Haldred Chronicles: Alyssa

by JG Cully

  Specialists had been the Argon war machine's wonder weapons during the Six Nations War. Expert black powder marksmen, powerful Pyro mages, veteran long swordsmen and so on. Men and woman from every race, human to elf to bearkin and everything in between. All trained to perfection and sent on the most dangerous of missions. It was they who had ended the vampire's reign of terror. A pity so many of them hadn't returned.

  After Operation Shadowhawk's success, the surviving specialists were rewarded, after a fashion, with a new concept called 'fame'. Their names and deeds were turned into songs and stories across the length and breadth of the land. Books such as My role in the Big Kill, Dust and ash: what my sword did to the vampire lord and Regorash and me: surviving the Great Dictator had all become best sellers amongst those with the coin to afford them. Whilst originally named songs such as 'I’ll beat your face in yeah fanged monkey' and 'What about yeah, yeh blood sucking cesspit!' continued to prove popular with the tavern minstrels.

  The specialists were labelled the plucky adventurers and their actual vocations never released publicly. Even now, those that had survived still enjoyed that fame and the lifestyle that it brought.

  Fair play to them, thought Victoria. They'd killed a vampire lord and released over a thousand people from the curse. Good job.

  “I agree,” concluded Victoria at length, staring off across the open window, crossing her arms thoughtfully.

  Regorash had been the last.

  Still...

  Was he really the last? Had they really all just reverted back to human form afterwards? It had always seemed very convenient at the time.

  “The signature's from the Overseer,” she continued. “he wouldn't pass something like this down if it didn't warrant at least looking into.”

  Not that she was complimenting the Head of the Department. She was just making an observation. The Overseer of the Investigative Department in Larrick City was one Horna Gladwell. A career minded smart-assed short-arsed git as far as Victoria was concerned. Always attempting to inflict politics on her and seeming to wallow in said objective. She didn't like him and was unlikely to ever like him. Unfortunately though, he was the boss, and he'd sent down a job.

  Malak groaned from the corner.

  “Gods woman,” he said. “you're going to make me ride again aren't you?”

  Malak hated horses, an odd thing for a Tornar considering Tornar military doctrine made abundant use of light cavalry. He could ride, and ride well, but not by choice. He preferred two legs on the ground as opposed to wrapped round the mid-section of a charging horse. Working with Victoria required a lot of riding, more’s the pity.

  “Not this time, you'll be glad to hear,” she said, ceasing her contemplations and standing stiffly. “We'll take the coach this time.”

  Even Victoria had to admit she didn't want to ride for once. A little comfort did no harm for her muscles.

  Malak frowned. “What? Right now?”

  “We can satisfy your obsession with crossbow ammo later Malak.” she said, casting him a knowing look. “According to this the victim is still fresh. You really want to leave the smell to get any worse?”

  Malak grunted but stood none the less. “Good point.”

  Victoria unhooked her rapier from the wall. Whilst Malak had been trying to convince her to put it somewhere more practical like the weapons cabinet, Victoria preferred to keep it sat behind her. As something of a warning to those visiting the office. She was one of the few women working in the Investigation Department. She liked to ensure the men didn't get above their station in conversations with her.

  She secured the rapier to her belt before opening her desk drawer and grabbing the black powder pistol and leather holster that lay within. She used a fine Argon single shot, a breech loader and a good one. Accurate and clean. Hopefully it wouldn't be required, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

  Malak himself grabbed his trademark K-12. Repeater crossbows had originally been Magra weapons, that nation of the west with the vast army and penchant for building ornate...well everything. Castles, Black Powder cannons, vast bronze Battle Golems. But like anything good in the war the design had been copied by every other nation.

  The Tornar built K-12, with a thick shoulder stock, powerful pull and ease of maintenance, was a popular weapon choice for any marksman. In the hands of Malak it was deadly and very intimidating, something Victoria had relied upon on more than a few occasions. There were few things scarier than a man with a crossbow who knew what he was doing. Malak was such a man.

  All set, they headed off.

  * * * * *

  “Please tell me we can burn this sod soon.”

  They had left the department's stone clad building in the early afternoon and arrived at the Militia morgue in just under an hour. The streets, as always, had been packed but a Council of Peace registered coach was given a certain degree of leverage with regards to getting to places quickly.

  They were met at the morgue by one of the Corpse Wardens, the guild responsible for body disposal and with some knowledge of the methods used to investigative bodies. Whilst a Death Warden told you how the recently deceased had died, a Corpse Warden then took responsibility for the body afterwards.

  He was a tall man with a round face and deep rimmed glasses, short cut black hair and a greying goatee. He wore the standard uniform of his guild, priest-like robes of a light blue material. His name was Garrett and his accent was definitely northern Argon, his speech fast but clear.

  They were in the morgue now, the area cleared of all but the body they had come to investigate. Each of them wore face cloths filled with herbs to protect them from the vile smell. Even so, they were still uncomfortably aware of it. The morgue had plain stone bricked walls dug out of the earth, reminding Victoria of an underground temple or burial chamber. A single stone slab sat at the centre with a desk beside it arrayed with a variety of savage and unusual looking instruments she wasn't familiar with, both engineered and magical.

  Garrett led them over to the body.

  Victoria could see why he was keen to dispose of the body. Whilst it was currently winter and bodies did not decompose as quickly as in summer, the body in question was not a pleasant sight even with a thick sheet of white cloth draped over it.

  “Well here he is.” Garrett said candidly. Idly he picked up a magnifying glass with one hand, whilst with the other he pulled back the sheet of cloth. “Very simple. The fat sow fell and impaled himself.”

  He held up the magnifying glass over a large gaping wound located under the body's jaw.

  “Spike railing,” he said by way of explanation. “Straight into him and right on up into his brain. Death was instant.”

  He let the cloth drop and turned back toward them.

  “Questions?”

  “Stupid one first.” said Victoria, casting a cautious eye over the corpse. “Does it look like murder?”

  “Unlikely” said Garrett, a professional confidence evident in his tone. “He fell off the Mounds Walkway. That place is bloody dangerous without the piggin' spikes, let alone with. Granted, he's the first to have died but only just. Others have been lucky with just getting their arms or legs impaled.”

  “Could he have been thrown?”

  “With the precision of the impact point?” Garrett shook his head. “Not likely. I wouldn't like to have been the one to try and pick up this guy. Even the ogres had difficulty moving him in.”

  Victoria decided she liked Garrett. The man spoke his mind.

  “So you think he was just unlucky?” said Malak next.

  Garrett nodded. “And I'd still think so if it weren't for what else was found.”

  “The bite marks.” confirmed Victoria.

  Garrett took this as the signal and picked up a more ornate-looking magnifying glass from his table, pulling the cloth back again to reveal just the body's neck.

  “Invisible to the naked eye,” he said as an introduction, “but not to this mage thing
.”

  He beckoned them closer and held the glass over a section of the neck.

  Victoria leaned in to watch a little more hesitantly than Malak. She had a built-in distrust of magic in all its forms, whether equipment or person based; it all seemed unnatural to her. In the so called 'modern' society she was considered old fashioned in this regard but she didn't care. It was unnatural and she didn't like it.

  The glass at first seemed not to change, looking just like the lens of the other magnifier but then, as they watched, the wounds became visible as if materialising over the corpse's throat. Two tiny pin-pricks, hardly visible even under the magical magnifying glass but there nonetheless, positioned more or less an inch apart and at the same level.

  “That,” said Garrett, “added to the lack of blood in the body upon death is presumably why this case found its way to you lot.”

  Victoria cast Garrett a knowing glance.

  “I'm well read.” he said in answer to the look. “I know the stories.”

  “Who figured out the lack of blood?” asked Victoria next, leaning back and crossing her arms, frowning as Garrett set the spyglass down again.

  Garrett smiled. “New kid with an eye for promotion. He's the son of a long running line of detectives and seems to have inherited his father's knack of seeing the unusual. I think this will be the making of him, get him off the street and doing what you lot do.”

  “Poor lad doesn't know what he's in for.” said Malak mournfully, but Victoria ignored his jibe.

  “Anything else?” she asked. She was beginning to admit to herself that even with her extensive experience of dead bodies (including those she happened to have made dead herself) she wanted to be out of here soon. The corpse was simply not pleasant looking even under the cloth.

  “Aye,” said Garrett. “One other odd thing was the evidence of impact to the front of the skull. Looks like he banged his head pretty bad. No fractures but severe bruising. Would have been enough to knock him out.”

  “The ass probably banged his head off a bloody door.” grunted Malak.

  Victoria wasn't so sure.

  “Enough to knock him out? So he would have been unconscious some of the night?” she mused.

  “Maybe an hour, maybe less.” shrugged Garrett. “We didn't think much of it. I mean, the guy was pissed, didn't even need the mages to tell us that. You could bloody smell it off him. Other than that and the kill-wound there's nothing else.”

  Victoria filed all these details away in her head for later. She was blessed with a good memory for detail and being that paper was expensive even for the Council of Peace it kept the budget under control by only using it when absolutely necessary. Malak's requirement for ordering crossbow bolts on far too regular a basis was one such necessity.

  “You got the report?” she asked at length.

  Garrett duly recovered said report from a drawer in the desk.

  “Keep it for as long as you like, all the details are in there including times and figures. Just make sure to sign for it on your way out and bring it back when you're done.”

  Victoria nodded.

  “Can I burn him now please?” asked Garrett with a smile.

  Victoria nodded.

  “I think we have all we need. Thank you.”

  “No bother.”

  * * * * *

  “It's bull.” Malak stated.

  They were back in the coach, trundling through the streets again to meet with the militia troops who had discovered the body. The winter sun was low; the sky clear but the temperature was cold, both Victoria and Malak's breath misting as they talked. The streets were busy, merchants out in force and people going about their business through the partially snow covered streets, unaware of the recent murder in their midst.

  “Malak, your canine teeth are about an inch apart.” Victoria stated, pointing to his mouth. “And the two wounds were the same width apart on the body. Right where the artery is. Right where the blood flows. Add that to lack of blood in the body and you might not have a definitive case, but you do have the beginnings of one.”

  Malak rolled his eyes. “He was a drunk. A seasoned drunk. You any idea what that amount of drink can do to a man?"

  I don't but I bet you do, Victoria didn't say. She had the odd sip now and again to be sure but she recognised that Malak was the veteran drinker of the two. If the stories from the end of week 'gentlemen's meetings' were anything to go by.

  “He ate badly and drank heavily,” continued Malak. “lack of blood is probably just part of that.”

  “And as for the wounds?” he screwed up his face. “Clutching at straws.”

  “I always love the way you just discard evidence Malak,” said Victoria without humour. “just because you can't explain it.”

  “Besides, I know the real reason why you're grumbling.” she said next, looking out at the passing streets. “You fear this is one of those cases where you don't get to shoot anything.”

  She cast him a disappointed look.

  “Would I be right?”

  Malak didn't answer, avoiding her glance and looking out the window himself

  “Patience,” she said, returning her gaze to outside the carriage. “if there really is a vampire out there, you might just be the one who takes the first shot at it.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four:

  An Unfortunate Turn Of Events

  * * * * *

  Alyssa stretched as she awoke, bringing herself out of her dream state.

  It had been a nice dream. James had been in it, her soon-to-be boyfriend. Well, she hoped anyway. Katy too, her new friend, her new human friend to be precise. Both met on the same night. She was still trying to figure that one out.

  She was grateful to see that after her day-long rest her middle was no longer doing an impression of an overfilled wineskin. The blood had been absorbed by her body. She stood, feeling stronger and more refreshed than anyone had any right to be in the morning (or in her case, the evening). She'd have to be careful. After drinking her body became even stronger for a time and on more than one occasion she had accidentally broken something without realizing her own strength. It was only afterwards that her body adapted and she went back to just being freakishly strong as opposed to freakishly and destructively strong.

  She crossed the room and opened her wardrobe.

  Blue tonight I think.

  She settled on a dark blue dress and tunic from her collection, as well as one of her clean white aprons. The Elk's Horn considered itself a cut above the rest of the taverns in the city and insisted that its staff look their very best.

  She changed before checking her teeth and face. Over time she had learned to do this by touch. A difficult task, seeing as the mirror was next to useless but at the very least she could make sure she had her clothes on right.

  Now almost ready, she checked her short hair and tied it back out of the way in a ponytail, keeping her fringe from being too much in the way. Satisfied, she wrapped a hooded cloak round her shoulder (unnecessary but it again added to the illusion that she felt the cold) and made to head downstairs.

  Wait a second. Something was missing. She shook her head with a smile.

  Glasses. Every time.

  She picked them up from her dresser and pulled them on, adjusting them over her nose.

  She peered at the nearby mirror. It always appeared so very strange when all you could see was what appeared to be a pair of glasses hovering in mid-air over a dress with no body in it. Still, when it looked like that it at least meant her face was clean.

  Satisfied she was at last ready, she headed downstairs and off to work.

  * * * * *

  She arrived at the Elk's Horn in good time. Entering via the back kitchen door, she hung her cloak on the nearby cloak hook. She turned to be immediately met by the tavern's premier bar-mistress, Gretna

  Gretna was a dwarf, a stereotype of her race. Short, fat, ample of bosom and critical of character. She took pride
in her tavern floor and she made damn sure it ran like clockwork. She was dressed as always in a tunic half made of bronzed dwarfen metal, half of a dark green material, with a short brown work-maid’s dress underneath. Her family's heirloom, a brutal looking hand hammer, was slipped through her leather belt. A useful device for both the kitchen and the dining area, as many an unfortunate drunk had found to their regret.

  Her brown hair was tied back in a braided ponytail and her dark green eyes, which matched the colour of her tunic almost exactly, gave Alyssa the trademark critical stare.

  “Alyssa.” Gretna said, half pitying and half annoyed. “What have I told you about your dress sense?”

  “Ah,” Alyssa found herself fidgeting under the dwarf's authoritative glare, her eyes dropping and a hand moving to her glasses. “I...have good taste?” she ventured without confidence, adding a hopeful smile as she dared to glance up. Gretna's deadpan expression stared back and Alyssa immediately dropped her eyes again.

  “No,” Gretna stated bluntly. “I said your dress sense needs to emphasise more. Grakin's name girl don't people tell you how attractive you are? Don't you want to show 'it' off?”

  “Ah...well.” Alyssa felt her cheeks burning. “Yes but...you know.”

  “Alyssa.” Gretna's hands were on her hips, “You've the best arse out of all the girlies here. Next time, wear something that emphasises that! It's good for business.”

  Alyssa's eyes went wide. Even after working for so long in the Elk's Horn she had never, managed to get used to how direct Gretna was.

  Gretna pointed an authoritative finger. “Remember next time.”

  “Yes Gretna.” she said as the dwarf marched off toward the dining area.

  “And emphasise them breasts of yours as well!” Gretna yelled over her shoulder. “Buy a bloody corset!”

  The kitchen door slammed as she made her exit.

  By this stage you could probably have cooked eggs on Alyssa's cheeks; from several feet away. It would seem even a vampire bowed to dwarven style reprimands.