It happens to every writer- a character dumps something in your lap and says, “Here you go! I dunno what you want to do with this, but it’s your problem now!”

Also known as the, ‘what do I do with this (fictional) dead body?’ problem.

Enjoy!

***

My name is Gavril, and I’m a mercenary. It’s not as exciting as it sounds- any man with a sword and a grey cloak can become one. Whether he survives for any length of time is another matter. Even mundane jobs like guarding a trade caravan or fighting in some petty lord’s border skirmish can be deadly, and that’s if the weather, a random illness, or bandits don’t get you first.

After twelve years of fighting other men’s battles, there wasn’t much that surprised me.

Well, not for long, anyway.

The body lying in the ditch, alongside the road from Stonland to Aucheletta, was a bit of a surprise. I’d thought the way was safe enough. The dark hole in his back said differently.

I’m not stupid, though I look it. A stupid man would’ve dismounted, left his horse’s reins trailing, and went to see if he could help, then got himself knifed in the back just like the first man.

I rode on. No, thank you, I said silently to the pack of bandits likely hiding in the woods. My compliments, but I won’t be your next easy mark. I would find someone else, someone who knew this place and the people in it, and let him take care of the body. If he wished for further assistance, he could pay me for it.

In this part of Aucheletta, where there are people, there are towns and villages nearby. Over the next hill, in fact.

The first two houses were empty, mere farmer’s cottages. The next house had a second story and a sign over the door painted with a sheaf of wheat and a brown blob that might have been a barrel. Even better, there was a hitching rail set between two posts by the door. I tied up my horse and went in.

I had to duck to enter the alehouse, as usual. The castles and palaces of nobles have many great advantages, not the least of which is, I don’t have to worry about braining myself on the lintels.

At first, the place seemed empty, then my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I saw that it was a proper alehouse, not merely some widow’s hall adapted for the purpose. Tables, benches, even a bar separating the casks of ale and wine from the customers, of which there were few.

A wool-capped head popped up. A lad, barely tall enough to see over the bar. I guessed his age at ten, if he was of common stock, or eight, if his parents were anything like mine must’ve been.

“Good morrow, sir,” he said politely. Or nervously, perhaps; I tend to have that effect on people. The sword and shield on my back, mail, and hand-ax in my belt don’t hurt, either.

I returned the lad’s greeting and asked for ale. I don’t trust the wine in this part of Aucheletta.

When he handed me a pot, I said calmly, “Who’s your coroner?” I know my duty, after all, and more to the point, I’d want someone to do the same for me, someday, when I lie dead on the side of a deserted road.

The lad looked at me with wide eyes. “Um, Jean Barber is coroner, sir.”

“Where can I find him?”

He gaped like a landed fish, then jerked his chin in the vague direction of the corner. “There, sir.”

‘There’ was a table pushed against the wall, and a shadowy figure of a man. His clothing, seen in daylight, was probably the reddish-brown of any local townsman too wealthy for undyed homespun and too poor for true blue or scarlet, but in the low light, everything faded into a dark muddy hue.

What he was doing, sitting in an alehouse in the middle of the day, I couldn’t begin to guess, but if there was a reason, I’d no doubt discover it soon enough. I gave the lad a copper coin for the ale, told him to water my horse- ‘use a bucket, lad; he’ll bite if you try to lead him to the trough’- and presented myself to the supposed coroner.

He confirmed his name, somehow managing to look down his nose at me even though he was sitting and I had to carefully position myself with my head between the beams if I wanted to stand upright in this place. Typical. Everyone detests a mercenary, until they need my help.

But I’d sought him out for a reason, and I wouldn’t be sent packing by a prissy townsmen who’d never killed so much as a mouse.

“There’s a body on the north road,” I said bluntly, setting my ale on the table and pulling up a stool uninvited. “A man, young, but I couldn’t see his face. Probably knifed in the back. No buzzards circling, so it must’ve happened today.”

Barber stared, blinking, for a long moment. “Did you kill him?”

***