Murder Haven: Den of Thieves Read online

  Murder Haven: Den of Thieves

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About The Author

  Murder Haven: Den of Thieves

  Book One

  By

  Will Molinar

  Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2015

  All rights reserved.

  © 2015 Will Molinar

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Other Books by Will Molinar

  * * * MURDER HAVEN SERIES* * *

  Den of Thieves

  Gallows Pole

  Death’s Reckoning

  Rogues Gallery

  Lair of Killers

  Prologue

  The smell of salt water, brine, and the stink of the ocean wafted from the wharf to a lone man, reaching even to his height so far above the city. From his perch on the cliff, the port looked no further than a stone’s throw away, but it was a deceptive distance.

  A maze-like stretch of switchbacks and trails behind him hampered the ability of any man to make his way to the cliff’s edge. Heavy foliage, loose rocks, and broken branches littered the sloping ground. It would take a hardy man, with steady determination, a good two hours to reach the city and its sprawling docks, and that’s only with proper knowledge of the terrain.

  Goodwin Turner’s face was thick with a stubby beard. It had been too long since his last shave. Too long to recount; perhaps a week.

  The last several days left a hazy film over his mind. Hunger gnawed at his gut. The wilderness spread behind him, yet he lacked the skills to make the best of it. His bloodshot eyes peered through a curtain of fog surrounding the town.

  The bay was enormous, stretching to his left. The western sway gave way to dozens of ships, all jostling for position on the dock in order to spill their wares upon the city’s inhabitants.

  The vestiges of sails, masts taller than most buildings in the civilized world, pushed through the fog like a net. A crow’s nest on the tip of a galleon poked out through the mist. The familiar creak and grind of ships dropping anchor filtered up, where the unwashed bodies of hundreds of dregs worked there stinking and bemoaning pitiful lives.

  To his right, along the further most edge of his vision lay the Southern Docks, its smaller brother.

  Signal flares lit up like giant lightning bugs with bright yellows, reds and greens from the line stretching far to the west, a sign that a ship needed to port soon due to technical reasons or a demand of call.

  Longing griped Goodwin Turner’s heart. He was as close to Sea Haven as Turner dared, the city of his birth.

  A different smell reached him, and he looked behind him. There was smoke in the forest. A trill of fear raced through him. The trees began fifty paces beyond the edge of the cliff. Tall pines, packed together with heavy cones drooping the branches, spread around him. On the forest’s carpet lay their needles, overlapped like mounds of hay.

  Above, to his right, a plume of smoke wafted, rising and widening as it dissipated into the atmosphere. It twisted and turned in the air like a wayward spirit rejoining nature’s embrace.

  Curiosity overruled his fear, and the man without a home walked towards it. Its smell and potency meant that whoever it was knew how to make a proper fire. Perhaps some lonely traveler had found his site and decided to join the camp. Or it was a band of hunters with fresh game, and willing to share.

  Turner patted his chest, feeling nothing but empty bone and threadbare clothes where a knife might be. He picked his way across the forest floor; pine needles crunched and snapped under his leather boots. The old ways of moving, silent and quick, faded from him with the thought of food.

  It mattered little, for they knew.

  The strong smell of cooked meat grew more intense with each passing step. In between two looming pines was a clearing. His camp was nothing more than a haphazard collection of branches strung together to make a pathetic attempt at a lean-to, covered by a shabby blanket he’d found two days ago.

  But Turner did not walk into his own camp, for caution held him back. He hid behind a tree and saw a man squatting on the other side of a pulsing fire. By the looks of him, the man appeared to be a physical specimen; heavy, yet athletic and spry. There was something about him that was unnerving. The casual way he sat on his heels, so calm and self-assured, yet underneath lay a coiled spring. The stranger dressed all in black, with heavy boots covered in mud, and studded armor bits adorning his chest and shoulders.

  Gnarled fingers reached up and rubbed short stubbles atop his thick head, and then down over harsh features with a permanent scowl. Turner saw the gloves the interloper wore, his heart leapt with hope for a moment, so he revealed himself from the trees. The gloves were of his trade, a pickpocket’s gloves, cut from the second knuckles down.

  The man behind the fire studied him for a moment then grunted and shook his head. He spoke with a voice thick with a northern accent, choppy and guttural. “You ain’t much to look at. They told me you was a skinny bastard. They were right.” The stranger pointed at the spit hanging over the fire and gestured for Turner to sit. A slain animal bubbled and cracked as the fire finished its work. “Almost ready.”

  Turner licked his lips but didn’t move. The other man was still a stranger. A sword hung at his belt, a one and half handed bastard sword that looked well used. He grabbed the charred meat and cut at its flesh.

  The man grunted again and pointed to a spot on the ground in front of the campfire.

  “Go ahead, fella, have a seat. You need some food by the looks of ya. A man can’t think straight when his belly’s empty. You listen to that grumbling more than what’s said by someone else, yeah?”

  Turner took a deep breath and acquiesced.

  The ground was damp, as it had rained the night before. It felt crunchy with all the needles under his rump. The other man handed over some of the meat from a good sized rabbit, juicy and hot. Melted fat dribbled down his chin as Turner bit into it, and though it stung, he didn’t care.

  The stranger licked his lips after ripping into his own meal. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good, that. Feels nice ta have something warm to eat, don’t it?”

  Despite himself and the continued unease dwelling in his thoughts, Turner nodded. His stomach lurched as it took the acquired sustenance, and he realized at that moment how hungry he’d been.
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  The other, rough looking man finished his meal in large bites and dropped the grizzled remains into the sputtering fire. The skin leftover burned and popped from the heat while the bones greyed. The man stared at it for a few moments then looked up, with a different expression on his face. His eyes were hard.

  “Your name’s Turner,” he said.

  Turner felt his throat constrict. He managed to swallow past the lump and nodded, “Yes, it is.”

  The other man sat up, patting his beefy chest. “Name’s Jerrod.”

  Turner had heard the name, but kept his face neutral. Jerrod narrowed his eyes and searched Turner for some reaction, but none came.

  Jerrod shrugged. “Well, now that we got that outta the way, we have some business to deal with.”

  Adrenaline pumped. Turner threw his roasted rabbit in Jerrod’s face. The larger man grunted and laughed while Turner dashed off for the edge of the tree line. After mere seconds, his breathing was heavy; fear and shock gripped his heart. He ran to the left, sprinting over loose rocks dodging in between the pines, and jumping over several broken branches along the way.

  The flash of fresh pines colored his vision. Needles and small branches snapped under foot. The sharp rocks tugged through the bottom of his thin boots. He had no idea where he was or how far away that demon might be.

  He slipped on a wet patch of ground and flailed his arms to arrest his fall. His hand struck the side of a tree, and harsh bark ripped into his palm as he hit the ground, flat on his face. Gasping, he held the torn hand to his chest, breathing like an overworked bellows.

  The pulse of adrenaline raced through his veins, and it blunted the pain in his hand. He panted and sat up to his knees, looking around. Only the endless expanse of forest watched him.

  Nothing.

  Turner stood, still holding his throbbing hand and breathed easier. Perhaps he lost him. There was no way the heavier man could have kept close enough to him, for Turner was the quickest thief in town.

  But a brawny hand slapped the back of Turner’s neck and clamped down hard. Wincing and gurgling, Turner struggled in a futile effort, for the grip’s strength was unbelievable. He twisted and turned, swatting at Jerrod’s arm, but it was no use.

  Jerrod laughed and knocked aside the puny blows. “Easy now, son! This won’t take long.”

  His entire body shifted around, and his face smashed into the nearest tree. His nose flattened against his face and crunched. Ears rang as Jerrod jerked him around again. His huge hands gripped the sides of his neck, clamping hard.

  Turner gagged and scratched at the arms that held him, but his already depleted strength was fading fast.

  “Don’t you struggle. There, almost finished.”

  Turner’s vision blurred as Jerrod bent his shoulders down and lurched over him, planting his feet and gaining leverage. Black spots alighted into Turner’s eyes, and a humming increased in his ears with every passing second.

  The last sound he ever heard was the crack of his own neck.

  Chapter One

  The ink on his fingers grew thick, yet Muldor kept writing. The deep lines of black along the edges of his callused digits filled in more and more as the days went on. Two fingers on his left hand were crusted with it, and four on his right. He dipped his quill back in his ink pot.

  The Merchants Guild’s accountant finished another page, dumped salt over it, and placed it on the finished pile with many others. Another sheet posed a different problem, and Muldor realized he needed a different notebook, last month’s ledger report.

  Muldor sighed and made a note to tell Dock Master Lawson to get his reports to The Guild on time.

  His desk was large and made of the sturdiest oak, thick and heavy like a battering ram. The edges were worn, smoothed by his constant contact. Down by his elbows it was even warped and bent. Years ago a groove had been creased into the wood by his posture. The surface of the desk was not cluttered.

  To his left, the door banged against the jam as a gust of wind struck the outside of his two room office building; a single story structure one half block east of the Western Docks. The tangy rich odor of salt water danced in air, always so pungent and fresh this close to the shore.

  The Guild man stopped writing for a moment to glance at the two windows on the side of the door. A few people strolled by, heading away from the pier. One man carried a sack of grain over his shoulder while two others handled a full wheel barrel, stuffed with metal contraptions, including an anvil and other paraphernalia associated with blacksmithing.

  Muldor sat back and put his quill down with curiosity. He went outside and watched several other dock workers carry bags of flour, stacks of grain, and other various items no doubt off loaded from the recent ships.

  “Patrick,” he said to one of them, “what station were these goods cleared through?”

  The man, thin and tanned about his scrubby looking face, put his burden down and wiped his forehead with his hat. “Eh? Well, they sent us this way, Master Muldor. Pier Two, I think. Master Dollenger’s. ”

  “Yes, I know who is responsible for Pier Two. Where is your supervisor?”

  Patrick looked frustrated. He shook his head and put his hat back on. “Sir, we got ‘em signed off for, they….”

  “Go along, Patrick. That’s fine.” Muldor frowned, but showed the poor dock worker mercy by waving him along.

  Patrick hefted the large sack and marched on behind his fellows. The bag covered the majority of his back and looked so absurd on top of his skinny legs, Muldor wondered how he was able to carry it.

  The Guild’s accountant counted the line of progression as they trudged off to the east. There weren’t more than twenty dock workers. It shouldn’t have been this way. All goods needed to be cleared with the individual Dock Masters, depending on which particular pier the ships docked at. Then they are signed off and handed over to Muldor’s office.

  Muldor’s attention was arrested by another commotion near the docks. Men on horseback made their way over; it was a ridiculous practice, for the footing was treacherous and space at a premium due to the enormous amount of goods shifted on a day to day basis. It could only be one man. Guild Master Castellan Du Sol.

  Castellan’s aura demanded attention and his guardsmen were of the highest quality. The Guild Master rode the tallest horse, wore the shiniest armor, and carried the best weapons. So complete was his complement of arms, Muldor always assumed the man prepared for war.

  His bodyguards rode tall in their saddles surrounding him, though no immediate threat could be seen. There were only dock workers, sorry looking men that gathered in awe at their de facto leader though the dock and The Guild enjoyed a loose affiliation at best in Muldor’s mind. Castellan smiled and waved, throwing his head back and guffawing in a deep, baritone voice. The greatest bard on the continent could hope for nothing better than those dulcet tones.

  A few of the dock workers stood amongst the cavalcade of cavalry, speaking but Muldor could not hear the words. He thought of getting closer, for the magnetism of Castellan’s presence exerted its power even from a distance away. If the Guild Master was here at the Western Docks, there was a good reason for it.

  After a few minutes, Castellan and his entourage made their way towards Muldor’s building. It was little more than a shack really, and Muldor watched them as still as a statue. Castellan looked like he was riding in a parade waving at the dock workers. He even stopped every few feet to shake hands. The workers were in awe.

  Muldor crossed his arms and waited.

  The horses’ hooves clip clopped louder and more distinct. There were at least a dozen armored bodyguards, all wearing chest plates with white highlights on a red tinted metal underneath. Combined with the ornate lances, buckled swords and red plumed helmets, the effect was quite striking. Castellan adorned similar trappings but with much more elaborate designs along his shield and chest plate. He eschewed the practice of wearing a helmet. Muldor knew it was only due to vanity.


  Castellan’s handsome face smiled at Muldor as he neared. The Guild Master rode his barded war stallion to him. The horse snorted and huffed in Muldor’s face, and the accountant was forced to stand back lest he be covered in snot.

  Frowning, Muldor nodded at his superior. “Guild Master. Good day to you. What brings you here?”

  “Oh, Muldor, Muldor! Come now.” With a smirk and a smooth, athletic hop, Castellan jumped off his mount and landed with feline grace on the ground. His armor didn’t make a sound. He smiled and approached Muldor, mischief dancing in his eyes. “This is a time for celebration, not questions. I have wonderful news for you. You are being promoted. You are now my second in command.”

  The first question on Muldor’s mind died on his tongue. This wasn’t the place for it. His heavy grey cloak felt heavier and hot all of a sudden. He forced a smile and indicated his office. “Perhaps you would care to join me inside, Master Castellan.”

  Castellan chuckled and ordered his men to wait, following Muldor inside. Muldor went to his fireplace and stirred a pot. He glanced over at the man standing in the middle of the room.

  “Would you care for some tea, Master Castellan?”

  “Have a seat, Muldor.” His tone was calm, but Muldor heard the sharp undercurrent of command in that melodic voice. He sat.

  Castellan stood on the other side and pulled a sheaf of papers out of his satchel. “These will be signed by you of course, as the bodies must be processed by the Guild. I think a special ceremony would be in order for both gentlemen. I trust you’ll take care of the details, Muldor. Your skill in this area exceeds mine.”

  Muldor kept his eyes on his boss until he finished speaking then glanced down at the papers. The first one was no surprise, considering the news of his promotion; a death certificate signed by the city coroner’s office, entitled Marshak Donello. Cause of death was listed as industrial accident which Muldor found suspicious.