Something different this week - the first part of a fantasy story set in a dark city where a god of death is the dominant religion. To be continued... We moved quickly once the spirit had raised the alarm – an unlicensed cremation was taking place and we had to get there before the body became too badly damaged. If the spirit had come to us, we must be the closest team to the site, but we’d still need to move quickly. A body damaged too much by fire would be useless.
There were five of us on duty that day – myself, Jackson, Annette, Blade and Scar – all of us old hands and experienced. Unfortunately, the downside of being old hands was the part where we got old. Still, we could move when we needed to, but several of us could feel that our time was coming. We moved to the horses and pressed them into a gallop as Jackson picked up his usual call – his loud voice would tell people blocks away to stay away because we weren’t going to stop just because some people were in the street. It was too important that we get to the crime scene and, ultimately, everybody would go to the war. The streets were quiet and getting quieter as we moved swiftly through the city. Unfortunately, Jackson’s cry would also warn the people that we were intending to arrest, and so Scar rode ahead, her horse faster than the rest. She could move more swiftly alone, and she could make sure that none would escape before the rest of us could arrive. By the time we’d followed the spirit we didn’t need the guidance, we could see the smoke rising into the night from the fire. Scar was out of sight, but she had a nose for such things and didn’t need the guidance – hopefully she was already on the scene. With the fire already lit we didn’t have time for subtlety and so I drew my war hammer, knowing that the others would do the same behind me. Our horses burst into the square where the grievers had met. Four of them had the body in hand, seemingly a young man, and it looked to be in perfect condition. Scar sat her horse, a sword in each hand, between the crowd and the fire, making it very clear that anybody attempting to get by her would join their friend in the war effort. “Stand down!” I called as we entered. “Stand down! We represent the Lord Morta and everybody here is considered to be guilty of facilitating an unlicensed cremation. Hand over the body to us, tell us who the organisers are, and everybody else can return to their homes. Remember, the penalty for attending an unlicensed cremation is only a fine.” It was the usual speech – thankfully we’d arrived in time, and so there was no need for the charges to escalate to destruction of a corpse. Usually, the crowd would give up, recognising that they were hopelessly outmatched, we’d take in the ringleaders, and everybody could go about their business. That was the plan – it was always the plan. I heard a scream and looked over – one of the people present had managed to sneak up on Jackson and plunged a knife into his back. Before I could react, Blade had drawn a knife and thrown it, striking the assassin in the chest, who dropped instantly. I dropped from my horse, moving to check on Jackson. Scar growled at the people. Blade did the same, warning that any further violence would be met with harsher punishment. Annette moved to the fallen assailant. It was too late for Jackson – the knife had gone deep and, whilst he still lived, I recognised a fatal would when I saw one. I couldn’t believe that he had been felled so simply – he’d been by my side for years. I lifted his head so that he could see me, and I looked into his eyes. “Farewell, my friend,” I said. “Your work in this life is done. We will send you to the war.” He tried to reply, but the only thing to come from his mouth before he died was blood. Death came to us all. I looked up to Scar and Blade and shook my head. They nodded their understanding. “Sarge,” said Annette, from where she knelt over the other body. “You should come and have a look at this.” I stood up and did so, looking where Annette pointed. The man that had killed Jackson wore the badge of the skull, the emblem of Morta. I looked more closely at him – younger than myself, but not much I would have guessed. I didn’t recognise him, but that wasn’t surprising – there were hundreds of priests of Morta in the city – I only knew a handful of them. “Bring him back to the barracks when we go home,” I said. “We’ll work this out later.” I turned away from the mystery and went to find out who was most culpable. We removed the badge from the priest before I took the bodies to the local shrine – we still hadn’t managed to work out what a priest would have been doing in such a crowd, even less why he would have killed one of us, and a hunch told me that it was better to keep that knowledge to myself for now. It was a risk – it was possible that the priests at the shrine would recognise the man – but I could always say that he didn’t have the badge on him when he’d attacked. “I’ve got an idea, Sarge,” Annette murmured to me as we walked. I wouldn’t normally bring one of the others with me on a trip like this, but the attack earlier that day had me spooked. She had a crossbow in each hand as I led the horse and cart that carried the bodies. People would normally give us a wide berth anyway – with Annette with me they stayed even further away. “I’m not going to like it, am I?” It was a rhetorical question – I couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which the earlier events could make me happy. “I’m afraid not, Sarge. There’s only one reason I can think of why he would have attacked Jackson – and that’s that he wanted to die.” “You don’t think it was something against Jackson then?” I asked. Annette shook her head. “No, Sarge. If a priest had a problem with Jackson, there are better ways to resolve them.” I grunted an acknowledgement. She had a point – a priest could have called down Morta’s wrath upon us, and we’d have been powerless to do anything about it, much less strike back in retaliation. “So why would he want to die?” I asked. “Well – he must have been worried he’d be recognised and taken in for questioning. He’d prefer to die than be questioned.” I narrowed my eyes and glanced at her. “If he wanted to die, he could have just killed himself. And if he wanted to avoid questioning, he’s failed – now he’s dead, another priest can just call him back and demand answers.” Annette smiled at me. “Not if he wasn’t truly of Morta’s faithful,” she said. “Not if he actually followed the Lords of Light.” I stopped in the middle of the street, only the momentum of the horse and cart keeping me going. Could it be possible? Annette had a point, and the theory did fit the facts, but it was impossible to believe. How could anybody in the city follow the Lords of Light? Let alone a priest of Morta! But it did fit. If this mysterious assassin had been a devotee of Light, rather than Morta, then he would have seen suicide as a grievous sin, and the Lords of Light would protect him from being drawn back. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the idea. Just because it made sense didn’t make it possible. “It’s a nice idea,” I said, “but it can’t be true. I know there are those that don’t like sending their dead to the war, but even they must recognise that without Morta the city would have been overrun decades ago – they’re selfish, not apostates. Annette’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but she quickly brought her crossbows to bear again. “I suppose you’re right, Sarge,” she said. “War curse me though; I can’t think of anything else that makes sense.” I looked over at her. “Me neither, Annette,” I said. “Some things don’t make sense though – folk are strange at times. Just look at us.” That brought a smile to her face and she chuckled in acknowledgement as we continued on our way.
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October 2021
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