Death's Reckoning (26 page)

He ducked down a side street with one story buildings and wide open spaces between them, providing weak cover.

Men shouted. The patter of their footfalls upon the cobblestones resounded, and a terrible pressure pushed onto his chest. He stepped forward, and two separate arms snatched him into the darkness of another corner, almost plucking him off his feet.

Muldor started to speak, startled, but he was hushed into compliance, and a voice he recognized hissed. “Quiet, Muldor! They are coming.”

Anders and another male thief dragged him along and took him as fast as they could towards a simple dwelling. They had set up a small shed near one of the larger apartments for him.

“I never thought I would require your aid this evening,” Muldor said when they closed the door. “But I am thankful for it.” He was out of breath.

Anders gave him a sour look. “You’re in for it now, Muldor. They won’t stop.”

“I think,” Muldor said but was cut off when the door caved in and several armed men jumped inside.

Chaos reigned.

The struggle was brief but worthy of respect as Muldor and the thieves fought hard. Muldor elbowed one town watchmen in the forehead and took pleasure in the way he fell. It was a solid blow, and his thick forearms were suited to such close quartered fighting.

But the press of bodies shoved them backwards into the small room. Anders shouted and stabbed with his knives, but the batons of the police and their disciplined use of force knocked aside most of his stabs. He cut a few hands and arms, but the three of them were outnumbered and overwhelmed in short order.

Muldor put his arms up to protect his face, but they changed tactics and knocked his legs out from under him. He went down to the floor to be pummeled and kicked and knocked almost senseless. In moments they had his arms behind his back and were putting irons around his wrists. Blood dripped from face and scalp. It was over. He was caught.

* * * * *

The crowd was ready.

The expectation of Thruck’s return had them in a frenzy. Posters, signs, and talk circulated among the motley crowd. The news spread faster than the riots had. The city of Murder Haven needed something to cheer about. Morale was low, and as far as most citizens were concerned, ogre ripping men limb from limb was better than watching a conquering army return from a successful campaign in war. There was nothing better than pure, unadulterated violence to boost spirits.

The bleachers filled to capacity two hours before the first match. Thruck was an overwhelming favorite. The organizers had anticipated that, but they needed to fix the betting, so the over flow would work well with the other matches for the evening. They needed to off-set the heavy slant in Thruck’s favor, and it also gave Desmond and Derek more time to sell liquor. Something the two partners were very happy to do. They seemed pleased about the entire situation, and there was a pure, genuine energy to the arena that hadn’t been seen in some time.

Jerrod and the toughs worked crowd control, a somewhat demeaning job in his mind, but his crew were the best there was at handling people. They would earn their money that night for certain. The crowd was incensed, shouting, clapping, and whistling the matches that hadn’t even begun.

Zandor had met with him earlier, telling him how it would all play out. “Now, take it easy on people tonight. We need the richer crowd to buy into this new arena thing. Their coin is more important than the slags that come here every night and put down pennies. The environment should reflect that. Understand?”

Jerrod had told him to go fuck himself, but in truth the kernel that things were changing, including his potential behavior, was foremost in his mind.

Later, Jerrod stood with arms crossed, his stance wide, scanning the crowd of pigs with glaring eyes. This position afforded him a good view of the new layout. The arena floor was a stage set up higher than the original floor had been. The bleachers spilled over with people behind him while more spectators lined up in a long line between him and the stage. It was special seating, for which they paid more.

A group of annoying men stood several feet in front of him, merchants by the look of their rich velvet attire with plenty of rings and other gaudy jewelry that made them look like a bunch of sissies. They smoked, drank, and laughed to each other about some stupid shit they found amusing.

The merchants blocked the walkway for anyone trying to pass by to their seats, but they didn’t seem to notice. People had to squeeze by these men, and the merchants wouldn’t move an inch even if asked.

Jerrod sent one of his toughs earlier to speak with the men and tell them to stay out of the way, and they had complied, but there they were at it again. His annoyance grew as the men laughed and spilled their drinks. One of them bumped into another spectator that was trying to pass by. The merchant didn’t apologize even when the other protested, and in fact, kept laughing and spilling the contents of his mug on the floor. Slob.

Jerrod hoped the slighted man would stop and give him some trouble, but the measly looking man chickened out and walked by. Sissy. Jerrod frowned and called over one of the toughs and tugged him closer by the collar.

“Go tell those little fucks they need to move back and get the hell out of the way. They don’t own this place. We do.”

The tough nodded and walked over. After a short exchange, the merchants looked at him askance. They turned away and ignored him as if nothing had happened. The tough continued to speak with them, but they wouldn’t listen. He turned to Jerrod and shrugged.

People were always so damn intimidated by merchants in this town. They owned too much. Jerrod would have to speak to Marko about that particular tough and get him straightened out. He needed to learn not to take no for an answer. In the meantime, Jerrod needed to show these men who was in charge this evening. They sure as hell weren’t.

He shoved his way through the crowd and stepped up to the group. His presence was hard not to notice, and they stepped back and eyed him with disdain.

“Can I help you?” one them said, smoking a large cigar.

Jerrod pointed at him. “You need to move your ass and get the hell outta the way. We’re trying to run a business here.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Oh really? Run it then.”

A few people tried to get by their position, and Jerrod had to step back to let them pass. It irked him to be controlled by someone else’s whim.

“I’m not telling you again, pal. Get outta the way. It’s crowded in here.”

“So what?”

Another one of the merchants frowned and spoke to Jerrod as if he were a child of simple intelligence. “Look here. Let me explain something to you. We paid extra coin to get a closer view of the arena floor. The bleachers are crowded, and we prefer to stand here away from the crowd.”

Jerrod took a deep breath and ground his teeth. “I don’t give a rat’s ass where you prefer to be standing, bub. I’m tellin’ ya to move.”

They looked down their noses at him, and he resisted the urge to shove those proboscises down their throats. They made no indication to do as instructed. The first man who had spoken smiled and batted his eyes at him.

“Why don’t you run along now, hmmm? We are busy discussing what Thruck will be wearing for his first match.”

Jerrod shifted his weight and made a fist as they turned away from him. What Zandor said about going easy on people that night flashed in his thoughts… so much depended on how the people responded to the opening night with Thruck. They needed to turn a profit fast. The toughs needed to be paid, Jerrod needed to stock up for his retirement, and these assholes were part of that plan according to Zandor. Jerrod gritted his teeth and looked around for a spot that might work better. There was one.

“Look, fellas,” he said to the merchants. “You don’t like the bleachers, fine. But we need to keep this area clear. How ‘bout we put you here?”

A few of the toughs cleared away a section of floor off to the side of the raised platform. It was covered with loose boards and other crap the engineers hadn’t finished clearing away.

The merchants looked nonchalant, and once the space was cleared of debris, they looked more impressed.

“See, that way you gentlemen have a clear view of the action and everybody’s happy. How’s that?”

Jerrod couldn’t believe what he was saying, but there it was tumbling out of his mouth like a flood of sycophantic mutterings from a simpleton. It worked, though. The merchants agreed. One of them went so far as to thank Jerrod for his effort, but the large man had already turned away in disgust at himself, for fear that he might’ve changed his mind and beat them all to hell.

The crowd grew. It wasn’t possible so many people could fit in one area. Jerrod felt claustrophobic surrounded by so many idiots. The merchants’ point had become moot, for there was no room for anyone to move since all available space was taken up by spectators. He and the toughs had to form a line all the way around the fighting space. They had to almost link hands to get people back and away.

“We should bring more men, next time, sir,” Marko said next to him, and Jerrod wanted to smack him. “I’ll form up another group of toughs, with your permission of course.”

Within Jerrod’s mind swirled visions of twisting Zandor’s neck until his head popped off. It would’ve been easy. He was so skinny a girl could wear his pants. This was his fault.

People fussed about behind them, trying to put in closer to the arena stage which was pointless. The toughs were strong men, bar room brawlers and street savvy youngsters that could hold their own in most cases, but the sheer magnitude and physical press of bodies around them was considerable. Jerrod wondered if it were all worth it, considering the situation. There had to be a better way to make money.

There was a potential riot all around them. The past several weeks’ frustration and anger were all strung together with alcohol and a shared mentality between people of like mind and station.

It chilled Jerrod’s blood. Even his murderous nature was taken aback by the sheer hatred and anger brewing around them. He would take the brunt of the pressure from the crowd. Perhaps that was why Zandor picked them.

Jerrod wasn’t so much of a fool to not see he was being used. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have mattered as long as they were being paid, but thus far in this enterprise, there hadn’t been much coin. Zandor kept saying it was coming, but that remained to be seen.

The crowd chanted for Thruck and stomped the ground. Jerrod wondered how well built this lopsided, strange looking structure really was. It might’ve collapsed on them someday, crushing them all under the thousands of boards and nails. That would’ve taught these fools.

As long as he was outside when it happened, to hell with the rest. They could’ve all burned. In fact, Jerrod had his flint on him. This place was ripe for a few sparks.

A man came out of the crowd, shoving people out of the way and came up to Jerrod. He was the head of the normal security force for the arena, named Stirling. He was almost as big as Jerrod but fatter. The slob made a motion with his hand for Jerrod to listen. Jerrod kept his arms crossed and leaned forward.

“We’re all strung out across,” Stirling said. He had to shout over the crowd’s chanting and screaming, and it hurt Jerrod’s ears. “…every man I could. It’s your job to keep them from getting to the stage. Got it?”

“I know my job. You go and do yours.”

Jerrod turned away and Stirling frowned, about to say something else but was wise enough not to push it.

People shoved his back, bumping their elbows and knees with their clumsy movements, spilling ale and stale wine on his shirt. The crowd made bets all the while screaming for Thruck to return.

It was past time to begin. Jerrod thought they might be setting things up to lay off additional betting rules. Maybe the influx of coin was too much to handle. That was a pleasant thought. They had the bean counters in a huff over the huge pile of coin.

The crowd threw things on the arena floor from as far back as the top row of the bleachers, which was the near the ceiling. Security tried to placate them, telling them the matches were set to begin soon, but nobody listened. They shouted and chanted, for the fighter they all wanted to see.

“Thruck! Thruck! Thruck!”

Jerrod grimaced and covered his ears. His head pounded. The night hadn’t even started yet, damn it. At the moment the entire complex seemed about to collapse under the weight of boiling frustration of all those present. Two arena fighters stepped down long ramps from the top of the far wall, each one on a separate ramp from the opposite corner. It was majestic and awe inspiring for anyone not experienced with engineering or architecture.

Most of the crowd that night fit that description, and they roared their approval. Jerrod smirked. Zandor made that little change happen. It fit. It allowed the fighters to arrive in style and stay out of the madness from the floor.

The fighters wore minimal armor, only a shoulder harness made from stacked plates strapped around their chests, shin pads, and gauntlets. They both wore helmets. Their bodies glistened with sweat as if they had practices backstage and held their weapons tight in their hands.

They reached the stage, waving to the crowd and raised their weapons up. One had shield and short sword; the other a huge meat cleaver and a spiked shield. The crowd roared its approval, and even Jerrod had to smile. The fighting pit was back.