Rogues Gallery

by Will Molinar

  Coughing and sputtering to get a good breath of air into his lungs, Jerrod scrambled outside and looked around. Fire raged as the cabin burned. He scrambled away on all fours like a wounded wolverine, his leg wound aching with deep pain.

  The air was stifling. Flames licked at his body, and he rolled away from the building, thinking there might’ve been another crossbow bolt coming, but nothing came. He kept rolling, heading towards a tree line close to the cabin.

  Smoke stung his eyes, and his wounded body was wracked with pain. He reached the cover of forest and glanced back at the cabin. It was engulfed in flames, and the roof collapsed. “Damn bastards burned me out,” he said. “Fuckers are gonna pay.”

  The trees were far enough way to avoid being burned, but there were some close enough to give him an advantage. There was also a little surprise stowed away in one; his long sword. Jerrod limped towards them the trees and crept along the edge until he came to where his sword was.

  The bundle was still intact. Jerrod crouched panting, holding his sword, getting comfortable with its grip again. It would have done him little good inside, where the tight confines were better suited to shorter weapons, hence the assassin’s short swords and daggers. But outside, Jerrod could use his superior range to good effect.

  He caught his breath and waited, peering through the woods to the front of the cabin while the shell eroded and much of the structure was eaten up by the fire. The crossbow wielder had to be somewhere towards the front since all the shots came from that direction.

  Jerrod closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to regain his night vision, and when he opened them, he avoided any direct view of the fire to keep it.

  Then he started moving, knowing that noise discipline was paramount. Even with the crackling fire, the assassins were all trained.

  There! A lone figure knelt at the edge of the tree line to the front of the cabin, holding a black cross bow, bolt strung and ready. It was difficult to see well, but the cloudless sky allowed the moon to stream its light onto the scene.

  The final assassin had no problem seeing the blaze before him, and that was his second mistake. The first was agreeing to take this job because Jerrod was going to kill him. The second was directing his vision towards the fire. The man had ruined his eyesight for darkness.

  The fire burned lower, but it was still sufficient to cover Jerrod’s movement and any noise he made through the undergrowth. He took his time, knowing his foe would wait for as long as possible to make sure the job was done.

  Swinging around slow, he went the long way around the clearing, keeping within the forest interior. Most of his focus kept on the ground, keeping his feet on bare spots, not disturbing the bits of broken branches or anything that would make too much noise.

  After a while he had better angle on the other man and saw how steady and patient the man was. Part of Delios’ crew no doubt. Well trained, well prepared, efficient. Not as good as Jerrod. No one was. Zandor might have been, but Zandor was different. He was more about political uprising, civil unrest, and stirring things up on a bigger scale. An anarchy specialist someone once told Jerrod.

  But down in the dirt, no one could beat Jerrod.

  Stopping, he crouched and watched the man for a moment, contemplating whether or not to kill him or try to get information on the hit. The thieves’ guild from the other town had a stick up their ass about him killing Turner. Them wanting revenge was silly. It was business.

  But then again, the contract on Jerrod was only business. Grabbing a fist sized rock, he wondered if it was worth it to try and subdue the man. It was harder to capture someone alive then flat out kill them. But the question was, would the assassin talk?

  Jerrod would not have, even if he were fool enough to be captured. There was nothing anyone could have threatened him. No physical torture was great enough to force him to do something he did not want to do. This man was of the same creed.

  It made the decision easier. He kept the large stone in his right hand and crept ever as slow as can be. There was another rock, a smaller one, and a simple idea formed.

  He crept up as fast as he dared, step by step; watching for any sign the man heard him. He kept the stone ready to throw. The man’s head turned in the opposite direction from Jerrod’s position as if he heard something.

  Jerrod did not let him get any more prepared. Closer and closer every second, he aimed with the smaller rock and chucked it at a tree. The sound echoed around the glade. The assassin turned towards the sound, aiming his crossbow but did not fire. Jerrod rushed forward, sprinting the final ten paces.

  The ploy worked. Somewhat. The distraction was enough to catch him off guard, but he was quick enough to turn and fire. Jerrod was there, but so was the crossbow. The bolt sprang forward at the same time as his heavier rock sailed out of his grasp. The projectiles connected at the same time with the rock striking the assassin in the temple. It was only a glancing blow but enough to send him spinning, blood spraying from his head.

  Meanwhile, Jerrod moved as soon as he threw, twisting his body mid-air where his natural athletic talent almost saved his body from the impact of the bolt. It landed below his ribs on the left side, piercing his side. It happened so fast, and his body was still full adrenaline. It held his pain at bay, but he landed on his knees, a cry of pain escaped his lips.

  The extent of his injuries threatened to pull him down into unconsciousness, but that would doom him to oblivion. The assassin was still alive, reeling from the blow, perhaps blind in one eye from where the stone struck, but he was already rearming the crossbow, his feet unsteady.

  Jerrod admired the man’s tenacity. He spit out blood. “Bullshit… ain’t nobody tougher than me, pal.”

  Grabbing the bolt, he took a deep breath and yanked it out the backside. Unbelievable pain struck him as dark spots filtered in his vision. Pain was good. It reminded him he was still alive. Jerrod stumbled towards his foe; every step was agony in leg and side.

  The man was frantic, tugging and pulling at the string, but it was heavy and part of the problem using such a missile weapon. Bows were less powerful but quicker to reload. His hands were slick from blood where he tried to clean off his skull, and the life fluid continued to trickle in a flood down his temple.

  The assassin backed up, Jerrod pointing a bloody finger. “I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out… you shit!”

  The man gave up trying to reload and lifted the large crossbow over his head. He tried to bring it down on Jerrod’s head, but the bigger man reached up and grabbed it away from him, tossing it to the side.

  “Play with your toys somewhere else, shithead. I ain’t got time for ‘em.”

  The man tried to reach for his short sword but was wracked with a fit of pain. He coughed blood and vomited, shaking his head. Jerrod pulled his long sword and grinned.

  “Head hurt? I bet.”

  The man reached for his sword again, but Jerrod was there, hacking with his sword. The blow struck the side of his neck, not quite severing his head but far enough to make his skull tilt to the side. The man dropped to his knees as if the body was a puppet with its strings cut. Jerrod kicked him in the chest and toppled him over, dead as dead.

  Jerrod collapsed to his knees, using his sword to prop himself up, holding his side with the other. “Serves you right… fuckers. Come and get me? Shit… no way.”

  He fought to clear his mind from the pain and stay awake. If he collapsed unconscious, he was guaranteed to bleed out. His leg still drained blood, and his side wound would not knit on its own. All this fuss over surviving would be for nothing.

  Killing Marko was an accident.

  The two of them together could have taken these fools easy, and Jerrod would not have been so hurt. Marko had been a tough son of a bitch, a good guy.

  Jerrod shook his head and focused, sight blurring. Stop the bleeding and rest. His injuries were not mortal, but the cabin was wasted. Everything inside burned. No bandages, no alcohol, no healing droughts
or salves, no surgeon to stitch his wounds, no nothing. He was on his own, and he would die in the dirt alone.

  “Fuck that,” he said and took a deep breath. He stumbled over to the smoldering cabin, to the front porch, and grabbed a board that was still burning on the opposite end. As he started to bring the red flaming ember portion to his side, a thought struck. It would’ve been necessary to open the area first. “Stupid fool, pay attention!”

  He ripped the rest of his shirt where the bolt had struck and had trouble with the leather armor. “Damn it all.” He pulled the garments off, gasping at the pain. His entire left side below the last rib was covered in blood, leaking down to cover his leg while the opposite leg bled through the strip of cloth tied there.

  Burning stick in hand, Jerrod touched it to the wound. He hissed alongside the hissing sizzle as the fire fused his skin together. He did the same to the back side, swooning. He steeled himself to stop from blacking out.

  “Take it, you pussy.”

  His breath came in short gasps. He had to relight the board a few times to finish up his cauterizing job. His hands shook, and he cursed himself for a blasted weakling.

  But it worked to contain the worst of the wounds on leg and side. Then he tore up his undershirt and used the strips to cover the wounds. It was a softer cotton material and felt better then leaving it to the air. He crawled away from the cabin and found some scrub bush to sleep under.

  He was still alive, which was more than the men who had tried to change that fact could claim.

  Chapter Nine

  The fleet was set to sail the following morning. An early autumn rain settled in that night, but most of the crew considered that good luck. It was said that balmy weather while they cast off meant calmer seas during the voyage.

  Muldor had spent most of his time at the shipping yards the last few weeks, far more than he had at city hall. He still held the main accounting responsibilities, but he doled out much of the day-to-day work to scribes for hire, and giving the individual Dock Masters more responsibility helped, much to their annoyance. But it was needed, it was time the Dock Masters came into their own and earned their outrageous salaries.

  The crews were ready. Most were local lads drawn from Sea Haven’s vast unemployed dock workers, which were growing in number because of the losses merchants were facing from all sides. Out of work sailors frequented the Southern Docks clamored for the jobs offered. They didn’t care if they were swabbing decks every day as long as they were paid. Everyone needed to feed their families.

  Some of the men were volunteers, dregs from the city’s homeless vetted by the first mates to make sure they were not dangerous or mad. Though in Muldor’s experience, being one or the other sometimes helped make a good sailor. Either way, they would earn their meals and shelter by joining in on the fleet’s journey, doing odd jobs, and even fighting if the need arose. Muldor was betting it would.

  Some of the older orphans, boys at least fifteen of age, were inducted into the force manning the ships, some seventeen hundred strong in total. The experience would do them well. They might’ve learned a valuable trade, and this is turn would make them better able to get jobs later, or even stay on board their individual ships if the captain considered them worthy.

  Training these new men was relegated to the more experienced sailors, and from what Muldor had seen, they were doing a fine job. They were becoming a well formed team that worked together. Everyone wanted the same thing: a preservation of The Guild, and thus the city entire.

  Some might have said the stinking cesspool of refuge and decay that was Murder Haven did not deserve to be saved, but Muldor disagreed. There were good people that deserved a better life.

  The night air was in constant motion. There might’ve been a greater storm coming. All the better to push them off strong in the morning as they sailed. The wind danced in between the masts of their wonderful vessels and furled the sails up, down, and around, flapping hard. The same wind would push them on towards their destiny.

  Muldor strolled along the dirt path that hugged the side of the waterway, a natural inlet that surrounded Sea Haven’s northern side, sweeping up and around most of the neighborhood there. It ended when it reached the wealthy quarter. A subdued excitement permeated the area where he walked. Several cook fires met his gaze as a temporary camp had sprung up in the weeks and months the project had on.

  Wooden huts, open at the front, dominated the limited area while men or women popped their heads out and stared at him as he passed. Some waved, some nodded or said hello. Others were talking to one another and eating and drinking and smoking. Still others ignored him or even scowled, probably wondering just who the hell he was.

  The Guild Master had left his bodyguards at city hall, wanting to stretch his legs a bit without the hindrance of a retinue. He breathed in deep and stopped to speak with many people about.

  Muldor pictured himself a military general before a great battle, milling about with his troops to give them encouragement. Some of the men would not come back. Some would die. The captains were all veterans from the King’s navy and had each seen their share or warfare on the high seas. Many of the captain’s regular crew, were their closest confidants. The crew were well trained, and experienced, but there was no telling how the common dock workers would react once battle was joined. They might wish to flee, or jump ship.

  Men were dying, killed or captured by Lurenz and The Dark Destiny. It was happening more and more, and it was up to The Guild to stop it. These men here around him, would see to that. They were Muldor’s arms of justice, his swords of vengeance.

  Moments later, he met up with one of the supply supervisors, a man named Peter Swanson, merchant of some renown. He was a smallish man with short cropped brown hair and several ticks.

  “How goes the final loading, Swanson?”

  They stood by the main plank leading to The Righteous. Men filtered up and down, loading the last of the supplies.

  Swanson sniffed and scratched his nose. “Sufficient for two months. This is correct, is it?” His head bobbed up and down like a fishing lure.

  “Yes, indeed. Very good.”

  “Sure, Master Muldor. They can resupply somewhere along the coast if need be or when they return. This is the last of it.”

  “Good,” Muldor said and patted the man’s arm. “When they come back, as you say. I appreciate your hard work and thank you for all your assistance in this historic project.”

  Swanson cocked his head and blinked. “Historic, is it? I weren’t aware of any history here, just some supplies being loaded.”

  Muldor hid his frown and left the man to his work. The bigger picture was often lost to the uninitiated. There were many men of vision with which he could share this momentous occasion, men who would appreciate what they could accomplish.

  It was an odd feeling, watching so many supplies going up ramps instead of down them. It was like a clockwork machine grinding gears, changing direction, churning out a different path.

  Muldor imagined himself commanding the fleet, directing their movement. Commodore Muldor, he liked the sound of that. It could not have been all that much more complicated than running an organization of merchants almost a thousand strong.

  Of course, learning how to sail must have its share of challenges. It couldn’t have been that difficult to learn if these lads could do it. There might come a time when he had to get more involved with the enterprise.

  Spirit Breaking was a beautiful ship and where Master Lawson would make his home as they sailed. Muldor knew the young and impressionable Dock Master had a temper problem, but the man also had energy and verve. When they came back and more work needed to be done, someone else from the Guild’s ranks would sail out with them, a constant reminder of their guidance.

  On board he viewed the quarters where Lawson would live for the next couple of months. They were adequate but nothing special. They had limited room on board, and with the exception of the captain’s room, the
space represented the very best cabin available. It had a separate kitchen section, nothing more than an extra two walls that bent the room into a slight ‘L’ shape that joined where the swinging bunk ended, but it was much more than the crew got.

  The majority of the men on board would share a massive one room area where they would have to smell each other and listen to endless snoring and all through the night.

  “I was hoping to meet with you, Guild Master,” a voice said behind him.

  Muldor turned and saw Bergen. Captain Bergen, a stout man with a balding head and stomach paunch, was kind enough to allow The Guild some leeway, some allowances because they were who they were, the people responsible for building his new ship. The short man stood so quiet and still by the door. Spirit Breaking’s captain was small and older, with very little hair and wrinkled skin, but his personal armament was impressive. He carried at least three knives and two pistol-hand cannons. They were new-fangled inventions loved and used by the wealthy sailors around the coast from what Muldor could see.

  Muldor inclined his head. “I pride myself on thoroughness.”

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  Muldor shook his head. “No, you’ve done a magnificent job. Happy sailing.”

  “Many tomorrows to you, Muldor.’

  In the morning, hours before launch, the atmosphere was not quite so congenial. Muldor had slept in Lawson’s quarters the previous night and was awakened by noise from the outside.

  Chaos reigned.

  Muldor stood for a moment on deck, watching over several men’s shoulders at other’s who stood on solid ground. They yelled and argued back and forth about what he could not yet understand. Muldor straightened his robes, pushed his way through several crewmen, and made his way down the gangplank to the origin of the ruckus.

  Muldor tried to see who was doing what and spied some of his people, including Master Lawson and his runner Styles. The young men looked frightened and worried, but when Muldor came near, Styles in particular, relaxed and looked relieved.