by Will Molinar
He shook his head and watched Lawson. The man could be a charmer. He had some natural charisma, and with his youthful good looks and light brown hair, he was somewhat attractive. Becket had to pull back where his mind was headed and remind himself that Lawson liked women. A lot. His journeys to Madam Dreary’s whorehouse were frequent.
No, trying to woo his colleague would be a bad idea for many reasons. He should get a hold of Jerome again and drown his sorrows in his arms not in drink. It made his mind cloudy. But since he and Lawson might’ve been dead by morning, Becket felt it appropriate to drink as much as possible.
* * * * *
They would come soon.
Jerrod had prepared the best he could, including using Marko’s corpse as a distraction, setting it up on a chair on his small porch, attaching a line of twine to the back of the chair, so he could tug on it while inside. The coming assassins might’ve thought Marko was alive and ready to lend a hand to the fight.
Any tiny bit of distraction, any second he could gain would help his chances at survival. And for the first time in a while, there was a reason to care about living. He took another chair and plopped down besides Marko’s corpse on the porch. He wrapped a blanket around the still form and an old hat to cover his eyes.
“Nice night, eh? I would say so, yeah. Pretty damn good. Ha!”
Jerrod chuckled and leaned over to Marko, acting as if the man responded, then used his foot to move the corpse’s chair. It creaked as it nudged forward and back. Jerrod sat back and laughed.
“You said it, pal! Ha, ha.”
He took a deep pull on his cigarette and leaned back, stretching his legs. It felt good. His body was much refreshed and had more energy since he had eaten well in the last couple of days.
The sounds of the forest sprang up around him. Crickets chirped, bugs buzzed and rustled in the undergrowth as night settled in and came to life. He opened his senses to it, getting his mind ready to do battle. He found it easy to judge the sounds well after so many years, decades even, of practice.
“You really were a dumb bastard,” he said to Marko’s corpse. It did not answer. His decomposing body was beginning to stink bad, so he had dropped some blackened stubs of wood chips in the blanket to mask it.
Jerrod could see his future there in that lifeless form. All men would face the reaper. It was inevitable.
“But not today,” he said and took another drag. It tasted great. “You never shoulda come here, you dumb shit. You shoulda let me die alone. I woulda preferred that. All this mess, all this hassle. Just ain’t worth it sometimes. Now I gotta deal with this shit.”
He held a worn wooden cup filled with water and took a swig, wishing it were whiskey.
“See all this bullshit you caused? What a pain in my ass. I’d rather be you right now. Your worries are over. Stupid bastard. I woulda let them take me. Yeah, I bet I would have. If you think I’m gonna thank you for this, yer a damn sight dumber than I thought.”
Jerrod tugged on the twine. The chair tilted back and then shot forward when he released the tension, threatening to tip over and spill the corpse onto the ground.
The early autumn night settled in deeper, and Jerrod struggled with keeping his mind alert and his body ready. Fireflies burned and brightened in front of his eyes, floating amongst the simmering air. It was eerie but a sight he had seen many times. He closed his eyes and listened well for any errant sound.
Any approaching men, no matter how silent they thought they were, no matter how careful, no matter how practiced, they would upset the natural balance of the forest realm. He was a woodsman before anything else, in true form and practice. Zandor was a hell of a tracker himself, but Jerrod knew his little patch of woods better than any man alive.
Relaxing his body, letting his body and mind get accustomed to the rhythm of the wilderness, allowed him to hear the flow and listen for a slight tremor in the wakening night, some break to the natural harmony of nature. His blood quickened and his heart pounded, but he forced down the feeling of quelling of panic and cleared his thoughts.
Fear could be useful in battle but not now. It would interfere with his focus. Fear could heighten your reflexes and make you react faster, but few men could control it to use it well. It took practice. And Jerrod had plenty of practice with controlling fear.
Time passed. Then a slight tremor in the air, an undeniable disturbance in the environment, trickled through. A section of the woods to the right, perhaps thirty paces out, went quieter than usual.
He took a deep breath and ignored it for the time being, though he kept his right leg ready to kick out to turn his body if need be. Another tremor to his left came. That’s two of them. The third was yet accounted for. They always come in threes. That was the minimum the assassins would use for a contract hire, except under special circumstances. Jerrod would not be surprised if Delios put a double trio on him, or even come himself. If not, Jerrod thought it fun to give Delios a visit.
No doubt the third player was coming up behind the cabin, a simple maneuver to cut off any possible retreat. Traitorous swine. It was sick what men would do for coin or reputation. Jerrod could not suppress a smile because he would do the same in their shoes. Money was money. Honor can be saved for the foolish thieves or whoever else claimed to live that way.
Everything went silent and still, for the space of three full heart beats. Jerrod held his breath and tensed his legs, gripping the edge of his chair.
Twang!
Jerrod sprang away, and a crossbow bolt split the top of his chair a second after he rolled off. Another bolt smacked into Marko’s chest as Jerrod jumped away from the porch and scrambled to his feet, ready to fight. Two more twangs sounded and bolts flew out of the forest. They struck the dirt near him as he ducked and dove away. They were good. And fast.
‘Damn pussies,’ he thought. Using projectiles as weapons was for men afraid to get their hands dirty.
Instead of heading for the front door, as would be expected, he took two quick steps up the front of the porch and dove over the chairs and into the glass window above them. He crashed through, slicing into his shirt sleeve as he threw his arms over his face to protect it the best he could. There was enough momentum to clear his torso over the lip, and he landed on the front of his hips.
It hurt like hell, but he grunted and kept turning forward to flip over the edge of the windowsill. He cursed himself for being so out of shape but was able to spring to his feet inside his cabin. An assassin was already waiting for him. A flurry of thrown daggers came his way, and there was no way to dodge them all so he didn’t bother trying more than a simple roll down and forward. Jerrod took a cut across his back but no more.
His opponent dressed all in black, and even the man’s skin was covered in some kind of soot. Jerrod saw the glimmering thrown steel in the flash of a moment as he rolled towards a chair near the door. He grabbed it up and held it in front of his body. A knife struck and went through the wood, sticking out an inch. He caught another solid and deflected one more as he stepped towards his foe.
Edging towards the fireplace, the man moved to cut him off, pulling out a short sword and holding tight to what looked like his last dagger. Jerrod chucked the stool at him, but the man dodged it well. His movements were fluid and smooth like the little puissant Zandor.
“Dodge this, fucker!” he said and stomped on a loosened board. The other end was connected to underneath the burning wood in the pit, and it shot flaming debris into the man’s upper torso and face. To the man’s credit, he reacted fast enough to shield his eyes and most of his face, but it left him blinking and in pain.
Jerrod wouldn’t leave him alone long enough to recover. He launched himself forward and grabbed the man’s sword arm at the wrist with his left hand and his neck with his right hand, blocking the dagger with his elbow, so he could not bring it to bear.
They grappled. Jerrod slammed his foe’s knuckles into the hard stone of the fireplace again and again, dislodging t
he sword on the third whack. He squeezed the man’s neck with his right hand. The assassin tried to jab his dagger into Jerrod’s right side, but Jerrod had longer arms and was able to lock his elbow under the man’s upper arm. All it scored were minor flesh wounds, slicing across his outer arm.
Jerrod let go of the man’s other wrist and clamped down hard with both of his hands on his foe’s throat. His hands were large enough to encompass the full circumference of the neck. He slipped one of his big boots over the back of his knee and drove him backwards.
The assassin was stronger than his compact frame would lead one to believe, and well trained. He used Jerrod’s weight against him by grabbing his wrists and turned into Jerrod’s push. They went tumbling to the side. Jerrod kept his grip, but it loosened enough so breath was possible. He tried to head butt Jerrod, but the bigger man held his elbow against his throat and then smashed his open palm into his face.
A moment later Jerrod heard another assassin enter the cabin through the window. “Dammit! Why can’t you bastards come through the door?” It was a trap wasted. It seemed almost impossible, but less than a minute had passed since Jerrod had crashed through the window. The second assassin was shifting behind him, setting up an attack, waiting for an opening.
Staying put for a moment, it was long enough to lift the man’s head and thump it against the floorboard as hard as possible. It stunned him long enough for Jerrod to roll off and fling the man across the room towards his partner.
The other assassin was already moving forward, his sword out. He jumped to the side, and he was not hindered from hacking at Jerrod. Jerrod stepped to the side, recognizing a very aggressive stance from his foe, and clamped his elbow down on the man’s sword arm.
The man pulled back hard, raking the blade across Jerrod’s ribs, but the studded leather armor he always wore took most of the punishment. Still, it burned like fire, and as he took a deeper cut, he slammed his forehead into the man’s face. Blood spewed.
The man kept his grip on the sword tight, and with a quick, fluid bit of footwork, stepped off to the side. He tried to raise his arm high, but Jerrod kept his elbow in place and refused to give up the position. As the larger man slammed his knee into the assassin’s gut, he turned to the side, and Jerrod struck more hip bone than stomach. But even then, the man grunted in pain and doubled over. He was too tough to go down and twisted to the side to get a better angle.
Jerrod smashed his fist towards his throat, but the man blocked it with his chin. They shoved and fought. The man’s partner was recovering and turning his attention back on the fight. Jerrod had his hands full with one as it was. He twisted his current opponent and swung both of their backs towards the fireplace and crashed the man at his partner.
It did not work well for Jerrod. Both were as agile and quick as monkeys, keeping their feet and squaring up with him across the room. He was in a worse position than before, but at least neither had their short swords. They pulled small knives out of their clothes’ pockets and advanced.
Jerrod scoffed. Weapons weren’t needed to kill these fools. He could have shoved their heads up their assess just as easy.
The one he had thrown across the room was the most injured. Blood poured down his face from his smashed nose, and his foot wound gave him a slight limp. The other was more or less fit and ready, with only minor bruising on his neck and face.
Which to attack first was always a debatable question. Go after the weaker one in hopes to bring him down faster or the stronger one to eliminate the greater threat? In the scant moments, Jerrod smelled smoked from outside the window.
His smile was grim. “Guess that other fella wants to burn me out. Looks like both of you are coming along with me, huh?” They did not respond. Instead, they attacked, daggers flashing. Jerrod stood his ground and sneered. “C’mon, then, you shit! I got more to teach you.”
They split apart and made a wise decision to not attack close together but rather to hit an angle on him and limits his movements. The fire burned higher behind him. They expected him to head for the window or door, and under normal circumstances that would have been an option, but with the unreleased trap by the door and the fire building on the porch, it was not.
So they expected him not to do that because they thought he would and everyone knew it. So in reality they thought he would go the opposite way towards the kitchen, and then they would have trapped him there, two on one. Jerrod’s philosophy was always if forced to do what your enemy expected, then you do it better than they could handle and bugger all if they were able to stop you. Oftentimes it came down to execution. Now was one of those times.
The master assassin moved towards the cramped kitchen area, which was only a thin wooden counter separating the space from the rest of the one room cabin, and towards his precious collection of alcohol. He would miss them all, bottles bought or stolen from more merchants than was possible to remember, but sacrifices had to be made.
Something shifted outside above the din of the raging fire, and he tried to roll away, but the twang of a crossbow bolt fired first. It struck his left thigh and stayed there. He grabbed the bolt, rolled on his back in true pain, but he played it up as if additional movement were impossible.
One interior assassin charged him, thinking he was immobilized, and Jerrod let him come closer. He yanked the bolt out of his thigh with a bellow of pain, and when the man stabbed forward with his dagger, close enough where Jerrod had the advantage in reach, Jerrod slammed the bolt’s tip into his neck.
Blood shot out from the impact point, and Jerrod worked it back and forth, twisting and widening the wound, putting an extra, gory smile under the man’s chin. He grabbed the back of the corpse’s head and spit in his face.
“How’s that feel, pal? You like it?”
Jerrod grabbed the dagger from the dying man’s hands as he slumped to the floor. The other assassin, the limper, was closing in fast, but smoke obscured the interior. Jerrod tossed the dagger at him, hoping to garner a second or two of space, but the man dodged easy and came closer.
Jerrod snarled and got to his feet, bloodied hands raised. “C’mon, then you coward! I ain’t done yet.”
For the first time during this encounter, the man looked hesitant, staring at Jerrod with dawning respect, even a hint of fear. His injuries must have been coming to the fore, the initial adrenaline wearing off, but then again a lot of assassins used mixtures from the apothecaries that dulled pain. Jerrod never used them because they dulled the senses and a man’s reflexes as well.
The smoke grew more intense, and they both coughed.
“Let’s both die together,” Jerrod said. “Right here and now. Why not? What does a stinking shit like you have to live for?”
Another bolt flew overhead, and had Jerrod not been crouching he would have been impaled in the temple.
Jerrod rushed the man in front of him. Because of his smashed foot the assassin was a tad bit slow to react, and that was enough for Jerrod to crash into him. The man stabbed with his dagger, and the bigger man took the hit. A metal stud on his leather jerkin deflected it into his shoulder by lucky chance, but it still pierced flesh.
Jerrod felt no pain. “That all you got, you git?!”
Shouting loud, he grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him around to face the window. Jerrod ducked, and the man cried out, trying to shift his body.
Too late. A quarrel pierced his back, and his eyes went wide. Jerrod tackled him to the ground. The man fought back, but Jerrod was stronger and used his superior size to climb on top and slam his head into the floorboards. A couple of solid cracks later, and he stopped struggling.
Jerrod stayed low, listening for any sounds outside. Smoke billowed. It was difficult to differentiate between natural sounds from outside, the crackling noise of the burning wood, and anything else. The cabin burned.
Jerrod put his fingers to his lips and blew a long whistle, a general signal that meant “all clear” for most communal assassin groups. Ther
e was no guarantee it would work.
Regardless, Jerrod moved towards the kitchen escape hatch near the loosened boards. He bled from several wounds. The puncture from the bolt in his left leg was a dull ache he pushed down, focusing instead on getting outside. First he stopped and grabbed some rags in the kitchen area and ripped some strips of cloth to tie around the wound. Wrapping it tight slowed the bleeding.
He scooted the pantry with all the liquor out of the way, but then shoved it down out of impatience. The furniture struck the ground, and a few bottles shattered. He realized his mistake as the fire crept closer to the alcohol on the floor.
The smoke got thicker. He stayed close to the ground where the air was cleaner. Blasted fool. People always said drink would’ve been the death of him. Jerrod pushed at the loosened log at the bottom of the wall, but it would not budge. Maybe the fire had spread to the back of the cabin. Heat came from the logs and the higher temperature must have expanded the wood to make it stick.
The heat grew more intense. Sweat dripped down his face as he coughed. Pushing hard against the wood seared his hands. A cry of agony escaped his lips and shoved harder. It moved a tiny bit. Jerrod snarled and shoved harder, pounding his palms against the lowest log until he got it moving again. It wasn’t fast enough.
Some dirt from outside impaired the movement, so when it was half a foot forward, he started scooping it away into the cabin. Smoke trickled into his mouth, and he struck with a coughing fit. This was it; he was going to die here in the cabin, dead on the floor covered in his whiskey like a wretch.
No, to the nine hells with that. He kicked the other side of the log, and it jutted forward. Then he shoved the other end with his hands, rolling it forward outside. There was a slight slope by the edge of the back of the cabin, and once it was moving, the log broke free and slid away.