“He was killed by shoes?” asked Mace.

“Well women’s eight and half poulaines to be precise,” said the watchman. “To be even more precise, it were the shoes what tripped him, but it were the stairs and the subsequent head lodged between the railing bars what did the killing.”

Mace leveled a stare at him. “So this doctor happened to have a pair of women’s shoes at the top of his stairs, which caused him to trip so precisely that his head squeezed betwixt the railings?”

The watchman shrugged. “The investigation is still ongoing.”

“But you don’t see how insane that sounds?”

“Well he was quite old-“

“And out of shape,” she finished. “I’ve heard that before. Doesn’t it seem a bit convenient that the doctor who had the only copy of an extremely powerful wizard’s autopsy was strangled to death by a railing?”

“What? Like someone killed him on purpose? That sort of thing doesn’t happen ‘round here,” he said.

Mace sighed. The people in this town went to great lengths to justify what doesn’t happen around here.

“The investigation is still ongoing, if that gives you peace of mind, ma’am,” he said. His face grew suspicious. “You wouldn’t happen to have any lost shoes now would you?” he asked.

Mace lifted up her foot. “Men’s ten and half,” she replied. It sometimes paid off to have large feet.

The body was lifted out on a stretcher and covered in a sheet. Mace absentmindedly reached out to lift it.

“Hold up!” said the guard.

“I’m an investigator,”

“Do you see a cauldron ‘round here bubbling, toiling, and or troubling?”

“No, did it get lodged in the railing too?”

“Point is, he’s not a wizard, ergo, not subject to wizardly investigations. Now I must kindly ask you to move along, nothing to see here.”

In terms of spells written in the police grimoire, this was one of the weaker ones. Of course the only powerful spell an officer had was the “trudgeon of first warning’.

Mace threw up her hands. “Well fine then! But don’t come crying to me when any more ‘perfectly explainable deaths’ happen!

She knew as soon as she said it that the sarcasm would be lost. She had better things to do today. Mace struggled to think of what those ‘better things’ were, without the doctor, her leads had pretty much dried up.

Thistle ran through the jungle, a pack of manticores bounding close behind. She wove her way through stinging nettles, strangling vines, and man eating pitcher plants. Her scythe was sharp as sin, and made quick work of the foliage.

A manticore ran up next to her, far too close for her liking. Its ugly, half human face smiled as it ran. It swung its needle tipped scorpion tail. Thistle dove into a roll, brought the scythe down and cut the thing’s legs from under it. Its howl of pain faded as Thistle pushed on.

One of the surly things has gotten ahead of her. He grinned as it dropped down, claws unsheathing as it prepared to pounce.

Thistle smiled. She’d have to time this just right. Her feet pounded the forest floor as she sped up. The manticore licked its jaws. It wasn’t looking up. Good.

The scythe hooked onto a tree branch. She vaulted up, spun around and kicked the thing in its all too human face. She twisted in midair, her scythe singing as it sliced, and landed in a crouch. The manticore got up and charged, but she didn’t even turn to look. Before it could react, bloody streaks ripped across its flesh. It fell in a heap. Thistle pressed on.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

She came to a clearing, but something was off. Her instincts kicked in and she leapt across it. She landed and slid into a crouch on the other side. The pack caught up. Thirty, maybe fifty of them stood there, finally cornering their prey. A hundred leering eyes stared into hers. She beckoned them with a finger. Three of them pounced. She let a smile spread across her face. Their paws touched down, but not onto solid ground, but wet, sticky quicksand. They screamed, flailing their defiance until they slowly disappeared into the abyss.

The rest roared. She returned it with her own cry. It was a guttural challenge that evoked every wild thing that stalked the jungle. Every monster that Thistle had faced, and beaten. The manticores cowered, and backed off into the dark jungle.

Her muscles relaxed. She caught her breath, but quickly took in a sharp breath. She brought up her arm. A manticore had managed to just graze her with its tail. She put her lips to the wound and sucked out the poison, spitting it onto the forest floor.

She sliced through the leaves. If Dokario’s Sacred Puzzle Box was right, then the temple should be right around…aha!

The foliage gave way. Towering about her was the ancient black pyramid of Jurant. Roots flowed over its steps, statues with screaming visages stood askew. Thistle took a step that crunched. She looked down at the piles of bones that blanketed the forest floor.

She heard a rumble come from the pyramid’s summit. A black, scaly form tore away from the building, lit only by the blood red of the setting sun. Its massive, wingless body crawled down the steps, belly scraping against stone.

“Thistle Nightwarren,” said the dragon. It’s voice was deep, but still held a twinge of slimy contempt.

“Drakkenmyze,” growled Thistle.

“Come for a rematch? I thought you had enough in Shamdol? Or perhaps you’ve come to beg for your life?” Drakkenmyze hissed.

Thistle smirked. “And I thought you had enough in the lost city of Kestrel?”

Drakkenmyze growled. “I’ll admit, your Scythe of a Thousand Moons did wound me, but with the power of Jarunt’s Emerald, I’ve become unstoppable!”

Thistle froze. She was too late.

Drakkenmyze stood up, balancing on his back legs and tail. There it was, Jarunt’s Emerald, embedded in his chest. Drakkenmyze’s bellowing laughter shook the trees.

Thistle looked down at her scythe. Forged by her very husband, containing the last piece of his soul. She gripped it tight.

“You’re right, I cannot defeat you with this scythe,” she said solemnly.

Acidic spittle rained out Drakkenmyze’s cackling mouth.

“So that is why I brought this!”

Drakkenmyze paused. “What?!”

Thistle pulled out a small crossbow. She pressed a trick button, and it expanded. It kept unfolding with clicks and whirls until it was twice the length of her body. It was an arcane ballista. Runes carved into its bow crackled with power.

She aimed right at the emerald. “Now smile you son of a-“

“What are you doing?” asked Mace.

Thistle nearly fell over. She was no longer in the jungles of Jarunt, but her garden.

“I uh…nothing,”

“Were you playing with that broom and toy crossbow?” asked Mace.

“Just training,” said Thistle

“Uh huh, and all those whooshing sounds you were making?”

“V-vocal warmups…for all those spells,”

Thistle bobbed back and forth on her heels, determined to look at anything but Mace.

“Vocal warmups?”

“Ee-yup,” said Thistle slowly.

Mace didn’t say anything and Thistle’s face grew hotter.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone about this by chance, would you?” Thistle finally asked.

Mace shrugged. “What’s there to tell? Just you and Drakkenmyze having one of your classic bouts, nothing to write home about.”

Thistle blushed and jaunted back into the house, pushing past Mace. “Okay I think we should go learn magic now goodbye.”

Mace just smiled and followed her in.

“Weren’t you going to speak to the doctor barber?” asked Thistle.

“Turned out to be a dead end,” said Mace.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it literally turned into a dead end, the doctor was dead before I even got there!”

Thistle clapped a hand over her mouth. “That’s horrible!” she gasped.

“I know!,” agreed Mace. “I’m running out of leads…I mean, yes there’s something horrible going on and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

“There’s something strange going on in this town, and I don’t like it,” said Thistle.

“More than you can imagine,” mumbled Mace. Thistle pretended not to hear. She was used to smarter people keeping secrets from her. She was reassured that it was for her good. It reminded her of when her husband kept his-whoops those memories weren’t supposed to surface. Better put them back where they belong. She breathed in, lined up her bad memories, breathed out, and shoved them back into her subconscious.