Lair of Killers (2 page)

Zandor screamed. “Rah! You don’t touch me, you hear me!?”

Others had gathered by this point, and they had a variety of expressions, ranging from curious, to amused, to outright hostility.

“He’s just a little guy, Zed!” one of them said. “You can take ‘im.”

A round of chuckles answered the jib, and others called for him to “man up” and do something about Zandor. There were seven or eight of them now. Zandor kept an eye on their positions, and the man who shoved him, Zed, looked none too happy about being the focus of their jokes.

The cop straightened his shoulders and came forward to grab at Zandor but failed to touch him. Zandor squirmed away and continued shouting.

“I don’t wanna! No!”

Zandor shoved the officer back, but Zed snatched Zandor’s arm and with a very impressive move. He had Zandor up and over his hip and flat on his back a second later. Not bad! Maybe these cops could fight.

Zandor rolled in the dirt. The cobblestoned pavement was hard and cold. He squealed, and the man let his arm go but not before giving him a stiff kick in the ribs. The others laughed.

“Nice one, Zed.”

“You got him good, son!”

“Ha, ha! He ain’t givin’ you no more trouble.”

Zandor tried to get up, but then they stood on his ankles and wrists.

“You bastards! Bastard!”

Someone clamped a beefy hand over his mouth as they dragged him to his feet, and he bit down hard, cutting through the skin. The man cursed and drew his hand away.

“Dammit!”

He slugged Zandor in the jaw hard enough to stagger him. Zandor took it and feigned near unconsciousness, going slack, moaning, and twitching. They held him up.

“Get his ass outta here! C’mon!”

They carried him up the stairs and into the jail. That was a start. They dumped him in a cold cell and left him there to bleed.

“Let the whoreson sleep it off a bit.”

The man he had bit was still upset. “Dirty little shit! He bit me. You see that, Jenson. Son of a bitch bit my hand. I’m bleeding….”

Their voices faded as they left the room, slammed the door, and walked down the hallway. Zandor sat up and smiled, turning his head and popping his neck. He rubbed his jaw. Yes, a nice solid punch. Good on him.

* * * * *

Jerrod had them split up into three teams of thirteen each, the same trio formation the assassins used but with a larger group. When he made the call, forty-seven toughs had answered with his formation. It gave him several men as back up to use during their operation.

The nighttime air was cool and windy. Their black, v-necked, sleeveless shirts did little to protect from the chilly breeze that sprang up near the southern docks area of town. They covered their faces with black hoods, with little holes cut out for eyes, and their black pants completed their outfits.

They looked like executioners ready for battle. The effect was frightening. They would hit every tavern in the city. Maybe not tonight, but at some point they would clear them all out, including Stern’s Place, the traitorous establishment that had rejected them. They would first tackle The Drunken Flagon. It was closer to where they were, and not only was it a rival to Stern’s but also less guarded. They needed a warm up first, since the toughs didn’t really do this type of thing.

Jerrod led one group, making it fourteen strong. Another group stayed close by, ready to provide a distraction when the need arose, while the other stayed in reserve on lookout duty. The cops were nowhere to be found on the streets.

And the slugs working the taverns would not understand what had hit them. They would be floored, thunderstruck so fast they would piss themselves before they could pull their swords.

They held to the shadowy confines of the alleyways along the dockside off the edge of the southernmost pier. The moon hugged their backs as they rushed out from the dark towards The Drunken Flagon’s entrance. Outside the tavern, two prostitutes, one well-dressed merchant that looked out of place, and two drunk men argued with one of the whores.

Jerrod and his men swept by like demons out of hell, and the bystanders gasped and stood back. One of the women screamed. He gripped his brass knuckles in his right hand, his favorite weapon for this type of job, and snarled at the merchant. The man blanched and put a hand to his mouth.

Jerrod snickered and kicked the door open. They entered at a quick jog and while the crowd muttered, his thirteen toughs drew their swords and kept the crowd under control.

Jerrod went straight for the bartender, a fattish man wearing an apron.

“Give it up,” Jerrod said. “All of it. Now.”

Everyone stared. Some spoke up, yelling in chorus.

“What’s this?”

“Hey, you can’t—”

A tough slammed the last speaker in the gut with a stiff elbow, and the man doubled over, gasping for breath.

“I won’t ask again,” Jerrod said.

The tender rubbed his considerable belly and stuttered. “I-I-don’t know what- we don’t have anything.”

Jerrod reached a long arm over the countertop, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, and yanked him over the counter. He choked and tried to pry Jerrod’s left hand off his shirt, but Jerrod didn’t give him the chance as he drove his brass knuckles into his upper cheek and temple area with two sharp whacks that crushed the bone, caving in the side of his face.

That was it. The man went limp. His brain smashed, and Jerrod let the corpse flop to the floor like a fish out of water. He glanced at one of the servers, a young girl, who stared at him as if he were the devil himself. Shock and terror mixed in her pretty features.

“You next, sweetheart? Or do you wanna do what you’re told?”

The girl froze solid, then wet herself as he stepped towards her. A wet spot of urine dripped down her leg to pool on the floor. She started to swoon as Jerrod stepped closer and grabbed her shirt to hold her up.

“Yeah?” He raised his right fist. “That’s how you want it?”

“Wait!”

A man stepped forward from the crowd, eyeing a nearby tough that held a sword towards him. He looked like one of the house security men since he was dressed in similar fashion to a few others, with brown leggings and studded leather on their torsos. They had clubs strapped to their waists, pathetic weapons that did little but help control an unruly crowd. There was fear in his eyes but also deep concern as he glanced at the serving girl.

“Please don’t hurt her. I’ll get you what you want.”

The toughs let him through at a nod from Jerrod.

“Here,” the man said as came out from behind the bar, carrying a strong box, a wooden construction with a lock on the outside. He put it on the counter in front of Jerrod. “This is all we got. Please, take it and go.”

Jerrod hefted it, feeling its weight. It seemed like a good haul, and he could tell the man was sincere.

“That’s it, huh? Nothing more? You know what happens if you hold out on me.”

The man shook his head. “No, nothing more. Please leave us be.” He flicked his eyes to the girl, who had recovered from the initial shock. She breathed tiny gasps of air, still and numb.

Jerrod grunted and nodded to the toughs. They hefted some bags and spread out among the crowd, forcing them to dig into their pockets and give up whatever coin or objects of value they had.

“I think you all got some more to hand out,” he said and eyed the girl again. “Go on and give it up. We ain’t leaving until you do.”

The toughs did their jobs well. They grabbed a decent amount, for many of the people there had some small bits of jewelry and a fair amount of coin. Jerrod hefted the strong box, tucking it under his left arm, leaving his right hand free to deal out punishment with the brass knuckles if need be.

He breathed through his hood, the eye slits affording a narrow view of the proceedings. They collected a nice stash, three full bags in fact, and that was a grand start to the night, one they would repeat soon.

“Let’s move it out, boys!”

They filed out, keeping a strict eye on any potential heroes that might’ve tried to stop them, but no one moved. Jerrod had provided sufficient incentive to behave. He was almost disappointed that no one fought back. Maybe the next job would be more exciting.

* * * * *

Journal 1340

We sail on the morrow! I say “we” only as an affectation because in actuality another Guild member goes in my place. I am consoled by the fact Lawson is a good man. There are many that believe otherwise perhaps. He is a young man, but his heart remains true to The Guild. What he lacks in experience he makes up in gusto for justice and shall represent us well.

We must show to those that mean to harm us that death is the only response with which we may answer. Violence is the only real power in this world. It pains me to admit it, and I would rather there was another way, but I see no other route to take. Believe it not if you will, but violence has solved more issues in history than any other one force. Death is the ultimate equalizer to which all men are judged in the end.

I wish it were not so. But my wishes carry little weight when pressed against reality. Men will die. Perhaps many of them. Some families will be destroyed, perhaps many. There will be heartache and pain and misery. Will it be worth it? Our journey must happen. It is happening. I wonder on the worth more and more because our business is in fact only business. I am not so blind by duty to my job to be under any other supposition that The Guild is more than that. It provides jobs; it gives money to those that would not have it, but would it be better to dissolve the whole thing before committing us to this course?

Lurenz has killed men. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women have died by his hand. If the stories are to be believed, he is a despicable human being, and his life should be taken for the good of all. True, it is now only our vessels that his fleet targets, but what of it? Is it not only right we defend ourselves? It would be madness to believe otherwise.

I believe assistance from the king is impossible. I have sent letters, and they remain unrequited. No other agency of the crown feels it is up to them to intercede on our behalf. Or is there some other reason those across the way want us to suffer? I think if the royalty of this land had their way, our fair city would be burned to the ground, and all of its inhabitants slaughtered out of hand. Our reputation is not the grandest. We are, according to some, a cesspool of depravity and corruption. Most days, I agree with this description. But there are good people here worth saving, many of whom are being attacked at sea.

I admit I miss the docks these days. The men there are friends of mine in a way. It is with much trepidation that I send so many of them into danger. Will work there suffer if they lose so many of their brethren? Perhaps. But work all around is at a straining point because of Lurenz and his Dark Destiny led fleet of pirates and miscreants. These men would put even the most unruly criminals of the Southern Docks to shame.

The Guild cannot move forward until we root out this wicked force for all time. It will not end piracy forever. I am not so foolish to believe that. But we can be a beacon of hope for so many that live in fear. Because we are the largest purveyor of goods on this side of the coast, we become the largest target of theft. I try not to take it as a personal attack. I believe what we do is right.

But there is a deep, gnawing fear in my stomach that I trod upon the same path as my predecessor. Ah! It is so strange to think of myself as Master of the Guild. But it is true I hold that position. And it is true I was once of the mind that the expansion of our Guild would be the doom of us all. Now I cannot justify the actions the former Guild Master took. He believed he was doing what was in the best interests of our organization, and I suppose I am no different in my motivations.

But I am a different person. I care about the workers, men Castellan believed to be mere tools, to be used and cast out once their usefulness had ended. They were gears in his clockwork machinery, grinding out their lives until they broke. Am I fooling myself into believing I am different? Some would say I am. Seeing him in that state at the asylum, like a mad dog, it causes me no end of distress. The actual cause may be something so insidious I shiver to consider the source.

Lord Cassius and his ilk? Could they have poisoned his mind and body with some foreign agent? I know of a natural toxin that twists and turns the behavior of a human mind and body into a monstrous version of man. But it would shock me to learn that Cassius is culpable in this. This is not his normal way of doing business. He would let the law punish the man, not some second hand device.

No, this malady stems from some other source, something more vile even than city hall. I speak of the church. Tranquility’s Palace, the home of our beloved Arc Lector Morlin, is the most evil of all places within the confines of “Murder” Haven. It is true. I have seen men, nay, entire civilizations fall to the power of religion. An entity knows no limit to its scope and influence. No one within its powerful grasp would ever think to question its hallowed tenets.