Knock! Knock!

  The knock caught me off guard, waking me up with a jolt and bringing me face-to-face with a bright light in the sky that threatened to blind me. “Why does a knock always sound so damn loud in the morning?”

  When I opened the door, a dainty orc girl with blonde hair stood there staring at me through bloodshot eyes as the st of the crickets went home for the day. Bck mascara streaked down her face, and if it weren’t for her height, I’d think she was part of a goblin-punk band. “Lady, it’s… one sec.” My head pounded as I gnced at the digital clock on the windowsill. “Five thirty in the morning. Couldn’t you have waited till eight?”

  She let out a shaky sigh, and as she opened her mouth to speak, I could smell the alcohol. “You’re a detective, right?”

  I thought about telling her no and sending her to the grumpy old lizardman in the other apartment complex; he still owes me for finding his pet rat. Damn thing took a chunk out of me. “Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?”

  “Please help me find my boyfriend, Raktaar.”

  “Try the lost and found.” A missing person. Doesn’t pay very well, and I have no patience for it.

  She blocked the door with her well-manicured foot and looked at me through the crack. “Please. I think he was murdered. But without proof, or a body, the wmen won’t do anything.”

  Hell of a way to start the morning, being woken up with a murder, but it has been a long time since there was one in the realm. “Come inside.” As she squeezed past me, I could smell her perfume. Lavender. Doesn’t mix well with the alcohol. “Now,” I rubbed the sleepiness out of my eyes, “Raktaar was murdered? How do you know?” The words fell on deaf ears as she looked around my apartment. I know the type. Never minding their own business. Sorry to tell you, dy, nothing in here but empty firewine bottles and dirty clothes. “Lady, I asked you a question.”

  “Sorry, what was the question?” She knew what it was, but I asked her again anyway. “I got a letter from him saying he was going to pay the st of his debt, and he never came back.” A debt. Only two pces in town that’ll kill you over a debt. And one of them isn’t the council.

  “A debt with who?” I knew the answer, but I wanted an excuse to keep her talking. That way I could have a drink and take a potion for my head.

  She pushed a dirty shirt onto the floor and took its pce on my couch. “The letter said, Angmar’s Debtors." But that was five days ago.” There it is, Angmars. Chances are Raktaar is knee-deep in sludge, mining mana crystals to pay off the debt.

  I washed the potion down with a sip of whiskey while the kettle boiled. “Angmars, huh. Horrible pce, filled with the desperate.” I leaned back on the counter and looked at her. “Why are you only reporting the missing person now?”

  “Murder, John.” She interrupted me with a growl. Nothing scarier than a pissed-off female orc.

  “Murder… why report the ‘murder’ now and not when it happened?”

  “I tried to find him first.” The words were joined by tears, mucus, and a scratchy voice. I left the counter and took a seat next to her, handing her a box of tissues.

  “I see. Well, I can tell you some good news. Angmar may be a deranged gangster, but he is a proud elven warrior who doesn’t kill for nothing. Raktaar probably got sent to the mines.” She gave me a look that said I was either a fool or a child; orc expressions are tough to read sometimes.

  “Have you been drunk for the past five months?” The words hurt, but only because they were true. I had been without work, so I indulged myself. Besides, these bottles wouldn’t have emptied themselves.

  “Why?” The words slid out as the kettle whistled. I stood up to get it when she hit me with the news. It felt like a kick to the teeth and nearly knocked me over.

  “Angmar is dead. His position was taken over by his brother. Calls himself—”

  “Fang? Oh, god… just my luck.” It had to be Fang. The only member of that family who kills just to see what race and gender have the most pleasing screams. Raktaar is likely dead. Fang never cared for the mines.

  “You know that man?” The question sounded like a bad joke with even worse life decisions.

  “Man? No, Fang isn’t a man.” That expression on her face, I could read. It was the look of someone giving up. I poured my coffee and added a bit of something to join the whiskey. Maybe the two of them could talk the firewine down. “Fang a monster in elvish form. If Raktaar did go to Angmar, and he is dead, then it was no doubt Fang.” I took a sip; it tasted like dirt and courage, perfect for a hangover. “Guess I’d better get to work.”

  She gave me a look, a look I’d seen more times than I can count. A look of desperation mixed with hope. “You’ll take the case and find him or his body, then?”

  What choice did I have? I gave her a shrug and downed my coffee. “Work is work, and right now I need the money.” It sounded cruel even to me, but it was true. An easy job like this is quick pay. “I’ll find your boyfriend, dead or alive. Then you can hand the case to the Counsel of Scales; by the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t give it, detective.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I grabbed a form from the counter. Standard job request form. It basically says payment will be issued regardless of outcome; I’ve had issues in the past. “Fill out this form and I’ll get back to you once I have more information or a body.”

  I didn’t watch her fill it out. I just excused myself and went to take an ice-cold shower. A moment ter I heard the front door open and then sm shut. I got out of the shower and checked the form. “Lokara. Nice handwriting, for an orc.” I pced it inside the wall safe next to a premium bottle of Dwarvish firewine. It kicks like a mule on steroids, and with about twenty different enchantments, this stuff will knock out an ogre.

  Wasting no time, I got dressed in my cleanest set of clothes and left my apartment. A dingy little room connected to about ten other rooms in the building, each one has a door to the outside. And mine always has a wet puddle in front of it that reeks of asparagus. Looks like my client didn’t notice it.

  An hour ter, I got to the town center; it was always filled with crowds of all races: elves, dwarves, orcs, a couple of fairies, and the odd troll. Nasty fuckers. They’re always picking fights; they think their size makes them unstoppable and always forget how the Counsel of Scales’ mounted wmen overpower them. Not my problem.

  The man, or necromancer I’m going to see, will be able to tell me if Raktaar’s soul has left his body. Never liked visiting him, and to be honest, the ck of murder cases made me happy. It meant I had less of a reason to drop by. He lives and works in a rundown shack under the bridge leaving town. He says it’s convenient; plenty of bodies get washed up on the riverbanks. Some worse than others, but still useful.

  It stank inside his pce. Ammonia. Probably from the pile of unidentified meat in the corner. “John… the detec-tive. How nice to see you. Again.” Never liked the way he spoke. Always creeped me out, and his disfigured face never helped with putting that feeling to rest.

  “Strok,” I nodded at him. He ignored it and continued mixing something; based on the smell, I’d say it was a blood potion. “Business going alright?”

  “Yes. I think so. Interested in joining me, detec-tive?” You know I have no intention, old man. He asks me every time and every time I say no.

  “Not today. I’m here on business.”

  “Ah, detec-tive business. Goody.”

  “A murder.”

  “And you need me to find a soul. Same as always, detec-tive.” The blood potion started glowing a deep crimson. He grabbed a pixie corpse and tossed it into the mixture, then covered it. Bet the pixie king would have a heart attack seeing that. “Very well, detec-tive. What is the name of the victim?”

  “Raktaar, an orc.”

  I saw a twisted grin on his face when he looked at me. “An orc.” He repeated it and reached for a bag behind him, then tossed it at my feet. It made a sound that I’d heard before, many times, the hollow thud and scratching sound of a severed head in a canvas bag. I wasn’t going to ask him about the rest of the body. “He washed up three days. Ago. Tricky to resurrect. He sted just long enough. To tell me his name.” He walked closer to me, and I could smell the rot on his clothes. “Raktaar. . .”

  “So, he was murdered. Did you find anything on the body that could help me?” I had what I needed. Find the body for Lokara and hand the case over to the wmen, but the detective in me wouldn’t let it go until I knew why and how he was killed. A drowned orc who is difficult for a necromancer to resurrect is pretty rare.

  Strok rubbed his chin and finally walked away from me to go scratch in a drawer next to his ‘operating table’ and tossed a small blood-stained bag at me. “Only that, detec-tive. Though I don’t know how much help. They will be. Good day.” That was my cue to leave. I didn’t want to find out what would happen to me if I stayed when I was no longer welcomed.

  A newspaper goblin shouted in the street as I took a seat inside my favorite diner about an hour ter. I ordered a stale coffee and a cheap sandwich that tasted like moldy cardboard. The bag in the jacket started feeling real heavy, so I decided to lighten my pocket and opened it. Damned necromancer. He carved off a piece of the orc’s skin and the left ear. Both of them had a strange mark burned into them, a mark I’d seen before. A circle with a single small line at the top and bottom with a dragon’s eye in the center.

  The marked skin and severed ear started to draw curious and concerned eyes, so I sealed them up and finished my food, washing it down with the coffee. This looks like it’s going to be a long case, and I’ll need every bit of energy I can get.