of the boardwalk was made of wood. The sea was below… he’d never thought of it before.
On his feet. Somehow. Doors to the warehouse were open. People ran, abandoning their positions on the docks. Around the sides of the building came men with evil intentions. They would capture him; they would kill him. There was no choice but to get away. The back door to the warehouse was open.
He ran. Glancing back over his shoulder, all that could be seen were enemy soldiers. They spread across the docks like a disease, filling the boardwalk with their steel and anger, relentless as the tide.
The dock was lost.
* * * * *
The streets were getting darker. The day was waned into dusk. A man could get lost winding around the labyrinthine streets of Sea Haven if not careful. One could find oneself at the southern docks or near the pit, or even as far as the shipping yards within minutes, regardless of the original destination.
All Jerrod had to do was head for the sounds of battle. It was much better than being cooped up at city hall with Castellan in that damn office. Marko, thick necked and shorter than him by a full head, walked with him and several other toughs. All wore their customary v-necked, black shirts with the sleeves cut off the shoulders. It made them intimidating and strong.
Jerrod had formed up the squad the previous week with Marko’s help, but they hadn’t been able to contact any of the real elites. Those men could get together many of their gnarled cohorts, men with scarred faces and vicious attitudes. They were known to be the meanest sons of bitches in town but also unreliable. No surprise they didn’t show or couldn’t be found.
Sounds of fighting amplified as they trekked further north.
“They must be over at Butcher’s Lane, sir,” Marko said and flicked a thumb in that direction. “We can cut across Prowler Street.”
Jerrod grunted. “Seems appropriate. Let’s move.”
Marko laughed even though Jerrod had never made a joke in his life. When he glared at him, the tough swallowed and kept walking. “Yes, sir!”
They ran through a side street, and the clamor rose to a crescendo as they closed. Jerrod saw a gigantic, sprawling brawl rather than any well-organized battle front. A typical sight considering the layout of the streets; it was too spread out to allow much coordination, no matter what forces arrayed against one another.
There weren’t many real fighters, either, only slugs scratching and clawing like animals with rakes and kitchen knives. It was almost comical the way they hurled curses at the foreigners as if that could harm them any more than the small rocks they chucked. Even the mercs were slugs, dirty men fighting like tavern brawlers with no sense of unity. But there were a lot of them, and for Jerrod’s purposes that would do fine.
He and the toughs could have this straightened up real fast. A few well-placed kicks and shoves would fix these regular folk up well. The toughs ran forward in five or six blocks of a dozen men. Right up the middle, they pushed back some of the rioters into the mercenaries. They recognized Marko and his men. They were better to. Castellan ain’t paying them to knit.
The tactic, simple but effective, worked enough to get the people running away. Their fight drained from them by Jerrod’s strong force. The people couldn’t fight both enemies. The toughs shoved them back through the streets, made them bleed a little, and Jerrod smiled all the way. The slugs knew who was boss.
Then his smile faded as they reached the next intersection. A large block of armored might smashed its way down the center of the street. Peterson’s bunch, the royal fools, and Muldor among them. They made headway, killing mercenaries and rallying more scum to their side. Jerrod noticed several arena fighters by their side. The seasoned warriors protected their flanks as they mopped up the street. Traitor police were among them as well.
“Son of a bitch.”
Marko was still by his side, and he saw them too. “What’s to be done about them, sir?”
Jerrod spit. “We kill ‘em, you dolt.”
They moved. The toughs shoved the line forward, closer and closer to the heart of the armored center.
The crowd of city folk, dirty and disheveled, angry but frightened by this new threat, skulked away as the toughs ploughed through them with their short swords and heavy gauntlets. Jerrod was close enough to catch some of the filtering crowd. He shoved one man to the ground while stabbing another in the gut who tried to toss a brick at him. He fell holding his stomach.
Jerrod had to give Muldor credit. The man kept the royal guardsmen and police scum in a tight formation like they’d been doing this together for years. But as Jerrod’s group neared, the shouts of the townsfolk they bludgeoned and cut brought attention to them that was undeniable. Muldor’s men looked over, and some of them frowned while others looked scared. They hadn’t counted on this.
Jerrod grabbed Marko’s arm, pulled him close and pointed. “That waist high stack of shit Muldor, do you know ‘im?”
Marko peered and nodded. “I do, sir.”
“We want him alive. The rest can bleed. Go get him.”
“Yes, sir!”
They closed in.
* * * * *
“We’ve pulled up several hundred mercenaries from the outlying districts and put them on the docks, but the rest are occupied elsewhere, my lord. Some contracted groups are not to be found. We are missing many hundreds.”
Castellan took the messenger’s report with a lazy nod. His view from the window had grown opaque, dulled by the mental gauze wrapped around his mind.
His captain, Lance Peyton, stood behind him and coughed. “My lord, we have reports that many of them have fled the city. There has been no news from Drake for many hours. We don’t know where he is.”
Castellan felt weak and tired. The Guild Master stepped away from the window and slunk down in a chair. His limbs were numb. The weight of the crystal necklace on his chest was oppressive. He stared at the floor. “The colonnade at the docks was perhaps too much for them. Men are weak of heart without the proper spiritual background. They didn’t have the support measures. We shall have proper support, spiritual support, next time.”