The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

The Incident at Birchurst

Someone had tried to lay the five bodies out so that they looked peacefully at rest, but their limbs were too mutilated to lie in any manner other than askew. Despite the flies and shredded flesh, Able was certain he recognized them for the tax collector Stalwart Springs and his guards. He straightened his jacket and surveyed the abandoned town square.

The arc of buildings all faced him, their darkened windows like wide eyes, still harrowed by what they had seen. Like the young man Able and Venture Bay had passed as they rode into Birchurst. He'd been attacking the ground with a hoe, desperately heaving rocks from the ground, and refusing stop long enough to even look up when Venture had hailed him. Able imagined that same face behind every window.

He turned to Venture, who had staggered away trying to mask that he was retching. "You should go."

Venture nodded in vigorous agreement and said, "You should come."

"No." Able shouldered his satchel and looked Venture in the eye. "I need to do my job."

"Skies, Houser." Venture took a breath and shuddered. "You... Okay, you take care of yourself."

"Thanks."

Then Venture was back in the saddle and racing across the fields for the woods. There was no sign of Tanner nor his host yet. Seemed the enforcers had indeed taken the road to Westcore and would have to come back around to get to Birchurst. Meanwhile, Venture, like Lark, knew how to get there over the woodland hills. Fortunately, he'd readily accepted a few coins to drop all his other tasks for a ride across the countryside. Now how to make the most of this head start?

Able scanned the town a second time and spotted a somewhat rotund, silver-haired woman hobbling her purposeful way towards him. Preferring not to have any sort of discussion so close to the rotting corpses, he crossed the grounds to her.

She stumbled up a little breathlessly and started, "Sir, I take full responsibility, but please—"

"Am I wearing a uniform?" he cut her off.

"I—ah, no...?" She took a step back and cautiously looked him up and down.

"That's because I'm not an enforcer, so you don't have to worry about what to say to them just yet." He extended his hand to her. "Able Houser. I'm investigating this incident for a chronicle I'm writing about the unrest in Borealund."

It took her a moment's consideration, but she did take and shake his hand. "Flower Hawking." Indeed?

"Any relation to Grace Hawking?"

"M-my grandmother." She frowned and scrutinized him, her naturally friendly blue eyes full of mistrust. "How did you know?"

"I've just come from researching the council records in Aimsby." He gestured vaguely East. "Grace was the representative councilor from Westcore and a prominent servant of the Fox. Are you as well?"

Hawking stared at him with a stone-faced silence. But then nodded once.

"My grasp of your religion is weak, but do you practice here, or...?"

"I teach here, yes." She folded her arms over her ample bosom. "And I live here, as well. I moved my family from Westcore during the war."

"You teach others the ways of the Spirits?" he clarified before a creaking hinge caught his attention.

He looked toward it and saw the front door of the largest structure in the square had opened. Four elderly men came out and down the stairs.

Able redirected his attention to Hawking. "Does that mean you're something of a Chief-servant? And you remained here because the occupation is stronger in Westcore than here?"