Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  A greenish, fungal like growth littered the ground in clumps. It had the same consistency as the substance on the lock, only there was more of it. And thicker. The clumps were like eviscerated innards, long and ropey in places. Cubbins found a stick and poked a pile of it. It clung to the stick difficult to dislodge.

  “Get a jar and save some of this,” he said to Jenkins, who wrinkled his nose but nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I think I can find one.”

  “Let’s go in,” Cubbins said and moved several of them inside the gates. Had the policeman been possessed of a more artistic, sensitive nature, he would have gaped in awe at the scene before them. The clear moonlight streamed down over grey headstones, some covered in fresh flowers, others with gleaming, polished surfaces, the lustrous granite sparkled serene, the roll and slope of the landscaped grass.

  “Dear me,” someone said.

  Cubbins frowned at the gasps of his men, but he couldn’t blame them either. The situation was astounding. The graveyard was gutted. Every visible grave dug out as if the diggers were getting them ready for the day’s burials. They looked like new plots ready for fresh caskets.

  “I don’t understand this,” Jenkins said. He took his cap off and shook his head. “It’s like we weren’t even here. I mean, it wasn’t like this before, was it?”

  “Calm down,” Cubbins said. “Give me a moment.”

  But there was nothing. His head spun. It was his job to stay calm and rational, but the preternatural fear that bedeviled people since the dawn of time crept its way into his heart and locked down tight.

  “All right,” he said and steadied his breathing. “I want a list of graves sites that have been molested. A total number, as well as their position. In the morning, we’ll meet with the caretakers and catalogue what’s missing. They’ll need our help. Get going.”

  They spread out, paying careful attention to where they put their feet. They had some torches between them, but walking was treacherous due to the sheer number of large holes in the ground. Captain Cubbins imagined some of his men falling and added their bodies to cemetery. Death came sooner or later.

  With this grim thought, they took note of the names and positions of the missing graves. No one spoke. He knew they were all flabbergasted.

  One thing was for certain. Whatever it was, it was a power far greater than anyone of them could handle. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting it face to face.

  * * * * *

  For the first time since the fall of the city and Castellan’s arrest, Muldor wished for the man’s presence.

  Dealing with the political morass was wearing on his nerves. Castellan was better at it and had more practice, more patience. Though dozens of soldiers remained, Grayme Lautner and his retainers were gone. Muldor felt a false sense of relief.

  They’d given the city one month to hand over the amount they said Sea Haven owed. They were responsible and had to pay. Cassius informed him they would continue to work for some kind of compromise, but Muldor knew that was a lie. That position did not exist in Sea Haven. Instead, the council would make The Guild pay the fine, which amounted to extortion. There had to be a way to shift the blame to some other party, for the good of The Guild.

  Muldor found himself in the middle of Market Square, mid-afternoon. As trade rejoined some weeks ago after the attack, activity increased. The mood was much improved as well. People came out of their protective cocoon and rejoined society with normal business functioning.

  On the whole the entire affair seemed like nothing even for the two full days they had shut down the Western Docks. To close their trade was unthinkable, even for a moment. Opening the dock once more gave his strained nerves a release, and here was the end result. Things were looking back to the way they were.

  He walked through the numerous stalls and carts as men and women sold their goods. Goods that came through the dock, goods The Merchants Guild got a percentage of everything they sold. On an individual basis, each Dock Master was in charge of their respective warehouses and when goods were sold at the market they made their profit based on the gross amount traded. This change was enacted by Castellan several years prior. The Dock Masters became rich.

  Many of the buyers complained about the various mark-ups, but in the end The Guild controlled everything, and there was nothing they could do about it. Castellan had made them rich in the intervening years

  The Guild needed a new liaison to organize things between docks and market. Castellan’s man had died during the bombings and Muldor considered him lucky. His suffering was over.

  Ninety five percent of the market vendors were members of The Guild, inactive on most internal matters as they were, and Castellan had been in the process of weeding those few independents out. They had almost enacted the policy where only Guild members could sell at the marketplace, but it never got through the council, thus one more need to circumvent them and usurp the city’s government.

  Muldor needed to find someone high up in the hierarchy of the vendors, in good standing with The Guild, and was willing to do the job. Market liaison would not be a difficult job, and it gave the member an instant promotion within The Guild.

  The current Guild Master had a man in mind. Carl Tomlinson was the city’s largest seller of grains and vegetables, not a glamorous niche by any means but one of utmost importance. So much of the city’s food supply depended on him.

  His suppliers were trustworthy, his prices competitive, and the quality of the highest standard. Tomlinson sold good wares, and even the common people of the city could afford to do business with him. Everyone liked him.

  Muldor knew the man had few or no under-the-table enterprises. Such ventures were frowned upon but hard to enforce. Since there was little The Guild could do about it without causing a revolt within its members, they allowed it to happen within reason.

  Carl and his produce were in a prime location at the marketplace. He had worked up to the location for decades, and Muldor respected him for it. The main thoroughfare branched off from his spot on the jutting corner, and anyone passing through the market had to pass by his stalls.

  Boxes, crates, and numerous bags of grains stacked in ordered chaos around the area. Armed guards stood with halberds in hand and chainmail on their torsos. Thieves were more common now that The Thieves Guild was defunct, and Muldor was too busy to speak with Cubbins about the problem, so they would have to make do with extra guards.

  Muldor stood behind some crates and watched Carl Tomlinson go about his business. He gave the man credit for being passionate. It was obvious he loved his job. Tomlinson was a grey bearded man with a round face and gentle eyes, of middle height with a calm demeanor. He laughed with every customer that bought from him as if they were old friends.

  Carl chuckled as a man drew up with a small cart and threw down some coin on the counter. He shook the man’s hand and ordered some attendants to load him up with enough bags of grain to feed ten families for a month. Muldor wondered what that amount of food could be for. Foolish paranoia on his part, perhaps, but the buyer had enough money to pay so good on him.

  When Carl took a short break off to the side of crates, Muldor approached.

  Carl sucked from a water skin, and in his last gulp, he gave an awkward chuckle as he waved Muldor over. “Well, if it isn’t Guild Master Muldor. How goes your day, sir?”

  “Good day to you. I would like a moment to speak with you, Tomlinson.”

  Tomlinson almost frowned, but he recovered his outer façade of friendliness in an instant. “Of course, Master Muldor. Let’s, um, let’s go here.”

  They went to a space in the noisy marketplace that was a bit more secluded. Surrounded by crates and boxes marked ‘Tomlinson’ with deep red ink, it felt like a child’s fort outside the confines of the main square.

  Tomlinson turned, leaned up against a crate, and crossed his arms. “How may I be of service?”

  “The Guild requires you to make a sacrifice.”

  Tomli
nson’s face clouded over. “Oh, yes?”

  “In order to facilitate the proper integration of the city’s trade, and to ensure services remain at peak efficiency, your Guild membership will receive an upgrade in both proportion of payment and responsibilities.”

  “An upgrade, you say?”

  “A promotion. As you know, our marketplace liaison suffered an unfortunate accident.”

  Tomlinson nodded as if it was no surprise. “I see. And you want me to take his place, is it?”

  “Correct. There will be a substantial bonus involved in addition to your regular salary.”

  Tomlinson raised a hand, and his bearded face grew grim. “There’s no need for that. I will do what is right and good for the Guild. It’s time we set things the way they should be.”

  Muldor had expected a stiff rebuttal or at least a reluctant refusal. They spoke for a while longer and went over the details of Carl Tomlinson’s new position. He was loyal to The Guild, and Muldor left the marketplace feeling they were now on their way to righting the wrongs perpetuated by a madman in jail. They didn’t need Castellan after all.

  * * * * *

  Another lousy night at the dice tables. Even the alcohol tasted bitter. They were watering it down on him, maybe even adding poison. They were also cheating him at the tables. It was so obvious that Jerrod was flabbergasted they would take it this far. They weren’t even hiding the fact. It was too blatant to be anything else.

  Bastard swine. He glared at every single employee, but they continued to ignore him. Serving wenches, dealers, attendants, a few floor managers, all of them laughed at him in the backroom. He’d put a knife in their bellies. They deserved nothing less.

  He plopped down his glass; the liquid sailed into the air and splashed down on the counter. Elbowing his way to the largest dice table in the room, he got more stares. The table centered within a cluster of other tables, smaller ones with nothing but scrubs and cowards playing. The big one didn’t have the prestige of the inner betting rooms with the high rollers, but it would work.

  The table’s dealer, an average looking man with that damn silly leather vest they always wore, dyed with red ink so they stood out, he gave Jerrod a look but took his money and put him third in line to roll for the next game. It wasn’t the best position to be in, not by a long mile, but it was acceptable.

  When the current game finished, now in its tenth and final roller, the cycle would start over, and new rollers could jump in. The object of the game was simple, and the amount you could win high, so everyone loved the game. Roll more than the person in line before you on two dice, and if you chose, roll two extra groups of two, either combining them all for a grand total, or laying down the individual bets on each group in a separate line.

  Players could also take side bets on any of the rollers. Up to ten per round. But these were laid off between individuals looking for a grudge match with someone. It was an advantage to go later along the line of ten players on the main table, for each remaining winner had to ‘carry’ whatever bet the people that go after them lay down, regardless of whether they beat their score or not.

  It was an individual choice; carry through each roll after and gain their own winnings; run the table all the way down the line, or cut out after each person went. It was a big risk because any loss after your roll meant all winnings up to that point were forfeit. But then anyone winning the whole table from the first round stood to gain a small fortune in the process.

  Jerrod had only seen two people roll all the way down the table from the first position, and they both had mammoth rolls in their groupings. They took the chance and won out. It was better going last even if the total winnings had potential for less coin because it afforded him a chance of a better pick up not only survivor’s bets who went head-to-head with his roll, but also any lost betters’ amount along the way. Plus it was less risky.

  Third position for him was not a total slap in the face, but it was damn close. The current finished up with the man in seventh position making it head-to-head with the person in tenth. He made rolls of nine, ten, and eight on his groupings of two dice for a total of twenty seven. Impressive.

  The tenth position roller, an older woman who smelled of money, rolled perfect double sixes on her first roll, a ten on the next, and an eight on the final for a total of thirty. She won it all and cheered along with several people near her, including a very beautiful young girl, perhaps her daughter.

  The dealer with his sissy vest counted out her winnings, a sizable stack of coins much to the consternation of every other person at the table. The woman was forced to retire from the game for at least one round. The same was true for the losers, so all ten people left the table to make room for the next set of players.

  Jerrod took his spot at the third position on the oval shaped table. His fingers itched. He had a way to prove they were cheating him, and with proof he would gut every one of these motherfuckers where they stood.

  The first player took their turn, a smallish, nervous looking fellow with a blue doublet overlaid with silver buttons up the front. He rolled two dice. His look of excitement dimmed when the dice came up a one and two for a dismal total of three. Grimacing, he took his second bet, doubling the wager, and rolled again and got a six. He took another turn and rolled well, an impressive ten for a total of nineteen.

  Not a horrible total considering his first two dice. Overall the average total was twenty-one. Jerrod knew it wouldn’t last long, though. Not with nine people yet to go. The man was smart enough to option out of the game and stood there with a defeated look on his face. It wound up being the correct choice as the next player rolled an impressive score of twenty-five.

  Jerrod’s turn.

  He snatched the dice up, rubbed them against his shirt for good luck, and did a quick, undetectable switch with an identical looking pair and rolled them out.

  Bam! A perfect double six, as his doctored dice were tailored so, and the crowd murmured with impressed mutterings. Jerrod smirked and snatched them up again fast in case any of the attendants got some smart idea to examine them. He rubbed them on his chest again, to make it look like a superstitious habit. Most players had a routine they used, and Jerrod rolled again.

  Another twelve hit the table, and now the crowd noise turned. Some gasped in disbelief, others in impressive calls of support. People from other tables came over, wanting to see what the commotion was.

  Jerrod snatched the dice back up again, having to reach across the entire breadth of the table. Before he rolled the third and final roll, he switched them back and took his chances with a normal third roll.

  A solid roll, a real ten, a six and a four. His total was a thirty-four, a nigh impossible score to beat. In all his years of coming to this place, he had never seen someone roll higher, and he had seen a thirty-four only twice in seventeen years.

  There was a smattering of applause from those wanting the house to lose. Many of these slugs hated them as Jerrod did, but several glares from the rest of the table’s players came his way as well, but they could all stick it. Either he’d won or proven they wanted to cheat him, and then things would be easier to work out from there on.

  The massive enforcer had his bet laid down equal to the next person in line, and the game continued. The next two players were women who rolled a dismal sixteen on the first and an average twenty-one on the second. Both elected to stop betting any further because they had already lost to Jerrod’s epic roll. From a mathematical perspective, it was almost equivalent to finding a clover with four leaves.

  The next two players hit nineteen and twenty. They opted out, but Jerrod still won their first bet. He would later be awarded a bonus if no one else that night rolled higher for the entire evening. That prospect was looking good.

  The eighth player rolled a very high twenty-nine on six dice. If not for Jerrod’s loaded dice, he would have won the game in a walk if not the entire night’s. The man was forced to withdraw from the main line of betting
but made several side bets on the side with his roll to other players and spectators alike. No one after him would beat his roll. He was counting on it.

  Jerrod focused on the next man. A roll of a pitiful seventeen, but some activity began behind the table. The ninth player stood down, cursing his low roll. There was one man to beat, but the hubbub in the attendant’s circle increased, and then a manager joined them, a thin man with bad teeth and silk clothes. He and the dealer whispered to one another, along with the game runner. The three men tried to hide it, but it was obvious who they were talking about. A fourth man came up to them and handed them something. He walked off and they tried to act casual.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jerrod said under his breath. He crossed his arms and fumed, but there was nothing that could be done but watch them fuck him over. For now.

  Another man came up behind the tenth player and whispered in his ear. The player smiled, the little shit, and took his dice from the dealer. He placed them in his hand with careful attention. Then he rapped them hard on the tabletop in some pathetic attempt at concealing what he was doing and rolled them out.

  It was two sixes, and the crowd muttered. He rolled another twelve on the next two dice, and the crowd gasped.

  Jerrod steamed. At least he had been covert when he cheated, not rubbing it in their faces. Cock sucking bastards.

  The player looked nervous. His earlier bluster replaced by terror for the reality of the situation. Jerrod’s hard glare drove a hole in his head.

  He swallowed, even managed a meek smile before rearranging the dice again in his hand. Only an eleven was needed to win, and of course that exact score was rolled. The crowd erupted in applause, and the man shouted in joy. A release of tension gave his cry a surge of energy.

  People around him slapped him on the back to congratulate him. He smirked at Jerrod. His victory gave the stupid prick confidence. Jerrod made a note that this fool would be the first one he killed. The former prime enforcer of Murder Haven was down a lot of money. The point was taken; he wasn’t wanted there.