by Will Molinar
The back exit to the building was a simple door that led up and where they waited was a lower level street entrance. It afforded them a good view but there was no guarantee Castellan would be flushed towards it.
“Gi. Look there.” Marston tapped his shoulder and pointed.
Giorgio was already looking. A group of men were moving about the street. They came to a stop across the other side. They stood there, leaning against the side of a building. A few pulled out some smokes.
‘Mercenaries,’ Giorgio thought and stewed. A random group of sell swords that happened to stroll up at this moment. This was an added complication they didn’t need. Combined, the mercenaries outnumbered every other fighting force in the city, and they were everywhere. The thief cursed himself a fool for not considering the prospect of their involvement.
He glanced back at the door and prayed for Castellan not to show up any time soon. But as the fates would have it, some ruckus developed on the side of the building they were on. A banging and wailing sounded clear as day.
It grew loud enough to garner notice from the mercenaries, and they stopped talking. Giorgio held his breath and wanted to bang his head against the stone steps. Marston tensed.
The wailing grew to a hideous shriek, and the air grew cold as the specter of the little girl dashed out the side of the building. The mercenaries reacted the way any men would. Some gasped in disbelief, others shouted and pulled swords, but all stood awestruck at the supernatural figure before them.
A door slammed open and Castellan charged out. Armor gleamed in the moonlight. A red cloak trailed behind, sword drawn, and his handsome face flushed with exertion. It was a very intimidating figure.
Giorgio boiled in his boots but could do nothing but watch.
“Come back to me, little one,” Castellan said, his commanding voice carrying over the area. “I must help end your suffering.”
Marston fidgeted, and Giorgio felt his great tension. The guards were no doubt due back soon. Diversions set up by thieves only lasted so long.
“You men!” Castellan said to the mercenaries. “Stand there and make a circle to keep this spirit corralled. I will banish it.”
The men muttered amongst themselves and seemed wary, but they did as commanded. Castellan was their master after all. Giorgio watched with grim impatience as they circled around the girl specter.
Castellan strode forward, calm and relaxed. The glow of his self-righteousness was apparent on his features. Giorgio wanted to put a knife in his throat.
The ghost wailed and hovered around, too afraid or hurt to attack the men. Giorgio wished she would. The specter could break the circle and escape with a little push. None of the men were as brave as Castellan. Only his commanding presence kept them in line.
“Do not fear little one,” Castellan said. “The end is coming. I know you suffer, I can feel your pain. Allow me to help you find absolution. Your condition is blasphemy against our Maker.”
Giorgio stared daggers at the man, in part because his point couldn’t be argued. There was little doubt she was trapped in torment. Giorgio shouldn’t have used her like this. She looked weaker, pathetic really, more like a little girl than the terrifying being Giorgio had hoped to unleash on their enemies.
Marissa floated around the edge of the circle, but the men poked at her with their swords. They didn’t seem to hurt her, but the ghost girl knew she was trapped by evil men, alone and afraid.
Castellan waded in. She avoided him. It was no use. The circle was too tight, Castellan too skilled. He sliced, cut, and hurt her further, hitting her shoulder. The creature wailed in such a horrifying way, the men quailed. Some grabbed at their ears, but Castellan appeared unaffected.
The guild master pressed the attack, and when she flew up, he stabbed and caught her trailing legs. Marissa moaned and floated back down. Her form flickered for a moment, then the solidity came back, and hovering before them was a pale frightened child, cowed like a beaten dog.
By this time many of the guards had returned and stood behind the circle of mercenaries, watching in awe at the scene. Castellan stood before the ghost and sighed.
Giorgio did a quick headcount; twelve mercenaries, seven guards, and Castellan. They had maybe half that number of thieves. A tough fight, impossible head to head, but perhaps they could fight them off the girl long enough for Marissa to get away. He reached under his shirt for a pair of knives, but Marston grabbed his shoulders and kept him still.
“Don’t even think about, Gi. No way.”
Giorgio hissed and tried to shove him off, but Marston was much larger and stronger. “Get off!”
“We can’t win this, and you know it! That’s it, we tried, and now we move on.”
Giorgio uttered a strong opposition, but in the back of his mind, he knew Marston was right. There was nothing they could do but get themselves killed. Feeling sick, he kept his eyes focused on the fight, where the spirit became weaker.
She floated a mere foot above the ground. Her legs trailed behind her like a limp kite. The men grew more confident from the show of force by Castellan and his presence. The wicked man continued to poke and prod at her.
“It’s time to leave, Giorgio. We’re going now, with or without you.”
The weight lifted off his shoulders, and Giorgio felt like crying. His emotion needed a target, but there was none. Marston and the others were leaving. Against everything that the thief thought he was about, Giorgio sloughed back into the shadows of the stairway.
* * * * *
Castellan found it all very sad yet necessary. This creature was suffering the pain of the damned. It was only right to finish it and give it the peace it deserved.
It looked weakened, but an inner fire flashed, and it once again lashed out at him with a snarl and a swipe of its claws. Some of the men murmured in fear, but it missed. They yelled encouragement, but the game grew tiresome. This was not right. It should end.
The Guild Master followed the ghost along the ground. It stumbled along, tripping and tumbling like a scrap of dried parchment tossed about by the wind. Castellan kept pace, found an opening, and stabbed it hard straight through its center. It shrieked and shrank, like a flattened wine skin.
The men groaned in pain from the noise, but Castellan was immune. He didn’t notice, but his crystal necklace was aflame, glowing and warming his chest. The men backed away, but Castellan stood strong and twisted his sword deep within the body of the solidifying spirit.
The ghost gave one last cry of despair and then poofed out of existence like a clap of thunder.
The men cheered, but Castellan did not share the celebratory mood, for only sadness gripped his heart. Its existence came from pain and frustration, living in between both worlds. His actions had sent it to the Almighty, and it would be better off.
Sheathing his sword, he looked around at the men. “Tonight’s entertainment is finished. Go to your stations if you have been assigned this evening. If not, find something else to do. Off with you!”
They muttered, but none of them argued. They left Castellan alone with his thoughts.
* * * * *
The kid was tougher than Jerrod would have ever given him credit. Even though he was a foreigner, the young fop could take a beating better than most soldiers or so-called toughs. The brutal man had tortured some pretty nasty customers in his time, and this was impressive.
At the moment Jon was slack and unconscious in a chair. His hands tied behind his back, and he was stripped to the waist. Blood and bruises competed for space on his face and torso.
Jerrod smacked him and then tossed a bucket of water on his face. It roused him, and the young man looked at Jerrod through one eye. The other was too swollen to function.
“You’re startin’ to get on my nerves, you little shit.”
Jerrod stood straight and went back to the single table in the room. It was good to be back in his cabin. He felt much more comfortable there. No one would disturb them. A few toughs st
ood guard outside, just in case, Marko among them. Once in a while Jerrod heard them chatter or laugh.
Jerrod poured another drink, a double dose of whiskey, and sat back. Looking at his prisoner, he took the shot and poured another. He stood up and sat back in front of Jon. The slow burn of the liquid it traveled down his throat. He felt calmer and eyed the prisoner. “You know, some people say you gotta be friends with someone you torture. Try to change things around and play all these mind games, so they think you’re their friend. You ever hear of this bullshit? Heh.” Jerrod took his shot. “Me, well, I don’t buy into any of that nonsense because it takes too long. Make someone hurt bad enough, they talk.”
He mulled over the idea of sloshing some whiskey in the man’s face. It would burn into his wounds. But it wasn’t worth wasting the liquor.
“See, we got two things we wanna know. First, who and what might be coming from your city, and second, what are Muldor and the others up to here in Sea Haven. That’s all.”
He stood and kicked Jon in the kneecap with his massive boot. The man winced and coughed up a nice howl of pain. Jerrod kicked him again and heard the satisfying crunch of dislocating bone. Jon wailed and slumped. His breath puffed out between his teeth.
“It doesn’t matter much if you talk or not. They can’t do a damn thing to stop us anyway. But hey, I got my orders to make you talk. That’s how it goes.”
His elbow smashed hard into the man’s jaw but not enough to knock him out. Jon held on, surprising Jerrod again by his resiliency. Most men would have passed out from the pain by this point.
Then he grabbed him by the throat throttled him. Jon’s eyes bulged and threatened to pop from his skull. Jerrod tossed his head back and kicked him again in the stomach. He stepped back and grew frustrated. This was taking time away from his drinking.
“Listen, you. You’re gonna tell me one way or another. I’ve had enough of this.” He leaned up against the table and crossed his arms. “You have a sister, a brother and a father that are still alive, Mr. Jonathon Baumgardener. Isn’t that right?”
Jon looked up, and Jerrod saw true fear in his eyes at last.
Jerrod smirked. “Well, maybe they’re still alive, maybe not. Too bad your bitch of a mother is dead. I could have some fun with her.”
The boy wept. “My-my… family….”
Jerrod grunted and rubbed his hands together. “Guess I’ll have to save all that up for your sister. I hear she’s quite the looker at that. And really young, too. What, seventeen? Goody. Lots o’ fun to be had there I bet.”
The young fool strained at his bonds and moaned. He peered at Jerrod with his blood and tear stained eye. “No, no, please. You can’t, please.”
“You think so. Can and will, bub. We know where all three of ‘em are. Your brother’s a politician, isn’t he? He’s pretty well known. Easy to find the rest.”
Jon sobbed.
Jerrod snorted and sat behind the table. He poured himself another stiff drink. The way things were going tonight, there might’ve been enough time to hit the fighting arena and make some quick coin.
* * * * *
Castellan wasted no time activating the system of mercenaries. An interconnecting web of men by the tens and twenties all beheld to the Guild. The total number in the city at present numbered around six thousand, and he contacted the individual leaders.
It was time to shut the city down. Declaring martial law was the only way to keep the people safe.
The only area of the city left alone was the docks. Business would continue per usual. He instructed the mercenary captains where to receive any weapons or armor they needed, and while most of them were stored at the dock warehouses run by Castellan’s Dock Masters, they didn’t need a military presence there interfering with operations.
Caches of pole axes, short swords, long swords, crossbows, half plate, studded leather and other types of armor were theirs for the taking. They shouldn’t have to fight if all went as it should. The people should be cowed enough to let it pass. Castellan didn’t want to hurt them, but if needed, the Guild would unleash all their might to restore order to their beloved city.
Castellan rode with his armored guard, a larger consignment than normal of some thirty men. All dressed in their best finery, and their well-polished armor gleamed in the sunlight. Behind them followed a wagon full of axes. On this day weapons of intimidation were needed.
The Guild Master instructed Drake, one of the mercenary captains in charge of over one hundred men, to meet them at the fighting arena that evening. It was time for the sell swords to earn their pay.
The arena, the last depot of depravity, was ripe for absolution. The city edicts would no longer be ignored. The decadence would not be tolerated any longer. They arrived at the molded conglomerate of wood and nails, always an eye sore to Castellan, an hour before dusk. The time for mortal combat was to begin.
The mercenaries arrived moments later, and Castellan was glad to see his orders completed. Some police officers mulled nearby, and Castellan ordered them to oversee the next step. Lieutenant Dillon should have been there already.
Castellan addressed Lance Peyton, his bodyguard captain. “Doll them out at once. I want to see steel in these men’s hands.”
Peyton nodded. His red plume dipped from the motion, and he ordered the cart leader to open the back. All one hundred mercenaries armed with axes, ready for an assault.
Drake was a well-built man with long hair, except for the bald spot that dominated the top of his head. He had a fierce expression on a middle-aged face. His moustache was well groomed but long and hung over his lips like a bushy walrus. The men took the axes and stood with them in front of the arena, awaiting Castellan’s orders.
“Make an entrance,” the Guild Master said. “I wish to trod upon the street of our town as we enter.”
They lined up and hacked at the wooden structure as if it were a large expanse of trees, ready for kindling. They chopped into the outer frame of the arena and soon had a sizable amount of mess sprawled around their feet. The wood was gnarled from age, thick with heaviness and nails, but also withered from weather. They cut through it with ease until they struck the interior.
Then it became tiresome work. The last glint of sun shone over their shoulders, and the men switched off in groups of twenty. The front line hacked away while the men in back waited; Castellan pressed them forward.
There was some annoyance and mutterings that this was not what they were paid to do, but Castellan ignored them. This was what he paid them for at the moment, and that was that. If they thought they were demeaning themselves with manual labor, which was too bad.
A wide swath of devastation crossed the front of the arena entrance, as if a hurricane had smashed through. Whatever entrance tunnel had been there before was covered by the scattered wood and hacking axes of the sell swords. They made sufficient noise to attract attention.
Shouts and curses erupted from inside, and Castellan smiled. At last they would be brought to justice. He dismounted and went to one of the mercenaries close by the front line. He took his axe. The others stopped working due to the shouts of dismay from within. The police had increased in number, and Castellan saw Dillon standing dumbstruck with his men. The young man no doubt awed by the power Castellan welded.
Castellan stepped up to a wooden overhang where boards propped up. Most of the noise came from there. The yelling included demands and also some colorful cursing. Most of which questioned the ancestors of the offenders. Castellan smirked. Such language amused him.
The Guild Master hefted the axe and brought it down on the corners of the last supporting corners. When the wooden planks settled and the dust cleared, men came stomping up. He ordered Dillon and his men to form ranks behind him, and they obeyed.
Castellan stopped the advancing men dead in their tracks by dropping the axe and pointing his sword. “By the power enacted forthwith by the ruling body of this territory, I hereby call for the complete dissolution
of this facility and the enterprise therein. Also, for the arrest of all participants and adjutants taking part in said enterprise.”
The men, seedy looking fellows, stopped confused. Some turned back the way they came and shouted for Derek and Desmond. The two men ran the fighting arena. Castellan didn’t like either of them. They were swindlers and cheats. And they would pay for their sins.
Castellan didn’t wait for them to show. There were escape routes deep in the arena, and when the proprietors found out what was happening, they might seek refuge somewhere else. It mattered little. They would get the message. The police charged with many of the mercenaries behind.
They went deep into the pit and put whomever they found in chains. It took many minutes to ferry out the rest, but soon a long line of prisoners fed out along the avenue. They weren’t happy. The spectators first, then arena fighters came out. All shouted and argued they had done nothing wrong. Castellan had another company of mercenaries ordered up when it became clear the fighters were not going in peace.
A row or two broke out, but the arena men were outnumbered. Sore from long days of fighting, and unprepared to face the forces arrayed against them, they would be subdued. The fans were easier to handle, and soon dozens stood by the road in dumbfounded stupors.
The police got several carts together and filled them to the edge with men, women, fighter, and spectator alike.
When they brought out the ogre, already in chains, the situation changed. The crowd gasped at the sight of the humanoid figure, eight feet tall and bestial. No one had seen him in the light of day, and his monstrous features and size were shocking.
Castellan instructed the police to form a circle in front of the crowd and let the ogre’s handlers do the work. They were four stout men, holding tight to Thruck’s chains. They pulled him forward toward a cart. The creature followed them, snarling and showing his canine teeth. They jutted out from his grey skinned jaw from time to time, but he did not appear hostile. Perhaps the foul beast was glad to get some fresh air.
