By Todd Laing

November 11th, 2003

Damn them.

Keshea’s thoughts for a pleasant day soured as the merchant’s guards entered the inn commons and began inspecting its occupants. Their dark livery heralded trouble the dover wanted to avoid. With a glance about the room, Keshea nervously scratched her pale muzzle and carefully pushed her chair away from the table.

Damn them. Why are they so persistent? It was only a bauble.

Keshea’s hand drifted absently to the bulge in her pocket . . . the cause of her current misfortune. Taken as an afterthought from the den of a local merchant, it had caused her nothing but distress. By the Seven, she had lifted far more valuable things in the past and had never been hounded so. Though returning it would make her plight dissipate, the dover rogue could not bear parting with it. Not particularly valuable, it was an inkpot of attractive design – silver chased blue coral in the shape of a nautilus shell with a hinged silver stopper. Fingering it through the fabric of her pocket, Keshea was startled when the guards spoke to her.

What’s wrong with me, she wondered, cursing her inaction. With her best toothy smile, the dover looked innocently at the guard speaking to her.

“Say again, friend?”

The guard grunted his displeasure. “I said empty your pockets.” His compatriot stood off a few feet, his hand on the haft of his axe.

Keshea feigned curiosity. “Whatever for? Surely your lord’s paymaster has filled yours. What have I to offer but a copper and dust?”

The dover could actually hear the other guard’s hand creak as he tightened his grip on his axe. The demanding guard leaned forward slightly and spoke slowly, as if a lack of speed would aid the dover’s comprehension. “Empty your pockets now.”

Keshea continued to smile, repressing the strong urge to pant. The other inn patrons had begun to depart in numbers, slipping out doors and hallways and away from the confrontation. The dover looked longingly after them.

The guard slammed his fist onto the table. “By the Seven, empty them on this table lest I do it at my convenience!”

Keshea began to shake. She had always been a fine judge of character – or rather the lack of it – and the look in the guard’s eyes spoke his intent. Realizing that they were going to kill her regardless of whether she surrendered the inkpot or not, Keshea began to slowly empty her pockets on the table in an attempt to buy time.

The dover saw her life on the scarred tabletop. A worn collapsible knife that once belonged to her brother, a pair of thin softwood shims, a stale meat pie, a woefully light coin purse, and a street flier for the merchant she had robbed. The meagerness of it caused a lump to rise in her throat. For an instant she felt like telling the guards that she was more than this, that her life was more than a collection of meaningless trinkets and memories.

Opening her mouth to voice her protest against the sad sum of her existence, Keshea stopped as her right hand touched the pocket containing the coral inkpot. Somehow detached from the threat confronting her, she clutched the fabric, taking eerie comfort in the bulge therein. Released from her melancholy, the dover turned her eyes to the guards, her discussion made.

“That be all, bashers. K’griss rarr.” The last words hissed from Keshea’s lips, adding emphasis to the old dover insult.

The nearest guard bristled at the insult or at least the tone. He clutched his axe and swung it free from its belt loop in one swift motion. With a swirl above his head he swung the blade down at Keshea’s head.

Momentarily taken aback by the speed of the assault, the dover allowed her body to go limp and slide beneath the table. The axe thudded into her chair, its razor bite lodging itself in the wood. Under the table, the rogue saw a maze of legs and overturned chairs. Past them, behind the serving counter, she saw the backdoor and the promise it held. Growling her distain for the guards and their employers, the dover lunged from her protection of the table and raced for freedom.

The few remaining patrons began to yell and scatter, adding to the confusion. Silently thanking each of them, Keshea leaped over a tipped bench and dodged past the portly customer who had tripped over it. Sensing more than knowing, Keshea cut to the left just as a slim hand axe slashed through the air. Its handle grazed her shoulder, sending a burning pain down her limb. Growling, she raced on. Another hand axe sunk deep into the serving counter as she dashed behind it. Its haft quavered violently, sending a rumbling echo along the boards of the counter.

Reaching for the backdoor, the dover began to utter blessings to whatever gods must have guided her thus far. Those prayers died on the rim of expression when the portal swung out, framing another merchant guard in its opening. Armed with a spiked mace, he was a huge human, easily double Keshea’s weight and nearly so her height. Relying on street-trained reflexes, the dover attempted to move between his legs, hoping to use his bulk against him.

Experienced in fighting, the guard cantered his stance slightly, taking away that avenue of escape. Taking pleasure in the panic he saw in the dover’s face, the guard laughed and swung his mace low to the floor.

The spikes slashed into Keshea’s flesh, tearing a path of blood and pain along her side. The inkpot shattered in her pocket, exploding like a heart rent and exposed. The ink was dark blue in hue and quickly seeped through her fur. The feeling was oddly cold and tingling, unlike anything she had experienced before. Startled by the sensation, Keshea recovered just in time to roll away from a crushing blow of the spiked mace. Pinned against the serving counter, the rogue saw that the first two guards had made their way past the counter.

“Damn you, Erol,” shouted the guard that had spoken to her before. “You’ve gone and broken it. Verdigrim will have our heads for this. Kill her quick before the change begins!”

Nodding his understanding the huge human positioned himself over Keshea. The rogue kicked out as hard as she could, taking the human clean in the groin. The impact of her heel on a hard leather codpiece sealed her fate. Knowing she was about to die behind a bar over an item broken and worthless brought forth a sob. Smiling as one would to a small child in need of punishment, the guard lifted his mace for the telling blow.

Muttering a farewell to her littermates, Keshea held her hands before her face. Feeling suddenly flush, she closed her eyes as the weapon fell.

The ensuing screams confused her. At first thinking that they were her own final cries of life, it took a moment before the dover realized that they were coming from the guards that had come to kill her. Opening her eyes, the rogue was stunned by the scene facing her.

The large human was utterly aflame, his body a living candle of fat and flailing arms. The mace lay at his feet, its haft charred and steaming. His screams split the air with the carnal horror of one confronted with certain fate. He jerked to the left and spun around, striking the edge of the serving counter with his hip. His sudden inhalation sucked the fire into his lungs, silencing him forever. With a crackling thump, the human fell to the filthy floor.

Not comprehending what she was witnessing, Keshea sat up, oblivious to the spreading flames that were creeping along the walls and ceiling. Grasping a shelf, the rogue pulled herself to her knees and peeked over the counter. The entire commons was deserted save for the two other guards who were yelling in panic and backing away. Their eyes were riveted on their companion and did not immediately take notice of her reappearance.

Thick smoke billowed across the overhead timbers, descending like a curtain to the floor below. Hot flakes of burning wood drifted and swirled on the heated air, becoming a whirlwind of crimson and black. They fell on Keshea’s fur, searing tiny holes in her golden pelt and stinging her to action. Understanding that death awaited if she lingered, the dover again reached for the rear door. Its edges licked by flame, the rogue tugged on the hot handle. The portal opened with a whoosh, causing the flames to explode about her. The entire serving counter erupted in flames, fed by the fresh air she had let in.

Suddenly understanding her error, the rogue dove over the counter and rolled before the two retreating guards. Shocked by her emergence, the two halted and brought their weapons to bear. Driven by duty and the unmistakable fear of their employer, the guards attacked.               

His countenance perverted by rage, the leader hefted his axe and swung at Keshea. Yelping in panic, she rolled to the side, taking most of the blow on her hard leather vest. Wincing in pain, the rogue continued rolling, eventually coming to her knees. The other guard charged with his axe held low for a sweeping blow.

Unexpectedly the din of the flame and battle dimmed, becoming a mere echo of distant concern. As though compelled by another, Keshea raised her hands and wove them in a complex pattern. Mysterious syllables spat from her muzzle as her entire frame spasmed with eldritch energy. Her fingers began to glow a sickly yellow that with a fateful flick shot towards the charging guard, taking him in the chest. He dropped lifeless and still to the floor.

The rogue rose with calm certainty and turned her full attentions to the last guard. Still compelled, Keshea began to weave magic again. The flush of power was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Along with the odor of burnt wood came the nauseating stench of the grave. Her palms and fingers coursed with grim energy as she advanced on the guard. The rogue’s eyes were brilliant rubies in the radiance of the inn’s destruction.

Terror washed over the transfixed guard. The smell of death reached his nostrils, causing his gorge to rise and spurt across the floor. Weakened and dizzy, the human lifted his weapon with leaden hands. Through tear-blurred eyes he saw the dover extend her hand and touch his forehead. Coldness flowed through his flesh, sapping all vigor and mobility. Clattering, the guard fell in a heap, escape impossible.

As quickly as it had dimmed, the sound of the fire’s rage burst upon Keshea like a slap of oven air. Confused by what had happened and the means by which she had done it, the rogue lurched towards the front entrance. Bending low against the smoke, the dover entered the empty city streets.

Glancing at the fire-engulfed inn, Keshea clutched her bleeding side, oblivious to the fine-lined arcane tattoos that were drawing themselves thereon. Fearful of what had happened and what was happening, the rogue staggered off, merging with the sea of gawkers and the safety they provided.

A little rest, she thought. All I need is a little rest.

                But Keshea knew that rest was not in the offing and that trials unsuspected lurked nearby, somehow drawn in the ink of the shattered inkpot.

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