Lair of Killers (6 page)

The Arc Lector relaxed, and the hint of a smile returned. Muldor found himself caught up in the moment. The man’s charisma was palpable. Muldor wanted to like him, to be liked by him, to please him in any way possible.

“We congregate here, my children. This is a safe haven against the coming tide of violence and ill meaning. I cherish our time together, and you good people are welcome, you are welcome, welcome! To come and be here with me.” His smile grew larger and Muldor felt the commanding presence of the man, as if he were a lion sniffing at his prey. “You sacrifice your precious time to come here and be with me, and I am thankful! Yes indeed, I am thankful.”

He stopped and looked around again, panning his gaze across the crowd, taking in every single person there until he stopped and stared at Muldor. The Guild Master felt the full weight of the man’s visage upon him, and it felt it like a hammer blow.

Morlin’s eyes bored into his, and Muldor saw the depth of eternity in those pale gray orbs, a deep seeded length of experience beyond the ken of mankind. Muldor sat up straight and stared back, attempting to match the will of the man but lasted scant seconds before averting his gaze. He had never felt so unnerved. This was no man, but rather an entity, a conduit for something much greater.

The rest of the sermon went by in a blur of passionate speech and continued dutiful response by the people present. The audience sat and listened in rapt attention to every word. Muldor felt numb and even a little bit frightened when the service was over.

Another shock came when an acolyte approached him soon after. “Master Muldor, the Arc Lector has requested your presence in his private sitting room. Right now if possible.”

Muldor couldn’t have refused.

Chapter Three

Robbing the rich was the most logical thing to do. Zandor had always taught Jerrod this and while hitting the taverns was fine and dandy for a while, it would not have lasted long.

It wasn’t that it was a terrible idea, far from it, but there were issues they would run into sooner than later.

First and foremost, the threat of increasing resistance was looming larger by the day. Not only was there in house security that would increase in number, but the patrons themselves would be better prepared. Almost every person in the city was armed in some capacity, and while they weren’t trained fighters, they had numbers. Contrary to popular belief, there was a strong sense of community among most residents of Sea Haven, and they fought if needed.

Second, they had hit half a dozen taverns already. Not only would they run into more resistance, but there would be less money to take. They would stop keeping so much coin on sight and people would stop carrying jewelry with them when they went out. Word was out; a gang was robbing taverns.

Each time they hit one, they fell into diminishing returns. It was a simple, predictable pattern. It got more and more difficult every time out so after a while, and as they had passed this point, it was no longer worth it.

When the wealthy got robbed, a lot of times they kept quiet about it out of embarrassment. So in effect, each individual household was on its own. Jerrod never considered things like that. The thickheaded jerk was too shortsighted to think about anything other than what was in front of him. He was a blunt instrument, the best one Zandor had ever seen, but only good for bashing things in their way. Zandor would use him and the toughs to smash things open.

His plant within the police department told them they were frustrated but not ready for a full strike. They were not arresting people with much regularity, but it wasn’t the same thing. Zandor figured they needed some kind of event to happen to push them over the edge.

With Jerrod and his boys, Zandor would provide that push. There were also some thieves on the line as well, some of the former so-called “Elite” that could assist them in case the unforeseen occurred. That always happened. The best laid plans of men seldom came to pass.

One of Zandor’s facilitators, a tiny man named Jand, met him outside The Prancing Pony. He was shorter even than Zandor but possessed of a wiry, preternatural strength, with stubby arms and a bull neck. His oversized head craned to the side as he regarded people that passed by on the street of the wealthy quarter.

Jand flicked his head at him. “Zandor.” They shook hands.

“Hey there,” Zandor said and could not help wincing as the grip was uncanny. “How many?”

“Seventeen watched. Soon, more.”

“Good. That’s real good. I want the uniform information as soon as you can get it. Understood?”

He nodded.

Zandor motioned him on. “Don’t let me keep you.”

The blocky little man stepped away. He never could have been an assassin. He was too straightforward and walked like an anvil. Zandor smirked as he went inside the tavern as himself for the first time.

The cozy atmosphere, the warm, roaring fire, the tinkling music, the pretty bar maids handing out strong drinks, it all struck him as he entered. He wore finer clothes than normal that was his only disguise. His silk shirt under red velvet vest and brown leather pants kept his undercarriage festooned with knives and other items. That part of him would never change.

Zandor leaned against the bar, elbows up and smiled at the fun to be had. It was the busiest night of the week and the highest number of the city’s wealthy were present. There were over two dozen wealthy patrons, with double that number in hangers-on and personal assistants. Most of the bodyguards had been left outside in the cold, so fuck them for being snobs.

They thought they were safe inside, and even though The Prancing Pony had its own in house security, six men that reminded Zandor of the now defunct royal guard because of their red tabards and gold trim, it wasn’t much.

Their sergeant might’ve been an issue. He was a tough looking man with a salt and pepper beard and sharp eyes. He didn’t speak much. Once in a while he only leaned over to listen to something his men said. He swept his eyes around the crowd and met Zandor’s gaze once or twice.

Zandor gave him a slight nod or a brief smile, but the man never responded, his face stayed blank. Good on him. Wait until they busted in and punched you in the mouth. Maybe that would have woken him up. A few minutes later, a tall, lanky blond man with a beard approached Zandor, a sword at his belt.

“Shit, man,” he said. “You couldn’t pick a better place than this? Kinda skuzzy, ain’t it?”

Zandor frowned. “Felix, I told you help ain’t allowed inside this place. Why aren’t you outside with the other pigs?”

Felix cracked a smile and glanced around the room as he leaned next to Zandor. “Got bored. Plenty o’ pigs round here need sticking.”

Zandor grunted. “Got that right. Damn snobs, every one of them.”

“Snobs and slugs, that’s Murder Haven.”

“Yep.”

They sat back and waited. Zandor ordered them a very nice red wine from a temperate region on the other side of the continent, a nation called Margosh. Felix grinned ear to ear and slapped Zandor on the back when he took a swig.

“Damn sight, Zee! Margoshian wine. You know how to treat your people.”

“Watch it, will ya? These folks here aren’t used to seeing servants being so well treated by their betters.”

“’Betters?’I can’t argue too much with that, now. Don’t know many men superior to you, Zee.”

“Stop it. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Time passed. They watched the entertainment. A very accomplished bard strummed a lute and sang. A minute into his next song, Zandor heard the beginnings of some kind of commotion outside. The front door was to his left, and though there were two other exits, they were only used by employees.

Some of these employees became concerned at the noise outside, and Zandor had to suppress a smile. Jerrod had arrived and was making contact with the guards lollygagging outside. The employees looked at one another and then yelled for a manager.

Felix tensed, but Zandor held up a hand. “Easy, fella. Wait a tick.”

The man settled, and Zandor watched Mr. Fancy Pants Sergeant and his cronies for a reaction. The grey bearded superior flicked his head towards the door and two of his men rushed over, swords in hand. Not very disciplined, Zandor thought. Testy fellas. Good, they were ready.

The door burst open and three guards from outside came in with knives held to their throats by black garbed, hooded men. They pushed them forward into the tavern while the security men in house pointed and shouted. Someone screamed. The tension in the room shot upwards as everyone realized something was happening. The music stopped.

Zandor played the part of a well off merchant who was frightened. Felix drew his sword and stood in front of him as a bodyguard. Then the hooded figures shoved their captives to the ground. They had their hands tied behind them, so they struck face first as the hoods grabbed the nearest patrons and held blades to their throats.

A huge figure strode into the room, and Zandor recognized the athletic, confident stride of the most miserable son of a bitch that ever lived. He owned the room the second he entered.

The sergeant stepped forward and spoke for the first time as the crowd continued to mutter.

“What’s this? Stand down!”

The huge figure regarded him. “Shut yer stinkin’ pie hole, or everyone dies.”

The figure strode deeper inside and more hooded figures filed in behind him. Soon the poor guards were outnumbered and frozen solid. But then everyone started shouting at one another, and Zandor had to look on with amusement.

“Hey! What’s going on here?”

“You men! Put those weapons down this instant!”

“I’ll cut her! I swear to shit I will.”

“Put down the knife you knave!”

“Wait!”

“Stop this or someone will get hurt. Come now! Let’s—”

“Back away or I gut him….”

The large hooded man, like some executioner out of a nightmare, turned a table over with a flick of his wrists. The resulting crash was deafening.

“Everyone! SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

His voice was so powerful everyone had no choice but to stop and listen. All eyes went to him. By the gods the man was fierce. Jerrod had a venomous, frightening presence, even at the best of times. When he got upset, it was terrifying to behold.

“You,” Jerrod said and pointed to the closest guard. “You put your weapon on the floor, real slow like, or we butcher everyone in here.”

The man flicked his eyes to the sergeant, but the hooded nightmare stormed towards him, arm raised, brass knuckles flashing in the torchlight.

“I’m talking to you, bub. Not that shit heel. Put your weapon down or you got a fight you ain’t gonna win.”

The guard hesitated, glancing back and forth between hood and sergeant, but the reality of the situation began to dawn on him and the others. The guard put his sword on the ground, and the sergeant stepped forward.

“Promise not to hurt these people. Take what you want and go. We will cooperate.”

“Put down your weapons, all of you, or we kill everyone. No promises. No deals.”

The sergeant ordered his men to comply, and the sound of metal striking stone echoed throughout the room. Zandor tapped Felix on the shoulder, and the man played it up by starting to argue but then put his sword down with the others.

The hoods moved. One group consisting of four men, grabbed some employees while a dozen more picked up the swords of the in house security and private guardsmen. They rounded up all the soldiers and tied their arms behind their backs with the others.

More hoods entered the room and began separating patron from security. They tied them up too. Zandor let himself be taken, tied and then they stuffed gags in everyone’s mouths. The toughs were rough and efficient. Zandor gave them credit; they didn’t waste time. Then they put dark bags over their eyes, and the sight Zandor had enjoyed his whole life went out.

* * * * *

Anders wasn’t sure what to think. Marston assured him this man Zandor was a legitimate purveyor of all things criminal. He would get them up and running in no time, just like they had been going before. But the young thief had yet to see any concrete proof, only talk.

“He’s got people,” Marston said, and the tall thief folded his arms across his muscular chest and leaned back. “Everywhere, man. I’m tellin’ ya.”

They and a few other thieves were at the Silver Charger, a place where the former Thieves Guild members were still welcome.

Anders milked his stale ale and considered his former brother in arms. Marston wore finer clothes than most of the others of his social class, with rich fabric that was both expensive and clean, an affectation of the Elite thieves.

Anders shook his head and turned away.

Marston scoffed. “You’ll be back. And maybe then we don’t take you, see how that feels. Heh.”

Anders kept drinking his ale, hoping it was not watered down too much but knowing it was. After another sip he pushed it away, feeling Marston’s eyes on his back. Anders fingered his dagger and wondered if he could find a way to slip it into Marston’s neck and sever the vein there, that big pulsing one.

It was doubtful he could’ve won, but he could hurt him bad. Maybe enough to get him to leave him alone.

Marston left.

* * * * *

The knocking came fast and furious. The door shook on its frame. Then, shouting from the other side.

“Lord Governor! You must come at once!”

Cassius sighed and turned away from the window. He had been enjoying a splendid view of the Western Docks where the ocean stretched out in a beautiful splendor. The waves rippled to and fro. His office allowed him a nice view of most of the city. During the renovations after Janisberg’s naval attack, Cassius had insisted on a taller building, and the six story structure was now the tallest building within hundreds of miles. His office had the best position.

“Yes, yes, what is it?”

The door opened and in came one of his aides. Cassius forgot his name, but the man was huffing and puffing and out of breath.

“M-my lord, there’s a situation… taking place in the wealthy quarter. You must come at once!”

Cassius eyed him and stood up straight. “Pardon me? I must do nothing of the sort. Who are you to bark orders at me, foolish boy? I shall not be ordered about like some common servant. Mind your tongue.”

The young man blanched and nodded. “P-pardon me, my lord. Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt.”

“What is the matter?”

“It’s very serious.”

Cassius frowned. “I’m sure it is. Now, be a professional, get a hold of yourself and act like a rational being. Explain it to me without the hyperbole.”

In halting, fear riddled speech, the youth explained there was a major hostage situation developing in the wealthy quarter. Cassius listened with growing perplexity. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot. When the aide finished, he leaned forward, expecting more.