Headhunter

“I’m going to lose,” said Mazon. He shuddered as a breeze crept through the alley. The cold sweat on his back made the turtleneck sticky and the leather vest over it even more uncomfortable. 

“Probably,” said Cloose. He had his back to the wall opposite Mazon. The sulfur from the match he lit stunk as he put it to the pipe balanced between his teeth. He took a puff and stomped the match into the dirt. “But you’re not accounting for luck. I’ve seen guys twice your size lose.”

“But have you ever seen a guy like me win?” asked Mazon. Cloose stood silent, staring at the blackened match wedged between loose cobblestones. Mazon shuddered again, rubbed his exposed knuckles. “Should have worn the regular gloves.”

“Bad idea. Fingered gloves get you killed. Trust me. Your fingers will tear but the skin gets better traction,” Cloose said with that tone of his, the same one he always put on during the games; better than the rest of them. Mazon knew he couldn’t call him out on it - it was true. 

“I’m going to lose,” Mazon said again, watching his breath creep from his mouth and into the open air. He didn’t think January was a practical month to play the game in. If we could just skip it, we’d be golden. We don’t get much snow in February, he thought. Even if he were to give Cloose a piece of his mind, Cloose’s opinion wouldn’t matter in the slightest. The boys that played the game would have a bigger say in whether it went on or not. If it came to it, a majority vote would be called, the answer chosen and that would be that. Mazon knew a vote would be pointless; the boys loved the game too much.

“Just remember what you’ve been told and give it your best. Anything can happen today,” said Cloose, letting a puff from his lungs and watching it float up the gap between the buildings, disappearing into the white sky above. “Damn cold. Probably gonna snow soon.”

Before Mazon could respond, they heard the voices on the southern end of the alley. There they were, at least some of them. Mazon recognized each of them as they shook hands with Cloose, giving stiff hugs and exchanging chirps.

“You’ll never run a rooftop with that gut, Bandy,” said Weasel, the blond-haired one with not nearly enough meat on his bones. When he laughed, his lips curled, displaying the teeth he’d lost playing the game.

“Fuck ya’, Weas,” said Bandy, pot-belly gut jiggling with every word. His fingers were sausages, the nails lined with soot and grease. “Don’t need ta run the roovs. Just worreh ‘bout seein’ me blockin’ the prize.”

It was typical of them to roll the banter out early; get the juices flowing and everyone forgets about the stakes. All they want, dare we say need, is that prize. Mazon was greeted by a few but kept to himself. He liked to study them. Don’t think I’ll have trouble outrunning Bandy, he thought. Gotta watch out for Syllia, though. He looked at her, the tall and impressively fit girl in the middle of the crowd, easy to spot thanks to her stark white hair. She’d won four games prior and word had spread. Folks were starting to call her the Phantom of Kynstroll. After a few minutes, Cloose stepped back and gave a piercing whistle.

“All right, you lollies,” he said, pulling the cap out of his back pocket and placing it on his head. “Are you ready?” An uproar from the small crowd. They were off, following Cloose toward the opposite side of the alley. He checked the corners, waved them through and they crossed the street. The Silver District hadn’t looked lustrous for years and it certainly didn’t now. The old statues cried their mossy tears and the gargoyles mocked them from the towering church keeps above. A fence that once acted as the protective barrier between the city and the Holstien Church now lay poor in the weeds of the courtyard. They stepped beyond it, ducking into two more alleys and ending up at the docks.

Like most of Kynstroll, they’d seen better days. Small dinghies rocked gently in the foamy tide, gull feathers and fish stink griming the walkways. The sun was obscured by the clouds but what light managed to break through gave the gray ocean a delicate glimmer. Mazon smiled when he saw it and frowned when he saw Ike.

Another group was heading toward them. Mazon counted sixteen heads bobbing with excitement. Most of the faces were unfamiliar to him but there were a few that had well-earned renown. Jaxwin, the black-haired bastard of a spinster that was known for cheating. Hamish, the long-nosed son of the inn’s proprietor, was born intelligent and played with a gusto that matched his brains. Finally, Ike; the fittest of them all. He stood at six feet exactly, furrowed brow casting a shadow over all of them. His cheeks were sunken and his hand made a loud clap when he shook Cloose’s.

“How are you?” Ike asked, staring at Cloose with unblinking eyes.

“Not bad myself, high and mighty,” said Cloose, shooting him a wink. “Yourself?”

“Fine by our standards,” Ike said, shooting the crowd behind him a nod. “Feeling good today.”

“Got your payment?” Cloose said, outstretching a hand. The small leather pouch Ike put in Cloose’s palm jingled as he closed his fingers around it and gave it a small shake.

“That’s everyone’s,” Ike said. “Even mine.” There was a collective, hushed groan from Cloose’s group. Ike didn’t play the game often, but when he did, he always won. Mazon watched them whisper to each other, trading what he assumed were strategies. He felt nauseous, his mouth tingling with sour saliva. 

“All right,” said Cloose, raising his voice. “Listen up. I’ve got all your payments. We can proceed with today’s game.” The crowd cheered while Mazon checked the street corners. The Purple Guard was nowhere in sight, but that meant nothing. They were trained to listen, always communicating through whistle calls. He shuddered at the thought. A snowflake kissed his cheek and he looked up at the clouds. The snow came down like powdered sugar, flaky and sticking to the ground.

“Today’s target is a big one,” said Cloose. The crowd grew silent. The debriefing set their teeth on edge. “The target is St. Phillipe Marshika, Priest of the Old Granger Church on the west side of the city. Thankfully for you, his home isn’t too far. Just up there.” Cloose turned to his left and pointed. Their attention was drawn to a steep cliffside where a small community of homes sat surrounding a couple of old mansions. “The building with the gold trim and the domed ceiling on its southern side. Should be a pretty easy one given the circumstances. Do I need to go over the rules with you?” Everyone seemed to shake their heads. Mazon followed suit, if reluctant at first. 

“Alright. Take your tool,” said Cloose, kicking at a trunk behind his feet. Mazon hadn’t noticed it was there until now. The groups clamored at the contents, pulling items one by one. Mazon grabbed the last one; the old crowbar was heavy in his hand. He couldn’t tell if it was splattered with blood or rust; thinking about it brought another wave of nervous nausea. Cloose stepped back and raised his left hand. “Just as a reminder, you know what qualifies you for the win. If both items are there, you only get to take one. Prize goes to whoever brings a trophy back to me. You get two tags with those crowbars. You fall and you’re out. Ready?” The crowd obliged. Mazon’s bowels threatened to loosen. Cloose rang the small jingle bell in his hand and they were off.

Mazon took himself by surprise when he found his feet moved. The rest of the players dashed ahead, sprinting in a sea of arms and legs, all dressed in dark clothing like a cluster of ants swarming around a dead insect. They kicked at each other, some swinging their crowbars early. A few had taken to the docks, leaping from one to the next with incredible precision. Someone fell in the water; a misstep perhaps. Mazon watched Syllia on the docks as he ran, the white-haired girl jumping like gravity hadn’t acknowledged her existence. Another player, a stocky red-haired kid ran towards her, meeting her where the docks connected to the mainland. He swung, missing multiple times before Syllia’s crowbar connected to his temple. His scream was cut off when he fell into the water. Syllia turned, sprinting into a nearby alley. Certainly a phantom, Mazon thought.

The noise they made was cacophonous and rowdy. Their cries rang through the streets, cheers and sudden whimpers of injury. Mazon found two bodies when sprinting through an alley, one unconscious and another boy cradling a broken leg. He kept running, fighting the urge to help him. A third body, this time falling from the towering roof above. She came down with a crash, at Mazon’s feet. He finally let his stomach empty itself into a crate nearby before continuing. His mind blurred, detached from the world around him. He was in it now; nothing mattered but the prize. 

The alleys cleared up and a flood of players neared the Fountain of Gozman, founder of the University of Shellhark. There he stood in the center of the waterless fountain, Hurst Gozman himself, pointing a marble sword to the sky. The statue’s head was gone, a seagull perched on the neck’s stump, painted white with bird shit. Jaxwin tackled someone and took his crowbar, leaving the player unconscious. Mazon heard Bandy shouting in pain to his right, watched a crowbar sink into the back of his head. Weasel stopped in his tracks, sprinted forward, and killed the brown-haired kid where he stood. He was crying, muttering to himself about Bandy when he started moving again.

Mazon stared at the towering hill as he approached. An avenue stretched upward, flanked by rows of houses studded with pigeons and sconces long since extinguished. The harmony of shoes against cobblestone and shouting was deafening but Mazon held his distraction. His eyes were affixed to the gold-trimmed mansion on the hill. One body after another fell to the streets, some rolling back down the steep incline. Spooked by their arrival, a murder of crows fluttered their wings and took to the sky, relocating somewhere on the other side of the abandoned settlement. 

There it was; the manor. It was massive and tattered, but even now, the infrastructure managed to keep it standing. Four stories above the ground, the ceiling was studded with snarling gargoyles, the domed ceiling on the south side cascading even higher, now completely coated in gray snow. The windows were laced with iron bars, the front door padlocked. The entirety of the estate was surrounded by a wicked metal fence that looked, from what Mazon could estimate, to be towering above fifteen feet.

The whistles came when they neared the manor. Behind them, a crowd had gathered at the base of the hill. They carried torches, drew swords, and were accompanied by barking mastiffs. Mazon squinted to see them. Purple robes, he thought. The players sprinted harder as the dogs were freed from their leashes. 

Mazon saw Ike jump and grab the fence, pulling himself over easily. Syllia had a harder time but pushed through. Weasel found a gap under the leftmost side of the fence, crawling under. As Mazon followed him, the dogs drew closer. One of the mutts stuck its snout through the fence as he reached the other side, snarling and foaming at its lips. Mazon saw Hamish’s strained face as a mastiff pulled at his right calf, wrenching him from the fence.

The guards came soon after, fumbling with keys to get the gate open. Mazon had taken off, keeping his attention on the holy manor. He thought he saw Syllia enter through a window on the side. Ike was yanking at the door when someone took a swing at him. He ducked and grabbed him by the neck, throwing him into the door. It broke from its hinges, the nameless player collapsing onto it. Ike gave his face a good swing with the crowbar before charging into the home. Mazon followed with reluctance. His hands were sweating, crowbar slippery in his grasp.

Screams came from higher floors as he entered the parlor. Someone fell from the second floor, bringing a broken banister with him. His neck broke. The footsteps above rumbled like a thunderstorm. Mazon knew he wouldn’t be up there. He turned into a dining area and to the back of the manor, finding the kitchen. The hatch within the floor wasn’t hard to find. With his crowbar, he pried the floorboard up and saw the rickety old steps leading below. He stepped below, shutting the hatch behind him.

The torches were already lit. They lined the walls, burning bright enough for Mazon to find the chamber at the end of the hall. The coffin sat at the center of the room, hand-carved and laced with gold. Surrounding it were jars filled with wine, withered flowers, and stacks of golden trinkets. It smelled of dead lavender and dust. Mazon stepped forward, read the inscription on the lid:

HERE LIES

Saint Phillipe Marshika

Beloved Friar and Neighbor

569 P.T. - 643 P.T

Mazon stabbed the crowbar into the gap between the lid and the coffin. He worked for a few minutes, walking to the other side to pry all the nails loose. The lid popped and with a shove, clattered to the ground. From the inside of the coffin stared the eyeless sockets of Saint Marshika. What remained of his hair was long and gray, mouth locked in a lipless grin. Mazon stared for longer than he needed to.

Laced between Marshika’s bony fingers was a golden chain and connected to it a medallion studded with blood-red rubies and four sapphire stones. Etched into the center were the words Mors ad infideles. “Death to the Unfaithful”. Mazon had barely lifted his hand to reach for it when his vision blurred. The crowbar came down on his head with a pop and he fell to the floor, hugging his scalp as tears welled in his eyes. 

“I’m impressed by you, Mazon,” said the blurry shape standing before him. Mazon knew it to be Ike. No one else held that type of composure. “Especially for this being your first time.”

“Hopefully it’s my last,” Mazon said, rolling over and biting his lip. Ike chuckled and bent over the coffin. Through the blurriness, Mazon saw the golden chain dangling in his grasp. 

“That’s not for me to decide,” Ike said, dropping his crowbar. The clatter it made was deafening. “I got my two hits in. Good luck, kid.” Then he was gone, a recession of footsteps down the flame-lit hall. Mazon coughed, sat in silence until he stopped seeing double. He picked up the crowbar, looked at the body. 

“Sorry about this,” he said, placing two fingers in the eye sockets. With one hard tug, the head came loose. He matched its cold, lifeless stare. “I’m not gonna lose.” And with that, he headed back down the hallway.

___________________________________________

“I don’t think he’s gonna show up,” said Ike, slurping on a spoonful of soup. The fire popped and glowed, sizzling as snowflakes drifted into its range. The snow had come down all evening, a quarter-foot now stuck to the ground. Cloose was standing opposite Ike, watching the paths surrounding the Web Centre, as they called it. Six alleys led to this one section, a forgotten abbey that sat below sea level. Thankfully, the sea hadn’t touched the place in years. A few players sat around the fire, nursing their wounds.

“He put up a good fight, Cloose,” Syllia said, nursing the purple bruise forming around the goose egg on her forehead. “Maybe the guards got him.”

“Maybe,” Cloose whispered. He puffed on his pipe, shivering in the cold. He sighed and turned to sit with the players. “Guess you win the pool then, Ike.” He tossed Ike a bigger pouch than before. The entrance fees jingled inside. 

“You get half,” said Mazon, stepping out of the northern alley. They all watched as he limped toward the fire. Cloose, usually stern, smiled with relief. Mazon stepped to him, set the skull in his lap. Cloose examined it closely then kissed its shriveled forehead.

“Well done, Mazon,” said Cloose. He eyed Ike and nodded at him. Ike stood and poured half the coins into Mazon’s hand. 

“Congratulations,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. Mazon nodded, hobbling over to Cloose’s side. He poured himself a bowl of stew from the cauldron gently swaying over the open fire. They sat there, eating and healing, watching the snowfall. Somewhere to the east, a dog howled in a lower neighborhood, prompting other hounds to chime in. Eventually, Mazon cleared his throat to speak.

“So,” he said, turning to Cloose with a smile that read confidence. “When’s the next game?”