Previously:  In a world where mundane Humans coexist with magical Beings, Gildar, something of a detective-in-training, is on a quest to discover if a Human trader named Jed actually killed Ballin with a caplock pistol.  At least that’s what Gildar’s mentor, Mordrad, claims happened.   After changing his appearance to look like a hound, Gildar discovers the scent of a sixth person who was never accounted for on a percussion cap that didn’t spark.

Gildar tracks Jed to the trader’s home in town, and learns the pistol in question has been delivered to a customer who claimed he never ordered nor paid for it – but kept it anyway.  Unable to examine the pistol further, Gildar convinces Jed to accompany him to Ballin’s funeral that night.  Because Gildar is a realigner who can also change the appearance of nearby surroundings, he plans to disguise them and question the participants.

At the funeral he meets Kareece, Ballin’s widow, and her cousin by marriage, Vervale.  Mordrad is also in attendance, and threatens to end Gildar’s career as a quester.  Gildar then speaks to Plaiton, Ballin’s nine-year-old son, and learns that Vervale had spoken to the boy about pistols the night before.

Plaiton tells Gildar that Vervale told him to look into a pistol’s barrel to tell if it’s loaded, and also gave the boy a raspberry whip, with instructions not to eat it until after breakfast.  Gildar tries to question Vervale, but Mordrad intervenes.  Because a Being’s enchantments won’t work after he lies, Gildar resorts to asking Vervale if he murdered Ballin.  Vervale hurls a fireball at him and flees, and Gildar pursues him even though that leaves Jed in a vulnerable predicament.

*****

Clouds obscured much of the moonlight as Gildar raced into the meadow.  Spooked horses shuffled against their hobbles as he tried to discern which way Vervale had fled.  Gildar halted and strained to hear above thumping hooves and vexed snuffles.

After a few seconds, one set of drumming hooves erupted from the far end of the cedar grove.  The steed bore down on him, and Gildar had to dodge again as Vervale spurred the beast into a faster gallop through the clearing.

“So that’s how you want to play!”  Gildar hissed as tan mist swirled around him, and then he spread his arms and changed into an enormous owl.

He leaped, and flapped toward the sky to soar over Vervale on the galloping horse.

Taking the form of an owl helped him to see a little better and observe his target unnoticed.  And capturing the pyrotant demanded some consideration.

Elementals were considered the most powerful of all the arcane Beings, partly because they were the only ones who could outright kill an opponent with their enchantments.  Gildar could realign Jed to appear like a pile of dismembered bones.  But except for the emotional trauma that would undoubtedly cause, the trader would reassume his natural state unharmed.

Pyrotants could make their enemies spontaneously combust, and nobody recovered from that.

Luckily there was a tradeoff when enchantments were that strong.  Gildar could realign himself and his immediate surroundings all day, but Elementals exhausted themselves after too many manifestations – or if they cast that enchantment massive enough to cause an opponent to burst into flame.

Gildar wasn’t a pile of smoldering ash on the floor right now because that would have left Vervale physically weak and unable to continue enchantments.  Fireballs like the one he did hurl were limited in number of casts.

If Gildar could draw out the majority of Vervale’s power, the pyrotant would make a compliant prisoner.  He would have to provoke his quarry into summoning more fire.

And as far as Gildar could tell, he was the only target Vervale might risk overextending himself for.

“You really want to do this for a living?” Gildar muttered just before diving toward the horse and rider.

It was no surprise Vervale didn’t hear his approach.  Gildar struck him hard with feet curled like fists to avoid shredding the pyrotant’s flesh with his talons.  The blow knocked Vervale forward over the steed’s neck, but he also swatted with flaming fingers toward Gildar.

Gildar veered to one side, but the fireball brushed his wings.  The stench of singed feathers assailed his nostrils as he flipped upside down and crashed into grass and pebbles.

The feathers had offered scant protection from the blaze and abrasions, but his limbs and shoulders still stung. Gildar sprang to his feet.

Flight was not as much of an advantage now as speed and strength would be.  The mist swirled around him again, and he lunged forward as a brown and brawny, and somewhat smoky, bear.

If the horse hadn’t been galloping at full speed before, it probably was now with the realization a bruin was pursuing it.  Odds were Vervale glanced back to see what form Gildar assumed this time.  At least he didn’t cast anymore fireballs, so Gildar drew closer and alongside the fleeing beast.

He snapped the cuff of Vervale’s trousers between his teeth and slammed to a halt.

The horse whinnied and Vervale shrieked some curse as the pyrotant was ripped from the saddle.  Gildar thrust out his arms to catch him – and got fire flung into his face for the effort.

So Vervale hit the ground hard as Gildar swatted his paws against his muzzle.  But his whole head and back were burning, so he released the pyrotant and rolled on the ground for several seconds while rubbing his arms against his crown.

His eyes stung and watered, and pain throbbed throughout much of his body.  The putrid stench of burned hair didn’t help as his attention returned to Vervale a few paces away.

The clouds must have parted to allow more moonlight.  The pyrotant lay on his left side, wheezing as he struggled to breathe.  Gildar gritted his teeth against the pulsing agony that jolted through him with each step as he approached.

But halfway to Vervale, the pyrotant hurled a firewall toward him.

Gildar realigned instantly into a pile of mud – which added to his agony.  Changing form that quickly was akin to receiving a hard slap throughout his core, while taking a few seconds to alter appearance was more like a gentle stroke.

The wave of fire seared him as it swept over.  His soggy form offered the best protection yet, but didn’t negate the sensation of heat.  The flames fizzled into nothingness behind him, although smoke rose from the grass and steam from Gildar.

At least he could take a few seconds to change back to his normal self.  “You’d better be outta fuel, Vervale,” he panted while mist, steam, and smoke swirled around him.  “Cause if you spark again, I’m gonna turn the ground beneath you into a sewage ditch.”

Vervale muttered back something incomprehensible.  After that last, impressive enchantment, he did seem tapped out, and Gildar was able to finish limping over to him.

More pain shot through his singed arms as he shrugged off his leather vest, which was as charred and ragged as the rest of his clothes.  He realigned it into handcuffs, and rolled Vervale to his stomach to cuff the pyrotant’s hands behind him.

An unmistakable pop behind him made Gildar’s thumping heart skip a beat.  He stiffly turned to see Mordrad standing about five paces away.

Better not make any sudden accusations.  “Where have you been?”

“Several places.”  Mordrad’s gaze was unflinching.  “First, I made sure Jed was relatively safe, then I had to migrate a few times to catch up to you.”  His expression hardened as he studied Gildar.  “I know that look.  No, I did not have anything to do with Ballin’s murder.”

He vanished with a pop, and then immediately reappeared beside Gildar and Vervale.

His gaze leveled on Gildar.  “Satisfied?”

“For the moment, but we’ll have to finish this conversation later.  How is Jed?”

“Appreciative of Kareece.  She morphed into a briar patch that surrounded him, and told everybody he wasn’t up for grabs.  Seems to me since you’re pretty unpresentable right now, I should haul Vervale in for custody and you look into making sure Jed gets home all right.”

That offer made Gildar’s stomach clench.  He wished his doubts didn’t linger, and they must have been betrayed in his expression.  Mordrad frowned again.

The transmigrator then rolled his eyes.  “For the love of….  I’ll take Vervale to the tribune.”  He popped out of sight, and reappeared on the other side of them.  “I am not doing that again.”

Something about Mordrad’s annoyance always amused Gildar, which maybe he should contemplate someday.  “Then we’ll meet back at your place?”

“And hash things out then.”  Mordrad pulled handcuffs from the pocket of his coat.  “I presume you improvised again?”

Gildar retrieved his handcuffs that he realigned back into the vest, and Mordrad placed one foot on Vervale’s shoulder so that their prisoner would transmigrate with him when he engaged the enchantment.  Then he hesitated, sniffed audibly, and tilted his head toward Gildar.  “Do I smell bacon?”

At least the levity made their interaction feel a bit more normal.  “I’d rather be compared to a ham.”

*****

“Why did you try to impede my investigation?”  Gildar looked over the mug of tea he held as he studied his mentor.  The beverage was a welcomed treat after washing up, tending his burns, and changing into clean clothes.

Soft morning sunlight shone from the nearby window onto the table, and Mordrad had informed him what was learned from Vervale’s first interrogation.

The transmigrator shrugged as he gazed into his own drink.  “When you’ve been a justice quester for as long as I have, you see lots of inhumane treatment Humans do to Beings.”

It wasn’t as precise an answer as Gildar was looking for, but at least he was able to analyze it.  “You decided Jed was guilty because he’s Human?”  He leaned forward.  “Or you didn’t care if he was innocent because he’s Human?”

“You’re probably closer with the second question.”  Mordrad’s vagueness suggested he hadn’t thought through his own actions.

“And were you fine with a Being getting away with murder, or were you purposefully protecting Vervale?”

“I didn’t suspect Vervale at first.”  The transmigrator looked up.  “But after our discussion on the hillside, I migrated to his place for more confections.  He was gone, of course, to help Kareece prepare for the funeral.”

“Of course?  A cousin by marriage doesn’t normally assume that role.”

“Exactly.  And I thought again about the halfcocked pistol, and that Vervale had the right enchantment to make it fire.”

Gildar leaned forward.  “He was at Ballin’s the night before, and gave Plaiton a raspberry whip.  He told the boy not to eat it until after breakfast, just before Ballin and Plaiton headed out to meet Jed.  Vervale also talked about pistols, and that you look down the barrel to determine whether or not it’s loaded.”

Mordrad frowned.  “Are those two things supposed to be related?”

“Maybe.  Since I’m the outsider to this community, I don’t know Vervale well enough to confirm he might be able to concoct a consumable potion that could influence somebody already prone to suggestion.”  His gaze locked on Mordrad’s.  “But you might know.”

“Consumable potions?  Sounds like you’ve been eating some pretty strange weeds, yourself.”

“Sounds like when Jed was camped out with his wagon, Vervale crept in while he slept and took the pistol out of the box.  He armed it, but didn’t know you have to pull the hammer all the way back to make it fire.  He tailed Jed the next day, and hid in the trees to watch his plan unfold.”

Mordrad’s brow furrowed deeper.  “But Plaiton picked up the pistol.”

“Exactly.  And when Plaiton shot himself – because of a form of hypnotic suggestion – Vervale knew Ballin the empath would take the wound onto himself to save his son.”  Gildar leaned against the back of his chair.  “What I’m still shaky on is why.”

Mordrad rolled the mug between his hands.  “After his wife died, Vervale spent more time at Ballin’s.  He wasn’t just sweet on Kareece, however.  If he could combine his confectionary with her tailoring, they’d become quite well off.”

Gildar nodded.  “That makes sense.”

“But your potion theory doesn’t.”

“If Vervale isn’t the one who figured out how to make influential potions, somebody else has.”  Gildar frowned.  “And if he won’t say where he got it, we’ll have to seek out that person.”  He regarded Mordrad pensively.  “Is this your long way of telling me you didn’t want to lose your supplier of confections?”

The transmigrator shrugged again.  “I suppose I wanted to prove my suspicion about him wrong.”

The pit of Gildar’s stomach trembled.  In the past day Mordrad had threatened to get him barred from becoming a quester, but now Mordrad’s conduct bordered on making the transmigrator unfit for that duty.  Had the roles been reversed?  Should Gildar report this transgression to the tribune?

He would never call his apprenticeship with Mordrad amiable, yet this curmudgeon had been an effective mentor.  It was unsettling to contemplate Mordrad being unceremoniously dismissed after so many years of service.

Mordrad took a sip before speaking.  “I’m getting too old and fat for this.  Too many hazards with this vocation.  Time to let a younger man take over … unless you’ve been burned too many times on this quest.”

The light smile that curled Gildar’s lips reflected his relief that this time, for once, he wouldn’t have to choose the harder path.

He raised his mug.  “Call me a glutton for punishment.”

The End

###

Here’s my submission for #BlogBattle, and the word this month is Provoke.  Don’t miss out on the other contributions, as well!

If you missed the preceding segments to this conclusion, Part One or Part Two or Part Three or Part Four can be found at these links.

 

Previously:  In a world where mundane humans coexist with magical beings, Gildar, something of a detective-in-training,is on a quest to discover if a human trader named Jed actually killed Ballin with a caplock pistol.  At least that’s what Gildar’s mentor, Mordrad, claims happened.   After changing his appearance to look like a hound, Gildar discovers the scent of a sixth person who was never accounted for on a percussion cap that didn’t spark.

Gildar tracks Jed to the trader’s home in town, and learns the pistol in question has been delivered to a customer who claimed he never ordered nor paid for it – but kept it anyway.  Unable to examine the pistol further, Gildar convinces Jed to accompany him to Ballin’s funeral that night.  Because Gildar is a realigner who can also change the appearance of nearby surroundings, he plans to disguise them and question the participants.

At the funeral he meets Kareece, Ballin’s widow, and her cousin by marriage, Vervale.  Mordrad is also in attendance, and threatens to end Gildar’s career as a quester.  Gildar then speaks to Plaiton, Ballin’s nine-year-old son, and learns that Vervale had spoken to the boy about pistols the night before.

*****

Plaiton shrugged.  “He told me how humans have come up with a new gun, that they’re always looking for more effective ways to destroy.”

Gildar frowned as he glanced back at Vervale standing beside the widow Kareece.  Beings didn’t pay much attention to human inventions.  Gildar was familiar with those weapons for a variety of reasons, principally because such knowledge was useful in his role of justice quester.  But why would a manufacturer of tasty treats educate himself about such contraptions?

“What details did he tell you about pistols?”  His attention shifted back to the boy.

“A little about how they work.”  Plaiton looked down again.  “Maybe that’s why I wanted to see the gun, because Uncle Vervale told me about them last night.”

Gildar slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and fingered the unspent percussion cap.  Earlier this morning when he and Mordrad questioned the boy and the trader, Plaiton never mentioned Vervale’s visit last night.  Of course not.  The lad had been too rattled and riddled with grief to mention such a … seemingly unrelated … detail.

The next question Gildar wanted to ask was a bit awkward, not typically part of casual conversation, but sometimes such information was necessary.

“What is Vervale’s enchantment?”

The boy’s brow furrowed, but he looked more quizzical than concerned.  “He’s a pyrotant.”

Great leaping grasshoppers – his fingers tightened on the cap.

Vervale’s ability to manipulate fire might explain how the pistol managed to shoot without the hammer striking the cap to set off the spark.  But why would Vervale set the percussion cap and pull the hammer back only halfway?

“What exactly did he tell you about how pistols work?”

Plaiton managed to slouch even more.  “That you pour powder into the barrel, and use a rod to ram a ball wrapped in fabric into it.”

He was silent for a few seconds before Gildar gently asked, “And?”

The boy, eyes red, looked up at him.  His voice wavered when he replied.

“You can tell if it’s loaded or not by looking into the barrel.”  Plaiton’s gaze returned to the floor, and his voice cracked on the next comment.  “Maybe that’s why I did it.”

Gildar stared at the traumatized child, his chest tightening even as his mind raced.  How did this information add up?  Yes, children were very suggestible, but as Mordrad had pointed out, relying on the boy to shoot himself so that his empath father would take on the mortal wound and die instead was too convoluted a plan to be rational.

He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Did Vervale tell you anything else?”

Plaiton drew a couple of shaky breaths before replying.  “Not really.  He wasn’t around that much, just asked about Pa meeting with Jed the next morning.  And then he gave us raspberry whips he said to eat after breakfast.  Then he left.”

After breakfast?  Maybe it meant nothing.  If Vervale gave the boy and his sisters a treat at night, it would be typical to tell children they should wait until the following day to consume it.  But … after breakfast was a more precise time than tomorrow.

Gildar lightly squeezed Plaiton’s shoulder.  “And did you eat the whip after breakfast?”

The boy nodded.

“And then you and your father went out to meet Jed?”

Plaiton’s lip quivered as he nodded again.

Pseudo-old-man Jed, whom Gildar had almost forgotten was standing nearby, tapped his arm.  Gildar glanced down and saw the trader was handing him a handkerchief.  He accepted the cloth, and handed it to Plaiton as his other hand moved from the boy’s shoulder to his back.

“I’m sorry.”  Gildar couldn’t enumerate everything he was apologetic for, but his imagination veered in a direction that unsettled him.

One didn’t consume potions.  At least not that he’d ever heard of.  But if there was anything both humans and beings were always trying to innovate, it was potions.  Humans always concocted toxic versions to keep hostile beings at bay.  And beings tried to compensate for the enchantments they couldn’t generate themselves.

Was there something in that whip besides raspberry pulp and sugar?  Nobody could make anybody act against his will, but … could an impressionable child be coerced into an action that adults who knew better would never do?

Even a potion with only that little power of persuasion could be very dangerous.

Both Ballin and Jed had shouted at Plaiton not to point the pistol at his face, even though they believed it to be unloaded.  And Vervale would have good reason to believe Ballin would give up his own life to save his son.

But where did Vervale go after leaving Ballin’s?  And why would he even want to murder the empath?

Gildar rubbed the boy’s back as his gaze swept across the room to where Vervale still lingered near Ballin’s widow.  She’d claimed her cousin by marriage had been very helpful since the morning’s tragic event.

Something knotted in Gildar’s stomach.  What else did Vervale cook up besides confectionary treats?  It was time to give Plaiton some reprieve and ask the pyrotant what he’d been up to in the last day.

His hand returned to Plaiton’s shoulder.  “Can I get you anything?”

The boy shook his head as he wiped at his nose with the handkerchief.  Gildar’s gaze locked on Jed, and he jerked his chin toward Vervale and Kareece.

“Let’s resume our conversation.”

The trader hesitated, studying the boy as though trying to decide if he should linger.  But then perhaps remembering he needed to stay within nine paces of Gildar to keep his altered appearance, Jed gave Plaiton a pat on the shoulder before falling in step with Gildar.  As they crossed the room, another movement from beside the food-laden table caught Gildar’s eye.

Mordrad was also heading toward the widow and her cousin.  It seemed doubtful the transmigrator just happened to decide at the same time to speak with Vervale.  That knot in Gildar’s stomach turned again.  Exactly why was Mordrad here?

The unwelcomed notion that Gildar’s mentor was in on this scheme somehow returned.  He didn’t like to think about it, but it wouldn’t be the first time a justice quester turned sour.  Vervale had referred to Mordrad as one of his best customers.

“Begging your pardon.”  Gildar bowed slightly as they halted before Vervale and Kareece.  “I heard you were familiar with pistols, and wondered if you could tell me about them.”

Vervale arched an eyebrow.  Mordrad approached Gildar’s other side and squinted at him.

“What makes you so interested in pistols?” the transmigrator asked.

Was his mentor purposefully trying to interfere with the investigation?  Mordrad knew why Gildar was here.  Asking questions like that could only compromise his attempt to discover the truth.

Gildar cast a smile more confident than he felt at Mordrad.  “Isn’t that obvious?”

The truth … a facet of reality every being had to contend with.  Determining truth could sometimes be tricky, because if somebody repeated a lie he believed, then his enchantment wouldn’t be neutralized like it was if he told a lie.  Heretics claimed this meant truth wasn’t actually a single standard.  But more philosophical thinkers pointed out this was an act of mercy.  Innocents deceived into believing a lie were not culpable like those who promulgated the lie.

Had Vervale actually believed it was a good idea to look into the barrel of a gun?  Or last night had he been willing to forfeit his enchantment until sunrise in order to plant an erroneous suggestion in Plaiton’s mind?

Mordrad frowned.  “You’re asking an awful lot of questions.”

Kareece cast that quizzical glance between them again.  Gildar didn’t like the possibility of causing the same upset for her he brought upon her son, but with Mordrad accosting him, he was running out of options to discover the truth.

He would have preferred not to use a tactic as crude as the direct question that occurred to him, but Mordrad’s participation left him few options.  Gildar returned his attention to Vervale.

“Were you involved with the murder of Ballin the empath?”

Everybody in their immediate group, including Mordrad, gaped or gasped.  Vervale stared at Gildar for a nervous few seconds and sputtered a bit before replying.

“Why would you ask me that?”

That was not a no, which meant his answer could only mean one thing.  Tan mist swirled around Gildar as he returned to his actual appearance.  Since he was about to act in official capacity, he should look like the quester he was.

“Fellow Vervale, you’ll need to come along with me.”

Vervale’s hand sprang up, and Gildar expected the sparks that popped from his fingers.  With only an instant to dodge the fireball that hurtled toward him, Gildar sprang to one side and pushed Jed aside as well.

Mordrad popped out of sight and didn’t reappear anywhere else in the room.  Gildar had no clue to where the elder quester transmigrated.

Shouts and screams echoed through the chambers as Vervale lunged toward the entrance, but the visitors’ consternation was caused by the fiery blast exploding against the far wall.  Smoke and ash billowed from a ragged char stain on the granite.  The pyrotant flung open the door and sprinted out.

Gildar charged after Vervale.  But when he reached the doorway, more gasps and outcries urged him to halt.  As he straddled the threshold, he glanced back.

Jed, who hadn’t chased after Gildar, looked like himself again.  The fact his appearance changed wouldn’t have startled the beings in the home.  Most likely, more than a few recognized him – and knew he was human.

Many considered it a desecration for a human to intrude upon the funeral of a being.  The attendants seemed to vacillate between expressing more outrage at Vervale’s blast or Jed’s presence.

Kareece, with jaw set and lips pressed together, strode toward Jed.

Gildar had a human in possible danger inside, and a killer on the loose outside.  He could only hope Kareece’s concerned comments about Jed earlier that night reflected true compassion for the trader’s dilemma.

“Sorry, Jed.”  Gildar dashed out the doorway.

###

Here is my contribution to this month’s #BlogBattle, and the word this round is Nervous.  Don’t be shy about checking out the other submissions as well!

This is also Part Four, so if you missed Part One or Part Two or Part Three, just follow the links.

Previously:

A murder within a magical community sends Gildar, something of a detective-in-training, on a quest to discover if a human trader named Jed actually killed Ballin with a caplock pistol.  At least that’s what Gildar’s mentor, Mordrad, claims happened.   After changing his appearance to look like a hound, Gildar discovers the scent of a sixth person who was never accounted for on a percussion cap that didn’t spark.

Gildar tracks Jed to the trader’s home in town, and learns the pistol in question has been delivered to a customer who claimed he never ordered nor paid for it – but kept it anyway.  Unable to examine the pistol further, Gildar convinces Jed to accompany him to Ballin’s funeral that night.  Because Gildar is a realigner who can also change the appearance of nearby surroundings, he plans to disguise them and question the participants.

***

The home of the late Ballin was chiseled into a cliff side, the entrance concealed by a grove of cedar trees.  A few hobbled horses, their shadows long from the low sun, grazed on the meadow tucked amidst the cliff and surrounding forest.  As Gildar and Jed approached on a couple of the trader’s steeds, the small herd watched.

“It’s around here?” Jed asked.

Since Gildar was here earlier today, he knew the home’s exact location.  But for that, he might have also needed to search out the entrance.

He tugged the reins to halt his bay mount.  “On the other side of those cedars.”

Jed frowned as he also stopped his roan horse.  “I wouldn’t have thought….  Ballin was always well-dressed, and bartered for some pretty fine fabrics.  I always imagined he’d be in, well, more of a proper house.”

Gildar couldn’t resist smirking as he dismounted.  “Despite the claims my people live in nests or dens?”

“Of course those claims are rubbish.”  Jed also swung off his horse.  “But it does account for how you beings are very good at hiding.”

Gildar pulled the leather hobbles free that had been tucked behind the saddle’s cantle.  “I should go ahead and realign you before anybody else shows up.”

“That sounds disturbing.”  The trader’s brow furrowed.  “But might as well get it over with – will I feel anything?”

“Maybe some tickling.”  Gildar, still looking like a middle-aged blond but his clothing was more presentable, raised a hand and pinched the fingertips together.  “Remember, I’m just altering your outward appearance.”

A brown mist swirled around Jed.  But during the couple of seconds it took for him to look instead like an elderly, bearded fellow, he wriggled and stamped and squawked like a lamb with its mouth still full while being yanked away from the teat.  Gildar squinted at him as the mist evaporated.

“What was that?”  The trader scratched at the front of his shirt.  “I felt like there were bugs crawling all over me!”

That was a problem?  Well, adults sometimes weren’t as adventurous as children.  “Yeah, I said it might tickle.”

He pointed at Gildar.  “Will that happen again when you change me back?”

“Well, yeah, but you’re used to it now.”

“No, I’m not!”

They fastened the leather straps to the front fetlocks of their mounts, and then Jed followed him around the cedars.  The door, fashioned from the same stone, blended in with the rest of the rock face.

Gildar reached into a crevice beside it and pulled a hidden cord.  Most abodes of this construction were outfitted with that particular feature.  They didn’t hear the bong it would have caused inside, but within several seconds an elderly woman in a dark green dress shoved the door open.  A matching shawl draped over her head.

As per their arrangement, Jed introduced themselves as a couple of associates come to pay their respects.  He stammered a little while speaking in a higher pitch, but Gildar figured the old man persona would help keep others from noticing that too much.  And Gildar couldn’t spout a wholesale fabrication without losing the potency of his enchantment.

The matron, who introduced herself as the mother of Ballin’s widow, Kareece, invited them inside.

Jed’s jaw dropped slightly and he glanced about as they entered the home.  Carved into solid rock and inhabited over centuries, the arched ceilings were supported by ornate columns, and a few woolen rugs lay arranged on the smooth floor.  Around twenty people, adults and youths, were scattered around the adjoining chambers.

Gildar muttered at him out of the corner of his mouth, “Don’t look so impressed.”

But his own heart fluttered when he glanced toward Ballin’s coffin.  The pine box sat atop a catafalque of interwoven vines that provided a sturdy platform.  And standing nearby, sipping a cup of tea, Mordrad studied them.

What was his mentor doing here?  Yes, Mordrad was a member of this community, while Gildar was the rookie outsider, but there was no other reason for the transmigrator to attend the funerary service….

Or was there?

Mordrad wouldn’t recognize them in their realigned appearances, but by the way he observed them, it was good bet he suspected any stranger might be Gildar in an alternative persona.

Their escort led them to a hearth where Kareece stood with a fellow in a tailored, gray suit on her left, and an elderly couple on her right.  Her mother made introductions.  As Gildar suspected, the couple were Ballin’s parents, but the gentleman was referred to only as her cousin Vervale.

After Jed explained without too much stammering how they’d bartered with Ballin, Gildar remarked “I understand there was some kind of tragic accident involving his son.”

The elders, perhaps emotionally weary of hearing about the account, excused themselves to check up on their grandchildren.  As they strolled toward two girls and a boy sitting on a bench against the opposite wall, there was no mistaking Plaiton and his somber expression.

Vervale shook his head as he replied, “It was murder, plain and simple.  His son Plaiton shot himself with a pistol some itinerate merchant had in his wares, and Ballin used his empath enchantment to save the boy.”

“Oh, Vervale.”  Kareece turned her attention to him.  “When did Jed even say so much as an unkind word?”

“That’s exactly the sort you have to be careful about.”

The left corner of Jed’s mouth twitched.  Gildar shuffled slightly in front of him and asked, “What about an investigation?”

Kareece sighed.  “A couple of questers have looked into what happened, and the one in charge – he’s over there, actually – seemed convinced Jed was involved, but … we’ve traded with him for even longer than Vervale has.  I find that conclusion hard to believe.”

Vervale placed a hand on her shoulder.  “It’s hard enough to lose a spouse, Kareece, don’t fret over the trader.”

An unmistakable, gruff voice behind Gildar made his heart skip a beat.  “How long have you two known Ballin?”

The question confirmed Mordrad likely suspected his real identity.  Jed muttered, “A few years,” but Gildar smiled at the transmigrater.

“Not that long.”  He could get away with being vague and skirting the truth, but now that was for everybody else’s benefit since the jig was probably up concerning Mordrad.

His mentor’s brow furrowed, a sure sign he recognized Gildar’s voice.  “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?”

He steadied his gaze on Mordrad’s face.  “No, I’m not finished yet.”

From the corner of his eye he noticed Kareece glance back and forth between them before asking, “Do you know each other?”

Gildar smiled at her.  “Not as well as I thought.”

Mordrad could have suspected Gildar would come here tonight, which might be one reason the transmigrator was also present.  But that detail was too minor to pull Mordrad away from the comfort of his own table.  There had to be another reason his mentor was here, but what?

Jed asked a question Gildar much appreciated.  “How long have you known Ballin?”

Mordrad squinted at him before replying.  “I was more acquainted with him by name.”

“Oh?”  Gildar’s gaze locked on him, and Mordrad scowled back.

Vervale bowed slightly.  “Mordrad here is a friend of mine.  One of my most loyal customers.”

His mentor’s affinity for treats immediately came to mind.  “You’re a confectioner?”

Vervale nodded as Kareece said, “He and his late wife, my blood cousin, worked together like Ballin and I did.”  She drew a deep breath and shrugged.  “He’s been as much help as the parents in preparing for the funeral and … what’s ahead.”

Mordrad made a small bow to her.  “Pardon me, but I have a few questions for these gentlemen that I don’t wish to concern you with.”  He frowned at Gildar.  “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Begging your pardon.”  Gildar nodded to her before he and Jed followed Mordrad to a vacant corner of the room.

The transmigrator’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at the trader.  “That had better not be who I think it is.”

Gildar shrugged.  “A funny thing happened on my way over here –”

Mordrad’s face reddened as he hissed, “Are you really stupid enough to bring a human to one of our rites?”

“Of course not.”  Gildar grinned.  “The idea is quite inspired.”

Mordrad sputtered before he pointed at Gildar.  “You can just forget about ever becoming a quester!  I’ll dress you down in front of the committee, and after they’re done with you, you’ll never pursue justice again.”

His mentor’s bluster had caused some amusement in the past, but not this time.  Gildar’s heart thumped a little harder.  Mordrad was one to make promises instead of threats.

The transmigrator glared at him.  “Now get that cully out of here before you really get into trouble.”

Cully?  Wait a minute … why was Mordrad so eager to condemn Jed?  He’d dismissed the human as prejudiced against beings, but just used a disparaging term common among beings who had low regard for humans.

Mordrad had been a quester for many years, but sometimes experience was used to confirm assumptions.  Could he really not care about discovering how Ballin actually died because all that mattered was blaming a human?  Or was something more going on?

Gildar squinted at him.  “How close a friend are you with Vervale that you attend the funeral of a kin so distant they’re not actually kin?”

Mordrad glared at him.  “Are you insinuating something?”

“Should I?”

“Get this through your thick skull:  Get him out of here, and you’re through with justice questing.”

Gildar returned a calmer version of the transmigrator’s gaze even though his heart pounded.  “No.”

There was no mistaking the rumble in Mordrad’s voice.  “What did you say?”

“You heard me correctly.  We aren’t leaving.  And you can’t do a thing about it.”

Jed fidgeted.  “Uh … magic.”

“He won’t cause a scene at a funeral.”  Gildar glanced toward the trader.  “And I’m a quester at least long enough to crack this case.”

“You just made things a lot harder for yourself.”  Mordrad grumbled before he stepped away, notably toward the table laden with food and drink brought by relatives and friends.

Jed murmured, “Maybe we should leave.”

“You’re fine as long as you stay close to me.”  Gildar spied Plaiton rise from the bench and approach his father’s coffin.

The threat of being barred from questing paled somewhat in comparison to what the boy had to be going through.  Gildar, with Jed following, strolled to the lad’s side and stood beside him to contemplate the coffin.

Actually, the vine platform holding it up drew his attention.  The intricate weaving was symbolic, representing the undulations of life itself.  Make this decision, go that way.  Make a different decision, go the other way.  It all intertwined and became the story of who that person was.

Gildar pressed his lips together.  The end of Ballin’s life represented the most intricate twisting yet, and it needed to be unraveled to insure justice was carried out.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” he murmured.

Plaiton’s voice trembled.  “It’s all my fault.”

The statement made Gildar’s chest feel tight, and he shook his head.  “You can’t blame yourself.  There were many factors at play, some of which were beyond your control.”

“I don’t even know why I grabbed that pistol.”  Plaiton bowed his head.  “Maybe it was because Uncle Vervale was telling me all about them last night.  But I shouldn’t have done it.”

A different tremor pulsed through Gildar, and his attention locked on the boy.

“What all did Vervale tell you?”

###

Here’s my contribution to #BlogBattle and the word this month is Catafalque.  That’s right, Catafalque.  Yeah, I thought the same thing….

Be sure to see what stories other writers came up with!

Part One and Part Two are available if you haven’t read them yet.

Previously:

A murder within a magical community sends Gildar, something of a detective-in-training, on a quest to discover if a human trader named Jed actually killed Ballin.  At least that’s what Gildar’s mentor, Mordrad, claims happened.   After changing his appearance to look like a hound, Gildar discovers the scent of a sixth person who was never accounted for at the murder scene.

***

The aroma was faint, partly because it was attached to something miniscule.  Gildar tilted his head to get a better look at the ground, and a brassy pebble caught his eye.

Hold on, that was no pebble.

He shook his head, long ears flapping against his cheeks, and a tan mist swirled about him.  He returned to his original form, kneeling on one knee where his canine self had stood, and peered closely at the ground.  The mistaken pebble was cylindrical, like the crown of a beetle’s top hat.  He picked it up between thumb and index finger, and held it before his eyes.

It was the percussion cap for discharging a pistol.  Gildar examined it closer.  A gray, crystalline powder – some kind of fulminate, if he remembered correctly – was packed in the bottom.

This cap hadn’t sparked … so it couldn’t have made the pistol fire.

Gildar frowned.  When he and Mordrad examined the weapon while questioning the trader and the boy, he’d noticed – and commented upon – the spent cap was missing.  Mordrad said it likely was knocked off when the gun fell.  He also claimed finding it was less important than getting the boy and his dead father back home.

Gildar murmured to the item, “And does a pistol fire when only half-cocked?”

His memory dredged up the image of the boy, eyes red and lips trembling, struggle to say the following words:

For some reason I wanted to see inside the barrel, and … and … the gun went off.

The boy himself couldn’t explain why he was so compelled to examine the weapon.  Yes, children were curious, and contraptions like pistols and trains and mills were almost alien to them.  These were aspects of human society, while arcane beings like him relied on their enchantments to achieve their goals.

So whose scent had he picked up on the cap?  The last person to touch this important particle in the firing schematic had to be the one who loaded the gun.  But how was the pistol able to shoot when it wasn’t cocked all the way?

If dark magic was involved, this murder case had ramifications far deeper than the tragedy they were already dealing with.

He squinted at the cap.  “I’ll have to talk to Jed again and take another look at that pistol.”

He slipped the cap into a pocket of his brown twill trousers and strode back to the knapsack he’d left beside the wagon’s trail.  As Gildar shrugged it over his shoulders, he figured it would be good to hasten his journey to the village where Jed lived.  Then he could change back into a hound and track down exactly where the trader had gone.

Tan mist enveloped him and he shifted into an enormous although slightly humpbacked hawk.  With a spring upward and a powerful flap of his wings, he launched toward the town at the base of the foothills.

***

At least it was late enough in the afternoon that most of the local dogs were napping, so avoiding their tradition of butt sniffing was easily accomplished.  Beam buildings topped with cedar shake roofs lined cobblestone streets.  Jed’s cottage was located a couple of roads off the main drag, with a stable larger than most of the others behind his house.

Gildar glanced up and down the road, saw nobody else, and changed into the form of a man other than himself.  Instead of a dark-haired young fellow, he chose to be blond and middle-aged, in clothing threadbare and stained.

As soon as he began walking up the few steps to the cottage door, however, a prickling sensation coursed through his limbs, his stomach soured, and he grew light-headed.  He retreated back to the ground near the cobblestone road, and pursed his lips as the sensation evaporated.

Of course – entry to the cottage was barricaded to beings like him.  Innovative humans, lacking enchantments, had long ago managed to concoct potions that worked as anti-magic.  And judging by the swift and potent response it elicited from Gildar, Jed must have applied or reapplied the mixture soon after getting home.

That didn’t leave Gildar many options for getting the trader’s attention, but at least several small stones were scattered along the edge of the street.  He stooped and gathered a handful, and approached the low porch but stayed off the steps.

After confirming again that nobody else loitered nearby, he began pitching the rocks one by one at the wooden door.

It opened abruptly, right after he hurled the fifth and final projectile, which struck Jed in the shoulder.  Well, better than beaning him in the head….

“What’s this about?” the trader snapped.

“We met earlier today.”  Gildar leveled his gaze at the gentleman.  “I was introduced to you as Galoot.”

A moniker Mordrad had pinned on him, of course, before Gildar had been able to offer his own alias.  Arcane beings, especially justice questers, were protective of their real names around humans.

Jed’s eyebrows rose.  He wore the same linen shirt and canvas trousers, but no straw hat bedecked his sandy hair this time.

“Oh.”  His manner grew more subdued, which was a bit surprising.  “Yes.  I do recognize your voice.”  He glanced over his shoulder, into the home, and then returned his attention to Gildar.  “And to be honest … I’m glad to see you.”

Would surprises never cease?  Probably not in this line of work.

Gildar tilted his head.  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, because I have a few more questions.  I’d also like another look at that pistol.”

Jed’s lips pressed together before he replied.  “Can’t do that.  Already delivered it to the person who ordered it.  Except he didn’t, which I thought you should know.”

A pistol got delivered to somebody who didn’t order it?  Every new clue was itself an enigma.

Gildar studied him.  “That’s a wrinkle you’ll have to iron out for me, except we shouldn’t discuss this on your porch.  And I can’t come inside.”

“Oh, yes.”  He glanced into the cottage again.  “Just a moment.”

Jed took a couple of steps back inside, and announced that the farrier had come to work on Dobbs’s hoof.  Gildar couldn’t catch the words in a woman’s reply, but Jed responded that with everything else going on, he forgot to tell her about the horse throwing a shoe.

If Gildar ever told a whopper like that, the potency of his craft would nosedive and remain ineffective until sundown.  There were philosophical theories why beings would lose their enchantments when they lied, while humans could tell falsehoods all day and remain unhindered, but it was his observation that everything came with a tradeoff.

Jed stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him.  “Let’s go to the stable.”

Gildar fell into step beside him as they rounded the corner of the cottage.  “You didn’t apply potion there?”

“I can only afford so much of the stuff, and my first priority is keeping my family safe.”  Jed scowled.  “It’s bad enough your kind will come after me over a false accusation, but it’s downright evil they might also harm the wife and kids.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Apparently it was his turn to surprise Jed.  The trader’s brows rose again as he glanced at Gildar.

“Would you even bother going after any being who attacked us?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”  Gildar didn’t want to get into the intricacies of jurisdictions.  “And what did you mean that you delivered that pistol to someone that didn’t order it?”

“I swung by his house before I even went home.  Wanted to get rid of that blasted thing.  But he said he never sent me a letter and money, requesting one of these new-fangled percussion firearms.  He took it anyway.  Not many folks would turn down a free gun.”

Gildar slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and pinched at the cap.  “How well do you know this fellow?”

Jed shrugged.  “Mere acquaintance.  Everybody knows everybody to some extent in this town.”

A pistol that shouldn’t fire delivered to a man who didn’t order it.  Sneaky smelly silverfish, losing the opportunity to examine the weapon created a disadvantage.  Gildar was going to have to compensate for that complication, but how?

They reached the front of the stable, and Jed opened the heavy, wooden door.  “It’s just another strange detail in a tragedy that’s already upside down, but if there’s any chance of clearing my name, well, I thought you should know.”

Gildar scanned the building as they stepped inside.  Jed’s business as a trader must be fairly lucrative.  There was room not only for a string of horses and their tack and feed, but also for the bulky wagon he drove back and forth between towns.

Gildar’s earlier interrogation with Jed flashed through his memory.  Two days ago, the trader picked up a box from a firearms manufacturer and placed it in that wagon.  He did confirm the box contained an unloaded pistol, percussion caps, ammunition, and powder.  He never saw it again until this morning, when he met with Ballin on a wilderness hillside to trade fabric for bundles of herbs.

Ballin’s son, Plaiton, asked about the box, and then asked to see the pistol inside it.  Jed said that would be okay, it was unloaded, but then the boy removed the gun and pointed it directly at his own face.  Both men shouted at him not to do that.

Plaiton shot himself.  And Ballin the empath absorbed the wound onto himself in order to save his son’s life.  The poor boy regained consciousness to find his father dead.

How did the pistol get loaded between those events?  The scent of an unknown person on the percussion cap might provide one clue, but Gildar was no closer to understanding why.

An idea for figuring that out sprang into his imagination.

He locked his gaze on Jed’s.  “The new information could help, but it’s not enough.  I’ll need your assistance to get all the evidence I’d need to clear your name.”

The trader squinted despite the dim light.  “In what way?”

“Come with me to Ballin’s funeral tonight.”

Jed’s brow furrowed.  “That’s crazy.  I’d never be welcome there, and what good does that do you?”

“It’s crazy, but I can change your appearance, and besides your input, your … talent with crafting alternatives to the reason we’re there can help.”

The trader stared at him.  “You mean you’re a realigner instead of a morpher?”

“Exactly.  You’ll have to stay within nine paces of me because you’ll be something of a moving target, but nobody there will know who you are.”

“Do you have to call me a target?”  Jed shook his head.  “I still don’t see how going to the funeral will help.”

“You said Ballin sometimes brought other family or friends along when he traded with you.  Odds are they’ll be at the funeral.  And odds are if somebody else killed Ballin, the murderer had to have some familiarity with you and your route to frame you this effectively.  I need your insight on who they are.”

Jed continued staring at him for many seconds.  Just as Gildar constructed another reason to encourage the trader to accompany him, the man drew a deep breath and looked down at the floor.

“Oh, alright, if you honestly think it will help.”  His attention returned to Gildar.  “Sounds like walking into a viper’s pit to me, but I figure if it can clear my name, I won’t have to worry as much about the family.  Which brings me to this question – why are you willing to help me?”

Gildar studied him for a few seconds.  The question stirred up recall of false accusations against his father years ago, an event he preferred not to think much about.  But this was no time to regale someone about that incident.

So he offered a broader answer.  “Truth should prevail.”

###

Here is my submission to #BlogBattle, and the word this month is Particle.  Writing stories with these prompt words is no small thing, so be sure to check out the other contributions!

If you missed part one, you can find it here.

“This isn’t a cut and dry murder.”  Gildar folded his arms as his attention shifted from the hillside below them to his companion rummaging through a dun, canvas knapsack.

Mordrad frowned as he glanced up from angling for a snack.  “Tell me again why you’re here.”

Gildar resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.  Yes, Mordrad claimed decades of experience on these justice quests, but it wasn’t like Gildar stumbled out from under a burdock leaf only yesterday.

Instead, he smirked while returning Mordrad’s gaze.  “To offer a different perspective on our investigation.”

“Wrong.”  The older quester pulled something, fist-sized and wrapped in brown paper, from the bag.  “Our job is to determine the truth.  Your perspective doesn’t change any of that.”

As his mentor unwrapped a candied apple and then bit into it, Gildar caught himself contemplating the bulge around Mordrad’s middle.  The transmigrator consistently snacked on sweetened treats throughout the five weeks they’d been working together – and before.  Did packing extra pounds make it any harder for Mordrad to translocate himself from one area into another?

Never mind, there was the more important question concerning the trampled slope below them to address.

“Ballin had been doing business with Jed for years.”  Gildar hooked his thumbs into the pockets of the tan, leather vest worn over his light cotton shirt.  “Why would Jed suddenly decide to shoot Ballin’s son in the first place?”

Mordrad swallowed.  “You can’t trust humans.  They can lie without consequences, so in order to make it look like an accident, he shot the lad.”

“Correction, that lad accidentally shot himself.”

Mordrad’s eyes narrowed.  “I just said it wasn’t an accident.”

“Plaiton may be a child, but he didn’t shoot himself on purpose.”  Gildar arched an eyebrow as he tilted his head.

“Jed told him the pistol wasn’t loaded, much less primed and cocked.  He lied, and tricked the boy into shooting himself.”

Gildar frowned as he pursed his lips.  “Plaiton is nine years old, and that pistol was actually half-cocked when we examined it.  But he said he had an urge to look into the barrel, even as both Ballin and Jed hollered at him to stop.”

“Children do stupid things, especially if Jed told him it wasn’t loaded.”  Mordrad took another bite from the apple.  “And Jed could’ve easily pulled the hammer into the safety position, with Plaiton never noticing, before we arrived.”

The boy’s impulse to gaze into the caplock pistol and squeeze the trigger wasn’t the only detail that nibbled at Gildar’s skepticism.  It was an action that only lasted a couple of seconds, yet the lad would feel the effects for the rest of his life.

On a certain level, Plaiton was probably blaming himself for the end of his father’s life.  But the community would blame Jed, which put the human trader at risk of facing a shorter life.

“Why?  That’s an awfully elaborate plan.”  Gildar folded his arms as he leveled his gaze at Mordrad.  “Kill off one of your more lucrative trading partners by giving his son a loaded pistol, figure he’ll shoot himself and not anybody else, and know for certain Ballin will sacrifice himself to save the boy’s life.”

The transmigrator swallowed and glared back.  “Even humans comprehend parental instincts.  And that plan would be all the more elaborate for somebody besides Jed to pull off.”

Now he locked his gaze with Mordrad’s.  “Jed didn’t know Ballin was an empath.”

“Another lie.”  Mordrad shrugged, and a subtle smile curved his lips as the glare faded.  “You don’t understand humans very well, do you?”

His mentor’s change in attitude was a clear signal, meant to remind him yet again that Gildar was only an apprentice.  The elder quester’s decades of experience should trounce any analytical concerns voiced by a greenhorn.

Except Gildar had more experience with humans than Mordrad realized … but this was no time to regale someone with childhood exploits.

The transmigrator’s attitude miffed him, but he’d learned the best way to rattle his mentor’s smugness.  Gildar broke into an indulgent grin.

“I do understand humans can’t make anybody act against his will.  That’s why Plaiton might have been enchanted.”

Mordrad’s smile dropped.  His complexion reddened as his eyes bugged slightly.

“Nobody can make someone act against his will!”  The words burst out like stench from a rotten egg thrown against a rock.  “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard!”

“Then you’d better brace yourself for what I have to say next.”  Gildar was probably enjoying Mordrad’s reaction more than he should.

“I’m not listening to this manure!”  Mordrad turned away and snapped into the apple.

“Plaiton acted on an impulse he can’t explain.  If somebody has figured out a way to influence the actions of others, it’s a high priority for us to find out who it is.”

Mordrad spun back toward him and raised a hand, shaking the half-eaten fruit.  “Have you been grazing locoweed?  Jed met with Ballin to ostensibly barter goods, caused Plaiton to shoot himself in the face, and Ballin died from bearing his son’s wound onto himself.  Case closed!”

“And what was Jed’s motive?”

“Prejudice, pure and simple.”

Gildar arched an eyebrow.  “Against an associate he’s traded with for years?”

“It’s a fact you can’t trust humans.”  Mordrad chomped another bite, and then hurled the core into a nearby patch of the forest that haphazardly carpeted the hillsides.

Gildar muttered, “Your aim is decidedly off.”

The transmigrator glared again.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m standing right here.”  He appreciated phrases with double meanings.

“Don’t give me any good ideas.”  Mordrad shoved the crumpled paper into a side pocket of his knapsack before shouldering the bundle.  “We’ll report our findings to the magistracy, and leave Jed to the fate he made for himself.”

Except Jed might not have earned that fate.  And why did the boy shoot himself?

Gildar’s attention returned to the slope below them.  The shin-high grass, trampled where the ground leveled off, betrayed where Jed had halted his wagon to meet with Ballin and Plaiton earlier today.  It was also evidence how Gildar and Mordrad investigated the murder site after they were notified of what happened.

After speaking with Jed and Plaiton, the questers then allowed the trader to leave with his wagon of wares, while they returned the boy and his father’s body to the family home.

“I’m going to examine the scene again.”  His gaze remained on the disturbed site.

“I’d say you’re wasting your time, except you could use the practice.”  Mordrad squinted.  “But as soon as you’re done, change into a booby or cuckoo or whatever tickles your fancy, and meet me back at the tribune.”

Gildar nodded.  “Right.  When I’m done.”

The older man stared at him for a few seconds, muttered something Gildar couldn’t catch, and flicked his right wrist.  With a subdued pop, he vanished from sight.

Gildar shrugged off his own knapsack and held it in one hand.  “But not before I’m done.”

He descended the slope, and dropped the pack to the ground when he neared the grass still leaning to one side from being rolled on by wagon wheels.  Upon raising his hands to his chest and pressing the palms together, a tan mist swirled around him for an instant.

When it evaporated, he stood on all fours like any proper hound dog and thrust his muzzle into the supple blades.

Although his sense of smell could never match that of a real hound, it was still improved over what his nose could pick up in natural form.  Gildar crept between the parallel tracks and picked up the odor of horse … of course.

He moseyed closer to where the wagon had stopped, and before reaching the precise location picked up his own scent, as recognizable as that of the equine.  Hmm, hopefully that wasn’t an incrimination of his personal hygiene….

The smell of a second person near his own trail had to be Mordrad.  Except for aromas that uniquely stood out or he was well acquainted with, Gildar couldn’t always identify to whom an odor belonged.

But he did recognize different scents.  The smell of a third person was likely Jed, since it was near his and Mordrad’s trails.  Gildar crept closer to where the wagon had stood.

There was no mistaking the essence of blood.  He hesitated over it, allowing its complexities to permeate his olfactory glands so he could confirm the fourth person.  This was where Ballin had fallen, giving his life in exchange for his son’s, transferring the wound that would have killed the boy to himself.

A slight chill rippled through Gildar.  What parent who had ever lost a child wouldn’t have yearned to perform the same act as Ballin?  Gildar wasn’t married yet, although he did have a sweetheart … and the prospect of family in the future made the weight of this morning’s event even heavier.

He crept toward another patch of blood a couple of paces from the first.  After pondering the complexities, he confirmed this was where Plaiton, the fifth person, had fallen, but then was rescued by his father before the bullet actually killed him.

Ballin would’ve had to act swiftly, with no hesitation.  And that was exactly what he did.

Gildar reached where the wagon had stood.  Everybody was accounted for, but maybe he could pick up the aroma of something they’d missed, perhaps not where it was supposed to be.

Wait – what was that?

He questioned himself at first, considering the possibility that he’d lost the tally of everything he’d been tracking.  This odor shouldn’t be here … had he forgotten an important detail from either Jed’s or Plaiton’s testimony?

“Teeny biting fleas!”  Perhaps it was because his thoughts had wandered into a somber arena that the discovery unsettled him, spurring the hackles on the back of his neck to spring up.

Why had he picked up the scent of a sixth person?

###

Here is my contribution to this month’s #BlogBattle, and the word this round is Sacrifice. You probably figured out this is the first part to a longer short story, so here we go again….

Be sure to check out the other stories that have been submitted!