Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  The next game started, and he glared at every employee with pure rage and murder in his eyes. They all avoided his gaze. As he stepped off to the side amongst a lot of foot traffic, people walked around him like water around the bow of a ship. During the next dice game, the winner rolled a twenty-four.

  The woman in second position groaned in dismay at the result. She had rolled one better but decided not to risk it due to her poor position in line. If she had been brave enough, she would have won a lot of money. These pigs were cowards, not willing to risk anything. They deserved their plight.

  Jerrod found the bar, plotting what to do to them. Schemes and plans ran through his mind. He made a mental list of each person that wronged him, what they looked like, their positions within the betting tent hierarchy, and all the delicious torture they had coming to them.

  It was time to get his crew together. They had work to do.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s like no substance I’ve ever seen, Captain Cubbins, sir. Strange it is indeed. Don’t know.”

  Cubbins took the apothecaries’ word for it since no one else had a clue either. The officer took the proffered jar filled with the greenish residue and put it back in a pouch.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Captain.” The older man shrugged and shook his head in disappointment.

  “Don’t apologize. If you had to make a guess, though, on what it is, I’d like to know what you think.”

  The apothecary crossed his arms, folding his drooping robes over his arms. “Hmmm, good question.” His frizzy hair was a weird contrast to his intelligent eyes and calm demeanor. A vein jumped on his temple. “I suppose if I had to guess, I would say it is the secretion of some kind of insect; that’s the closest I can come to classifying that substance.”

  Cubbins mulled it over, the possibilities staggering. “I see. Thank you for your time, Benny.”

  “Not at all, Captain. I’m at your disposal.”

  Another frustrating dead end for the police captain of Sea Haven. The mid-afternoon sun rose over the mighty warehouses that dominated the dock district, as he headed towards police headquarters. Several buildings near the governmental portion of town remained damaged.

  When Cubbins reached his secondary home at the police precinct, a disturbance was noticeable before he even climbed the steps that led to the front booking room. There was something wrong in the eyes of the two police officers stationed there, something in their tense stances, and their worried glances.

  He jumped up the stairs and entered, almost gagging in the doorway. An overwhelming stench of offal and death filled his nostrils. It mixed with shit and blood from dozens of corpses. The room looked like the aftermath of a battlefield.

  Several officers stood with cloth over their mouths and mops in their hands. Spots of blood and grotesque globs of goo belonging to former human beings covered the floor.

  Cubbins fought the urge to gag again and covered his mouth. Lieutenant Dillon spotted him and handed him a towel to wrap about his face. It was soaked in some kind of perfume and helped little.

  Cubbins nodded his thanks. “Explain this, lieutenant.”

  Dillon sighed and shrugged his rugged shoulders. “It’s the damndest thing, sir. They found all this shit this morning. Every inmate on the first floor has been slaughtered. Can’t explain it. Most of the inmates is them thieves we’ve picked up these last couple of weeks. All dead now.”

  Cubbins widened his eyes in involuntary shock but kept his mind calm. “All killed. Show me.”

  Dillon grunted and walked with him back to the first row of cells where the smell was even worse. It penetrated the perfumed cloth like it was nothing. Cubbins was thankful for it, though. His subordinate coughed and pointed down the hallway. Visceral remains of human beings laid in and out of the enclosed cases of metal bondage.

  A severed arm laid there, mauled at the elbow, not cut or even chewed, but ripped out of the socket. It hung out the bottom rung of the lowest level of bars as if some freak explosion had separated it from its proper place. A pile of gore stacked in the center of the hallway about as high as a normal man’s hip, red and garish. Blood covered bones jutted out from the slop of viscera like splintered innards of an eviscerated beast.

  Flies buzzed everywhere about the room as a group of fanatics might’ve worshipped a shrine. Dillon coughed again.

  “This is an abattoir,” Cubbins said. “This is more than we can handle on our own. Hire some house maids and dock workers. Get some serious cleaning supplies and clean this mess up. In the meanwhile, get everyone but a skeleton crew outside this building; transfer the surviving inmates to the yard. I don’t care what their status is. Go now.”

  Part of his deductive mind screamed at him to hold off that order because there must have been clues left over within this morass of madness, but his pragmatism won out. No one could get any kind of work done within these conditions. There was nothing but death here.

  His duty demanded him to stay and oversee the clean-up. Hours later they had several men and women with mops in their hands, scarves on their faces, and grim eyes.

  Cubbins needed to speak with the men on duty the previous night. There were four men that pulled graveyard duty within the building, including one shift sergeant, one turnkey who was not an official part of their ranks, and two other officers. Four more patrolled the outside, including the jail yard where the overspill of inmates dwelled.

  All eight men crammed into his office, still within distance of the smell, but it was livable. The captain sat at his desk and eyed each man in turn. They looked nervous. Some wilted under his gaze, which wasn’t so stern but rather incredulous. A few of the men looked angry and confused. Disbelief and consternation clouded their haggard features.

  Others looked lost and despondent as if they awaited a trial from an unfair judge. They were innocent, befuddled, and slapped around for no reason like little children berated for running too fast. It was more like they were looking to him for answers, instead of the other way around.

  Cubbins looked the shift sergeant in the eyes. “Tell me about this evening, sergeant.”

  The sergeant, Hawkins was his name, shifted his shoulders and bumped into the man next to him. He in turn frowned and elbowed the man next to him. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, their sardine like position within the room would be comical.

  There were few answers to be had. The sergeant began, but the others finished or continued the story. Bits and pieces came together with loose strands but no final solution. From what they told him, Cubbins had no reason not to believe them at face value. He trusted his men.

  Yet none of them had any clear recollection of what happened. They each had gaps in their memories between two and four hours past midnight. They could remember two hours before dawn, two after midnight, but nothing else. Up to the point of this gap, it had been a normal night, boring, filled with card games, and several patrols around the premises per usual.

  Cubbins couldn’t help but think of the similarities here with what they experienced the other night at the cemetery. The gap in memory would explain what the men on stakeout went through and why they hadn’t seen anything. It was all more than coincidental.

  “And that’s all, Captain Cubbins,” Sergeant Hawkins said when the last man spoke, looking deflated. “All of a sudden we was standing where we had been, and everything looked like it did when you came in. We just don’t know.”

  Cubbins heaved a noncommittal grunt and rubbed his chin. “All five of you tell me the same thing, so I am inclined to believe you. Fine, I want a detailed report, written, by each man on patrol, your exact route, what you saw, and everyone you talked to, everyone.” Each man knew what that meant. Cubbins wasn’t blind to their visits with prostitutes, and there would be no confusion with his orders “And, what doors you opened, which ones you closed, what time everything occurred, I want it all.”

  Some of them frowned. The amount of paperwork he was asking for
was daunting on top of the already difficult task of cleaning up this disaster. But, Cubbins wouldn’t tolerate any insubordination today. After a glare from him, they capitulated. They’d have to deal with it.

  He sent them on their way, telling the sergeant to stick around for a few moments to go over some details about the shift change. Before the men left, Cubbins told Hawkins to give him a copy of his shift report, including what he and the other shift sergeant had discussed that night.

  Cubbins sat in his office for a few minutes, staring at the walls. Death and dismemberment jarred his vision and jumbled his thoughts. He couldn’t get the idea of his own demise out of his mind. The reality of his mortality was clear and omnipresent. Everyone died. There was nothing that could stop it.

  * * * * *

  Giorgio found the sunlight did not much agree with him in recent days. So he slept during the sunlight hours, curled away in his little hole of a room like a rat gnawing away in the walls. He spent his time tossing and rolling on top of his grimy sheets. The dog whimpered in the corner of the darkened space. It wasn’t how a thief should live. It befitted only a killer.

  Awake on his dirty cot, the lone man stared at the ceiling as night fell. It was discolored. Leakage caused the material to warp and flake from something dripping down the roof. It might’ve caved in and fall on his head if sleep came. Better to keep an eye open at all times.

  His hand came up before his face. The hue of the skin was much the same color as the ceiling, and there was no surprise at the ability to see in the dark. The veins on the back of his hand looked like worms crawling in the dirt.

  The dog whined in the corner. It was a pitiful wail that encapsulated every ounce of regret the mutt could heave from its emotional intelligence. It sounded raw and mournful, like no human being could utter.

  Giorgio glanced over to his only companion left in the world. The vestiges of humanity still stirred within his breast. He could see the glowing nimbus of its eyes and reached down to pat the side of his bunk. “Come here, boy.”

  It wailed. He saw it nibbling at its foreleg, and curled into a ball and whimpered again. He couldn’t remember the last time he fed it.

  “Come here!”

  His voice rang out, and the dog barked, but the fierceness in his demeanor made the pathetic animal wilt. It whimpered and stood. Giorgio clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers. It slinked over to him but did not touch.

  Anger flared within Giorgio’s tortured mind. He sat up and the dog barked and backed away, its hackles raised. Its teeth snarled like a mad thing. Giorgio stared it down. He approached the animal, put his hands up, and coaxed it to sit.

  Forcing his now considerable will onto it, the animal was coaxed into compliance by his aggressive stance. He would dominant it, overwhelm its mind, and break its spirit.

  Night fell.

  He left the cramped quarters with the dog three steps behind. It was broken and beaten from the mental assault. It would follow him into the abyss if need be.

  They walked the city of their birth. Thoughts of megalomania filled his mind. He could rebuild the Thieves Guild. With his new abilities, people would listen to him.

  They needed him. They were lost and disbanded. Most were in jail. Without the protection of the Guild, they were picked up when they tried to continue their trade He would save them. No one else could hope to change things.

  There was a tavern on the outskirts of the shipping yards called The Twisted Sail, a better establishment than the ones frequented near the docks, a familiar haunt of his where everyone knew him, everyone liked him. He floated past the stout doorman named Hugo. He didn’t notice the odd look the man gave him as Giorgio walked by and went to the bar.

  He ordered a beer, and Giorgio felt the bartender’s heart beating in his chest. He heard the pound of his blood traveling in his veins. His heat pulsed and flickered by the motion to and from his position, the physical body a living vessel for the energy Giorgio craved.

  The dog stood ready down by his feet. Its hind legs bent, the fur raised on its back, and drool dripped from its open mouth.

  Giorgio sipped at his drink. The habitual routine of humanity held strong as he went through the motions. The ale had no taste.

  Someone patted his shoulder. Giorgio turned and a young man, named Paige, stood before him. The sallow faced youth sported long bangs that went down to his eyebrows and rubbed his hands in nervous agitation.

  “They have food for you, sir,” Paige said, giving an awkward smile. “You look like you need it.”

  Giorgio looked around the room. Fear gnawed his belly. “Says who? I didn’t order any food.”

  “No, but look here.” He turned and pointed to a table by the hearth where a single man sat. “That gentlemen there, a Master Benaire, wishes for you to join him.”

  Giorgio peered. Though the man was alone, his aura was palpable even from the distance. The thief shrugged and walked towards the man, wary and slow but helpless to turn away. He felt hungry for the first time in weeks. But it was a different sort of hunger, almost a hunger for companionship.

  The wide brim of his hat stirred memories that were not his own. Some hidden knowledge revealed. The man stood and bowed as Giorgio approached. He swept his hand out towards the table where a veritable feast had been prepared.

  “Ah, my good man, please be seated. I have taken precautions for us to have every possible nicety afforded to our table.”

  Giorgio almost gaped at the bevy of delicious foods presented: roast beef succulent and juicy, fine wine poured into beautiful goblets, thick potatoes and high quality vegetables heaped on huge plates, other delicacies such as pies and cakes made to the highest standard. The dog barked by his side, but it was a happy yelp. It wagged its tail, and everything seemed back to how it was.

  “Please,” said the man. “Join me.”

  Giorgio’s stomach grumbled, and he was compelled to sit. The dog yelped, and it made the man laugh. “A fine animal! Yes indeed. Here,” he said and grabbed the roasted leg of some dead animal off the table, “I’m sure the beast will enjoy this.” He held it down to the dog, and the mutt munched on the proffered meat. It licked the man’s hand. “Ha, ha! Wonderful beast, yes, wonderful beast. Have a seat, my dear friend, sit. You look famished.”

  Giorgio had no choice but to obey. The food engorged his body and mind. It tasted like nothing else, filling his belly to bursting. There was nothing else in the world but the food and the act of shoveling it down his gullet. The dog did the same, sniffing and wolfing at the lamb, beef, and chicken from a massive plate on the floor.

  After gorging himself like a pig, Giorgio sat back and felt calmness spread from the tips of his fingers down to the end of his toes. Warmth struck him in the belly and radiated through his limbs. An aching thrum hit his temples and nagged. It grew more powerful, and he rubbed his head and squinted. It seemed as if someone were talking to him.

  The dog barked. Giorgio snapped his attention back to the man across the table. People didn’t offer a meal and solace to a stranger. The man gazed at him from under his hat, and though his face could not be seen, the eyes could be felt.

  “There now” Malthus Benaire said. “That’s better, yes? We can’t have you ravenous, can we? It would ruin your concentration my dear fellow.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man smiled, and the air went out of the room. “How rude of me. I forget my manners, so please do me the curtsey and forgive. I am Malthus Benaire, and you may address me however you wish. I’m a bit old fashioned at times and would not think to presume on the customary routines of my companions. And your name, you are called Giorgio, yes? Wonderful name; Gee-or-gee-oh. Ah. I have encountered cognates before in other lands. I would be interested in your specific genealogy.”

  Giorgio nodded. “That’s my name. How do you know me?”

  Malthus laughed. “My dear fellow! One cannot walk the streets of this city for long without hearing of you. You were the thieves’ l
eader. You helped unify the docks against those marauders. Most impressive.”

  Giorgio grunted. “We lost.”

  “Ah, but the effort was noteworthy as were some of your more recent activities.”

  Giorgio froze, trying to control his thoughts lest this magician could read his mind. There was no telling what he was capable of.

  “Ease you mind,” Malthus said. “I come as a friend. Rest assured this is true.”

  Giorgio glanced around, fear gripping him. No one was watching. It seemed he and the man were the only people in the room. “What do you want?”

  Malthus’ voice changed. It became deeper, more resonant. “The question comes. I want what all men desire if they search for the truth within their hearts. To increase my influence. To have my existence matter.” He leaned forward and tapped the table with his gloved fingers. “Now, the pertinent question remains. And that is, what do I wish with you? Let’s say I am very interested in your development. Your skills, your particular abilities are a boon you must take full advantage of, here and now.”

  Giorgio glanced around again. His paranoia foremost in his mind. No one paid them any attention. “How do you know these things? Who are you?”

  “I’ve told you how I am. Your skittishness is appalling. Pull yourself together, this instant. Your very soul is at stake.”

  Giorgio sat back, stunned. There was an undeniable gravitas and truth to the man’s words. “What do you mean by that?”

  Malthus Benaire smiled, and it was as if the entire world opened up in that instant. “I will show you.”

  * * * * *

  Another day and another balanced book. Muldor was gratified, and his confidence buoyed by the work.

  Spring was breaking into summer, and enough weeks were behind him that he felt strong about what they had accomplished. The Guild was back to normal functioning. The debt lingered in political morass, and Cassius had left him alone about it. No doubt he and the rest of the council postponed the negotiations with Janisberg, and Ambassador Lautner could stew all he wanted.