[M] Runes

[Scottie]

Questions buzzed round her like flies. They were answered smugly as one of their group touched the water with his fingers. The Wanderer did not know what she had expected. An ice path, yes...but this was something else. Each small sign of power from her comrades shook her to her core. Trust was not something she felt with any of those that travelled with her and she was starting to doubt that she could hold her own against any of them. One tentative step out onto the ice was all she needed. She did not fear the water, she just didn’t want to slip and fall. Seeing the Mer tiptoe her way across the bridge and then slide into the darkness on her stomach….was fucking hilarious but the Wanderer kept her laughter to herself. The Mer seemed to disappear into the darkness. Maybe for good. Fingers crossed, the wanderer thought as she kept herself steady on the ice.

There. Subtle movement to her right, the shadow seemed to be slithering like a snake towards them. Her right hand crept up to her back, unhooking her pick as she attempted to keep her eyes on the ‘thing’ that was melting into the darkness. A word was poised on her lips, ready to alert the others when a thick vine wrapped itself around the leaders neck. Her left hand flew out in a vain attempt at grabbing the man. The crack was sickening, it echoed into her stomach. Before her mind could truly register the attack, something slithered around her ankle. Gripping tight enough that she felt the gentle kiss of pain embedding into her skin. A swear word that had been festering in her throat launched itself out into the cold air as the vine yanked her forward. Her hip made harsh contact with the ice. Panic soared through her and she crashed her pick down against the ice, embedding it deep and stopping the vine from tugging her easily into the murky water.

With her right hand tight around the handle of the pick, she reached down to tear the vine from her body. First touch of the bind had her reeling back. It was cold and slick to the touch. “Help..Fuck…” The harsh requests were accompanied by the sudden retreat of the vines. The wanderer rolled over and frantically pulled herself from the edge of the ice walkway. The pick was removed from the ice as if it were embedded in soft soil not solid ice. “What was that?” Her gaze was already scanning over the reeds that littered the water. “See if it was that fucking Mer...I swear…” Rage was pin pricking itself through her. They were corned by a force that they could not see. They could not pinpoint the next attack...and she hated it. The wanderer changed her stance, her right hand tight around the handle of her pick. The next attack would not catch her off guard but they needed to know what they were fighting and they needed that answer pronto.

[Azazeal849]

The Wanderer heard a loud splash from the darkness up ahead, as if someone else had flopped into the water. The only one further up the bridge from her was the mer Ambassador, but it was impossible to tell if she had been dragged in or dived in voluntarily. Either way, it was creating entirely too much noise.

The chill of the ice was sharp, burning through her sandals into her feet. The water churned at the edge of the conjured bridge, but there was no sign of the Archer, and no sign of an attacker casting their runes from among the shadowy reeds at the opposite bank. The Archer’s marching pack had split as he was dragged across the ice, spilling a bundled cloak and food parcels across the bridge. Several arrows had been overturned from his quiver, and three were bobbing in the angry water. One lay near Wanderer’s left foot, alongside a tiny purse that had vomited out a number of small, flat stones.

Even in the gloomy moonlight the stones seemed to shimmer; sparking with hatched lines, like letters that she couldn’t quite read. She knew that spark only too well. Runestones.

A louder, much closer splash slapped the water to her left, and she saw the Ambassador lunge half-out of the water with the Archer in her grip, her pale blue fingers tugging at the coils of seaweed that had wrapped around his limbs and throat.

“On the riverbed!” the mer managed to call out in warning.

The Archer’s neck seemed to be flopping at an unnatural angle, but the Wanderer did not get a proper look before both he and the mer were dragged back under the surface with another mighty splash.

[Price]

27 years prior

“Master...I don’t understand. What are you doing? What’s with the blindfold?” The nervous voice of an uncertain boy child inquired. Young Colvin had grown taller, and with his training, he had finally began to develop some muscle to his twig arms and scrawny frame. He stood, with feet shoulder length apart, knees slightly bent in proper fighting stance, before his master. A dark rag was tied to his face, covering his eyes. “It smells like piss!” A sudden cold and unforgiving backhand slapped across his face spinning his head to the side prompting a pained yelp from the boy.
“Language,” Came the reply from a stern but otherwise calm voice of an older man. The swordmaster looked down at Colvin, none to pleased.
“But piss isn’t eve---” Another crude slap went across his cheek before he could even finish his protest. His hand went to his now tender cheek as he yelped again.
“Now, today’s lesson,” the man began, completely ignoring the boy’s backtalk. “You’ve shown promise, boy. You have talent.”
“Thank you master,” the boy humbly accepted the rare praise.
“I have spent the last five years drilling you with the basics of combat...tactics, form, and sparring. You’re ready to progress. It’s time to take your raw talent and refine it,” said the master.
“How?” Colvin asked curiously.
The master paced slowly in a circle around the blindfolded child like a shark evaluating its potential prey. He unstrapped his sword hilt from his armor and withdrew the sword, still sheathed. Once he was face to face with the boy, he stopped suddenly.
“You must learn to fight by feel. Any warrior can hack and slash with a sword.” He explained. “A real swordmaster can duel in any environment under any circumstance for as long as he is needed.”
“So I’m blindfolded because---” Colvin was interrupted.
“Because a true swordsman can fight with his eyes closed.” The master finished the boy’s sentence for him.
“That’s crazy! How am I supposed to block if I can’t even---”
The master didn’t wait for the boy to finish his complaint before he sliced his sheathed sword into the boy’s side prompting Colvin to lose his balance and fall to the ground.
“Ow! Hey! Stop it! There’s no way I can---” Once again Colvin was interrupted as his master’s sword rained on him from above. This time, Colvin was able to block, but only because he had instinctively held his own sword in front of him when he landed.
“No more excuses. Don’t think. Feel.” The master said. “We will drill this everyday until you get it right a thousand times out of a thousand.”
---------------------
Present Day

The Wraith watched as his comrades fell under attack from snake-like vines. He should have expected this, an ambush from a sentry was all too predictable, and they had walked right into it. He quickly lowered his hood and unsheathed his swords, preparing for an attack from an unseen foe. A flicker of concern lit his concealed face as two were dragged into the water, one by the neck. He closed his eyes and prayed silently, grateful to his master for decades of training. It wasn’t pretty but he was managing to hold his own for the moment, dancing out of reach of a host of vines before slicing the weeds to size. He was just about to ask if anyone had seen their attacker when the Mer resurfaced from the water and shouted the location before being pulled back under. The agile swordsman sheathed his swords and dove into the murky water without a moment’s hesitation.

[Scottie]

Long strands of thin dark hair hung before her eyes, like weeds blocking her view. A harsh grumble left her lips as she pushed the hair back, plastering it to her skull. A deep aching started in her chest. It was a strange but oddly familiar feeling. The wanderer had felt it every time she had stumbled across a rune. It was like the magic called to her, demanded to be held in her palm. The Archer had been dragged to the murky depths, she already knew that his body would have not survived. Death was not new to her but it still held a dull sting.

A flicker of light to her left. By her feet. By her worn and dirty sandals. Pebbles that many men had shed blood for. Stones that hundreds had lost their lives for. They just lay there. The light held her gaze. She could have been easily dragged from the ice herself. The main stone that had fallen from the pouch held her attention, it’s size was similar to one that she knew well.

Dirt covered it. The lines were faint...they could have easily been the scratches of a pickaxe. It could have just been a pebble. A stone that had been rounded by an old stream. But it wasn’t just a pebble...it wasn’t just a stone. It had forced men to shed blood...many lost their lives for it….And it was hers. No. It had been his. Blood soaked fingernails scratched at the dirt. Her free hand messily wiped her cheek, smearing blood over pale skin. Screams of terror and rage infused shouts flooded the space around her but she was safe in the darkness for now. Her bones felt heavy, she was drained of all life but she knew she had many more fights before her. Thick blood dribbled from the axe by her feet but she ignored the stench, the screams, the panic in her chest...she just concentrated on the faint scratched symbol. Running her fingernail over it again and again.

Water sprayed over her face bringing her violently back to the present. The Mer screeched to them. “On the riverbed.” The Archer was in her tight grip but life was surely no longer in his body. The unsheathing of swords beside her had her feet plant themselves on the ice. She expected an attack on land to follow the one from the depths. The attack turned out to be one of her comrades diving into the water. “Fuck.”

It took no more hesitation. The wanderer bent and scraped the stones up into her grubby palm.

She felt a needle prick in her fingertip, like a spark had just jumped between the stone and her hand. The spark danced up her arm, unfolding like electric origami inside her head and etching letters of fire behind her eyes. And she knew, just as surely as if she had always known, that if she focused her gaze just so she could see through the darkness as though it was day, and count the fronds on the reeds a hundred yards away. It was as easy as breathing, as easy as thinking.

Her gaze lost focus for a brief moment, then she was back. The stones were pushed back into the pouch and the wanderer frantically tied them to her belt. “On the riverbed” The words echoed through her skull. Another body in the water would be a disadvantage to them. The dirt of the river bed was swirling through the murky water. A deep breath rattled from her chest as she bent on one knee. Her left hand hovered over the water. Concentration forced her brow to furrow, producing even more deep set wrinkles. The silt slowly listened to her, moving as she wished. She could see the Wraith...she could see the Mer...she could clear the way...she could help them see her, laying there on the riverbed.

[Azazeal849]

The Weaver giggled to herself, squinting her rune-enhanced eyes to better watch her victims as they thrashed around blindly atop their ice bridge. A push of willpower sent more ropes of seaweed twisting up from the riverbed - sprouting, blossoming, snaring. The blonde kid bought himself a moment’s respite by popping out of his restraints with some kind of fire spell, but she had to admit that she was most impressed by the swordsman who sliced his way free of her seaweed ropes with no runecraft whatsoever.

Oh ho, you want to play a game, Mr Knife Guy? I like games. I tend to win them.

That was all runes were when it came down to it - a game, like children playing with burning sticks. No sense of how it worked or why, just that it made a pretty light and was liable to burn your hand off. She had been a simple travelling wizard, once - rejuvenating people’s crops for them through the dusty dry seasons. She had even done it for free, until a village on the Ash border had thrown their money at her to protect them from a pair of rogue mages who had gotten their hands on a fire rune.

She had even tried to reason with the two when they came skipping along, throwing fireballs left and right. Just bratty little kids with sticks. They hadn’t listened of course, because the villagers were Ashmen, and all Ashmen were evil heretic snake-eaters.

She had learned two things that day. Firstly, that growing stalks of rice and redcreeper was significantly less fun than pulling people’s heads off with them. And secondly, that she was going to stop hiring herself out for free; because even if you thought you were helping a good guy, someone else was going to think that they were a bad guy and get pissy about it. If they knew that the people had bribed you for your aid, at least they couldn’t accuse you of playing favourites.

The Leveler bribed extremely well.

Not only that, but she had given Weaver the extremely cushy job of just chilling down by the River, and vine-wrapping any Lightmen who tried to flee the siege. She had even gifted Weaver the touch of her own water-breathing rune to help. Now granted, Weaver would not have left the job of blockading the River solely to admiral Connor either - sure, it was better to have the reavers fighting for them rather than the Lightmen, and his knowledge of the waterways was better than any of the Ash captains...but unfortunately he was also an abrasive, lazy twit, who had been given the Black Spot by every other self-respecting pirate along the coast (and the Black Dick by every self-respecting floozy).

No doubt he was ashore chasing camp followers at this very moment, instead of helping his crewmen watch the waterways for fugitives like the ones Weaver was currently nabbing. Never mind; she was actually rather enjoying herself.

Her opponents had runes - she knew that from the moment the blonde one had cast his clever little ice bridge. But they were fighting blind. She could see in the dark, breathe underwater, and control a host of seaweed vines. You didn’t need to be a creepy tentacle fetishist to guess how this was going to end.

At least, that was what she thought until she heard a rattling series of clicks cut through the water.

At first she thought it was a dolphin, but dolphins never swam up the River past the Light city harbour. As she looked up, Weaver saw the red-haired woman still kicking the water as she tried to pull the dead man free of Weaver’s seaweed vines - except she was no longer kicking legs, but a long, silver fish tail.

Oh. Crap.

Weaver gaped behind her bubble mask. It didn’t make any sense - the Enlightened Ones’ holy war had driven the Mer back into the sea decades ago, and if the creepy shapeshifters were going to reappear now, surely it wouldn’t be to help the very nation that had declared a bloody pogrom against their species? But if they were suddenly stepping in on the Lightmen’s side, then Leveler was no longer the only one who -

Don’t be afraid of me. Be afraid of him.

The voice in Weaver’s head wasn’t her own, and it certainly didn’t flow from her own train of thought. It was a singularly unpleasant experience, and it almost made her lose control of her seaweed vines. Shaking her head to clear the painful flash that had whited out her vision, she saw that Mr Knife Guy had dived into the river and was swimming down towards her with his very long and very sharp swords strapped across his back. He didn’t even have a face, just an evil iron mask.

“Oh fuck off!” Weaver shouted into her bubble, and wrapped one of the ropes of seaweed around her own wrist to slingshot herself away from the terrifying man with his fucking mask and his fucking swords.

She breached the surface like a spectacularly ungraceful seal, the rune-cast bubble around her head popping as she landed with a splash among the reeds by the water’s edge. She scrambled up, coughing and spitting out cold, silty river-water.

Bugger Mr Knife Guy and his friends. She had to tell Leveler about the Mer - she had to tell her right fucking now.

* * * * * *

“On the riverbed!”

She could clear the way...she could help them see her, laying there on the riverbed.

“On the riv-...where on the fucking riverbed?” Solar was raging next to Wanderer. A sheen of white light glinted across his eyes and his fingers frosted over as he wrestled with one of the seaweed coils. The plant twisted and stiffened as the water inside its fleshy body froze solid. “Let me get the little shit! I’ll stab them ’til they’re more holey than the fucking Enlightened!”

There was a mighty splash off to their left, as something launched out of the water and landed in another eruption of spray among the reeds. The Ash mage emerged coughing, and started to claw her way up the bank towards the army camp.

“Oh my gods!” Illusion gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. “It’s the Weaver! She’s one of the Leveler’s mercenaries!”

“She’s a bitch who’s about to get knocked the fuck out!” Solar shouted as he started running full tilt towards the exposed mage.

[Price]

Mr. Knife Guy was not a particularly swift swimmer, even less of one with the wet armor weighing him down like an anchor. Nevertheless he was making his way toward the vine witch, with lethal intent in his eyes behind the mask. The Mer was closer to their foe than him, but he noticed that she did not seem to be taking any acts of aggression on her own, as if she was leaving that job to him. As he swam closer, he heard the witch yell something that seemed to be directed at him, but it was garbled and unintelligible with the bubble mask covering her mouth. Now that she was closer, the Wraith got his first proper look at the woman, even if the murky water still obscured her a bit. She was not what he had expected, looking far less rugged than he had imagined and younger still. She seemed almost too young to be caught up in this business of bloodshed. Even still, as pitiful and regrettable as it was, the fact remained that she needed to pay for her sins.

Just as he was closing in on her, the woman slungshot her away just out of his reach, his hand grasping for her ankle but coming up empty. ‘Damn!’ he thought. How would the battle turn out now that she breached the surface? Would his failure to capture her beneath the water cause more of his comrades to be slain? The Wraith refused to allow his own incompetence to be anyone else’s undoing, swimming back to the surface with as much speed as he could muster beneath the weight of his armor.

[Scottie]

The enemy mage that Illusion had called the Weaver was busy scrambling up the near bank of the river, fighting the dragging robes that clung to her legs. Reeds twisted and bent aside of their own accord to get out of the mage’s way, and several of them sprouted and twisted together to form a rope that she grasped to pull herself up the bank. She was already shouting at the top of her voice, trying to get the attention of the distant army camp.

“Weaver!” Illusion yelled over her. She was channelling some kind of rune which made her skin radiate silver, glowing in pale relief against the gloomy river.

The enemy mage almost slipped back down her rope as she turned towards the unexpected hail. Wanderer saw her cease shouting to gape at the Ash turncoat, as Illusion had no doubt intended. As a consequence she almost missed Solar pelting towards her, until the youth revealed himself in a burst of yellow and red as he conjured fire between his hands.

“Get wrecked, bitch!”

The fireball left his hands and jousted forward, forcing the Weaver to let go of her rope and splash back into the water to avoid it. The fireball hit the bank and burst like a firework, raining sparks. The Weaver reached out a hand and snatched it into a fist, pulling back. A loop of overgrown seaweed hooked out of the river and swept Solar’s feet from under him, causing him to fall with a curse and vanish beneath the water.

The Weaver resumed her scrambling climb up onto the bank. Wraith and the Ambassador resurfaced some distance behind, but they were too far away to intervene.

The cloth around Weaver’s legs seemed to be on their side, thick robes dragging her backwards towards the water like the claws of an underwater demon. One of the Leveler’s mercenaries. The Wanderer had figured that, who else would have such power to throw them off their path? Certainly, there were plenty of simple growing runes to be found across the Valley. They were used mostly by agricultural wizards, though a few who didn’t care about burning out their nerves actively weaponised them. Clearly this Weaver was one of them. She dipped her hand into the water and then brought herself to standing. Flicking the water out forced small ripples to bounce towards the scrambling mess of a “Weaver”. There was some pale illusion rippling on the water, and a single glance to her left told her that the newcomer had runes of their own.

The Wanderer could only watch as the hot-head child rushed the Weaver. Fireworks...wow...Good idea. The laugh that shot from her lips was probably far too loud. She just couldn’t contain it, seeing Solar land harshly on his back was fucking funny. She let the others deal with the soaked child as she plucked up her axe and tossed it in her grip.

She couldn’t risk losing the axe...but the arrows bobbing in the water by her were expendable. The enemy mage continued to scramble up the bank, her fingers digging into the dirt as her hoarse cries continued. That needed to stop. No more screaming. The arrows were sodden but they would do. Her gaze flicked up to the woman who was nearing the top of the bank.

A deep breath left her dry cracked lips and she let a familiar warmth soar through her chest. Her grip tightened on the arrow as she waited for the woman to pause in her struggle up to dry ground. The Weaver scrambled to the top of the bank, stumbled once, and huffed out a breath. She spun round to check if any of the others were on her tail, hands raised ready to cast, but instead her eyes simply fell on Wanderer.

Panting, the enemy mage stared at her; dark hair plastered to her head, olive skin creasing around her eyes as she squinted at the arrow cocked in Wanderer’s hand.

“You must be fucking joking.” she blurted in staccato Ash.

Hands were spread out before her, she was ready to attack. The Wanderer stayed still for a moment as the Weaver frantically scanned her over. Another deep breath left her lungs and she let her hand pull back, before using all her might to fling the arrow through the air. The arrow whistled from her grip with rune-cast strength, screaming through the air towards the Weaver.

The second arrow was plucked from the water and after a sharp shake to remove any excess water, it joined its sister in the air. The Wanderer’s aim was not half bad, she prided herself on that at least.

The Weaver looked down at the two arrows protruding from her chest.

“Oh.” she deadpanned, and fell flat on the riverbank.

The Wanderer sucked in a short breath through her teeth as the enemy mage fell forwards truly embedding the arrows in her chest. Death was never glamourous, she had never witnessed someone fall asleep and merely never wake up...life always had a violent ending. Blood started to mix with the mud that was creeping back down the hill towards the waters edge. But blood did not mean death. The wanderer felt water droplets dribble from her fingers as she headed towards the fallen mage.

From the camp beyond came the sound of shouted orders and alerts, and newly-lit torches were dancing. Somewhere upriver, an Ash warship was blowing a warning horn.

“We need to go.” Illusion urged, threading past Wanderer and pulling up the Ambassador, who was still floating in the dark water. The mer seemed to be bowed over Archer’s body, as if reciting some kind of prayer. Wanderer saw the shadow of a long fishtail waving beneath the surface, but as Illusion pulled the mer onto the rune-cast bridge, it was a human leg she hooked up onto the ice.

Archer’s lifeless body bobbed away on the current.

Others brushed past her towards the Mer who seemed huddled over the Archer. Life left that man as soon as he hit the water. No words were given by the Wanderer, for nothing she could utter would be close to the prayers that the Mer spoke. Instead, the Wanderer concentrated on the spluttering live idiot who was near the water's edge. She twisted one hand in the material of his jacket and plucked him from the water with ease. The strength within her would last only a short while longer.

“Move. Now.” She told him bluntly as he started with the many excuses to why he had failed. “Dammit, that cheap shot came from my right! Still can’t see out of that eye!” She let him fall harshly onto the mud as she continued up to the Weaver. No movement. The Wanderer sniffed as she crouched beside the corpse. One arrow had pierced through the flesh and now stood proudly in her back. That was all the evidence she needed, grubby fingers tugged at the bracelet around the Weavers wrist and deposited the twine wound ornament in her pocket.

The cries of nearby soldiers floated towards them. This fight was not yet over.

[Azazeal849]

The wind had picked up, snapping at the Leveler’s gown like an angry dog at her heels. It pulled at the torches in the soldiers’ hands, stretching the yellow pools of light that flickered across the ground. Ahead, orders flew back and forth in clipped Ash.

Someone had pushed upriver and crossed the siege line under the cover of darkness. Someone had slipped the net.

Spearmen were fanning out across the bank to form a cordon, some of them standing knee-deep in the brackish riverwater. Many of them looked drawn and tousled from sleep, rubbing at their gummy eyes as they moved. A longship with oars retracted had dropped anchor in the centre of the stream, its mast a black spear in the moonlight. Bronze-armoured marines were splashing ashore, and the Leveler recognised the thickset admiral Connor among them. He was unarmoured, and unarmed save for a sword-belt that had been hastily cinched over his tunic. The torchlight deepened the dark circles under his eyes, making the former pirate look like a corpse. Clearly, he had not been awake and on duty when the alarm came.

“Urgh.” the Leveler heard him groan as his men helped him up onto the riverbank. “Gods, I hate this feeling.”

“Sobriety?” the Leveler suggested tartly as she drew level with him.

The admiral lowered the hand that was massaging his brow and gaped defensively. “This wasn’t my fault!”

The Leveler bit her tongue. True or not, she disliked the immediate attempt at deflection. “I’m not trying to pin this on you.” she reassured tonelessly. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of it.”

“Well stop looking for me there!”

The Leveler dismissed him with a gesture, before the urge to fling him back to his ship on a fireball’s coat-tails became too strong.

“My lady!” a voice hailed from further along the riverbank, “Over here!”

The Apprentice had been inspecting the picket line when the alarm came, and had arrived on the scene before her. Blademaiden and Redmoor were with him. The three were clustered around a slumped bundle of robes, lying in the mud at the top of the near bank. Two arrows jutted from the bundle, each planted at the centre of a dark red circle stained into the fabric. The Apprentice raised his hand as the Leveler approached, casting a sphere of white light over the casualty.

“Oh.” the Leveler said coldly, when she realised who it was. “I see.”

She stretched out a foot and nudged the Weaver’s face to turn her lolling head. The dead woman’s eyes were still open; she looked surprised.

The Leveler chewed the inside of her cheek, slowly. It was she who had set the Weaver to patrolling the river. A simple job for a simple mercenary. Too simple, as it turned out. Still, better a mercenary slain than one of her inner circle. Mercenaries followed her for gold, and gold was fickle. The Ashmen followed her because they believed.

Still, this should not have happened - and her followers knew it.

The Blademaiden went to one knee beside Weaver’s corpse, bowing her head respectfully. The Apprentice was biting his lip, as if he might weep. The Leveler did not have that luxury, even if she had been that way inclined. She clenched her fist. Someone had slipped the net.

Another gust of wind, this one more like a breath hissed out through fanged teeth, brushed past the Leveler as a pillar of smoke coiled up from further down the riverbank and reformed beside her. The smoke shredded away and the Dark Man stepped out of it, dumping a second body at her feet.

“I found this one washed up a little further down.” the mage whispered. With his ragged hood cowling his head, even the Apprentice’s rune-cast light seemed unable to chase the shadows away from his cadaverous face.

The Leveler tilted her head downward. She saw a dead man who had been tall and rangy, with salt-and-pepper hair now bedraggled by the water that had enveloped his corpse. It wasn’t hard to tell how he had died - his head hung at an ugly angle off his shoulders. A leather quiver was slung across his back, empty after spilling its contents into the river. Here’s our killer.

“A bowman?” Redmoor growled. At his side, his curled fingers were ticking against his palm. “A common fucking bowman killed a mage?”

“No.” The Leveler extended an arm, pointing to the riverbank a few metres away. Near to where the reeds had twisted themselves into a rope at the runes’ command, other plants were blackened and scorched. “Fire runes. A fire mage wouldn’t bother with arrows. There were two of them, perhaps more.”

“And she fought them alone?” Redmoor shook his head. “What would you say is the height of stupidity?”

“I don’t know,” Leveler heard the Blademaiden mutter as she rose cat-like back to her feet. “How tall are you?”

The Leveler silenced their bickering with an upraised hand, before Redmoor could retaliate.

At least one mage. Deserters? Surely not one of the Enlightened…

“We need to find out where they went.” she asserted. “Someone go fetch the Hole.”

Redmoor winced. “Oh gods, not her.”

Her lieutenant's unease wasn’t exactly unfounded, the Leveler mused. For a start, no self-respecting mage would ever call themself the Hole. But there were some runes that changed the caster’s...perspective, and some of those more than others. And besides, even if the Tracker might have made for a more respectable name, it wouldn’t have masked the mage’s other eccentricities.

Either way, the Leveler was in no mood for argument.

“Do you have a better idea?” she countered, sharply. “Come morning, I’ll need the rest of you here. Now do as I command.”

Turning on her heel, the Leveler began to stride back towards the camp. Whoever had slipped past the siege lines and slain the Weaver, she could not allow herself or her agents to be distracted from their true objective. The Enlightened City loomed ahead of her, the great marble pyramid at its centre silhouetted in the moonlight. The breach that Redmoor had carved in the city’s eastern wall was still clearly visible. The Leveler smiled tightly.

She was crossing the staked ditch at the perimeter of her camp when the Burning One accosted her.

“What is it?” she asked her hulking lieutenant.

The Burning grinned, and the scars across his face turned the expression into something nightmarish. “Someone to see you, m’lady.”

* * * * * *

“That was much too close.” Solar grumbled. Most of the others were conserving their breath as the ground sloped steadily upwards, but somehow the younger mage still found the energy to complain. “And we lost Archer too.”

Padding along beside him, the Ambassador just shrugged her thin shoulders, as if to say that their comrade’s death was just an expected part of life. The snake-priests had always preached that the mer had a twisted view of life, death and time. Then again, perhaps their companion was just preoccupied at being so far from water.

They had come many kilometres; half-crawling, half-floating through the rice paddies, dashing in stops and starts between dusty-dry hedgerows, and finally breaking into a full run once a fold in the ground concealed them from the torches gathering beside the river. They had not stopped until the sounds and smells of the army camp were far behind them, and now the Enlightened City itself had vanished as they wound their way up into the hills.

The sun had risen and was already beating down with a vengeance, turning the old mud track into cracked brick beneath their feet. Once this had been a miner’s road, and blood had oozed down into the fissured clay as Lightmen and Ashmen and Risemen fought to command access to the mountain mines. But no runes had been dug out of the ore seams here for decades, and so the Rise and Ash armies had pulled back - unwilling to spend lives for mere iron and tin that could be mined much closer to home. There were no more runes to be found up here, it seemed.

Well, there had been stories of one rune…

Less than half a year ago, the mineworkers had come racing down into the outer slums of the Enlightened City, raving about a glowing pebble that had consumed one of their friends in blue fire, burning his eyes right out of his skull. The question was on all their minds: was this the same runestone that the Illusion had warned them about? The Greater Moonstone she had called it. If runes truly were pieces of the shattered gods, as the snake-priests taught, then this was a piece of the elder moon god - with his power to create, and recreate, and reform.

Only the mer had ever had the power to change their forms. For a human to claim any kinship with those godless creatures was blasphemy - or so the Enlightened had thundered from atop their pyramid, three generations ago at the height of their War of Faith.

Blasphemy or not, if such a rune existed then anyone who touched it would be a god among men. What was age, to someone who could reshape and rejuvenate their own flesh? What was the cut of a blade, or the piercing of an arrow? What was the blindness and the shaking and the burned-out nerves - the eventual curse of all mages - to someone who could reknit and reverse any wound?

It had been enough to draw both the Leveler and the Immortal, and the two most powerful mages in the Valley had apparently had it out atop this very mountain. In the end, the Immortal’s name had proven false, and the Leveler had claimed the prize.

But what kind of prize had she claimed? Even the mer could not ignore that question, it seemed. The Ambassador glided alongside them with silent steps, sea-blue eyes fixed ahead and keeping her own council.

They met no-one else on the road. Even the Lightmen had abandoned the hills now. The miners who had trudged up and down this road mere months ago had all fled, seeking shelter in the Enlightened City from the Leveler and her advancing army. With their enemies gone, the Ashmen had clearly seen no reason to guard the mines either. They were focused on the prize of the Enlightened City itself.

Perhaps the assault that the enemy mages had promised was already beginning.

The going got harder as they sloped relentlessly upward. Unmaintained, the road was being reclaimed by weeds and thorns, and in places the baked clay underfoot changed to treacherous slopes of loose scree.

Winding up through spurs and gullies, they eventually came to a plateau where new-cut stone and piles of ore lay in abandoned heaps. The wind plucked at the dry ground, sending miniature dust devils twirling and chasing each other around their feet. Reaching out with his runecraft, the Raven could sense the faded red glare of a past rune-battle. The traces were months old, but so powerful that they lingered even now. Part of the trace seemed to be thrumming from beneath their feet, deep within the mountain itself.

“We need to go down the mines?” Illusion asked when the other mage told them.

“A problem, perhaps.” the Ambassador chimed in, folding her blue-tinted arms.

The others could see what she meant. The entrance to the mineshaft was blocked, covered by a pile of rocks that could only have been collapsed by powerful runecraft.

[Minkasha]

Following down the river, Cara was an interesting sight to see in the night. Her hair had its own illumination, in a quiet competition with the night sky above. The flow of her dreads covering a fast depth of twinkling space the row man almost got lost staring into. Cara’s only returning expression was ever a smile, not touched by these realities which bothered others. What did affect her was the Leveler finding purpose for her now.

The Hole was experiencing a sense of pride, belonging. Being called to the front lines of her liberation. The bobbing boat was stopped by a row stabbed into the mud. Nothing about her entrance was ceremonial. Where ever she went, Cara noticed people were not there to greet her. Like the stars in her hair, she was to be looked at but kept far away. The Hole might find it acceptable if the Leveler said that is what it was required. Often it seemed the Leveler’s silence and distance suggested that.

But for now, opportunity to see the leader of the liberation and everyone else!

“Thank you” The mixed Lightmen and Ashmen woman told the soldier who took her this far. To cross the ditch Cara did by herself, earning more stairs at the sight of her sparkling hair, eyebrows and even eyelashes. She dove for the hart of the camp, swaying her hips and glancing around without worry of the others. She poked into tent, one into the next without grace or tact until she found the Leveler’s, ignoring her patrols and sticking her head inside. “HELLO? YOUR HOLE IS HERE MY LADY! YOUR LOYAL HOLE READY TO SERVE YOU!”

[Scottie]

Their escape was all too familiar a journey. Dirt caked her fingernails, nettles stung her ankles and then the frantic dash for safety. Fearing the lights that floated just out of view. It was physically and emotionally draining. The wanderer wanted nothing more than to rest. Every passing minute had her regretting answering the pitiful request of the Enlightened City.

Sweat gathered in every crease of skin, dirt lines were etched into her forehead as the sun relentlessly bore down on them. The wanderer kept silent. Her words were of no use to her comrades now. They had lost one of their own and she had brought the harsh end to an enemy. Death was nothing new to her. She greeted it like an old friend. It was not the first time she had killed someone...nor would it be the last. The first were revenge driven kills. She wanted to bathe in their blood, she wanted them to suffer and know pain like she knows pain.

But this was different. This was someone attacking her group...and she took on a protective role. Yes, she could convince herself it was to protect only herself...but deep down she knows that she did it for them all. Life was something so easily taken by that monster, she had cracked the Archer’s neck against the ice like it was all a game. Still, the wanderer did feel a little flicker of pleasure in watching the Weaver’s shocked expression before her face hit the mud.

Fatigue gnawed at her, every step felt heavy and she desperately needed to rest. It had only been for a brief moment that she used the rune that lay against her skin...but it was enough to wind her for part of the day. The landscape changed but she paid little attention to it. Once upon a time, she had looked upon it with awe. Every tree was viewed with wide eyes, every body of water had her peering in for her reflection...she cared little for it now. The joy had left her quickly when she realised how many enemies hid in the green...how many enemies hid beneath the murky water.

“We need to go down the mines?”

Her eyes drifted back into focus, forced out of her thoughts by a dreadful suggestion. A mineshaft...blocked by rubble...good. “I am not going down there. We’ll find another way.” The wanderer stated bluntly. Dropping herself onto a nearby flat shaped, she let the axe hit the dirt and rested the handle against her thigh. Weary green eyes scanned the group before her, stopping on the Mer who seemed to be rather annoyed at the closed mine. “You.” She nodded at the Mer. “These were on the fallen Archer and the enemy. Keeping them to myself doesn’t seem right...not when I know where they came from. Either look after them yourself or divide them amongst us. I care little what you decide.”

Her hand lay outstretched with the small muddy bag of runes that the Archer had left and the band of runes that the Weaver had worn. Yes, she had already touched the precious runes. Holding them tightly in her grip as she feared losing them, something that people were easily killed for. She walked along those that yearned for power, carrying another piece of the puzzle that would lead them to that power. She had let questions swirl around her skull the entire journey here. Should she keep them for herself? Throw them away….NO, that was just stupid! Should she give them out to the others...no she didn’t trust them to truly share and not use them against her...not just yet. The Mer. She didn’t trust the Mer as far as she could throw her (which was rather far for a rather scrawny looking wanderer). But the Mer was feared by most of them here...or at least a little respected. She would know what to do with the runes.

“Take them.”