Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  Two men were being hanged. They had someone to blame, and that someone was not them, so whatever Muldor proposed was fine. He also had a requisition for a new jail in his pile of documents but held back showing at that time. It would seem too obvious, what with Dillon and his show of force right there in the room. Muldor would wait and send off the paper next week sometime, after the hangings.

  The meeting went better than he could have hoped. Everything was perfect.

  * * * * *

  The lone figure felt empty like an egg shell left to crack and rot on a desert rock. No fluids remained; he should have been bloated. His body felt thin and reedy, like a dried out corn husk. Opening his mouth caused an involuntary groan to issue forth, more of a marsh gas escaping the surface of a fetid swamp. The softest light hurt his eyes, and though the atmosphere remained dark, the vestiges of light simmered around the edges. Its origin unknown.

  Stone was underneath him and water; dirty, stinking, filthy water. But, the location wasn’t outside. Stone walls encapsulated the surroundings, damp though they were. The air was stuffy. Outside. No, inside.

  Where he was, was still.

  Water dripped somewhere, drip, drip, drip… tap, tap, tap. A glimmer of remembrance struck his hollow shell. Visions of men surrounding him, chanting at him, hurting him. Preternatural terror raced through him, a feral shiver.

  His head felt detached and not his own like a puppet he had seen once as a young boy, so light and airy like the rest of his frame. Giorgio remembered seeing it. He fascinated by the toy and the skill of the puppeteer that worked it across the scrubby stage. Everything about it had been dirty. The man, the stage, the puppet, covered with a sort of grime that could never be washed off. It was deep into the grain of wood, etched in by time and neglect.

  Young Giorgio still wanted it so he stole it. He loved the puppet, but the school master at the orphanage took it from him. Giorgio contemplated the man’s death for a long time. When the man left the orphanage Giorgio promised to find him when he grew up, but he never got around to it.

  He sat up on a slab of stone. It was wet around the edges but dry from the imprint of where his body lay. He griped the edge, felt some strength return to his arms and took a deep breath. Better but still too weak to stand. The air was thick with a rotten odor, like spoiled vegetables, and piss, and shit. A sewer.

  Then Giorgio remembered what had happened. He remembered the men who had kidnapped him. They’d killed his dog. The memory made him bend over and weep. He sobbed in pitiful wail, like a mewing kitten. He was too weak to be angry, only drained and broken.

  There was nothing left, nothing worth living for, not even revenge because he couldn’t fathom a life spent fighting. No energy remained. He sat there for some time, contemplating sliding down into the dank water and letting it swallow him.

  A flicker of self-preservation made him stand. Ankle deep water made him shiver from the shock of cold. His clothes were rags hanging off his shriveled body, draping him in tatters. They had taken his shoes. They had taken everything from him, and he was powerless to hurt them.

  “Master….”

  The word croaked out from his dry throat. His body was empty as was his heart, his very soul. He couldn’t focus on more than a thought or two. His mind was like a simple child, struck dumb by trauma.

  Taking a step made dizziness wash over him. Giorgio put his hands to steady himself as his vision swam with stunted images. They faded like the after images behind the smoky veil of a fire. It passed as he stumbled forward.

  Escape. Escape to the surface, and he would go about finding some clothes. He padded through the murky sewage. His mind clouded over with dullness. It was enough for now to possess a sense of self. Perhaps oblivion would wait.

  * * * * *

  There was nothing they could do about Jenkins and Jon. They were gone. It pained Cubbins to admit that, but those were the facts. He and Unri were alive, and that was what mattered at the moment. The other two men were being obliterated.

  The two of them stood on the other side of the curtain from Malthus Benaire as the evil one continued to work on his experiments. Cubbins didn’t want to think about it. Madam Dreary stood on the opposite wall, looking dazed, drugged maybe and didn’t move an inch. She seemed to be breathing. Maybe they could save her.

  Unri rubbed his face and attempted to wake himself from their ordeal, and Cubbins did the same. The fuzziness was fading, but he still felt drugged, dull, and despondent. It was as if he had slept far too long, and his body suffered from lack of food and water. Elation at being alive filled him.

  The challenge remained: what to do now?

  Unri stared at the curtain, watching the silhouette cut and drain the last bits of flesh and organs away from Jenkin’s prone body. There was true hate in his eyes, a fierce passion to fight and destroy the evil that continued to hurt a mere ten feet in front of them. Unri pulled his sword and started forward.

  Cubbins was about to join him when a thought struck him. “Wait,” he said and grabbed Unri’s arm, a thought coming to his analytical mind. “We can’t beat him like this. You know that. If he were the least bit concerned about us hurting him, we wouldn’t have our weapons, and we’d be tied down with chains. It would have been easy for him.”

  Unri was about to protest, but he stopped short, his mind working. “No, I will kill him. He took all from me. And I will end his work for all time.”

  “No! Listen to me. You said it yourself. You said he is death, he’s an idea. You can’t kill an idea. This isn’t a physical thing we can stab or harm.”

  Unri looked confused. Anger flushed his dark features. All the hardship of the months and years culminated to this moment. His journey was at long last finished in his mind. “No, no, no, he is….” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, grunting. “Cannot think. I do not know.”

  “Look,” Cubbins said. The arm under his bed clear in his mind. The police captain pulled Unri off to the side; though it didn’t seem to matter if they were loud. Benaire was in his own world, shut off from normal human concerns.

  “Think! Think about what you said earlier, everything you know about this being. Come on, think!”

  Unri tried to think, but it was obvious the man was still dazed and injured. He wasn’t as young as Cubbins. He might’ve been even two decades older. Unri put his hand on his forehead and winced in pain. He rubbed his temples and breathed.

  “Tell me how this creature works,” Cubbins said. “Tell me what he does, everything. Think, man, think!”

  Unri took a shuddering breath, collected himself, and spoke. “This entity represents death as death comes to all. Will search for those are prime in life and have death come early. Is most times true. People hang in balance between living… how do you say, changza, have much life in them.”

  Cubbins looked at the back of the curtain. All that he had dealt with in recent weeks became clear. “Well, I’ll not become another corpse for his experiments. I’m dying an old man, sick in my bed. And so are you, Unri.”

  Cubbins didn’t think of himself as a sentimental person, in fact he knew he wasn’t, but there was a strong kinship with the man he stood at the edge of a knife with.

  “There is nothing to be done,” Unri said. “Death comes to all.”

  “No,” Cubbins said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. “No, I don’t believe that anymore. Not like this! Do you hear me? I used to believe I would die on the streets. My boss did, the captain before me. He died with a knife in his gut, bled out for hours before someone helped him, and by then it was too late.

  “That’s not happening to me. That thinking got me here. It got you here, got everyone who ever laid on that slab here. This thing is Death, as it comes to us all. You said it and believed it. He sent me a gift months ago, to remind me of my own mortality, and it worked because it made me believe and that belief gives him strength. I don’t buy it anymore. We make our own destiny. I won’t have it taken by this thing.”<
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  Unri looked unconvinced. His quest to avenge his city and family overwhelmed his logical mind. Rage warred with sense on his face.

  Cubbins pressed him, for he knew in his heart he was onto something. It felt right. He pointed at the prostrate form of Jon, laying on his back, cut from neck to groin, a gruesome sight for any man.

  “This poor man, he’s lying there because he expected to die. He’d been touched by death, maybe for the first time in his life, and it scared him. It made him believe. You and I are different because we have experience and have been through things he never has or will.

  “We don’t know why but you and I and men like us always make it through tight spots; sometimes because of skill, sometimes because of luck. But for whatever reason, we’ve survived. And part of our mind must believe we’ll always survive. We’re fighters, you and I, or maybe we’re too cocky to know the difference. It doesn’t matter. We’re here, and we’re alive. That’s what counts.”

  Unri looked more alert, his face still tense, but Cubbins was getting through to him at last. “What we do here now? How do we defeat him?”

  “We already have. It’s impossible to destroy him because he doesn’t exist, not in a real sense. Only in the minds of those that look for him. See, I brought him here after he gave me a taste. He studied this town and knew where to look for what was needed. We’re hurting, this town. Malthus Benaire must have smelled the blood in the air. I’m surprised he hasn’t come earlier.

  “This entity only preys on those on the edge, living well but waiting to die. There are a lot of those kinds of people around here. But not the two of us. Not anymore. This thing can’t hunt for us if we don’t hunt for him. See, you’ve been drawing him to you and your survivors all these years. It isn’t your fault. You did want any man would have, but it only fed him.”

  Unri shook from rage and shame. Tears welled then streamed down his tanned cheeks, mixing in with the salt and pepper beard. Cubbins knew he wanted to rush through the curtain and spew his hate upon his foe, but it would only doom him.

  “I must put family to rest. I must! They demand recompense from grave. I hear them screaming for it.”

  “Then you can join them in hell,” Cubbins said. He squared up with the older man and put his hands on his shoulders. Cubbins was a full head taller. “Understand this: Malthus Benaire is not human because he’s an entity, a phantom. He only exists because we give him the power to exist. This thing feeds on our fears and makes them happen, fulfilling the prophecy we create for ourselves. The only way to win is to turn away.”

  Unri’s racial conditioning wouldn’t die that easy, so he looked at Cubbins as if he were a simpleton that didn’t understand what was being discussed. “We all die, Master Cubbins. This is fact. Someday, it will take us.”

  “No! This thing isn’t really death, not in a literal sense. And he only wants us if we are strong and virile. Why else set up shop here at Madam Dreary’s house where strong, virile men come? This creature won’t take us when we’re old. Nature will and that’s fine. This is not.”

  They stared at each other for a few moments then back at the curtain. The light from the torches wavered from some unnamed source of wind, where poor Jenkins was suffering his fate.

  “We stand on edge,” Unri said. “Between life and this fate by decision we make.”

  “Then we make it now. Walk away forever. If we don’t… he will be drawn back to us, for we are men with a life force that’s desirable. It’s counted on, for men to be men.”

  Unri’s face went cold, and Cubbins saw the anguish. The man wanted to die and join his family in whatever afterlife his people believed in, but he also possessed a sense of responsibility. They had the only weapon they could use against their enemy: knowledge.

  “This only way to fight this creature,” Unri said. “My people wrong. Now we continue battle but must help others see. Much work to do for you and city. This place is refuge for this spirit.”

  “Tell me you’ll stay and help me,” Cubbins said. “I could use a good man by my side, someone I can trust. Your home is gone, so is your family.”

  “This is not my place of birth. I do not know if good idea.”

  “Think about it. You’ve nowhere else to go anyway.”

  “Perhaps you come with me first to my land to learn more of things you know little.” He glanced at Madam Dreary. “What of her? Lady is no part of this.”

  Cubbins wasn’t sure. He avoided looking at the curtain and the grisly remains of Jon. The two of them weren’t going to join them, as cold hearted as it sounded, not to the grave just yet. He skirted around the back of Malthus’ position towards Madam Dreary.

  She stood up against the wall motionless. Her face was blank, and her eyes lifeless. It saddened Cubbins to see someone so full of life, so vivacious and passionate, reduced to a lifeless husk. The pressure of Malthus Benaire weighed down on his emotional sensibilities. It would’ve been easy to turn and fight him, to give in to the desire to strike him down. But that way laid madness.

  Even though the decision to walk away was made, the lingering pulse to do something struggled for dominance. As a man of action, it was difficult to turn away from a conflict. There was a glimmer of motion from behind the curtain, and the figure of death stopped in mid motion, arm raised, head turned.

  Cubbins held his breath. No, he wouldn’t die this day. Instead, they would walk away as hard as it was. There was no reason to accept what his vocation offered. He’d lived longer than any police captain had in the history of the city because he was good, smart, didn’t take unnecessary chances, knew the streets, knew the people, and they loved him.

  No more skulking about then. Malthus Benaire didn’t exist. Cubbins stood up straight and grabbed Madam Dreary by the arm and pulled her off the wall. She screamed. Loud and long. The shadow of Malthus stood and the room went cold. Cubbins held back a yell and clamped his hand over her mouth. Then he put his arms around her and hissed in her ear.

  “Quiet! We’re alive, listen to me! Malthus doesn’t want you because you are alive. Feel my arms, hear my voice. Feel me! This is life, this is what it feels like. You remember. Your life is full of the greatest pleasures, drinking, laughing, loving. Feel me, remember your life.”

  Unri came to stand behind them as Cubbins struggled with holding her still. He put his hand on Cubbins’ back. “You are very wise, friend Cubbins.”

  “We’re not done yet.”

  The shadow behind the curtain moved, and Cubbins felt his stomach churn. He held tighter and told Unri to do the same. They both closed their eyes and smelled her perfume, felt the warmth of her voluptuous body. They held her closer and sucked in the pleasure of her nearness. Madam Dreary calmed, and the three of them held each other. The flickering torchlight was the only illumination save in their hearts.

  The shadow settled. Cubbins kept his breathing tight and focused, letting his muscles relax but not enough to release her. The two men held the beautiful madam together and waited for the shadow to continue its work. The distraction held, and Malthus Benaire sat down and worked at his craft unimpeded. Cubbins relaxed.

  They were free.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The paperwork was perfect. Muldor had worked hard along with his conspirators, considering them loyalists to The Guild regardless of what might’ve been whispered in the streets. It was official and left no doubt as who to blame. Dollenger, Maggur, and Raul plotted to fill their own purses while allowing the city to go to ruin. They were ousted as Castellan’s main contributors and would suffer the consequences. It was done.

  The prisoners were kept in the jail on the political prisoners’ floor. Muldor trusted Dillon to remain true. It was The Guild’s fortune that Captain Cubbins was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was dead, murdered on the street like the previous captain had been years ago. Muldor remembered the man well. The fellow had been corruptible and deserved his fate. And while Cubbins was a good man, Muldor was satisfied he did
not have to contend with his animosity towards their cause.

  The Guild Master had met with Lawson and Becket’s agents many times over the next several hours since the arrests. The market was reopened. The docks needed two new Dock Masters, and he ordered them to make their recommendations, so he could decide on the replacements. They had to be both capable and loyal.

  Several bodyguards followed Muldor as he walked towards the gallows square. He didn’t like it, but Becket and the others insisted. They still had enemies. Maggur and his agents might’ve decided to attack before the hangings commenced, and they wanted the Guild Master protected.

  There was something like fear rippling through him as they walked passed stalls and eager, curious faces from the merchants. They were spit images of Castellan and his steel clad guard entourage. He approached the outer edge of the marketplace, where they erected the gallows whenever hangings were in order.

  It had been some months since the last big event. Hangings happened every so often, and it was an ironic twist that a city known as Murder Haven had very few public executions. Muldor remembered the last, when his cousin Carver had hung by the neck until dead. He had been powerless to stop it, hadn’t acted until it was too late. This day was different.

  Muldor had all the power.

  It was early still. The market was opening in an hour or so, but many people lined the streets to and from the gallows square, pushing up against the stage where Muldor would stand with the rest of the city council, to judge and punish the ones responsible for the mess Sea Haven found itself in.

  Becket and Lawson stood proud, grim smiles on their faces though Muldor thought they must’ve been celebrating within. They nodded to him. Crocker was there too, and while the old man had argued, Muldor insisted the remaining Dock Master showed a unified front with him when the sentence was carried out. The people would be watching.

  The weather chose to be normal that afternoon when the ceremony was set to begin. Muldor was no longer accustomed to wearing his heavy grey robes and sweated underneath the thick sleeves and hood. It was stifling. Maybe he would change to something lighter, more fitting for a man of his stature.