Death's Reckoning (25 page)

Thus far, they hadn’t made a single piece of gold. Zandor had handed over the gold captured from Tanner’s heirs as a sign of good faith to Ignacio and the others, telling them the next shipment would start the contract between them.

The next shipment from the arena and betting tents was set for a few days hence. Jerrod and Zandor might’ve been dead by then. In all likelihood they’d be a spot of blood on the walls of the cave in a few moments. What a fitting end to a life filled with strife and chaos. Zandor acted as if that were fine. Dumb shit.

Jerrod could imagine the beast within, chomping away at some slain animal, down on its haunches, blood dripping off its jowls, snarling and dribbling. It would attack the second they entered. Thruck would be a handful for a large group of men, well-armed, and backed up with canon.

Zandor lit a torch and they slunk down into the depths of the rocky enclosure. A line of water trickled down from each side of the entrance. Its origin a small pond they found by the far wall. An odd natural formation but very usable by anyone that chose to live there for a time. Maybe this Thruck wasn’t so dumb after all.

A large patch of soft earth, piled with heaps of grass, tiny branches, and leaves filled the area next to the right side of the room. Other than that, there wasn’t much else of notice save a small pile of animal bones picked clean by an ogre’s teeth.

Zandor glanced around and shrugged. “He’s been here. No doubt about that, bub. Pretty recent by the looks of things here. Maybe he’s off hunting.”

Jerrod walked to the edge of the pond and peered in. It was clean, drinkable water. He kicked a few rocks into it and knocked some dirt over the edge. The scum didn’t deserve to drink clean water. Animals should stay in the dirt.

He looked back to Zandor, who stared at him with the torch hanging out in front of his body. His eyes simmered under his hood.

“You plannin’ on being this thing’s next meal?” Jerrod said.

“No. I plan on waiting right here until he gets back. Thruck ain’t got a reason to eat me, and you wouldn’t go down very easy. He’d take one whiff of your stank and say forget it.”

“Shut yer mouth, Zandor.”

The older assassin sighed, and Jerrod was glad to see the first glimmers of doubt in his stance. He stuffed the torch in a crack in the wall and plopped down cross legged on the floor.

“This is our play, Jerry. I’m tellin’ ya. All we gotta do is dangle a little tidbit in front of his face, and he’s ours. Ogres aren’t as dumb as people believe. Thruck could not have survived as long as he did in the arena pits if he didn’t have at least half a brain. You wait and see.”

So they waited. Jerrod grew bored. He could head to his cabin within an hour’s walk. He wouldn’t be able to go there any time soon if Thruck agreed to go back with. They would have far too much to prepare.

After what seemed an eternity, but was maybe only an hour so, they heard a commotion outside the cave. Zandor and he looked at one another and then raced towards the entrance. Outside, the first thing Jerrod noticed was the hulking form of the ogre in all his bestial glory.

The beast had a slain deer hung over one shoulder, and it appeared to be the size of a cat in comparison to his massive frame. His skin was grey like a corpse. His tense muscles glistened with sweat, and hair matted over his back, dark and gruesome like his visage.

The two hunters stood to the side of the cave, bows raised and ready to fire. They shouted at the ogre who growled back. Jerrod started forward, his hand going to his sword, but Zandor held him back.

“Hold it, bub. Let me handle this.” Zandor took a step in front of him, but when he sized up the towering awesome sight of the ogre, he slowed. “Maybe stay close by me, Jerry. Just in case.”

“Whatever you say. It’s your ass. I’m sure he’ll tire himself out trying to chew up your old meat.”

“Shut up and come on.”

Jerrod smiled. That last comment cracked Zandor open a bit, and no matter how he tried to act, it was obvious the man was nervous. What they were doing was dangerous beyond anything they had done before. Zandor skulked around the side of Thruck’s position, and Jerrod followed.

Thruck continued to growl at them all. The beast stood with a very large knife in his hands, a two handed sword to a man. The hunters stared back and forth between the ogres and Zandor. He held his hands up and indicated the men should lower their weapons, and with hesitation they relaxed. Zandor worked his way around the edge of the rock formation behind them and into a straight ahead view of the monster, keeping his hands up.

“Take it easy there, Thruck. We mean you no harm, just wanna talk is all. Easy there, big fella.”

Thruck barred his teeth, shook his head around and snarled. It was nerve-rattling. He stepped forward, but Zandor, the raving lunatic, stood his ground, putting his hands on his hips. The small man made eye contact with Thruck, and Jerrod saw the intensity in the fool’s eyes, the set of his jaw, his forward stance as he squared off against a killing monster.

“I know you, Thruck. You came from the city, came from the arena. I’ve seen you fight there.”

Thruck growled deep in his throat, guttural like rocks grinding together in the dust. He didn’t seem to like to hear anything associated with the arena or Sea Haven.

“I know you can understand me,” Zandor said. “Can you speak? Will you have words with me?” Zandor tapped his mouth with two fingers and said “speak” again.

Thruck grunted and barred his teeth again, his thick incisors like a hippo’s, his canines overhanging and standing up when he closed his mouth a certain way.

“Speak with me, Thruck, let’s have words together. We aren’t here to fight you.”

Thruck stood still, grimacing. After a moment he shrugged his massive shoulders, and the deer carcass fell to the ground. It tumbled and laid slack. Its limp neck lolled to the side. Thruck growled, and his chest heaved.

This was it. He got his sword half way out of its scabbard, and the hunters drew back their bows, but Zandor shouted at both of them.

“Wait! Wait! Back away, Jerrod! Do it! You two, get away,” he said to the bowman. “Damn it, everyone relax!”

The last command was said with such icy calmness and intensity even Jerrod was affected by it. Zandor was a force, and his presence was palpable. Jerrod’s grip loosened then tightened. The feral bloodlust in the ogre’s eyes was proof this was not the right move.

He let go of his sword and stepped back. “Fine. You two have yourselves a nice little chat. See what I care.”

Zandor relaxed. “Good, Thruck. Nice and easy now. People get nervous sometimes is all. You are noble creature, smart enough to realize that. I wonder if I might discuss some things with you. Let’s talk for a bit.”

Jerrod sniggered and shook his head. “I don’t think he wants to talk. Maybe play a little jig on your ribcage with your arm bone.”

Zandor glared at him while Thruck growled again. All his anger directed Jerrod’s way. Jerrod crossed his arms. Let the dumb animal stare. Then Thruck did something that surprised everyone watching. He signed in the thieves’ and assassins’ sign language, something quick and urgent to Zandor.

Zandor nodded. “Yes, of course.” He turned to face Jerrod and frowned. “Says he’ll talk to me, but not if you’re here.”

“I know what he said, you little smart ass.”

“Okay. If you wanna go ahead and get, that’d be great.”

But Jerrod was already walking back down the hill with the two hunters. To hell with Zandor and his pet monkey. The two men had their attention fixed on the conversation between man and beast. Jerrod felt tired and angry, finding a rock to plop down on.

The language possible in such a conversation was limited and simplified; however, both Zandor and the ogre were adept at it. Thruck argued that he wanted to be left alone while Zandor kept telling him he was needed. There was great glory to be had at the arena, that he could live like a king.

The ogre wasn’t having it, kept repeating that he no longer cared. There was no challenge left for him at the arena. Humans were weak. It was boring for Thruck to kill people.

Zandor shifted tactics and told him there would be greater challenges ahead. There were stronger men, bigger fights, and Thruck would be a legend if he returned. People would speak of his deeds for centuries. This made the ogre pause. Zandor plunged ahead and signed that Thruck’s brethren, the ogres too weak to fight, would gape at his accomplishments and become jealous. Thruck could make so much gold he would return to his people a king, a legend, an ogre to be revered and worshiped.

Jerrod rubbed his eyes and found himself getting bored with their conversation. It took a great deal of concentration to follow the fast signs. He needed a drink, and knowing Zandor the exchange might’ve lasted hours.

The hunters muttered to each other about how big the ogre was, stories they had heard about other ogres, how they ate babies right out of the cradle and sucked the marrow out of the bones. Jerrod wished they would shut up. His head hurt.

An eternity later, Zandor came strolling back down the hill, a spring in his step. His men swarmed him and stared in wonder.

“Bless it, sir,” one of them said. “Never seen anything like that. You and him like that. Look like friends, the two of you.”

“By god,” said the other jackass and whistled. “You charmed him good, you did. I’ll be an old man before I see something like that again I swear.”

Zandor basked in the adoration, a sly smile on his thin lips, but he also looked shaken by the experience. He wiped some moisture off his forehead and breathed out. Thruck ducked his head and entered his cave. Jerrod gave Zandor credit where it was due. The little bastard was brave. Or stupid, he wasn’t sure which.

“Yeah, fellas, it’ll work out I think,” Zandor said. “Worth the risk anyway. Thruck’s like any man of the world. You prime his ego, he’s all yours. But he’s a smart one, like I said.”

“You wanna fill me in on some details?” Jerrod said. “What else did it say?”

Zandor craned his head over. “Huh? Right. Says he’ll do it and come back to the arena. Wants to kill some humans but wants better competition. It was too easy before. We’ll need to be a little more creative with his matches. Make ‘em more challenging to our new attraction here.”

Jerrod shook his head and spit. “Fucking animal. That’s all he wants, huh? Figures.”

“No, that’s not all he wants,” Zandor said and squared up with him. “He wants a better place to live, easy fix there. Wants to be fed like a king on his throne, and with the matches we’ll line him up with, he’ll need the extra energy so done deal with that. He also doesn’t want any handlers like the two fops that ran him last time. We’ll run him in a different way this time, no problem.”

Zandor took a moment to stretch his back, both hands above his hips as he bent backwards. “Oh, and one other thing, Jerry. Said this has to happen or no deal.”

Jerrod felt his forehead scrunch together, and a tremor of foreboding raced through his gut. The look in Zandor’s eyes was troubling.

“What’s that?”

Zandor managed to hide the smirk developing on his olive hued features the best he could, but the prick couldn’t help himself. “He demands the chance to fight you in the arena, all by yourself.”

Son of a bitch.

Chapter Fifteen

Giorgio ran. He ran and ran some more, churning his legs over and over in a mad rush across the streets of Sea Haven. It was his entire world. Never resting, never having a home, a safe haven, all that was gone. The dog ran beside him, seventy pounds of pure animalistic savagery that fed off its master’s frustration and had a hellish rage of its own.

They stayed within the shadows’ embrace, silent as death, but every so often they neared the normal citizens of Murder Haven. Their supernatural auras upon them made the people gasp as the fear washed over them.

Giorgio heard women and children weep in their wake. They were simple folk, his people. Men and women he had grown up with, worked with, and yet now there was pleasure in terrorizing them. He was a true pariah, an outcast, a blighted soul among humanity.

A young dirty boy kicked an even dirtier ball down the sidewalk, and Giorgio reversed his ghosting abilities to stop and kick the ball back to the street urchin. The boy started to kick the ball but saw something in Giorgio’s eyes that stalled the moment. They looked hard at each other, one knowing the other, both understanding some unsaid truth. The boy looked at his potential future, Giorgio his past.

But Giorgio ran on. There was a destination to be as he reached the largest cemetery in town located on Clubber’s Lane, a long thoroughfare near the marketplace. It was an area of town Giorgio had passed by countless times; however, that night seemed the very first.

Outside the cemetery entrance there were city watchmen along with a few of the police. They were big men with brown doublets over thin chain mail and clubs in their hands. Five men were too hard to handle on his own, regardless of the increased power given by the master.

But the town watch was leaving. Good. The cemetery lay on a slight rise from the level street area. It was quite beautiful at night, with moonlight streaming down through the broken cloud cover, and Giorgio crouched down with the dog across the street, taking it all in.

The men sounded bored and anxious, speaking of the next night when duty would see them replaced by others to stand guard. They were excited by the prospect.

Giorgio squatted down and waited. The dog stayed by his side, bustling with fiendish energy. He rubbed its flank, its body nothing but bone and sinew. The flesh wasted away down to skin and gristle. It was no longer a companion, only a vessel for his hate and pain.

Giorgio wondered what anyone else might’ve felt from him if they laid hands on him, what the people thought when they saw him. His thoughts went back to the little ghost girl, Marissa. She had given him a spark the master found useful. And he was a tool for the more powerful entity Malthus Benaire represented.

It would be an interesting challenge to take what she gave him, finish what she started, and take it beyond. But, the master’s call was undeniable. Giorgio’s mind was too far gone to resist, his soul too battered and too beaten. He was a mere vessel, much like the dog to him, to a much more powerful individual, and he was helpless in its thrall. The master beckoned, and he obeyed.

The dog growled; its fangs dripped with saliva, and haunches raised. Giorgio ghosted into his strongest form. The gate was a possible entry point, but a distraction was needed. But then one appeared before thought was given action. A few vagrants were hanging around the area across the street from him, and Cubbins’ men went to shoo them off. Giorgio sprinted across the street and, planting one foot down and his hands up, launched over the iron bars, twisting in mid-air to land feet first on the soft grass.

The dog scurried in between bars, and they were off and running again. They raced through the graveyard, across the soft earth, and hopping over tombstones. Their goal was the center section for a large mausoleum lay there.

The complex was beautiful, with bluish grey stone interlocking at level corners with square blocks and a circular center. At least six buildings combined, all decorated with flowers and carvings etched by a master craftsman. The etchings were combined with incredible mosaics, scenes of waterfalls and rock formations of some distant land most common people in Sea Haven would never see.

There was little time to enjoy the artistic work. Instead, he hurried towards the center of the complex, hopping over a bench or two on the way. The dog lapped at his heels, the call of their master increasing, drawing them to the only sanctuary left.

The dog whimpered as they neared the center and lagged behind. It stopped and puttered around near the corner of one building, looking altogether mortal.

Giorgio skidded to a halt and chastised the beast. He stalked back to it, and it whimpered louder. “Move, you stupid mutt! We have to get going. Move it! Come on.”

Grabbing it by the scruff of its neck, he yanked. It bawled in pain, whimpering like a babe in the cradle. Giorgio dragged it across the ground towards the entrance to the largest building in the mausoleum. It growled and snapped at his hand, but he tugged harder. The dog managed to dig its teeth into his hand and bite down hard enough to make him let go.

“Damn it, you mangy slut!”

He chased after it and didn’t have to go far before it was groveling at his feet like a pitiful creature with no desire but to avoid pain. He tried to grab it again, but it avoided his attempts to pin it down. Then he kicked it. Hard. It yelped and cowered from him, limping in agony.

Giorgio stopped. This was wrong. He stood in horror at what he had done. The dog, so beaten down, but it had nowhere else to go. It scampered over to him and curled down in front of his feet. It was no longer the possessed demon. Its appearance turned back and forth, it looked feral and malicious one moment then timid and docile the next.

Only when he reached forward did it ghost on, turning dark and reddish like a molten rock. Its shaggy coat as black as tar. It snarled and hopped back to its feet ready to move. Giorgio stood straight and felt the powerful pull of Malthus Benaire dragging him onwards. There was no resisting.

The door to the center mausoleum showed no discernible point of entry. It was a simple stone block pressed up against the inside of a large frame. Two marble pillars, one and half times his height, stood to both sides with a triangular roof overhanging the flat surface.

The far sides were marble benches, clean and whole with carved sides and flat tops. The rest of the structure towered above him to the back of the door. There seemed no way to get in, yet this was where Malthus wanted him to go. Confusion and annoyance warred within. Then a sudden charge of energy struck him, and Giorgio knew what was needed. He put his hands on the stone, and it grew warm as he pushed. It shifted backwards sliding and grinding against the enclosure around it.

After a few feet it swung back like a door on hinges though no evidence of such a mechanism was present inside. They went through, and a moment later it shut behind them, engulfing them in darkness.

The outline of the walls came into his vision, and some kind of lichen covered them in clumps, though he couldn’t name it. It looked like moss covering the surface of a swamp, glowing and alive. A hallway with similar trappings yawned before them.

Giorgio felt his throat tighten. His knees struggled to keep him upright. Air strained his lungs, his muscles cramped, and his head swam. He felt more human than he had in some time. What gifts were given could be taken away.

The clarion call of an undead lord pulled him onwards. Malthus Benaire was back there somewhere, awaiting his presence, demanding obedience.

Standing sarcophagi met his gaze, opulent stone coffins for only, the aristocracy of the Sea Haven’s elite. Nobles, king’s regents, perhaps Lord Falston was buried nearby. But his tomb might be defiled like the rest, for coffin lids were torn off and tossed away like forgotten garbage. The contents despoiled.

The dried husks of the occupants were strewn about the hallway in a haphazard fashion as if the raider had been looking for something in particular but found nothing worthy of time.

Malthus Benaire was in a large chamber down the dusty steps of a forgotten stairway. The mysterious man bent over a large table. His hat made a familiar shadow upon the back wall behind him. Torches lit the room, hanging from their sconces on the opposite wall. His long cape fell about his shoulders and down to the floor like a pool of pitch.

His arms were in motion, and Giorgio spied an armored cadaver laying on the top of the stone slab, a macabre work station for the magician. Dust and cobwebs covered the royal set of armor, a weighty piece of metal with gold inlayed shoulder pads and a convex chest plate.

“Nice of you to join me, Giorgio. I do find it most complimentary when one is present to witness the work I do here, so very important for the cataloging of mankind. Though, in truth, these specimens have lost much of their potency. Still, there is some history of this land to be found in this place.”

Giorgio stepped onto the floor, the dog cowering on the stairs behind him.

“Although,” Malthus said and seemed to be struggling with something, “I do in fact find the basic stock of this town… to be good.” He laughed and Giorgio heard a loud popping sound followed by a harsh crunch. Malthus laughed again and made a pleasing, cooing sound. “See there my boy? In time, all is possible. Remember this adage: all you need is patience, and the world is yours!”

Giorgio watched as he put something palm sized inside one of the myriad of pouches at his waist, under a series of dark voluminous folds in his vest and shirt. Malthus peered at Giorgio and his companion.

“Ah, Giorgio, what loyalty and devotion you display. Quite admirable. You should be proud.”

Giorgio stepped closer and snapped his fingers at the dog, but it stayed groveling where it was on the stairs. His heart clenched, and his throat shriveled up like dried leaves. “Master… these men… these men hunt me. I cannot shake them. They will find me again.”

“Yes. Shame, really. You had such wonderful potential, my boy. You were an entertaining experiment for what it was. An unusual combination of anger and skill. I wonder how you might have grown under my extended tutelage.”

Giorgio closed his eyes and strained his mind, tearing through the mental cage Malthus Benaire held him in.

“I no longer want this! Release me. You used me.”

Malthus Benaire went still, and the air grew chill. “I use everyone. Consider yourself lucky for having ever been in my presence, pathetic creature. I am as above you as a mountain is to a flower.”

The man stood, and Giorgio was taken aback by the sheer magnitude of his radiating aura. Only a fool would ever believe they could fight such a power. Benaire stepped toward him, and Giorgio caught his breath and stepped back.

“I will not expose my person any longer by association with you, peon. My work is far more important than your pitiful existence. Those men are nothing but savages, scarred by the sun, their brains rattled. I would find nothing in their innards but scorched rocks.”

An overriding fear struck Giorgio at that moment, terrible and all encompassing. There was a collapse within his heart, a deflation of his ego. His strength fled and all that was left was pain and suffering. “Please, master! They’re coming! They’ll get me. You can’t let them take me. Do something!”

Malthus put his hands to the side, and a moment later two massive hounds sprung out of the darkness, growling at Giorgio. They were built like giant mastiffs, snarling and mad. Large, metal studded collars wound tight around their bulging necks, and malice danced in their eyes.

Malthus held one hand up, and Giorgio felt his chest tighten. His breath stolen from him as if he had been punched in the chest with a hammer. Something hummed in his ears, and he went dizzy.

“I’ve wasted enough time chatting with the like of you, my boy. Best of luck to you with these rather tenacious fellows. Impressive. Perhaps, though, you may even eliminate one or two of them in the process. Fare thee well, Giorgio. You were an interesting mix.”

Malthus Benaire was gone.

Giorgio blinked and couldn’t remember where he was or how Malthus had left. One moment he was there, the next gone. But time had passed. All of a sudden Giorgio was sitting on his rump, stunned and dizzy.

Something dripped down his forehead. He reached up and his hand came away bloody. The dog brushed up against him, shivering and mewling like a new born kitten. Giorgio shook his head and tried to stand, but the next moment he was face down on the hard stone. A nauseating wave of dizziness controlled his beaten body.

The dog started barking, and he heard the shouts of many men from above. They were coming, were almost upon him.

Giorgio floundered. He tried to ghost himself but he was daunted. His strings were cut. His legs wouldn’t work, and his head throbbed.

Strong arms grabbed him; people shouted. The dog growled, still fighting for its master. It snarled and barked and snapped at the men who had at last found him. The mutt made a terrifying yelping noise then went silent.

Giorgio yelled, his voice scratchy and hoarse. He struggled against his captors, but it was no use. Someone struck him in the back of the head, and darkness yawned.

* * * * *

Muldor never ran faster than he did that moment. He sprinted towards a side street in the posh neighborhood, finding less than savory cover. This wasn’t a good spot to lose pursuers. This wasn’t his normal section of town. Any Town Watch or police encountered couldn’t be trusted. But there were alternatives in place as it was, and he made a dash towards what might’ve been a bastion of salvation.