Titus Karbhen the younger entered the tent with Varn Ibnel Assar Ben Yusuf.
-Greetings, questor Karbhen, said the Malakim elder. I am happy to meet a Khazad magistrate in my humble encampment. Please sit down, R'laina will be bringing tea soon.
Titus sat as requested, and pitied once again that strange Malakim habit of drinking hot water instead of beer. After years of contact, he was still unable to like the beverage. But he wasn't there for pleasure, and he would just do what the elder asked him in order to be able to talk business.
This was another frustrating Malakim habit. Dwarves tended to be blunt and to the point. Malakim needed all kinds of ceremonies before you could start talking to them. It took some time to understand them and all the subtleties. For instance, at first, Varn would serve tea himself, which looked like a great honor he did his guest. Now, he let his daughter serve. The difference was subtle, and actually ment that the dwarf was now trusted enough to see the (veiled) woman. It was a proof of trust, among the biggest ones Malakim would give.
So it was only after some polite but lengthy chat about the sand, weather, the health of the clan and of the camels that Titus managed to get to the subject he wanted to discuss. And when he had finished talking about the business he had planned to do, he asked a last question.
-Tell me, Varn. Who was this man whose corpse you burnt last night? I confess I was quite surprised, I thought you buried your dead in the sand. Who was he to be treated differently? Excuse my ignorance, but was it for shame or honor that he was burnt?
-It was neither, dear questor. This man was a stranger. This is why we burnt him, so his soul can fly with the smoke and find its way home.
-A stranger? Was he a Balseraph?
-No. He was a white man. He came from the east, the land of the orcs. Maybe you would like to hear his story?
-I would certainly be glad.
-R'laina, please come here and tell our friend about the stranger.
The woman silently arrived, and knelt by her father. She looked at him, then at the dwarf, and started her tale, half speaking, half singing, sometimes interrupting her tale to sing a meaningless song of vowels.
-When the moon was high in the sky, three nights ago, Sami Er Gosaul Ur Q'antar saw the silhouette of a man staggering at the top of a dune. He immediately called other men, and went towards the unexpected silhouette.
-Iiiya uuuruu ualaaaali...
-The man fell down the dune before Sami could reach him. He was unconscious and alone, and the men brought him to our tent, as my father Varn is our healer and wise man.
-Uuealla iiri uainua...
-He was a white man, as you already know, but he was badly burnt by the sun. He hardly wore any clothes, and those few rags he had were torn and blood-soaked. His back was full of scars, as if he had been repeatedly whipped, and the fingers of both his hands had been broken, and the nails plugged out. One of his eyes was an empty socket, and the other remained closed. He breathed with difficulty and had very little life in him.
-Oooooooohh Auhaari oooooohh...
-Father Varn tended him as he could, but it seems his body was even more bruised inside than on the outside. Behind his ear, we saw a still fresh scar of burnt flesh in the shape of an axe, the symbol of Gr'umar the orcish chief who haunts the northern hills of R'rgorak. It was obvious he had been tortured by the orcs.
The elder interrupted his daughter as she started chanting again.
-You must learn, questor Karbhen, that orcs burn their slaves to better claim them. Also they often send prisoners or rebelllious slaves to their death this way: They mutilate them and send them into the desert without protection against the sun. It's exceptional that one of them survives to the night. Now resume your tale, daughter.
-The man remained unconscious for two days before his soul decided to leave. But in the meantime, his body recovered enough and tried to fight the death that waited for him. In his fateful fight, he became delirious, and talked and writhed.
-Ooooooh Pain Pain Pain Pain Eeeeariiii...
-He talked about orcs and a king. He talked about a wife, and all his life seemed to fight its way out of his mouth so that we who heard it would remember some of it. But mostly he kept repeating the same sentences:
-I will serve, milord, in a hushed tone.
-Great Gr'umar, grant me an audience, in an obsequious voice.
-Why, we are your friends, as a frightened child.
-The dwarves are your enemies, not us, alternating terror and anger.
-Kill them, not me, in the despaired voice of the already doomed.
She paused for a moment, and then finished her tale:
-The last words that he uttered were these, in the tone of a child who's been betrayed by his friend or unjustly punished by his master, just beofre his chest would rise for the last time:
-Why did I have to die, o Cardith Lorda?
...
The woman stood up, bowed, and left the tent.
Varn and Titus remained silent for a while, and then the elder offered his guest a last cup of tea. The meeting was over, and Titus would leave now, bringing home one more proof of Kuriotates actions and orcish cruelty. But he kept wondering on the way home, what could it mean for the Malakim to have a tale sung by a woman?
. This is my version of the Calabim story.
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