by Will Molinar
As they continued their tour, he consoled himself with the fact at least The Guild was doing something about the thievery at sea. Things were going along well in his professional life at least.
Each ship, with the exception of the two supply schooners, Flotsam and Jetsam, had unique designs. The Vigilant was the bulkiest of course, yet according to Muldor, it was almost as fast as the others. It had extra metal stitching along its flans to provide better protection from enemy cannon fire, but he assured them this did not interfere with speed or maneuverability.
“We were forced to use larger mast heads,” Muldor said, “to accommodate the larger sails required to pull the extra weight, but I believed the additional armor is worth the effort. This will be, by many accounts, one of the largest and best armed vessels in the continent, perhaps the world.”
“Sure is,” Lawson said. His eyes were bright, like a young child opening gifts on his day of birth. He followed right on Muldor’s heels, enraptured by everything the man said and showed them. ‘Gunnar’s now one of Muldor’s people,’ Becket thought. ‘There goes my ally.’
Becket hung back and tried to make eye contact with Crocker, thinking he might get an idea of his take on this whole project, but Crocker was busy scowling to notice. Perhaps that was enough to get a feel for what was going on in his mind. But then again, he didn’t like anything that wasn’t written down in a rulebook. If it wasn’t official policy, Crocker wanted nothing to do with it.
It was all a bit overwhelming for Becket. The Guild had resources aplenty, but they were hurting from the loss at sea and building losses within the city, the market included. By the gods, Muldor had been busy! This was a work of monumental proportions.
They continued their tour, and next up was The Hazard. It was a sharper looking vessel, with sleek lines and low drag that looked as if it could cut through a mountain. Muldor explained that it was the fastest they could build a ship of the frigate class and the quickest ship among their fleet, even faster than the schooners. It would be used as a scouting ship if needed though Muldor had thought about contracting mercenaries to deal with that task.
“Mercenaries, is it?” Crocker said. “Need I remind you, Guild Master, of the last time the Guild employed mercenaries? It ended in disaster, and our former leader imprisoned.”
Becket held back a retort to defend Muldor, for the man didn’t need any help. Muldor faced Crocker and replied in a firm voice.
“I have not made that decision yet and will leave it in the hands of the captains, capable men who will decide if additional forces will be needed. But I will not allow you to molest them if that is your intent.” He stated this in such a way that brokered no argument, and Crocker let it be.
Rigmarole was a common enough looking frigate with dark sails. The hull appeared more aged somehow, scraped and rubbed by sanding pads. The wood was even chipped in places, and Becket felt confusion strike them as they walked its deck. Then Muldor explained these accruements were to make the ship look more like one of Lurenz’ fleet. They would use it as a disguise to either distract the enemy or spring a trap.
It could have been a suitable lure. The possibilities were limitless from what Becket had seen thus far. The Righteous was similar to the flagship, only a bit smaller with no extra armor. What made it different were the extra cannon. Muldor had them doubled in certain places where the ship could take the weight. It would be the main attack ship along with The Vigilant. It had almost as many guns.
Becket decided he liked Spirit Breaking the best. It was the only one with a creative flow to it. The unique metal fastening, the carved mosaic along each deck that broke up the cherry finish and provided a nice contrast, and the beautiful figurehead all combined to give him a warm feeling that art was not dead in this world of criminals.
By the time they finished he felt dizzy. They stood on a northern shore near an office building where men rushed in and out. More people came and went, carrying things in their arms or using wheel barrels to cart off equipment. It was the reverse of what they were all used to at the docks; instead of taking supplies off the vessels, men brought them on.
“As you can see,” Muldor said, “the access supplies are being loaded onto the two schooners, Flotsam and Jetsam. Understand these two shall also be fighting vessels as well. They have been stripped to cargo holds and gun lines. They will serve a simple purpose but an essential one.”
Crocker crossed his arms and Becket knew what he was going to say before he said it. They weren’t people, they were caricatures, puppets repeating the same thing over and over.
“And who is paying for all this, hmm? This appears to be quite an expenditure, and I know for a fact none of these requests came through my office. None!”
It was a fool’s errand to duel with Muldor. The merchants would love him now more than ever, and so would the common workers, as if they didn’t worship him enough already. The Guild Master had done a great thing here and deserved support.
For his part, Muldor stayed calm in the face of Crocker’s accusations. “This was a joint effort between city and Guild. It was deemed necessary some time ago that we all pay for it.”
“I’m surprised you were able to convince the city council to go in,” Becket said. “There is a very high cost involved here. Well done.”
Muldor acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. “If you’ll remember, gentlemen, this process began even before I took this position. It was at the tail end of Castellan’s tenure as Guild Master. It was after the thieves sabotaged several vessels during a raid that it was known we needed more, and when Janisberg came to our shores, it was solidified. I made certain allowances that resources be channeled towards outfitting them for war, but the foundational work had begun before this.”
Muldor was always so damned prepared. He thought ahead, never flinching under attack, took his time, outmaneuvered fools who would take him on, considered every possibility, took risks, yet he’s so deliberate as to be almost stolid. He’s so much better at this than Castellan ever was.
The realization that Muldor had kept them afloat during Castellan’s reign struck him hard at that moment, and as Muldor fielded several more questions from Crocker and Lawson, Becket drifted out of the conversation, his mind on other things. He stood and watched Muldor’s lips move, not really hearing the words, wondering if and when he should tell him about what he’d seen at the asylum. Or take him there and show him. There was no telling how the man might’ve reacted.
* * * * *
His leg still hurt like mad. But depending on what position he was in, standing, sitting, lying, Marko found the pain was tolerable. Besides a slight limp to go along with it and some minor aches and stiffness around his arms and shoulders, it was no big deal compared to others.
Three of their gang was dead, and Renner still might’ve been. The surgeon said he had lost so much blood his fate was still uncertain. They were making him rest and eat so as to recover his strength, and Marko knew the man to have a tremendous constitution and would survive.
He sat in a darkened back corner of Stern’s Place with a few other toughs, including Donald who had fought so well. None of them said a word. A mug of ale sat in front of him untouched. Marko wanted to do what most men would in his place and drink to oblivion, but he didn’t have the stomach for it.
The mood around the tavern was subdued as well. Most of the patrons knew about their draw. Zandor had manipulated him and done it well. Marko was consoled by the fact not all of them had died, but that didn’t help Greaves, Tuy, or Sanders. His mistake got them killed.
They had lost some respect even at their home port at Stern’s Place. People looked at them with disdain or avoided eye contact. It no longer felt welcoming there.
There was nowhere else to go. All of them were stunned and knocked down in confidence and manpower, which is what Zandor had planned. The thought of setting up their organization somewhere else was exhausting. No matter what came to pass, their former way of
life was over.
No more grappling for coin, no more secure environment for them to practice and showcase their skills, no more respect on the streets, no more hiring out from provocateurs that needed extra muscle. It was all over.
There was still no word from Jerrod. News traveled fast in Sea Haven, and no doubt the violent man had heard of their debacle and planned some kind of awful punishment for the gang.
Jerrod was capable of anything. He might hire some other gang to go after them, like the brute squad. They were elite, ultra-expensive veterans of the king’s wars, former soldiers who hired themselves out to the highest bidder. They were rare, but when the situation demanded severe reprimand, they were there. No matter what, it wouldn’t be good for them.
A scrubby looking man with a dirty frock and stained breeches approached their table. He had thick hair that hadn’t been washed in months or ever. His name was Calden, and he plopped down his mug. Some booze swished and spilled on the table top.
“The Gods know I put some good coin on you boys here at the Place, but the other night was too much. They didn’t pay out! You all know that, coward shits? Them people at the arena, they ain’t paid nothing cuz of the way it ended, understand? Stalemate, see? You all shoulda just died, and at least some people woulda got paid.”
Calden spat on the table, and Donald grabbed him by the collar, fist raised.
“Hold on!” Marko said and rushed over. He separated them while Calden sputtered and swatted at Donald.
“You bastard! You can’t put your hands on me!”
“Shut up!” Marko said pushing him back. “Get out of here; I’m sorry you lost money on us, but like you said, you’ve made some too.”
Calden cursed again but made the smart decision and walked away. Marko faced Donald and the others, all flustered and upset. They were looking to him for leadership, and he had none to give. Donald’s eyes said: go get Jerrod and ask him what they should do.
“Maybe we should find another hang out for a while,” Donald said. “Until this all cools off.”
Marko nodded, glad to have someone else make a decision for the team. “Look, fellas, I think I need to go see Jerrod. I’ll meet you back here.”
Donald patted his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the boys, Marko. Go see what he says. We’ll meet up when you get back to town.”
Marko nodded and felt numb. “Sure. See you.”
Outside was a cool, late summer night with a strong breeze that made his skin pimple. His black v-neck shirt didn’t seem adequate protection from the night’s air or from Jerrod’s wrath. Ten cannons and a full suite of plate armor wouldn’t be enough. The man was the toughest, deadliest man Marko had ever encountered. No one could’ve matched Jerrod.
Outside the city limits the air grew colder and the surroundings darker. It was always shocking to him how fast he seemed to jump into nothingness. It was like entering a cave. A less courageous man might’ve turned back or lit a torch to gain bravery from the encroaching darkness, but he was more concerned about what laid at the end of his journey.
Jerrod would’ve been drunk and pissed off; which, ever since Zandor waylaid him in the alleyway, was his normal state of being.
Scrub grass and scattered bushes, all very thin and weedy, surrounded a simple dirt path that swayed back and forth over rocky terrain. Had Marko not known where he was going, it would’ve been easy fall or get lost. The moonlight helped since the trees were very thin where he was, although the undergrowth would get thicker.
His leg hurt. His entire body was still wracked with numerous bumps and bruises, in particular his arms and shoulders, and he half stumbled towards Jerrod’s cabin. Jerrod didn’t keep his location a secret because no one could kill him. People had tried, and they had died first.
Less than two miles later, Marko arrived. Light burned within. The lone window to the left side of the door was obscured with ratty curtains, but Marko could see the blazing fire of the fireplace and then heard something that made him pull up short and tilt his head. It was…singing coming from within.
Marko held his breath and listened closer. The words became clearer and his incredulity deeper.
“There was a man! A man about town!
He walked around with a heavy frown,
A man, a man, a man about town!
“I’ve heard of a man! A man about town!
He walked around with a golden crown,
A man, a man, a man about town!”
It went on and on for a couple more verses with the same simple rhyming scheme. It was a common enough ditty, sung by sailors. Marko had heard it quite a bit at a tavern near the shipping yards. Jerrod slurred the words, and every now and then banged into furniture or the interior walls of his cabin, but his voice rang out sharp and strong.
Marko was not sure if he should’ve been more surprised about the singing or that Jerrod had a good voice, for it was not the normal, throaty growl but rather a deep, booming timbre that filled the air with power. The man could have been a bard.
Marko didn’t understand why, but it made him more frightened. Jerrod was unpredictable at the best of times, reacting in ways Marko could not expect to certain news or situations, and here he was off his track.
Marko knocked. Jerrod stopped singing in between the first and second knock, as if even in his state of distraction he was aware of his surroundings, like a wolf on the hunt. Panic threatened to make Marko turn and run, but he had to do something about their plight, and Jerrod was the man to see.
The sound of a large man shifting his weight and turning came from inside, and the unmistakable sound a sword clearing its scabbard made Marko catch his breath. Jerrod’s long sword. Marko suppressed a shudder when he thought of how many men, stronger than he, had met their fate at the end of that blade.
Jerrod ripped the door opened and peered out, sword ready to impale the fool who dared knock at his door. His knuckles were bone white from his grip, and his eyes bloodshot. His brutal face was thinner than Marko had ever seen it, lean and taut on his skull. The stubble on his head matched that of his beard. It looked rough enough to be used as flint to start a fire.
His features went from fierce annoyance, to menace, to surprise in quick order. “What the hell do you want?”
A blood stained bandage encircled his head where Zandor’s assassin’s had struck. It looked like it hadn’t been changed in weeks. Marko bet if he tried to take it off, a lot of the skin would’ve came with it. He started to speak, but Jerrod snarled.
“Leave me alone you little shit.”
The door slammed in his face. Marko took a deep breath. In the brief few seconds Jerrod was visible, Marko saw a defeated, beaten man. But deep within he saw the barest glimmer of the former terror, a man that could beat anyone, win any fight. Maybe he only needed someone to jog him out of his lethargy.
Marko’s earlier enthusiasm was replaced with wariness. This was Jerrod on the edge of his sanity, strung out, and that made him very terrifying.
The choice to turn away and leave the man to his depression was still there. Marko thought about going back to his men, but making calculating decisions, looking at all possible angle, that wasn’t Marko’s forte.
No, there was only one man who could lead them, use them to their best ability to take on Zandor and that man was behind this door.
Marko shoved open the door and kept on guard for anything, half expecting Jerrod to throw a chair or a table at him, but that didn’t happen.
Inside, the one room cabin was in shambles. Two chairs and a table lay on their sides, one chair with two of its legs broken off, and his bed was propped up against the far wall on its end. Kitchen items were smashed to kindling. Clothes, trash, and dirt covered the floor in pockets. It looked like an animal’s den.
Jerrod stood at the fireplace to Marko’s left, with one arm supporting his weight against the mantle, and the other lifted a bottle of whiskey to his split lips. He finished the bottle and tossed it into the open fire.
It shattered, and the little bit of alcohol left inside made the fire swoosh and sputter brighter for a brief moment.
Marko stepped in closer, but Jerrod did not look his way.
“Get me another drink, yeah?”
Marko hesitated for a moment. The change in mood from Jerrod threw him off, but maybe the man could be reasoned with if Marko hopped to it. “Yes, sir!”
Marko went to the only piece of furniture that wasn’t destroyed in the room, Jerrod’s liquor cabinet. Marko grabbed a nice spiced rum. It was a strong one and perhaps might continue to calm him down. Marko handed it over, and Jerrod snatched it away, still not making eye contact.
“Yer limpin’,” Jerrod said, and Marko narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your leg? Fall on your ass? Ha!” Jerrod barked out a laugh and took a long drink of the rum.
Marko stammered. “No, sir. I, well, I mean we were… thing is, something happened.”
Jerrod waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, bub. I don’t give half a shit what happened to you. Fall on your ass, kicked by a mule… whatever.”
Marko almost cracked a smile. It sounded more like the normal Jerrod. The smell from the man was horrifying; booze, piss, his own shit, a myriad of stinks assaulted Marko with intensity.
“Sir, I made a mistake. We went to the arena, and well, we should do something about Zandor. He tricked me, he’s smart.”
Jerrod scoffed. “Yeah, he is at that. Smart son of a bitch, like a damn dog. Always has been. Bastard whoreson. Yeah, real smart.”
This man in front of him was a defeated wreck. This wasn’t the supreme brute worthy of admiration. He was flat and weakened, deflated to the point where he could’ve slid into total despair. This was a turning point, a crux in both of their lives, and only Marko recognized it. If he didn’t do something to snap him out of it, the man would’ve been lost forever.
