Chapter 129: More Questions
“The opposite bank?” The detectives peered across the black water. Sure enough, the flickering light of lanterns and the silhouettes of more peelers were visible through the gloom. The bridge, however, was some distance away. “Were there drowner attacks on that side as well?” one of them asked.
“No,” the forensic expert replied. “But there are traces of a magical attack. We cannot yet identify the spell, but its power was immense. It pierced clean through the embankment. We believe the attack originated from this side.”
Sebastian fell silent, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. This contradicted his earlier theory. He had assumed the drowners were a natural, indiscriminate phenomenon. But if they were not, if they were a targeted attack… then someone had directed them to this specific slum. But why? What value was there in unleashing such chaos upon a gathering of paupers?
“This peeler was killed by a shot from his comrade,” the expert continued, moving on, unaware of the new direction of Sebastian’s thoughts. “Our analysis suggests he was under the influence of a mental spell, controlled by magic. He was attempting to attack his fellows, and they shot him in self-defense.”
Following this line of reasoning, which diverged so sharply from the mundane realities of their usual cases, the analysis continued. “Therefore, the attacker must be a magician. A mindless undead creature could not possibly employ a spell as delicate as mental control. At most, they possess some innate, aggressive talents.”
“Not necessarily,” another detective interjected. “There are undead who can control the minds of men. A wraith, for instance. Could he not have been possessed? A wraith has no physical form; even if it were destroyed, it would leave no trace.”
“No.” Sebastian swept his monocled gaze over the peeler’s corpse. “He was not possessed. There are no signs of spiritual erosion upon the body.”
Just then, another detective voiced a new, troubling thought. “Wait a moment. You said the spell was fired from this side of the river, to the other?”
“Yes, that’s correct. In theory, that is how it must have happened,” the forensics man confirmed with a nod.
“Then if the walking dead that crawled from the river were attacking the paupers hiding in these alcoves, why would a spell be fired from here to the opposite bank?” the detective asked.
“Indeed,” Sebastian murmured, his voice soft. “Unless there was a target on the opposite bank that the spellcaster also wished to strike. Or… unless there were two spellcasters present at the same time.”
A heavy silence fell over the group. Two magicians, locked in battle. That would explain the sheer, chaotic violence of the scene. And the paupers, the peelers… they had simply been caught in the crossfire.
“Alright, let us assume there were two magicians,” Sebastian said. “One of them, then, must be a necromancer, the attacker. What of the other?”
“The other…” Officer Rothes’s voice was grim. “For that, I believe you must see the third section of the scene. It is the most chaotic of all, and it bears the marks of many different spells.”
In truth, they could already see it from where they stood. It was where the greatest concentration of forensic experts was now working, a knot of peelers moving with a grim purpose. One glance was enough to see the pandemonium that had been unleashed there.
Every kind of corpse imaginable lay in a tangled, grotesque heap: bloated drowners, charred bodies, desiccated husks, and shattered fragments of flesh. But there was one strange, unsettling detail. There were no fresh bodies. Not a single one. Every corpse in this section was that of a drowner.
The entire crime scene was, in fact, divided into four distinct parts. In the fourth, deeper section, the bodies of the living outnumbered the dead. But here, in this small, third section, in the space before just two or three of the alcoves, not a single living soul had fallen.
The detectives immediately understood. From the number of the dead, one could surmise the general tide of the battle in each section. At the outermost ring, the gang members and the drowners had been evenly matched, a chaotic four-to-six split. The peelers had held the advantage at first, but had been brutally overwhelmed. Here, in the third section, the living had held the advantage throughout the entire fight. And in the fourth, they had been losing, badly.
As the others continued their grim survey, Sebastian spoke again. “Never mind how these drowners died for a moment. The sheer number of them… it’s staggering. How many corpses have you been throwing into this river? At a glance, there must be dozens dead here.”
“Mr. Cervantes, I believe we have already discussed this,” one of the forensics men said, a note of annoyance in his voice. “The drowners were brought here by a necromancer. It has nothing to do with the river.”
“No. A drowner can only be formed by long immersion in magically contaminated water. Even a necromancer must adhere to this process. I have never heard of a necromancer who can summon the undead from thin air,” Sebastian insisted. “With a water source like this, even without a necromancer, the undead would surely be born. The concentration of magic is too high. Or, it is more likely that a necromancer has been using this river to cultivate drowners, and that is the source of the pollution.”
He had phrased it with a courtier’s tact, and Officer Rothes’s face immediately darkened. If a necromancer was deliberately polluting the waterway to breed an army of the dead, the problem was far more serious than they had imagined.
“You haven’t found the necromancer’s body, have you?” Sebastian asked.
“No. Not a single one that fits the description. They all look like common, impoverished wretches and drowners. And there were no magical implements left at the scene,” Officer Rothes said, his face a grim mask.
“Then we are in danger,” Sebastian said, his voice low and urgent. “It means the necromancer likely did not die. He may strike again. The next time, he could summon the undead in the heart of the city…”
The other men’s faces went pale. The consequences of such an event were unthinkable. They would all be ruined.
“So, the waterway must be purified,” Sebastian concluded.
“But… the churches charge a fortune for such services,” Officer Rothes said, his voice laced with a helpless frustration. “They are unwilling to come to a sewer like this. And I have no authority to request their aid. I can only make a recommendation to the Lord Mayor.”
This waterway was not a main artery of the city, but a tributary used for factory runoff. The pollution was staggering, and the Lord Mayor had no interest in its administration. As long as the factories were running, the filth would continue to flow. And Rothes was, in the end, just a knight, a senior officer, not the commissioner himself. He had no power to make suggestions to the Lord Mayor, and even if he did, the great men of the city would not listen.
“Then at the very least, you must investigate upstream. The residents, the factories… there is a problem there,” Sebastian said. Through his monocle, the black river was a swirling chaos of color, ribbons of vibrant, unnatural currents flowing from upstream.
As they were discussing the river, a cry went up from the men examining the third section of the scene. “We have it! We have a general idea of how these bodies died. That is… their second death, as undead. The situation is… complex.”
“Speak,” Officer Rothes commanded, his patience worn thin by the constant, cascading revelations.
“We suspect,” the man in charge of the autopsy began, his voice hesitant, “that a Paladin, or a holy knight, was involved in the battle. Or perhaps a warrior-priest, one skilled in close combat.”
“What?” Rothes stared, his face a mask of disbelief and confusion. How had this new, impossible element entered the equation?
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