The Barrowland Slayers

Chapter 11: Suspicious Types

Inquisitor Varus leaned forward, certain he was finally getting somewhere.

"Let's start with what happened after you left this Sollun Daar's burial ground... if you had even been there in the first place."

"We had," Jag confirmed with a brisk nod.

"So where did you head next?"

"Well, we were under pursuit by the undead. It took some doing to work our way free, but—"

"Jag, Jag, Jag."

Varus shook his head in disgust.

"What?"

"I told you. These stories... they don't make any sense. The truth, Jag."

"So..." Jag blinked in confusion. "I'm trying to work with you, your honor. What sort of truth do you want? I mean, we fought something. If you don't want it to be the undead, then... then what?"

"It isn't what I want. It's what happened."

Jag sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I mean... humans? Would you like us to have... I mean, would have wanted us to... have... fought..." The sellsword, strained, evidently at the limits of his imagination. "Goblins? Could have been. Might have been." He raised an eyebrow. "Should it have been?"

"Perhaps I should just ask the Seeker and give her this chance instead," Varus grumbled, yet Jag seemed utterly indifferent to the threat.

"There's no point in asking her. She was out of it, ever since that revenant bashed her with his thrice-damned mace."

Varus fell silent, opting to let his glare do the talking.

Jag scratched at his beard and nodded to himself. "Oh, I know. Humans you want... and Elves, yes? As it happens, we did run into a few."

"More Elves?" Varus' interest was piqued now, and he smoothed out his notebook. "Tricky characters, they are."

"I'll say," Jag replied agreeably. "They were clearly suspicious types. Up to no good."

"Yes, yes, we can work with that..."

"We bumped into them after pushing through the storm, leaving the ruins behind. Truth be told, I don't know how I cut my way free, but somehow I kept going hour and after hour..."

***

Fog drifted from the gaps in Jagruanda's steel helmet, mixing with his long frost-rimed beard. Snow crunched underfoot as he jogged a steady pace, one he'd been maintaining near-constantly since they'd stumbled across the undead in the ruins of Sollun Daar's temple. Yet he'd hit his limit. They were perhaps two hours until dawn, and Jag hoped that the creatures would be less formidable in the morning light. They at least would be less likely to surprise him.

Fair Lady pulled on the reins yet again, digging in her hooves for what must have been the hundredth time. "We're just about to stop," Jag replied, in a mixture of concern and annoyance. He tugged on the reins, then pulled with real force, enough to send Fair Lady staggering forward. A contest of obstinance between dwarves and mules was no real contest at all. "You see," he elaborated, waving a gauntleted hand forward, "we'll make camp in there."

Just up ahead was a walled estate, two stories perched in the gloomy fog, without the barest hint of illumination from within. It was abandoned, to Jag's reckoning, and so much the better. He trotted forward to the wrought-iron gate, where four fallen bodies were clustered around a small pile of the steadily accumulating snow. Arrows stuck out from their body, and a cursory examination showed they were undead.