Fading Light

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Until the corpses were discovered, this place was considered desirable by the retiring gentry, a secluded community away from the backbiting and maneuvering of the Capitol. Reclusive, but safe. Isolated, but familiar. Bilten proper was little more than a cluster of homes and shops along the river. A short ride from town and you’d find the enclave of the formerly connected, grand homes for the withering political elite. It was easy to see why they settled here. If you could ignore the stench of charred flesh, the landscape maintained its idyllic qualities. Verdant hills stretched across the horizon. Brooks babbled, trees swayed gently, the wind whispered through the tall grass. Fields of heather spread in lazy patches, bursts of mauve among the greenery. Foursquare homes rose and dotted the shores of the river. Children screeched and chased each other around fences and crumbling stone dividing walls. They grabbed garden snakes and sliced their heads with spades and hurled the limp bodies at one another before giddily skipping away. Cats lazily watched the comings and goings, eye lids barely open, always on the lookout for mice or voles, deceptively eager for their next meal.

If it weren’t for the three dead bodies in a nearby field, this place might be pleasant. Homey even.

By my count, only a few hours of daylight remained. The sun was rising when I arrived. It would set shortly. It was summer and we had only four or five hours of daylight. A year ago at this time, we had six solid hours. The light continued to slip away.

Village life would be conducted quickly, before those precious moments of sunlight disappeared. Even from here, a stone’s throw from the edge of town , I could see life bustling. Merchants shouting at street urchins, shooing them away from their stalls, worried they’d drive away business. Farmer’s wives dabbing their sweaty faces, gazes darting to me and the

carcasses, and then back to their husbands. I could hear the faint echo of music from the pubs, the formless words exchanged by friends and passerby, the clinking of glasses and coins. It all existed just beneath the wind, barely audible. I could see the town, I could hear the town. But all I could smell was burnt flesh.

This was my purpose.

Three bodies. Adult men. Found kneeling. Hands and feet bound. Tied to a stake in the ground. Nearly impossible to identify. Skin completely blackened. Hair gone. Clothes gone. Eyes hollowed out. Multiple teeth cracked.

No, there hadn’t always been dragons in the valley. But the Cult of the Dragon was here now.

Notebook filled and initial investigation complete, I headed across the fields and into Bilten. The local burgomaster, Siv, was waiting for me. We bypassed his offices and went instead to his home. In his library, he opened a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and then directed me to one of his chaise lounges. He sat across from me. He was portly and ruddy cheeked. He fidgeted incessantly, crossing and uncrossing his legs, twirling the oversized ring on his finger. I sipped the wine. Before we spoke, he smiled at me and rang a tiny bell.

Staff hustled into the room, carrying a pair of miniature dining tables, lamb chops and potatoes and more wine. Two plates were set before us. After presenting us with dinner, they lit the fireplace and a melodic crackle soon echoed off the wood paneled walls.

“I apologize for the meager offerings,” he gestured toward the food and drink, “Even before this…incident…we struggled to import or grow our usual fare. We did prepare lamb for you, but our stock of trimmings is woefully depleted. This whole affair has been a horrendous nightmare and I am eternally grateful for your assistance.”

I nodded. The ride to Bilten was exhausting. I’d foregone accompaniment in order to move more quickly, but the unbroken trek left me famished. Even with a desperate palette, the plate was a pathetic remedy for my appetite. The Collective insisted on appearances though, so I remained silent.

Siv studied me for a moment. It was unlikely he’d encountered a fully chartered Fellow before. Bilten was a vaguely important trade stop for shipping and a mid-class retreat for a few of the political movers, but it hardly warranted consideration from the Upper Council. The silence between us stretched on, but with the honed politesse of a minor royal appointee, he ended the awkwardness before it started.

“I must extend a formal proclamation of gratitude to you and the Collective for your swift response,” he retreated behind his desk and returned with a piece of parchment. He read the document, in full, while I stared at my mostly tasteless lamb chops.

When he finished, he sat and patiently waited for me to finish eating. I cut the meat and chewed slowly, trying to savor whatever flecks of flavor existed in the food. Little joy was found and Siv could sense my unhappiness. The ring on his finger went around and around.

“We must, of course, discuss this horrid…happening,” he said finally.

“We must, indeed,” I replied before struggling to swallow a particularly gamey cut.

“Is the Collective of the opinion this is the work of bandits? Malicious and violent vagabonds? Rebels?” Siv was eager to divert the source of violence. Burgomasters often hoped for this outcome. They always insisted the killers came from outside the region, at least beyond town proper. This was a common recourse for leadership, eager to maintain calm in the wake of tragedy and unheard of massacres. The source of violence, he would tell his constituents, must have come from outsiders. No one imagined their neighbor was capable of murder.

“We do not typically offer theories immediately following the presentation of evidence,” I said.

Siv looked away, clearly unhappy with my response. “I must tell the people something. I cannot allow this…this wound to fester any longer. We need to tell them progress is being made.”

“You may tell them a Fellow is investigating. You may tell them the facts: three people were kidnapped, beaten, tied to stakes, and then burned to death,” Siv shook his head and sighed. “If you would like to add more, the flames that scorched their bodies exceeded what we would consider natural temperatures.”

The final sentence piqued his interest. “The fire was unnatural?”

“The source of the fire may have been natural, that is unclear. The Collective knows at what temperature flesh and bone burn. For teeth to crack, something…unusual occurred.”

Siv’s gaze was unfaltering now. His pupils fixed onto me. He barely blinked. “This was a supernatural flame?”

I stifled a laugh. Generations had passed under Collective leadership, and we still grappled with the populace’s urge for magic explanations. “Of course not. It is likely an accelerant of some kind was added to an existing fire, causing the temperature to rise. It is unclear to me what that substance may be, so I will require the aid of my colleagues who specialize in such matters.”

Another stretch of silence. This time, I broke the quiet. “Are any of your townspeople missing?”

“No one has been reported,” he said. “I’ve asked our constabulary to conduct a census, but if one of the farmers or merchants was gone, his absence would have been noted by now. These must be strangers who happened onto our territory.”

“And further out? There are former gentry living down river, yes?”

Siv’s brow furrowed. “I do not wish to disturb them with such gruesome news. Many of them have come to Bilten to enjoy their final bits of light before the long dark. Certainly it isn’t imperative we disrupt their happy proceedings…”

“It is imperative. I will handle the interviews with the utmost delicacy, rest assured, but they must be counted and informed of what has happened here.”

A deep sigh from Siv. “I feared as much. Please allow me a day to inform them of your coming.”

The meal was finally finished, the most-edible portions of lamb and potato consumed. I pushed the plate forward and sipped the wine. A delightful bitterness warmed my mouth and throat. At least they had not bungled the fermentation process we’d perfected.

“Sir, I realize your investigation is conducted at the purview of the Collective and the proceedings shall not be revealed until the hypothesis is developed,” he had clearly read the advance parchment sent ahead of my arrival. “But between us two, you must tell me, do you suspect these men were killed by Bilteners? Were they murdered by one of mine?”

The nascent theories forming in my mind would likely push Siv into an anxiety-driven collapse. Even in relative hinterlands like Bilten, they would have rumors of the Cult, but most would dismiss the rumors as wild ravings. As burgomaster, he might be privy to more official communications and hypotheses confirming their activity in other provinces. However, he would not know the Cult was spreading faster than we could contain, that its tendrils could reach into tidy communities like Bilten. He would not suspect evidence of the Cult had been found in at least a dozen towns and hamlets outside of the Capitol. He would dread to learn that at least one of his supposed farmers or merchants or gentry may have been taken in by the Cult.

I could not yet tell him more murders were likely in Bilten.

“I will not share an unfounded hypothesis. Of course, you will be kept abreast of all developments,” I rose and he stood quickly. As he followed me to the outside, his thank yous followed as frequently as his breathing.

When Siv finally left me, allowing me to drop the pretense of formality, I walked the streets of Bilten. Blocks of light fell from windows and aided the few hanging lamps illuminating the way. It was not particularly late but the town had grown still and quiet. Fear over the murders would keep most indoors until the scant daylight arrived again.

A pub and inn called the Stinging Nettle sat at the corner of the alleyway. It would be my home for the duration of the investigation. The interior was dull and mostly empty. A wrinkly regular mumbled to himself in the corner. He was gangly and uncommonly tall, but his back was hunched and the flesh around his chin and eyes drooped. He took little notice of my arrival, continuing instead to lecture his drink.

A middle-aged barmaid similarly refused to acknowledge my presence until I sat and placed three coins on the table. Without speaking, she disappeared behind the counter and returned with a beer. She scooped two of the coins as recompense.

“Will you need a room?” she asked.

I nodded and placed more coins on the table. This time, she took the money first and then handed me a key. “We’ve only got the three rooms. Yours is the one on the corner. If you need food, you’ll have to wait till morning. Our cook didn’t show up. I’ll be cleaning in the back should you need anything else,” her tone indicated she did not wish to be disturbed further.

The promise of relative solitude was alluring. My travels had been long. My reward was three unidentified corpses burned beyond recognition and a town full of people who saw nothing. I intended to drink my beer while puzzling over the case. The siren call of sleep was already beckoning.

After a few peaceful moments, the glassy-eyed old man stumbled out of the corner and poured himself into the chair across from me. He reeked of filth and sweat. He slammed his drink onto my table and droplets of beer splashed into my face.

“You’re a Fellow,” his speech was surprisingly crisp. I expected more slurring.

“I am,” I said. The old drunk was observant. He’d undoubtedly seen my Collective necklace and noted my uniform. Unmistakable in a place like this, but easy to miss if the world is spinning.

“You stand out,” he said as a gap-toothed grin spread across his face. “You’re here for those boys in the field?”

“Yes, though I’ve yet to confirm they’re male” I answered. “Did you know them?”

He muttered to himself and then spit on the ground. The barmaid would not be pleased when she found that later. “Not personally,” he finally said.

“You knew of them?”

“I saw what’s left of them.”

I returned the man’s stare but said nothing. The scene had been grisly and may have left a brutal impression, but I did not wish to reveal any further details of the case. Let him be the one to speak.

“It’s the Cult that did it. You and I both know that.”

This caught me off-guard. For most, the Cult would be hazy hearsay, fantastical gossip. Most would dismiss those stories, though the town drunkard might be more likely to believe anything he hears. He might also have looser lips that his neighbors.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“No one,” he said and stood. The old man was steady on his feet, grunting and lurching toward the door, faster than the average drunkard. He threw open the door and a rush of air blew in. He stopped in the frame, turned and then locked his gaze onto mine. His eyes looked black and red.

He whispered quietly before turning and dashing into the night.

It sounded as if he’d said, “You will die here. You will burn.”

A chill crept down my neck and through my extremities.

I ran to the door, not daring to give chase in the dark. My eyes strained against the blackness, but the man was gone. All I could see was lamb grazing and the glowing eyes of a predator watching their movements. It was silly, but I pictured the old man watching them, on his hands and knees, teeth impossibly sharp.

I breathed deeply, trying to center myself. The long trip. The alcohol. The spoiled food. My mind was playing tricks on me. He was merely a crotchety old man out to spook a Fellow of the Collective.

If my mind insisted on belaboring our interaction, there was investigation that could be done from the safety of the light. The old man was likely a Bilten resident. The barmaid would know him. She had been in the back during our exchange. I summoned her. “Who was that graybeard? The odd one who was sitting there,” I pointed to the corner where he had sat before approaching my table, “He must be one of your regulars.”

She sighed. “I’ve never seen that one before. Assumed he was with your lot. He’s not coming back then? Didn’t settle for that second drink.”

“He’s not from Bilten?”

She collected his mug and began cleaning it. “What did I just say? I’ve never seen him before.”

I went slowly to my room, taking care to lock and secure the door. A slim bed, with two blankets and a single pillow awaited me. I unpacked and slipped one of my knives beneath the pillow. My sword would stay at the bedside. The old man was only human, but humans were capable of unimaginable cruelty. Better to stay prepared.

I undressed and climbed under the sheets. The room was drafty and a breeze whistled through the unshut window. I studied the fields and hills, unconsciously looking for the old man. I could hear my instructors. Fear is a poison. It tricks the mind. Our senses are deceptively unreliable. The drunkard was a country oddity with a grudge against Fellows. Perhaps he’d been expelled from the Collective, banished to Bilten. He was out for revenge and chose to rattle me. I took a deep breath and tried to clear my mind.

But I could see him behind my eyelids. His hands brown with dirt, his knees higher than his head, spittle pooling around his mouth. Moving like an animal.

I chastised myself. My mind was tired and creating horrors, punishment for failing to sleep. He was a drunk old man. He recognized me as a Fellow because of the insignia dangling from my neck, the way I dress. He had seen the bodies outside of town. Knew they were burned. Wanted to frighten a member of the Collective.

I needed to refresh myself, start again with new, focused, and logical eyes in the morning. He was merely an old man.

Still, I locked the window and closed the shutters. I could not be sure of what the old man had said, but it had sounded like, “You will die here. You will burn.”

I could not sleep.