“Kartak, please close the windows, I’m freezing…” the elven woman wheezed to the half-orc sitting by her side as she bunched the blankets tighter about her face. A slight watering of her delicate green eyes betrayed her discomfort to the half-orc who knew her better than any other, including her long-lived clan members. He looked at the windows, already knowing them to be shut tight against the summer heat. The tusks that jutted from his lips turned upward as he gently smiled down at the woman he cared for so much.
“I’ll see to it.” The man she called Kartak rose from the bed and grabbed a wand from the dresser top. He waved it gently over her while he sang (in elven) an old song he knew the Valenar woman was fond of:
- In days long gone, our fathers came
- And made this land their own.
- With the Dhakanni chiefs, they lived in peace,
- Until trade turned to war.
- Through the years, our warriors blood
- Was spilled upon the land.
- The Dhakanni horde poured to the shore
- And drove our warriors home.
- And then some time until mankind
- Won it from our foes;
- The Dhakanni blood dried and died;
- Mankind laid their claim.
- Through the years, man did spread,
- And settled all the land
- But like us, their blood did boil
- And their tribes went to war.
- Back and forth, forth and back
- Allies changed and changed
- Cyrans feared other men and
- Looked to us for aid.
- Our warriors came and sold their skills
- Pure Cyran gold was earned.
- Our warriors fought across the land,
- And their souls remembered…
- This land was ours ‘fore any man
- Stood upon the sand.
- But Cyran men, stood in the way
- Of our ancestral claim
- Until the day our king did say,
- ‘This is our land and it has been
- Bought and paid with blood,
- Bought and paid… with blood’
While he sang, the tip of his wand glowed warmly with a soft red light. Her grip on the blanket relaxed and her breathing slowed as he eased the symptoms of her slow gradual poisoning. “There you go, Tarkita. Is that better, my love?”
“Of course, Kartak. My family never understood our bond. If only they had been more patient… they might have seen the same brave, beautiful soul I always knew lie hidden in you.” Her eyes began to darken as her breathing began to shallow. “It is time my warrior-poet. I go to join my ancestors. I hope I have brought them honor…”
“If not, you have shown it to me. I will always remember your courage in the face of battles. Think on your battle with the harpies so that that be fresh in the memory of Limel, your grandmother. It is your ferocity that makes Berre Stonefist, Captain of Bones sleep uneasy during the night. I will sing your song so your deeds are known and all will know of the enchanting dewdrops you call your eyes. Rest easy so that I may enjoy your beauty and allow it to become a part of me so I may remember you forever…”
Tarkita’s breathing slowed even more, until it came to a rattling halt. The closed lids of her eyes kept her from seeing the features on her lover’s half-orc face melt and shift. The brown eyes gradually lightened to a dark hazel and then subtly more until they were the same chartreuse hue as those of the dying elven woman. They had become the same almond shape. The large stony cheekbones of the half-orc had melted away and now matched the delicate curved arches on her lithe face.
He looked down at her fingertips that had always been strong, yet knew how to trace pleasure across his neck. He held his hand close to hers and watched as it began to shrink, The skin color changing to match her perfect olive complexion. Something was not right. Oh, of course. The delicate mole inside the web of her right hand sprang forth upon his, the latter perfectly matching the former.
Crossing the small bedroom, he gazed upon himself in the mirror. Tarkita’s strong, yet utterly feminine gaze looked back. He watched, focusing on the eyes and cheekbones as he placed his right hand upon the mirror. Staring into her eyes, he allowed all her features (save her perfect cheekbones, and of course the mole) to melt away to the formless stark white features that were his true face.
He uttered the litany spoken many times before. Although it had become rote, it was no less important, no less meaningful for his latest kill. “Forgive me Tarkita, it had to be done. If not by me, then by some other, who would never honor your memory as I will. All that is unique and special of you will live on in me. May the lessons you taught me allow me to reach my goal and serve us all.”
He made one last pass of the room ensuring no artifact remained. Looking under the bed, he found no lost sock, no stray vial of the poison that in doses through the weeks brought her life to a close. As he circled the room, he crumbled the token that allowed his words to be carried on the wind. “My Queen, it is done. I return to you for payment. I will wear Prospero.”
Nym allowed the magic to activate and deliver his message. As he felt the threads of arcane unravel (signifying the end of this little ritual) he pulled out a scroll. Knowing that Kendall was ever seeking his spoor had made this investment necessary. It was a small boon given him by a previous employer that would hide his involvement from arcane eyes. Of course the slow-acting poison (made from the finely ground talileth root found only in Xen’drik) was undetectable to most methods the Watch had at their disposal. Even the agents of the Citadel were likely to overlook this poison known only to very few who had access to the lost knowledge held by the Umbragen.
It had cost Nym much to filch this secret from the clutches of the dark elves of Xendrik and more still to procure the root. A small price to pay for the edge it had given him in his chosen profession. Secrets want to be found; the living work hard to hide them. Often, the warm embrace of death allows fists to unclench and lips to part, revealing a bit of lore that the dying want to share with a loved one or trusted compatriot.
Nym took a last look at the delicate elven features he still wore, allowing them to flare in his memory one last time. He turned to the door.
As Tarkita’s door opened onto the bustling Highwater thoroughfare, The Stupendous Salazar – the master illusionist, stepped into the sunlight. His brown eyes squinted against the bright rays of the afternoon sun as they shone on his human face. He whistled a jaunty tune as he flagged down a passing skycab, eager to meet his employer and obtain his reward. As he lifted his right hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the persistent mole in the web between his thumb and index finger caught his gaze.
“Tarkita, may you always remind me of your undying spirit,” he muttered as he gently shook his hand at his side. He looked again at the now empty web and opened the door to the cab.
Artwork by Robert Stenberg.
Colin Dowling
I’m an avid gamer who enjoys RPGs, board and video games (I’m currently replaying the Dawn of War games due to an overabundance of Warhammer 40K and Fantasy exposure). When I’m not hopelessly wasting time with these games or my wage-slave job, I’m moonlighting as a know-it-all for my chummers at the ’Shack. Peace, and watch out for street sams, they’re everywhere (just like chupacabras).
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