Blood and Ice: Murder in the Royal Palace

[Arendaal]

Royal Palace of Karlheim, [WIKI]Emyn Arnen[/WIKI], Arendaal

The body had been crucified. Upside down.

The outer gardens of [WIKI]Karlheim Palace[/WIKI] were open to the public, so technically the murder hadn’t been committed on ‘Palace Grounds’ at all. But a royal story was a juicy story, Special Agent Gustavsson knew, and within the hour the headline ‘MURDER IN THE PALACE’ would be plastered everywhere.

Blood dripped from the corpse onto the frosted ground as the dim, cold morning light flowed silently over the gruesome scene. Winter was on its way, but this morning it wasn’t the weather that had turned Gustavsson’s blood to ice.

Investigators swarmed the area, cordoning it off from the public, lights flashed as more police cars arrived, as cameras clicked to record evidence, as the street lamp in the middle of the scene flickered. Mounted on it was an upside down crucifix to which a body had been tied. Hollow eye sockets stared out blindly from a face that had been reduced to a bloody pulp. The body was covered in blood and scars and, bizarrely, symbols. Runic symbols, to Gustavsson’s eyes. This was a cult murder, there was no mistaking it.

 

[Arendaal]

Royal Palace of Karlheim, [WIKI]Emyn Arnen[/WIKI], Arendaal

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but what the f*ck are we doing here?”, asked a voice beside him.

Gustavsson glanced at his, well, for want of a better term, his deputy.

Agent Rolf stood with his arms crossed, making no attempt to keep from whining. He was cold, it was inhumanly early, and they were here without him having the vaguest idea why.

“Look, the way I see it, it’s a police matter until anyone decides otherwise, right?” Rolf continued
“They’re going to want Intelligence on this,” Gustavsson replied
“But that’s my point, ‘they’re going to. In the future. As in not right this minute. This minute just now. This minute that I could have spent at home. In bed, with my girlfriend,” Rolf moaned
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend”
“Girlfriend, prostitute... blow up doll- whatever!” Rolf sniffed “It’s all just a question of semantics”
“Semantics?? That has nothing to do with semantics!” Gustavsson snapped.

“How the AIA can possibly mean the Aren Intelligence Agency, I’ll never know,” a voice behind Gustavsson and Rolf observed. The pair turned and were met by a puff of curling smoke and a voice like velvet.

It was the Chief of Police, Alexander Thylgaard, a sleek and wry chain smoker who perpetually dressed like he had sauntered out of a 1930s gangster film. Trench coat with the collar turned up and a hat perched to the side. It annoyed Gustavsson that Thylgaard pulled off the look so well, but as a fellow chain smoker he appreciated the Chief of Police as the last of their dying breed. Quite literally dying, in some cases.

“Gustavsson,” Thylgaard greeted him before turning his attention to the looking at the mutilated remains in the midst of the scene. “Terrible business,” he remarked. It was only then that he seemed to notice Rolf’s presence, and he looked at him appraisingly.
“Agent D. Rolf”, Gustavsson supplied, helpfully

“You’re here, Agent Rolf,” said Thylgaard in his silken tones, “because someone has crucified a man in the gardens of the Royal Palace and it is the Intelligence Services job to find them and bring them to me.”
“Do you mean, ‘bring them to justice’, sir?” Rolf
“That’s what I said, Rolf” Thylgaard snapped. He addressed Gustavsson “We need the culprits apprehended immediately. The King is furious, the cabinet is mortified and all hell is going to break loose once everyone in the country wakes up and sees this on the news.
“Everyone who’s not an insomniac, that is. They’ll already have heard about it,” Rolf interjected

Thylgaard gave him a withering look.
He turned back to Gustavsson, “You’ve got two days, three at most. Any more than that and you’ll be the next victim of spontaneous crucifixion.”
A smirking Rolf looked ready to comment. “Scratch that, Rolf will be the next, then you,” Thylgaard corrected himself. “Find out who did this, and find them now”

Gustavsson nodded grimly and stared again at the runes carved into the victim’s chest. “I think I have a pretty good idea,” he mused, almost to himself

 

[Arendaal]

En route to Aren Intelligence Agency (AIA) Headquarters, [WIKI]Emyn Arnen[/WIKI], Arendaal

“Did you mean what you said?” asked Rolf some hours later, once they had inspected the corpse in detail and Thylgaard was safely out of earshot.
“Mean what?” asked Gustavsson distractedly as the two drove back to AIA Headquarters (aka the Aren Intelligence Agency’s Headquarters)
“That you know who did it”
“I don’t know anything,” Gustavsson sighed. “Yet. But I have an idea. Those symbols, they’re ancient. They’re the key to this, I know it...”

“The runes?” asked Rolf. He nodded wisely, “I thought so too. Vikings”
Gustavsson glared at him. “What does that even mean?? ‘Vikings’. Runes were used as Arendaal’s writing system for centuries, by everyone, not just jumped up raiders in horned helmets”
“Actually, they didn’t wear helmets with horns-” Rolf began
“It doesn’t matter what they wore!” Gustavsson roared
“Fine...” Rolf huffed, lapsing into a prickly silence.

For about ten seconds. Rolf lacked the discipline required to sustain prickly silences for any reasonable length of time.

“Sir?” he began
“...” Gustavsson scowled. “What?”
“Why did you introduce me as ‘D’”
“As what?”
“When you introduced me to Chief Thylgaard,” Rolf explained, “you called me ‘Agent D. Rolf’. Why didn’t you just use my first name?”
“To be honest Rolf,” Gustavsson replied as they pulled into his parking space at the main AIA building, “I don’t know your first name”

“How can you not remember my first name??” Rolf demanded, loud enough to draw inquiring stares from bystanders in the lobby.
“I don’t know. I mean I never really have to use it,” Gustavsson shrugged.

The doors of the lift slid shut and they began their ascent to the 13th floor.

“Yes you do!” Rolf insisted. “I mean, I can understand if you didn’t know that my middle name was Cornelis, I’d understand that, but-”
“Cornelis?” asked Gustavsson. He paused “Are you Batavian Dutch?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing, I just thought I would have picked up on that by now. We’ve worked together for four years”
“You know what else you should have picked up on?” Rolf fumed, “My first f*cking name!”

They stepped out of the lift.

 

[Arendaal]

King Edvard V’s Audience Hall, [WIKI]Karlheim Palace[/WIKI], Emyn Arnen

King Edvard V was not a man to show emotion. Throughout his life he had remained coolly detached. A tall, thin man, his appearance was routinely likened to that of a predatory flamingo. He was both disturbingly sane and disconcertingly intelligent, two emotions which he was at present provoking in Police Chief Thylgaard, who stood before the King in the majestic chamber.
The King could accomplish more with irony than most others can with steel. He could accomplish more with one raised eyebrow than most people can with two of them and a lifetime of practice.

“A man mounted on a crucifix was someone brought into or killed in the grounds of the Palace, Thylgaard. How is this possible?” the King speculated.

‘Speculated’ because even his questions were delivered more like facts than inquiries. This probably had to do with his manner of speaking, or the fact that the King always seemed to know the answers to the questions he posed. The King’s air was never aggressive but his air was distant and vaguely menacing. This owed a great deal to his ever-present composure and his ability to listen - which had a way of making people so uncomfortable that they let things slip while trying desperately to fill up the silence.

“Technically, Your Majesty, it was in the public parks, so the culprits never entered the Palace grounds as such-” Thylgaard explained with little conviction, growing more disheartened with each word as the stony expression on the Sovereign’s face remained unchanged.

“Technicalities do not interest me, Thylgaard,” King Edvard cut him short. “Who was the victim”
“We don’t know yet, Majesty”
“And the symbols?” the King inquired

Thylgaard nearly swallowed his tongue. The news hadn’t hit the media outlets yet, he hadn’t mentioned the symbols in his report... maybe the rumour that the Secret Service was headed by the King had some substance to it. King Edvard had trained as an Intelligence Forces agent as a youth...

“We’ve not been able to decipher them yet, Majesty. Preliminary reports indicate that they’re in code. I´m sure we´ll break them at once”

“I trust you will. What would be the point of coding messages that very clever enemies couldn't break? You'd end up not knowing what they thought you thought they were thinking,” observed King Edvard

Thylgaard felt he was being tested. This was so rare an eventuality for such a self-assured man, that he was intensely nervous.

Monarchs have this effect on everyone.

“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” he managed

 

[Arendaal]

Somewhere in a damp basement in Arendaal...

On every Aren channel, the same message was being repeated. “MURDER IN THE PALACE”. It flashed across the screen in bold, garish letters. It was on the tip of every news reporters’ tongue. It was everywhere.

“Police have confirmed that the mutilated remains of a man have been recovered from the public section of Karlheim Palace’s gardens”, one anchor proclaimed solemnly. “The victim was apparently crucified upside down after sustaining multiple injuries from torture. It is as yet unclear who is to blame for this bizarre and gruesome deed, but the security services have launched an immediate investigation to bring the culprits to justice.”

In a basement that more closely resembled a cave, the television news report cast a flickering light over the dark room.

A shriek of laughter pierced the otherwise silent room.

A figure in a coarse hooded tunic, seated crouching on the dusty stone floor, rocked back and forth in excitement. A thin hooked nose protruded out from the front of the hood, adorning (so to speak) and emaciated face with sunken eyes.

The figure laughed again, gleeful at what he was hearing.

The people who laugh this way imagine themselves to be enigmatic and powerful. The people who hear them imagine them to be suffering from a debilitating mental disease. More often than not, the latter are right.

 

[Arendaal]

Still in the same basement, which could do with a paint job, in Arendaal

The hooded figure, it transpires, was not alone in the basement. He stepped out of the dark room where he had been so delighted by the news of a sinister murder, and stepped into a room bathed in candlelight. The effect of the light was not altogether pleasing, however, for there were distinctly too few candles and too many people in the cavernous room.

The other figures were dressed in the same dark, shabby tunics. Milling about aimlessly, they snapped to attention the moment the new figure entered the room. It was clear from their body language that he was their leader. Their totally insane leader.

He was Bö, self-proclaimed High Priest of the Dead.

It was a title which, unsurprisingly, he had made up – drawing from his half-understood knowledge of the ancient Norse religion and occasional tokens of other rituals that he had picked up along the way, cobbled together into a philosophy, and used to lure minions (or to use the more technical term, idiots) to do his bidding.

He raised his hands above his head.

The assembled, numbering some sixty persons, immediately began to form a circle around Bö. So quickly did they do so that they seemed almost like marionettes, immediately jerking into position by the tug of some invisible strings.

“We have done it, brethren!” Bö proclaimed triumphantly, “All have looked upon our sacrifice! They have seen our power!”

His minions, for that is what they were, cheered. Bö spewed some gibberish in Old Norse which none of his followers understood but which seemed to give them great pleasure to hear nonetheless.

“Soon we will wield even greater power,” Bö continued, “In the game of life the high gods play games with the fates of men! But when the victorious thunder rolled and the dazzling lightning struck-“

“What did it roll?” a minion (let’s call him minion 1.0) inquired
Bö blinked. “What?” he snapped
“What did the thunder roll?”
“What did it-”, Bö spluttered
“Only it wouldn’t be victorious if it didn’t roll a six”, minion 1.0 continued calmly
“Or a twelve,” piped in another, say, minion 2.0. “If there were two dice”
“There would have to be” offered a third, more rebellious and self-assured minion. “Otherwise you’d have to use the word ‘di’”

Minion 1.0 and 2.0 looked admiringly at their third companion. This was a minion who was going places, they decided with a glance between them. This wasn’t just any minion, any petty 3.0 or 8.25. This was minion alpha.

Unfortunately for his followers, however, Bö was not one for philosophical – or in this case, idiotic, which is often the same thing – discussions. Especially not ones which interrupted his trippy pagan sermons.

“Shut up all of you!” he screamed. Actually he screeched. But as in his own mind Bö thought he had bellowed, screamed seems a fair semantic compromise.

And with that Bö continued with one of his cult’s many bizarre rituals, involving a great deal of blood and not a little wailing and gnashing of teeth, etc.

Stupid men are often capable of things the clever would not dare to contemplate...

 

[Batavië]

National Police Gauteng Province Headquarters
Hilversum, Gauteng Province

Detective Inspector (DI) Alfons Diep had been sitting in his office all morning reading stacks of reports that posed absolutely no interest to him. He peered out his window into the grey streets of downtown Hilversum. The River Dentel reached its widest point here before crossing the Aren border to spill out into the lake. Alfons Diep grabbed his jacket and left the office. He needed a break.

The National Police headquarters for Gauteng Province were located in an old building with a classic façade, extremely convenient location wise. After giving his obligatory nod to the entrance guard in the Great Hall (four storeys high) he walked out into the fresh autumn air. Diep rounded the corner and cut through a small street, avoided being hit by a biker riding too fast and exited onto Leopold Straat, named after the last prince of Batavië before the communist revolution took place. He waited for the pedestrian light to turn green before walking over the river bridge. On the other side of the riverbank Diep reached his destination. Tucked into a small opening between two store fronts on the main street was a Tabaktrafik or just a Tabak. It was his usual service point. He took a copy of Het Blik, his usual paper, and on a whim decided to also take a copy of Svenska Rösten Bataviska, the new Batavian-Swedish paper. He didn't speak a word of Swedish and until three days ago had no idea there was a Swedish-speaking minority in Batavië. The communist government had done a superb job keeping it unknown. A janitor at headquarters, so Diep recently learned, was a Batavian-Swede. He could help him with the paper.

'The usual, Jan.' Diep said to the 70-something year old man sitting in the small and cosy window, surrounded by candy bars, magazines and lotto forms. Jan set a pack of Vangalan cigarettes on the tiny counter and Alfons produced a ten nieuw rand note to pay for his purchases.

He lit up a cigarette with his matches and began walking back to the office. He took out his Dutch newspaper to scan the headlines. He stopped mid-pace to look at the largest headline: CRUCIFIED BODY FOUND AT AREN PALACE.


Emyn Arnen Train Station

Four hours after reading the headline Alfons Diep was sitting in a second-class seat of a Bataafsche Spoorwegen (Batavian Railways) train. Destination: Emyn Arnen, Arendaal. It was on time and the passport control was done while the train was in motion. Diep couldn't wait for the Northern Council to get that open borders act passed.

Diep didn't come from Gauteng Province and spoke no Aren Norsk so he used German at the station. A taxi took him to police headquarters, the hotel could wait. All he had with him was a briefcase with a fresh shirt. His boss didn't give him time to pack.

'Hello, Detective Inspector Alfons Diep with the Batavian National Police, I'm supposed to meet a Special Agent Gustavsson.' the desk guard seemed to understand his German and made a telephone call.

'He'll be down here in a moment.'

Diep took a seat and reached for his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, the same ones he bought today, before reading the sign 'Smoking Prohibited'. Damn, it was only a matter of time before either the provincial or federal governments in Batavia carried through a similar ban.

It didn't bother him, however, because Gustavsson was walking down the hall stairwell and heading straight for Diep. Alfons Diep didn't need to be introduced, he could tell by the man's walk, clothes and lack of a decent shave that this was Special Agent Gustavsson.

He held out his hand and greeted his counterpart in German.

'At your service, Detective Inspector Alfons Diep, Batavian National Police.' he waited for the Aren (demonym?) to crack a joke like: what, they didn't send Vepo?

 

[Arendaal]

Aren Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Emyn Arnen

The revelation of Rolf's first name precipitated several minutes of stony silence during which Gustavsson seriously contemplated the possibility of committing homicide himself, the phone on Gustavsson’s desk rang.

He answered, listened attentively for a moment and slammed the phone down without bothering to say anything.

“They’ve got the blood work back from the body,” he announced promptly to Rolf. Sliding on the jacket of his suit, he hastily stubbed out his cigar in the overflowing ashtray on his desk.

“Have they identified the victim?” Rolf asked, scurrying out behind Gustavsson and he set out of his office as a brisk pace.
“Better,” Gustavsson replied. “They’ve got a lead on the killer”



***


Emyn Arnen Central Police Station, Arendaal

Gustavsson skimmed the autopsy file as they sped towards the central Police Station of Emyn Arnen. Rolf was driving, which made him gloat but Gustavsson was too engrossed in the content of the file before him.

The victim had died after being cut and bled in what seemed to be ritual fashion, before having his throat slit. The crucifixion had taken place post-mortem, and the extraction of the eyes... well it was unclear when that had occurred.

But the wounds on the body had been covered in blood that didn’t just belong to the victim. And thanks to a ridiculously efficient DNA database, the forensic specialists had discovered whose blood it was.

The alleged murderer was Lief Hosk, and he was a low level bureaucrat at an insurance company. So no surprises there. Gustavsson had long believed that most bureaucrats were a heartbeat away from ritual murder at any given moment.

Gustavsson and Rolf joined Police Chief Thylgaard who was watching Hosk’s interrogation through a two way mirror. The scrawny man was dressed in some kind of dirty, shabby robe, almost like a monk. His hair was cut awkwardly, as though he’d taken scissors to it himself and hacked away frantically. With his emaciated appearance and his wild, watery eyes Hosk looked like an escaped mental patient. He giggled nervously and rocked back and forth as the interrogators questioned him.

“Is he our man?” asked Gustavsson sceptically
“He admits to the killing, his blood was on the body and we found the victim’s eyes in a shrine at his house,” Thylgaard replied.
“But he obviously wasn’t acting alone. No one could get a body and a crucifix into a public park alone, he couldn’t even lift them” Gustavsson observed, feeling a kind of contemptuous pity for the sad pantomime character in the interrogation chair

”“He’ll do for the media,” Thylgaard replied. “As far as the media concerned this will be an isolated incident committed by a single psychopath...”
“But?” Gustavsson prompted
“You’re going to find out who’s really behind it. This...” Thylgaard gestured towards Hosk, “patsy was working for someone. Find them, catch them and bring them in. You’ll want this,” he handed Gustavsson a small wooden case.

The lid was carved spectacularly; depicting scenes of tiny intricately carved figures around a central emblem.
The emblem in the centre was of a dragon; it was the coat of arms of the province of Überwald.

“What is it?” Rolf asked, peering over Gustavsson’s shoulder
“It’s what he kept the eyes in,” Thylgaard replied.
Gustavsson and Rolf froze in their act of examining the box.
“Gross,” said Rolf.

“We can’t put any more people on this part of the case, yet” said Thylgaard “The AIA Chief agrees, the press would catch on. Your team will have to do”
“But I’ve only got two agents working directly on this case!” Gustavsson objected immediately
“We’ve got a specialist coming in from Batavië,” Thylgaard told him placidly, “Very good at finding people”

Gustavsson glared at the Chief of Police. He hated not being informed when outside agents were assigned to work with him.

At least that’s what he’d maintain when asked. Rolf had once more correctly observed that his annoyance in these cases was because Gustavsson wasn’t technically a boss to outside agents, and so he couldn’t boss them around with the same nonchalance that he could his own underlings.

“His name’s Diep,” Thylgaard continued, “His train’s due at the Central Station in half an hour. I’d suggest you hurry”

Gustavsson scowled his well-tested scowl.

“Tell Eline to meet us at the train station and tell her what’s going on,” he barked at Rolf as they got into their sleek black Franconian car and headed to the train station.

 

[Arendaal]

Emyn Arnen Central Station, Arendaal

Eline was already at the station by the time they arrived, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette outside the main entrance. She started to speak when Gustavsson dropped the box in her hands without a word.

She stopped short.

Fascinated, she examined the wooden lid, taking in every detail with wide eyes

“It’s from Uberwald,” Rolf supplied, “He kept the eyes in it”
“It’s not just from Uberwald,” Eline said, enthralled. She was either unfazed by the second part of his sentence or she hadn’t heard it. Either way Rolf was annoyed at her lack of a reaction

“It’s from Goteborg Fortress’s Monastery,” she gushed, “You can see its crest behind the second figure. It’s fourteenth century. It’s priceless!”
Rolf snorted. “Fourteenth century? I just told you a dead guys eyes were in it! Doesn’t that interest you”
Eline sniffed, “I’m a historian” she said haughtily
“You’re catatonic is what you are”

“Enough, both of you!” Gustavsson snapped. “How does a priceless fourteenth century artefact end up with an insurance company bureaucrat?”

Eline tilted her head to one side, “This is a museum piece,” she observed turning the box over. “There’s a mark here than indicates it’s been catalogued...”
“Stolen,” Gustavsson nodded grimly. “We’d better take a trip to Goteborg and find out more”
He checked his watch, “But we’ve got a visitor to collect first”


***


Arrival Platform for the Batavian Express, Emyn Arnen

Gustavsson shook Diep’s firmly and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that his Batavian counterpart spoke German. Gustavsson didn’t speak a word of Dutch, but his German was impeccable.
“Agent Gustavsson,” he replied and added, as a token nod towards civility, “Welcome to Arendaal”. This was about as friendly as Gustavsson got.
“These are Agents D. Rolf and Eline Steiro,” he said, gesturing to the two younger agents flanking him on either side. “Please come with us, we have a train to catch”

“Why won’t you use my first name, sir?” Rolf whined as they made their way towards the departure platforms for Überwald

“Please ignore everything Agent Rolf says to you, D.I. Diep” Gustavsson said as walked briskly down the platform, “He was dropped on his head as a child.” He glanced at Rolf.
“Repeatedly.”

Rolf grinned at Diep, unperturbed.

They boarded the fast train Goteborg, with Rolf being dispatched to buy their tickets and Eline and Gustavsson filling in Diep on the details of the case as the train sped towards the capital of

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.

 

[Batavië]

Meanwhile...on the train...

D.I. Diep himself studied in Scandinavian History in university (that was by now some 30 years ago) and he and Eline spent the first half hour or so discussing the artefact in the train cabin. Gustavsson and Rolf were speaking to each other in Aren Norsk about the case...or at least Diep thought so. Perhaps they were talking about the commie in the cabin.

Despite being a truly exquisite piece the conversation eventually was exhausted. Diep excused himself from the cabin and slid the glass door shut behind him. He made for the café car to fetch a coffee. This particular train had a special section of a car for mobile phone users and Diep thought it would be a good idea to report back to HQ. The dial tone lasted for a very short period before the line went active. Thankfully Diep was a Detective Inspector...he had a direct line to his superiors, no need for swimming through the switch board.

'Hi Commissioner, D.I. Diep here. I'm on the way to Goteborg with local team...interesting bunch. No sign of Vepo, for now, but I'm sure they have three binders of a file going already knowing those chaps. They probably solved the damn thing already and are having a bit of fun watching everyone else try, but I digress. Any way, I'll report back tomorrow, do let me know when you get this message.'

He ended the call and checked the mobile. 2 nieuw rand per minute! Damn. Those NC-wide standard mobile rates couldn't come sooner.

Returning to the cabin to find his counterparts speaking in Aren Norsk, Diep set down a tray of coffees on the table and sat down beside Eline. He got them speaking the lingua franca again.

'So tell me, what is happening in Goteborg? The lead, I mean.'

From what he had heard so far, Diep didn't believe very easily that the creep in the cape he was told about committed the murder alone, or at all. He was too much of a pawn-like figure.

 

[Arendaal]

On the Göteborg Express from Emyn Arnen

Eline turned the box over and over in her hands as she spoke. “The emblem, it isn’t just the Überwald coat of arms. It’s the sign of the Order of the Überwald. The Count’s personal Knights.”

“Oh... Shit,” Rolf complained.

Eline turned to Diep
“You see,” she began, “before the 13th century, Svealand was a part of Suionia. When Frederik I set out to conquer it, his military commander was the Count of Überwald. And the King founded an Order of Knights, the Order of Überwald, a kind of personal legion that was supposed to conquer and administer Svealand. Göteborg Citadel was home of the Count and so it was the Headquarters of the Order...”

Now Eline faltered slightly, “They became known for some... unusual practices”
“They were crazy,” Rolf said helpfully
“They weren’t crazy,” Eline snapped. “They.. You see the Counts...” she struggled for the words, “Überwald is ... an usual place” she finished, frustrated

“A bit of an understatement,” Rolf noted sceptically.
He turned to Diep and tried to explain. History according to Rolf was a terrifying experience.
“Look, everyone who’s ever ruled Überwald has been crazy. Everyone from Überwald is crazy. Überwald is the craziest place on earth,” Rolf explained

Gustavsson frowned at him. Rolf shut up.

“The Order was dissolved in the 16th century, during the Wars of Religion. The last Countess was arrested, she ... well I’m sure you’ve heard of the Blood Countess,” Eline began, visibly uncomfortable.
Rolf interrupted her, “She used to bathe in blood,” he said proudly before Gustavsson shut up again with a glance.

“As I was saying,” Eline continued pointedly, “Their rituals were very erratic, they started reviving some pagan practices, but they twisted them into ... something ugly.”
Rolf, because he was Rolf, felt compelled to add “And they invented some insane torture techniques. They loved torturing people. Before they all got burned as heretics, that is”

“The point is,” Gustavsson interjected, “this murder, it’s got the markings of the Order written all over it”

Eline started to speak but with a wave of his hand Gustavsson silenced her, “I’m not saying they still exist,” he assured her, “But some idiots have gotten it into their heads to stage some kind of ridiculous re-enactment. And before this day is out I want to track them down, knock their heads together and bring them in”

 

[Arendaal]

Göteborg, Province of Überwald, Arendaal

The fast train from Emyn Arnen to Göteborg, the capital of Überwald, took about an hour to reach its destination, on time like clockwork.

Eline was right. The Grand Duchy of Überwald was an unusual place. It was a large, mountainous region with a bitingly cold climate. Its terrain makes it thinly populated compared to other Aren provinces, but its vast mineral resources also make it rich. For centuries it was colloquially referred to as the dark and mysterious place ruled by tyrannical lords whose sanity was often questionable. Before the 20th century, cartographers tended to fill in blank areas of Überwaldean maps with the phrase 'MMBU,' or 'Miles and Miles of Bloody Überwald'.

The three Aren agents led their Batavian counterpart to a three story parking lot a few streets away from the station. They made their way to the second floor. Quite calmly, as if this was normal behaviour, Gustavsson took out his phone and dialed a number. They heard one of the cars in the corner of the lot unlocked.

Rolf glanced at Diep’s surprised expression, “We have transport waiting all over the place,” he explained, “Makes life easier”

Göteborg Citadel loomed over the city, perched atop a high hill in its north. They drove towards it, appreciating that Überwald’s architecture certainly lived up to the stereotype of it being a dark and mysterious place. The fortress looked like the prototype of a haunted castle. In fact, it probably was.

They pulled into the car park at halfway up the hill. Unofficial cars weren’t allowed to go any further up the winding road towards the fortress, so to do so would have attracted too much attention. Eline tucked the wooden box safely into her purse and the four figures climbed up towards the Fortress and its museum. They had a few questions to put to the curator.