The Man with the Peculiar Talent

In the solitary darkness of early morning, a clock was ticking. He heard it from the mantel where it sat. Its yellowed face seemed to shine as it reflected the moonlight that sneaked through the blinds; it was 3:56 AM, precisely. He had four minutes to himself. Then, before he knew it, he would be back outside, where he would pull the collar of his cloak over his nose as the cool autumn mist curled around his feet.

He shut his eyes. The day's target was a retired blacksmith, an elderly fellow who hadn't touched a sword in years. Why she wanted his voice for herself was a mystery to him. He found it best not to ask questions; when he was still barely twenty, he'd tried too hard to unmask her intentions and had been punished as a result. That all seemed so long ago. He tried to remember what he had been like back then, back when the whiskers on his chin had just sprouted and before dark circles had sunk into the emaciated flesh around his eyes. It had been fifteen years since then, and that flame of interest and curiosity had long faded, along with any hope that he would worm his way out of her grasp.

The clock chimed softly. One - two - three - four.

August Nordell's shift had begun.

He slid out from under a pair of shoddy sheets, his body still heavy with sleep. Drowsily, he slipped into his casual slacks, buttoned his boots, and wrapped his worn cloak around his shoulders. The cloak had been his since the day his job began; it was made of some scruffy blue fabric and adorned with dark feathers and shining silver buttons shaped like crescent moons. It brought him only minimal warmth, but he couldn't bare to part with it despite its age and condition. After all, its ruffled feathers would assist him with his transformation if he needed it. August had quietly prayed that the old man's failing eyes wouldn't be able to spot him through the dark. His body felt sore enough as it was; changing shape certainly wouldn't help ease his ailing back.

He left the house without a sound, emerging into a tight, dirty alley; the stone street was littered with garbage, and a stale smell surrounded him almost immediately. The air was cool and fog hovered over the streets like specters. The blacksmith lived just outside of town, where the bumpy roads diverged into miles of green pasture. August wasn't too far from the city limits himself; it would be mere minutes before he found the man's place and finished the job. Maybe he could squeeze in an hour of extra sleep before he had to give her his report. The thought was comforting. He sniffed and proceeded down the slender path and out into the rural farmlands.

The wilderness was completely silent, aside from the occasional chirp of a cricket and the sound of his own breathing. August was used to such quiet. He rarely spoke; aside from her and her servicemen, he never had anyone to talk to. Part of him wanted to whistle, maybe even hum a bit, just so he could hear his voice again. However, the silhouette of the old man's house had come within his range of sight, and so he kept quiet and bounded soundlessly through the soft grass until he reached the front door.

Picking the lock with precision, August heard a click, and the door slowly swung open without even a creak. He stepped in carefully and found himself in a small, dim kitchen, lit only by an oil lamp that was beginning to go out. August rolled his eyes. It was quite an absentminded thing to do, leaving an oil lamp burning in the dead of night. The idiot's entire home would catch fire if the lamp was so much as bumped off the counter where it sat, and August couldn't finish his work if the man burned to death. He extinguished the lamp with a sigh and then walked up the stairs cautiously in case he happened to tread on a squeaky plank. Before long he found himself in the blacksmith's room, and he felt his heart stop in his chest. Although the man was retired, his walls were decorated with his proud smithery; well-crafted swords, an axe or two...assortments of weapons had been hung up with care, some that August couldn't recognize. He would be in trouble should the blacksmith wake; that it, if he was still strong enough to hold any of his creations. The pale figure lying in the room's single bed was thin, and his face was just as taut and hollow as August's. August crept over to where the man lay sleeping and reached into the leather pouch at his waist; from it, he pulled a small glass vial. The time had come.