THE MURDER BLOSSOM

  An INK MAGE SideQuest

  Victor Gischler

  This is a work of fiction. Nothing within has any connection with actual people, places or things. Not even close.

  Copyright Victor Gischler 2019.

  All rights reserved.

  www.VictorGischlerAuthor.com

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  THE MURDER BLOSSOM

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  No matter how comfortable you are with your own body, there are just things you’d rather not do naked.

  Like climbing out of a window.

  On a cold winter’s night.

  Into the courtyard of a manor house belonging to a cranky little baron who’d recently vowed to remove my balls if he again caught me near his daughter Merradine. I was very attached to my balls. I would never do this if there wasn’t an obscenely large bag of silver involved.

  I squatted on the windowsill and looked back at Merradine in the plush canopy bed, blonde hair spread out on a feather pillow. The woman slept, tangled in the sheets, a dreamy smile on her face, curves rising up and down again with each breath. Woman and bed were both warm and inviting. It would have been so easy to forget all this and crawl back in next to her.

  But I was broke. I needed this job, and I needed to get it done fast, hopefully without breaking my neck. The rough stonework provided plenty of hand and footholds. I should be able to climb down no problem. So. No more stalling. I turned myself around and began the steady climb downward.

  And then I slipped.

  A surprising number of thoughts can parade through a man’s mind during the span of an even relatively short drop from a second story window. Uppermost in my mind were the cobblestones rapidly coming my way. I didn’t relish landing in bare feet. An unexpected snowfall slanted in on a stiff wind, flakes melting when they hit the ground. That’s what had made everything slippery. I wasn’t really built for cold weather, and my nudity only served to highlight this fact. Not that I cared for hot weather either. I simply hated to sweat and tried to avoid doing so at all costs. Summers in some of the southern regions could get downright steamy, and the climate wasn’t –

  I hit harder and sooner than I’d anticipated. Something in my ankle stretched and twisted in an alarming way, and I stifled a yelp. I let my knees buckle, tried to tuck and roll like I’d done so many times before, but the cobblestones were slippery. I hit face first and scraped an elbow. I barely had time to wipe blood from my nose when I heard the guard coming.

  The jangle of chainmail with each boot stomp announced his approach, and I rolled underneath the low hedge that lined the courtyard. I claimed no expertise in the area of flora and fauna, but this hedge seemed to be comprised entirely of broken glass, boot spurs, and crocodile teeth. It poked me in intimate places. Additionally, I found myself lying in cold, wet dirt. The urge to shift positions was nearly overwhelming, but the guard came around the corner into view, and I froze.

  He was exactly the sort of docile, complacent soldier I’d been hoping for, chewing an apple as he walked, a halberd resting lazily on one shoulder, bowl helm cocked at a jaunty angle. His red tunic flapped in the breeze, fresh snow powdering his shoulders. He finished the green apple in two loud, wet bites and tossed the core over his shoulder. Little skirmishes had broken out all along the border with Fyria in preparation for the big war to come, but there were still a few lucky sods pulling easy duty guarding barons from … well, whatever they needed guarding from.

  Me maybe.

  He walked right on past me, not even glancing down, and I waited until I couldn’t hear him anymore before I rolled out from under the hedge. I was muddy all down my front, and I imagined my backside was an erratic roadmap of red welts. I checked the small canvas satchel slung across my shoulder.

  Everything was still there. The gloves lest I contaminate myself and suffer a most gruesome demise according to the wizard. A pair of small, silver tweezers. And finally, the small earthen jug with the preserving solution.

  The greenhouse sat in the center of the courtyard, and I padded toward it silently. Thank you, bare feet. Cold but stealthy. I looked back along my trail. The snow melted too rapidly for me to leave footprints.

  I entered the greenhouse, pulling the glass door closed behind me. The heat hit me immediately, a steamy soup of overripe odors. The wizard had explained the greenhouse had been built to protect rare foliage against the winter cold. The baron’s hobby consisted of importing rare plants from the four corners of the known lands. In a world full of vineyards, gambling houses, brothels, and steam baths why any man would choose plants as a hobby was beyond me. Not even potatoes or asparagus or something you could eat. Flowers.

  Okay. Whatever.

  The flaw in my plan became immediately apparent.

  The greenhouse was thick with lush plant life, and the moonlight filtered through poorly. I couldn’t see a damn thing, and one flower looked very like another. The flower I sought was called – ominously enough – the Murder Blossom. The wizard had described it to me in detail but had assured me you’ll know it when you see it.

  Except I couldn’t see it in the dark now, could I?

  Except I could.

  A cold blue glow rose from the center of the greenhouse. The wizard had explained there was nothing magical about this glow, all natural iridescent something something. All the scientific mumbo jumbo had gone into one ear and out the other. Honestly, who had the time?

  I weaved my way through the rows of potted blooms, until I found it. The wizard’s description had been spot on. A thick, gnarled stem rose up from the pot. Like smoke frozen in place as it wafted away on a gentle breeze. The leaves were wide and flat and such a dark green as to be almost black although possibly that was just the poor lighting.

  But the flowers petals emitted a bright glow.

  The petals curved down from the center, milk white with deep streaks of blue. The glow looked so icy that I wondered if it wasn’t bringing down the temperature inside the greenhouse.

  I dipped into my bag and came out with the tweezers. I put on the thin, soft leather gloves. They were coated with a waxen substance. The reason for this had also been explained, but I couldn’t remember the details. Just the important part. You might die if you don’t wear these gloves.

  I reached in carefully, holding my breath. There were six blooms, and I chose the biggest, thinking a single petal wouldn’t be missed. The wizard had been clear. A single, whole petal. I plucked the petal from the outside, brought it up to examine it by the flower’s glow. It was whole. I hadn’t torn it.

  The goo in the earthen jug smelled like a fetid swamp. I’d watched the wizard mix it. He’d assured me it would preserve the petal for transport. I dropped the petal inside, thinking it would float on top, but it was sucked down immediately, so fast I thought maybe the goo was hungry for it. Not my problem. I’d done as instructed and fixed the lid securely, putting the jug back into the bag.

  Time to make my exit.

  I paused at an ordinary rose bush on the way out and picked one of the better blooms. I put it in the sack.

  I padded back across the courtyard, eyes darting in every direction, but didn’t see any of the baron’s inattentive guards. I was halfway back up to Merradine’s window, ankle throbbing, when it occurred to me that tying a few sheets together might have facilitated my return. Although sheets flapping in the wind might also have drawn unwanted attention.

  I threw my leg over the sill and paused at the sound of footfalls and chainmail. I looked down and saw the guard disappear back around the corner. Had he seen me? Surely not or he would have raised the alarm. I turned back to the bedroom and tumbled inside.

  The commotion was just enough to rouse Merradine. She stirred, sat up in bed, pushing blond locks away from her eyes. “Templeton?”

  I winced at the sound of my own name. If I’d been clever, I’d have lied. I could have told her I was the earl of somewhere far away. Anything but my real name Templeton Kane. Another lesson for next time.

  “Sorry to disturb you, my sweet,” I whispered. “Ease back into gentle slumber.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Why are you so dirty?”

  “A valid question, my love. I had to go outside. It’s slippery and, alas, I fell into the mud.”

  “You went outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Naked?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you by searching for my garments,” I explained. “In your exuberance, you tossed my breeches somewhere.”

  “Why did you go outside?”

  “So moved was I by our lovemaking, that I felt compelled to fetch you some symbol of our night together.” I took the rose from my sack and offered it to her. It was amazing how effective such a simple gesture could be.

  She took the rose, looked at it, looked back at me. “Are you serious?”

  Ah.

  I was saved from having to come up with another explanation by the two armed men who kicked down her bedroom door.

  Merradine screamed and pulled the sheet u

p to her neck.

  It was the apple eating guard from earlier and one of his compatriots. They rushed me, screaming, halberds pointed at my midsection. If they’d been clever, they’d have left the halberds in the hall and drawn short swords, or better still, daggers. Halberds were a poor choice for close quarters.

  I rolled away from apple eater’s halberd strike and when he turned to come after me, the halberd caught in the bed canopy. He cursed and yanked hard to rip it free, and when it came loose, he knocked his comrade in the face with the butt end. The man spit blood and went down. I kicked the apple eater hard in the knee, and he stumbled back into his friend.

  I thought about pausing to look for my clothes, but I had only one chance to dash past them while they were still off kilter, and I took it. The guards grabbed at me and spat curses as I went past them, Merradine still screaming and screaming and screaming. It was a bit annoying frankly.

  I exploded into the hallway and ran smack into the baron himself.

  “You fornicating son of a bitch!” The baron puffed, sweaty face florid with rage.

  He leapt on me, grabbed an arm. “I’ll have you castrated! I’ll feed your balls to my hounds!”

  I wriggled out of his grasp. Try to grab a naked man sometime. Go on, try it. You have to be really, really committed to hold on to him, and as furious as the baron was, he just didn’t have that sort of commitment in him. He grabbed at me again, curses and spit flying from his mouth, but I was already running down the hall, ignoring the flare of pain in my ankle.

  Merradine had snuck me in through the kitchen where the manor took deliveries, and I remembered the way. I sprinted past wide-eyed servants. Yes, yes, behold the muddy, naked fool.

  I hit the stairs, and my ankle got the better of me. I went down, bounced, rolled down the remaining steps to the landing below where I sprawled and groaned and generally wished I were somewhere else. Someplace with a warm fire and a stiff drink if I had my druthers.

  With a heroic effort, I heaved myself back to my feet and limped toward the kitchen. I entered, and a half dozen cooks scattered upon seeing me.

  The beefy chef didn’t scatter.

  He picked up the biggest meat cleaver ever forged. Possibly he’d been carving a dragon for dinner. He came at me screaming in some foreign tongue, eyes blazing.

  I ducked under a wild swing which connected with a crate of potatoes, scattering the spuds across the kitchen floor.

  “Simmer down there, big fellow,” I said in calming tones. “Let’s not do anything we’ll regret later in life.”

  He babbled at me again in his gibberish language and swung the cleaver, but I was already moving past him and into the pantry. I moved past the shelves of food stuffs to the other end. The pantry was actually a long hallway with another door at the end through which the deliveries were made.

  The door opened to the outside a short distance from a side gate built into the estate’s outer wall. Merradine had assured me it would be unlocked. I hoped that was still the case.

  This was not still the case.

  “Damn it!” I jerked on the gate, but it was chained closed with an enormous iron padlock.

  I spied a tree, and some of its branches hung over the top of the wall. I shinnied up the trunk as quickly as I could, the rough bark doing unspeakable things to my inner thighs. I picked a branch I suspected could support my weight and shimmied out over the wall.

  The branch broke.

  I dropped onto the top of the stone wall, bruising my side badly. I fell off on the other side, landing hard.

  Every bit of me hurt.

  A quick check within the sack revealed the earthen jug remained intact. It hadn’t been broken in the fall, and I sighed relief.

  I turned and saw the manor’s main portcullis rising with a slow clank clank clank. Torchlight beyond, men’s voices rising with fury and urgency. The Baron’s men would soon emerge eager for blood.

  Time to go. Fast. I hobbled into the snowy night, vanishing down the first dark alley I came to, zigging and zagging as I needed in order to throw off the baron’s pursuit. I shivered, thinking I’d been in tough spots before. I could do this.

  Still … pants would have been nice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I slumped in the saddle, the gray gelding clopping along the dirt highway and wished I’d had another set of good clothes. How a man presented himself to the world was an important thing, and while there was nothing wrong with my scuffed second pair of boots, threadbare breeches and cloak, plain wool shirt and leather vest …. well … there was nothing particularly stylish about them either. After all, I was nobility.

  The fifth son of a failed house, but still. Nobility.

  Not that anyone would care about my appearance in the tiny village Ogre’s Drift, a sleepy little place of a dozen ramshackle buildings and one halfway decent tavern. The village existed only because of the crossroads. From the village, the highway continued to the southern region near Sherrik and then the sea. Another highway branched west across the plains to the grasslands. The trail heading east was more of a path really and lead into Winterwood and past the wizard’s tower.

  I passed through the village, pausing at the square with the well in the center of the crossroads. A gnarled old woman draped in course brown robes looked up at me, decided she wasn’t seeing anything important, and went back to drawing water from the well. I glanced longingly at the tavern across the square. A hot meal and a tankard of old Bill’s best and a table next to the Ogre’s Den’s roaring fireplace would have done me some good after such a long ride in the saddle. Alas, I didn’t have a copper to my name, and the sooner I concluded my business, the sooner I could return and claim the comfort I’d earned.

  The battered road signs in the square pointed various directions, and I picked the one with the faded words Wizard’s Way that pointed east and spurred the horse down the path. If I kept moving, I’d make the wizard’s tower before dark.

  The light was already fading to gray when I entered the Winterwood, thick evergreen boughs crisscrossing overhead to blot out the waning sun. The path twisted around the ancient trees, the horse stepping over gnarled roots.

  I briefly thought I’d missed the turn, but the narrow path branched off and a few minutes later, I found myself dismounting before the wizard’s tower.

  It was squat at the bottom, narrowing as it went up, three stories high, windows dotting the irregular stonework here and there. Vines crawled up all sides, and the trees seemed to grow away from it as if not daring to intrude. Lantern light gleamed in the top window.

  I strapped my rapier and scabbard around my waist and headed for the front door. Not that I figured the blade would be much use against one of the world’s great spell casters, but I felt a bit naked without it. I had a theory about these so-called great wizards of our time. They probably spent so much time feeding these reputations that they never had to prove them. I mean, what suicidal fool would volunteer to test such a theory?

  Not me.

  I strode forward, the sack with the earthen jug over my shoulder, and knocked on the heavy wooden door. Things clunked and creaked on the other side, and a second later, the door swung inward.

  It was still somewhat unsettling to see no one on the other side, but it was no longer as alarming as on my previous visits. I stepped inside, and just as before, the door closed again of its own accord.

  “Come upstairs, Templeton,” the wizard’s voice echoed throughout the tower. “And step lively. You’re late.”

  I climbed the stairs. It was hardly my fault I was late. There’d been a considerable delay finding something to wear, and it had been bitterly disappointing to find the baron’s men waiting for me at the inn where I’d taken a room. I’d eventually been able to sneak out of the stable with my horse, but with a bruised rib and a twisted ankle, I could only ride so far in a day.

  I reached the top floor and entered the wizard’s workshop.

  It was a smelly sort of place. There were half a dozen tiny cast iron pots bubbling over burners, various fumes rising from each, one a sulfurous yellow, another a sickly sweet green and a sort of brown smoking one that smelled like a foot too long in a wet boot. Behind the wizard, a larger caldron boiled over the flames within a stone fireplace. Possibly it was some dire potion to plunge the entire world into darkness. Maybe it was lunch. I didn’t hazard a guess.

 

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