Pope Pug
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PJ B2, Chapter 64
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 02:24:37 +0000 UTCPeople tried to back away from the vestibule and ended up pushing closer. Shoulders knocked together. A few tried to turn sideways to squeeze past, but the aisle locked up tighter. Nobody wanted to be near the body, but nobody could get out either.
I stayed by Sali. Her grip on the bow case had not eased since the scream. She was stiff all over, eyes too wide.
The rest of the car wasn’t better. Two men started a pointless argument over who shoved first. A woman tore her hood off and cursed at anyone who looked her way.
The noise inside the car became too much and a bump of an elbow turned into a shove, then into a hand on a weapon.
Curiosity and fear pressed together until neither gave way.
The car had now split in new ways. Those who knew each other grouped up.
Mercenaries shifted toward whoever looked rich enough to hire them later. The wandering knight claimed a corner and stared at anyone who came too near.
The entire place now looked less like a passenger car and more like a barracks waiting for a fight.
“Duramark,” Sarah said quietly. The word was enough. She, Sali, Mark, Holt, and Dain drew closer. A man tried to wedge through and stopped when Holt turned his head.
“Why is everyone like this?” Sali whispered. Her voice shook..
“We should move back to our compartment,” Mark said, keeping his tone even.
“I agree,” Holt answered. “No one’s allowed to leave yet.”
“That makes sense, they’ll become suspect number one,” Sarah agreed.
They slowly moved towards their compartment, and upon reaching, I jumped onto the bench, facing the aisle. Dain stood at one end, Holt leaned against a pole. Sarah watched everyone, and Mark watched hands. Sali’s eyes stayed on me.
Around us, a scuffle started again. Two men argued with bright-armored men about searching everyone.
I touched Sali’s tag with my snout. She covered it with her hand, thinking I wanted comfort. That was part of it. More, I wanted her hand heavy on the bronze so no one else could reach it.
The noise had suddenly been drowned out by another scream through the car.
It came from the middle of the aisle. A cluster of heads turned at once, and everyone moved to make space. The cleric was already rushing through.
Another entrant had collapsed.
He was young, no more than twenty, with a chain across his shoulders and a bronze tag pinned high on his collar. His eyes were wide open, mouth slack. Blood ran in a thin stream down his chest, darkening the links of his armor.
His throat was torn the same way as the girl before him.
The cleric dropped to his knees and pressed a glowing hand to the wound. After a few seconds, he shook his head, just as he had before.
“It’s the same,” he said. “Dead before I touched him.”
The words traveled fast, repeated mouth to mouth until the whole car knew.
The crowd pulled back, pressing against the benches. Nobody wanted to be close. At the same time, no one wanted to look away. Boots scuffed, shoulders shoved. Everyone spoke at once.
“Who did it? Wasn’t he with his group, right?”
“Then it must have come from right there!”
“Someone standing near him must have—”
Accusations started, hands pointing at anyone who had been within reach of the boy. A woman with a spear protested she had seen nothing. A man with a hammer shouted that she was lying. Another entrant swore he had felt someone brush past him just before the scream.
The noise climbed higher. Blades half-drawn. People pushing forward, then stumbling back.
Sali pressed against the bench, eyes fixed on the corpse.
Sarah raised her voice, sharp. “Enough!”
The sound cut through for a moment, but only for a moment. The noise came back, louder than before.
I stayed on the bench, watching. The man was dead, same as the girl. And his tag remained untouched. Did the killer not have the time to take the tag? That didn’t make sense.
The cleric stood again, voice low but firm. “This is no longer a simple incident. Two, in the same way. Someone among us is doing this.”
That single line carried, and suspicion thickened.
And then the finger-pointing started again, harder this time.
“It was him, he was closest!”
“No, she was right behind him—!”
Every word was sharper than the last.
The second body lay still in the aisle, eyes staring at nothing. The car had become smaller around him.
People jostled in the aisle, shoving to be heard. Fingers stabbed through the air, each pointing at someone different.
The cleric tried again. “Calm yourselves. None of this—” But his voice was buried under the noise.
One man shoved another aside. Steel flashed as a short sword was yanked halfway from its sheath. That set off a dozen more, the car thick with the scrape of iron.
“Enough!” Sarah shouted again, but this time the wave of sound swallowed her voice.
The crowd had broken into clumps. City crests stood shoulder to shoulder, each watching the others with open suspicion. A port-town group blocked off one end of the aisle, glaring at the hammer-crest men across from them.
A man near the vestibule bellowed loud enough to cut through. “This is a setup! You’re trying to thin the ranks before we even reach the capital!” He jabbed a finger at the hammer-crest trio. “First one dead was from my city. Now it’s an outsider. And look, one of you isn’t even wearing your tag anymore!”
That last line struck hard. Heads turned. Eyes snapped to the men.
One hammer-crest man looked down. His hand clutched at his chest, fumbling. His badge was gone. The space where it had been showed a pinhole through the leather.
“It’s gone?!” he shouted, but his words only made things worse.
The accusation spread fast.
“They’re stealing them!”
“No, someone’s hiding them!”
“Search them, search all of them!”
Dozens of hands lifted to check collars and belts. The clatter of pins snapped as people tugged at their badges to prove they were still there. The aisle filled with flashing bronze as people raised them high.
Sali clutched at her own the moment the shouting turned. Her hand froze. Her fingers met only the linen of her collar. Her eyes widened.
“Pophet—” she whispered.
Her tag was gone.
I stood up on the bench. Her hand searched again, pulling at the cloth, twisting the edge of the collar as though it might have folded behind. Nothing.
“It was here,” she said, voice breaking. “I checked it… I just checked it.”
Sarah had already pulled her badge loose from her belt to show it. Mark held his sleeve high, tag still pinned firm. Holt’s hand moved to his cloak. His fingers closed on empty fabric. He turned the cloth over once, twice, as though the bronze might be caught between the folds. Nothing.
Dain lifted his tunic, and the pinhole mark stood clear in the weave.
Holt and Dain’s, both gone. Sali’s, also gone.
Mark swore under his breath, “What the fuck is happening?”
That was the first time I had heard him curse.
“Who took them?” someone shouted.
“Who the fuck took them?” someone shouted again, louder.
“That’s obvious,” another voice answered. “This isn’t random. They’re cutting down the numbers before the examinations even begin.”
The words spread quick. A dozen mouths repeated them. A city crest from the rear called out, “They want to cripple us before we even stand a chance!”
The car rippled with it, suspicion turning sharp.
People started demanding searches. Cloaks pulled open. Belts shaken. Bags dragged down from nets overhead. Several pressed forward, wanting to put hands on others’ packs, pulling at straps and clasps.
“Get away from me!” a woman snapped, slapping a hand aside.
“You must have it, your city didn’t even lose a single tag!”
“Prove it, then!”
The words “prove it” hit hard. More voices joined. A mercenary forced open his pack on the bench, tossing out rolled shirts and a whetstone. His tag still pinned to his chest.
But not everyone gave in.
“No one touches me,” a scarred man barked, hand heavy on his axe.
“I won’t be searched like a thief,” another spat.
Every refusal turned into another target. Those unwilling to show their belongings were shouted down. Others pushed forward to make them.
Steel scraped again. A shield shoved its way up, forcing space in the narrow aisle.
Sarah kept her back to our bench, hand tight on her hilt. “This will tear apart the car,” she said, low.
Mark’s eyes stayed on the scuffle in the center. “It already has… Where is the guild personnel, didn’t someone call for them?”
The cleric tried once more. “Stop this! The Guild will—”
He never finished.
The young adventurer, the same boy from earlier who had shouted first, his sword half drawn before, lunged forward. His blade drove forward, fast, into the man directly in front of him.
The point caught under the man’s ribs. The struck entrant gasped once, eyes wide, then doubled over. Blood spilled down his front.
Screams burst again.
The boy yanked his blade back, face pale, eyes darting around at the sudden space clearing near him. His voice broke. “He was reaching for me! He was going to, he was going to kill me!”
No one believed him.
Half the car surged forward. Some toward him, weapons raised. Others shoved back, desperate not to be caught between blades. The benches rattled under stomping boots. Packs fell from the nets overhead.
The struck man collapsed to the floor, clutching at his stomach. His badge slipped loose, bronze clattering against the boards. Blood spread beneath him, soaking the floor fast.
The boy held his weapon out in shaking hands. “Stay back! Stay back!” he screamed.
But no one stayed back.
A hammer rose. A spear jabbed. Others drew blades for the first time. What had been an argument had now turned into open fighting.
The car had broken apart.
Steel clashed against shields. A spear scraped across the benches and snapped against the frame. Men shoved past one another, trying to strike at enemies who might not even be enemies.
The scent of sweat, blood, and oil mixed with the heat of too many bodies.
Sarah drew at last, blade flashing as she parried a strike that came too close. “Hold your ground!” she snapped at us, though no one beyond our small group was listening.
Mark’s spear was in his hands. He didn’t thrust, only kept the shaft braced, knocking aside anyone stumbling too close. Holt’s fists clenched, ready. Dain had unslung one axe, head low, daring anyone to try.
Sali crouched near the bench, bow case now open, arrow readied at anyone who dared to come near.
I stayed on the seat, ears twitching with every clash, watching the tide of bodies press and heave.
A man went down near the vestibule. Another tried to climb over him and was pulled down in turn. The pair rolled, fists hammering, until the point of a blade slid across both.
Someone screamed for a cleric, but the cleric was already bent over the man who had been stabbed earlier.
Bronze tags clattered across the boards, ripped loose in the scuffle.
The fight turned chaotic.
And then I saw it.
A figure shoved through the press, head low, cloak pulled tight. He made straight for our corner.
Sarah was turned aside, blade up against another blow. Holt had his arms raised, fending off two men who thought him an easy target. Dain swung his axe in a low arc, keeping a spear carrier back.
Sali had no cover.
The man lunged for her. His hand shot forward, aiming for her collar.
I didn’t think.
I leapt from the bench, teeth bared, and barelled him square in the chest. The air left his lungs in a grunt. He crashed to the boards on his back.
Before he could move, I planted myself on him. My weight might not have been much, but surprise did the rest. He scrabbled at my fur, trying to shove me off. I swung my paw at his hand, dismembering a finger.
“Pophet!” Sali gasped, voice high, but she didn’t move.
The man tried to rise. I slammed my paw against his throat and growled low. His eyes widened, and he froze.
Sarah spun in time to see him pinned. She pressed her blade to his cheek. “Stay down,” she said coldly.
