Haldred Chronicles: Alyssa (5 page)

She sighed and
leaned back in her plush cushioned chair, blinking her eyes.  Late morning
sunlight was streaming in through the glass window beside her, shining over the
papers on her desk.  It was her debrief report for yet another job completed.

Darnhun
mercenaries, sorry, renegade Darnhun mercenaries, had been raiding ships up and
down the northern coast of Tornar and even as far as the Trima beach villages. 
She and a team of sanctioned mercenaries had been dispatched to investigate. 
Three days of tracking the sods and they'd finally located their base on the
very edge of Tornar territory.  The mercenaries had then descended with
vengeance on the camp and nobody had walked out of it alive.  Brutal, but
considering what the Darnhun renegades had been doing to the merchant ships
crews, entirely justified.  The Darnhun government had protested, to little
effect, with both the Tornar government and Trima tribal masters agreeing with
the Council of Peace's tough, if brutal solution. 

Victoria,
meanwhile, had slipped back to leave the politics to the politicians.

She still ached
from the journey back.  That long on horseback did not do your muscles any
favours.  Whilst she was a very experienced rider (she found horseback the most
effective form of transport outside of the cities), long hours on horseback
took their toll.  She was grateful that one of the bonuses of working for the Council
of Peace was comfortable chairs.

Victoria was
twenty eight now.  Just over halfway to dead according to the latest life
expectancy figures.  Comforting thought.  Her long black hair was tied back in
an elegant braided ponytail, wooden clasps holding it in place.  She had plain
but unblemished features, sharp green eyes staring out over a small pointed
nose and similarly small mouth.  She was not given to smiling though she was
told that when she did it was either charming or chilling depending on circumstances.

Her body was
shapely, her hips in particular drawing more than their fair share of
attention.  A fact that resulted in more than a few men ending up with either a
slap or, more commonly, a punch.  Victoria despised being leered at and made
her displeasure abundantly clear with the precise application of physical
violence.

She was dressed,
as always, in black leggings and a burgundy tunic, with high brown leather
riding boots.  She preferred such clothes for the freedom they provided in her
line of work.  The better for the chase and more comfortable for the frequent
riding.  A black leather belt was tied round her middle, and just beside its
clasp was clipped a small circular cut of metal, emblazoned with her badge of
office.  The badge depicted six small circles, one for each of the six nations,
all connected toward a stylised outstretched hand.  The outstretched hand of
peace.  The central symbol of the world wide council. 

The symbol was
in stark contrast to the real life symbol of war that hung on the wall behind
her.  Namely a fine Tornarian rapier with attached sword catcher, sheathed in
brown leather.  It was her own weapon of choice, one that had tasted blood on a
far more regular basis than she preferred in her work for peace.         

I'm bored.

It was an odd
thing to think considering she had literally just put her signature to another
job well done.  But Victoria was a woman of action; she needed to be doing
something.  Lazing around for her required reading a report, or at the very
least a book.  Her need for action was about to be satisfied though, as a knock
came at the door

“Come in.” she
said with disinterest.

The door was
opened by her partner, Malak.

Malak was an
ex-Tornarian sergeant of the Bulldog Guard, an elite formation of mercenaries
from Tornar.  Tornar and Argon had only ever skirmished during the Six Nation's
War and been allies at various times over the last fifty years.  As nations
went, the two of them got on better than most.  Their cultures were similar,
though Tornar had many odd customs that Victoria never understood, such as the
drinking of tea before battle, a fondness for eastern foods and a variety of
bloody weird accents.  Despite being the smallest of the six nations, Tornar
had more accents within its landmass than the rest of the world combined.  The
Argon nation could boast a good variety of accents, particularly between the
north and south regional divide, but Tornar was much more varied.  You could
literally step from one district to another in Tornar and the speech, never
mind the language, would be completely different.  Malak himself apparently
hailed from 'up north' and had a certain twang to his voice, emphasising
certain words without meaning to and using the word
proper
to emphasise
pretty much anything.

He had been
hired by the Council of Peace originally purely as military muscle, but his
keen intelligence and sharp mind had brought him into the investigative
department as a full time employee.  What he initially lacked in investigative
skills he more than made up for in his ability to learn and look at situations
from a different angle.

Though to
Victoria, he was still an idiot sometimes.  He was a man after all.

He was a skinny
twenty four year old but tough, with darting brown eyes and the stereotypical
shaved hair of the Tornar military.  Victoria had yet to discover what its
original colour was for he always ensured it was nothing but stubble on his
scalp.  He had hawk like features with a shrewd smile and white, clean teeth.

Handsome devil
was the best way Victoria could describe him, though never to his face.  She
didn't want to give him any ideas as she wasn't interested in a relationship. 
She had commitments to the job and couldn't allow herself to be distracted by
that certain charm he seemed to have despite being an
eejit
half the
time.  Or that little smile he sometimes had on when he...

She blinked,
quickly dispelling such foolish thoughts.

Malak favoured
her with a grin, having poked his head in through the door.

“Bored yet?” he
asked, having seen her distracted expression.  It was a cruel question
considering he already knew the answer.

“Get in here you
ass.” she said, casting him a pitying look.  “You look like a little lost
schoolboy.”

“I live in the
Argon capital,” he replied, moving on into the room.  “I am lost.”

Malak kept his
utility battle armour plate on at all times, even now in the Council of Peace
compound. Today was no exception Victoria noted as Malak entered, the leather
armour secured round his chest with a variety of straps and covered in pouches
for any amount of equipment that Victoria saw little need for.  The thick
leather belt round his middle was adorned with a Tornar punch dagger and
crossbow bolts for his favoured weapon, a K-12 repeater.  Dark green shirt and
leggings, as well as leather grieves, completed his appearance.  The only
indication that he even worked for the Council of Peace was a metal clasp
hanging from one shoulder, with the same symbol emblazoned on it as that on
Victoria's belt badge.

He handed her a
rolled up parchment as he passed her desk.  A parchment marked with the Council
of Peace wax mark, a stylized 'CoP'.

Victoria rolled
her eyes.  She had not even heard of the word acronym when she had joined the
organisation, let alone agreed to use it.  Why on earth did you have to call
something by its supposed acronym instead of just using its name?  Why use
'CoP' when you could just say Council of Peace? Apparently it was something
modern.  Modern rubbish to her mind.

She snapped the
wax mark as Malak took a seat at his desk and started sorting through his own
paper work.  As usual Victoria's zeal put him to shame and he had work to catch
up on.

“This is
something new,” she mused with an accompanying frown after a few moments of
speed reading.  Whilst smiling was unusual for Victoria, frowning was not.  She
was considered an expert in its application.

“Oh?” queried
Malak, carefully signing another request for flechette crossbow bolts.  He'd
used more than a few on the last mission.

“Suspected
vampire.”

She looked up to
meet his look of surprise.

“Vampire?”

She held up the
parchment

“It's what it
says.”

She rolled up
the paper again and tossed it across the room to him.  He likewise digested the
information on the paper, using his own frown to indicate his distrust of the
information.  He still had to work on it but Victoria thought it was getting
better.

“Somebody's
taking the piss.” he said with typical bluntness.  “Regorash is dead.  Proper
dead.  He was the last.”

Indeed he was. 
Victoria knew all about Operation Shadowhawk.  An overly flamboyant name for an
operation that was originally supposed to be top secret, but one that the
people relations section within the Argon government had leapt on when it was
successful.  The plan had been to send a reinforced unit of 'Specialists' in to
assassinate Igor Regorash, the last remaining vampire dictator, whose actions
had caused the destruction of countless villages and peoples in southern Argon.

Specialists had
been the Argon war machine's wonder weapons during the Six Nations War.  Expert
black powder marksmen, powerful Pyro mages, veteran long swordsmen and so on. 
Men and woman from every race, human to elf to bearkin and everything in
between.  All trained to perfection and sent on the most dangerous of missions. 
It was they who had ended the vampire's reign of terror.  A pity so many of
them hadn't returned.

After Operation
Shadowhawk's success, the surviving specialists were rewarded, after a fashion,
with a new concept called 'fame'.  Their names and deeds were turned into songs
and stories across the length and breadth of the land.  Books such as
My
role in the Big Kill, Dust and ash: what my sword did to the vampire lord
and
Regorash and me: surviving the Great Dictator
had all become best
sellers amongst those with the coin to afford them.  Whilst originally named
songs such as
'I’ll beat your face in yeah fanged monkey'
and '
What
about yeah, yeh blood sucking cesspit!
' continued to prove popular with the
tavern minstrels. 

The specialists
were labelled the
plucky adventurers
and their actual vocations never
released publicly.  Even now, those that had survived still enjoyed that fame
and the lifestyle that it brought.

Fair play to
them
,
thought Victoria.  They'd killed a vampire lord and released over a thousand
people from the curse.  Good job.

“I agree,”
concluded Victoria at length, staring off across the open window, crossing her
arms thoughtfully.

Regorash had
been the last.

Still...

Was he really
the last?  Had they really all just reverted back to human form afterwards?  It
had always seemed very convenient at the time.

“The signature's
from the Overseer,” she continued.  “he wouldn't pass something like this down
if it didn't warrant at least looking into.”

Not that she was
complimenting the Head of the Department.  She was just making an observation. 
The Overseer of the Investigative Department in Larrick City was one Horna
Gladwell.  A career minded smart-assed short-arsed git as far as Victoria was
concerned.  Always attempting to inflict politics on her and seeming to wallow
in said objective.  She didn't like him and was unlikely to ever like him. 
Unfortunately though, he was the boss, and he'd sent down a job.

Malak groaned
from the corner.

“Gods woman,” he
said.  “you're going to make me ride again aren't you?”

Malak hated
horses, an odd thing for a Tornar considering Tornar military doctrine made
abundant use of light cavalry.  He could ride, and ride well, but not by
choice.  He preferred two legs on the ground as opposed to wrapped round the
mid-section of a charging horse.  Working with Victoria required a lot of
riding, more’s the pity.

“Not this time,
you'll be glad to hear,” she said, ceasing her contemplations and standing
stiffly.  “We'll take the coach this time.”

Even Victoria
had to admit she didn't want to ride for once. A little comfort did no harm for
her muscles.

Malak frowned. 
“What?  Right now?”

“We can satisfy
your obsession with crossbow ammo later Malak.” she said, casting him a knowing
look.  “According to this the victim is still fresh.  You really want to leave
the smell to get any worse?”

Malak grunted
but stood none the less.  “Good point.”

Victoria
unhooked her rapier from the wall.  Whilst Malak had been trying to convince
her to put it somewhere more practical like the weapons cabinet, Victoria
preferred to keep it sat behind her.  As something of a warning to those
visiting the office.  She was one of the few women working in the Investigation
Department.  She liked to ensure the men didn't get above their station in
conversations with her.

She secured the
rapier to her belt before opening her desk drawer and grabbing the black powder
pistol and leather holster that lay within.  She used a fine Argon single shot,
a breech loader and a good one.  Accurate and clean.  Hopefully it wouldn't be
required, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.