Pradak and Rissa and their parents stood in the center of the square, the rest of the town arranged around them. Pradak’s father Mardak, a tall, hard man with a face like a hawk, stepped forward as Kandler neared. “Justicar, is what my son tells me true?” he asked.
Kandler raised the bundle in his arms just a hair. It seemed heavier than before. “We have a body.”
The rest of the color drained from Mardak’s already pallid face as he looked down at the too-small bundle. “Who?” he asked.
Kandler looked around at the crowd. “I’d rather not say here.”
“Justicar,” Mardak said, a tremble in his voice, “we have lost a dozen souls in the past two weeks. These good people have waited long enough for an answer. As founder of this town I order you to give it to them.”
Kandler stared back at Mardak, as impassive as the shifter beside him. Temmah whimpered softly, once, and then fell silent.
“Now,” Mardak said.
“Don’t you think—”
“Now!”
“It’s Shawda!” Temmah blurted. He began to weep again and buried his face in his beard.
A wail erupted from the rear of the crowd. The people parted, revealing Norra, who had collapsed to her knees, her face buried in her hands. Kandler’s stepdaughter Esprë, a slim girl with long, blonde hair and pointed ears, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Norra to comfort her.
Kandler nearly dropped his bundle to run over and comfort the girls. Instead, he looked to Burch. The shifter, barely taller than Esprë, bounded over and took the girl’s hand. Others leaped to Norra’s aid. Nearly mad with despair, she thrashed and hurled herself about, and her wails followed Kandler all the way to the Mardak’s house.
“Had I known …” Mardak said to Kandler, then trailed off. He turned away from the bundle in Kandler’s hands to address the crowd. His voice shook as he spoke.
“I will hold conference with Justicar Kandler,” Mardak said. “I hope to have a plan before nightfall. Until then, go back to your lives.”
“For as long as you can,” Kandler heard Temmah murmur.
The crowd dispersed, and the people walked away with their heads held low. Many of them wept. Those holding Norra carried her to her home.
Burch signaled that he would take Esprë home and wait with her. Kandler nodded his approval.
“Shall we?” Mardak asked.
Kandler led the way, Shawda’s remains still wrapped tightly in his cloak. Mardak followed close on his heels, with Rislinto—a burly man with a bushy, red beard and a blacksmith’s arms—right behind. Temmah lagged along at the end, rubbing his eyes as he trotted to keep up.
When they arrived at Mardak’s house, Kandler waited for Mardak to open the door. “You wish to bring the body into my house?” the older man asked, his hand on the door’s handle.
“You’d rather I unwrap her out here?”
Mardak hesitated a moment more, then opened the door.
Inside, Kandler strode over to the dining room table and lay his burden down. He unwrapped the cloak and arranged the pieces of Shawda’s body on the table.
“Do you have to do this here?” Mardak asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Your children are grown,” Kandler replied. “Your boy has already seen her—at least one part—and my table isn’t nearly big enough.”
“But my wife—”
“Doesn’t have a problem with it,” a feminine voice from the other room finished. “We must do everything we can to help catch the villain behind this.” The men looked at each other for a moment before Priscinta continued. “But I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t bother to come in for a look.”
Mardak smiled softly. Temmah’s eyes stopped tearing.
Kandler waited for a moment, then spoke. “Shawda was the third of our people to go missing. Her husband reported her gone eight days ago. She was there next to him when he lay down that night. The next morning she was gone.”
“You questioned him thoroughly?” Mardak asked.
Kandler ignored the implication that he didn’t know his job. He knew Mardak was looking for someone to blame for all this, and he was determined not to get into another row about it. “She’d been having trouble sleeping. She was disturbed by the other two people missing at that point. It’s possible she went out for a walk, despite the warnings.”
“How long has she been dead?” Rislinto asked.
“It’s impossible to tell. If she was killed in the Mournland … well, bodies don’t decay in there.”
“But we’re not in the Mournland,” Mardak said. “How do you know she was killed there?”
“I don’t.”
“What do you know, justicar?”
“Let’s not start this again, lads,” Rislinto said. “We’ve more important matters to consider.”
Kandler nodded. After a moment, Mardak shrugged and looked away.
Kandler continued, “Given the number of insects I found under Shawda’s body parts, I’d guess she’s been lying along the ridge for less than a day.”
Kandler reached over and brushed the hair off the dead woman’s face. Although she looked peaceful now, he could hear her soul crying out to him for justice. “There wasn’t any blood there. She was probably killed someplace else and dumped along the ridge. Whether she was killed yesterday or days ago, I don’t know.”
“That’s not much help,” said Mardak.
“What does this mean for the others?” Rislinto asked, interrupting Mardak’s attempt to get a rise out of Kandler.
“They’re dead for sure,” Temmah said, his voice but a whisper. “All of them.”
“Not for sure,” Kandler said as he rewrapped Shawda’s remains. “But I wouldn’t expect them home soon.”
“So what do we do?” Rislinto asked.
“The same,” said Kandler. “We warn everyone to stay inside at night. We keep the round-the-clock watch on the perimeter of town. And while it’s still daylight, we should start searching the rim.” He turned to look down at Temmah.
The dwarf turned a pale shade of green but steeled himself to the task. “I’m on it,” he said as he thrust his long-bearded jaw forward. “I’ll draw off some of the extra guards, and we’ll scour the east ridge from end to end.”
“What else can we do?” asked Mardak, having mastered his frustration for the moment.
Kandler looked up at the rail of a man. “Tell people to stay indoors as much as possible. You two,” he said, glancing at both of them, “you’re lucky your children aren’t missing too. What kind of fools go out near the mists at night?”
“They’re teenagers,” Rislinto said with half a grin. “There’s no controlling them.”
“If your daughter hadn’t tempted my son—” Mardak began.
Kandler cut him off. “Don’t finish that thought. Done is done. Give them both a stern warning and leave it at that. No use fighting old battles.”
Rislinto shuffled uneasily.
Mardak lowered his head. “I apologize, old friend,” he said. “That was beneath me.”
“Then you think too highly of yourself,” Rislinto said as he smiled and clapped Mardak on the back. The casual blow could have knocked the taller man over, but Mardak braced for it. Rislinto turned toward Kandler again. “I’ll have a talk with my daughter.”
“And I with my son,” said Mardak.
“If they don’t listen,” said Rislinto, “I’ve a new set of chains in my shop to lock them in.”
“Joke if you like,” Kandler said, “but you’ve had worse ideas.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
“What about yourself?” Rislinto asked. “What is your plan?”
Kandler hoisted up the bundle on the table once again and started for the door. “Someone,” he said, “has to take care of our dead.”
Kandler bid the two men farewell and walked home. He avoided the main square, cutting between houses and through yards so people wouldn’t see him and try to stop him
. Luck was with him, and he was soon home. He set the bundle down on his front porch and washed at the pump before stepping inside.
Half in shadow, Esprë sat in a rough wooden chair at the shabby dining table in the dimly lit main room. The light poking in through the glassless windows was as pale as her porcelain skin, but her wavy, golden hair sparkled. Like torchlight on gold, Kandler thought. She was weeping, her face buried in her arms piled on the table’s worn top.
As Kandler shut the door, Esprë looked up, her face puffy and red and her blue eyes shining with grief. She waited for him to step within arms’ reach and then launched herself into his embrace. She wrapped herself around his chest, and he reached down to hold her and stroke her hair.
“Was it really Shawda?” she asked.
“Yes,” Kandler whispered, and Esprë began sobbing once more. Kandler looked over at Burch, who sat silent and still in the darkest corner of the room, and nodded his thanks.
The shifter unfolded himself and padded forward to pat Esprë on the back. “She’s seen a lot of death. Too much.”
“We all have,” said Kandler. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered, although he didn’t know how. He found tears welling in his own eyes, and he clamped down on them, willing them away. His stepdaughter needed him to be strong now, and he’d sworn long ago never to disappoint her in that way. He kissed her on the top of her head.
“No bad dreams last night?” Kandler asked Esprë. The girl shook her head against his chest. “Do you always remember them?”
Esprë nodded, then the tears overwhelmed her again, and she pressed her face against Kandler’s shirt to weep.
Three sharp knocks rattled the front door.
Esprë jumped as if she’d been pinched.
“Open, Justicar!” boomed a deep voice. It was not a voice Kandler recognized. “Open I say! We must speak with you.”
“Esprë,” Kandler said. “Leth! Leth!”
The girl remembered her training, the hours of drills Kandler had forced her through over her protestations. Living so near the Mournland, one’s life was always in peril, and surviving meant constant vigilance. Pushing away from Kandler, Esprë scrambled into the pantry, a shallow closet just off the main room, never uttering a word. She shut the thin door behind her on its oiled hinges, leaving it open only a crack, just enough for her to be able to see the front door.
Burch slinked back over into the dark corner near the fireplace. He unslung the crossbow from his back, cranked back its silent lever, and slipped a bolt into its temporary home. He signaled that he was ready, and Kandler opened the door.
Five people stood on Kandler’s porch, each in finely polished chainmail. Long, crimson tabards covered them from shoulders to knees. A raging fire, stitched wholly in silver thread, shimmered on each chest, and a longsword in a gleaming, silver scabbard hung from each waist. They wore piety like robes of righteousness.
The man who knocked on the door stepped aside as Kandler opened it, exposing the eldest of the visitors, who stood in the center of the porch. He stood an inch or two shorter than Kandler, but he was the tallest in the group. His years had not bowed his back, which was straight as a longsword’s blade, but they had added depth to his clean-shaven face and grayed the receding hair that fell to his shoulders. He leaned on an arrow-straight staff of pale, polished birch, topped with a small magical flame that burned silver and cold.
“Hail and well met, my son,” the silver-maned man said with a forced half-smile. “I am Sir Deothen and these are my traveling companions. We are servants of—”
“The Silver Flame,” Kandler finished. As he did, he realized his hand was on the hilt of his sword. He left it there. “I’ve dealt with your people before.”
The man’s smile warmed at the recognition. “Then you already know of our holy calling to protect the good people of Eberron from the forces of evil.”
Kandler said nothing but gazed out past the knights. At the edge of his ash-covered yard, five white horses stood tied to a hitching post. Each magnificent, snow-coated beast was fitted with a riding saddle and saddlebags that didn’t seem as full as they must once have been. A crimson blanket edged with running embroidery of silver flames rested under each saddle.
“My friend,” Deothen said, concern etched in his piercing blue eyes, “as one who lives in this desolate land, you must understand the desperate need for those such as we.”
Kandler kept his other hand on the door as he spoke. “I understand what I need to. You’re from Thrane.”
Deothen frowned. “The deeds of the Last War are behind us, my son.”
“Here we live with it every day.”
Two of Deothen’s fellow Knights glanced over their shoulders at the wall of mist that towered over the eastern horizon.
Kandler moved half a step back and considered slamming the door shut. He had more important things to do than coddle a bunch of knights.
“My son—” Deothen began.
“I’m not your son,” Kandler said. “My father died in the war. Killed by Thranes.”
The four other knights on the porch gasped that anyone would speak to their leader this way.
Deothen let his face soften. “You have my deepest sympathies, my … friend, if I might be so bold.”
“That’s bolder than I care for, but since you’re knocking on my door, I already knew that about you.”
“How do you prefer to be called?”
“I’m the law in Mardakine. The justicar.”
“Justicar, then. We have come to petition for your assistance.”
Kandler raised an eyebrow and moved half a step forward. “What do you want?” As he waited for the reply, he scanned the faces behind Deothen. They were all younger than their leader—some by many years. One youth was barely more than a boy, a thin lad with lanky blond hair and an upturned nose. His enthusiasm shone brightly against that of his more seasoned companions. He looked as if his sword would be too heavy for his arms.
The two other men seemed cut from the same mold, though slightly older. Although one was dark and the other blond, they wore their hair short and even, and they carried the seriousness of their position in their faces. Neither looked like they smiled much.
The last, the one hanging furthest in the back, was a beautiful young woman with sharp features. She had her long red hair tied back in a warrior’s braid. Her wide mouth showed a determined set that matched the glint in her deep green eyes. Her gaze met Kandler’s squarely before he turned back to listen to what Deothen was saying.
“Our Lady Tira Miron, the Voice of the Silver Flame, received a vision that a lost dragonmark has appeared in the Mournland. It is urgent that we find the person who bears this mark.”
“Why?”
“If our foes—”
“Foes? Which foes?”
“The world is full of darkness, my s—er, Justicar. Should Karrnath gain control over this person, our fragile peace will be shattered. All of Khorvaire will could—”
“And if Thrane gets it instead, everything will be fine,” Kandler said with a mirthless laugh. “You’re standing in a crater left behind from the Last War. Left by Thrane.”
“We did what had to be done!” the youngest knight shouted.
Deothen raised his hand with quiet authority, and the boy fell silent, his face burning red.
After a moment, Deothen spoke again. “Levritt is too young to remember much of the war. We cannot undo the past, but we can work to repair the damage done, whether purposefully or not. We ask you now to help us prevent a horror from transpiring. Is that not the greater good?”
“Good and evil are your domain. Mine’s taking care of the people of this town.”
“All we require is a guide into the Mournland. We were told you were the best in all of Mardakine.”
Kandler shook his head. “I don’t know who told you that, and I don’t care. I knew Cyre once, but I’m not that familiar with her corpse. I can’t help you.”
�
��I can.”
Kandler jumped at the sound of Burch’s voice behind him. The shifter had slipped up behind him while Deothen had his attention.
“A shifter!” Levritt whispered.
Burch glanced at the boy as he shuffled around Kandler. Levritt averted his eyes and shuffled his feet.
“I know the Mournland,” said Burch, stepping onto the porch. His yellow eyes blinked as he squinted in the light. “Better than anyone else around here. I could help.”
Kandler reached out and put his hand on Burch’s shoulder. “You know how dangerous the border’s mists are,” he said. “The land beyond them is even worse.”
“That’s why we need your aid,” Deothen said, staring into Burch’s eyes as if into some deep, mystical mirror. He reached out to touch Burch’s face, and the shifter stood impassive for the strangely tender gesture.
Kandler pulled Burch back like a child who’d stepped too close to the edge of a well. “Forget it,” he said. “Neither of us is going anywhere.” Turning to Burch, who had cocked his head at him, he muttered, “Quit looking at me like that.” More loudly, he added, “We have enough on our hands here.”
Deothen composed himself. “What could be more important than saving Khorvaire?” he asked. “Your people will not survive long if this lost mark falls into the hands of evil. What could be more important than that?”
“Than chasing off on a fool’s quest into the deadliest lands because some prophet had a vision? How about a dozen people of Mardakine gone missing over the past two weeks—and one found dead this morning?”
Deothen frowned. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “We knew not of your troubles here.” He paused for a moment, arranging his thoughts. “Perhaps we can help each other. We would be glad to lend what aid we can.”
Kandler shook his head. “We can manage fine on our own.”
“We do not mean to insult you by trading for your services, justicar. We wish only to help. We expect nothing in return.”
Marked for Death: The Lost Mark, Book 1 Page 2