Rogues Gallery

by Will Molinar

“Shift!” he said. As one motion, they let go their wrist, turned to face the rushers, and re-linked to charge them. It was obvious the arena fighters expected this and scattered.

  But then he had other problems as poniard stepped forward to stab at them. Only the gasp of the crowd, something he had become in tune with during his days working security there, warned him of the attack.

  He ducked and rolled forward, shouting a warning to the others, and their bond was broken. As fast as everything had happened that night, they fought one on one again. Marko dodged and spun away from the jabbing poniard. He moved slower than before, his leg wound dull and heavy; the limb felt like he was dragging a cannon.

  His opponent was fast and jabbed his weapon with accuracy at Marko’s torso. The head tough did the only thing he could and twisted to the side to avoid being skewered by the brutal weapon. Instead of backing away, he turned into the man’s thrust and locked an elbow down on the man’s forward arm and grabbed his opposite wrist.

  Marko couldn’t quite get that second arm locked in, and took two blows to his face before he was able to duck his head and push it into his foe’s neck for leverage. He got in close, feeling secure in holding down the weapon arm, and wrapped his free arm around the man’s waist.

  While the arena fighter was busy punching him, Marko maneuvered lower and tightened his elbow on the weapon arm. The man wouldn’t shift his weight or let go of the poniard, and that was his biggest mistake. Marko ducked low and rolled toward the trapped arm. He grabbed his own arm and put his weight into it. He felt a satisfying pop as he broke the man’s arm, and when he screamed and raised his head, Marko slammed his fist into his throat and crushed his windpipe.

  They were both on their knees, and as the man’s eyes bulged, Marko kicked him in the face.

  Three to two.

  Marko glanced at his fellows, now spread out again on the blood splattered floor. Renner took a cut across his thigh from a short sword. Renner limped back, holding the useless appendage, and the man kicked him hard in the chest. Renner flew backwards. Marko rushed forward to stop the man from killing his friend and chased him off a step. Renner was alive but out of the fight. Some workers came and dragged him away.

  Two left on each side.

  Donald dodged his opponent but watched what Marko had been doing. He saw an opening and regrouped with his leader. Donald nodded towards the fighters and grabbed Marko’s arm to close in, but Marko held him back.

  “Let them come to us this time.”

  They needed to change tactics again, and no matter what, they needed a breather. They were both exhausted to the point of near collapse. He had never been so tired. It was equivalent to the longest match they had ever been a part of, and with mortal danger so omnipresent, it drained the physical resources faster and more in depth.

  The arena fighters had learned how to fight them well enough to stave off defeat. The two survivors stood together and waved their swords in front of their bodies, creating a defensive barrier Marko wasn’t sure he and Donald had the energy to break through.

  He and Donald stood tight, gripping each other’s forearms, but even that began to wear on him. Soon they dropped their arms and stood still, breathing heavy and waiting.

  Neither side would engage. It was such an odd, abnormal match for both regular arena men and the toughs. Neither knew what to do. They stared at each other, stalemated. The crowd booed what had once been an invigorating, exciting match. Then they started pelting the four men left standing with any bit of refuge or trash they could get their hands on.

  Marko ducked a rotten piece of fruit and tugged Donald back towards the edge of the floor. The arena fighters turned to face the crowd. They threw up their arms, indicating the fans should come out to the floor and fight them if they dared. Marko grinned. It was easy to criticize when watching, much harder when doing.

  All four fighters took the calls of disappointment with stoicism and nerve, and as Marko and Donald were hit, they began to hit back, even kicking some of the strewn detritus that landed at their feet. It was difficult to see many details because the searing torchlight from above still poured down with force, but he saw one man’s face scrunch up in hatred as he threw a stick. The sheer emotional content shocked as if Marko had killed his child.

  After a few minutes of the punishing deluge, security men blew whistles, and a dozen of them stormed the raised platform, carrying heavy clubs. They proceeded to use them on the spectators getting too close to the competitors.

  Marko saw one man get gutted by a short sword and fall back into the crowd, but no one else seemed to care. He was swallowed up a maelstrom of frustration and disappeared into the pulsing crowd.

  A riot was eminent. The security men surrounded the four fighters in a protective cocoon, and while this both surprised him and felt disconcerting being so close to his foes, Marko felt too exhausted to care. But then a stray fist smacked the side of his head, and the shock of the blow spurred his energy.

  He, Donald, and the two arena fighters fought back, shoving over the heads of the security men to beat back the crowd. The match was over, but the fighting continued.

  Chapter Five

  The prisoner was not happy. The environment was not that bad all things considered. There were worse prisons. The pirate had a nice solid roof over his head, in this case a converted storage shack at the Southern Docks. He had clean straw to sleep on and food at regular intervals. There were many homeless in the city that should be so lucky.

  This was lost on the man, and as time went by, he became unhappy. Becket was outside, waiting with a few others on the translator to arrive. He was happy they had found someone, but fearful about what they might find out.

  “This worked out good,” Lawson said. “The jail is too damn full anyway. Heh!” He laughed, but no one else was in the mood. The security men with them were bored.

  The day was colder than normal for this time of year, even though it was turning towards autumn. A cold wind streaked through the docks and ruffled Becket’s curly brown hair. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and pushed his hair out of his face and realized it needed to be cut. A shave and a bath wouldn’t have been a bad idea either.

  After an interminable time, the translator came. He was a smallish man with a dark complexion and bushy eyebrows. He wore black breeches, a loose fitting shirt and looked annoyed.

  “Captain Mynter sent me,” he said. “I give you one hour. Ten gold.”

  Lawson’s face scrunched up like someone had just murdered his mother or favorite dog. “The shit we give you ten gold! No damn way, man. That’s nuts.”

  Becket waved him down and grabbed his arm. The younger man was more muscular than Becket thought. He had a nice physique. “Take it easy.” He faced the translator. “We’ll pay you three gold for two hours.”

  The man considered. “Seven for one hour.”

  “Five for two. Final offer. We can go elsewhere. There are plenty of people that speak this language. It’s a good job.” Then he rattled off a simple phrase in the language, and the man’s eyes widened.

  “Yes. But your accent is atrocious.”

  They entered the shack, and with the two armed security men, it was very crowded. Becket told them to leave but stay alert outside. The prisoner sat on the straw mat, shackles in his lap. His ankle tied to a post driven into the ground. He chewed on a piece of straw when they entered.

  Becket recognized the compulsion. The man was a smoker. Becket was too and come to think of it, could have used a cigarette himself at the moment. Days had gone by since his last. He had some of his favorites on him, but there was no time for it.

  “What should I ask him?” the translator said.

  “Ask him about Lurenz,” Becket said. “We need to know how much direct contact he has with him, how often he sees him, what he knows about the fleet’s intentions.”

  Lawson snorted. “Besides stealing from us?”

  “Shut up, Lawson.”

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nbsp; The translator began asking questions and what followed made Becket’s mind whirl. It was a sharp, staccato language, with a rough edge, as if no matter the actual dialogue, the two people seemed engaged in a heated argument. He recognized maybe every fifth or sixth word, but it was so fast, so rapid fire, it was impossible to make much sense of it.

  The prisoner shook his head a lot, not a good sign when trying to garner information, but he didn’t seem at all agitated. The opposite was true. He was too calm, too relaxed, like all this was planned out. Maybe Lurenz coached his men on how to act if captured.

  “This guy says he doesn’t know Lurenz,” the translator said after a time. “He says he’s never met the man and doesn’t know why he’s here.”

  “He’s lying,” Lawson said, as Becket knew he would. Young men are so impatient.

  “Ask him what ship he’s on,” Becket said. “The full name of the vessel, please.”

  The exchange was short. Becket saw the prisoner’s eye narrow when he was asked the name of the ship, sensing a trap perhaps, and looked at Becket with more respect.

  “He says… he wants to know why you want to know the name.”

  “Ask him again. And be more persuasive.”

  He did so, and then the translator sighed. “I don’t understand the word. Something about ‘preserving’ or...”

  “The Perseverance,” Becket said. “I know it. He’s telling the truth about that, at least that the ship exists. It’s one of Lurenz’ fleet by some reports. Maybe this man didn’t think we would know that. Or couldn’t think of another name fast enough. Anyway, that’s progress.”

  “How important is it?” Lawson said. “Is it Lurenz’ flagship?”

  “No. His personal vessel is called Dark Destiny, a rough translation that. The actual word is something like, Morden Gratis.” At the pronunciation of the phrase, the prisoner perked up, and then Becket knew for a fact the prisoner was one of Lurenz’ men. He recognized the name of his master’s craft.

  ‘He’d never make it in a card game,’ Becket thought and smiled.

  “But this is good,” he said and motioned the translator to continue. “I’m not privy to the hierarchy of the pirate’s fleet, but I’ve heard a lot of the names bandied about.”

  “Well bully for you,” Lawson said. “What does that get us? Hey, ask him some more. We aren’t payin’ you for stuff we already know. You savvy?”

  The translator didn’t look intimidated by Lawson’s aggressive stance, and Becket wondered if his bluster ever worked on anyone.

  The interrogation continued, and the prisoner became more and more frustrated. His answers came quick and loud, always denying. But then his attitude changed, and he became stubborn. Becket kept supplying questions along the way, but he stared at them in annoyance, all but ignoring them. It took a lot of prompting to get him to speak at all after a time.

  “Ask him what he knows about the merchant’s shipping lanes. How many prisoners they’ve taken, how much plunder they’ve accumulated, how much they’ve stolen from us!”

  Becket felt his blood heat up. The man before him was part of an organization that had hurt his business, taken money from him. He hadn’t realized it, but he had stormed forward during his rant and now stood in front of the man, with the translator standing over shoulder.

  “Good,” said Lawson. “It’s time we showed a little passion about this whole thing. This guy is gonna talk. Maybe we get some boys with some clubs in here and have at it.”

  Becket took a deep breath and stood back. Reaching into his cloak pocket, he found his cigarettes and pulled out the rolled packet. It smelled delicious.

  One of the privileges of his station was being allowed to get the very best from every merchant that came into port. The tobacco merchant he knew, Killigan, had an amazing brand of smokes. Tied by a silken string and bundled together in a pack of twelve, the Killigan brand was sought after by many. It had the perfect blend of earthy, thick consistency and a smooth aftertaste.

  As he leaned against the wall and started to light one, the prisoner glanced over with hunger in his eyes. The smell was very strong in the small room and a bit on the sweet side, the product of an extra ingredient the merchant used. Becket had always tried to find out what it was, so he could grow his own but never got it right. It was always missing something.

  As he began to light it, the prisoner’s eyes flickered towards him. The man ignored the next few inquiries from the translator, much to the latter’s annoyance. He shouted at him. The prisoner frowned and answered but waved him off. The captured man was too busy staring at the lighted brand of sweet smelling flavor to care.

  Becket walked over to him, his own cigarette hanging from his lips. He held out one in offer. The man sat back and looked wary as if Becket were holding a knife in his face, but the man licked his lips when the smell hit him and took it. Becket lit it for him and glanced at the translator.

  “Ask him how he can help us. Tell him we can help him. It’s more of this or stale bread and water. It’s his choice.”

  The prisoner took a drag and nodded, mumbling something that meant “many thanks.” He sat back, looking satisfied and less stressed.

  Becket looked over to the door and called a security man back inside. “How about we get these manacles off him?”

  They complied without argument, and even Lawson said nothing, a welcome surprise. But Becket noticed the man stepped as far back as possible in the cramped space and kept his right hand inside his cloak, fingering his dagger no doubt.

  The thought of Becket doing the same, and pulling it out and sticking it inside another human being sickened him. But then there’s something to be said for a show of force. Muldor would say something similar.

  The prisoner smiled and rubbed his wrists. The cigarette dangled out of a smiling mouth. He nodded thanks again and puffed some more.

  “Tell him it can be like this,” Becket said, “or we can go the other way.”

  To make his point, he pulled out his dagger and held it up while the translator spoke. The man listened as he stared at the blade. Then he nodded and pointed to Becket with his fingers holding the cigarette. His nodding became more emphatic as he spoke for a while.

  The translator took a breath and nodded. “He says he’ll tell you what you want but wants gold. He doesn’t like working for Lurenz anymore, says the pirate’s gone crazy or something. All they do is fight, and many of the pirates are sick of it. A lot of them have died, and all the… the grinos as he calls them, I think it means new persons, are getting in the way.” He turned to Becket. “He wants to sit here for a while and smoke some more.”

  Lawson scoffed. “I bet he would. He’s eaten better than most men in this town. It’s better than cleaning decks and eating rotten fruit. I heard the food on board—”

  “Lawson, stop talking,” Becket said. “We’re making progress, don’t ruin it. Go get him some wine,” he said to the security man. “Go to my office, I’ll give you the keys. Take it from behind my desk in a cabinet.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lawson shook his head. “This scum ain’t worth it. It better be a cheap bottle.”

  “I don’t own any cheap wine. Now settle down and be quiet. We’re making progress.”

  Lawson was mollified. Half an hour later the wine came, and they all shared a glass, including the translator and the security men; both of whom were very thankful. The prisoner was all smiles and glanced at Becket with newfound respect, even awe.

  Minutes later, the prisoner spilled information, ranging from personal to what they wanted to know. He said his name was Juju, and he grew up in a far southern land, full of sun and sand. When he first met Lurenz, he was still a young man, full of anger and resentment because of the poverty of this family.

  Lurenz recruited the poor and destitute. This gave him control much like the gangs within Sea Haven’s streets; the thieves, the elite assassins, the dock workers, which he counted as a gang of sorts, and even the clergy
, which got many of their men from the orphanage.

  Juju described how he was pulled off the streets at ten years old and promised not only a steady supply of food but riches beyond his dreams. Becket was stunned to learn this was only nine years ago, for the man looked far older than a teenager. The rigors of a harsh life no doubt, and Becket thought himself a pampered, foolish member of the elite.

  After a time, Juju began to discuss Lurenz and his fleet. The more he said, the less good Becket felt. None of the news of the fleet’s current objections was anything but harshness towards the Merchants Guild. Juju didn’t know the details, but Lurenz was not happy.

  Lurenz had declared a blood feud against the grinos, what they called the land dwellers or anyone that wasn’t a pirate. Juju was a low level scrub among them, but they all knew their leader was not happy and was making it his life to harass, kill and steal from as many merchant crafts as he could before death took him.

  The pirate king wasn’t happy with these grinos and no amount of discussion would change his mind. Whether it was from Castellan defaulting on his deal or some other asinine reason, Becket could not learn from Juju because the prisoner didn’t know. He only knew the buccaneer leader was pushing them hard to do everything in their power to disrupt the merchant’s trade.

  “Brilliant,” Becket said as he tried to take it all in. “And there’s no way he can be bought off again?”

  There wasn’t.

  Lawson cursed and shook his head. “Well, now what the hell do we do? Huh? Shit, man, this is just great! What do we do?”

  Becket said nothing.

  A few hours later, after going to his office to finish up some work, Becket went home. There were a few men with him dragging pieces of artwork to set up in his foyer, and though he was tired, the prospect of making his house perfect invigorated him.

  “Set that over there,” he said to one of the workers. It was the final painting on his bucolic wall, an interesting tableau of rolling countryside with a red painted barn in the foreground. Living most of his life in the city gave him no point of reference for living in the rural part of the world, where most people lived.