Runemaster 8

Death walked boldly down the streets of Eidholm. His long back hair trailed behind him as if tossed by a non-existent wind, for even the wind died in his wake. The cobbles crumbled at the touch of his feet, and a dark miasma surged out from beneath his crimson robe, driving all caught within the black cloud to commit horrendous deeds before their own gruesome deaths.

A blind pauper begged his mercy and received it, the final mercy of all sufferers, delivered by the blunt rejection of a passerby. The noble who'd beat him to death moved onward through the death-cloud without a thought, imbibing his own doom a sip at a time. Brothers bloodied knives over minor disputes. Mothers buried infants before their time.

Disease and despair crushed all who fell beneath the gaze of Death's all-searching eye. Blood and carnage, wickedness and ruin, reigned.

Such were the old wives' tales across the kingdom, but Nyssha didn't believe a word of it. Life was suffering and pain, each life the means to the same inevitable end. The weak would always suffer, and the strong would be the cause. The best she could do was strive against inevitability and hopefully eke out a bit more power than she started with.

To that end, she'd skulked and scavenged, wandered and wept, until she finally found herself standing before an unassuming gate that barred access to a stairway descending into darkness. As she gazed beyond it, she could feel something stirring within her, a flutter of excitement coupled with the instinct to flee from the being she'd come here to meet.

The Wylder was a legend among the street dwellers of Farrin. It was a living shadow that roamed the city to steal what it wanted and shared its bounty with those it deemed worthy. Even the "worthy" had never seen its face, though; they awoke after a night of strange dreams to find a bag of silver coins and a smooth, gray stone engraved with the word, "worthy." The stone compelled the thieves and beggars who found it to seek their would-be patron, and most were never seen again. Those that were seen again were dressed in flowing silks and fopped-up hairdos that belied their humble origins. And so the saying went, "Wherever the Wylder calls, wealth is sure to follow."

Now, it was Nyssha's turn, but she wasn't so naïve as to think that anything would come for free. When she'd awoken with the silver and stone, she'd resisted the call for nearly a week, making the same preparations for her date with the Wylder as she would for any dangerous job. Her lockpicks, rope, and hooded lantern were a must, as well as her trusty dagger. She'd never had to stab anyone, but it was great for getting out of all sorts of scrapes.

Her usually bright red hair was greased up to look a deep brown, the better to blend in with the shadows, and she wore soft black clothing that would muffle the sounds of her movements. She tied her hair in a tight bun beneath her hood and patted her pockets filled with useful trinkets that might help her in a pinch. Then, with a final deep breath, she was ready to go.

Nyssha turned to the heavy iron gate and took a moment to observe. The gate was clean and unrusted, despite its position in a graveyard. Unlike the facade of the crypt they were in, the stones of the steps were not crumbling. Someone had even swept them clean, making the place more inviting than you'd expect from the final resting place of the dead.

Nyssha easily unlocked the gate and pushed it open after checking for any common traps. She imagined, not for the first time, being blown to smithereens by a magical trap that she had no way of detecting. But she'd been invited here, so they weren't going to kill her without a chance, right?

She crept carefully down the stairwell, pulling out her hooded lantern once the passage became too dark to see. It let off an eerie green light, courtesy of a glowing chunk of rock that was trapped inside. The curious rocks were mined nearby and were rare enough that most people still used torches and candles to light up the world. Nyssha had been fortunate enough to stumble upon this one in a noble's home, which the fop had graciously donated to her cause. He might be ignorant of his philanthropy, but Nyssha appreciated it all the same.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped to listen. Rats scurried about aimlessly, the pitter-patter of their passage comforting in the quiet tomb. And it was a tomb. Nyssha found herself in a corridor lined on both sides with alcoves containing the remains of the dead. The wealthy dead, no doubt. But money couldn't stop the passage of time or the rate of decay.

That brought to mind the stories of Death, and she laughed at the thought. Sometimes, it seemed that Death was the only just god, meting out both mercy and punishment in one fell stroke.

Too bad he was a jerk, too. He'd taken her parents, and for that, she'd never forgive him. As far as she was concerned, the score for Death's justice was at a net zero, if that much.

Suddenly, the sound of laughter drifted down the stairs, and she focused on distancing herself from the exit, just in case someone was looking for her. She probably shouldn't have nabbed that sweet roll on the way, but she she'd been hungry. Besides, it was the street seller's fault, turning his back on such a treat.

She started down the passage keeping close to the walls. She covered her lantern and paused to listen each time she approached an intersection. A tugging in her pocket guided her each time, and she wondered at her surroundings as she progressed deeper and deeper into the crypt.

The environment grew more and more grim. The entrance had housed the noble dead, regally adorned—so much so that Nyssha barely held herself back from stealing some of the crypt-cursed gold—but within the depths, the gilded adornments were replaced with busts and statues depicting the twisted agony of the damned. In the lantern's green glow she couldn't be sure, but it seemed that crimson drops flowed from their eyes.

She'd seen worse, she told herself. After all, nobles had all sorts of weird whims and the wealth to see them realized. Still, this place seemed a temple of Death in the choice of decor. But who would be stupid enough to worship death? To Nyssha, that seemed a lot like begging for death. Knocking at Death's door, at least.

Lost in thought, she almost missed the sound of scuffling feet as she approached another intersection. At the last moment, though, she flicked the lantern's hood shut and pressed herself flat against the wall. She had to force her breathing to slow as she waited at the corner, listening.

She could recognize the sound of two sets of footsteps, one heavy and plodding, the other lazily sliding across the stone floor. As the footsteps grew closer, Nyssha began to make out whispers.

"I tell you, there ain't no gold in it. They's just gonna sell us for slaves or summat as'd get 'em stuffed in the purse," a weaselly voice declared. "Best I reckon, they got plenty of our ilk last few years. What'd they need us for?"

A terse grunt was his only reply, followed by some choice curses from the first voice as the footsteps came to a stop just around the corner. "Whassat? Why'd ya stop, ya big—"

There was a thud of the grunter presumably smacking the talker, and a deep voice answered, "Have you just always got to talk? You never know who could be listening, ya twig-brained blighter." At that, Nyssha felt someone pass into the intersection, and she held her breath.

"Hey! Is you callin' me dumb?"

"If only I could, but you've proved you're not dumb. Just an idjit."

Nyssha would've thought that funny, if it weren't for the apparently burly stranger standing mere feet away. Two silver pinpricks suddenly peered out of the darkness, not with a light she could see by, but with something hiding in their depths, devouring the darkness around them. If it weren't for the complete blackness around her, she could have sworn he was staring right at her. But that wasn't possi—

"Lucky for you, she's one of us." A chill ran up Nyssha's spine. The points of light winked out, and the deep voice continued, "Come on out, girl."

Nyssha gulped and prepared to run, but as she turned, she ran into someone and felt long-fingered hands gripping her arms tightly. She struggled not to scream in the face of her sudden capture. How had he gotten around her?

"Calm it down, girly. We ent here teh hurt ye. Jus' want a little intel, if ye will," the other man breathed in her face. This time, Nyssha failed to hold in a desperate, gagging cough, for the man's breath was rancid, like he'd never seen a mintstick in his life, let alone chewed one.

Air rushed past her face, and there was another smack before she found her arms freed as the man crumpled to the floor. A gentle hand found her back in the darkness and held her steady as she finished coughing.

"Sorry about Jost," came the deep voice by her shoulder, "He was raised by rats and weened on stupid juice. Never learnt a lick of manners."

Her erstwhile captor groaned as he got to his feet. "Ow! Would yeh stop hittin' me a'ready? I ent hurtin' her, 'n ye knows it."

It was laughable, but it seemed that her surprise companions truly meant her no harm. Once she got herself under control, she straightened, reached for her lantern, and got her first look at the motley pair.

One was just as she'd pictured him: tall, with spindly limbs and oily skin. It had only taken the sound of his voice for Nyssha to name him Rat in her mind, but after the other man's apology, it was now her permanent name for him.

The other man had the fair skin and features of a man around her age, but he certainly held himself more maturely than his counterpart. And he was big. He wasn't exactly tall, about Nyssha's size, but every inch of him was loaded with muscle, poorly hidden beneath clothes that should have been baggy.

Both of them wore the dirty, disheveled clothing of the common street thugs Nyssha had always avoided. Those types dealt in dirty, rough work, and they weren't exactly known for being circumspect. While running in noble circles (or, at least, running nobles in circles), she had frequently witnessed the handoff of coins between the wealthy and various street thugs.

The big man apparently noticed something in her expression, for he rolled his eyes and commented, "Look, Jost, now she's judging us. How surprising." He turned away from her and began walking down the hallway in the same direction Nyssha's magic stone was telling her to go, "She's not a threat, so let's just get moving. Who knows what this Wylder wants?"

Recognition dawned on Nyssha, and she called out for them to wait. "You're here for the Wylder, too? What do you know about him?"

Jost, the thug formerly known as Rat, trailed after his companion with an awkward gait. "Yeesh, Yarrel. Look," he said, "She ent got much, but this might come in nice in a pinch." He held up his hand, and he held a small dagger in his hands. Her dagger.

"Hey!" she shouted, then chased after him, "That's mine!"

"Seems as what she don' know that 'carnal' rule you's always on about, Yarr," Jost said, effortlessly shifting the dagger out of the reach of a leaping, grasping Nyssha, "That bit 'bout finder's peepers."

Yarrel pinched the bridge of his nose and stopped, turning on his companion, "It's cardinal, for crying out loud... And why the blight would it be 'peepers'? Do you even realize what that means?" He sighed, clearly flustered.

Jost used the lull in conversation to respond to the rhetorical question, "Yeah, 'course I know. Peepers is these digs," he said, raising his hand and wiggling his fingers, "and alls it means is 'at the fingers which grabs it is the fingers that habs it."

It was at that point, as he smiled in smug satisfaction, that he let out a very unladylike yelp of pain and crumpled to the floor, Nyssha's foot having found its way between his legs while he was distracted. Nyssha picked up the dagger that fell to the ground with him, then ran back toward the intersection and disappeared into the darkness around a corner.

Yarrel's full-bellied laughter echoed through the halls after her.