A Seven Signs Novella
By
D.W. HAWKINS
Dark Business
The body hung in the absolute center of the room.
“How long do you think he’s been here?” Merrick walked around the body, stepping with care over the debris in the cottage’s main room. He pulled out a blue kerchief and wiped sweat from his skin, padding the moisture from his bald, sunburned head. “Curse this bloody heat.”
“A few days. Less than a week. Hard to tell, given the heat.” D’Jenn peered at the corpse, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind his ear. The weather in Shundovia was blistering in high summer. The days had grown hotter and more humid the farther he and Merrick had traveled into the old kingdom. The sleepy hamlet of Rockman’s Ford was far from the capital city, but not far enough to escape Shundov’s notorious climate.
Merrick nodded, keeping his eyes on the body. “Gods in the Void—I’ve never seen something like this before.”
“This isn’t a regular occurrence in your line of work?” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow.
“If it was, I wouldn’t have contacted the Conclave for help.”
D’Jenn nodded and turned his attention back to the deceased.
The body belonged to a man in his early middle years. He was a big fellow, with meaty arms and thick fingers. It was difficult to tell how much of the swelling was due to decay and how much was from his natural bulk. His light, unkempt hair was receding, though he hadn’t fallen to baldness before his death. It was hard to discern what sort of face the man would’ve had in life—in death, his expression was a rictus of terror.
Tendrils of wood, like smooth creeper vines, had grown from the floor and ceiling to pierce his body in a hundred places. Judging from the positioning of his arms—the wooden tendrils had pinned them to his chest—his death had been sudden and violent. Blood stained the floor, the table, and everything in spattering distance. Punctures decorated the body like a tailor’s pincushion. Steel glinted from deep inside one of the wounds.
“That’s the bloody kitchen knife.” D’Jenn touched its handle with the tip of his finger. It was stuck to the hilt in the man’s side. D’Jenn wouldn’t have seen it save for Merrick moving the lantern from the table. Now that he had noticed the kitchen knife, D’Jenn saw a dozen more objects buried in the man’s torso.
An old woman tottered to the door, averted her eyes from the body. “I hope you boys aren’t stealing anything.”
D’Jenn shared a knowing look with Merrick, who turned to address her. “Not stealing anything, just looking at the scene.”
“Best not be in there any longer than you have to.” The old woman turned her back to the corpse. “Walk around in there for too long and the curse will rub off on you. Don’t want to carry that nastiness home to your bed.”
Merrick shot D’Jenn another sly look. The old lady—a relative of the man hanging in the room—refused to come inside the cottage. Sleepy hamlets like Rockman’s Ford saw little violence and even less magic. It was a lucky thing the cottage hadn’t been burnt to the ground already, and the man’s wife burned at the stake for sorcery. Rural communities tended toward superstition, especially in the backwaters of a kingdom like Shundovia.
“We’ll be fine.” Merrick rolled his eyes at the woman’s back. “Just trying to get a sense of what happened here.”
“I’ll leave you boys to it, then. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Merrick sighed and walked to the door. D’Jenn heard muffled conversation retreating from the doorway and turned his attention back to the scene.
The little cottage only had two rooms—the great-room, where the body hung, and a bedroom. The bedroom was mostly undisturbed. The sheets on the rough mattress had been ripped away. There was a bedside table with various knickknacks sitting on top, none of them disturbed by a struggle.
So, the violence was centered in the great-room.
A wicker basket full of piled, discarded clothing sat in the corner of the bedroom. D’Jenn reached in and plucked a garment from the top of the pile. It was a woman’s dress, made of light, filmy cotton.
Expensive. This is a feast day dress.
D’Jenn dropped the dress back to the pile. He turned and looked over the room again, searching for anything out of place. The floor was clean, though dust had gathered in the days since the murder. Other than the missing sheets, nothing in the bedroom seemed abnormal.
Merrick was waiting for him in the front room. “Find anything back there?”
“Aye. Our friend wasn’t alone. There was a woman in his life. I found some clothing in the bedroom.”
Merrick glanced toward the door. “The old woman said he was married to a girl named Kira, a woodcutter’s daughter from the other side of town. They hadn’t been married long. A few years, maybe.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Escaped. She was beat up pretty bad, according to the old woman.”
D’Jenn winced. “What’s the wife’s story?”
Merrick walked over to look at the body. “Traveler in the night. That’s all I could glean before the old bat scuttled away.”
“A wayward traveler? Someone shows up in the middle of the night and does this?”
“I don’t believe it, either,” Merrick said. “This is our boy—it has to be. He wouldn’t have run in this direction at random. He’s here for a reason.”
D’Jenn made a slow circuit of the room, taking in the damage. “This is no random killing.”
“I was thinking the same.”
“This was wild magic,” D’Jenn said. “There’s no form or direction to it. If our quarry wanted to murder someone with his power, why not twist the man’s neck with his Kai? Why not burn them? There are a thousand simple ways to kill a man with magic, but this—”
“It looks personal.”
“It’s more than that.” D’Jenn took a step back and gestured at the scene. “Look at where his body is hanging. He’s in the direct center. Look around—see anything sharp lying about?”
Merrick scanned the room. “No. What are you trying to say?”
“Everything turned against the victim.” D’Jenn thumped one of the wooden tendrils with his finger. “Even the damned wood attacked him. Anything sharp lying in the room buried itself in him like a pincushion.”
A look of realization passed over Merrick’s face. “You’re saying it was instinctive.”
“Aye. If this murder was motivated by simple hatred, we’d see signs of torture. Maybe he’d have been tied down, maybe sliced up before he died.”
“But there’s none of that.”
D’Jenn nodded. “And if this was a mugging, it would have been simple and quick.”
“But not this.”
“Aye,” D’Jenn said. “Not this.”
Merrick walked around the room, silent as he took in the destruction. “I’ve been doing this for a few years. It’s hard enough to find young wizards who manifest the gift before their communities have murdered them. Sometimes the kids go bad. Something happens, maybe they kill someone by accident. After that, they go on the run.”
“The first killing is hard, but it gets easier every time.”
Merrick nodded.
“Is that why you requested assistance from the Conclave?”
“Yes,” Merrick said. “I’m no slouch when it comes to defending myself from hostile magic, but Raven is powerful. He’s more than I can handle on my own.”
“And what happens when we find him?”
Merrick sighed and gave D’Jenn a grim look. “If he’ll come willingly, that’s one thing. But if he doesn’t—”
“We kill him?”
Merrick nodded again.
“I suppose my introduction to the life of the Lesmiran Scout will be a trial by fire.”
Merrick smiled. “And my introduction to the life of a Conclave Warlock will be just as fiery.”
“Let’s hope not.” D’Jenn noticed something lying on the floor
and bent to pick it up. It was a wooden toy carved in the semblance of a Nelekan legionary. The arms and legs of the figurine were held together with pins, though one of them had broken, leaving the legionnaire with a crippled left leg. The carving was detailed—even the creases in the armor were depicted.
“What do you think about this?” D’Jenn tossed the toy to Merrick, who caught it from the air.
“Not sure I should think anything about it.”
“Did our victim whittle as a hobby?”
Merrick shrugged. “How should I know that?”
D’Jenn caught the toy as Merrick tossed it back. “It’s a Nelekan legionnaire. Isn’t Raven from the Nelekan countryside? It could mean something.”
“Our victim was a drover,” Merrick said. “He made trips all through the region. He probably went to Neleka more than once. Maybe he bought the toy on one of his trips.”
D’Jenn looked back to the body hanging in the room. “For whom? His wife? I don’t see any evidence of children.”
Merrick narrowed his eyes and walked over to examine the figurine. “You’ve got a point.”
“So, our boy comes here, but why? This cottage isn’t on the road, it’s not a place he would have stumbled across.”
“Maybe he was coming through the woods and chanced upon it.”
D’Jenn shrugged. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. He came here for a reason, killed this person for a reason. We need to find the wife.”
“Agreed. Have you seen everything you need to see here?”
D’Jenn nodded, still staring up at the body.
“Alright, then,” Merrick said. “Let’s head into town. We’ll go to the inn, get something to eat, and ask about the drover’s wife.”
D’Jenn nodded, never taking his eyes from the body. Merrick gathered himself and moved for the door, but D’Jenn waited. Something about the room wasn’t making sense, but whatever it was, D’Jenn couldn’t draw it from the depths of his mind.
“Right,” D’Jenn said. “Let’s head into town.”
***
Rockman’s Ford boasted a three-story inn called The Lame Packhorse. D’Jenn doubted the establishment saw more than the occasional trader headed south to the capital of Shundovia, but the common room was busy at dinnertime. Workmen and traders were tucked around tables, filling the room with a constant buzz of conversation.
The man sitting beside D’Jenn—a local named Loke—burped and wiped his stubbly face with the back of his arm. “Dark business, what happened out there. We don’t see that sort of thing around here. Rockman’s Ford is a nice place.”
D’Jenn shared a look with Merrick. “The man who was killed—did you know him?”
Loke gave a derisive snort and took another sip of ale. “Everyone knows everyone here. Rulon was a good enough sort, I reckon. Never heard stories about him being involved in anything evil.”
“There was a woman living with him,” Merrick said. “The wife, maybe.”
Loke nodded. “Kira, the woodcutter’s daughter. They were wed a couple of years back, on the equinox.”
“And where is she now?” Merrick gave Loke a friendly smile at his questioning look.
Loke gestured down the bar toward some of the other patrons. “Staying with her father, as is proper. I haven’t seen her since Rulon was killed. Word is she was knocked around a bit. Aram—that’s her father—he wouldn’t speak of it.”
D’Jenn glanced down the bar and examined the other patrons. The Lame Packhorse was larger than most inns D’Jenn had seen in hamlets like Rockman’s Ford. The town was situated on one of the major roads leading to Shundov, so the Packhorse was large enough to accommodate tradesmen headed for the capital.
The inn’s common room was well-maintained, though far from opulent. The bar was stained but not polished. The floor was covered in sawdust, which filled the air with its heady scent. Five circular tables sat on the common room floor, three of them filled with drinking patrons. D’Jenn examined them as Merrick continued to question Loke.
One of the tables was occupied by a group of fighting men. They had the dark hair and light skin of Nelekans and carried the telltale weapons of former legionaries. Neleka had been conquered by the Galanian Empire, and in the year since its annexation, many of Neleka’s former legionaries had taken to mercenary work.
They’re probably guarding the merchant caravan in town.
The second table was occupied by the merchants themselves, who sat in close conversation with one of the locals. The tradesmen looked to be Shundovian, though they were out of place in Rockman’s Ford. Their clothing, while not rich, was of better quality than the local man with whom they spoke. There were four of them—an older couple traveling with what D’Jenn guessed were their children. The traders had bowls of food in front of them while the local man only had an ale. The conversation between them was peppered with fierce gestures and the shaking of heads. After a time, the local man reached his hand across the table and shook hands with the oldest tradesman. After the agreement, their conversation smoothed into something less confrontational.
Probably dithering over goods.
“What are you two doing in Rockman’s Ford, anyway?”
D’Jenn brought his attention back to Loke, but Merrick answered before D’Jenn could speak.
“We’re bounty hunters,” he said. “We’ve been chasing a fugitive for the past season. We think he may have come through here.”
Loke’s eyebrows climbed in surprise. “And you think your quarry did for old Rulon?”
“It’s hard to say this point.” Merrick shrugged. “We think he came this way, and I don’t like coincidences.”
Loke shook his head. “If the fellow you’re chasing killed Rulon, then you boys have your work cut out for you. I heard what happened up there, how they found his body. Dark business. It’s got to be a sorcerer, doesn’t it? How do you even catch a sorcerer?”
Merrick shared another look with D’Jenn. “It can be done, though it isn’t easy. We took the bounty, and that’s that. Nothing to do but chase it.”
Loke shook his head again and took another drink from his mug. “Best kill him when you do. Best thing for all sorcerers, I say. Got to burn them at the stake—the gods demand it.”
Bloody superstitious fools.
Merrick smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “This Kira, you said she’s staying with her father? Does he live in town? We’d like to speak to the girl, if it’s alright with him.”
Loke turned and gestured to the table where the tradesmen were sitting with the local man. “Aye, that’s him over there—Aram, the woodcutter.”
D’Jenn’s attention was drawn to the bar as the innkeeper appeared with a plate of food. D’Jenn gave the man a nod of thanks as he set the plates on the bar. He dug into the meal—roasted meat with seared vegetables—and grunted in surprise at the taste.
“Your cook knows what they’re doing,” D’Jenn said. “This is delicious.”
The innkeeper smiled. “There’s no cook, just me and my daughters. My oldest girl did the honors. She has a passion for it.”
“Give her my thanks,” D’Jenn said. “Nothing better than tasty food after a long day’s work.”
The innkeeper beamed, pride suffusing his smile. “I’ll let her know, and thanks, traveler.”
Loke waggled his cup at the innkeeper and nodded at D’Jenn and Merrick. “They’re bounty hunters, Pepin. They’re looking into Rulon’s murder.”
The innkeeper’s face darkened, and he shook his head. “I’m glad someone is. Rulon was a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that.”
Merrick stopped the innkeeper before he could refill Loke’s drink. “What do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t speak of it.” Pepin shook his head. “Is not my business, you understand. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.”
“We understand.” D’Jenn shared a glance with Merrick. “We’re trying to find the one who did this. If there’s an
ything you know that could help us, best to say it. I’m sure the dead will forgive you.”
The innkeeper glanced at Loke, then at the woodcutter sitting with the tradesmen. “It’s not my business, but there were rumors.”
“What sort of rumors?” Merrick said.
The innkeeper adopted a reluctant expression and put his elbows on the bar. “Well, Kira and Rulon hadn’t been married for long. A few weeks after their union, Kira turns up in town with a bruise on her face. She made excuses, but I spoke to the girl myself. I could see the look in her eyes.”
Loke gave a derisive snort. “That was their business, Pepin. The gods don’t like it when people try to come between a man and his wife.”
Pepin scowled at Loke. “How do you know what the gods like and what they don’t? I know you heard the stories, Loke. We all did.”
Merrick glanced between them. “What stories?”
Pepin turned back to Merrick and D’Jenn. “Rulon was always the mean sort, ever since we were children. He was bigger than other kids, so he pushed them around. He didn’t change as he got older. Everyone in town suspected he was mistreating Kira. That bruise on her face wasn’t the only gift her husband gave her.”
“He was a bully, then?” D’Jenn glanced at the woodcutter sitting with the traders.
Pepin nodded. “Everyone knew it. There was an incident last year right here in the Packhorse, right in front of my patrons.”
Merrick leaned forward. “Incident?”
Pepin glanced to the woodcutter’s table. “Well, Aram is Kira’s father, you understand. He comes in here most evenings and drinks with the men in town. One night, Rulon came in for a drink, too. It wasn’t pretty.”
Loke leaned toward Merrick and lowered his voice. “The boys had to hold Aram back. He nearly took his axe to old Rulon, and would have killed him, too. After that, Rulon wouldn’t step foot in town.”
“And Kira stopped showing up with bruises on her face,” Pepin said. “Much for the better, I say. Kira is a sweet girl, she didn’t deserve that.”
D’Jenn and Merrick shared another look.
Defiant Guardians Anthology Page 8