Centaur of the Crime: Book One of 'Fantasy and Forensics' (Fantasy & Forensics 1) (10 page)

“When did this unknown man get to the Grove, then? And how did you know he was an ambassador?”

“Again, I can answer that,” Vazura chimed in. “He could have arrived here before my morning patrols. His clothes were well made but simple, in the style of the border regions nigh to the sea. Those regions have sent people here before; they are poor places, and will often travel on foot instead of horse.”

“I’m still worried about how many assumptions you folks are making.”

“Worried?” Vazura smiled at me. A greasy charm oozed off of him like an oil slick. He put a hand on my leg at the knee. “Perhaps I could offer you a ‘personal’ escort into the grove? Show you how to ride more than a horse? Woman, if you’re afraid, it’ll take a man to calm any fears you have.”

I reached down with one hand and grabbed Vazura’s gloved pinky. I bent it backwards firmly, like I was peeling an unripe banana. He let out a startled yelp and danced a step back, out of my reach. I locked eyes with him as I spoke.

“Afraid? I’m not afraid of anything that wears pants.”

This got more than a few laughs from the rest of the Captain’s patrol. He swung his gaze to them, a murderous look on his face. The laughter stopped as quickly as if someone had flicked a switch. He stalked back to his griffin mount, flexing his hands ominously.

“It looks like the pleasantries are completed,” Kajari said, and a wry smile played at the edge of his lips. He spurred his mount, and the rest of our original group followed him into the grove.

The griffins and their riders disappeared behind the walls of swaying green branches that hung from the large willow trees that surrounded us. Behnaz was right—this place was perfect for an ambush. The Grove of the Willows turned out to be a good deal smaller than I’d guessed at first. It only took a few minutes for the horses to walk to the central clearing.

The clearing itself was grass-covered and around the size of three or four city blocks. Around the perimeter, the willow trees hung their branches even more densely, like a wall of green blades. A great stone table lay in the center of the clearing, something covered in carved runes and large enough to tie a lion to. The table stood extremely high, as did the pair of matching marble benches. Definitely, décor made to appeal to the centaurs while allowing humans to dine with them.

“Right, let’s start by looking at where you found the—” I started to say, as I brought my mount to a halt. My words cut off into a groan as I swung myself out of the saddle. The two solid hours of riding hadn’t put legs in a happy place. They felt numb and tingly.

“Allow me,” Galen said, as he quickly moved to my side before I fell over. He muttered a Nordic-sounding phrase and touched the top of my head. Something shot through me like the kind of static shock you get from walking across a shag carpet in the depths of winter. The muscles in my thighs and calves loosened and the tension simply drained away.

“Wow,” I remarked. I did a deep knee bend. “Galen, my friend, you would be able to coin a mint with that technique, if you went into sports medicine.”

“I know not what a ‘mint’ is, but if you say so, I don’t doubt it for a minute,” Galen said. He coughed into one massive hand, and then sadly gestured to an unremarkable piece of ground, about halfway between the table and the edge of the clearing. “When the messenger found me and Lord Kajari, he brought us here. We found the Good King’s body right there, lying on his back, head pointing towards the edge of the clearing.”

“And the unknown ‘ambassador’?”

“Propped up against one of the table’s benches, in front of where Benedict was found. Behnaz’s men swear that they did not move any of the…‘bodies’.”

“If only they’d also left the scene itself alone,” I sighed.

The ground’s traces had been completely muddled with multiple horse, griffin, and human prints. And the lack of bloodstains on the ground told me that someone had done a well-intentioned clean-up job. But that same ‘click’ I’d felt in my brain back at the House of Hospitalliers came back, even more strongly. I only had to check one more thing to make sure. I dug into my horse’s saddlebag to pull out two items.

The first, a charcoal stylus similar to Galen’s. The second, a coil of rope. I measured out a set amount and marked it with the stylus as my companions also dismounted their horses. I handed one end of the rope to Kajari. He looked at me, an uneasy, questioning look on his face.

“Since you’re the same height as Benedict, would you mind helping me with an…well, an experiment of sorts?” He nodded brusquely. I had him stand in the spot where Benedict had been found, facing towards the center of the clearing, while holding the line up at chest level. I then turned to the wizard and handed him the remainder of the coil. “Galen, I need you to pay this out to the mark I put on the rope, in a straight line from where the Lord Regent is standing. Keep it as taut as you can.”

“Very well,” he said. He slowly backed up, passing the stone table, ending up just outside the dense circle of willow trees on the edge of the clearing. I stood off to the side, watching the rope carefully. The line lay just a little too flat.

“Raise up just a hair more,” I called to Galen. He did so, until I said ‘stop’. I followed the path of the line, now angled at a rough ten degrees, along the way to where Galen held his end. Just as I expected, it was high on him, at the upper edge of his chest. I checked the trees around Galen for markings, came up empty, and then had the centaur rejoin the group with me. I chewed a knuckle in thought. The markings on Benedict’s body made sense now.

I just didn’t like what the facts were telling me.

“You appear to have come to a conclusion,” Galen prompted. He shifted from one hoof to another in anticipation.

“Well, I think I know how part of the crime took place, at least.” I took back the rope end from Kajari and explained. “Benedict’s upper chest wound had a ten-degree downward angle. Based on the size of the wound and its clean entry pattern, the shot probably came from fifty, sixty feet away. Very close for a rifle. If we follow the line of the angle back that distance, it puts the shooter just beyond the edge of the clearing.”

“A good ambush point.” This from Kajari, whose frown seemed carved in granite now.

“Yes. Now, at that angle, Benedict’s killer would’ve had to have taken the shot from a nine-foot high platform. I didn’t see any evidence for a platform on the nearby trees. And there’s no willow branch sturdy enough to hold someone up at that height.” I took a deep breath before I continued. “But it’s the exact height at which a centaur would hold a rifle.”

“So now you think my people did this heinous act?” Galen demanded.

“I didn’t say that,” I held my hands out, palms up. “But the other two wounds make more sense now. If a centaur shot Benedict from the tree line at that range, the bullet might’ve been traveling too fast to do enough damage to kill him outright. Say that took place. The centaur assassin comes out to see if the job’s done. He stands right over Benedict, sees the king still breathing.”

Kajari, Galen, and the two guards remained silent. They hung on every word, like I’d been reading them a most fascinating story.

“If a centaur’s standing over a man lying prone on the ground, that puts about six feet between the rifle barrel and the body. That’s what the two lower wounds were telling me, with the high angle and that stippling. The assassin did a double-tap on the trigger. To make sure that Benedict stayed down for good.”

“It doesn’t exactly look good for my people, does it?” Galen asked quietly.

I started to answer, but my words were cut off by a deep rumble that rippled through the ground.

A group of centaurs, their golden armor and dark hooves flashing, galloped into the clearing. Each centaur carried a steel-tipped lance, point held skyward for the moment. The lance tips gleamed with an evil light.

One of them pointed in our direction and shouted.

“There they are!”

They let out a bloodthirsty bellow. The earth shook and my ears rang with battle cries as they charged.

Just my rotten luck.

The one time I’m asked to stop a war, and everyone decides to start early.

Chapter Eleven

The centaurs bore down on us with a sound that was one part cavalry charge, one part industrial avalanche.

Their hooves thundered in my ears. The jingle of their golden chain mail made a tinny counterpoint. Wild manes of hair bobbed above ferocious faces. The bright steel tips of their lance points came forward and down like a breaking wave.

Galen trotted a few steps forward, a look of determination on his face that I’d not seen before. He murmured an incantation under his breath. I saw it more than heard it, with the din around us.

The wizard held his arms out to the sides, fists clenched. With a cry, he flung up one arm, releasing a fine blue dust into the air. I smelled something both warm and sooty. Cinnamon-maple syrup cooked over a campfire.

A sound like the sizzle of raw meat thrown into a hot pan.

A wall of blue flame flashed into existence between us and the charging centaurs. They skidded to a halt, rearing and lashing out with their forehoofs. The flames vanished, leaving a line of white ash on the ground.

The lead centaur, a massive chestnut stallion, stepped ahead of the group. His beard, braided into long brown and gray plaits, bobbed as he shook his head in his vehemence.

“A pox on your magic, boy!” the stallion shouted. “To do that to us!”

“It was, sadly, out of necessity,” Galen replied. He raised his voice and added, “Have you lost all sense of propriety? Making war on sacred ground?”

“War? You have forgotten our ways, Sturmgalen!” The stallion paced back and forth agitatedly. “Had we attacked, your bodies would already lie steaming in the sun. And we’d be playing kick-ball with your severed heads.”

“Be that as it may,” Galen said. “Lances to ground, if you so please.”

“If we so please,” the stallion said, mocking Galen’s tone. But he shouted a set of orders to his warriors. As one, they plunged their lances into the ground point first. The massive weapons stuck, quivering, in the soft turf like a set of jumbo-sized lawn darts. “Have you finally turned your back on your people?”

“I think not,” Galen said.

Off to the side, I heard a new commotion: the sound of human shouting and the terrible screech of predatory birds. Galen cocked his head, listening, and then flung up his other fist. Again, blue dust flew into the air, followed by the scent of charcoal mixed with spicy warm cinnamon.

Behnaz and Vazura’s patrol emerged at a lope from the trees. They’d not taken a half-dozen steps before the wall of blue flame stopped them in their tracks. As with the centaurs, the griffins reared, lashing out with their lion’s paws, shrieking defiance.

The flames subsided. I heard muttered curses from the griffin riders. More than a few riders threw a dark, suspicious glance at the wizard.

“You’re really Mr. Popularity today, Galen,” I ventured.

“It had to be done.” Galen said flatly. “I no longer trust my sire to rein in the zeal of his warriors.”

“Your sire? I mean, that’s your father?” I think my voice jumped an octave in a kind of girly squeak.

“The same. Skallgrym Angbor of the House of Friesain, the current King of the Centaur Realm.”

“Current?” I didn’t like how temporary that sounded.

“So long as no one defeats the King in combat, he retains his throne,” Galen shook his head. “It makes the centaur nobility power-hungry, and more than a little paranoid. I do wish there were a better way.”

“In that, we are in complete agreement,” Kajari said. He stepped forward and raised his voice. “Why do you grace our presence this way, King Angbor?”

Galen’s father—his
sire
, I corrected myself—laughed coarsely. He trotted right up to the Duke, looming over the man. The golden ringlets of his chain mail draped from shoulder down to the bottom edge of his horse body.

From there, the centaurs all had strapped articulated armor plates to their legs and across their equine backs. A sword hilt as wide as both of my wrists put together protruded from a large, well-worn leather scabbard that hung next to one of Angbor’s saddle bags.

Now I saw the family resemblance in the facial features. Galen also had the same wide jaw and dark, brooding brows. But Angbor’s eyes held none of the gentle intelligence I saw in his son.