by Will Molinar
A tall handsome man with a solid build and an arrogant smirk on his face looked him over.
“Marston’s the name, right?” Zandor said with a smile.
The man regarded him for a moment, then recognition dawned. “Hey there, Zandor. I thought you might work your way out of the trash at some point. It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Zandor said, and they shook hands. Zandor offered to buy him a drink, but Marston refused.
“Nah, this is our bar. I’ll buy you one.”
“Thought the thieves were hard up these days.”
Marston laughed, half amusement, half grim. “Well, you bet. But some are worse off than others. You get my meaning.”
“I do.”
They drank. The mood was casual and somber in the bar. A lot of thieves sat around and spoke to themselves. They acted paranoid as a rule. Zandor saw a lot of furtive looks his way. Some of them might’ve recognized him since he had had little contact with many of them. Giorgio was nowhere to be seen.
“You fellas wanna make a little extra coin?”
Marston smiled again and laughed. “Heh. Now that’s a question, huh.” He stared at Zandor, amusement mingling with caution. “Long as it doesn’t have anything to do with merchants or the city officials, I’m all for it.”
“It doesn’t. I learned my lesson.”
Marston laughed and slapped the table with an open hand. “What do you need?”
Zandor leaned forward and put his mug down. “I’m expanding my payroll. I need men that know this town well, men on call for work. You interested?”
Marston took that in, and then his amusement faded. Zandor saw his mind working.
“What about our work? We still have things going on, some of us anyway.”
Zandor knew what he meant. A lot of the braver ones, those still free anyway, were stealing as much as they could. Zandor put up his hands. “Hey, nothing to me. You boys do whatever you want. As long as you work for me when I call, you can have whatever you want on the side.”
Marston smiled again and whistled loud enough for thieves near him to hear. A few glanced over. “Get over here, worms. We got some work to do.”
They responded and Zandor had what he needed. If the toughs wanted to fight, he could arrange that for them.
He left the tavern minutes later, having recruited another grip of willing participants to his scheme, and set out for his next stop, the arena. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to have them all killed. They were simple, obvious folk who always flaunted their location.
Everyone knew where they were, and it made them easy targets for assassination. But Zandor was no butcher. There was no need for war. Plus, Jerrod would be dead soon anyway. There was a hit from another thieves’ guild on the poor sod. They knew he killed Goodwin Turner, the former leader of Sea Haven’s thieves’ guild.
It was too bad. Jerrod was the best at what he did. He wasn’t true assassin material because he lacked the subtlety involved in the highest levels, but he was one hell of an enforcer. The best Zandor had ever seen. Part of him, a paternal instinct due to the fact he helped train the man as a youngster, held on the idea he still had his uses, but if the hit was paid, it would happen. Jerrod was different, too wild, too thick headed, too hard to control anymore, so if he died, so be it.
Zandor had his own issues. He met Derek and Desmond at the arena. The two owners and operators were always in their office, high above the fighting floor, with a dominating view of the fights. It was late, most of the matches had concluded, and the floor was slick with blood. The climax of the night, the battle to the death, would take place soon.
Zandor had to climb a back staircase that tracked back and forth like a mountainous switchback to reach their rectangular box, a death trap if he ever saw one. The rickety construction would have scared even the bravest of men. Zandor marveled at the logistics involved. There had to have been magic involved in this place.
A guard stood at the door, looking at Zandor. “Yes?”
Zandor nodded to the door. “I need to see them.”
The man looked bored and annoyed at missing the fights, but he nodded and let him in. The noise from the arena floor already faded behind him as he climbed, but something else surrounded him as he entered. It was an odd feeling, like being submerged into water.
Derek cheered at something down below on the floor Zandor could not see. The guard went over to him and spoke in his ear. Zandor waited and glanced around. The room was functional but built for comfort. There were couches everywhere, seven either against the wall or near the edge of the open windowsill where the two men sat. The walls were strange, though, and didn’t match the soft rugs and chairs and couches. The walls were the same scratchy, wood boards populating the rest of the structure.
Desmond, the shorter and squatter of the two, already had eyes on Zandor, and that piqued his curiosity. It seemed the man knew he was coming. Both men were overweight and swarthy with dark hair. They looked like brothers or close cousins.
“Oh, Zandor! What a pleasant surprise, my dear man. Come in, come in. Over here please.”
Derek smiled, and Zandor went to stand behind their couch. He stared over them and looked at the arena floor where another match began. It was interesting to be so high up. The entire arena floor, and most of the bleachers were visible from his viewpoint. The floor was rectangular, perhaps fifty paces across and seventy the long way. Two ramps led from opposite corners from Zandor’s position and onto the arena floor.
The competitors would run or walk down each ramp, screaming and throwing their arms out to get the crowd riled. The crowd never failed to respond. The noise was shocking, even that high. It felt like every man and woman in the city was there.
“We have a wonderful line-up for tonight,” Derek said. “Did you come to watch? How lovely. You’re always welcome to our suite, you know. You should come by more often, Zandor.”
Zandor cracked a smile. “Yeah, well thanks. But there’s something else. I have an idea about a new addition to the fights. An exhibition.”
“Oh really?” Derek looked at Desmond with expectation.
Desmond eyed Zandor and a slight frown played about his heavy lips. “What do mean? An exhibition? To what end? We are doing well as is, as you can see.”
Derek sighed when he looked at his partner. “Come now. We have dear Zandor here to thank for Thruck’s return, remember.” He looked at Zandor with affection. “I’m sure whatever he proposes will be spectacular.”
Zandor outlined his plan, which including getting the toughs together to fight a round at the arena against the regular fighters. Both men sat back and looked at each other. Derek looked curious and amused, but Desmond was suspicious. They shared a look. There was some unspoken communication between them.
Desmond eyed Zandor again. “I’ve heard of them. Local toughmen that wrestle at dive bars.”
“Oh, behave, Desmond. It sounds rather wonderful. I suppose my only question is, will they agree to it.”
“Yes. Why should they pit themselves against our fighters? It’s very dangerous. It’s not their type of fighting.”
Desmond sat back, and Zandor heard Jerrod’s response in his mind. ‘What’s your problem, bub?’ Zandor couldn’t resist a smile.
“Is there something funny?” Desmond said.
“Nah. Look fellas, these boys have what you call pride, see? They think they are the toughest men in this town, and I wager they are willing to prove it. They also have a reputation to uphold, and the possibility of losing respect on the street should convince them to do it.”
Derek looked thoughtful and glanced at his partner. Desmond reminded Zandor of Muldor, with his stillness and thick headed, emotionless stare.
Derek smiled. “Well, good luck, Zandor. A small demonstration, perhaps in a couple of days would be splendid. I’m sure you can set that up. Speak with the match coordinator Salazar when you get a chance.”
Done and done.
; * * * * *
Marko was certain his nose was broken. It hurt like hell, a sharp, stabbing pain that settled into a dull ache. Blood flowed down his face and chest. The injury began to affect his breathing. It would’ve slowed him down the longer the match continued. If he couldn’t get enough air, his muscles would tire faster.
His opponent, Donald, was known as one of the better toughs. He had elbowed Marko hard in the face on their last grapple, an acceptable maneuver, even though they were wrestling and not boxing. It happened. The man was taller, older, and outweighed Marko by a good thirty or forty pounds. But he wasn’t the type of man to make excuses even though the weight disadvantage was ponderous. Donald smiled and came on again, relentless as ever.
He reached high, looking to grapple with Marko’s arms and lock in with each other’s shoulders. They had done that before, and the crowd at Stern’s Place cheered for more. But, Marko stepped to the side to use his shorter stature as an advantage and ducked under Donald’s armpit.
He dove for Donald’s left leg, very low on his ankles, swinging around to the side, but the big man was ready for it. He put his weight forward and down on Marko’s back. Donald reached around Marko’s torso from above and clamped down, but Marko countered by hooking his elbow on Donald’s arm.
Keeping it locked tight to his side, Marko rolled to his right and shifted his hips hard to increase his power and momentum. It worked for a second, but Donald planted his feet and stood taller, stopping Marko’s move before it had a chance to turn him over.
Marko switched tactics, sweeping out under Donald’s armpit and reversing direction. He came out from under his opponent’s body. Donald tried to square up in front of Marko and deny him the angle. But for all his size, Marko was the stronger man, and he used his left arm to grab Donald’s wrist and twist it behind his body.
Donald grunted and the crowd, “Ohhh’d.”
He tried to turn and twist his body out of the hold, but this put him off balance. Seeing his opening, Marko pulled Donald’s body closer to him and let go of his arm. He threw his arms around Donald’s waist and set his feet and bent his knees.
Up they went.
The crowd at Stern’s Place held their collective breath for a moment while Donald’s lost his feet and went airborne. They roared as they came crashing down to the wooden floor of the main taproom. Marko felt the breath blast from his opponent’s body as he landed on top of him, both face down.
But Donald was not finished. He kicked his legs and scrambled on the ground, trying to dislodge Marko from his back. Marko’s breath came out in huge huffs, and the proximity to Donald’s thick back pressed his nose against his skull in outright agony. He spun on Donald’s back as the bigger man got to his hands and knees.
Marko wouldn’t let him get planted, knocking out one arm and slamming his hips down hard on Donald’s lower back. He grunted in pain. Marko reached and yanked hard on Donald’s ankle, flattening the man back on his face. He held the limb and twisted hard. Donald cried out in pain and submitted. It was over.
The crowd cheered again, and money changed hands as bets were won or lost. Another tough, Renner, picked Marko up off Donald’s back while two others helped the losing man to his feet. Marko smacked Donald’s hand with his, and he was surprised by how light headed he felt. The blood loss and shock of physical trauma had caught up to him now that the fight was finished.
People slapped him on the back, and he had to catch himself to stop from falling.
“Great job, Marko!”
“Your winning streak continues! That’s seventeen wins in row.”
“Go again, Marko. I won ten silver on you!”
Marko shook his head at the last request. He was too tired. He stepped away from them and wiped the blood from his face with a shaking hand. He blew his nose one nostril at a time. Viscera spewed. People backed away, some laughing, some cursing. The victorious tough smiled and felt dizzy as he plopped down on a chair to watch the next match, and someone handed him a beer.
“Thanks.”
Later, after a few more matches, someone from the crowd stood out. Marko had seen him before at the arena, one of Zandor’s men. He stared at Marko as if they were old friends.
A twisting fear gripped his gut. This was Zandor’s revenge. The man was average height, average weight, and wouldn’t stand out from a crowd, but Marko had a memory for faces even as so non-descript at this man’s.
They knew who had trashed the betting tents and attempted, as pitiful as it was, to set fire to the arena. Part of him felt trepidation and fear that they had done too much while another part felt shame that their efforts had been so weak. They should have done more, fuck it. Jerrod would not approve and call them gutless.
Marko stomped over to the man, feeling dull in his head but sobering with every step. The man continued to stare at him, a neutral look on his face, and his eyes followed him all the way in.
Marko stood in front of him, waiting. When the man said nothing, Marko shrugged. “How can I help you, sir?” No reason not to be polite.
The man nodded and reached into his cloak. Marko tensed; this was Murder Haven after all, and people were rash and vicious. But it wasn’t a dagger the man brought forth. Rather, it was a sheet of papers he handed over to Marko. Marko stared and looked it over. Since he couldn’t read, it might as well been a rock or a broom handle.
“What is this?” he said, acting as if he could read it but wanted clarification on details.
The man didn’t argue, and for that the lead tough was thankful.
“It’s a challenge from the arena. This is an official invitation for your gang, the so called ‘toughs’ to come and fight in a special exhibition. An immediate answer is required.”
The man said nothing further while Marko’s head spun, not sure what was meant. He looked again at the sheet as if trying to understand it better, but he was in fact stalling. Jerrod would know what to do.
He would tell the man off or accept the challenge or… what would he do?
“Hey, Marko! What’s going on here?” Renner stood behind him along with several others, all gawking at the unknown newcomer. Patrons, toughs, a barmaid, and some security men gathered around and asked questions.
“Yeah, what this fella want?”
“What’s happening?”
The man wasn’t intimidated. “It’s a challenge to your gang. The arena fighters are throwing down the gauntlet. The men there want to know if reality matches your reputation. Come and fight, or prove yourselves cowards and unworthy of the title.”
This last received a round of grumbling and shoving. Marko stared at the man with newfound respect. He was clever to make this challenge in public where people, their fans and supporters in particular, would know about it. Several of them began to talk at once and came forward.
“Hey!”
“Challenge, is it?”
“They ain’t afraid of the arena! They’ll take ‘em on easy!”
“Yeah, take the challenge, Marko. Give it to ‘em!”
A chorus of agreement followed while the man smiled at Marko. A self-satisfied countenance settled over him.
“If you are in fact so tough, take this challenge and prove for a bigger audience. Are you up to it?”
People shouted. Someone patted him on the back and shoved him forward. Marko tipped forward on his feet and tried to center his mind amidst the chaos, tried to think what the best thing to do was. The patrons wanted to see them fight at the arena and would accept nothing less.
More people gathered close behind, and he looked at some of the other toughs. They were pumped up as well, though their voices were not as loud. They looked to him for guidance, but he knew which way they leaned. They wanted to fight, to uphold their reputation as the toughest, most skilled gang in the city.
He had always thought they were, but he had seen the arena fighters deal death every night when they worked security there. They were trained, professional killers. The toughs were p
erformers, nothing more. That’s what people would call them; trained monkeys dancing for drunken tavern dwellers who didn’t know any better.
They would call them cowards. And Marko couldn’t have that. Jerrod would not approve and no doubt bash this man in the face before accepting the proposal.
“Where do I sign?”
The man handed over a quill, and Marko scribbled an acceptable scrawl. The crowd cheered, and Marko felt his anger and annoyance flare.
“Yeah!”
“You go get ‘em, Marko!”
“Bust them up good boys!”
The man looked around. A glimmer of apprehension trickled into his eyes for the first time. The crowd was getting rowdy and loud. He had to speak up in order for Marko to understand him.
“Come tomorrow night to the arena to the third level. They’ll be expecting you. Bring five other men and yourself. Don’t be late.”
“Tell your boss we’ll be there,” Marko said, and then the man was gone, swallowed up by a cheering, boisterous crowd. He should have checked in with Jerrod at his cabin, but was reluctant to. His reception last time was less than savory, so he decided not to risk further aggravating the dangerous man. If he wanted Marko to take charge of things, fine. Marko and his boys would be fine.
* * * * *
Journal 1257
Incessant flies pester me without relief. I am pulled in so many disparate directions, there is fear I may suffer physical harm. The Sea Haven navy and its rapid construction remain the primary focus of my limited energy. I feel it is the most important expansion of our current realm of immediate need. I say immediate, for so many aspects of our organization rely on the quelling of seaward attacks that I cannot think of a more pressing concern.
The contracts have been argued over and handed out to the highest bidders. The scrap metal and wood dealers are thrilled at the money coming their way, and the builders at the shipping yards are ready to up the initial quota to encompass The Guild and my desire to see not only a stay at home navy for Sea Haven but another additional force (or will we include them in our armada?) to do battle on the high seas.
