The Barrowland Slayers

Chapter 5: Separate Paths

 "So what you're telling me," Inquisitor Varus said, fingers drumming his lectern, "is that, given the chance to save human lives, you opted to run away instead."

"I had my mission to pursue," Gynefra Caul-Marrel said. The Elf seemed as stubborn as ever, but the inquisitor had broken harder subjects in his past. Many, many times. At least she was speaking her part, though it seemed like nonsense to him. "That took priority. Besides, solving it would save countless lives. Human or otherwise."

"And what exactly was your mission?"

Gynefra made no immediate reply. Inquisitor Varus studied her for a long moment. The Elf was darker-skinned than citizens of the Kingdom, though her hair was a brilliant mixture of gray and white, wrapped in an intricate bun. Muscular and lean, with ears twitching from time to time, she radiated danger. Likely a quick execution would be the best approach, the Watchful Tower's protests be damned.

Still, there was a story here, and the inquisitor was determined to root it out.

He cleared his throat. "Is there any reason—"

Inquisitor Varus paused at the tolling of the bells. The peels of noise echoed loudly, tolling just a floor above his court from the top of the cathedral. His stomach joined in, growling in increased discontent.

Six bells. He'd extended this session long enough.

"Bailiff, take the Elf to her cell," the inquisitor ordered. "Perhaps a night in the windward section will make her more amenable."

The Elf made no protest as she was led away. The inquisitor sighed, brushing back his black hair and gathering up his notes. Despite his words, Varus found that he'd taken some pleasure in how the proceedings had gone. Most of the condemned had been eager enough to tell their tales, nonsense though it may well have been. Still, a persistent thought buzzed around his head.

Their tales match up too neatly, but they speak of fantastic beings with no record of existence. The dead rising... a lie, of course, yet one so readily plays off the other's story. Perhaps it would be best to separate them. Without a chance to agree on a story the truth will more readily come out.

Inquisitor Varus strolled out of his courtroom, making his way down the winding pathways and staircases that led out to Laponica Plaza. The plaza itself was centered on a statue of the city's founder, with an elegant pond and garden beside it, and solidly built government buildings surrounded every street. Emerging from one of those buildings was a man Varus recognized at once. Flanked by guardsmen in studded leather tunics with caps tilted to the side, white and blue feathers sticking out at a jaunty angle, was Duke Machovius. The Duke of Laponica sported a salt and pepper beard, grayish blue eyes and bushy eyebrows, and a lingering limp that slowed down the progress of his party.

Those same eyes met Inquisitor Varus' gaze, and the duke diverged at once, a scowl remaining fixed on his face. It was far more than his customary sour expression, unfortunately. The duke picked up his pace, robe trailing along the stones of the plaza.

"Inquisitor Varus! Am I to understand the strangers still live? I had thought you'd have them hanged by noon."

"Ah, I am simply being thorough, my lord. Their tales are absurd, but we have little contact with the far Frontier. We can glean some truth amidst the nonsense. Besides, my understanding was we needed to exercise some caution with the Elves of the Watchful Tower. Even the Dwarves might pause a diplom—"

Duke Machovius sniffed. "I care little about ruffling the feathers of distant factions. You know, I've just been among the refugee camps. Korso has been very diligent. Four confessions of heresy just in the last hour."