by Will Molinar
Giorgio watched them speak to the manager at the bar. They conversed for a few moments, and then the manager pointed over their shoulders in Giorgio’s direction. The men turned their gaze upon him.
They were grim faced, serious and professional men. They looked at Giorgio through the crowd. The dog growled as they came towards their table, plowing through the throng of people. Giorgio sat straighter, feeling a legitimate threat from their demeanor and stances.
They surrounded his table, and Giorgio bade the dog to stand down with his mental ability out of pure curiosity. The men studied him for a few moments. They were straight and strong, hands at their belts and their faces dark.
One of them, short but confident, spoke to another in a foreign language, and the others answered. One or two pointing to him and his dog. The animal grew agitated and barked. The shorter one grew curious and knelt down to study the dog better.
Giorgio steadied himself. He coiled his legs underneath his chair, sending a mental signal to the dog to be prepared to strike.
“You, please to come with us,” another man said, older. His black beard streaked with grey.
Giorgio regarded him, fingering a knife under his shirt. They had to notice, but he could’ve flicked it out and plant it in the man’s eye so fast it couldn’t be stopped.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
“Please, I ask very nice. We must talk with you. No trouble.” His tone of voice softened, and his features grew sincere.
Giorgio rubbed the dog’s neck. For the first time in his life he could control the fate of others. It was intoxicating. They lived at his whim.
He went back to his drink, ignoring them. The older man frowned. His sun baked features tightened around the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. The shorter man bent his ear to him, and they spoke again. The three that didn’t talk were fierce looking men, with muscular builds and calloused hands. They did nothing but stare at Giorgio.
The two leaders came to an agreement fast because the older one nodded to Giorgio and indicated the table. “We to join you, please.”
Giorgio snickered. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Chairs scraped as the older man and the shorter one sat. The other three remained on their feet. An awkward moment of silence followed as the two men studied Giorgio with the attention of a surgeon peering at a wound.
“I am called Unri,” the older man said. “This my brother Yuri. You understand please we come to help. These men are cousins. We all to help you.”
Giorgio smirked and pulled out one of his daggers and plopped it hilt first down on the table. “What makes you think I need any help?”
The three cousins tensed and breathed in, ready to act, but Unri raised a hand. He said something quick in their language, and they relaxed. “We no come here to fight you. I see all before, all of us have.” He indicated Yuri and the others. “Our whole family killed by scourge. Taken by evil man. You contact with him. See it in you. We know what happen to you, can help you leave his thrall. Please to listen to me.”
“I don’t need your help. Doing fine right here. But you need to leave. Do it before someone gets hurt.”
The older man gave a slight nod. His face looked serious but sad. He barked a word in their foreign tongue, and the three men around the table exploded into action. As one act, the three cousins grabbed the edge of the table and heaved it over towards Giorgio. The two other men scattered to the side at the same time.
The table came down, but Giorgio wasn’t there. Instead, he was off to the side, already moving, already throwing a dagger. There was a satisfying grunt of pain after his first throw. The dog bit and gnashed at one of the men while another came straight for Giorgio.
He brought up another dagger, but the shorter man was faster than appeared, and he came at him while Unri circled behind him. They had their swords drawn. Giorgio could tell they were well trained with heavy experience. They were unconcerned with the instant chaos of battle.
Shouts and screams of confusion erupted within the tavern, and though it wasn’t uncommon for a fight to break out, everyone there knew this was different. Several bouncers came to them, and all of a sudden Giorgio was outmatched, even with the dog and his new abilities.
But his assailants focused on him and him alone. Two of the cousins kicked three bouncers away from their circle with hard, coordinated blows. It sent the men reeling in pain.
The dog snapped at the other cousin, but that still left Giorgio facing Yuri in front of him while Unri moved around the back. The two cousins handling the crowd had them cowed in the blink of an eye, and both came straight for Giorgio. He was running out of space and options.
One of them might’ve been a match for him alone, but with four of them working as a well-practiced team it was futile. They carried their curved swords with practiced calm. There was no way to win this way. There was only one choice.
Turning on his heels and calling the dog to him at the same time, Giorgio made a quick slash through the crowd and headed for the closest window. His assailants yelled. He shoved people behind him, hoping to buy himself some time. He threw up his arms smashing into glass and wood, tumbling into the alley and springing to his feet.
The dog turned around to bark at the tavern’s innards, but Giorgio called it off. Together they raced down the alley at a dead sprint.
* * * * *
Jerrod hated boats. The irony of the situation was not lost to him, considering he decided to live in a sea side city. Larger boats weren’t too bad. At least there was room to stretch one’s legs and move around. He and Zandor occupied a twelve foot skiff, which wasn’t much of a ship at all. More like a big piece of wood that happened to float enough to carry two men.
“A few miles up the coast is all,” Zandor said at least every ten minutes or so, and Jerrod contemplated how hard he needed to punch him to crush his face into the back of his skull. But a physical confrontation within the confines of the boat would complicate things too much. Not worth it, not yet.
In the meantime, smoking and kicking back as comfortable as possible in the confines of the narrow vessel would have to do.
Zandor squatted at the back, hand on the tiller. He eyed up at the small sail tugged along by a robust wind. “Speed is good,” Zandor said. “Strong wind. We’re lucky. Better than rowing. Much better. Ha!” He chuckled at the stupid joke, and Jerrod watched his face split into a grin.
“You never can quit your yappin’,” said Jerrod and took another draw on his cig. A haze of smoke hung between them for a moment.
Zandor stopped smiling and peered around at the ocean. It was dark and flat, like a pane of glass on its side. The barest of ripples marred its surface. The provocateur sighed and looked back to Jerrod.
“This thing we’re doing,” Zandor said. “This isn’t all there is to the world. I know you know that, Jerry. You aren’t as stupid as you try to act. There’s more.”
Had the larger man not known better, he would have sworn there was moisture in Zandor’s eyes and a catch in his voice. Jerrod put his cigarette down, hanging his arm down the side of the boat. “What the hell are you on about, huh? You sound like some old man, bitching about his life. What’s wrong? Things didn’t turn out the way you wanted them to? Too damn bad. That’s how it is. You gotta take what you can get. Anything less don’t mean shit.”
Zandor seemed to take that in for a moment. It was hard to see through the low light and pall of smoke.
“I’m old, Jerry. Older now than I was when we worked together, when I trained you in all this nonsense. All his killin’ and fightin’… it’s wearing me out. Too much stress, my friend.”
“If you can’t handle it anymore, get out. Walk away. Why come and get me to do this?”
Zandor opened his eyes and waved him off. “Now, now, take ‘er easy, bud. I’m still here, ain’t I? No, this will be fine, and if it works out, we don’t have to do anymore heavy lifting ever maybe.”
That t
hought was not too unpleasant to Jerrod. “That well connected, huh?”
Zandor’s eyes sparkled a bit. “I’m tellin’ ya, he runs the whole operation from up here in the hills. Tanner’s a recluse but has people running for him back and forth to town. From the tables to the arena, back up here every week they go! Ha! Terrific.”
“And how do you know about it?”
Zandor smirked and grabbed the tiller. “You know me, bubba. Got alotta boys working for me, all over the place. They tell me things. In fact, wouldn’t you know it, but I’ve had my eye on this guy for quite some time. Tanner McDowell used to run things in Sea Haven.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well, you know how dangerous a place it is, how bad it is when you have things others want. Someone tried to do what we’re doing and take over his operation years back, but they messed up.”
Jerrod scoffed. “Bunch of slugs couldn’t kill ‘im, huh? Figures. Most people can’t wipe their asses without help.”
“No, you never listen. Damn it, the fact they tried to kill him in the first place. That was the mistake. Look what happened. He took off, left the city to come up here where it’s so much harder to get to him.”
Jerrod winced as the ash from his cig reached his finger. He tossed the stub over the side and lit another.
“So how do we get to him?” he said between puffs. “Why hasn’t someone else done this before?”
“Cuz they ain’t as good as us, bub. And how we get to him is easy. I got a plan.”
Jerrod scoffed. “You and your plans. If that’s the case, how ‘bout you drop me off on the coast right now. A place with booze and lots of women.”
“Listen. It’s a roll of the dice. Always a roll of the dice. But I like our chances. Think about this: you go back to town, and now you’re running things instead of being cheated by them. How’s that sound?”
It was good enough to ward off Jerrod’s murderous inclinations toward Zandor and allow him to relax en route.
Soon, Zandor swung them around in a further east, closing in on the coast again after having swept around a long peninsula. Jerrod figured it was close to nine or ten in the night, judging by the position of the moon. That seemed too early for what they were planning. Men were awake and wary during this hour.
They made landfall in between several rocks near a large rock formation jutting out from the beach. Jerrod followed Zandor as the smaller man trudged through the surf. Both of them hauled the boat with ropes. Zandor was much stronger than he looked, for Jerrod gave just enough effort to keep the boat from slipping back into the water.
“This way,” Zandor said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Drag it over here. There’s a spot.”
Jerrod tugged the boat across the sand and into a little niche between rocks, a place Zandor must have known about before they arrived. They put the sails down and stuffed it behind the formation as best they could.
“Perfect,” Zandor said. “That’s fine for now. No one ever comes down this way. Let’s move.”
They traveled up the coast for several hundred paces until they arrived at a grassland area riddled with boulders and smaller rocks. Zandor stayed low, his quick feet churning over the damp ground in longer strides than his compact frame would imply. Jerrod chugged along, his long legs keeping him in pace with less effort but the going became more difficult.
The bastard had never said anything about this much walking. Jerrod’s breath became labored the longer they traveled. The assassin felt a deep annoyance at letting his conditioning go so bad. This should have been easy for him. He’d drank too much the last couple months and was out of shape. Time caught up fast.
They turned east and trudged uphill for several minutes. Soon, a structure came into view. It didn’t look like much but a jumble of rocks stacked around the path that led that way.
It was nothing more than a shack, square and covered with thickening fog as the two men went higher up in elevation. Rolling hills crept into their vision with larger peaks evident behind the natural constructs. They came within two hundred paces and stopped, crouching down behind a scraggly bush near the side of a boulder.
Blazing torches shimmered through the fog, upright in sconces on the outside of the shack, illuminating the rough pathway between the smooth rocks that littered the walkway that led down the hill to their right.
They waited. Jerrod’s breath slowed. Perhaps he was bettered conditioned than believed. It felt good to get outside. The air was cool, the ground moist and covered in thin grass, and pockets of small rocks stung his knees. He grunted in annoyance and tried to get comfortable.
“Wait a minute and sit still,” Zandor said. “I got a guy all set. He’s gotta show up is all.”
Jerrod’s impatience increased with every passing second. He squatted in the muck like some jerk-off thief, waiting for a mark to pass by so they could jump them. His knees hurt. He was too big to get comfortable enough. He had to shift his weight several times, and Zandor gave him several glares in the dark, his eyes glinting by the wane torchlight.
Zandor was a monkey, balancing on his toes like a dancer or some sissy. The small man didn’t move except to glare at Jerrod when he made too much noise. He would pay the smug little shit back. Once they got the money rolling in, and their position was secure, Zandor wouldn’t be needed.
After almost an hour and a half of torturous squatting, a man strolled up the path. He was thin and scruffy, carrying a bundle over his shoulder, and wearing a heavy cloak to ward off the chill.
Zandor shifted, looking exciting, and smacked Jerrod on the shoulder with the back of his hand. He pointed with enthusiasm, making a few simple signs that indicated this was their man. Jerrod understood some of the sign language most thieves and assassins used, but he didn’t consider himself an expert. There was little reason to learn more.
The man with the bundle went up to the door of the shack and knocked. There was a shuffle of activity behind the door, and after a moment it opened. Jerrod heard two distinct thuds as it unlocked, and he started postulating about how to bust the door down if need be. The man went inside, and the door shut behind him.
“C’mon,” Zandor said and swatted Jerrod again on the shoulder.
They went to the shack and waited just outside of the door. Jerrod thought it suspicious because there was a window near them. They were speaking within. A few moments later, another door opened from the side. The shack was small enough to where they could jog around the side in mere moments, and Zandor signed for Jerrod to make his move.
Don’t kill him, Zandor signed.
Jerrod nodded and ran off, Zandor right behind him. A man walked down the opposite side of the shack, uphill to another location, and Jerrod went after him while Zandor went straight into the shack behind.
Jerrod’s mark heard him coming, but it was too late. His long strides carried him forward at a shocking speed, and as the man turned, Jerrod smashed his jaw with the blunt force of his fist. His head snapped up, and he dropped to the ground a crumpled mess.
A shuffle of noise made him craned his head around. A lighted room sprung up behind an open doorway. Zandor stood there, twisting a man’s neck in a submission hold, designed for pain, not injury. The man resisted, but it was only a matter of a few seconds before he slumped unconscious.
Jerrod grabbed his own victim and dragged the man into the shack while Zandor poked his head out of the doorway.
“You make too much noise, old man,” Jerrod said as he tossed the man down. “You’re slipping.”
Zandor frowned but managed to sound amused rather than angry. “Yeah, well, I’m gettin’ there, remember? Time gets us all in the end.”
Jerrod looked around the shack. The man they had seen walking up with the bundle stood there. Zandor closed the door and glanced at Jerrod’s unconscious offering. “I’ll take his clothes. They’ll recognize it up there. You take this fella’s. He’s about your size, hoss, so get going.”
He was in fact a
giant of a man. It made Zandor’s smooth subduing of him all the more impressive. Jerrod respected that. But, the enforcer didn’t like being ordered around even though Zandor was right. They had to move. He shrugged into the man’s grubby clothes, wincing at the awful body odor. The sweaty pits around the man’s upper arms and crotch made him frown all the more, and he glared at Zandor.
“This better be worth it, pal.”
“Beats getting cheated.”
Zandor picked up the bundle the first man carried, and when they exited, Jerrod noticed Zandor walked the same way the man had, with a slight limping gait as if one leg were lame or injured. Anyone watching would be convinced it was the same man. Zandor had it all planned out.
They trekked up the path towards a set of larger hills. The foothills of the Augora Mountains were a subsidiary of the mountain chain that hugged the northern end of Sea Haven. Jerrod could see very little through the fog. But the clouds broke, and rain pelted them with sudden fury.
Jerrod gritted his teeth. His cabin and bottle of booze motivated him to put one foot in front of the other. The ground grew treacherous with loose soil fast becoming looser. Small rocks cascaded down under their feet with each step. He grumbled under his breath, following behind his smoother, more agile yet heavier burdened companion. He wondered what the bundle contained.
Money, of course. It was the monthly or weekly tithe to Tanner McDowell that would make this trip for Jerrod worth it; all that gold and silver stockpiled up here like a dragon’s horde. There had to be quite a bit of paper notes as well and judging by the shape of the bundle it was a bit of both.
A large imposing shape came out of the mire as they closed in on the lower edge of the mountainous mass. The simple dirt trail became more formed with the beginnings of a stone road. Thunder rolled above them, and a second later lightning peeled across the sky, illuminating the scene. Only rocks and mud to Jerrod’s eyes.
After another thirty minutes of walking, a looming structure came out of nowhere. The next flash of lightning ripped open the sky, giving light to the building that dominated the skyline. Jerrod stopped short, grimacing with a hand over his eyes.