By Todd Laing

June 17th, 2004

To Read Part 1, click here.

Keshea smiled as she peered through the paneless window at the merchant house of Verdigrim.

Across the vacant street, sheathed in darkness, was a pool of light around a sturdy wooden door. Five human guards, their armors and weapons bespeaking mercenary origins, milled outside, muttering to each other the banal discourse so frequent for those who have nothing in common with their employer save the chink of coin.

Three more than last time, thought the dover, her eyes tracking the guards’ movements and habits.

The rogue smiled even broader, revealing sharp teeth. Such lack of discipline . . . they are already defeated.

Overly pleased with the ignorance the mercenaries displayed about whom they were paid to protect against, the dover moved to the front door of the vacant building, intent on addressing the changes she was experiencing since her theft of the inkpot. The mere thought sent a shiver along Keshea’s spine, raising her hackles along its entire length. She had dodged the merchant’s thugs for several days now and the weariness of it was weighing on her. That and the bouts of illness had begun to sap her strength. Understanding that inaction would lead to failure, the rogue had decided to strike at the heart of the mystery

After the breaking of the vessel, and the partial absorption of its contents into her flesh, things had changed. Her battle against the merchant’s guards and her creation of the consuming inferno that left her foes and the inn in ruin gave more questions than satisfactions. The flush of victory vanished entirely when the bouts of illness began, followed by the waking dreams. The latter were the worst, going beyond the pain to affect her very essence. After each event, Keshea felt more unwhole, bereft of some key components of identify that she could no longer recall or reflect. But then, this enigma was something about which Verdigrim would enlighten her.

Fingering her daggers, the dover’s smile grew grim and resolute.

As the dover reached for the handle of the front door, her sight caught the patterns etched on her palms, a manifestation of the ink’s magic. Spidery and intricate, the lines appeared as quasi-geometrics that seemed to shift about when stared at too closely. Cool to the touch, they tingled constantly and crackled with blue energy now and again. Keshea, eager to proceed with the night’s festivities, shrugged off the disconcerting thoughts and again reached for the door’s handle.

As her fingers touched the handle a spasm of white hot pain coursed through her flesh, folding her over.

With bared teeth and a feeble whimper she dropped to the floor. The abandoned building echoed her meek cries, its empty interior filled with her suffering. Taut muscles contorted the rogue’s slight frame, bending her in agonizing angles for inhumane durations. The fur over her body stood erect as if electrified by the torment. Seconds became minutes and the minutes an eternity. Then, in the single beat of her racing heart, it was gone, leaving as it had come.

The sudden absence of pain was almost as alarming as its appearance, causing Keshea to reflect for several moments before summoning the energy to sit up. Leaning against the crudely plastered wall, the dover felt tears well in her eyes, unbidden but not unexpected. The bouts were coming swifter now—and more frequent. Nary a few hours passed without their return, each bringing pain, change, and memories not her own. It was a rhythm she well understood and had grown to fear.

Knowing what was to follow, Keshea braced herself, summoning her dwindling fortitude to stave off the remorseless chill that always followed a bout. With a twitch and shudder, it was over. Sliding to the floor, the dover’s eye rolled up and her mouth grew slack. Disjointed visions intruded into her memory, displacing cherished thoughts of youth and family. Any attempt to resist was gone as the arcane energy freely redrew her soul.

Keshea’s altered thoughts emerged like a groggy sleeper forced to wakefulness.

Holes in her memory burned like quicklime, edged in partial recollections whose import was fleeting and lost. Drawing herself upright, the rogue clutched her knees and wept softly. The pain of the bouts was nothing compared to this loss of self. Her essence was diminished, torn out and replaced with incoherent remembrance of dark chambers, the smell of age old dust, and the flash of steel. Not knowing where she ended and the new memories began, the dover was overcome with doubt and futility. Tears flowed freely now, quickly becoming wracking sobs as she disparaged this fateful turn of her life. Gulping the sorrow, Keshea forced her thoughts toward Verdigrim, not one hundred feet away.

He will tell me, vowed the dover as she straightened herself. He will sing the answers!

Again in composure, Keshea chanced a look out the window, hoping that the sounds of her thrashing and weeping had not drawn the attention of the merchant’s guards.

It took an instant for the dover to make sense of the shapes huddled at the edge of the pool of light, instinctively knowing them as the cooling bodies of the guards. Alarm washed like water over her, upending her plans for uncertainty. By the Seven! How long have I been affected?

That something was amiss was apparent, but what? Fearing the loss of Verdigrim and the knowledge he owed her, Keshea dashed from the vacant building and moved to the house. A quick appraisal of the limp humans showed single puncture wounds at the base of their necks. Only the slightest trickle of blood oozed from the holes, their rims discolored and retracted. A sniff of the wounds told her the truth.

Poison!

The thought sent spirals of possibilities through the rogue’s mind. The very nature of the mercenaries’ deaths, and the swiftness of them, indicated a level of professionalism to which even Keshea did not proscribe. Assassins were rare outside of Eclipse, where that domain’s dark lord used them as would a carpenter a nail. One did not encounter them beyond its borders for no reason. Their appearance in here was very troubling.

But who would want to kill Verdigrim? The question brought a small, throaty chuckle from the dover. Who would not?

Leaving the guards, the dover moved to the house door, finding it ajar. The odor of blood, still warm from its container, assailed her flared nostrils. Perking her ears, Keshea strained for sound and detected a muffled scrape and faint footfall. On silent pads, the rogue slipped inside and closed the door. As her eyes adjusted the blackness came into focus, the scattered night candles casting eerie half-shadows throughout the domicile. Another body, a female frey, was prostrate in the foyer, her head turned backwards. Past her lay the corpse of a male frey. A black puddle about his head showed he perished in a grimmer manner.

Moving cautiously through the bowels of the house, Keshea continued to find bodies. Most were in their beds, their repose made permanent. Others were caught performing nighttime duties. Only one, a male lunar seemed to have fought the intruders. A kitchen cook, he was armed with a long silver knife, its blade tacky with dark blood. Retrieving the utensil, the rogue smelt the blood. Curious at its unfamiliarity she tasted it.

A flash of recognition coalesced from the new memories strewn through her mind. Her lips pulled far back in an uncontrolled snarl. An unreasoning lust for blood and revenge welled within Keshea, stoked by half-remembered visions not her own. Along with the flashing steel witnessed in her mind’s eye were images of shadowy beings arrayed about her prone form. Though she could not understand why, the rogue knew they had been responsible for her being in that dark chamber, that they were the facilitators of the black fate that occurred therein.

The sputter of arcane energy danced briefly across her fingers, its azure glow intense.

Heedless of obvious danger, the rogue moved to the stairs, bounding them three at a time. The upper stoop was better lit, serving as the focal point of the entire level. A number of plush chairs and small tables were elegantly placed about the area which was punctuated with well positioned plants and bookcases. The parameter held five open doors, the largest at the far end. From her position at the head of the stairs, the rogue could see sprawled forms in the rooms past the smaller doors, the fate of their occupants certain.

Senses aflame with the taste of an old enemy she had never encountered, the dover moved to the far portal, drawing her twin daggers as she went. Keshea paused at the bedchamber doorway, peering instead of bursting through. A brace of squat oil lamps cast dim but even light throughout the room, illuminating its occupants. Beside a large bed, its sheets twisted and disheveled, lay the human Verdigrim with ashen face and wide eyes. Over him bent a humanoid form draped in murkiness and death, the object of his attention. The assassin’s fist grasped the merchant’s nightgown, pulling him nearly free of the floor. His voice was cold and impassionate.

“The Vessel of Ambris, where is it? You have delayed the Master overlong.”

The merchant appeared to swallow his tongue and turned vaguely purple as he sputtered a response. ‘I–I do not have it. It was taken a fortnight past by a common thief.”

The assassin’s other hand stabbed out with a dagger, taking Verdigrim deep in the thigh. He held the blade there, twisting it slowly. “Speak true, maggot. The Master does not like deception.”

Stunned by the pain, the merchant did not scream but continued to stare at the bringer of his doom. His mouth opened and closed spastically for several seconds before he could articulate an answer. “B–b–but I speak true. I swear it. A dover bitch took it, a common cutpurse who robbed my stall. She has it. Please–“

The assassin pulled the dagger from its fleshy casing and plunged it in the merchant’s other thigh. “If that be so, then the Master has no further need of you.”

Crying with pain, Verdigrim whined, “No! No! M–my people hunt h–her now. In the name of the Queen have pity . . . .”

“Pity? The Master has discarded such frailties long ago, before most life walked this contemptible orb.” The assassin withdrew his blade and aimed it keen edge at the merchant’s bobbing throat.

“But–wait! I know things! Things . . . let me live and I’ll tell you something Raghuveer would want to know. Please – for all that is holy!”

The assassin paused, amused. “Whatever you know the Master shall suck from your screaming soul.”

At that moment, despite the nearness of his death, Verdigrim’s eyes caught sight of Keshea and flickered with recognition. His hand pointed a trembling finger at her.

Realizing that surprise was lost, the rogue rushed into the chamber, hoping to catch the assassin while he was still exposed.  Alas, the murderer was ably skilled. Leaping to his side, he spun toward Keshea and cast a handful of razor-bladed darts at her face.

Instinct overcame deliberation as the dover fell into a forward roll, allowing the darts to sail harmless over her head. Stopping in a crouch, Keshea turned to the assassin who had also squared his stance. The bloodlust she experienced when sampling the sullied kitchen knife returned, giving her angry confidence. Slowly she stood erect and spoke in a voice not wholly hers.

“The object of Shadow Mage’s desire is unbound. Not again shall you or your ilk catch me unawares. Your soul is mine this night!”

Keshea felt control of her body slip then pass to some internal entity and was forced to watch herself as if a bazaar puppet crafted for a child’s amusement. At the instant of acquiescence her hands blazed to life with unknowable power, casting arcs of sapphire energy against the carpet and bed. An unconscious flick of her hands sent the blue globes towards the assassin, who suddenly became enfolded in a shroud of darkness and dropped prone to avoid them. With a splash they struck the far wall, blistering its paint and charring the wood beneath. The rogue flicked more globes at the dodging sphere of darkness, searing and shattering the bedchamber’s contents with distain.

Knives flew from the blackness as the assassin made to conceal himself behind the bed. Pulling forth a handful of thin, handleless blades he timed the intervals between the magical attacks before rising up and hurling the knives at the dover. Keshea’s own knifes struck out. Wreathed in cobalt flames, they struck the missiles down in a complex dancing defense the rogue found impossible to comprehend.

The assassin paused in disbelief. The darkness fell from him, showing the first glimmers of fear emerging on his face. As Keshea strode forward, he moved back until his knees bumped a low table. The energy now covered Keshea. Each step burned a paw print into the smoldering weave of the carpet, which in some areas was erupting into open flame. Realizing his mission had changed and that his master must be appraised of course of events, the assassin glanced about for a means of escape. Spying a nearby window he dove for it.

A laugh, masculine and haughty, erupted from the dover’s mouth. By force of will alone, the window case was encapsulated in rippling energy, sending the contacting assassin backward with in blaze of sparks. Burned and dizzy, the assassin struggled to his feet, his thoughts awhirl. Clearing his vision he found the dover standing before him. Startled, he lurched back and kicked out with his feet, catching the rogue high on the chest.

The power roiling about the rogue faltered and dimmed as the entity possessing her lost complete control. In command of her body once again, Keshea shook off the queasiness that gnawed at her and ran at the assassin, slamming her thin frame against his. In a jumble, they crashed to the floor, hands and blades flashing in a desperate choreography of life and death. Stung and cut a dozen times, the dover ignored the initial onset of poison and was relentless in her attack. Motivated by fear and rage she continued to pound her knife into his chest long after he had stopped to be a threat.

Awash in venom, the rogue crawled off the assassin and moved toward Verdigrim, their unfinished business the only thing keeping her conscious. He was alive, though barely, his life soaked into the carpet and gown. On the verge of death, the merchant’s eminent passing caused a swell of panic in Keshea. Pulling her knees beneath her, she shook the Verdigrim by the shoulders.

“What was the liquid in the inkpot?’ she shouted. “The assassin spoke of the Vessel of Ambris – what is it? What has it done to me?”

Verdigrim smiled weakly, his eyes starting to roll upwards.

Keshea shook the merchant violently, striking his head against the floor. “Tell me! What has happened to me! Why did the assassin want it?”

The pain of the blow roused the merchant to semi-consciousness. Turning his pallid features to the rogue he sputtered a reply. “You . . . are made anew. Ambris comes . . . to right the wrong. Raghuveer’s work– wronged him, killed him, took him as a mark . . . a soul-ink.”

The dover shook him again as his voice began to trail off. “Speak!”

His eyes failing to focus, the merchant’s head began to wobble in the final throes of death. His voice was weak and listless. “He seeks dominion over Ambris and now you.”

Frustrated by her lack of understanding, she slapped Verdigrim hard across the cheek, only to be rewarded with his final exhalation. Shocked at the lack of insight she had hoped to glean from the merchant, the rogue fell backwards and stared at the smoke filled ceiling. No . . . no . . . not like this. There must be something more.

Despair turned to determination as Keshea rolled over and pulled herself to her hands and knees. Struggling to retain control her failing body, the rogue exited the burning bedchamber and crawled to the stairs. After a few stumbling attempts to navigate the flight, she fell headlong, landing with a groan. Hot flashes caused by the poison came upon her, stealing her last vestiges of vigor.

It should not be like this, she reflected, succumbing to the fate she had partly wrought. As smoke filled the staircase and flames teased its banister, Keshea closed her eyes.

In the utter dark of near death, Keshea heard a voice. It was full and strong, a commanding presence in the void. “Wake, child. Your task is not complete. Rise and deliver us both. To Port Raghuveer should you look. He is there. The Shadow Mage is there. Your answers are there. Wake, Keshea.”

The voice cast the dimming veil from the dover’s eyes, causing her to regain wakefulness. Not questioning the sanity of the message or the importance it conveyed, the rogue pulled herself from the burning building. Flames now licked across the ceiling, sending thick coils of choking smoke throughout the dwelling.

With courage she was unaware she possessed, the dover dragged herself from the conflagration. The cool night air was a balm to her many wounds, its caress soothing. Moving into the abandoned building she had so recently departed, Keshea knew the poison was in full effect. With luck she might survive the night and recover. With luck  . . . the thought of it was ironic. Luck was something she had little of lately.

Nestling in a corner, the dover allowed the pain and fatigue of the night’s events to take her. As she drifted off to sleep the voice she had heard before returned, uttering comforting and vengeful words, promising life for the cost of blood and strife.

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