by Will Molinar
Jerrod led one group, making it fourteen strong. Another group stayed close by, ready to provide a distraction when the need arose, while the other stayed in reserve on lookout duty. The cops were nowhere to be found on the streets.
And the slugs working the taverns would not understand what had hit them. They would be floored, thunderstruck so fast they would piss themselves before they could pull their swords.
They held to the shadowy confines of the alleyways along the dockside off the edge of the southernmost pier. The moon hugged their backs as they rushed out from the dark towards The Drunken Flagon’s entrance. Outside the tavern, two prostitutes, one well-dressed merchant that looked out of place, and two drunk men argued with one of the whores.
Jerrod and his men swept by like demons out of hell, and the bystanders gasped and stood back. One of the women screamed. He gripped his brass knuckles in his right hand, his favorite weapon for this type of job, and snarled at the merchant. The man blanched and put a hand to his mouth.
Jerrod snickered and kicked the door open. They entered at a quick jog and while the crowd muttered, his thirteen toughs drew their swords and kept the crowd under control.
Jerrod went straight for the bartender, a fattish man wearing an apron.
“Give it up,” Jerrod said. “All of it. Now.”
Everyone stared. Some spoke up, yelling in chorus.
“What’s this?”
“Hey, you can’t—”
A tough slammed the last speaker in the gut with a stiff elbow, and the man doubled over, gasping for breath.
“I won’t ask again,” Jerrod said.
The tender rubbed his considerable belly and stuttered. “I-I-don’t know what- we don’t have anything.”
Jerrod reached a long arm over the countertop, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, and yanked him over the counter. He choked and tried to pry Jerrod’s left hand off his shirt, but Jerrod didn’t give him the chance as he drove his brass knuckles into his upper cheek and temple area with two sharp whacks that crushed the bone, caving in the side of his face.
That was it. The man went limp. His brain smashed, and Jerrod let the corpse flop to the floor like a fish out of water. He glanced at one of the servers, a young girl, who stared at him as if he were the devil himself. Shock and terror mixed in her pretty features.
“You next, sweetheart? Or do you wanna do what you’re told?”
The girl froze solid, then wet herself as he stepped towards her. A wet spot of urine dripped down her leg to pool on the floor. She started to swoon as Jerrod stepped closer and grabbed her shirt to hold her up.
“Yeah?” He raised his right fist. “That’s how you want it?”
“Wait!”
A man stepped forward from the crowd, eyeing a nearby tough that held a sword towards him. He looked like one of the house security men since he was dressed in similar fashion to a few others, with brown leggings and studded leather on their torsos. They had clubs strapped to their waists, pathetic weapons that did little but help control an unruly crowd. There was fear in his eyes but also deep concern as he glanced at the serving girl.
“Please don’t hurt her. I’ll get you what you want.”
The toughs let him through at a nod from Jerrod.
“Here,” the man said as came out from behind the bar, carrying a strong box, a wooden construction with a lock on the outside. He put it on the counter in front of Jerrod. “This is all we got. Please, take it and go.”
Jerrod hefted it, feeling its weight. It seemed like a good haul, and he could tell the man was sincere.
“That’s it, huh? Nothing more? You know what happens if you hold out on me.”
The man shook his head. “No, nothing more. Please leave us be.” He flicked his eyes to the girl, who had recovered from the initial shock. She breathed tiny gasps of air, still and numb.
Jerrod grunted and nodded to the toughs. They hefted some bags and spread out among the crowd, forcing them to dig into their pockets and give up whatever coin or objects of value they had.
“I think you all got some more to hand out,” he said and eyed the girl again. “Go on and give it up. We ain’t leaving until you do.”
The toughs did their jobs well. They grabbed a decent amount, for many of the people there had some small bits of jewelry and a fair amount of coin. Jerrod hefted the strong box, tucking it under his left arm, leaving his right hand free to deal out punishment with the brass knuckles if need be.
He breathed through his hood, the eye slits affording a narrow view of the proceedings. They collected a nice stash, three full bags in fact, and that was a grand start to the night, one they would repeat soon.
“Let’s move it out, boys!”
They filed out, keeping a strict eye on any potential heroes that might’ve tried to stop them, but no one moved. Jerrod had provided sufficient incentive to behave. He was almost disappointed that no one fought back. Maybe the next job would be more exciting.
* * * * *
Journal 1340
We sail on the morrow! I say “we” only as an affectation because in actuality another Guild member goes in my place. I am consoled by the fact Lawson is a good man. There are many that believe otherwise perhaps. He is a young man, but his heart remains true to The Guild. What he lacks in experience he makes up in gusto for justice and shall represent us well.
We must show to those that mean to harm us that death is the only response with which we may answer. Violence is the only real power in this world. It pains me to admit it, and I would rather there was another way, but I see no other route to take. Believe it not if you will, but violence has solved more issues in history than any other one force. Death is the ultimate equalizer to which all men are judged in the end.
I wish it were not so. But my wishes carry little weight when pressed against reality. Men will die. Perhaps many of them. Some families will be destroyed, perhaps many. There will be heartache and pain and misery. Will it be worth it? Our journey must happen. It is happening. I wonder on the worth more and more because our business is in fact only business. I am not so blind by duty to my job to be under any other supposition that The Guild is more than that. It provides jobs; it gives money to those that would not have it, but would it be better to dissolve the whole thing before committing us to this course?
Lurenz has killed men. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women have died by his hand. If the stories are to be believed, he is a despicable human being, and his life should be taken for the good of all. True, it is now only our vessels that his fleet targets, but what of it? Is it not only right we defend ourselves? It would be madness to believe otherwise.
I believe assistance from the king is impossible. I have sent letters, and they remain unrequited. No other agency of the crown feels it is up to them to intercede on our behalf. Or is there some other reason those across the way want us to suffer? I think if the royalty of this land had their way, our fair city would be burned to the ground, and all of its inhabitants slaughtered out of hand. Our reputation is not the grandest. We are, according to some, a cesspool of depravity and corruption. Most days, I agree with this description. But there are good people here worth saving, many of whom are being attacked at sea.
I admit I miss the docks these days. The men there are friends of mine in a way. It is with much trepidation that I send so many of them into danger. Will work there suffer if they lose so many of their brethren? Perhaps. But work all around is at a straining point because of Lurenz and his Dark Destiny led fleet of pirates and miscreants. These men would put even the most unruly criminals of the Southern Docks to shame.
The Guild cannot move forward until we root out this wicked force for all time. It will not end piracy forever. I am not so foolish to believe that. But we can be a beacon of hope for so many that live in fear. Because we are the largest purveyor of goods on this side of the coast, we become the largest target of theft. I try not to take it as a personal attack. I be
lieve what we do is right.
But there is a deep, gnawing fear in my stomach that I trod upon the same path as my predecessor. Ah! It is so strange to think of myself as Master of the Guild. But it is true I hold that position. And it is true I was once of the mind that the expansion of our Guild would be the doom of us all. Now I cannot justify the actions the former Guild Master took. He believed he was doing what was in the best interests of our organization, and I suppose I am no different in my motivations.
But I am a different person. I care about the workers, men Castellan believed to be mere tools, to be used and cast out once their usefulness had ended. They were gears in his clockwork machinery, grinding out their lives until they broke. Am I fooling myself into believing I am different? Some would say I am. Seeing him in that state at the asylum, like a mad dog, it causes me no end of distress. The actual cause may be something so insidious I shiver to consider the source.
Lord Cassius and his ilk? Could they have poisoned his mind and body with some foreign agent? I know of a natural toxin that twists and turns the behavior of a human mind and body into a monstrous version of man. But it would shock me to learn that Cassius is culpable in this. This is not his normal way of doing business. He would let the law punish the man, not some second hand device.
No, this malady stems from some other source, something more vile even than city hall. I speak of the church. Tranquility’s Palace, the home of our beloved Arc Lector Morlin, is the most evil of all places within the confines of “Murder” Haven. It is true. I have seen men, nay, entire civilizations fall to the power of religion. An entity knows no limit to its scope and influence. No one within its powerful grasp would ever think to question its hallowed tenets.
It was not the Lord Governor there on that fateful day at the docks when Castellan was taken into custody, when our proud city surrendered to a foreign power for the first time in a century. No, it was another man that took control that day that marched hundreds of our citizens across the streets like zombie followers. He ended the martial hostilities with a mere wave of his wizened hand as if he were conducting a choir.
Arc Lector Morlin is the most powerful man, nay, the most powerful force in the city, my beloved home, the only place I have ever lived or would ever want to live. He is a force that can make men do things beyond the scope of everyday mortals and sway kings and kingdoms.
What hope have I should I choose to confront him?
Chapter Two
The jail cell was much more comfortable than it looked. Although it was a bit cramped, it was clean and well kept. It was a beautiful building, with a strong architectural design, and built solid. The wooden beams in the inner halls were oak, and there were tough metal bands across most of the doorframes.
Zandor was all alone, comfy on a cot that was attached to the walls by chains on each end that swung down from the wall. The amnesty had gone into effect not long ago, but there must have been still people they needed to arrest
There had to be another agency to swing against them. It would work better to hit the city officials and the police at once, to make one scared enough to hire his men as secondary security and the other to go on strike in order to increase the need for that security. It would be tricky. The city’s rich were already buying up all the extra security men they could afford to protect themselves and their homes. The thieves crawled out of the woodwork, and the cops were miffed about their lack of respect in the city’s hierarchy. Something had to give.
Zandor had people in place already. Some of the elites were good at what they did, and they had contact with the others, little more than chaff, but somewhat well trained. Zandor’s people were not headhunters or bashers. He needed another option, some hard hitting smashers to be tossed away after it was done.
It was late in the day. He stood and put his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. The skeleton crew present in the jail was slacking off, bless them. The police force needed to be hopping mad and ready for action to get them over the edge.
They had frisked him but not well enough to find a thin wire installed in the sole of his shoe and another in his belt. He pulled it out and went to work on the bulky lock on the door. Moments later he entered the hall. It was eerie there in the dusty dark.
A dim torch hung in a sconce far down the way, glimmering and shifting, pushed by an invisible breeze. It was easy to let the mind play tricks to believe it was something else, perhaps a ghost. There had been rumors circulating of a ghost many months back, floating around somewhere in town. There were things in the world that defied description, and Zandor knew that better than most.
He crept down the hallway. There was a larger holding cell right below him on the first floor, but they put him higher. These were strange days. Maybe there was a ghost in the jail, and it had scared everyone away.
Instead of going downstairs, he went up to scope things out. Not much to speak of, only some general storage rooms and broken wooden cases and boxes. Inside were some old police uniforms, and he put one on, ditching his homeless man disguise. The simple brown leggings and leather jerkin were cheap but serviceable. This was too easy.
The police were too tight knit a group for this disguise to last long, but considering there weren’t too many around, it wouldn’t be needed for long. It gave him the chance to move about the jail for a little bit longer, in case he met any officers in the lower levels, but most would be asleep anyway.
The lower floors were more open, with less storage rooms and more cells that were open all along the walls. The main area had nothing but a normal hallway with bars to each side, reaching from floor to ceiling. Zandor stepped through the narrow opening into the main cell floor, and he wondered what the big deal was.
There was plenty of space and including the large holding area outside, they could’ve held hundreds of inmates. In a city of tens of thousands, a police force of less than eighty was spread very thin. Plus, the city had so many other security agencies, no doubt the police felt marginalized and unappreciated.
The number of private security, hired by rich merchants or the few true nobility in Sea Haven, outnumbered the police by a lot. Zandor did not know the actual number. Maybe the dock security and the city watch combined could sway the balance back to the cops if necessary since they had an affiliation with the city government. It was all a mess, and his attention slipped away from the matter at hand.
Zandor believed the police to be better trained. They had pride too, that was obvious by the work stoppage. They only needed to be reminded of the power they could wield. Pride made a man fight harder. It also made most men choose the wrong solution to a problem.
And the intelligent, well equipped Captain Cubbins was gone. Which meant the force was ripe for exploitation by someone like Zandor if he could only figure out a good way to implement his plan. He didn’t know what the plan was quite yet.
On the ground floor was a little office area where they brought people into the jail. There was only one guard on duty, a small man slouching in a chair by the lone desk. This place was a ghost building. Empty as a tomb and about as exciting.
Down the hall another guard snoozed in a chair. The man grunted when he heard him pass by. Zandor clicked his tongue and walked on. The man stirred.
“Tough night, eh?”
Zandor answered with a chuckle and kept going towards the door.
In the outer office he saw empty space and stone walls. On his left near the far wall was a podium with a ledger and quill. A man stood behind it. Zandor approached him and let his face show in the flickering torchlight.
“Hey there, fella. How goes it?”
The man regarded him with a stony gaze. Then he cracked a smile. “Hi Zandor. Took you long enough to break free. You might be losing a step or two.”
“Try me.”
* * * * *
The take was divided quick and easy amongst the toughs. They’d hit two other taverns the same night. Any more than that, and the resistance would be too
high to be worth the effort. Jerrod knew word on the street could travel fast, and even days later, similar establishments would be on the lookout for trouble. Forewarned was forearmed.
It was better to let things simmer down until they relaxed. So he and the toughs hunkered down in an abandoned warehouse near the southern docks and counted their money. They had plenty of coin plus a fair bit of jewelry; rings, necklaces, bracelets, and the like placed in bags, taken off the bodies of frightened patrons.
“When we hittin’ the tents, boss?”
Jerrod gave a small grunt and glanced over at the speaker, Donald. The lanky tough sat with several others at ramshackle tables, nothing more than over turned crates stuffed tight in one of the back rooms of the warehouse. A couple others watched the exits for any unwanted guests.
“One thing at a time, fella,” Jerrod said.
Donald nodded and went back to counting coins. Most of them were smiling, content with the impressive haul. A certain anxiety hung in the air as well, and that made him glad, for content men were lazy men, and as long as the fear of reprisal was present, they would stay sharp.
Sure, the police were a bunch of sissified pansies even when they were on the job, and now that they weren’t, things were looking up.
“So where to next?”
Someone else was sticking their heads up and looking to him. Others turned to stare as the speaker, a short and stocky tough built like Marko.