Lair of Killers (18 page)

Jerrod held his long sword in two hands and hacked across his opponent’s body, but the man was strong enough to block. Good for him. He could die without shame, unlike these other scrubs. The man counter-attacked with an over-head swipe, but Jerrod saw it coming and ducked before it even came down.

Instead of stabbing with his sword like most men would have expected, Jerrod kicked the man in the kneecap and heard a satisfying crunch. The man grunted in pain but stood tall, holding his sword ready.

“You’re finished, you gimp!” Jerrod said. “Sit down!”

The cop answered with a bellow and cut the air in front of his body, unable to move well enough to connect. Jerrod chuckled and waited, watching the sequence of cuts everyman repeated. But someone slammed into his back, and Jerrod stumbled forward. The tall blonde yelled and thrust forward, but because of his injured knee there was little force behind it.

Jerrod still had his feet, and in one motion, he elbowed the fool behind him. It was one of his own men, the damned klutz. And Jerrod swiveled his body to the side away from his foe’s sword. His timing was perfect. He clamped his free hand on the man’s forearm as the sword came forward, and Jerrod hacked at the side of his neck. It was an awkward cut, as Jerrod was off balance, but he had plenty of strength behind it.

Blood spewed out from his neck like a geyser, but the man would still not go down. He tugged at his sword arm, and Jerrod let him go. He cut again at his head but somehow the blonde managed to duck as his other hand covered his neck wound.

The officer gritted his teeth and charged forward. He cut and slashed, and cut and slashed at Jerrod. Jerrod had to retreat, but it was only a last ditched effort by a dying man trying to do something positive before his end. He scored a hit on Jerrod’s upper arm, but it was only a flesh wound.

Jerrod let it play out and did not attack back because it was fun to watch the cop die. Men sometimes did funny things right before life left them. This one’s face went pale, his head drooped as the shock of blood loss hit him in full force, and he fell to his knees gurgling. He tried one last time to swat at Jerrod, and even the brutal man was impressed by the officer’s resilience. Though both knew it was over. Blood seeped down his left side in a torrent.

“Dillon!”

Jerrod flicked his head over to where Cubbins was fighting with his men. He had come down the stairs with Dillon but had gotten separated from him. The police had made headway with the toughs and taken down many. Jerrod stood back and laughed, waving the man forward. No one else came near him, for he had taken down their best fighter with ease.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Cubbins! C’mon!” He pointed his sword at him and made a motion with his other hand. “C’mon, pig! This the best you jokers got? This piece of shit dying in the dirt! Bah! I get better fights outta my shit.”

Cubbins’ face, already reddened by extreme exposure to the sun, reddened further. He pushed his way through the crowd.

Jerrod laughed. “I’m gonna use yer head as a piss pot, you pussy cop! C’mon!”

Cubbins came at him at a dead run. His first strike had, all that momentum behind it but Jerrod blocked and turned it aside. Still, the collision rocked his frame. Cubbins was strong and pissed off. They traded blows, and Jerrod realized the man he had just killed was not the police force’s best fighter; Cubbins was.

Good. Even better.

* * * * *

Becket had no idea how to fight or swing a sword. Whenever his blade hit another man’s weapon it felt like it would have flown from his hand. How he had kept a hold of the sword was a mystery. Glancing around, it seemed like the only tactic men had was to scream and swing.

If Stirling and his guards weren’t nearby protecting him, he would have died within the first thirty seconds of stepping into the melee. The thugs were thick muscled and good at fighting. They seemed somehow familiar to him, but he shook the thought away. If you saw one thug in Murder Haven, you saw them all.

He slipped on a blood slick and fell to one knee, sucking his teeth. The cobblestones were cold and hard. Then the real pain hit him, and he cried out, dropping his sword and grasping his knee. Blood seeped through his fingers.

An enemy came at him, sword overhead. Becket screamed and held his arms up, cowering in terror. One of his guards shoved him aside and grappled with the man, clasping his sword arm. Then Stirling stabbed him in the chest, and he fell away.

Two other guards stood in front of them, waiting to defend against the encroaching melee. No break seemed to be forthcoming. Becket was in awe of the proceedings. It was as close to actual fighting he had been, at least this scale. It was mind numbing that men could have done this to each other, to swing pieces of metal at their fellow humans with the intent to maim and kill.

Becket had not even taken a blow, and yet was on the ground bleeding and exhausted. He felt dizzy and wanted to vomit. This was a mistake, a huge mistake. He couldn’t have even stood.

The unmitigated chaos reigned, and the stark violence made him numb. Men screamed and hacked into each other’s bodies with wanton rage and hatred. It was pure madness.

Cubbins fought with the largest man Becket had ever seen, a physical specimen that would cause an ogre to hesitate. Cubbins was a large man, well over six feet tall with a healthy, muscular build, but he looked like a child in comparison to the thug.

The bigger man moved so well, though, like a dancer, and it defied belief. He weaved and dodged Cubbins’ attacks, counter-attacking with his sword that seemed to fit his desire. He attacked with an almost casual air as if there was all the time in the world to kill the police captain. Becket found himself mesmerized by his athleticism and skill, for it was frightening and tantalizing all at once.

The large man swung a sword so heavy, Becket doubted he would have been able to lift it with two arms, yet the brute did it with one as if it weighed nothing. Poor Cubbins had no chance, none of them did, not against this monster. But then something changed.

Becket heard whistles blowing as if there were a fire raging somewhere in the city, the same kind the City Watch used.

The City Watch! They were coming to save them. Thank the gods! Becket sat still as three dozen men charged down the street towards them, blowing their whistles as more came from other side streets to pool around the precinct.

They wore red sashes across their chests, a directive from Hark Williamson as a signal of who they were, and this marked them as above and different from a common citizen. Maybe the man was more intelligent than Becket presumed. They carried a variety of weapons; hammers, axes, a few swords, or whatever the men of Sea Haven could scrounge up in defense of their homes. Becket felt tears of relief coming on. They were saved!

* * * * *

Jerrod had had enough fun. No more mucking about. It was time to kill this fool. But when he began his real attack, Cubbins did not fall. The cop was good, better than Jerrod’s sense of arrogance would have admitted. Cubbins blocked well, with strength, speed, and a natural instinct. He ducked well, too, with a quick agility that belied his size.

There were also two deputies fighting close to him, loyal men that recognized the threat Jerrod represented. Smart fella, him.

Jerrod, even tripled teamed, managed to stab one of the helpers in the chest and left him bleeding his life out in the dirt on his knees, but Cubbins stepped forward to protect him, cutting the air in front of him with a series of expert strikes. Impressive. It was enough time to plug the gap before Jerrod could have stepped forward for another kill.

Then a greater commotion erupted around them in the streets. Some fools were whistling? Fuck’s sake, what is this? Jerrod frowned and looked around. Some gits came towards them, and the police seemed happy about it. That meant bad news for Jerrod and his crew. He did a quick assessment of his remaining forces. Several toughs were down and dead, but they had killed at least three cops for every one of theirs, and that was good. The gate was still closed with too many cops to kill.

But the city watch changed things. One on one they were weak and easy kills, but they had numbers on their side, like rats scurrying towards a piece of food. They would have tipped the balance against the toughs. Screw it, they had killed enough cops for the time being. It was time to go.

Cursing, he yelled for a retreat, and the toughs were ready for it. They saw what was happening.

Jerrod wanted Cubbins to remember this encounter, though, so he lifted his sword with both hands, kicked the other pussy helper by Cubbins’ side, and brought the sword down hard. Cubbins grunted and blocked, his face showing shock from the incredible impact. Jerrod went with the block and twisted the sword around his defenses He managed to nick the man’s upper arm. Only a flesh wound, but the ease with which it was done would have stayed in the police captain’s memory. Cubbins cried out and stepped away, disbelief in his eyes. Jerrod could have killed him any time he wanted.

Turning away, he laughed over his shoulder. “See you around, captain! Watch your back.”

He and the toughs extricated themselves from the fracas as more and more of the watch closed in, hopping over and around police who were happy to let them go. The fun was over.

* * * * *

The city council chambers were full. Every single member of the council plus their retainers were present. Even Lord Damour was there and sat by Cassius’ chair, which was empty at the moment. The noble looked bored as usual. His hair was tussled as if he had only just awoken. His eyes were droopy and unfocused. Perhaps he was still inebriated from the previous night.

Hark Williamson, the city’s current hero of the day, sat smug and confident, oozing arrogance. Three of his subordinates were near him, clustered together like louts at a tavern. Each wore a bandage about their bodies; here a wrap around an upper arm, there one on the head of another man, still seeping blood.

Jules Benner, new head of Commerce, was not a common sight at the meetings, claiming he was too busy to attend due to work, but Dock Master Becket did not buy it. The man was lazy and let his subordinates do all the work. Several were busy pouring over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, and the middle aged man was nodding and giving the occasional grunt of dissatisfaction.

Becket had already said hello to Treasurer Haller when he arrived, and the man smiled at him but seemed nervous. Perhaps the weight of what had transpired the last few days was pressing its influence on him. They had wrought much of its impetus.

Becket did not feel any better. In fact, he felt like hell. His knee ached, and he could not stop from bumping into the bandage there as if some invisible force was drawing his hand there if only to mock him. The violence, the noise, the death, the blood, and the smell of it all sufficed his brain and scarred his memory.

Muldor’s presence was a welcome relief, and it was said the man was instrumental in galvanizing the City Watch into action. Becket had not known, but after he had left city hall, Williamson had sat there in defiance, and it was not until a later visit by Muldor that had gotten the Watch moving to help the police. Whatever Muldor had done to force the man to act was not clear, but the results were obvious.

They had won a great victory in clearing the streets and winning back the police to their cause, but that was only half their goal. The wealthy quarter was next, and it was implied the Lord Governor had called this emergency meeting in order to make an announcement about what would happen in regards to all their homes.

The police had been hit hard. It was the topic floating around on many of the minds present, but nobody had spoken of it. No one knew the actual number of the dead, but it was said to be atrocious. Cubbins looked grim but resolute, wearing bandages, but at least he was alive. Dillon was not. The police had a hard road ahead of them, but perhaps they would have the budget for it.

That was the rumor. Becket felt happy, such as it was, when he heard this news. The police’s help was key to gaining control of the wealthy quarter. Becket was tired of living in the tavern. Home beckoned.

Most of the groups murmured to one another; with the exception of Cubbins’ sullen cadre. They looked like a hospital ward. It was almost comical.

Becket did not feel like laughing. He did not feel much of anything except a gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. The previous day’s events had hit him harder than he would have thought. The horror of those cold, blood slicked streets hung in his mind. He could not get the images of death and dismemberment out of his thoughts.

Muldor busied himself working, as usual, even here at the council meeting. Becket turned and watched him, knowing the man could not have torn himself away from Guild business under any circumstances. Lackeys scurried about him like flies as he wrote and handed them papers. Becket wondered what was going on at the Western Docks, but he wouldn’t have found out until he knew what was going on with the wealthy quarter first.

When Lord Governor Cassius entered the room, Becket sat up straighter and everyone grew quiet. Becket thought the man looked different somehow, calmer and yet possessed of a vitality. Cassius swept around the edge of the table and sat. The Lord Governor smiled at everyone, and Becket narrowed his eyes.