The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Andrei

By the time of my return to Oskari, labourers no longer laboured, farmers no longer farmed, and the children were nowhere in sight. The village of Oskari had all but shut down in a state of paranoia. In my time away, another six villagers had vanished, making for a total of eight. Women, men, young, old—whatever had lured them away from Oskari did not discriminate. To make matters worse, a woman and her young daughter were found dead in their home. It was a story a lot like His Story, only four centuries later. Father Belaia suspected a case of the Waste, but I had my doubts.

In the days following my return, there was little to do but calm those who panicked. The people had lost faith in their newly appointed Captain. Joseph Lobodin was a man of good intentions, but he was a man too cowardly to recognize his faults. He held his arrogance like a shield until all goodwill and every resource had been exhausted. Then, and only then, did the Captain send word to Palisade for Partisan intervention. On the eve of their arrival, those Partisans stormed the church and barged into my chambers uninvited.

I could not have been more relieved.

It had been a long time since I'd seen Commander Reider in full uniform. Half-plate and chain beneath a pale blue tabard, marked by the symbol of the Six. His hand-and-a-half sword, Intrepidity, was holstered at his back. At his side, Enforcer Rhian Sinclair. Her freckled complexion spattered with faint scars, and battered black leathers bound her petite frame like a second skin. Per usual, the Strachan's platinum hair was swept away from her face—weaved in two braids along the sides of her head.

"Sinclair," I said. "Aren't you going to say hello?"

Sinclair shuffled her feet and shrugged. "Hello."

I resisted the urge to smile under such grim circumstances. I resisted plenty of other urges, too. "I'm pleased to see you both looking well."

"Aye, and you're looking extra pale and sickly, Strauss," Sinclair said. "Are they feeding you well enough around here?"

"Yes, thank you for asking. I was beginning to long for your special breed of concern."

Sinclair flashed a chipped-tooth smile.

"Strauss," the Commander spoke. "Tell us why we're here?"

I briefed them on the missing people and the suspicious deaths.

"Right, then." Sinclair nodded to herself and looked around the room. "Where's Gus?"

"I was under the impression he'd returned to Palisade. Hasn't he?"

A deadpan stare from Sinclair. "Seeing as I'm asking…"

"Rhian, be nice. I'm sure Finlay's fine," Michael said. "Strauss, what else can you tell us?"

"Several locals reported a man—not a one they recognized—offering maintenance services for the winter. Of those questioned, none could afford the wages and none would accept his charity. The man made several appearances over the course of two weeks."

"Description?" The Commander asked, standing motionless with his back to the door.

"Grey hair, brown eyes, and a moustache. Some claim he was wearing a tan jacket, while others say it was black."

Sinclair plunked down on the bed, lacing the air with the scent of leather, steel, and cloves. "An old man with at least two jackets and moustache. Brilliant. We'll get right on it."

Michael shook his head. "So we have eight people missing and two people dead. What are the chances the cases are related?"

"There's no evidence to suggest violence in the missing persons' case," I said. "However, the deceased woman and her husband had a history of domestics. The man is a brute—I've seen it. He once started an argument with me for looking in his general direction. Father Belaia suspects the Waste, but we shouldn't rule out the possibility of murder, suicide, or both."

"Where is this man now?" Michael asked.

"The woman's husband and the family's eldest child, Ivan, are among the eight gone missing. It's impossible to say whether it's all related or merely a coincidence. Given they'd just buried half their family, they may have simply left for somewhere less painful. But if the husband was involved—"

"I'd wager it's related," Sinclair interjected. "We've got dead folk, missing folk, and something stinks like week-old fish. Hint: it's not coincidence."

"There's something else you should know." I divided my attention equally between Reider and Sinclair. "Following their deaths, mother and child were buried on the family property as is customary. But not three days later, the neighbours found the woman's decapitated corpse several feet away from the grave in her potato garden."

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The home of the deceased was backed by a generous plot of land. The wood panels were freshly stained, and the decorative metal components were free of rust. The lawn had been recently trimmed, and the gardens were tended. Considering this, the idea of suicide seemed less likely.

At the back of the home, there were nine graves with names and dates scratched on the surface of their wooden markers. For the task at hand, we pilfered a shovel and coil of rope from the shed nearby, taking turns digging the plot. While I worked, Sinclair and the Commander napped beneath a mangled maple tree. They sat back to back, relying on one another for protection. I dug until the casket was unearthed. And then, several notches louder than was necessary, I announced, "It's done."

The Commander bolted to his feet with a cacophony of clanks, and Sinclair fell flat on her back with a chorus of curses. Then, after clearing the sleep from her eyes, she hopped up, trotted forward, and leaped into the open grave.

Observing from my place beside Michael, Sinclair searched along the casket until she found the handle.

"Michael," she said.

"Rhian," he said.

"Rope."

The Commander lowered the rope.

"Rhian," he said.

"Michael," she said.

"That's a good look for you."

Sinclair rolled her eyes, and after securing the rope around the handle, she sprung out of the grave. There was a certain beauty in a Strachan's effortless agility. Their short-stature figures were powerful and toned, but rarely bulky. If not for Palisade's suppression of the arts, I suspected many would have made inspiring dancers.

With Sinclair above ground, the Commander tugged on the rope and revealed the contents of the casket. The women's remains were absent, but this was expected. The body had been cremated to avoid any further disturbances. Incidentally, the ashes were then scattered in the dirt we'd just desecrated. That said, the only discernible remains of the deceased were her fingernails. Three had broken off and fallen to the bottom of the casket, while two were still embedded in the bloodstained wood.

"Well that's disturbing," Michael said.

The Strachan shrugged. "Buried alive, clawed herself out, dragged herself to the garden for snack. Whoever wanted her dead also wanted her to stay that way. End of story."

We all three heard it long before we saw the light. Not only did we have excellent hearing, but blessed are the pitfalls of autumn. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The intruder rounded the corner, brandishing a makeshift torch on the verge of extinguishing. His brow set in a deep furrow, his nostrils flared as if the mere sight of us produced an offensive stench.

"Fiddling with the dead is your job, Brother Strauss. But you two—" he looked between the Commander and Sinclair. "You won't find our missing people by digging up graves."

Michael stepped forward with an extended hand, identifying himself by name and rank. The gesture of good faith was ignored. Instead, the man who not long ago worked as the village smith, coughed and spat a wad of phlegm to the side.

"Captain Joseph Lobodin," he said. "You should have reported to me first."

"That's my fault," I replied. "They came straight to the church weary from the road and seeking sanctuary for the night. I decided to brief them, and given the severity of the situation, they were eager to get to work. I should have insisted they wait until morning."

When the Captain dislodged another round of mucous from his throat, I suspected the onset of lung disease. I'd counsel him on the matter later. But for now, Lobodin flicked the torch in Sinclair's direction, letting loose a flutter of embers.

"You," he said. "Who the hell are you?"

"This is our Enforcer," Michael replied. "Rhian Sinclair."

Now, one might think the Commander speaking up for Sinclair was a matter of rank or protocol, but while a Strachan Enforcer and an Amali Commander were different in practice, they were parallel on paper. I'd been watching Sinclair in my periphery—arms crossed, ever-so-slight shifts from foot to foot, and a droopy-eyed expression. I'd seen this all before and so, too, had our friend. No, Rhian Sinclair wasn't deferring to Michael, and Michael wasn't being rude. She was bored, and annoyed, and she wouldn't have answered.

"This isn't going to work." Captain Lobodin said.

Michael raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"The piss-head. She's going to make people uncomfortable."

I surmised that piss-head was the Captain's creative way of describing Sinclair's hair.

"Okay—so, I think now's a good time to talk about discrimination," Michael said. "It's a short speech and it goes something like, 'I won't tolerate it.' But I do understand where you're coming from, Captain, and if you need time to educate your people and spread the word, that's fine. We can find the Enforcer something to do in the meantime."

After wrapping up with the Captain and shovelling the dirt back over the grave, it didn't take us long to come up with a job for Sinclair.

One village's solution would quickly become another city's problem.