Lair of Killers

by Will Molinar

  Foreign merchants were always looking for a foothold in Sea Haven, always trying to buy their way in, so they could have sold their wares in an easier fashion, rather than paying for the ships and use of the docks. Muldor had fought against this practice for years, giving preferential treatment to people born here, but those days might have been over.

  Living in the wealthy quarter had seemed like such a good idea at the time, being holed away safe behind the wall, away from the slugs normal people had to face every day in the city. It had seemed worth it to only lease and not own, worth it to deal with the foreign power’s demands.

  But they were not safe. Murder Haven had them. That fiend Jerrod had busted through his private security with such ease once before. All this time he had pondered what to do to upgrade his personal safety but had not got around to it. And there was nothing he could’ve done but grovel to his betters.

  “The Arc Lector will see you now.”

  Cassius closed his eyes and nodded as if he had just been sentenced to hang. He stood up as an acolyte stepped out, and Arc Lector Morlin stepped in. The ecclesiastical leader of Sea Haven waved him down.

  “Please be seated, Benedict! You look exhausted, and I’ll not have you collapsing on this property. Think of the scandal! ‘Lord Governor Cassius dies in the chamber of Arc Lector Morlin.’ How scandalous.”

  The Arc Lector wore a simple gown of the deepest red as if he had bathed his body in blood, and it clung to his ramrod straight body in loose folds. Simple sandals adorned his feet, and his shaven face and head were fresh and clean as if he had been awake for hours.

  Morlin sat on the couch opposite Cassius and regarded him with curiosity, even amusement.

  “So, Lord Cassius is here,” he said and smiled. “You have returned, Benedict. It was not certain I would ever see you here again in these chambers, considering the outcome the last time you were. Do you have problems I may assist you with? Or do you wish to give a personal absolution to your maker? Why are you here?”

  Cassius’ tongue was stuck in his throat. He took a moment and swallowed. “I-I have… problems. That is true. I need help, yes!”

  The Lord Governor of one of the most powerful cities on the continent hopped off his chair, clasped his hands in front of his chest, and clomped over on his knees in front of the Arc Lector. His voice and eyes were pleading.

  “Your Grace! Yes, I have fallen in your eyes, forgive me! I have lost my way. I come-I come to services, almost every week, but-but….”

  “But you no longer hear the One True Word, is that correct? Is it, Lord Governor?”

  Morlin stood and left Cassius groveling on his knees like the pathetic wretch he was. Cassius whimpered and waited.

  The Arc Lector strode over to a cabinet, and Cassius heard him mutter a strange phrase in a garbled, low sounding language. He returned and stood above Cassius, glancing down with disdain.

  “Sit up! Be a man of character for once in your life, Benedict. It is not fitting for a lord to act like this.”

  Cassius nodded, feeling light headed and weak. He stood up on shaky legs and did as ordered. The couch was very comfortable. He had forgotten how soft and enveloping it was. He sat back, and a great deal of tension slipped from his body. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

  Morlin held a vial of blue glass; a cork tight in the top, and liquid swished around inside. “Drink this.”

  Cassius glanced up at the Arc Lector. The man’s eyes were lost in the shadow of his brow, but he sensed the stern, unforgiving gaze nonetheless. Cassius groaned.

  “Drink! You came to me, you simpering fool. If you wish to have what you will have, you must drink this.”

  Morlin held out a talisman hanging on a thick golden chain. Cassius found his eyes drawn to it, his view razor sharp. It symbolized his calling, his reason for living.

  “Will you hear the One True Word, Lord Cassius?”

  Cassius sighed and reached out a shaking hand and drank, receiving absolution. Then he got everything deserved.

  Chapter Seven

  Someone screamed. The words sounded garbled at first due to a fuzzy, befuddled mind and hampered sensibilities, but after a moment they cleared to the point of comprehension.

  “Get away from here! Ya hear? Get out!”

  Anders felt another blow coming and rolled. The cobblestones under him were hard and unrelenting, banging his elbows and knees until he scooted far enough to get to his feet.

  The sun blazed in his eyes. Some asshole, one of the stall owner’s guards, swung a club at him. The man made the mistake of stepping too close on his swing, thinking Anders would continue to move away, but Anders pulled his dagger and slipped it between his ribs. The man was chubby, so the blade was not long enough to penetrate deep until Anders stabbed harder, feeling the warm splash of blood on his hand.

  Instead of running, the young thief stood still and watched the man’s eyes go wide. He fell to his knees, grimacing and holding the wound with pudgy hands. The club fell. The guard glanced at Anders with disbelief

  “You were saying something,” Anders said. “What was you said? You hit me. I don’t like being hit.”

  The guard slumped, hands on the ground while the merchant shouted and pointed at Anders. The market was always so fun. But men would have come to kill him or take him to jail, which was worse than death, so it was time to leave.

  He dashed off. People shouted and pointed, but he raced through the crowd, hopping over crates, bags, and people. Not nimble enough to avoid one woman walking passed a stall near the edge of the market. Anders collided with her, and both of them tumbled to the ground. He tried to scramble to his feet, his side a tight knot of pain, but there were men around him, kicking and yelling. The woman screamed.

  Anders covered his head with his arms, and one man banged his shin on his elbow, yelping in pain, the worse off for it. Another one bellowed in pain for some unknown reason. Anders did not wait, scurrying on all fours like a bear to escape the circle of pain.

  A man took a swing at him, but a crossbow bolt sprouted in his chest. He yelled and fell to his knees. Anders gave a silent thanks to his cohorts. He hoofed it hard with covering fire springing up behind him People screamed in fright. By the time he reached a side alley, exhaustion gripped him. His head hurt, his side felt tight as a drum, and he was not sure where he was.

  Tall buildings all around, some of the tallest in the city were near the marketplace. Merchants’ offices, warehouses stockpiled with goods that were dwarfed by the mammoths near the docks, but they were huge in their own right.

  A shout from the market made him start. He ran in the opposite direction, sprinting the best he could down the pathway to the northeast. As he rounded a corner, there was a sharp whistle, a common tone used by people of his vocation to communicate on the street.

  A door opened down the way, and someone shouted. “Hey! Over here!”

  Anders ran to it but slowed. The natural inclination of Sea Haven residents towards paranoia rose. It conflicted with his excitement at potential safety.

  “Anders! Get over here!”

  At least they knew his name; or perhaps that was that bad. A clump of a safe house the thieves had set up lay a few feet away. Anders held his bloody dagger at the ready as he entered one. The cool metal felt solid and reassuring in his hand.

  A quick glance inside revealed a few recognizable faces, so he closed the door, nodding to some of them. “Baker. Jerome. How goes it? Had a little trouble by the northeast, though.”

  “Put the dagger down!” Baker said and raised his eyes towards a corner over Anders’ right shoulder. Anders tensed and did not move.

  “You didn’t check your corners,” a familiar voice said. “What are they teaching kids these days in this town, huh? I figured ya all were better than this. Marston told me you were.”

  “We are better,” Anders said through gritted teeth. He glared at Baker and Jerome. “I thought I was among friends.”

  The voice laug
hed. “You are, kiddo, you are. But never trust anyone, not even friends. Go ahead and put that pig sticker down, so we can talk like grown-ups. I’d hate to ruin that nice cloak by putting a hole in it.”

  Anders looked at them. They were serious. He did as ordered but with reluctance. Part of him, the tiny bit of young man’s pride, wanted to test the man.

  Zandor swung around from the side, holding a crossbow at the ready. His compact body, smaller than even Anders’, was taut and smooth. His lean, swarthy face and raven black hair marked him as a foreigner to their shores, and he held a level of amusement. Anders eyed the weapon. “I thought only cowards used those.”

  “Heh. Well, sometimes you gotta use extra precautions, see? It helped you back there, didn’t it? I respect you fellas enough to protect myself from any misunderstandings.” He hefted the crossbow. “Are we all friends?” The thieves nodded. “Good.” Zandor rested the weapon head down, but Anders noticed he kept a tight hold on the handle.

  “Now see, I’m not all that sure how well you folks know me. I’m working with some of you now. I knew that Giorgio fellow well, but I don’t see him around anymore.” An awkward silence followed, and Anders hardened his gaze. Any mention of their former leader made him ill at ease. “Doesn’t matter what’s past. What matters is what you all intend to do now. Seems to me most of you are scattered, except some of the smarter ones like Marston, already got him on board with me. I know you want to get your Guild all nice and tight again. I can help with that.”

  That got Anders’ attention. “We’re listening.”

  Zandor smiled.

  * * * * *

  Jerrod tore another man’s face off with a hard chop of his long sword, cutting the front of his face so deep it exposed the nasal cavity. Another man came up, saw the ruin of his former companion’s face, the murderous look in Jerrod’s eyes, and the bloody sword held with such confidence in his hands, and he turned around and sprinted away.

  The master assassin scoffed. Fucking cowards, every single one of these slugs weren’t even worth the effort of killing half the time. He took a moment to survey the rest of the battlefield. The woodland scene, what had been so idyllic and serene was now awash in splattered, bloody puddles of human liquids, the tortured screams of the wounded and dying, the curses of rage and pain, and a few whimpering cries begging for mercy.

  The two scouts Zandor had stationed were still alive and tied up one of the survivors among the security men, with one of them holding him at bay with an arrow. The fuckers had struck another one of Jerrod’s toughs, and because of that the man lay face down on the forest floor. The arrow had only struck his shoulder, but it was enough to distract him from the fight and proved his downfall.

  Jerrod caught one of the toughs by the arm as he was running by, chasing after the surviving security men. “Hold up. Go bring back the others here.”

  The man nodded and ran off. A regroup was in order. Jerrod approached the scouts tying up the prisoner. They noticed him coming and nodded.

  “Ho there,” said the one trussing up the security man. He finished and stood up, respect in his eyes. “Phenomenal work, friend. You have great skill with the blade.” He surveyed the battled, eying the wounded tough. “I apologize for any misunderstanding. I’m afraid we might have snuck up on some of your men in the confusion.”

  “Yeah, confusion,” Jerrod said and flicked his head at the prisoner. “You keepin’ this prick, eh?”

  “We are. Zandor instructed us to take prisoners if possible, so as to garner information from them.”

  “Did he?”

  Jerrod hefted his two handed sword two and brought it down on the back of the prisoner’s neck, decapitating him with one stroke. Blood spurted from the neck all over the clearing.

  “What are you—by the gods!”

  The two scouts cursed and stared in disbelief at Jerrod, but the deed was done. He smirked at them, holding his sword in a casual hand, the blood dripping. They exchanged glances, and then the one with the arrow in position swung it about and trained it on Jerrod’s chest.

  He boomed a laugh. “You think that’s enough, fella? You better make sure. You only get one shot at me. Then it’s my turn.”

  Their eyes wavered. There was fear there, uncertainty, but resolution too. Jerrod heard a commotion behind him and realized the toughs had returned. Good timing, that. They stood behind him.

  The scout with the bow raised lowered it.

  The other spoke. “Zandor will hear of this. You can count on it.”

  Jerrod frowned. “I don’t think I like what you’re saying, pal. Not one bit. We coulda been agreeable here, but you went and fucked that up.”

  His blood was still up from the battle, and he had no patience to muck about with these dunderheads. He moved, faster than they could have followed and struck out at the speaker’s throat, cutting the soft flesh. The bowman blanched at the quick death of his partner and raised his weapon, but Jerrod was faster, stabbing him in the chest.

  Trying to cry out, mouth full of blood, the man spit it out and died as he fell to the ground. Jerrod cleaned his sword on their clothes and gathered the rest of his men. Two were dead and three wounded. Half an hour later, they were back with Zandor, mission accomplished. Their temporary allies were lounging around together, enjoying the spoils of victory, talking and smoking from the stores they found inside the mansions.

  Jerrod reported on what happened in the woods, giving his own take on the events. Zandor narrowed his eyes when Jerrod mentioned the deaths of the two scouts.

  “Both killed, huh?”

  “Yep. Not sure what happened. Confusion in the battle and all that.”

  “Sure, things happen. Right. Funny thing, though, since these boys are trained to stay out of the main fighting and sit back to shoot folks.”

  Jerrod gave a noncommittal grunt. “Yeah, they’re good at that all right. Picked off more than their share they did. Good shots. Too bad about losing them.”

  “Yeah, too bad. They will be missed. We’ll have to get a few more out there to protect our flank. Hey, Johnson! Get over here.”

  Zandor conferred with one of his men for a moment before sending him off again. He turned back to Jerrod. “Nice work, Jerry. You stopped the incursion real nice. I’ll have to send you out more often.”

  There was an implied threat there in his words, but Jerrod only smiled. “Anything you need, boss.”

  * * * * *

  The room was not much to look at. There was a painting on each side wall the door behind and a large facing that, the latter providing a suitable view of the marketplace. A table and chair matched the simple but clean décor of the bed, but it was nothing compared to Becket’s real home, a place where he had servants and his beautiful artwork. He might not ever see either again.

  The homeless Dock Master heard nothing of his servants in the three days since the wealthy quarter had been taken over. The police had barricaded themselves in their precinct, the head of the City Watch, Hark Williamson, had taken a strong stance of non-interference, and thus far no one had challenged him.

  Muldor was no help either, stating it was none of his business, and that individual Guild members were responsible for their own protection, and of course once the man made up his mind, he would not budge. Lord Cassius was difficult to get a hold of, all of his aides saying he was not to be disturbed.

  Becket wondered where the Lord Governor was living. Maybe he was at Madam Dreary’s, like many of the others who were making the whorehouse fit to bursting with profits and people if the rumors were true. Lawson would have done the same if he were not on a ship.

  Becket put the poor lad’s chance at survival at around nil. He wasn’t built for traveling or the sea. Plus, he was too much of a snob and hothead to get along with sailors. They were hard men that did not fuck around. Becket had spent time around some of them at the Western Docks and wondered again if Muldor had in fact sent him there on purpose to die. As disturbing as the thought w
as, it was possible.

  The Dock Master spent most of his free time staring out the window at the marketplace. It was odd seeing it from that angle when he was so accustomed to being either within it or orchestrating so much of its activity from the docks. Work had slowed there even more of late, and not only because of the continuing theft by Lurenz and his pirates, but also the escalating theft at the marketplace.

  Merchants had to spend so much more coin on protection it was becoming cost prohibitive to do business there. Good for independent security men, though. If you got paid to fight, Sea Haven was the city to be in at the moment.

  The smaller merchants were leaving; where to Becket had no idea. If the trend continued, the city would lose status as the premiere place for trade on the continent. He would lose even more money and his way of life would have dwindled away, and he would’ve been forced to live closer to the other people in town.

  The Guild was threatened. Somehow Muldor hadn’t seen that. All of what was happening was connected; the theft, the piracy, the takeover in the wealthy quarter. People wanted what Becket and his had. And they were getting it.

  Everything of any value Becket owned was tucked away behind a barricade and men guarding it, men with evil intent and their own agenda. His home, his precious artwork, his paintings and sculptures, most of his gold, all lost to him. He had some gold squirreled away in a safe in his office for this type of situation, but it would not last forever.

  He had only worked eight hours that day, which was not good. He could not remember the last time he had not worked from sunrise to sunset, but now that the business coming in from overseas was thinning, there was no point. He had time to watch the market’s business ebb and flow; perhaps if he stared hard enough, he could have made it increase the traffic and profits there.