Death's Reckoning Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Will Molinar
getting wet from time to time as the wind gusted the downpour into the tavern. It spattered rain on the tabletop. The lone man looked thin, gaunt even, with sharp features, tan skin, and dark hair that hung limp and lifeless, much like his dead eyes staring at the untouched drink before him. Threadbare, loose-fitting clothes draped his skeletal frame. His brown breeches, dark cloak, and a long sleeved shirt were torn in places. His leather belt held several pouches and knives strung about in easy reach.
“Not drinkin’ much tonight, eh, Gi?”
Giorgio turned his head, a nonchalant motion that had all the weight of a handshake from an old crone. His neck seemed to creak. The speaker, a grubby dock worker, sat with several other men at the closest table. He gave a wary smile and rubbed his hands together, nodding at Giorgio’s drink.
“Been nursing that thing for over an hour, I say.”
The thief had been. Giorgio shrugged at the man, not bothering to acknowledge the statement. He stared at the man, but the speaker wasn’t looking at Giorgio at all. Instead, the fellow scooted a chair closer to Giorgio’s table and pointed to his mug of ale.
“Damn shame to waste a good drink like that, I say it is.” He licked his lips.
Giorgio pushed the cup over towards him. “Take it.”
The man laughed and took it off the table as if it was a chest of gold. He slammed the tankard, burped, and slapped Giorgio on the shoulder. “You’re a damn fool, Gi, but a good one! Ha, ha!”
That brought a round of laughter from the other dock workers sitting at the man’s table. He left Giorgio, and they went back to their normal conversation. Some of their looks still lingered on the former thief as he sat there in a stupor.
The sullen thief heard and saw nothing. Emptiness dwelled in his soul, a barren expanse of nothingness, a dry rocky plane of vast coldness; there was no spark of motivation, nothing to clasp onto. Even the bawdy speech of the younger men, where several toughs laughed and told stories of their latest sexual exploits while flirting with the serving girls, failed to rouse Giorgio out of his funk. Even when drunks, men and women alike, bumped into his table, he did not stir.
The night passed. Bit by bit the tavern crowd dissipated. Soon, only Giorgio and the tavern workers were the only ones in the building. He sat near his window. The cold blast of wind ruffled his hair but not his spirit. His cold eyes remained vacant and bloodshot.
The workers swept the floor, set the chairs on tables, and cleaned the counters. Two or three stood near the bar and stared at Giorgio, whispering. After several moments a burly bouncer grew brave enough to walk over and confront him.
“Uh, sir, we be closin’ up here, now. It’s time to leave.”
Giorgio flicked his eyes upwards. So devoid of humanity were these orbs, the man stammered and gasped, stepping back. The room became colder. A strong chill swept from not only the open windows, but from the soulless man Giorgio had become. Everyone else held their breath.
Though the man looked brittle and weakened, his form yet retained a weathered strength. He was stiff and unyielding as if it were a hardened oak or a toughened leather saddle. His clothes covered in dirt and dust, powdered remains of a canon explosion stained his clothes and his face. His calloused fingers twitched. The bouncer stiffened, glancing at the bevy of daggers around the thief’s waist.
But Giorgio stood not making a sound. Even the chair underneath him made not a whisper against the floor. The tangible fear of sorcery omnipresent filtered through their superstitious minds.
One of the workers, a wizened old man, wailed and scampered off, tripping over a chair on his way towards the back of the tavern. A few serving girls began to cry. Even the brawny bouncer paled and backed away from Giorgio as he went to the door.
The streets were deserted. To him, the lights seemed bright, like the sun blazing down
“Not drinkin’ much tonight, eh, Gi?”
Giorgio turned his head, a nonchalant motion that had all the weight of a handshake from an old crone. His neck seemed to creak. The speaker, a grubby dock worker, sat with several other men at the closest table. He gave a wary smile and rubbed his hands together, nodding at Giorgio’s drink.
“Been nursing that thing for over an hour, I say.”
The thief had been. Giorgio shrugged at the man, not bothering to acknowledge the statement. He stared at the man, but the speaker wasn’t looking at Giorgio at all. Instead, the fellow scooted a chair closer to Giorgio’s table and pointed to his mug of ale.
“Damn shame to waste a good drink like that, I say it is.” He licked his lips.
Giorgio pushed the cup over towards him. “Take it.”
The man laughed and took it off the table as if it was a chest of gold. He slammed the tankard, burped, and slapped Giorgio on the shoulder. “You’re a damn fool, Gi, but a good one! Ha, ha!”
That brought a round of laughter from the other dock workers sitting at the man’s table. He left Giorgio, and they went back to their normal conversation. Some of their looks still lingered on the former thief as he sat there in a stupor.
The sullen thief heard and saw nothing. Emptiness dwelled in his soul, a barren expanse of nothingness, a dry rocky plane of vast coldness; there was no spark of motivation, nothing to clasp onto. Even the bawdy speech of the younger men, where several toughs laughed and told stories of their latest sexual exploits while flirting with the serving girls, failed to rouse Giorgio out of his funk. Even when drunks, men and women alike, bumped into his table, he did not stir.
The night passed. Bit by bit the tavern crowd dissipated. Soon, only Giorgio and the tavern workers were the only ones in the building. He sat near his window. The cold blast of wind ruffled his hair but not his spirit. His cold eyes remained vacant and bloodshot.
The workers swept the floor, set the chairs on tables, and cleaned the counters. Two or three stood near the bar and stared at Giorgio, whispering. After several moments a burly bouncer grew brave enough to walk over and confront him.
“Uh, sir, we be closin’ up here, now. It’s time to leave.”
Giorgio flicked his eyes upwards. So devoid of humanity were these orbs, the man stammered and gasped, stepping back. The room became colder. A strong chill swept from not only the open windows, but from the soulless man Giorgio had become. Everyone else held their breath.
Though the man looked brittle and weakened, his form yet retained a weathered strength. He was stiff and unyielding as if it were a hardened oak or a toughened leather saddle. His clothes covered in dirt and dust, powdered remains of a canon explosion stained his clothes and his face. His calloused fingers twitched. The bouncer stiffened, glancing at the bevy of daggers around the thief’s waist.
But Giorgio stood not making a sound. Even the chair underneath him made not a whisper against the floor. The tangible fear of sorcery omnipresent filtered through their superstitious minds.
One of the workers, a wizened old man, wailed and scampered off, tripping over a chair on his way towards the back of the tavern. A few serving girls began to cry. Even the brawny bouncer paled and backed away from Giorgio as he went to the door.
The streets were deserted. To him, the lights seemed bright, like the sun blazing down