Shadowguard

Nothing remarkable happened in Pendel. There were tavern brawls, the occasional disturbances caused by travelers, a hunting accident here or there, and family drama by the cartload, but nothing comparable to the ceaseless slew of murders, assassinations, and debauchery of the capital. Mayor Ashburn's death was the most significant thing that happened since the Great Weasel Escapade five years prior, which was nothing more than a week of rodent-induced tomfoolery that was as amusing as it was annoying.

For a sleepy border town, this was a horrible, inconceivable crime.

For Everna, it was nothing unusual.

She stood in the doorway of Mayor Ashburn's room, flanked by Wit and Andryll, and worried at her thumbnail. The grisly scene inside would turn the stomachs of anyone unaccustomed to violence. Blood everywhere: strewn across the walls and the ceiling and pooled beneath the mayor's lifeless body. The vanity lay in a heap of splintered wood and shattered glass. Smeared, bloody hand prints covered the curtains, which hung at an odd angle; someone had ripped one end from the wall.

The window sat crooked in its frame, half opened. A trail of bloody footprints broke away from the mess in the middle of the room and stopped at the wall before doubling back. Everna frowned as she studied them further. The smaller of the two, narrow and heeled, which she assumed belonged to Lyra, trailed into the hall. She couldn't find the path of the second set; it was as if the culprit had vanished along with any trace of their escape.

They weren't Mayor Ashburn's, either; the solid outline of the other footprints didn't match the grooved pattern on the bottom of his boots.

"How did no one hear this?" Andryll asked. "How did I not hear this?!"

"Magic," Witt muttered. His gaze darted about the room, pointedly looking anywhere but at Mayor Ashburn's corpse. "Powerful magic, at that."

"You think someone silenced the commotion?"

Witt swallowed. "It's impossible to say. There could’ve been several spells active at once, or a single but powerful one."

Everna only felt the heavy, sickening weight of dread in her gut. She'd seen many a gruesome scene during the three years she lived in the capital, but this was different. This wasn't the unfortunate death of a nameless stranger; the blood and body belonged to someone she'd known since childhood — a man who might as well be family.

The gods only knew how Witt felt. It was his father lying dead on the floor.

"Everna, you studied this, did you not?" Andryll asked. He nodded towards Mayor Ashburn, though his gaze remained on Witt, his lips pressed into a thin line. "What do you think?"

"That this a mess," she said as she stepped into the room and squatted next to the mayor, careful not to disturb him. "This scene's such a mess, it'd stump an Inquisitor, but I'll see what I can find."

Mayor Ashburn lay on his stomach, his head turned towards the window. The bulk of his wounds were hidden beneath the soaked blanket thrown over his back — someone, most likely Lyra, tried to stem the bleeding, but to no avail. What she could see, however, confirmed the suspicion nagging at the back of her mind. The murder weapon was small and narrow — a stiletto or a rapier, perhaps. The entry points were too small for a full-width sword.

The assailant missed their mark. The placement of both the wounds and the failed attempts suggested they aimed for the space between his ribs, most likely striking at his heart. It was a common tactic. Most assassins struck from behind, either at the heart or the throat, which resulted in the quickest and most assured death.

"I can't speak for what the Guard finds when they turn him over, but I'd wager this wasn't an accident,” Everna said, standing. Though, none of these wounds are significant enough to justify this much blood.” She stepped around the body, careful to avoid the mess on the floor. "There may be something underneath… Oh. That explains it."

A deep, horrific gash split Mayor Ashburn's throat.

"What is it?" Andryll asked.

"Slit throat," she said. "An assassination, I'd say. A sloppy one at that."

"Assassination?!" Witt asked, his face pale. "This is an assassination? It looks like a massacre took place in here!"

The state of the scene had no bearing on the classification. By definition, the distinction between murder and assassination wasn't definite. Scholars often argued the matter, but the Courts abided by their own interpretations. The victim's sociopolitical status determined the designation. The Courts ruled any unnatural death of a political entity, no matter how small and regardless of the motive, as an assassination.

"Why would anyone... Why would they want him dead?" Witt asked.

Everna and Andryll shared a look. Witt wasn't handling this well at all. She could see it in his eyes — wide and unfocused. His hands shook at his sides. He couldn't think clearly, either; Witt knew better than to ask that question. His father was the mayor, Pendel's most beloved, and an insurmountable obstacle for anyone looking to claim that position. He'd never lost a reelection in the thirty years he served.

"I think it's best we go back to the taproom," Everna said. "Preferably before Windmore arrives. Only the gods know what sort of insanity he'd propose if he finds us in here."

Andryll tilted his head to the side, a pointed ear angled towards the hall. "He won't be long. Half the town's already here."

When they returned to the taproom, she found it deathly quiet. No one spoke above a whisper for fear the slightest noise would sever the fraying threat holding them together. Word had spread to the townspeople. Dozens of faces, curious and concerned alike, pressed against the windows as more crowded behind them. Only Arlen and Manvel, kept them from storming the inn. They stood by the front door, the blots firmly in pace, as it rattled in its frame.

Everna surveyed the twenty-odd people who remained. Banor, sat near the door, his axe across his lap. His deep, amber eyes darted about the room, and just beneath the edges of his beard, she saw the slight curl of his upper lip.

The farmhands remained by the smoldering hearth, solemn and silent. At the table near them, the drunken scholar sat hunched over a book, her quill dancing furiously as she scribbled across the pages. Every few seconds, she lifted her head to peer around the room before she began writing once more.

In the far corner, the cloaked man remained. He looked as if he hadn't moved since he arrived; the chair was in the same position and a slew of emptied mugs cluttered the table beside him. Not for the first time that night, she felt his eyes on her.

Lyra was in the corner opposite of him, leaning out the window, retching.

There was one person missing.

"Where's Landen?" she asked.

"He went to fetch the Guard," Andryll said as he lowered Witt onto the nearest barstool. "You don't think..."

Everna hummed. "No. I don't think it was anyone in the tavern tonight. Least, not anyone we know. I'd be shocked if it was."

Family and close relations were always the first suspects, but in this matter, Everna would suggest otherwise. Mayor Ashburn was one of the most skilled fighters in town. Beyond her parents, who were not present, and Andryll, who had not left the taproom, she couldn't think of anyone who'd stand a sliver of a chance against him.

"Besides, I think you're giving Landen too much credit," she added. "From what I've heard, his skill is only slightly less atrocious than his attitude."

"You're a better shot than he is," Andryll snorted.

"I am perfectly average with a bow, thank you," she shot back. "If not, then it's your own fault. You taught me."

"You don't practice."

Everna waved him off and plucked two mugs from beneath the counter.

"What happens now?" Bree, the cook's assistant, asked. She sat on the edge of a stool further down the bar, her knees bouncing. "I mean, what does one even do in these situations?"

"We wait. The Guard will handle it once they arrive," Everna said, as she filled the mugs with the pump built into the bar. "Take this to Lyra. She probably won't want it, but it won't do her any good if there;s nothing in her stomach."

Bree pulled the glass into her hands and slipped off the stool with a quick nod. Everna slid the second glass to Andryll.

"I cannot believe this," Melenda, the cook, muttered. "Oh, Pala is going to be hysterical when she hears! If she hasn't already!"

Tears trailed down her pale cheeks, her nose red and her eyes bloodshot. She was, if Everna remembered correctly, Mayor Ashburn's cousin. Or was it a second cousin? Twice removed? Her mother mentioned it once, but she hadn't been listening.

"I would assume so." Everna sighed, jerking her head towards the window. "Did Lyra say anything?"

"Not much that we could understand," Melenda said. "Poor girl's beside herself. I think she may have tried to stop the bleeding, but couldn't."

"I don't think even a cleric could've stopped the bleeding."

Melenda paled.

Once more, silence reigned. For nearly ten minutes, the tavern held its breath. Then, with a burst of frigid air and the clamor of a hundred outraged cries, twenty armed guards spilled through the door. They set to work immediately, breaking into smaller groups that dispersed across the taproom. Andryll led one group to the mayor's room.

Captain Windmore entered last.

"I want everyone in the tavern questioned," he ordered, his tone pompous and imperious. He stalked across the room, his aged face twisted with a vicious scowl, and stopped in front of her. "Where's Ronan and Evelina?"

"Trenbrook," Everna said.

Captain Windmore's scowl deepened. "How convenient."

She pursed her lips. It was rather convenient that someone murdered Mayor Ashburn the night her parents left town for the first time in almost twenty years.

"Is this everyone who was present at the time of the murder?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Everna said. "Mayor Ashburn's window was half open, and there was a third person in there, though where they went, I can't say. The steps led to the window, then disappeared. Doesn't look to be anyone in the taproom."

Captain Windmore lifted his chin, peering down his nose at her. "Leave the deduction to those qualified for it, girl. I asked after the guests, not what you thought you saw."

Everna bit back a sigh. She hadn't a clue what she'd done to earn his ire, but Captain Windmore had never been fond of her. As a child, his surly and abrasive attitude terrified her. Now, he was little more than a nuisance she tried to avoid whenever. It would be her luck that he'd be on duty tonight.

"With all due respect, Captain," she said, forcing her voice to remain neutral. "I had three years of formal education on the matter. I would think I'm more qualified than a handful of volunteer guards."

"Yes, well, thinking has always been an issue for you," he said with a dismissive wave. "You never finished your studies, and it begs the question why. Quit playing Inquisitor and leave it to those who know what they're doing."

Everna's eye twitched. Her decision to withdraw from her courses wasn't a matter of inadequacy, but a lack of funding. Higher education was a privilege for those with the coin to afford tuition, or those fortunate enough to find someone willing to sponsor their education. Everna would've finished her courses four months ago if there weren't complications with her sponsorship. Captain Windmore knew that. He threw it in her face every chance he had.

Though the penalty for punching a member of the Guard was only a night in a jail cell, she stayed her hand. There were more concerning matters at hand. Mayor Ashburn's assassination took precedence over her pride.

Verbal jabs worked just as well, if not better, with Windmore.

"Then I can only hope Sir Swiftbrook arrives shortly," she said at length.

Captain Windmore flushed. He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his side. "Another guard will be along to question you."