Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  Jerrod paced and let him talk, his mind whirling.

  “They said they got this whole plan, and they’re gonna use the betting tents and arena to pool the money. They want to oust that Muldor fella and take over the merchants’ guild, so they can control everything. They said they have a couple people in the guild working for them, I don’t know who they are, I swear. That’s all I know, believe it.”

  The man sweated and licked his lips as nervous as a human being could be. When he finished speaking, Jerrod was up against the wall staring at him. The brutal man rubbed his face, feeling the harsh stubble of his graying three days’ worth of beard. He needed a bath. And a drink.

  These were momentous tidings, far beyond his station as a hired killer. As well trained as he was, it was beyond the abilities of his cronies to handle. For perhaps the first time in his life, Jerrod could think of nothing to say.

  * * * * *

  The days grew larger, and thus the night shorter, and the denizens therein used their time to the best advantage stalking, killing, and stealing with efficiency. Most of the rogue thieves, left over from the disbanded guild, stalked the same streets that Giorgio used.

  It was easy to spot the amateur thieves by the way they worked. The evil men and women shouldn’t have been thieves in the first place. They had no pride. The guild should have listened to him. They should have fought sooner.

  Pieces of humanity remained even as he ran the streets like a gruesome phantom. His faithful hound at his heels had changed as well, thanks to Malthus Benaire. It was his gift to them both. It trotted alongside its master, glancing around with a baleful glare at their surroundings. Flecks of spittle and blood dripped off its jowls.

  Giorgio felt stronger and more certain of his current direction than he had in months, perhaps years. There was purpose in his stride. They stopped at a corner, and he knelt down to rub the flanks of the dog. He could feel the pulsing innards under the protruding ribs, the skin taut and paper thin.

  “Plenty of work for us tonight, boy.”

  The dog growled deep and long, and Giorgio grinned. Both of them were hungry, for different things, but hungry nonetheless.

  The shipping yards had been a furious place of activity the last couple of months, and they skirted the edges on the way to the western docks. To their right lay giant, skeletal frames of new war ships, commissioned by the city council since the utter destruction of every vessel Sea Haven’s former navy. Janisberg was responsible, and tonight came their comeuppance.

  The vessel under construction looked like the colossal skeletons of ancient beasts out of legend, forgotten myths thrown away, bed time stories Giorgio heard from one of the orphans he grew up with. A boy named Joshua had regaled the others with stories of ocean monsters that frightened the younger children, but it enthralled Giorgio to no end. He knew better than the younger children that were afraid of the stories. The only real nightmares were the ones people created for themselves.

  He and the dog continued west, the city a quiet watcher to their course, the buildings a sharp yet hazy façade of flat angles and high rooftops. Fog crept in from the watery sweep of the shipping yards’ inlet. The sway of the sea pushed the small schooners and paddle boats still available. The crowd was gone for the day. The work crews left their tools and various paraphernalia where they lay. Security men patrolled the shipping yards, keeping an eye out for any unsavory elements. But why anyone would want to steal tools was beyond Giorgio’s capacity for creative thought.

  The two phantoms skirted around them and kept to the shadows. He felt more comfortable there. It was where they belonged. There were more covert ways to reach the docks, but Giorgio preferred this route through the shipping yards. It gave him pride to recall the destruction dealt to the ships anchored by his hand. That’s all he had ever been good for, mayhem and death. He had no other skills worthy of thought. Giorgio hadn’t been an elite thief, like Marston or Coleson, but he was better than all of them.

  The docks beckoned. The increased activity there called to him, drew him closer. Even at this late hour, there were men working. Several dozen off-loaded a large vessel, getting extra pay for their trouble. The tall masts of the galleon stretched away beyond the eerie light of the smoldering torches on the piers and warehouses below.

  Men spoke and huddled for warmth near these buildings. Giorgio had once admired the hardworking attitude of the dock workers, a cadre similar to his own trade. They were a pillar of the city’s industry. Now he thought them worthless, whittling away their lives for low pay and lousy treatment. There were better ways to make a living.

  The dog trotted a few feet ahead as they wound around the mighty storage houses. Giorgio followed right behind, keeping in rhythm with its tracking paws, threading through the crates and boxes lined up on the sides. The animal’s paw prints made tracks outlined with heat, a tri-shaped red and orange print. They hurried by the first warehouse, the closest one to pier eight and continued down a few doors to another building.

  A few men were close, laughing and drinking like slovenly children. Four of them armed and bored on guard duty. Had they been more observant, they might have seen the grayish skinned figure of Giorgio and his hellish hound, feral and dangerous. They crouched there in the darkness and watched them with hungry stares.

  The wraith Giorgio felt their pulsing life’s blood stirring in their veins. The heat from their bodies still cooling in the night after their strenuous work. The heat rose off their cigarettes and dissipated into the air. These Janisberg infidels didn’t belong here.

  Even within Giorgio’s twisted mind lay vestiges of loyalty, a feeling of brotherhood with his fellow citizens of Sea Haven. They were a sorry lot of dregs, but he was one of them no matter the situation.

  Giorgio crouched down with the dog like a coiled spring. He shared a mental connection with the beast, another gift from their new master. Giorgio could think, and the animal would act. Infinite patience was another boon gained, and watching the men grow slack in their duties was easy. Pity to them.

  His hate grew. Their powder blue uniforms so prissy, their manner so haughty, their stances so arrogant. They had no right to be here, to invade his home, to hurt his people. The night waned past midnight. Most of the dock workers finished off their job, and Giorgio took his time slipping off towards the back of the building, the dog behind.

  Giorgio and the mutt crept around the alley on silent feet. His thieves’ training enhanced by his gifts from both the ghost girl Marissa and his new overlord Benaire. It took scant seconds to pick the lock of the back door, and as it opened, it didn’t make a sound.

  A make-shift kitchen area greeted them. Shelves stacked around the edges, wooden sheets with pots, pans and food supplies, along with bottles of oils and other containers with various spices and vegetables. It looked clean and neat, cleaner than he expected, cleaner than anyone from his side of town would make it.

  The dog ignored the food, and it was the most overt sign that the beast was no longer a creature with mortal concerns. The back offices were deserted and of no consequence. They wound through a few short hallways that brought them into the back of the main room.

  Here, Giorgio glanced down the rows of cots and sleeping men. A barracks for an invading army. The dog started to growl, but Giorgio knelt down and rubbed its flanks and sent out a calming trail of thoughts to its mind.

  A few stacked crates, too bulky or awkward to move, marred the otherwise symmetrical array of bunks. There were perhaps forty in total, twenty to each side, and Giorgio let his newfound powers sink in as he became one with the shadows. The dog slinked behind him as Giorgio went from bunk to bunk, quiet as a soft breeze, and cut the men’s throats one by one. His animal companion stopped after each killing and lapped up the blood pouring out of the neck wounds like water from a spigot.

  The men started, and their bodies went rigid as Giorgio made his slice, but they were helpless to save themselves. The gurgling sounds were too faint to rouse an
y of the others. In fact, a cloud of silence surrounded Giorgio, and his hound of hell. They admitted not a glimmer of sound out of its enclosure.

  A skill that every assassin or thief would envy. It took a mere four minutes to end the lives of all forty-two men, and when he finished, the air smelled of blood and offal from the released bowels of the deceased.

  The four guardsmen were next. Under a small side door illuminated the crack of light around its edges from the outside. The would-be invaders were talking something about getting home, not wanting to be there. One man missed his wife, and Giorgio felt a slight pang of regret. But then it faded away. The supernatural reality of his form exerted itself over his actions. Three throwing daggers were tight in his hands. The dog hunched its back at the ready. The men behind the door shifted away from his location, and then Giorgio busted through the doorway, throwing a knife with each step.

  Two men went down in an instant with knives protruding from their throats. Blood spurted in the moonlight. Giorgio threw another and then rushed forward to stab the last man in the chest. His eyes went wide with pain and shock. Then the orbs went dim, and his body went slack. Giorgio lowered the corpse to the ground and looked around. No one close by, he dragged the four guardsmen bodies inside the warehouse.

  Moments later he stood at the front, staring at the carnival of death he had dealt. A presence appeared behind him, and he felt a momentary stutter of apprehension before a numbness crept into his mind and limbs.

  “My, my,” a silky voice full of amusement and power said. “What a charming, electrifying pair we make. And what a wonderful animal you have. I was right to choose you. You have skills, marvelous skills.”

  Malthus Benaire walked up behind Giorgio and patted him on the shoulder. Giorgio nodded, acknowledging the man’s compliment. “Master.”

  “Well done, Giorgio. Show me the rest.”

  * * * * *

  The jail stank of sweat, piss, and other worse things. Though it had been washed with careful detail and the harshest soap known to the apothecary, some smells and stains could never be removed.

  Muldor hadn’t been within its walls since he helped Jon Baumgardener break out and escape a hanging some months ago. He was well aware of the irony of his current situation as he hoped to do the same this day and release more prisoners. Lieutenant Dillon showed him to the upper level where the political prisoners were kept, explaining that Captain Cubbins was unavailable.

  “We got seventeen of them up here,” Dillon said. “Kinda in storage I’d guess you’d say.”

  Cubbins’ subordinate laughed at the awkward joke, but Muldor didn’t share in with the levity. Dillon was a tall, athletic man with a busy beard that made him look older. His dirty blonde hair was unkempt, with a band of leather on his forehead.

  Muldor had heard about all the dead prisoners in the lower cells, and out of morbid curiosity he wanted to know what Cubbins was doing about it. But they would have to take care of it themselves. The adversity would do them some good.

  “Got ‘em all up here, sir,” Dillon said as they reached the second floor landing. A hallway of doors greeted them. He waved a long arm to the side. “A man or two per room, medium security here as it is.” They walked down the hall towards the rooms. Dillon’s boot clanked on the wood, sounding like he had metal heels or spurs. “Any particular prisoner you wanna talk to, Guild Master?”

  Muldor told him.

  Dillon tilted his head and looked at the clipboard in his hand. “Hmmm, yeah. Got him down at the end here. C’mon, sir. I’ll show you.”

  They went to the fifth door on the right. Before Dillon opened it, Muldor stopped him. “How many of these men are from Janisberg?”

  “Uh, hmmm. Think most of ‘em, sir. We rounded up quite a few during the riots. Some of the ones we got are officers. We let most of the regular soldiers go when the ambassador came. Didn’t have much use for ‘em.”

  “I see. Well, draw me up a specific list for all those from Janisberg that are residing here.”

  “Sure. You got it.”

  Dillon unlocked the door and let Muldor in. He locked the door the second he entered, and Muldor couldn’t help but smirk at the extra caution. Perhaps the police could learn from their mistakes. Had they done that before he never could have escaped the last time.

  Two bunks occupied the room along with two prisoners. One slept on his and the other sat on the edge of his bed. Muldor recognized the latter’s, slender shoulders, the youthful slump, the pitiful but likeable tilt to his head as he turned to the door. Jon Baumgardener had looked better.

  His face was still bruised, and his hair was a stiff mess, sticking up like an old apothecary Muldor used to know. He looked like his son perhaps, but Jon managed a warm smile when he saw who it was.

  “Why good morning, Muldor. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Muldor walked over and sat on the bed next to him. Both of them stared at the other bunk where the snoring man shifted in his sleep.

  “Some men sleep well,” Muldor said. “Without the burden of guilt or avarice upon their minds.”

  Jon smirked. “Must be nice. I wish I could find the same peace.”

  Muldor grabbed his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I think you may someday. This day in fact.” He stood and indicated the door. “I have arranged your release along with your compatriots.”

  A glimmer of hope slighted the beaten man’s eyes. Jon craned his head towards the door, grimacing by the obvious discomfort the movement caused, and he managed a smile. Then a cloud covered his features. “I do appreciate that, Muldor, really. But does that include Zandor? Is he alive? I came with him, so we should leave together.”

  Muldor started to speak but then took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I believe he lives. Jon, your friend is a resourceful man and was doubtful anywhere near the fighting when it broke out. He brought the help we needed, that’s all. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Jon nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Zandor’s a very intelligent man. And resourceful, like you said.” He glanced up, looking so innocent and beaten yet hopeful and so happy to see Muldor. It was very endearing. This boy didn’t belong here, not at all. “So what are you doing here, Muldor? Not that I’m not happy to see you but what is this about?”

  In brief, Muldor explained the situation, what Janisberg demanded, the current standing within The Guild, everything that had happened. The young man deserved to know. He listened with careful attention and let Muldor finish before speaking.

  “A troubling situation,” Jon said, sounding professional and serious. That heartened Muldor. Perhaps this would focus the young man’s mind and help him forget what happened to him. “I’m not sure if we have improved our situation at all.”

  Muldor nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean. We trade a potential tyrant for this political morass. But such is life. What we do now is suffer through the best we can, no matter the obstacles.”

  Jon smiled and seemed his old self, despite the array of bruises. “Well said. But what’s your plan, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “I’m having you and the other citizens of Janisberg released in the hope of placating Ambassador Lautner and his associates. A sign of good faith, if you will.”

  Jon rubbed the top of his grubby trousers and sighed. “Should work well with the other politicians in Janisberg, but this Grayme Lautner….” He shook his head. “I know of him. Never met him, but from what I’ve heard, once he gets something in his head he isn’t a man to let it go.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Well, he has powerful friends, people he’s helped get into high places in the government. Lautner has done this to further his own career. They owe him favors. I don’t think this is the end of his personal ambitions.”

  Muldor mulled it over. It wasn’t unexpected, but it made sense to his idea of what Lautner might be. “I feel he and our dear Castellan have more in common than either of them would feel comf
ortable admitting. Both are ambitious.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And Lautner’s ambitions may reach far beyond this city. He may be after the Guild and all it represents.”

  “It may be as you say. Come, let’s get you out of here. We can talk again later.” Muldor stood, and Jon looked up at him like a lost dog. So pathetic, Muldor felt nothing but pity for him.

  “I’m leaving?”

  “Yes, but first I need your assistance.”

  As if by design Lieutenant Dillon returned, clanking the lock undone and swinging the door open. He handed Muldor a rolled piece of parchment.

  “I think that’s it, sir. Eleven on this floor have been identified as being from Janisberg, including this fella here.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant,” Muldor said and grabbed the paper. He recognized a few of the names and showed it to Jon. “How well do you know these men?”

  Jon squinted and grimaced in pain. “I know some of them, yes. I think one man works for Ambassador Lautner, in fact. And this man,” he said and pointed, “Beverwil, he has been missing for months. Presumed dead, I think. You’ve had him here this whole time?” He glanced up at them.

  Dillon squirmed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, this ain’t the right place to talk of political prisoners. That’s for—”

  “Politicians,” Muldor said. “Yes indeed, Lieutenant Dillon. We’ll speak no more of it. Now, if you could round up the others on this list and release them into my custody, I would appreciate it.”

  Dillon looked uncomfortable. “Well, see, I’d need authorization from Captain Cubbins to do that. Political prisoners and all.”

  “Then go do so. If you would permit me the use of this man here, I would be grateful.”

  “Well, I dunno.”

  “I have authority vested in me by order of the city council, Lieutenant Dillon. I am Guild Master now. Trust that I have the proper authority. This man will be in my personal care.”