Holmes To Dead Men

[Jobe]

(Closed to Krugor)

Darkness pooled and swallowed the landscape as night barred its fangs and took its rightful place as the sobering sun sunk low overhead. I was never particular to either time of day, but I was always fond of the twilight and dawn. As I watched the sun sink below the Coronian hills I found myself wondering the same thing every time I pick up an assignment and catching a moment like this. Is this the end of good ol'e Jack, or is it merely the beginning? And with that I came to the same answer: It didn't matter. One way or another, my mark was going down.

Sitting back against the comfortable leather seat inside an ornate carriage reminiscent of one of my daughter's playthings, I stared into the eyes of my employer, his features shadowed by the low overhead of the carriage, but I could just make out his lesser features. A balding pate with graying lamb chops stretching down the course of his face, his hooded eyes glowing under the burning cinders of the cigar he puffed nonchalantly away at. Thick lips ringed with a permanent red stain that no amount of washing could get off, always giving the appearance of a man who just tasted flesh for the first time and had forgotten to wipe his mouth.

" Mr. Jobe," he said eloquently, for as long as I've known him, Boss Frajalor, as his men simply called him, had always been straight-to-the-point and addressed a person's name like he was announcing someone's reputation to remind himself of it," I trust your aware of why I brought you here?", he said nodding out the carriage to a slumbering city cresting over to the west.

Nodding I offered a small grin and glanced at the city," Yah, but I don't understand why this place? I'm sure I could be of more use back in Radasanth, offing some of your competition," But judging from the Boss's face, I should tread more carefully. I've heard of other hitmen giving him lip and ending up on the wrong side of the gun, and I'd hate to kill an employer that pays so well.

Taking a long draw on his cigar, smoke puffed and hazed the mob boss's features as the fire glowing intently over his face made it look as if I was making a deal with the devil himself. Reaching into the shadows of his side of the carriage, the boss's hand disappeared and I felt myself reflexively palming my favorite knife secretly tucked away in one of the sleeves of my jacket. Regardless of how well Frajalor paid, I wasn't going to be caught off guard. Seeing the faint outline of a thick manila folder clenched in his short, stubby fingers, my grip relaxed and I took it kindly," How many?".

" Eight. Three are your marks, the rest of them are just bodyguards and yes-men who follow them around like cockroaches," he puffed again and then tipped his cigar at the edge of the carriage as he watched me turn the lamp on and begin to thumb through the pages. He continued once I got to the picture of a man startlingly similar to him if the Boss had been one hundred pounds lighter," That hawk-nosed bastard is muscling in on my territory, his name's Philip H. Holmes, calls himself Galmamene for whatever fucking reason. But despite what kind've shithole Cronelocke is, I don't take kindly to people taking business from me.".

The hawk-nosed man had deepset eyes covered up by steel-rim glasses, same balding pate, and he had to be in his late thirties, and judging by the photo he looked as if he was going to kick it before I even managed to get to him. Easy money, I guess. Reading through the pages I nodded," I see Morris is still doing work for you. Didn't think he'd be into this kind've stuff ever since he got into bed with that eldritch guy.".

Of course I was referring to Morris Locke, I must've seen his handwriting a thousand times, and I could probably tell it was his recon even if I was blindfolded and read the report. The truth was, Morris and I understood the business completely, and a lawyer and a hitman often were considered two sides of the same coin back where I was from. But, ever since he was assigned to negotiate with this guy, Saxon he calls him, who can bend shadows to his will, I've lost a little respect for the guy. I guess I was right when I first met Morris, being a lawyer on Althanas alone doesn't pay the bills.

The mob boss's brow crinkled in mild surprise and he said off-handedly," Yeah, he went back to Radasanth with a big fat wad of cash. This is bigger then we all thought.". Gesturing to the photo of several long-wise crates, big enough to hold a body in, stacked in rows in an unfamiliar warehouse. If it had been a couple years earlier, I wouldn't have thought to guess that there were actual stiffs in those crates," He's shipping those out as we speak, undercutting my price by twenty percent.".

" Seems to be a little big for a necromancer in a small pond, where'd he get the bodies?", I asked curiously. It was true, regardless of whether or not this 'Galmamene' was a grave robber, I couldn't see where he'd find all the bodies in Corone.

" Civil war," he reminded me pointedly, his eyes glowing reverently as he mouthed the words, out of anybody who had made a profit on the Coronian Civil War, it had to be the grave robbers and the arms dealers. As long as it had kept on, Frajalor would be stuffing his pockets by the fist full as he supplied Althanas as a whole with bodies to every necromancer that dared to show his ugly face," I want him and his partners dead. I don't care how you do it, just as long as it's quiet. By the end of next week Cronelocke is going to be under lockdown until whatever squabble they're having with the soldiers is sorted out. Holmes will be shipping those bodies out by the ton before it closes, and if he is able to get those corpses on the market he'll ruin me.".

Nodding, I closed the folder and smiled apologetically," It should take about a day to get inside with security that tight. With the guard schedules here I should be able to slip in. Won't take more then three days to make Mr. Philip Holmes here into a corpse.".

The entrepreneur smiled at my jest, his eyes cold and hard with age. Bumbling along the road for so long I didn't notice we had gotten to my stop until I heard voices outside and the sudden stillness. Slowly one of Frajalor's boys moved to the sable-silk door and snapped it open, bowing low with a cocky look on his face. Moving to the edge I felt a beefy hand grip my shoulder. If it had been anybody but Frajalor I would've clobbered him," It's settled. Four days. Should you kill Philip, his partner Isaac, and his bodyguard Nathan Sykes, you'll be one thousand gold pieces richer, eh?".

Slipping out of the carriage with a nod, I pulled my stocking cap low over my ears; it was getting chilly this time of year. I heard the carriage door slam shut when I saw one of the boss's cronies stop me. Handling a thick, dark box the crony proffered it to me and nodded to the carriage," Boss wants ya' to take pictures of yer work and of the warehouses. Needs confirmation and the locations so he can start exportin' immediately. Told me to say if you did this, he'll give ya' a nice healthy bonus.".

Lugging the cumbersome case I growled, usually I wouldn't mind taking confirmation pictures of my work where back home there were digital cameras the size of a button were easy to smuggle, but as I knew the moment I woke upon the Coronian beachead, nothing about Althanas is ever simple. Slowly turning to the dusty streets I noticed the scaffolding and blocks of stone towering over the city buildings just a mile or so off the hill I was standing on.

It was then that I realized from the oil-lamps that hung low in the streets to the sentries that stood at attention that I needed to work quickly. Making my way down the dusty road I watched the carriage whizz past me and make a U-turn back to Radasanth. Not even Frajalor would be caught dead in a place like Cronelocke.

***

[Krugor]

[ Eluriand, a week ago… ]

The streets of the Elven capital were buzzing with people moving about their own business. Self-absorbed to the point where they wouldn’t even notice another person until they bumped into it, the Elves took care of their daily jobs. Moving from customer to customer the local baker charged with his cart down the old, wobbly main road to get there on time. Loafs of bread fell of the cart on a regular basis and were immediately devoured by the lesser fortunate living on the streets. A broad man, dressed in a full steel chainmail and carrying a slender spear in his ageing hands pushed aside the street bums, telling them to buzz off. It was obvious that the man had seen better days when he walked away grumbling, mumbling something about ‘the good old days’. But he didn’t let that show to the outside world as he greeted a passing High Bard on a friendly tone. The High Bard was dressed in fine, fiery red, spider-silk robes, with a silvery staff clenched in his hands. He had a hard time passing through the busy streets but didn’t seem to mind. The smile on his face showed his appreciation for the hard working citizens of Eluriand.

Strange how such a friendly smile could turn into pure anger in just a millisecond. Emotions were quite complicated and up until this day there hadn’t been a single creature who could master them all. It wasn’t that strange however, when you realized why the High Bard suddenly bursted into a rage that caused all of the employees of the Bladesinger’s Guild to swarm around him.

“Heya! Nice to see you again, sir!” a joyful voice cried out.

The High Bard sunk his face deep into his hands as he made noises that sounded much like tears of despairs. The Bladesingers eased their battle stances as they noticed the bracelets on the person closing in. One of them even dared to joke about the High Bard and his fear for the oncoming person. Needless to say he could collect his final paycheck that very instant and spent the rest of his days raising cattle.

“I just knew I should’ve stayed in bed this day…” he whispered to himself as the High Bard shook Krugor’s hand.

“Could you please point me to the Bladesinger’s office? I seem to have got myself lost, again”.

Realizing he couldn’t do anything about the skeleton walking the streets of his beloved city, as he had been granted unlimited access, the High Bard sighed deeply and motioned for the undead to follow him. It had been a great day so far, but this tiny unfortunate incident couldn’t mean anything good. Deciding it would be wiser to keep quiet and pray to the Gods for a quick passage of time he escorted the skeleton through the streets without saying a single word. Krugor however went on and on about his shiny new bracers and how he would come to visit the High Bard every day from now.

“Here it is!” the old man suddenly said as he stopped abruptly in front an intimidating building. Shaped like a small castle it towered over every other building in the neighborhood. The wooden sign in front read ‘Bladesinger’s Guild Office’. And before Krugor even got a chance to thank the man, the High Bard sped away, back into the crowded streets of Eluriand.
Assuming such an important man had better things to do than to linger around Krugor didn’t pay the quick getaway any mind. He walked up the stone steps and opened the thick, wooden door. It brought back memories of the last time he was there. Chained, bruised and arrested for things he didn’t do. Back then the entire building had looked a lot more impressive. This time around the hallway looked quite inviting. Torches decorated the walls and a mile-long carpet softened the otherwise cold, granite floor. Knowing where to look Krugor paced through the hallway and opened the third door on the right.

“Hello there!” he yelled as he rudely charged into the room. “Long time, no see!”

[ Cronelocke, present time… ]

Hours after the sun had traded places with the moon two figures closed in on the city of Cronelocke. All of its citizens were deeply asleep and only a handful of Corone soldiers were still awake and following orders. On hands and knees the two figures crouched towards the barrier formed by the armed men. The city was surrounded and it was obvious that entering it would be greatly discouraged by the ones forming the barrier. Using the darkness of the night and nature’s own hiding places the couple got into position a few feet away from the Corone militants.

“Alright, now listen closely” one of the men said. He was dressed in a full plate armor and carried a longsword at his side. A fiery red cape was wrapped tightly around him, protecting his body from the cold night. Locks of grey and silvery hair revealed his true age, though he still wore his own golden spiked hair with pride. His pointy ears were perfectly attuned to his surroundings, not even the smallest of ants would pass by him unnoticed.

“This is going to be tough” he continued “We need to get past those soldiers”

“Why is Raiaera sticking its nose in Corone business again, Sidrall?” the other asked. He was dressed in a linen vest and shorts. A thick backpack and a slender plynt staff were part of his equipment.

“I already told you, Krugor. This is personal. Besides, you wouldn’t understand anyway. I only asked you to come since I know this will interest you too” the Elf replied “And maybe, just maybe, you could prove useful to me”

[Jobe]

As I crouched low in the shadows of the scaffolding overhead, I could feel my hand straying towards my knife. Some things never change, I mused with a smirk. The bated breath of anticipation, the quickened beat of my heart as it thumped in my ears, growing louder and louder. I ran the scheduling of the guards with a fine-toothed comb; there'd be no mishaps on my end.

There were unwritten rules to getting a disguise, some of them important, some of them less. After years in the business, I had it down to a science. First, you needed a fall man, rarely have I ever had a disguise that I didn't have to take by force. Second, you needed to be alone; there were few greater fuck ups in breaking into some place then to blow your cover trying to ice a guy for his suit. Lastly, it had to be quick, and the less blood involved, the cleaner your disguise is gonna be.

Thump.. Thump.. Thump..

It was getting louder now, and I knew it was almost reaping hour. Surveying the area again, more out of habit then anything else, I focused. Huddled a few yards off in the flat lands between the city and the forest, a group of guards sat by a fire, all appeared to be drunk stupid. Makeshift tents cluttered the area where other guards sat across the landscape, each spaced far enough apart that I had narrowly gotten caught the first time I tried to get to the wall. Turning my attention farther to the right, my gaze stayed affixed to a lone sentry slowly pacing around his perimeter, his footsteps growing louder as he gradually crawled over the grassy plateau to my area. The fool never even considered carrying a torch with him; it'd be his fatal mistake.

Thump.. Thump.. Thump..

My mind squirmed as it tried to wrestle with the anticipation, the dreaded wait only making the result all the sweeter. This would have to be quick, I carefully reminded myself. For such a high tension situation, one that had caused some politician back in the higher echelon of Corones' magistrate to get a fire lit under their ass, the security here was a fucking joke. Aside from the camp perimeters, the sentries were lazy and the only real threat was inside the city, where the bulk of the guards sat in a new barracks they built from the ground up a few days after they got here. Amidst the camps, there were longhouses where the builders slept, and after the first day of scouting, I could already tell what kind of workforce Corone decided to conscript for something like this.

Slaves.

Well, technically indentured servants, but poverty and lack of freedom often go hand in hand. I didn't realize it until I saw the brand marks upon a worker's back, a symbol quite familiar to me. It had belonged to the son of a rich banker I had killed a few months back, and those aristocrats were the rare type of people that I took a certain civic pleasure in ridding the world of. Feeling my mind drift too far, I wrenched it back as I could see the outline of the guard, his head bobbing as he grew closer.. and closer. Holding my garrote taught until I even suspected the steel strand of thread would snap, I waited longingly.

Having an eye for cataloging my victims, I briefly took it in as the torchlight affixed to the wall that shadowed my position hit the drunken patrolman. Standing at medium build, the man's gut hanged over his belt, his jerkin a size too small and the bell-shaped breastplate covering his chest would be his only saving grace if I were an amateur. The fat rolls that hid his beady little eyes that were shadowed under his helmet made his appearance suspicious. What was it about guards and gluttony?

Broken from my trance, I lunged forward as the sentry turned his back to me, the silvery strand of the garrote disappearing over his helm and around his neck. I yanked him close to me as I felt him give one final wheeze of surprise, his hand jutting to his sword belt but stopping midway as his brain struggled to find a way out and I took the opportunity to push him face first into the shadows, landing with a dull thud. Writhing like a worm, he resisted, they always did. But with my knee pinning him to the ground by the small of his back, there was little he could do to save his wretched life.

Again and again he bucked as I felt a sudden exasperation pass through my lips, and I could almost feel his eyes bulge under the pressure. Even under this light, I knew the signs, the poor bastard's face turning a shade darker, his body flopping around like a fish out of water. I could smell the fumes of the alcohol wisp around my nostrils; the man was clearly drunk out of his gourd. His hands frantically scratched and clawed at my denim pants, each time growing weaker and weaker. There were to be no counters to this fight.

Needs to be quick!, my mind called out to the rest of my body, the exhilarating rush coming from the awaited kill slowing to a steady trickle. Feeling my hands, hot with tension, grip harder, I pulled up to the point I was sure this poor sonuva bitch resembled a banana, then I gave I sharp jerk to the left and heard a resilient crack as the man's neck snapped. Releasing my grip, I let the man's body fall gently to the ground, his head lolling awkwardly to the side.

Looking up and seeing no sign of our little dance of death reaching the ears of the guards tucked away in the camps, I shoved my garrote back into my dark leather duster and wrenched the legs of the corpse from the ground. Carefully dragging him across the wet grass, the sentry and I made one final trip around the large block of masonry to the other side where the city was only within spitting distance. Dropping him to the ground I worked fast, the warmth of the duster leaving my arms and the sight of my faded striped shirt coming into sight as I plucked each piece of armor off the corpse with great care.

Within minutes I felt suited in garments that were about half a size bigger then I was, but the iron-clad gauntlets, greaves, and breastplate held them snug around my body. Pushing the helmet down around my face I growled," tight fit.". Quickly stashing my belongings inside one of the barrels, I turned to the corpse, it's shadowed face frozen in terror. Pulling him over my shoulders, I heaved the man once known as Thurman Hills, according to the scheduling anyway, into an empty crate and shut the lid tight.

Taking one last look at my surroundings, I adjusted my gauntlets and plucked the camera from its hiding place. Pushing clumsily forward across the slick grass, I too began to feel like a fish out of water; a shark among the many schools of fish. It wouldn't be long now.

***