by Will Molinar
“Styles,” Muldor said to the young man, and he stood straight.
“My lord?”
“Fetch me something else to wear. I’m afraid the increased temperature has made this garb troublesome. A light robe if you would. Speak with master Salem near the silken cloth stalls on Oak Boulevard. He sells such items. Tell him it is for me.”
“Of course, Muldor.”
The little rabbit ran off, and soon Muldor wore a light cotton robe with thin sleeves and a leather belt. He wore his chain of office, a heavy gold medallion, outside of the clothes for the first time since assuming the office. He’d forgotten he still had it. Now everyone could see it.
The afternoon wore on, and the streets were packed with people. Hawkers sold their wares, and Muldor allowed them even though they were independents sellers not part of The Guild. People ate of their food and drank of their wine. Security consisted of police and members of City Watch. Muldor would have to think long and hard on Raul’s replacement, for these men could not be swayed with ease.
People shouted and screamed for the hangings to commence, and those on the stage grew restless. Cassius eyed Muldor from across the way, and Muldor let him. They would begin when he told Dillon to bring forth the prisoners. The crowd got rowdy, clapping and chanting. They came to see some important people punished, and they wanted blood.
Becket approached him. “Muldor, should we get started?”
Muldor turned to him, and with a look Becket stopped talking. “Master Becket, I believe from this point on you should address me as Guild Master Muldor, if you would. It shows respect to my position if not the man.”
Becket did well to hide his frown. “Fine, yes. My apologies. Guild Master Muldor. Shouldn’t we get started? These people are restless.”
“Do not fear them. The people are The Guild, and The Guild is the people. We exist for them and fight for their well-being.”
He waited until the crowd was drooling, and stomping their feet in anticipation for the event. Muldor gave a signal to Lieutenant Dillon, and they brought forth the prisoners, six men in total. Dollenger and Raul, plus their highest ranking aides would fill out the gallows’ six ropes.
They were a ragged bunch, chained on both feet and arms, and as they walked to the stage, they were pelted by the crowd with rotten fruit and mushy vegetables. They deserved it. These men let Castellan get away with everything and put the entire city, their way of life, in jeopardy. They failed to stop him and acted in their own self interests.
This was their fault, and they would reap their reward. For the good of them all, these men had to die. He thought about Maggur, and how the man’s flight had assured this situation look legitimate. Staying to fight might have swayed the council, but his escape made his guilt too clear for all to see. They could not resist Muldor’s logic.
They reached the stage and Cassius stood and gave a speech about their crimes and why this sentence was just and fair. The crowd bellowed in support. Muldor smiled, for he had them all; city, people, everyone. This was the position Castellan had long sought after and never was able to achieve. How ironic that Muldor was able to make it happen his way and not the way of the sword.
Dillon had the prisoners unshackled and shoved forward underneath the nooses while the executioners pulled the ropes down far enough so they could fit over their necks. Dollenger and Raul stood next to each other, looking glum. They had no fight left in them.
But Raul stared at Muldor with seething hate in his eyes. The Guild Master didn’t turn away, though a simmering guilt churned in his stomach. The truth was, he and the other Dock Masters were as culpable as the condemned men. They knew about the theft yet did nothing. Maggur and Dollenger were more active participants in Castellan’s plan but the others were guilty by association.
No matter. The Guild couldn’t survive without some semblance of leadership carried over from this fiasco. Dollenger was proud and kept his composure, eyes straight away. He said not a word when asked. None of the others wished to speak even though it was their right, but as they were about to drape the noose around Raul’s neck, he spoke.
It was hard to hear him over the roar of the crowd, but his words struck Muldor hard.
“Every single one of you within the sound of my voice… every single one, listen to me! This city will burn. Do you hear me? It will burn to the ground. I tried, my whole life, to help this city when the time came to stand up. Kill me if you want, but that won’t change a thing. You all deserve what’s coming to you.”
The crowd listened to most of it, but they continued to yell and throw items at the stage. Some of the filth pelted the officials standing there, who backed away. Muldor heard every word of Raul’s final speech, the last words the man would ever speak. It struck him like a sinuous disease, crawling around his belly, making him ill. He pushed it down, and they gave the order to hang the guilty.
The six men were lined up in a straight line, noosed one by one, and then the executioner, a brutal looking man with black hood and leather pants, grabbed the lever. Cassius looked at Muldor for a moment, looking serene. Muldor saw a look of expectation there. The Lord Governor was waiting for a signal from Muldor.
It was his decision. That was the unspoken truth in Lord Cassius’ eyes. The crowd quieted all of a sudden, and everyone looked at the stage. A hush fell over them. Muldor nodded.
Lord Cassius turned to the executioner, and the man pulled the lever. The bodies dropped as one and snapped back hard. The smell of released bowels followed the sharp crack of their necks as they broke. Some of the crowd groaned in sympathy while others clapped.
It was done. Muldor had replaced the man he had fought so hard to depose. All his work, all the years of slavery to The Guild, all of his sacrifices had led to this moment. He had become Castellan’s replacement in more ways than one.
* * * * *
The matches commenced. Thruck was back on regular rotation, and the crowd responded by showing up in even more impressive numbers and betting with every scrap of coin they could muster. The percentage the average Sea Haven resident spent at either the arena or the betting tents was shameful when compared to the amount spent on home or family, if they had either.
The loan officers stood by the exit and entrance looking for prey. They could keep these idiots in debt for life, if they kept at it. Served them right.
Half drunk already, Jerrod watched them run back and forth to wager windows, frantic to get a winning ticket for the next round, hoping their bet would pay off. A man like him was above them in every way. Sure, he fed off their stupidity, but that’s what made him superior. They worked and slaved, and he reaped their rewards.
One of the bar hops walked by carrying a beer laded tray, and Jerrod grabbed a mug and drank. The man glared but didn’t challenge him. There was nothing he could’ve done anyway. Jerrod grinned back.
The brutal man laughed. These little shits were beginning to learn who was in charge of this place. It was about time.
The night wore on. Jerrod watched Thruck dismantle another group of men, but as no weapons were used in this particular bout, none were killed. There was vengeful wrath in the beast’s eyes. Only a stupid animal could be so angry all the time. It had no other function but to win and make money for others.
Marko found him a little while later. The head tough comingled with several others of their band. The stout man nodded to Jerrod and offered another mug. “Sir. Good night so far.”
Jerrod took the proffered ale and took a drink. “What’s our tally?”
With inside information gleaned from fighters backstage, Jerrod had his men placed side bets, paying off some of the fighters in the process. Anyone would take a dive if the price was right.
“It’s good, sir. Up from last week.”
Jerrod eyed him. “I said what’s the damn tally? Be specific, you dolt.”
“Yes, sir!” Marko said and told him. Jerrod grunted, hiding his pleasure. These people didn’t need to know how satisf
ied he was. That was how you got people to think they didn’t need you anymore. Marko cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. Jerrod gave him a dark look.
“Uh, sir, some of the men were asking me, that is, uh, some of them were wondering if we were getting that bonus you talked about before. Since we’ve done so well and all, I thought we might get extra.”
Jerrod glowered at him. The idea of handing them any coin turned his stomach. “You all got side bets, doncha?”
“Well, yes, sir, we do.”
“That’s your bonus right there, fella.”
Marko nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Jerrod thought he heard less enthusiasm in the response but didn’t give a damn. They were his men, and they had to live with it.
Another match and another win for them made all of them smile. They drank and laughed. Jerrod felt a little tipsy after a couple of hours. All these morons in the crowd did was feed his retirement fund. At least they were good for something. One of the serving wenches, a brave woman to spend any amount of time in a place of like this, made him consider getting a whore that night. It had been some times since visiting Madam Dreary’s.
This buxom girl would do fine, with every inch of her smooth skin and ripe womanhood, bursting out of her bodice. Nice and juicy. He tried to speak to her, but she said she was too busy to chat. The stupid slut tried to walk off, but he grabbed her arm.
Alcohol clouded his judgment, and his demeanor turned sour in a hurry. He cursed her for a lying whore, and she begged him to release her arm. Some of the security men saw what was happening and came over to talk, and even some of Jerrod’s own attempted to separate his hand from her wrist. They got her free, and he cursed them.
Burn ‘em all.
Shoving them out of his way, roaring drunk, Jerrod pushed through the rest of the crowd, feeling elated, unbeatable. They couldn’t do a damn thing to him though they kept yelling at him to leave. Fuck them.
He stumbled into the street. It was biting cold, too damn cold for mid-summer. Stupid weather, stupid son of whores security, bastard traitors; all of them could rot. A few people stood outside talking and smoking, and they looked his way.
“Bah!” he said and waved his hands at them, wondering where his smokes were. “Where’s my damn drink? Shit.”
It wasn’t worth going back in for it, plus they would fight him. Someone should get it for him anyway. That cur Marko owed everything he had to Jerrod. The midget should be serving Jerrod drinks like a serving wench. The thought of the masculine Marko wearing a skirt made Jerrod snigger.
Jerrod shook his head, to hell with his drink, and he started walking back to his temporary living quarters at a tavern, called the Drunken Sailor, only four blocks away. On busier nights he had taken to sleeping there. It was much closer to the arena than his cabin, which seemed a thousand leagues away, but there would be time for it later.
He had in place a plan to hand off the full time duties of crowd control to Marko, and then he could sit back and let the money come to him with no fear of any greedy hands sticking their fingers into what didn’t belong to them.
Jerrod stopped as a figure stepped from out of an alleyway right in front of him. Jerrod sniffed twice and rubbed his nose, still drunk and becoming more pissed off by the second. But now he was wary. Zandor wouldn’t show up like this out of nowhere without reason. The whip thin man, lean and as strong as one of the arena fighters, strolled down the street and stopped seven paces away. His dark eyes peered under his hood at Jerrod.
“Just what the hell you think yer lookin’ at?” Jerrod said and spit to the side.
Zandor seemed to sigh and shook his head. “I’m looking at the most miserable son of a bitch that ever found its way down the crack of a woman’s ass, truth be told.”
Jerrod scoffed. “Truth? Honest one, you are.”
“You stupid, stupid, bastard. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Always pushing people around like you own the place. You’re so full of hate, you have to fight everything in the world.”
Jerrod felt a flush of anger rise to his cheeks. He put his hand on his sword but didn’t draw. “What are you on about?”
Zandor looked to the side, only a tiny flick of his head. Jerrod felt a premonition. An instinct gleaned from all his accumulated years of fighting and surviving on the streets. He backed up a step, hand still ready.
“You coulda had anything,” Zandor said, sounding almost sad. “You did have everything, dumb bastard. But now people are tired of dealing with your bullshit, Jerry. I’ve heard enough about it. It’s time.”
Jerrod pulled his sword and stumbled, banging into the wall. His head felt thick, feet unsteady. Damn drink. Confusion hovered over his thoughts.
“You… you shut yer… damn mouth, Zandor. I ain’t gotta… I ain’t….”
Zandor put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He kicked at a rock on the ground and sounded disappointed. “So predictable, Jerry. It makes me sad. I thought about letting you choose to shove off and leave, but you ain’t got the sense of a dog. You’d never let it go.”
Jerrod steadied his feet and breathed heavy, anger clouding his judgment, seeing nothing but red. “You don’t talk to me that way. Nobody does!”
He stopped backing away and charged forward like the drunken fool he was. Zandor’s side stepped was easy, almost casual, but he still didn’t draw a weapon. Instead he slammed a stiff forearm against Jerrod’s shoulder and shoved him further out to the side.
The smaller man was much stronger than appearances would lead one to believe, and the move turned Jerrod hard to the side putting him off balance, but he wasn’t that drunk. He spun with the force of momentum that the shove gave him and squared up with Zandor a moment later. But he wasn’t facing only Zandor. Two other men stepped from the shadows, two bona-fide assassins.
In fact, he thought he recognized one of them, even with the hood pulled down. But, his befuddled mind couldn’t register what was seen clear enough to place him. It didn’t matter. They had him; everyone in that alleyway knew it. This was a classic set up, something Jerrod had done to people dozens of times. No doubt another man was somewhere behind him, cutting off any chance of retreat. Jerrod was dead, caught flatfooted and off balance. That’s how it worked. They plied their trade in teams of threes, this one ran by Zandor, an ultimate master, one that taught Jerrod.
Jerrod tried to clear his mind and settle his fear; no, it wasn’t fear but acceptance. No! You know how they operate, what they do, their tactics, use that, idiot!
Zandor stood in the center of his group, short sword and dagger in hand. He was steady, patient, waiting for Jerrod to make the first move. His mistake and a clue to his thoughts.
The two assassins swung around to the side, flanking him. Another clue for Jerrod in how they planned to come at him. Most people that knew how to fight and were outnumbered would head for one opponent alone, thinking to take one out fast before the others closed in. That was the trap the assassins used against canny opponents. Even Jerrod couldn’t cut one down fast enough. They would fight in a defensive manner until the other arrived to kill you.
Jerrod stood his ground. “Come and get me, you punks.”
They obliged, stepping in close and stabbing with their knives, quick as striking snakes. Jerrod took a big step forward, right in between them and kicked to the side but failed to connect with his large boot. It was meant only as a delay and spacing.
It gave him room to move, and he closed with the man he tried to kick who was already in a defensive posture. Right where Jerrod wanted him. He feinted high with his sword, and when the man went up to block, Jerrod dropped his weapon and dove forward as hard as he could, tackling the smaller man.
The surprising move caught the man off guard, and Jerrod smothered his opponent to the ground, head butting him over and over several times. He drove his fist into his throat. The assassin went limp, and Jerrod rolled off him and jumped back to his feet, pulling his sword in
the process.
One down. Not dead but unconscious and out of the fight.
Zandor got involved then, and the three of them continued their circling dance. Jerrod blinked his eyes several times, trying to shake off the effects of his heavy imbibing, and his head was indeed clearer. Adrenaline had a funny way of shocking the system. But it wouldn’t be enough.
They closed in. There was a chance at survival, but speed was everything. His quick dispatching of the other man made Zandor and his partner much more wary. They thought to catch him off guard and drunk. They had the drop, but Jerrod was a hard kill. Zandor should have known better.
They had another man with them for certain, one who was moving into position while they kept him occupied. Jerrod made a calculated decision and bolted away from them down the alley. Fine, let them trap him between them, let him run right into it, at least it gave him more time to sober up. Then they would have a fight on their hands.
He reached the end of the street and was about to turn left at the alley when something hard struck him in the side of the head. The big man crashed to the ground, dazed and bloody. They had him. It was over, and Jerrod found he wasn’t all that fazed by the fact.
Someone yanked back his head with a hand on his forehead and exposed his vulnerable neck. He felt the cold steel of a dagger pressed against his throat and then heard shouting. A heavy body slammed into his attacker, and they went tumbling. More shouting. Other men came, pushing and shoving and fighting. Harsh screams of pain and strife struck the air.
Jerrod put a hand on his head, and it came away bloody. His ears were ringing, his vision blurry. He tried to sit up and look around, but he was unable. More shouting; more cries of pain; and metal on metal, flesh on flesh. There were a lot of people mucking about in the alley and adjoining street.
