Fantasy Shorts: Troublesome Investigations

Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time, we need wages.

-Terry Pratchett

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"Captain Malarkey," cried Constable Mithers as she ran into the room like a particularly overcaffeinated squirrel.

"Yes, Constable?" I responded, gently puffing on my pipe as I surveyed the gruesome scene before me.

Mithers vaulted over the chalk-outlined body with remarkable agility for a dwarf.

"A clue, Sir!" She said as she anxiously combed her hand through her luscious beard as she held a paper aloft.

"Hmm, a clue, yes," I said, snatching the thing from her hand and carefully scrutinizing it under my eyes.

"What do you make of it, Captain?"

I scanned and analyzed each of the strange symbols on the page. None of them were clearly legible.

"What do I make of it? I make of it that I clearly need glasses."

"Yes, Captain, the whole chapterhouse has been saying it, Sir."

"Yes, yes," I said dismissively, "but can you read any of this?"

"Not a word, Captain."

I bit my pipe thoughtfully. "Where did you find this, Constable."

She answered without hesitation, "Under a bloody knife in the kitchen. Terrible hygiene, that is."

I sighed. "We are at the scene of a murder, Constable."

"Me Mam always said that was no excuse," she replied proudly.

"Right, as you were, Constable."

Mithers made herself busy examining the room they were in.

I called once again, "Acting Lance-Corporal Jetsam!"

A hulking troll leaned through the front door. His rocky corpus grated against the already fragile woodwork.

"Sir? The trolls outside are getting big heads. I've had to knock a few to shows dem who's bossman."

"Good work, Acting Lance-Corporal. Have any of them seen a thing?"

"Not a single blockhead, Sir."

"Right," I sighed rubbing my temples, "If I don't solve this soon, Lord Veterinary is going to have my head! He already doesn't want me investigating with it being 'Guild' business and all."

"Then why are we here, Captain?" Asked Mithers.

"Because this is our jurisdiction, Constable!" I said with pride.

Mithers and Jetsam watched as I crouched down over the body.

"All we need is a lead..."

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My phone alarm went off as I woke with a start within my chair. My copy of Terry Pratchett's 'Men at Arms' fell off my chest and onto the floor with a thud. I groaned and arced my back with a great stretch.

"Ugh! What time is it?"

I unlocked my phone and looked at the time. It grimly read 6:30 AM.

"Oh, no," I whimpered in defeat, "not again! Why do I have to be an accountant? Oh, my back!"

I wearily stood up, mentally preparing to begin my day.

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“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don't we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we're partisans of liberty, then it's our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!”

― J.R.R. Tolkien

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Dedicated to Terry Pratchett, master wordsmith and originator of boundless joy.

Submitted for L.C. Schäfer's October Dollar Challenge.