by Lucas Thorn
She was small for her kind, but held herself rigid which made her seem taller than she was. Her face was half-hidden under black hair twisted into thick knotted locks once neatly plaited in a traditional manner but were now suffering from neglect. Woven into the frayed locks were small strips of cloth from many different sources, giving her a ragged look.
When she reluctantly pulled her hand from the warmth of her pocket to push hair from her face, she revealed features not quite ugly, but certainly not pretty. Mostly due to the angry red scar cutting into the coffee coloured skin of her cheek. The harsh scar began at the corner of her mouth and ripped upward before jagging out from a point just under her eye toward her ear. It was this scar which squeezed an element of latent cruelty into her smile.
Her clothing belonged to a dark alley more than the sweeping ruined landscape of the Deadlands. Black wyrmskin pants and matching jacket in a style that might’ve been a kind of uniform.
Like her hair, it suffered from neglect and was heavily patched with varying shades of wyrmskin crudely sewn over many rips and holes. Her dark undershirt was dishevelled and stained with rum, spots of vomit and what could’ve been some kind of gravy.
Or blood.
She couldn’t remember.
Her head beat to a painful rhythm dictated by the headache which had trailed her from Highwall. Sometimes she thought about pulling a knife and shoving it deep into her forehead in an attempt to dig the offending ache out of her head like a tumor.
The only problem she had with this idea was she couldn’t choose which knife to use.
Sheaths and pockets covered her battered uniform with surprising excess. Even her boots had their own sheaths. And slid into most of the sheaths were an impressive selection of blades. And though they may have appeared decorative, they were all chosen with function rather than fashion in mind.
Each blade was known to her by the feel of its handle. Each had a name of its own because she believed names gave them purpose.
Names gave them life.
Life they often stole.
The elf grimaced into the fading light. Heavy clouds crumpled the sunlight into dull fists but enough punched through to irritate her hungover mind. She knew far across the valley, Talek would no doubt be waiting on the porch.
Probably asleep again.
When she arrived, she’d find him half-frozen and despite saving him from a freezing death he’d figure he was the one saving her. And he’d give her another talk about her drinking. About spending day after day pressed against the bar of the Trollspit Tavern, feeding on guilt as much as rum.
She knew he figured she was repulsed by his scars. That she was unable to love him now the burns had eaten half his body.
But that wasn’t even close to the truth.
Truth was she loved him so much the pain she felt in her chest with each step closer to him burned almost as hot as the magefire which had melted his flesh. And it was this love which filled her with guilt.
Because every agony he felt was her fault.
She jerked a hand from her jacket and rubbed at the puckered scar on her cheek.
Grunted heavily. It was a useless train of thought, and she knew it. But it was one which ran in circles around her head like a dog hungry for its tail.
Maybe today, she thought, it would stop.
Maybe he’d say something.
Do something which would melt the ice surrounding her heart. Ice which grew to stop her heart from breaking.
The valley stretched out like a sleeping wyrm. Clumps of mummified trees gathered in secretive groups and the trail wound through them with a tentativeness that always affected her. Made her think they were watching her. Talking about her in savage whispers.
A year ago she would have spat at them, driving the ghost of her fear away. But today she endured the creeping sensation rolling down her spine as price of her wandering.
She paused at the edge of a small stream which cut through the valley to splash her face with the sluggish moving icy water. It chilled her skin and made her violet eyes glitter brightly. Wiped her mouth as she turned toward the house which was less than a dot on the horizon.
Something about it was wrong, but she couldn’t quite place it.
Her brain was still too fuzzy.
Whatever it was, she figured the last few shards of light dazzling her sight would soon fade and she’d be able to make out whatever it was that was nudging her mind.
Rubbing again at the scar, the elf continued down the path, mind flushed with the remnants of drink.
She’d left home before dark the day before, crawling out of their shared bed.
Looking back at his shape and listening to him moan softly in his sleep as the pain followed him even into his dreams. He slept like a wounded animal. Unable to take the sound any longer, she stumbled out the door and into the freezing morning.
Tears clawing out through her eyes and scratching down her cheeks like acid.
During the night, snow had fallen like a glittering white rash over the valley and, for some reason, that had been the trigger which sent her to Trollspit.
Lifting her head, she could smell more snow on its way. There was a heaviness to the air that spoke of a big fall.
The goats would need seeing to.
She’d have to put them in the barn. No way Talek would’ve been able to do that.
He’d been so strong when they’d met. A soldier, rising swiftly through the ranks of the Kulsa’Jadean.
He was the young man kneeling beside her and looking at her over a dead body. How soft his eyes had been and in that crazed moment he seemed to understand everything she’d gone through to arrive at that moment when she slipped the blade so easily into the man who wanted something she no longer had the will to give.
He hadn’t reached for her. Had just knelt there, waiting. Watching.
Why he’d bothered to help her, she didn’t know. Even now. But he had. And saw in her more than she ever did. Without him, she’d never have worn the black uniform falling apart on her body.
A uniform she’d once been proud to wear.
Why she still wore it, she couldn’t say. Only that perhaps it reminded her of how far she’d come. Of how she’d fought so long and hard to reclaim what was rightfully hers. Her soul.
No one recognised the uniform out here in the Deadlands.
Who could?
With all the patches, it hardly resembled what it had once been. And even if it did, not many alive had seen it for what it was.
She touched her fingers to her hair, feeling the small ribbons of cloth tangled up in her locks. These, too, were part of her path from the street to salvation.
She snorted at the thought. Now it served as a reminder of her failure. Her mistakes. A suitable burden to bear when faced with his horrific wounds.
âFucking cold,â she repeated, rubbing her hands together. One of her palms itched and she scratched at it before blowing hot air into her cupped hands. Feeling the heat thrill the inside of her hands. The heat, though, wasn’t strong enough to warm her knuckles. The ache in her joints forced her to ram them quickly back into her pockets.
She stifled a yawn.
Then realised what had been nagging her.
Head snapped up to look sharply toward the cabin. The chimney. Usually smoke drifted lazily into the sky.
But today the sky was empty of that lonely black trail.
Had he fallen asleep on the porch without keeping the chimney going?
How long had it been cold?
Had he fallen?
Had he-? She couldn’t bear to think of what he might have done.
Her heart began to beat faster. She squinted to see even the barest trace of smoke.
He loved that fire. Said the warmth made him feel more relaxed. That the nerves twisting constantly in his body seemed dulled when he pressed against the pipe. It was a ridiculous thought. How could he enjoy the heat after all that happened?
âStu
pid thing to do,â she’d told him many times. âGet away from it. It’s too hot.â
He always smiled, refusing to move. âSo? What can it do to me? Give me another burn? I already got enough. What’s a few more?â
She was never able to look at him then. Never saw his sorrow as he noticed her discomfort, but she felt it. Felt the helplessness ooze from him. Couldn’t think of anything comforting to say.
Now, looking at the cabin, fear prickled the back of her neck.
The shadows leaked across the valley, lapping at the light.
Where was he?
She half expected to see him hobbling along the path toward her. Sometimes he tried to walk further than the porch.
Maybe he’d managed to walk further today. Maybe he wasn’t near the house.
She scanned the land looking for any other sign, and saw nothing.
Quickening her pace, the elf chewed hard at her lip, the rising panic drumming in rhythm with the ache in her head.
And then she saw the hoof print in the mud.
Horse.
She knelt beside it and the thrumming in her brain stopped abruptly as her mind kicked into gear.
More than one horse.
Up to a dozen of them.
Heading toward the cabin.
She caught sight of a few bootprints too, half-hidden by a thin layer of slush.
The sudden rush of horror enveloped her heart.
âTalek,â she croaked. Began sprinting toward the cabin. âTalek!â
No answer.
She sprinted, ignoring the winding path to dash into the fields. She ran like a crazed goblin, dodging ditches and leaping the larger boulders.
Nearly slipped on a patch of snow but caught her balance and kept running.
The tight grimace on her face grew harder. Fear swelled in her guts, dragging her forward. Dizziness ate at each step as alcohol, still sitting comfortably in her belly, surged through her blood.
She could smell it.
Not the stale vomit. Not the wretched stench of her own body. But the quiet dry stink of death.
And even before her eyes made out the crumpled shape on the shadow-drenched porch, she knew what she would see.
âTalek!â she screamed. Her throat was raw and her vision blurred as tears clawed from her eyes. Up the stairs without noticing them. Tugging at his corpse and scooping him up into her arms, eyes wide in disbelief as she saw the handle of the knife buried in his chest.
âWhat the fuck?â Her hand circled the handle, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch it. Couldn’t bear to remove it, as though pulling it out might cause his body to disintegrate in her arms.
Instead she let out a soul-cleaving sob and pulled him close. Nostrils filling with the smell of him and the poisonous stink of old blood.
He was cold.
Horribly cold.
She wept freely, gripping him so hard as though trying to absorb him into her.
The elf’s sobbing was a river of grief, bubbling violently through her.
âI’m sorry,â she said through a curtain of tears. Every sound she uttered felt like she was trying to push her fist through the eye of a needle. âI wasn’t here. Again, I failed you. I’m sorry. Talek. So sorry.â
She rocked him in her arms until a small part of her mind clicked into focus and told her to let him go.
How long she’d knelt there with him, she couldn’t say. But it felt like days. Was probably only minutes. Her mind, an overwhelming fog inside her skull, acknowledged he was dead. Reluctantly, she lay him gently on the cold porch.
Death was nothing new to her. She’d seen the Old Skeleton’s face and felt the dry breath of the Shadowed Halls blow across her spine many times.
But this was different.
This was Talek.
The back of her hand brushed his cheek, amazed by the emptiness which existed within his body.
It was a shell. A container.
Whatever had been inside to form the man she loved was gone. And it would never return. No matter how much she held him.
The warmth passing from her body into his did nothing to turn meat into living flesh.
The elf’s jaw tightened.
Slowly, she rose. Rolled her shoulders and entered the cabin.
Saw the mess, but didn’t register it. Found a blanket and took it outside to cover him while she worked.
Got a shovel from a small locker on the porch.
Walked a small distance from the house. Near a stone he’d liked to sit during the summer while she worked the farm. Remembered his eyes following her every movement. Like bees buzzing around her back.
She’d hated his gaze on her.
Now, she’d do anything to have him look at her.
Just one more time.
Began to dig.
The snow sighed around her. Lightly at first, it eventually obscured her vision.
But she kept digging.
The frozen earth resisted almost every attempt to dig the hole, but even had it been made of steel she would have persisted.
By the time she’d dug a hole big enough she was surprised to see night had completely consumed the land. She hunted for a small lamp which had miraculously survived the ransacking of their cabin and lit it on the porch to bathe the yard with a warm yellow glow.
Shivering in the cold, she dragged his body to the makeshift grave. Slid him along the ground as gently as she could. His boots scraped across the ground, leaving two thin lines.
Her eyes blurred and she wiped at the rippling tears with her shoulder as she struggled with his weight. Even though the burns had taken much of his muscle, Talek was large for an elf. Almost as big as a Fnord.
She rolled him easily into the hole, noting with regret that it wasn’t long enough and his knees had to bend a little for him to fit. She paused, thinking how fragile he looked. How lost. She lay the blanket over him and stared into the grave.
She wasn’t just burying her husband, she thought. She was burying her life.
Her past.
Her future.
Everything she’d ever been was tied to him. She owed him more than she could repay and as she knelt above his body, she wept again. Not for her loss, but for the fact she never had a chance to tell him. Tell him she was to blame.
To beg for forgiveness.
The protruding handle poked up through the blanket’s folds. She frowned.
Reached slowly into the grave and took a tight grip on the knife.
Tugged.
It refused to give.
âI’m sorry,â she whispered to his corpse. âI’ve given you so much pain in your life. But this, I swear, will be the last time.â
And sobbing with the horror of it, she tore the blade free. The smell of old blood made her gag but, lifting the blade free of the freshly dug grave, she eyed the hook knife with professional curiosity.
Not the kind of blade a professional would normally use to stab through the sternum. It was too curved for that.
An amateur, then.
Or, she thought coldly, Talek had pissed them off enough they’d used the first thing which came to hand.
She preferred the latter excuse.
Pulling herself to her feet, she stared down at the covered body of her husband and wished for words fitting the moment. But she’d never been much for words. And those words she knew well enough were bitter.
Instead, she ran her fingers through her ragged hair and allowed a few more tears to fall. Lifted her hand in helpless salute. A poor imitation of the one used by the Kulsa’Jadean he’d loved so much. Then shovelled dirt back down onto the body. Sweat poured down her face and arms. Her breath erupted as steam and even the thickening snow couldn’t cool her down as she worked in a frenzy.
When it was done, she looked around the yard. Saw the goats milling around nervously in their pen.
Sighing under her breath, the elf headed toward them, shovel in
hand. Unhitched the gate and flung it open. âGet the fuck out,â she growled. âGo on, you dumb animals. Move. Move! Out!â
Bleating nervously, they skittered through the gate and away. Jogged toward the side of the cabin and danced around each other, keeping her in view.
The elf brought the shovel down hard. Dug another hole in the centre of the small pen. Ignored the smell of goat shit and piss as she kept digging.
Deeper.
Then the shovel hit something with a dull thunk.
She scrubbed at the ground to reveal a small chest, which she heaved out of the rancid soil with a grunt. The lock on the side was heavy but broke free after a few good hits with the shovel.
Inside, a small box lay half-wrapped in oilskin. Beside it, also in oilskin, a large sheathed knife.
The knife she already knew intimately and felt no need to unwrap it. She tucked it into her belt. The box, she held in her hand.
It fit snugly into her palm. Her fingers rubbed against the metal ribs and along the alien runes. Something about it had always given her the creeps so it wasn’t hard to accept Talek’s insistence it should remain hidden.
He told her it was dangerous. Powerful.
Told her his family had protected it for generations.
And now he was dead, she was determined to keep it with her. Though she couldn’t explain why, she knew it was the right thing to do.
Shoving it into her jacket, she turned back to the skittish goats.
âGo where you like. Stick around the house for a while until winter moves on. That’s my advice. Take it or leave it,â she smiled a wry smile whose humour didn’t touch her haunted eyes. âYou ain’t kids no more.â
One of the shaggy goats gave a forlorn bleat, but she was beyond caring for their future. Until she gave an absent count.
One was missing.
Cocking her head, she noticed marks close by the small barn. Following the trail, she found blood and what was left of the goat. Figured Talek’s murderers had dragged it into the barn to butcher it. They’d taken the easiest cuts and left the rest.
She wondered if Talek had been killed over a goat. But if they were so desperate for food, why leave the others? It made no sense.
