Haldred Chronicles: Alyssa

by JG Cully

  Normally said Death Warden (an investigator of sorts who, as the name suggests, investigated death in all its myriad and horrible forms) would have told them to get stuffed and stop wasting his time. Tonight however nothing, literally nothing, had been going on and he was bored out of his skull. A trip out of the office was just what he needed, even if it was something as vague as 'concern raised that not enough blood coming from corpse' (as the watch sergeant had so elegantly put it).

  An hour later he made it to the militia watchtower; half an hour after that the patrol reappeared and escorted him to the scene. Upon arrival the Death Warden was able to confirm the body really hadn't bled as much as would be expected and granted, that was odd. Almost as if the individual hadn't had enough blood in his system even before his dramatic death.

  Upon examining the body he had found no reason for this. No wounds to speak of other than those inflicted by the fall, and no animal bites. The body was high enough off the ground that no stray dogs or rats had come to investigate. It was also in an area where there just weren't that many birds interested in feeding off a human corpse. Despite minor bruising to the corpse's forehead, the Death Warden saw no reason to consider foul play. There was no evidence that magic had been used, or any evidence of disease. Not as far as he could see anyway.

  After some careful thought however the Death Warden decided that maybe this did warrant a little extra investigation. He decreed that the case should be referred to the Magic's Branch. Just to be absolutely sure. Wouldn't want to make a mistake with such an odd death. Something he would subsequently point out on his overtime claim parchment.

  So the Magic's Branch was informed, a part of the militia dedicated to the investigation of all forms of magical mishap. Teams of Militia Sanctioned Mages (fancifully nicknamed the 'M&M's') worked at all hours of the day and night, on hand to deal with everything from rogue Pyro mages on a rampage (a mercifully rare occurrence) to Life mages causing someone's beard to spring to life (a more common occurrence. The Life mages did have rather undeveloped senses of humour).

  It just so happened that there was a mage in the branch house that night and not out on patrol (the term 'on patrol' can be read to mean in bed. Whilst procedure said they worked all hours, that didn't mean they actually did). He had failed in his duties the day before, (the fire hadn't been his fault. Some idiot had spilled fire conductor and forgotten to clear it up.) and had been punished with the boredom of night duty and the forced adherence to being awake with an unhealthy intake of high concentrate sleep deprivation serum. So when word reached him of a case requiring his attention he literally leapt at the chance to get out and make use of the silly amount of energy the serum had given him. After all, you can only build so many ingredient bottle towers. This would also hopefully end his shift early given the rising sun. The term night shift was taken very literally.

  He arrived at the site and, after a hushed conversation with the Death Warden, he quickly determined that there was indeed something odd about the body. It would require some closer examination, back in the laboratory. They were going to need more men out, as well as more time. Nobody seemed to notice the Death Warden giving the thumbs up sign as the mage pronounced his intentions.

  Just like that a single mildly-suspicious death turned into a full scale operation. Dozens of militia descended on the site, securing it, whilst heavyweight contract ogres were brought in to move the body to the lab. The overtime coffers were bled dry that night, and the body was finally moved into isolation.

  Of course in the late morning the Head of Magical Investigations for the militia just happened to be in the office and immediately asked why there was an 'obese odorous recently deceased male' in his lab. He was handed the hastily written report of the night-shift mage, hastily as they had only just got the body into the lab (the night shift mage had been keen for overtime coin, but not for doing any additional work). After a very quick read through, the Head ordered that the investigation be concluded with all haste because he didn't particularly like fat people, especially if they were dead and causing a smell in his lab.

  A different day shift mage had the unwelcome task of giving the dead body the once over. Whilst the Death Warden had carried out the initial post mortem, a mage had to conclude things once it arrived in the Magic’s' Branch's laboratory.

  Check for kill wound: Spike to the throat, immediately fatal.

  Check for other injuries: Bruising suggests impact to the front of the skull. None fatal.

  Check body for liquids: Unusually low level of blood in body.

  Unusual confirmations but not unheard of considering the man was a drunk and probably didn't consider good health top of his priority list.

  Check for anything magical or otherwise unusual about the body: He's a big fat mess. Mark that down as unusual given that nobody had any money for food these days. War had generated plenty of work. No war meant no work, and no work meant no money. The economy of Argon had fallen on hard times and had yet to adapt itself to the state of peace.

  Use 'the scope' to check for possible healing potion use: Nothing to...

  Wait.

  The mage found something. Very faint and faded as he inspected it with the Scope.

  The Scope resembled a magnifying glass, but was infused with a kind of magical energy that allowed the most minuscule details, be they wounds, markings or otherwise, to be seen.

  On the body, it had revealed two tiny almost pin prick wounds about an inch apart, on the man's throat just above the main artery. Invisible to the naked eye, but not so to the Scope.

  The Scope never lied. A particularly useful fact in court cases.

  Odd wounds. Still, did it really matter? He'd no idea what could cause such wounds other than maybe rather vicious humming birds. It never occurred to this particular mage that they might be a vampire bite.

  Sod it.

  The mage filed it in his report and passed it on. The Head of the Magic's Branch received the report and scanned over it.

  Odd wounds.

  Hmmm

  The description seemed very much like a vampire inflicted wound. The Head Mage had a little bit more knowledge about unknown creatures and activities that had taken place during the Six Nations War, such as vampires. Whilst Regorash might have been the last vampire, well, you could never be sure could you?

  Passing this one to the right people might just get him that promotion too. A promotion out of the Magic's Branch and maybe into the city councils more well paid 'Magic Training and Safety Division'. A ponderous title with a big pay grade.

  He passed it up the militia chain of command (Hello sir, something for you. Little unusual. Thought it might need looking at. You're looking well by the way. New robes?)

  That boss passed it up to his boss as well. Who passed it on to a different boss at the same level. This continued to the extent that all of a sudden, by the afternoon, it was passed in its original format to a very particular desk.

  Of a very particular organisation.

  * * * * *

  Victoria Haldred was a woman regarded as having zeal for her job. A zeal that remained ever burning as she executed her duties as an investigator for the Council of Peace. A most singular vocation.

  Ever since the World Wide Peace Agreement (the good old WWPA, or Waapa as it was nicknamed) had brought fifty years of constant warfare to an end between the Six Nations, the multinational Council of Peace had been charged with maintaining the peace between the previously warring states. By any and all means necessary.

  Victoria had joined its investigative department early on, practically on the first day of peace. She had previously worked with the Larrick City Militia, in a variety of roles from street patrol all the way up to murder investigation. The Council of Peace had immediately recognized that she had the capability and skills needed for the council's job of maintaining order internationally. An often thankless but necessary job.

  She had travelled the known world over the last year and
half, rooting out those who wished to bring the world back to war and successfully dealing with them. She preferred dealing with them peacefully (of course) but she was more than capable when the alternative was called for. Something many had discovered the hard way.

  The actual facts were that Victoria wasn't overly a zealot. She was just professional.

  Where others saw zeal, Victoria saw it as just wanting to do the job and do it to the very best of her abilities. If it required an aggressive interrogation, so be it. If it required a punch in the face, so be it. If it required a rapier to be plunged into someone's guts...well, so be it. After all, it maintained peace and as far as the Council of Peace was concerned, all methods were entirely justified when people tried to make war. Too bad for the individual on the receiving end, but then again if you're a warmonger, well, you had that coming.

  Victoria had lost three brothers in the war. Each to a soldier of a different nation. Whilst she no longer bore any ill-will to the nations in question, she did have an overriding intent to ensure no one else had to go through what she had. No more families mourning. No more pain for the siblings, or in her case sibling, left behind.

  She sighed and leaned back in her plush cushioned chair, blinking her eyes. Late morning sunlight was streaming in through the glass window beside her, shining over the papers on her desk. It was her debrief report for yet another job completed.

  Darnhun mercenaries, sorry, renegade Darnhun mercenaries, had been raiding ships up and down the northern coast of Tornar and even as far as the Trima beach villages. She and a team of sanctioned mercenaries had been dispatched to investigate. Three days of tracking the sods and they'd finally located their base on the very edge of Tornar territory. The mercenaries had then descended with vengeance on the camp and nobody had walked out of it alive. Brutal, but considering what the Darnhun renegades had been doing to the merchant ships crews, entirely justified. The Darnhun government had protested, to little effect, with both the Tornar government and Trima tribal masters agreeing with the Council of Peace's tough, if brutal solution.

  Victoria, meanwhile, had slipped back to leave the politics to the politicians.

  She still ached from the journey back. That long on horseback did not do your muscles any favours. Whilst she was a very experienced rider (she found horseback the most effective form of transport outside of the cities), long hours on horseback took their toll. She was grateful that one of the bonuses of working for the Council of Peace was comfortable chairs.

  Victoria was twenty eight now. Just over halfway to dead according to the latest life expectancy figures. Comforting thought. Her long black hair was tied back in an elegant braided ponytail, wooden clasps holding it in place. She had plain but unblemished features, sharp green eyes staring out over a small pointed nose and similarly small mouth. She was not given to smiling though she was told that when she did it was either charming or chilling depending on circumstances.

  Her body was shapely, her hips in particular drawing more than their fair share of attention. A fact that resulted in more than a few men ending up with either a slap or, more commonly, a punch. Victoria despised being leered at and made her displeasure abundantly clear with the precise application of physical violence.

  She was dressed, as always, in black leggings and a burgundy tunic, with high brown leather riding boots. She preferred such clothes for the freedom they provided in her line of work. The better for the chase and more comfortable for the frequent riding. A black leather belt was tied round her middle, and just beside its clasp was clipped a small circular cut of metal, emblazoned with her badge of office. The badge depicted six small circles, one for each of the six nations, all connected toward a stylised outstretched hand. The outstretched hand of peace. The central symbol of the world wide council.

  The symbol was in stark contrast to the real life symbol of war that hung on the wall behind her. Namely a fine Tornarian rapier with attached sword catcher, sheathed in brown leather. It was her own weapon of choice, one that had tasted blood on a far more regular basis than she preferred in her work for peace.

  I'm bored.

  It was an odd thing to think considering she had literally just put her signature to another job well done. But Victoria was a woman of action; she needed to be doing something. Lazing around for her required reading a report, or at the very least a book. Her need for action was about to be satisfied though, as a knock came at the door

  “Come in.” she said with disinterest.

  The door was opened by her partner, Malak.

  Malak was an ex-Tornarian sergeant of the Bulldog Guard, an elite formation of mercenaries from Tornar. Tornar and Argon had only ever skirmished during the Six Nation's War and been allies at various times over the last fifty years. As nations went, the two of them got on better than most. Their cultures were similar, though Tornar had many odd customs that Victoria never understood, such as the drinking of tea before battle, a fondness for eastern foods and a variety of bloody weird accents. Despite being the smallest of the six nations, Tornar had more accents within its landmass than the rest of the world combined. The Argon nation could boast a good variety of accents, particularly between the north and south regional divide, but Tornar was much more varied. You could literally step from one district to another in Tornar and the speech, never mind the language, would be completely different. Malak himself apparently hailed from 'up north' and had a certain twang to his voice, emphasising certain words without meaning to and using the word proper to emphasise pretty much anything.

  He had been hired by the Council of Peace originally purely as military muscle, but his keen intelligence and sharp mind had brought him into the investigative department as a full time employee. What he initially lacked in investigative skills he more than made up for in his ability to learn and look at situations from a different angle.

  Though to Victoria, he was still an idiot sometimes. He was a man after all.

  He was a skinny twenty four year old but tough, with darting brown eyes and the stereotypical shaved hair of the Tornar military. Victoria had yet to discover what its original colour was for he always ensured it was nothing but stubble on his scalp. He had hawk like features with a shrewd smile and white, clean teeth.

  Handsome devil was the best way Victoria could describe him, though never to his face. She didn't want to give him any ideas as she wasn't interested in a relationship. She had commitments to the job and couldn't allow herself to be distracted by that certain charm he seemed to have despite being an eejit half the time. Or that little smile he sometimes had on when he...

  She blinked, quickly dispelling such foolish thoughts.

  Malak favoured her with a grin, having poked his head in through the door.

  “Bored yet?” he asked, having seen her distracted expression. It was a cruel question considering he already knew the answer.

  “Get in here you ass.” she said, casting him a pitying look. “You look like a little lost schoolboy.”

  “I live in the Argon capital,” he replied, moving on into the room. “I am lost.”

  Malak kept his utility battle armour plate on at all times, even now in the Council of Peace compound. Today was no exception Victoria noted as Malak entered, the leather armour secured round his chest with a variety of straps and covered in pouches for any amount of equipment that Victoria saw little need for. The thick leather belt round his middle was adorned with a Tornar punch dagger and crossbow bolts for his favoured weapon, a K-12 repeater. Dark green shirt and leggings, as well as leather grieves, completed his appearance. The only indication that he even worked for the Council of Peace was a metal clasp hanging from one shoulder, with the same symbol emblazoned on it as that on Victoria's belt badge.

  He handed her a rolled up parchment as he passed her desk. A parchment marked with the Council of Peace wax mark, a stylized 'CoP'.

  Victoria rolled her eyes. She had not even heard of the word acronym when she had joined the organisation,
let alone agreed to use it. Why on earth did you have to call something by its supposed acronym instead of just using its name? Why use 'CoP' when you could just say Council of Peace? Apparently it was something modern. Modern rubbish to her mind.

  She snapped the wax mark as Malak took a seat at his desk and started sorting through his own paper work. As usual Victoria's zeal put him to shame and he had work to catch up on.

  “This is something new,” she mused with an accompanying frown after a few moments of speed reading. Whilst smiling was unusual for Victoria, frowning was not. She was considered an expert in its application.

  “Oh?” queried Malak, carefully signing another request for flechette crossbow bolts. He'd used more than a few on the last mission.

  “Suspected vampire.”

  She looked up to meet his look of surprise.

  “Vampire?”

  She held up the parchment

  “It's what it says.”

  She rolled up the paper again and tossed it across the room to him. He likewise digested the information on the paper, using his own frown to indicate his distrust of the information. He still had to work on it but Victoria thought it was getting better.

  “Somebody's taking the piss.” he said with typical bluntness. “Regorash is dead. Proper dead. He was the last.”

  Indeed he was. Victoria knew all about Operation Shadowhawk. An overly flamboyant name for an operation that was originally supposed to be top secret, but one that the people relations section within the Argon government had leapt on when it was successful. The plan had been to send a reinforced unit of 'Specialists' in to assassinate Igor Regorash, the last remaining vampire dictator, whose actions had caused the destruction of countless villages and peoples in southern Argon.