Chapter 5
A low fog had crept over the island fortress as night once again took hold of the land, seeping in from the ocean and blanketing the city in a grey haze. The city lamps were barely discernable if one stood a block away from it, and at two blocks they were little more than a yellow ball suspended over the damp streets. With only mild winds and the high walls of the city keeping most of even that at bay, Theramore had become a place where even those familiar with it could get easily lost. Dark gray clouds threatening rain had rolled in at dusk as well, shutting out the stars and the sliver of moon that would have shone that night. The night had cooled the air somewhat, thought the high humidity still kept most from enjoying the drop in temperature as their skin became coated with a thin sheen from the wispy moisture.
Two figures walked slowly and deliberately through the streets, one set of footfalls regular and nearly silent, the other marked by the clomping of thick leather on stone and a slight scrape every other step.
"I tell ye, lad, this be no weather for keeping watch on anything but the tankard of ale at the end of your arm. The killer wouldn't be able to see his mark even if he was about tonight. You're just torturing us both with damp clothes and tired legs."
Crys'annadath sighed, growing weary of the dwarf's complaints, though he did make a good point. A man could get ten paces ahead of them and simply vanish if a pursuit ever occurred, just as the fog could confound even a determined murderer's sense of direction. A loud peal of thunder suddenly rolled through the clouds above them, the pair stopping and listening.
"An' she'll be raining in a matter of minutes, by my reckoning. I won't be growing any more so I don't need a good soaking, if you catch my drift," Daghmor grumbled, rubbing his right leg to ease the muscles that had to strain to compensate for his damaged foot when he walked.
The warmage sympathized with the dwarf, his own legs aching, not used to so much exercise in a single day. What's more, as Crys grew tired, the pain from the magical addiction grew as well, changing from a dull ache to a sharp, icy splinter lodged in his lower abdomen. The clammy atmosphere had sapped his energy as well, the elf not realizing how much so until he stumbled and nearly fell, only Daghmor's steadying hand keeping him from the hard stone surface of the street.
"We're not the men we used to be, lad. No twenty mile forced marches through a downpour for the likes of us, not anymore. It'd be foolish to remain out here any longer than it takes to get you back to your tower."
"I…agree, my good friend. It has been a trying day for the both of us. A good night's rest and a little brandy will revive us for our duties in the morning. "
Leaning a little more on his short staff than he had been previously Crys longed for the comfort of his chambers and the familiar warming sensation of spirits in his belly that always melted the icy dagger of pain the addiction left there. Another crack of thunder rumbled across the heavens as the two started on their way to Greymere Tower, urging them on to reach their destination before the rain broke free of the clouds.
A tavern door was suddenly flung open, out spilling light and the sounds of a scuffle onto the damp Theramore street. Three burly figures staggered out, yelling protests in a guttural tongue at the ones who pushed them out. One of the figures whipped out a battle axe and brandished it, intending to step back inside. His two companions held him back though.
"Let me go! I will still that pig-skinned human's mouth for good!" the axe-wielder roared.
"No, Talgar! We did not come to pick fights! Remember the Warchief's warning…" one of the two blockers hissed, gripping the other orc with renewed vigor.
"Kosh-nalak! We endure a month's travel to reach this city and for what gain? To be insulted to our faces and not be able to defend our honor. To the Nether with the lot of them!"
The orc wielding the axe eventually relaxed, slipping the haft of the weapon through the loop on his belt angrily as his companions let him go.
"We should return to the caravan's encampment, we leave in the morning anyways," the third reminded them, starting to walk in the direction of the docks. The second followed, but Talgar remained where he was, breathing heavily past yellowed tusks and glaring at the tavern door.
"You coming?" one of the others called over his broad shoulder, pausing in mid-stride.
The one closest to him tried to grab at Talgar's arm, but he threw it aside with a violent motion.
"I have had enough of your care-taking, Hrosk, I've endured it the whole trip here. Leave me be, I will make my own way back without you minding me like a fretful mother."
Hrosk growled at the insult but then just snorted, "Suit yourself."
A clap of thunder roared above the orc's heads, causing them to look skyward.
"Maybe the spirits will send a shower to cool that hot head of yours," Hrosk commented to Talgar before turning and walking off into the mist-laden gloom, the third orc following. Talgar muttered a few choice oaths at the other's retreating form and struck off down an adjoining street.
The orc warrior tromped down the cobblestone street, face set in an angry mask, beefy green hands clenching and unclenching in a desire to break something. " Lousy, cowardly, nagging Hrosk, " the orc muttered under his breath, kicking a ceramic flowerpot set out on a door stoop and sending it tumbling down the way ahead of him, where it eventually shattered. Somewhere a dog barked, most likely in response to the sudden noise, though Talgar paid it little mind. Turning down a narrow street with a slight downward slope the orc's feet suddenly began to slip on the slick stone, his arms flailing to try and right himself. His effort was to no avail, the massively built warrior landing heavily on his rump with a discordant jingle of metal striking metal from his gear. Cursing Talgar started to stand back up, but suddenly felt the course black hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Someone was following him. A veteran of the second war, and also having fought with the Horde forces at Mount Hyjal after the exodus of the orcs from Azeroth, he knew to trust his instincts. His right hand slowly moved to the bandoleer across his chest while his left helped him to a crouch. Suddenly wheeling about on the balls of his feet Talgar emitted a short cry, right hand now holding onto a small axe balanced for throwing.
Nothing but mist met his yellow eyes.
Senses straining Talgar rose fluidly to his feet, axe still posed to throw. This mist was making him jumpy, that was all, not a sound to be heard but his own breathing and some rumblings of thunder. He had best return to the docks straight away, Talgar not knowing fear, but knowing caution when he was alone in a strange environment. Slipping the axe back into the leather bandoleer he continued his walk, but with a long, distance-eating stride, eyes continually scanning the shadows and the rooftops. Before long the sounds of waves lapping against shoreline and the creak and groan of timbers shifting could be heard, the sounds promising refuge amongst his own kind. Breathing a little easier as the street widened into a stone wharf, Talgar froze in his tracks, entire body tense as with a truly thunderous roar the clouds broke, sending a light shower to the earth which quickly became a torrent. Shaking his head at his own foolish anxiety Talgar strode towards the inviting orange-yellow glow of lanterns and a fire pit. A dry tent was awaiting him, and maybe Hrosk would be kind enough to shut his mouth long enough to let Talgar get some….
In the blink of an eye a tall shape seemed to form from the very mists before him, heavily cloaked and as tall as the orc himself stood. The unmistakable gleam of metal flashed briefly from under the figure's loose garb, making Talgar draw his battle axe with his right hand and a throwing axe in his left. The cloaked figure stood perfectly still, making no move to attack, but neither did it stand out of the warrior's way when he drew his weapons. The orc growled, an intimidating sound coming from a being that stood close to seven feet tall and weighed around three-hundred pounds.
" Stand aside, whoever you are, or I'll rip out your heart, " he rumbled.
A light, musical sound filled the air, Talgar taking a moment to realize that it was laughter! The figure was laughing at him!
"Now that's what I call ironic…" a distinctly female voice chuckled, taking a step towards him.
Talgar let his axe fly in a deadly, spinning arc as another peal of thunder shook the heavens.
There was a pounding, but it was not thunder. It was too regular, too focused in one direction…the door! Crys' eyes fluttered open as the sat up from his slouched position in one of the chairs by the hearth. Daghmor still slumbered, his booted feet propped up on the small round table, mud having sloughed off onto its once gleaming surface. Noting this with a small look of disdain the pounding came at the door again, forcing the elf stiffly out of the chair and hobbling over to the door. Quickly speaking the command word Crys flung open the door, a gust of rain-laden air striking him and a mailed fist almost doing the same. The young footman gaped, recovering his balance quickly. Outside, dark clouds and thunder still ruled the dawn skies, and while the rain had lessened somewhat, it still poured off the tower's roof in thick streams.
"Sir, Captain Strongshield wishes to see you at the docks as soon as possible," the youth explained breathlessly, apparently having run the entire way here through the downpour and wearing plate mail. "There's been another killing."
Crys frowned deeply in concern while a titanic yawn sounded behind him. Looking over his shoulder the warmage saw Daghmor stretching his stout limbs and then rubbing his eyes to clear the sleep from them.
"I be supposing that this means we won't have time for breakfast," the dwarf quipped.
Boots splashing through the many standing puddles that dominated the streets, Crys and Daghmor approached Theramore island's port. Both wore the garb they had on yesterday, neither time nor convenience allowing for anything else. Crys had, however, traded in his night blue cloak for one more suited to the wet weather, as well has having abandoned his short staff back at the tower to avoid drenching his hand and sleeve.
It was an elven marine's cloak, stitched seamlessly together from the thick hides of the seals found along Northrend's southern shores into a dull gray garment dappled with spots a shade darker long the bottom half of its length. Gold mixed with a small amount of strengthening steel made up the four rust-resistant clasps and the lengths of chain between them had held the cloak close to the torso of the wearer. Treated every few months with special oils, the cloak was nigh water-proof and worth its weight in gold in weather like this. The crest of the hood was made semi-rigid with the addition of a curved piece of boiled leather sewn there, so that the hood provided excellent protection for the wearer's head and also wouldn't obscure his vision, both critical in a sailor's line of work. It was from under this voluminous hood that Crys saw the crowd of guards and citizens who had gathered around what he assumed was the body. A pair of luckless footmen were charged with the task of keeping a sodden sheet between the crowd and the corpse, its length impaled on the tips of their halberds.
Crys spotted the white horsehair crest of Edward Strongshield easily enough, the paladin commanding his guards to try and keep the gawkers moving along to avoid a huge, immobile knot of people from forming in one of the busier districts of the city. To the one side of the crowd were several orcs, a rarity in Theramore, who occasionally shouted something in the paladin's direction. A footman moved to halt Crys' advance once he had shouldered his way through the crowd, but a call from Edward and the guard stepped aside. Behind the cloth barrier a crumbled body under a white sheet lay, a large dark stain leeching into the soaked white linen around where the corpses' torso was situated. A thin stream of cloudy water also trailed away from the body, what small amounts of blood where still leaking from the wounds draining away off the edge of the wharf, reminding Crys sickeningly of the fluids that drained out of gutted fish at the markets. There was something odd about the corpse that Crys couldn't put his finger on; odd protuberances in places where there shouldn't be; large, roughly treated leather boots on the feet sticking out from under the sheet. Edward gave Crys a curt nod of is helmeted head in greeting while seeming to completely ignore Daghmor's presence, then proceeding to fill the pair in on what information he had.
"A longshoreman spotted the body roughly half-an-hour ago, alerting the guards to its presence. We're not certain how long it was sitting there before it had been discovered, however, as the fog that had gripped the city last night could have hidden it for some time, as it was the worker had to trip over it to find it. In any case, he had bled for some time, the amount that was found around him and in the waters just over the ledge was considerable. We haven't been able to gather many details about the victim's life or the true extent of his injuries, but two things were made very obvious from the get-go," the paladin paused, shifting his gaze from the two of them, to the corpse, and back again.
"He was an orc, and his heart has been removed."
Crys reeled upon hearing this. Suddenly the odd size and shape of the shrouded body didn't seem so odd. That was also why there were orcs hanging around the scene.
"One less of them in the world's fine by me," Daghmor muttered quietly, spitting onto the already drenched street. The other two looked to the dwarf but said nothing, not finding enough reason to admonish his statement.
"I would like to examine the body," Crys said, gesturing in the direction of the corpse with his cowl. Edward nodded and gestured for a few more guards to form a bit of a wall so that the orc's companions could not see the state of the body.
Crys'annadath crouched while Edward peeled the shroud away from the body, the elf's features twisting in disgust as the orc's body was revealed. His revulsion had little to do with the orc's appearance though, having found the demonic visages of the Burning Legion far more unsettling. The orc had died a warrior, that much was certain, though the fight apparently hadn't lasted very long. A gash in the front of the orc's neck large enough that Crys could have stuck his hand into it (had he wanted to do such a thing) was the killing blow, no other marks other than it and the gouged torso were apparent. A parchment note had been pinned directly in the middle of the chest with a metal spike, the left edge of it soaked in the blood from the chest wound. ' No race, class or age will be spared ' it read in bold black letters, the ink starting to bleed from the moisture.
"The note was as you find it now, the guards having heard of what happened the last time and gave it a wide berth," Edward intoned. Crys called to mind a simple spell and with a few gestures it was cast. Nothing seemed to happen. He then reached down and lifted the parchment from the spike and tucked it under his cloak for safe-keeping, drawing a gasp from the paladin and the dwarf. When nothing happened the two of them released a deep breath of relief.
"Warn me when ye do such a thing again," Daghmor cursed, glowering at the elf.
"The body held no traces of magic, which would to have been present to cause it to reanimate like the previous victim. Additionally, the logistics of carrying a corpse around of this size to simply create another trap that would be expected by the guards anyways would be a waste of time. This was a simple matter of murder. Now, for the killing wound…" Crys explained nonchalantly.
His face still screwed up with distaste Crys leaned closer to the neck wound, seeing the various tubes and arteries, and probably even the spine, had all been sliced with a single vertical cut, the clean lines of the wound telling of a very sharp weapon, one that had dealt the wound and then been withdrawn without having to work the blade free by rocking it back and forth. "What could make a wound like this?" Crys mused aloud, looking next to the chest wound.
Four rougher cuts had sliced a square hole into the orc's torso, though the ragged flesh around the wound told the elf the killer had had a tougher time with the ribs. The heart had been cut a little by the brutal surgery as well, pieces of it still connected to the veins that linked it to the rest of the body. Bile rose in Crys' throat and he was distinctly glad that he hadn't eaten yet that day. He was no stranger to seeing bodies mangled by bladed weapons, but to so calmly force oneself to examine it in close detail was a world apart.
"Arcanite," a gravelly voice interjected into the warmage's thoughts. Daghmor had spoken it, peering at the wounds to verify his suspicions. "Aye, arcanite did this," he said again, nodding.
"Such a clean wound, slicing through even bone…?" Crys queried, arching an eyebrow at the dwarf. The rogue just shook his head in exasperation.
"You elves and your wood. Know nothing about metal. It's a light, but very durable type of nickel that can hold an edge keener than anything. Most say it's like this because a high source of magic nearby had warped the properties of the raw ore before it is mined."
" An arcanite weapon could have caused such a grievous wound? " Edward asked, also bending down a bit to both examine the wound and keep their conversation private.
Daghmor held out his right arm as he spoke, drawing a line down along the bicep with the fingers of his left hand.
"Give me an arcanite axe, and I'll chop through the thickest part of an armored gnoll's arm, with one hand, in one swing. The killer needn't even be very strong with one of those, just know where to hit," he explained, crossing his arms in satisfaction as he finished lecturing the other two on the merits of the metal.
Ignoring the dwarf's slightly bombastic deliverance, the warmage dared to peer even closer at the chest wound, steeling his will to do so without retching.
"The wound," Crys began, speaking to his companions while gesturing to the bloody hole,"was made with a single edged weapon, most likely arcanite if Daghmor is
correct.," he continued, drawing a dour look from the short rogue beside him.
"In the upper-most cuts, the wound should be longer, as a two-edged weapon like a dagger would create a tapering cut above the initial point of entry, but instead the skin is slightly wrinkled there, having slid along the thicker, blunt edge of the weapon."
"An arcanite knife?" the guard captain offered, twirling the tip of his handlebar moustache between steel-clad fingers in thought.
"A sickle? A scythe?" Daghmor added, thick eyebrows almost touching as he furrowed his brow in thought.
"Not a scythe. The weapon was thrown for the neck wound," Crys pointed out, rising to his feet. "It would end the fight quickly and quietly, negating the undoubtedly severe threat that the orc's battle axe posed," the elf gesturing to the large weapon still clutched in a death grip in the orc's right hand," that, and it would have been too clumsy to try and remove the heart while standing far enough away to wield scythe properly."
"Speaking of axes," Edward said, flipping the sheet back over the corpse and stepping past the two investigators.
The paladin walked with purpose, parting the crowd with ease that both his imposing size and the rank afforded to him. Crys and Daghmor followed in his wake, but the elf was suddenly stopped when a large green hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"Who did this? Who killed Talgar?" the large orc rumbled, his face dark with anger. Crys disliked being manhandled, but his discomfort was short-lived as a wooden club suddenly whacked the orc's elbow joint, the shock and pain casing the Horde member to retract his appendage.
"If ye want to lay another finger on my friend, you'll be going through me first," the dwarf warned, interposing himself between Crys and the orc and slapping his club lightly against his open palm.
The second orc growled like a wolf and started to draw a scimitar, but the first orc stayed his hand with a gesture.
"We awoke to find our companion dead, brutally killed in a city that was supposed to be filled with our allies. If such a thing occurred in Ogrimmar, you would feel the
same way," the first said with deliberate slowness, looking directly at Crys. The elf kept his expression neutral, sympathizing on some basic level with the warrior but not letting any of it show on his face, or in his voice.
"We're trying to determine who killed him now. You can help rather than hinder by accosting fewer investigators and answering some questions of mine once I am finished here."
His expression still one of simmering anger the orc simply nodded once and remained silent, leaving the two to continue walking.
They arrived shortly at a wooden piling with a single footman standing guard beside it, the sort used to moor ships once they were in port. Set into the piling was a small axe.
"This belonged to the orc, he had a brace of similar ones across his chest but it was cut away when the murderer removed the heart. He struck at his killer first, the assailant's counter-strike ending it, " Edward explained. Crys nodded, having seen the edges of the leather bandoleer peeking out from around the left shoulder and right abdomen. Crys looked back to the position of the corpse, then to the axe several times. Grasping the handle of the axe the elf gave it a sharp tug, the axe not budging.
"Hmmm," the warmage murmured while he concentrated, calculating something out in his head. "Twenty yards and with still enough force to bury it that deep into wood. That axe left the orc's hand moving very fast. Now, considering the fog last night, the range of engagement would have been around five yards, give or take, especially considering the precision of that first and only strike made by the killer," the warmage mused, tapping his chin with his index finger while he laid out his estimates.
"Which means?" Daghmor prompted.
"Which means, my good dwarf," Crys'annadath replied with a matter-of-factly tone,
"that we are dealing with one extraordinarily agile suspect, one capable of dodging out of the path of an axe thrown at point blank range, and who was able to deliver a counter-blow a fraction of a second afterwards."
Edward shook his head at the conclusion.
"That's not human. Even the quickest person I have ever met would have at the very least received a glancing wound from the axe, yet the blade is clean and the wood unstained, even considering the rain since then. The strike would have knocked the axe's path off as well, but you can trace a direct line between the corpse where it fell and this piling, which means there wasn't one."
Crys was glad for the paladin's input, all business when doing his duty, rather than the chatty oaf he seemed when they had first met. "Which means our killer either uses magic to enhance themselves, or is, as you said captain, not human."
Turning back to face the crowd, Crys spoke again, his blue eyes zeroing in on the two greens-skinned visitors to Theramore.
"Let's find out who this Talgar was in life, shall we?"
Some time later found Crys, Daghmor, Edward and Hrosk crammed into the circular base of a guard tower that over looked the bay, the orc perched on a stool while his remaining companion stood outside, keeping an ear open should his ally need help. The orc's tale was one of a night out drinking, having been told by a dock worker that it was one of the few bars in Theramore that wouldn't refuse to sell them booze out-right. The Muddy Murloc was the name of the establishment, Daghmor letting Crys know he knew the location of said tavern with a nod, the dwarf then continuing to fix the orc with an distrustful glare.
There was a fight with some former soldiers of the Alliance sometime around the middle of the night, and the three had been ejected into the street for being the cause of it. Talgar, in a fury over not being allowed to walk back into the bar and start breaking heads, had wandered off on his own.
"He was a very prideful and short-tempered sort, and I strongly suspect the reason I was sent with him was to try and curb his violent tendencies during our trip. He resented that. I shouldn't have let him go off by himself, I failed him," the orc named Hrosk berated himself, stamping a foot onto the tower's floor. He then looked at his questioners hard before speaking again.
"I have answered your questions, now you answer mine. How did he die? Was he surrounded by the soldiers from the bar and overwhelmed? Or did he die with a knife in his back? I suspect the last, as even with the thunder and rain last night, I would have been able to hear the clash of steel and cries of the wounded."
Crys thought about how to answer that question, surprising himself a little that he even was spending the time trying to sugar-coat his response.
"He died in battle, and it was not from behind, but from the fore. You heard no sounds of battle because it was over before it had even really started. Your former companions' axe missed its target, while his assailant's weapon did no such thing, killing him instantly by striking his throat. His heart was then taken, for what reason, we do not know as of yet. We do know that his killer was not a soldier from this tavern, and that your friend died as part of a string of murders that has been occurring before you arrived here, and therefore was not racially motivated."
The orc listened to the wizard's speech with a range of emotions, from disbelief, anger, and finally sullen acceptance.
"He will have to be buried on the mainland, his body would not survive the trip back to Durotar," the orc shook his head in regret.
"I will have the remains of the deceased wrapped up and prepared for your journey before you leave," Edward said in a polite tone, though it was little other than just that.
The orc said nothing in response, getting to his feet and sighing a great sigh from a pair of expansive lungs, making a move to leave the tower.
The sound of someone clearing their throat was audible then, heard above the traffic outside and the rain pounding down on the tower's roof. All turned to regard a young page, dressed in a spotless, albeit wet, uniform of a white tunic and pants over which a bright blue tabard had been placed, decorated with the elaborate 'L' of Lordaeron. A round, shapeless cap covered his head, dyed the same shade as the tabard with a large white feather pinned to the left side with a golden brooch. Auburn locks fell perfectly straight from under the cap, curling inwards and upwards at the very tips. Before anyone could say a word, the page reached under his tabard and retrieved a scroll case composed of glistening silver with golden caps shaped into ram's head's adorning each end. A blue ribbon was tied around the middle. The page walked up and presented it to Hrosk, who looked at the page like a bear would at a rabbit upon finding such a creature in its den after waking.
" Sir, I have been sent as a representative of the ruling officials of Theramore, as well as at the bequest of Lady Jaina Proudmoore herself, to present you with this letter of written apology at the loss of your companion to be delivered to your Warchief upon your return to Orgrimmar. Know that the Alliance Assembly is putting forth all its effort to finding and subsequently punishing the person or persons responsible for such a heinous act, and no stone shall be left unturned in our pursuit of them. The Alliance Assembly would also like to extend the courtesy of a proper soldier's burial at a location of your choosing, in addition to this small gift of coin to ease your return trip to your homeland. "
The page then produced a small sack bulging with coins, which he also handed to the orc.
Hrosk stood speechless, as did everyone else gathered around the tower's entrance. Crys expected some sort of apology, but Jaina was certainly making sure Thrall knew that she wouldn't have allowed Talgar's death if she could have helped it. The orc, his teeth showing in something between a snarl and a smile, handed the bag of coin back to the page, who accepted it without a word.
"In the interest of keeping the treaty between the Alliance and the Horde, I will take this to Warchief Thrall, but we will make our own way home, and Talgar will be buried by his own people in a place of our choosing. My…thanks to your lady for her offer," he managed to say before stepping out into the rain, past all of them. The two orcs then made for their caravan's encampment and started preparing to depart, leaving them to their own work.
The page watched the orcs departure with only a slight interest once they were out of hearing range he turned to face Crys squarely.
"Governess Proudmoore also requests your presence once you are finished gathering clues pertinent to this murder."
With this the page wheeled about smartly, and began walking, eventually rendezvousing with an enclosed carriage waiting for him at one of the main streets connected to the dock area. Edward bowed his head to the remaining two and began to walk away as well.
"Gentlemen, I have duties awaiting me, as do yourselves. If you have any further need of me my men will know where to find me. Good hunting."
Crys looked down to his dwarven companion, the rogue meeting his gaze evenly.
"Well, my friend, shall we convey ourselves to the drinking establishment in question and put forth our inquiries to the barkeep?"
The dwarf regarded the cloudy skies before responding.
"It'll be closed, with the owner asleep. We won't get much there this time of day."
"Come, come, my doubtful friend. They will open for us, and provide us with any information we require," the warmage shook his index finger at Daghmor, his tone quickly losing its jovial tone and coming to possess a hard edge to it by the time his sentence was complete.
"Aye," the dwarf nodded, hand reaching down to pat the polished cudgel at his hip,
"they'll be opening for us."