Page 69 of Sword & Sacrifice

A fingernail.

His own stomach jolted, and he hurriedly backed away. He barely registered someone presenting him with a bucket before he vomited into it. How long were they alive, scratching at the door, to leave those bloody marks? For some reason, Silas had assumed the body had been stashed in the Vault, or they’d been bashed over the head and then locked inside. It never occurred to him that they would have been alive the whole time, slowly suffocating to death. The Vault’s thick door and walls would have muffled any sounds, severely reducing their chances of rescue.

Once Silas finished emptying his stomach, another soldier offered him a canteen of water to wash his mouth out. He swished the water around and spit it into the bucket, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Straightening to his full height, he returned to Griselda and Tilla, still analyzing the scene.

Silas forced himself to examine the corpse again, the scratch marks, and then focused on Griselda. “Is it possible this wasn’t a murder?”

She arched a brow. “You think someone locked themself in a vault, then changed their mind?”

“Or the door closed unexpectedly behind them.” They both looked at the heavy steel door, which could only be opened with a cranking mechanism. “Maybe it malfunctioned?”

“Unlikely,” Griselda replied, though there wasn’t any acid in her dismissal. “Though not impossible. It’s more likely that someone knocked the victim out, then locked them inside. We’ll know more once we’ve examined the body for any signs of blunt force trauma to the skull or other wounds that might have incapacitated them without killing them.”

“Do you think the murderer knew they were still alive when they closed the door?” Silas asked.

She grimaced. “No way to know until we find them.”

While they spoke, Tilla had returned to her sketch. “General, I think we’re ready to move the body.”

Griselda nodded and gestured for Silas to move out of the way. Two soldiers stepped forward. Leather aprons covered their fronts and leather gloves covered their arms up to their elbows. Together, they pried the body out of the puddle of its own juices with a sickening squelch.

If anything had remained in Silas’ stomach, that sound alone might have made him vomit again.

The soldiers moved to a tarp already laid out to receive the body, then flipped the corpse over on top of it. The artist returned to sketch its back and examine the head. Once she finished, the soldiers began stripping the corpse.

“What are they doing?” Silas whispered.

“Looking for any identification,” Griselda replied. “Jewelry, monogrammed handkerchiefs, letters in their pockets.”

Silas doubted any letters would survive the sludge.

One of the soldiers pried a ring off the corpse’s hand and held it up to the light. “Your Majesty,” he called.

Surprised that the soldier was calling for him instead of Griselda, he stepped forward to inspect the ring.

“Do you recognize it?” the soldier asked.

Black gunk clung to the ring. Silas didn’t want to touch it, afraid of the rot clinging to his hands. One of the other soldiers offered him a set of gloves, so he pulled those on first before taking the ring. A thick gold band with an engraved stamp, much like Silas’ own signet ring. The inside was completely black. Gritting his teeth, Silas cleaned it off with one thick, clumsy leather-clad finger. His bravery was rewarded with two engraved initials underneath:

J.F.

Silas’ brow furrowed in confusion as he looked down at the corpse again, trying to find some familiarity in its rotted features.

“Well?” Griselda barked. “Who is it?”

“I think it’s Jacoby.”

Chapter Thirty-One

The constable’s office in Sparrow Hill was small, with one desk and two cells that were probably only used to house drunken citizens that got too rowdy for the local tavern owner to handle. One of the cell doors hung open, swaying gently on broken hinges. Someone slept off a rough night in the other cell, their snores echoing through the small space.

The constable himself was slumped over his desk, head in his hand as he read something. He didn’t bother looking up until the Arnsveldians stood right in front of his desk. “What?” he grumbled. Exhaustion left dark circles under his eyes and hung off him like an ill-fitting jacket.

Carolin had dealt with every constable they’d met along their route, and she stepped forward to take the lead again. “We’re mercenaries hired by the King of Bellacosta to hunt down the leaders of a coup.”

The constable leaned back in his chair. “How many of you are there?”

Carolin arched an eyebrow and looked back at the group crowded into the small office. “Four.”