Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  Given more time he might have finished him but it wasn’t to be.

  The dog growled, and the injured man shouted in anger in his foreign tongue. Whether the words were meant for his partner or out of pure frustration Giorgio would never know.

  The man before him wheezed, perhaps his lung was punctured, and backed away. Giorgio pressed his attack and didn’t give the man a moment’s rest, stabbing and slashing with wild abandon. But there were shouts behind him. The others were coming. Time to run once more.

  His direct opponent shouted back, and the voices responded. This interaction spurred his opponent on to a more aggressive stance, and he fought with renewed vigor, attacking once again. He stepped to the side making Giorgio turn his body towards the yelling voices.

  Giorgio let out a grunt of frustration and broke off his attack. All of them would be on him in seconds. He sent out a mental command to the dog, and off they went again straight across the cobblestoned street. There was no sense hiding anymore. His only chance was getting help. There might’ve been a place to get it.

  * * * * *

  Sleep would not come.

  The nightmares hounded her every moment, too much to allow her body to. Madam Dreary believed she was going mad.

  The last couple of hours were spent tossing back and forth on her luxurious bed. The red silk crumpled up around her shivering body. Her mind twisted, turned, and gnawed on her sensibilities, always on, always there, never allowing her a moment’s peace. This never happened.

  Haunting images of blood and mangled flesh clouded her uppermost thoughts, careening in front of her eyes even when they were open as if they were happening at that very moment. No matter what she did, no matter where she looked, they haunted her, lingering and tormenting her every second. In her room the images were stronger as if that were the location of their origin. She left her bed and strolled about what had once been a place of joy and solace, but was now part of her waking nightmare.

  Soft moans of pleasure came from behind the curtained doorways, and one scream of ecstasy elicited a grin from Madam Dreary, but it was short lived. The image of a man, cut from hip bone to hip bone, his eviscerated guts hanging out of his abdomen, appeared before her eyes, so real and visceral she staggered.

  She let out a gasp and moaned, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. She closed her eyes, but the image remained. His insides slipped out and covered his legs, dripping down to the ground as his face went slack. Somehow he remained standing like a marionettes’ puppet being forced to die on its feet.

  It was Jon who was dying. His face, his sweet innocent face, twisted in agony as his life fled from his body. It wasn’t fair. A sweet man like him deserved to live, to have a life of fulfillment. One didn’t often find such a man in Murder Haven.

  The image faded, and she went slack, still on her feet but feeling numb and sick, confused and afraid, the disastrous portent shaking her hard. Distraught, the madam sought out a modicum of solace in the kitchen. Her favorite chair propped against the simple table near the rear door.

  A new cask of wine perhaps promised the vestiges of her pain, so immediate, would be sloughed off by the dull ache of drunkenness. It helped. Soon the liquid death stole into her body and relaxed her body and mind.

  A shout erupted the tranquil scene, and Madam Dreary blinked as incredible, irrational fear struck. Her heart beat so fast, it might’ve exploded within her breast.

  She ran from the kitchen towards the commotion. Her throat tight and breathing labored. The voices of her girls and a few security personnel become more and more agitated. It wasn’t so late that the common room wouldn’t be full with guests.

  Madam Dreary pulled up short when she entered the room. A questioning retort died on her lips. A strange looking man screamed, surrounded by a few employees, girls, security, even a clean-up man. All of them were attempting to calm him down.

  But the stranger did not listen. He was very frightening, in both demeanor and appearance, and Madam Dreary felt a tug at her consciousness prompting her to help him at all costs. Somehow she felt both a kinship with him and recognition with his shifting form. He couldn’t stop moving around, bouncing back and forth from one person to the next, screaming at them to listen.

  There was a dog too. T animal was mangy and filthy, and it triggered another level of recognition. Dreary tried to fight through the web of haze and mental dissolution.

  The man was dirty and dishelmed. Something about his skin and limp grayish hair scared her, and the dog was no better. It was feral, with a scrubby coat and bloodshot eyes. The man kept repeating the same phrases over and over like the mad. Maybe he was an escaped lunatic from Sea Haven Asylum.

  “They’re coming! Understand, they are coming, you fools! Help me! Do you understand? They are coming!”

  Madam Dreary stepped, even as one of her security men put a hand up to block her, recognizing something in the madman’s voice. She knew this man, and the sudden predication to help him became overwhelming.

  “Giorgio? Giorgio, is that you?” She peered closer and held her breath. “My… my god, that is you! What has happened?”

  She waved off the guardsmen who interposed themselves between her and the man once known as a friend and companion, but they stood their ground too afraid of the strange man screaming in front of them all.

  “No,” she said and pushed one man back. “Help this man. Put your weapons down. Bring this man something to eat. Can’t you see he’s starving near to death!”

  They didn’t move. She struck them with her hands, slapping one man on the face.

  “Move! Get going, all of you, and help this man!”

  Some of them obeyed if not to satisfy her anger. Giorgio turned his manic attention on her, and she was almost knocked back by his bestial energy. The stricken man grabbed her shoulders, and she winced at the icy cold of his flesh and the iron strength of the grip.

  “You,” he said and his slimy dog sniffed at her legs. “I know you. Madam… Madam something. Dearie… that’s it.”

  She tried to pull his hands off her shoulders, but they were like gnarled oak crunching against a bed of flowers. “It’s Madam Dreary, love. Giorgio, you’re hurting me. I will help you, but ye must let go of me for one moment.”

  He nodded, blinking his eyes and along with the assistance of one of her security men, she pried his fingers off. Giorgio closed his eyes, shook his head, and the dog growled. Then he bellowed, the voice a harsh grating spark of rage, and he pushed the man away from him and ran down the hall, screaming and hollering as if demons from hell chased him. The dog ran after him.

  Madam Dreary was so stunned, so appalled by the condition of Giorgio, and the speed by which it happened, she found herself frozen to the spot. It was impossible to move an inch.

  * * * * *

  Two more days. Two more days until the ultimatum was up at least according to a hired thug whose only job was to beat Muldor.

  But there was no reason to doubt someone was coming to collect the debt, and that they would come to him alone. The Guild’s list of allies was dwindling. Some of his informants gave him grave news. There were machinations going on behind him that boded ill for them.

  He walked with his heavy grey robes bundled about his shoulders like a second skin, so familiar that he would have sooner shaved his head then part with them. They were his armor, his personal, recognizable totem that everyone knew him by. His reputation was his signature. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him, even his enemies, or so was his assumption. It was unthinkable that people would conspire to fulfill his doom.

  Cutter was where the old man always was, cooped up in his cavernous den among the hundreds and hundreds of boxes, a labyrinthine expanse of twisting, winding, rounding edges. Muldor had no trouble navigating its environs and soon stood face to face with Cutter in the center of it all, the space cleared away of everything save a lone desk.

  The old curmudgeon frowned at Muldor as if he had strangled his only chi
ld and put his pen down. Muldor pictured himself in Cutter’s place, old, bent and hunched over his desk with the same disgusted look on his face. It was the future of another time, another life.

  “I’m busy, Muldor.”

  “Everyone’s busy in this city. There is no need to remind me of your particular set of responsibilities.”

  Cutter’s eyes narrowed, and he sat back. “What are you playing at? I have no time for trivialities I assure you.”

  “Neither do I. Our time grows short. Both The Guild and the city are facing the greatest peril they have known, greater than even the recent attack brought against our shores. We must pay a substantial amount, part of which you are responsible for due to your personal compliance in Castellan’s attempted coup. We lack the military and political might to repel another attack, and without a regent to the crown, we have no choice but to pay.”

  Cutter looked like he was chewing on something dead and decaying. He smacked his lips and sighed. “How far you have fallen. It is almost painful to see.”

  Muldor raised an eyebrow. “How is that?”

  Cutter sat forward and addressed Muldor like he would a simple child. “Muldor, no regent will ever come to this city, not as long as you are in charge of The Merchants Guild. I was hoping you would know of this through your own avenue of information, but your people are weak and ineffectual. Quit the Guild, and you can go back to your clerical duties. Continue down this path and utter ruin shall be yours.” He shrugged and picked up his pen and went back to writing.

  Muldor couldn’t comprehend any of what was said. He was the head of The Guild. No one in existence could do a better job than he; no one alive cared more for The Guild and its continued, prosperous reign.

  Cutter was lying, bluffing for some reason. The old man was still shaken, no doubt, by the dissolution of the Thieves Guild. Maybe the rumors were true. “Cutter, how goes the rebuilding? I’ve heard stories.”

  Cutter sighed but kept writing. “Always in denial. Muldor, I am indeed busy, and it is that very topic by which I am stymied. Yes, indeed, the Thieves Guild is being rebuilt. I have contacted many of the remnants that are still abiding in the city, and they are willing to listen to reason. Much unlike yourself.”

  “I require a good sum from you. We must pay Janisberg. There is no other option available.”

  “I’ve told you the other option. You refuse to listen or even consider the possibility. There are things you know not of.”

  “Such as?”

  Cutter started humming a familiar tune. “Ah, Muldor. The follies of middle age. I have no money for you. No one does. Now, run along and do whatever it is you do.”

  Muldor pulled out a rolled parchment from his bag. “As you can see, our initial payment consists of one majority share of the total, followed by percentage payments made at an interest that I deem excessive. The payments are to be doled out every quarter, with interest collected therein. I believe a mediator would go far in negotiating the sum, fees, and interest in particular. There is no reason both parties shouldn’t be able to come to reasonable terms in the near future.”

  Cutter continued humming and singing to himself as he wrote. Muldor grabbed the paper on his desk and tossed it on the floor. Cutter became agitated, then upset, then full of rage in quick order. “There’s no money for you. I suggest you go elsewhere, or I will be forced to call my guards. Leave! I have important work to do.”

  “I will have The Guild’s money. You’ve moved it somewhere, and I will find it. The persons responsible for this betrayal will suffer, and if you are among them, you shall hang along with the rest.”

  Cutter, his wrinkled skin quivering with contained anger, crossed his arms and sat back. “The situation no longer concerns you. Go home. Resign from the Guild, Master Muldor and all be forgiven. No other option remains to you. Good day!”

  Back at his office, Muldor sat and thought. The Western Docks were slow at this time, but men still fumbled about outside, and instead of giving him comfort, it made him feel paranoid. They didn’t care about him. No one did. They were all a part of this vendetta against him.

  Castellan left Muldor holding the very rope that would see him on the gallows. The idea of quitting his position was unthinkable. The Guild could not function without his guiding hand. They were weakened by the recent catastrophe, and Muldor was the only one that could steer the ship into calmer waters.

  Allies. There must’ve been some willing to assist him. But the most powerful members of the city council were against him. He made a mental list of his own cadre of informants, runners, and others relied on for information. They were all culpable, with the exception of perhaps Styles, for the youth adored the Guild Master. But none of them told him the unsettling news. There was no one to trust.

  Fine then. Time to rebuild. It was time to take it back to the beginning, examine the situation and evaluate the circumstances that led to his current predicament. The Guild stole money from Janisberg, they came to their shores to not only get their money back but also for their political prisoners.

  But this was bigger than a mere fee. Lautner wanted more. Jon had said so. His ambitions outweighed this minor theft. The ambassador wouldn’t send an entire fleet to recoup the amount they were asking for. It couldn’t and wouldn’t get approved, no matter the political prisoners involved, for the cost of a garrison of soldiers was high as well.

  The Guild itself was under attack that was it. With Castellan gone, the reigns of leadership were passed to him, and now Muldor was a patsy, a disposable entity they feared because of his connections and respect within the organization. Respect no longer mattered. Survival did.

  Lautner desired The Guild and all it represented. Janisberg wanted to control it, and since Sea Haven’s political structure was imploding, this was the perfect time to attempt a coup of The Merchants Guild. It all fitted.

  Someone had made a deal with Ambassador Lautner, someone within the city council or multiple people, even within The Merchants Guild.

  Muldor had some work to do.

  Because his normal attire was far too recognizable to keep his identity secret, Muldor wore black leather pants and a brown leather vest instead of his grey cloak. He strode as a man with a purpose, far from his normal waddling gait.

  He made his way across town towards an old thieves’ hangout near Cutter’s den, keeping his hood pulled tight to hide his features. There might’ve been some old friends there and after sitting and drinking for a few hours, he saw them enter the Wagging Tongue Inn and sit near the bar.

  Anders looked much the same, save a scar on his right cheek. A wound the young thief had taken that fateful day on the docks when the armada attacked. His hair was longer, and he kept it hanging on the scar to hide the embarrassing mark. Despite this, the man seemed happy. He laughed with the bartender and bought a mug of ale.

  His companion, a women named Delora, was a few years older than Anders but a bit younger than Muldor. Together they stood with their backs against the bar, talking with the others, smiling, laughing, perhaps buoyed by the recent rumors that the thieves were banding back together as a new guild.

  The talk amidst the tavern dwellers was indeed more upbeat, and whether this would work well for what Muldor needed would be discovered. He needed to contact Anders and Delora without revealing his identity. How to do it without anyone else knowing was the real challenge.

  He approached them, making sure to seem non-threatening and congenial. Anders’ eyes narrowed, and Delora made an involuntary move with her left hand to her sword belt, but they made no other threatening moves towards him.

  “Greetings, fellow members of the blade,” Muldor said, making his voice different so no one listening would recognize it and made a graceful bow. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private.”

  Anders scoffed and turned away. Delora looked at him, trying to see his face under the hood.

  “Who you?” she said. “We don’t spend time with strangers out i
n the cold night. Bit safer in hereabouts.”

  “Indeed,” Muldor said and opened his cloak to reveal a heavy coin purse. “But what I have to say is of great import. And my business is private if you understand my meaning.”

  He jingled the purse, and even the youthful anger Anders possessed could not curtail his curiosity. The young man shared a look with Delora who couldn’t hide a smile.

  “You might be talking our talk now, master,” Delora said, and the three of them went outside.

  Always paranoid, even for a thief, Anders made a show of looking around every corner as Muldor led them to a quiet portion of the neighborhood. Both of them were at the ready for any potential betrayal and stayed sharp.

  “I assure you both my intentions are honorable,” Muldor said in his own voice, and Anders perked studying him.

  After a few more steps he stopped and grabbed his arm. “Who are you?”

  “Please, over here. Eyes and ears are plentiful in these parts. Permit me a moment.”

  Anders nodded, and the three of them went to the corner of a one story building, near an abandoned barber shop. The windows were boarded up, the door covered with more wood.

  Muldor removed his hood, and their eyes went wide. Anders looked around then smiled. He hit Delora in the arm with the back of his hand and laughed.

  “Well, look at this, why don’t cha? We got ourselves a nice little guild master here. How come we got so lucky?”

  Delora said nothing. She studied Muldor, her eyes wary.

  “I need some information,” Muldor said. “And you of the Thieves Guild may be the only ones whom I can place trust.”

  “There ain’t no guild no more,” Delora said. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “There will be again. Now, there are issues I wish cleared up and discretion is paramount. I trust I can count on you both?”