by Will Molinar
That’s all they had for him, and Jerrod left their office angry and tired. It was not a good condition to be in if facing an ogre who had grown used to killing humans every night. Well, fuck it. Might as well get this over with. Nothing to be afraid of. It was a stupid animal, nothing more.
Thruck’s living quarters weren’t hard to find. Calling him an animal was easy to swallow once one saw the way it lived. They had cleared away an old section of the holding pins, a place for the fighters to wait before the matches started, and separated the individual spaces to create a mammoth cave area for Thruck to live in.
A gate covered the entrance, nothing more than a nailed together contrivance made of wood, much like the structure itself. Two human guards stood outside. Why Thruck needed bodyguards escaped Jerrod’s mind. The men stationed there saw him step up, and lucky for them, they didn’t stop him from entering.
A simple hallway met him as he swung the gate open and entered. Thruck would have to duck his head and lumber forward like an ape to make it through because of his height. Even Jerrod, a foot and half shorter, felt cramped and tight.
Jerrod had no idea what to say. It felt like something that had been coming, twisting away at his mind, something under normal circumstances to be avoided, but with the prospect of money hovering over him, there was a compulsion to do it.
Thruck’s room was nothing but a grimy cave, similar to the one they had found him in more than a week ago, but it was obvious Zandor had done some simple additions, including animal skins covering the walls and other over-sized furniture to keep Thruck happy. Jerrod wondered why they bothered. The animal would be fine with squatting down in his own shit.
The ogre laid on its back, munching away at the severed leg of some slain animal, smacking its lips and dripping blood down its chin. The room stank of blood and death. Jerrod covered his mouth, grimacing. Filthy beast.
Thruck saw him approach and growled a nasty twitter deep in his throat. He lowered the hunch of meat. His grayish lips covered with blood and gristle. In that moment, Jerrod couldn’t blame the arena fighters for not wanting to fight this thing. The ogre was fearsome.
Jerrod felt a flash of real fear, and that angered him enough to squash it down. He needed to exert his will on it, show him who was in charge, so he pointed a finger at it.
“You listen to me, you filthy swag. We got you this job, worked our asses off to bring you back and set this up for you.” He took a step forward lowered his voice to a growl of his own. “And yer not gonna screw this up for me, ya got it?”
Thruck curled his lips and growled louder.
But Jerrod only snickered. “Yeah, you wanna kill me, don’t you, beast? Well, I’ve killed more men than you have, so don’t think you can scare me. For now yer gonna ease up on these boys you fight and not kill them, ya got that? You play by the rules, and maybe we let you live a while longer. If not, I’m gonna gut you myself, ape.”
Thruck dropped his food and started signing something about Jerrod’s parent’s being descended from rodents. He also signed something about shoving his arm down Jerrod’s throat and ripping his intestines out through his mouth and eating them. It was an elaborate amount of signing. Impressive.
Jerrod’s chuckle was dry. “Yeah, I bet you’d enjoy doing all that, wouldn’t you? Keep thinking whatever you want. But if you don’t do what I say, you’ll wake up with a knife in your back.”
Turning away, he knew Thruck’s eyes were burning a hole in the back. Let the fucker stew all he wanted. The ogre was in charge of nothing. Jerrod was running this place now.
* * * * *
They had some work to do.
It was a strange feeling, being at the docks, traveling back and forth incognito, not talking to people seen every single day. Men and women the Guild Master interacted with, did business with, cared about, and the desire to break his promise to the others was very strong within Muldor, for it was impossible to stop doing his job.
Instead of taking the regular route back to Becket’s office from Lawson’s on the Southern Docks, he took the back alleyways. Most of the time the conspirators used runners to send information back and forth from both camps, but some information was too important to risk.
They told him it wasn’t necessary for him to do the work. He was still a wanted man, Becket or Lawson could do it, but Muldor insisted because of the desire to stay an active part of the plan. Back at Becket’s office, with the door closed and only men they trusted within, Muldor brought back the latest information.
“Tomlinson is with us,” Muldor said, and the group breathed a collective sigh of relief.
There were two thieves, Delora and Marston, the latter had been one of Giorgio’s most important partners during the former fight with The Guild, but now the man was needed. The thieves understood the stakes involved. Anders was still alive, and the news warmed Muldor’s heart.
Three other men stood in the room, including Styles and George, the man Muldor used for spying on the betting tents and arena. There was some news he had heard about and wanted George to confirm, but they would get to that later.
“Good work, Muldor,” Becket said and sat back at his chair. They all gathered around his desk. “Now we can threaten a shutdown of the marketplace if need be. If they don’t agree to our terms, we can fight them here at the docks and close down all trade.”
“What moves have our enemies made?” Muldor said. They had begun referring to Dollenger and Maggur as the “enemy” some days ago. Muldor didn’t like thinking of them as people. It was easier to send them to their deaths that way, to destroy them.
“Not many,” Becket said and sounded concerned. “Perhaps capturing you was their best move. Putting all this into motion… I dunno. I feel like we’ve gotten their best shot already, turning Cutter back to us was our best swing. We have the advantage.”
“It’s a mistake to believe that,” Marston said. The tall, intimidating man was right though Becket gave him a sour look. “The city council won’t be swayed by some embargo. They can bring the police in here and make you reopen. They can use the City Watch too, more than a match for the dock security, no offence.”
“None taken,” Muldor said. “And point well made. No, Master Becket, as much as I share in your positivity, there is work to be done, alliances to be forged, and information to be gained. George, what is the state of the arena? I have heard rumors.”
The simple looking man, one couldn’t pick him out of a crowd without really looking hard, shrugged his shoulders, and looked uncomfortable being there.
“Well, I think everyone here knows about Thruck coming back, who doesn’t, ya know? Anyways, he’s back and can’t be stopped, yeah, yeah, all that stuff. That’s the way it is. Oh, yeah, forgot, some new people are working with Derek and Desmond, some new guy no one knows. Don’t know his name, maybe I can get it, who can tell? Jerrod and his boys, the toughs they call ‘em, are working the crowd control every night. They got that place locked down pretty tight.”
Muldor thought it over for a moment. “I don’t think any of that concerns us for the moment. Continue monitoring the situation, George. No, the city council is our concern. Our goal is to discredit Master Raul and gain control of the City Watch. Ideas?”
They brainstormed for some time. Marston’s idea was a simple one: assassinate Raul and be done with it. While not without its merits, Muldor didn’t like the idea. They needed his legs to swing along with the other conspirators, Maggur and Dollenger. It needed to happen in public, so that The Guild would appear to be active in its pursuit of the ones responsible for the attack on their city and thus no longer complicit.
Muldor’s eyes widened. “The mercenaries.”
They looked at him, not understanding.
“What about them, Muldor?” Becket said. “I don’t understand. They are gone, as far as I know. How can we use them?”
“The City Watch,” Muldor said. “Their job is to keep our streets clear of foreigners. That is their
primary objective. I know most people are not aware of this, but it is in their charter. With the exception of the Royal Guard, Town Watch is the closest we have to an active army force. The police are only supposed to be employed in city matters, not in case of invasion.”
He looked at Becket, and the man’s forehead creased. A moment later understanding entered, and he looked at Muldor with a slight gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, that might work. Raul, in effect, can be blamed for the mercenaries more or less invading our city; and for killing our citizenry during the riots. It was their job to protect the citizens, and they failed in that duty. And they failed to repulse the mercenaries when they arrived.”
“They had a leader among them” Muldor said, thinking, sending his thoughts back to when Castellan had talked of it. “I’m trying to remember his name… it escapes me for the moment. I have it written down, though, in my office. Let us find this man.”
“For what purpose?” Becket said. “We can leverage what the City Watch didn’t do with what their charter says they are responsible for, and we can prosecute Raul.”
“But this mercenary captain will be the witness we need to make it stick.” He turned to Marston and Delora. “I need that information. There is a notebook in my desk. If it hasn’t already been pilfered by our enemies, I need you and your skillful cadre to get it for me.”
Marston smiled and nodded, sharing a look with Delora. “Should be easy enough to break into your office. We’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you, Marston. Your part is very important. This information is paramount.”
“That’s all well and good, Muldor but then what?” Becket said. “So what if you know his name? He might be half a continent away by now or dead. A lot of the mercenary scum died during the attacks.”
“No. If someone of his stature had died, I would have known about it. Some of my contacts have close ties with the mercenaries on this side of the coast, and the man Castellan hired was well known. For some reason I cannot think of his name, nor his city of origin, and we must have both. Let us gather more forces, political and physical.”
“I want to bring Crocker into this. We need his people too.”
“Perhaps, my friend. But let us keep him on the fringe for the moment. The enemy is watching him. They know not where his loyalties lie, and I doubt they will approach him, so let us keep it that way.”
They spoke for some time longer, going over details. They decided after getting a hold of the documents from Cutter, that they had to get them protected from their enemies. So Muldor instructed Becket to rotate the documents incriminating Maggur and Dollenger between safe houses, with only communication between each other’s handlers. Even Muldor wouldn’t know where the signed papers were, but he could give the order, and they would be produced.
Deep down Muldor was worried over what Cutter would do. The wizened man had powerful resources. Most of it tied up in his stockpile of coveted goods the thieves had worked for so long to collect. It was his by right as benefactor of the now defunct but resurrecting Thieves Guild. Muldor figured that was the main reason he hadn’t refused when Castellan ordered Jerrod to kill the head of their band, Goodwin Turner, and started them all down this path.
Castellan had also killed Muldor’s superior, The Merchants Guild’s second in command, a man named Donello. Muldor had signed the man’s death certificate himself because his body had to be brought through the Western Docks, and that meant Guild business.
But whatever Cutter had planned for revenge would have to wait. Once they found the main mercenary captain, the man who had worked with Castellan, who could give evidence to the contract that caused them to enter into Sea Haven, they could make Raul culpable for his City Watch’s failure in protecting Sea Haven from foreign invaders.
Whether or not this man would help them remained to be seen, but someone from the City Council had to suffer, to be seen with the Dock Masters at the gallows, to be shown as responsible for the city’s fall. That way, Lord Cassius and the rest would understand The Guild’s power. They would give them respect in the future and understand they could not take away everything Muldor and his cohorts had worked so long and hard for. It had to be that way.
So they broke apart and waited for word from Marston and the thieves. It didn’t take long. Muldor waited inside a small house near the shipping yards. Styles was outside to give him the signal. Muldor felt like a raw recruited thief again back when he and Giorgio trained together.
Giorgio was always the most nervous but also most talented of their group. They were all orphans, raised on the street or in the Sea Haven orphanage. They stuck together during their thief training, hoping to join the Guild, so they could be a part of something bigger than they. They were taught to hide, to wait and be patient. Let the enemy think you were out of the fight, strike back when you could when the situation was more advantageous to your side.
Muldor glanced out his window, the pale, dark night all around the tiny shack, and saw Styles running across the street carrying something that looked like several of his notebooks. The young man knocked three times, then twice more and Muldor opened the door.
“They found it,” Styles said and handed a notebook over.
Muldor looked through them, hoping they had grabbed the correct ones. There were many papers on his desk, and it could’ve been confusing for anyone that didn’t understand the method behind his clutter. But they had found the appropriate notebook and subsequent entry where the information laid. He read it and pursed his lips.
“You find what you need, Muldor?”
Muldor blinked, forgetting for a second young Styles was there. “I did. But there are multiple names in the entry. Drake and Constance, two mercenaries that I believe held the reins of many of the mercenary contingencies… these two are the main commanders, and we need to contact them.”
Muldor had met one of them, Constance, and he found the man brutal but intelligent. Drake, from what he remembered, was Castellan’s main contact within their ranks. He looked over his notes as Styles stood there, looking nervous and awkward. Muldor smiled and waved him away.
“Go on, Styles. Thank you.”
He looked around the room, staring at the door and shuffled his feet. “Sure ya don’t need me for anything?”
“No, if you are tired have Johnson relieve you. You’ve done well, Styles. Good night.”
He scampered off, rushing outside and then on to home. Muldor wondered how long his runners and informants would last. It might have meant death for them to be caught alongside him. They were well paid, but that only went so far. These were dangerous maneuvers they were attempting.
After reading through his notes, he found out where Drake claimed city of birth, or at least the area. He lit a candle and held it outside the door, summoning another runner to him. A minute later, Styles surprised him by coming in.
“Where’s Johnson?”
“Wasn’t available. It’s alright, Muldor. I’m fine. What do you need?”
Muldor handed him several sheets of rolled paper. “Coordinate with Becket and Lawson. I have made copies, but inform them to destroy the paper once they have the information they need. They have their instructions. Make haste, Styles.”
The young man ran off, and Muldor trusted him to do the simple job well. He was smarter than the average dock worker, and after what happened at Dollenger’s apartment, Muldor knew he was trustworthy. A lesser man would have fallen prey to bribery or coercion.
The scrolls contained information on how they might find Drake, a small collection of towns south of Janisberg, where Castellan had found him.
There was no telling if they could find Drake or if they would be able to convince him to return. But Muldor was confident. Mercenaries wanted coin, and they now had plenty of it, thanks to Cutter’s acquiescence. Muldor ran The Guild in every conceivable way, both of them.
There was no choice but to plunge ahead with the plan. It was a perilous course, one with
a hundred contingencies, dependent upon a dozen others, but it was what they had. The only thing to do was wait.
* * * * *
The sound of laughter, like the gentle tinkling of bells, filtered through the room. A welcomed relief to the men gathered there. A woman, a beautiful young whore named Shelby, shrieked in gaiety as a man said something into her ear that might’ve been funny, and she went along with it.
Many such conversations went on in Madam Dreary’s opulent meeting room. Men and women flirted. They drank and laughed and did whatever they wished. It was a festive atmosphere not everyone shared.
Captain Bartholomew Cubbins eyed his drink. It sat there, and it did nothing but stare back at him, stupid thing. It had done nothing to assuage his guilt and anguish over their failure. It was complete, and even the sweet release of his faculties would not eliminate the desperation deep in his bones.
It was more than emotional pain. There were physical ailments, along with the rest of his men, those with him at Madam Dreary’s. A stiff knee, bruised skull, and skinned elbow. His head hurt something fierce. Jenkins had a bandage across his scalp from a collision with a piece of debris from the explosion, and Bigus was still cleaning dried blood out of his mustache.
Maybe he could drink himself into a stupor long enough to forget the past few weeks. Numbness was always preferable to pain. He stopped flirting with his drink and downed it in one gulp. The burning whiskey ripped down his throat and landed hard in his gullet. Much better. It was time for more. Several more.
The man sitting to his left wore the same defeated expression, and Cubbins didn’t blame him since every living member of his remaining family had died horrible deaths only a couple hours ago. Unri stared at the table, his swarthy features drawn and haunted. His entire line was destroyed.
“Is over,” he said, the first words out of his mouth. It seemed by drinking his first shot of whiskey, Cubbins had opened a dam of emotions from all of them. Jenkins groaned and rubbed his head. Bigus, his mustache bristling, coughed and turned away as it turned into a fit of hacking phlegm.