Whispers drifted around him, low and unforgiving. Lies and deceit swarmed and buzzed like flies in his ears. He grimaced, rumors were never to his liking. Never had been. But it was his task to snuff anything out, no matter how pointless. And so, he listened. Listened closely. Ears all perked up, shoulders hunched, making himself unnoticeable.

The sun was stretching long shadows across the market street, warping faces, twisting gestures. Art grimaced, he disliked rumors.

“Why yes, Genny has been spending an awful lot of time with Thom recently.”

“Truly?”

Please, do tell me more.

Two wives squabbling over droopy vegetables.

“Murlock owes me five bits, still. If he doesn’t pay up soon…” Some drunk grumbled to himself, all dirty and slimy with mud and muck. You’ll do what? Go on, share your wildest thoughts.

“There have been sightings of torax again, near the farms. Those guards should stop bothering us, and get rid of those things instead!” One man said lowly. Angry enough to speak, too fearful to say it aloud. Careful, now. People might be listening.

“Yeah, they should. But they’re cowards, what do you expect? Besides, it’s more a job for hunters, Aint it?” His friend argued. “Them, or a slayer perhaps.”

“Bah! Slayers are nothing but bad news! Monsters is what they are! Why would you send one to fight another?” He shook his head stubbornly.

“We’ve fared well enough without those things up till now.” He was about to continue, but Art heard someone else speak.

“I’ve heard of card-shrine sightings to the north.” It was a merchant, decked out in satin robes. Blue and red. Pricy enough to buy any vendor twice over.

“They say a hex has been calling for them,” he continued, “they say… Them wildlings will be coming from over the northern teeth, the lot of them.”

“Who does?” some seller asked, worry written across his pink face.

“Why, my acquaintances, of course. They say a hex is there, near Iverburg. Plenty of bodies have been found, all pale, veins crawling across them.” He lowered his tone, and Art had to inch closer to hear what he said next.

“Eyes blue as lightning.” His grimace grew further. He didn’t know about the wildlings being called. But those corpses… He didn’t like any of it. Nor should anyone else.

A tingling sensation.

His head whipped around, cloak twirling around his shrouded figure. Many people, from lots of places, all here to trade goods. Except one. Or perhaps he came here to make a trade of a different kind.

The sharp scent came from a man in a simple tunic, brown and grey. Wool, as some wore in these parts to ward against the cold. Shifty movements. Nervous. But who wouldn’t be, when making the deal of a lifetime?

Tunic’s head swiveled around, frightened like a mouse. And I am the cat.

His target started moving towards a dark alley, out of sight of the busy street. Art followed him, brushing and flowing between merchants and traders like the chilly breeze.

The alley was dirty, some of the mud had clung on Tunic’s boots, making it easy enough to track. Not that it matters. Can’t escape this nose.

As he left the alley, a person bumped into him. The chainmail on Art’s armor tinkled slightly underneath the light cloak.

“My apolo-” the man started before turning bleak as mist. His eyes had crept down to the amulet, jingling from Art’s neck.

“By the gods, a tyran.” He mumbled with a shaky voice. Fear. it shook him like an earthquake. Enough to make him fall on his knees.

“Oh, master Tyran! Please forgive me! I hadn’t seen you, I swear!” He was screeching, high notes, lowly bowing.

People around them turned heads, raised eyebrows. Why, yes. A freak show for all to see.

The news spread like wildfire, with equal amount of panic. And of course, my friend knows, too.

And the man spun and ran. Pushing people to all sides, hurrying along the packed street. But I am faster.

Art spurted with a strange lightness to his step. At first glance, he would appear to be gliding along to muddy cobblestone, rather than sprinting across it.

He quickly shortened the distance, frowned to see Tunic throwing boxes and goods on the ground. A sorry attempt at a barricade. But fear brings out the strangest of behaviors in us, does it not? Hope and despair, coiling around his manic head can make anyone believe there is light at the end of the tunnel.

But he can’t escape me. No one could, after all.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

He vaulted the wood and the food with impeccable from – left hand on the hurdle, right foot outstretched, left foot underneath. It was textbook, but effective.

He flew over it, wind throwing of his hood. The sun caught his eyes, brown as the mud that clung to his boots. His dark hair was tangled and had gone unwashed for some days. Twirl in the wind, it did not.

Others?

He felt more people following him, some behind and one ahead. Strange, but not unusual.

The final alley in which Tunic turned was his downfall. Art turned the corner, his hand on the wood to keep his speed. Shit.

He ducked underneath the brick, felt it brush his greasy hair. Heard it crunch against the wall. Bits of stone and splinters of wood rained down on him.

He growled and pulled out the knife from his belt, its polish reflecting his scowl.

The fear had bit into Tunic now. He glanced at the shiny blade in the Slayer’s hand, undoubtedly holding a razor edge. Naturally.

Sweat trickled down the man’s forehead, thick and slow. His blue eyes darted around, looking for something. Anything. Eyebrow lifted, skittish grin on his face. Translucent teeth.

“Fuck!” Art cursed, snarling. He leapt forward, almost a blur. The man took a small bag of light blue powder from his sleeve, and bit down on it. The dust glittered and shimmered, dancing in the brisk air.

Tunic’s pupils dilated, and he smiled. Had a real taste for it, as they do after a while. Some words were spoken, a hand was raised, the space around it warped and wreathed, angry and twisted.

Art ground his teeth together and reeled away, his hand grasping the blade’s handle painfully tight. The spot where he stood shrieked like tearing metal, sharp and hurting. Art felt raw wood digging into his calf. Of course, Tunic had to aim down low.

He pivoted, biting through the pain, all his weight behind the mean point of his rugged blade. It sliced right through the man’s windpipe. Send blood spurting, voice gurgling, fingers clutching at nothing.

Art stood there, breathing slowly, clouds forming at his mouth. Feet wide, back bent, slightly crouched – ready to go again.

But his cut was true, and his edge fine. The man chocked on his own blood - thick and rich in color, and he fell on the harsh stone. Yet the smile never left him. It was etched into his skin. Carved into his bones. The smile of the addicted. Bloody dustbiters.

Art felt others drawing near, three of them. Slow and steady. They knew to be cautious. Because fighting a slayer is kicking death in the shins.

They stopped seven strides from him, keeping to the shadows. Two behind, one in the front. A fine pincer trap. If only I wouldn’t be standing in it.

Art shifted his balance, all on his hind foot, slick with his own blood. He grimaced. It would hurt, badly. His calf was already stinging something fierce. If it wasn’t for the jagged piece of wood, stuck firm into his flesh, his bones might’ve done something about that. But no fight is ever ideal, is it now?

“You have made a serious mess of this, haven’t you, Slayer?” There was a certain smudge of maleficence when the man blocking his escape spoke the word. Oh, how loved I am. It would bring a tear to my eye. Too bad it mostly brings blood to the cobblestone.

Someone behind him spoke. Loud and stern, yet with a wobble to the tone that showed angst.

“Calm down. We aren’t here to tussle with you, Tyran.” How often I’ve heard that… How seldom it has been true.

The voice Continued, “we have been tracking that dustbiter for the better half of a moon. Trying to wring out its means of distribution, and acquiring the product. Of course, now we are a dead end. Thanks to you, that is.” I appear to be at a dead end as well. Art glared at the man in front. He fingered his knife. Unless I do something about it, that is…

“Again, please. We all know not to start anything with a Tyran. Here, see?” He heard the swords being sheathed behind him. Heard the iron hissing into the leather.

He kept his eyes on the man before him, axe in hand, mantle flapping. A deep frown, deeper eyes.

“You as well, friend.” Art growled through clenched teeth. The man spat, some of it sticking to his red beard. Art almost had to stifle a splutter of laughter at that. Almost.

The axe was slowly returned to a loop, clung to the side of his belt. Art allowed some tension to lessen in his back and arms. He straightened himself, eying Beard as he walked past. Watched the man snort as they almost touched in the narrow alley.

He joined his companions at the end of the street, all staring at him. Judging his stance, attire, weapons. His grizzly, weather-hardened face. The steam coming from his nostrils. The traveler’s beard on him. His height- rather small. Not as tall as they expected, at least. And can you blame ‘em?

“What brings you here, Tyran?” It was a woman’s voice, this time. Art frowned, she was bigger than him by a head and a half. Broad shoulders, a jaw that could have been an anvil. Her meaty hand enveloped the pommel of the large sword that hung from her waist.

“The wind.” Art answered, and they glowered. “And the rain, and perhaps even the birds. Noisy things they are, birds that is. Been chattering about all sorts of things, you see.” Art tucked the blade away, but it didn’t make any sound as it did. Would be against the point.

“And what have these bids been saying?” The woman asked, her patience wearing thin. But that didn’t matter to Art. Not one bit.

“Torax, beast, and such. The usual.” He held her glare. Hard eyes, she had. Hard as the stone out of which she had been carved.

But his eyes were hard, too. Hard as the iron out of which his sword had been forged. Hard as the crystals from which my bones have grown.

She tore her gaze away and looked down on the corpse, slowly spilling blood.

“All this way for torax, is it?” She asked. It was clear this bull of a woman didn’t believe him.

“Aye. Someone has to clean up the mess you merry folk ignore.” Art casually replied.

He saw anger shooting through them, briefly. It was only natural. They were payed to protect the city, but only the parts of it they were ordered to. Farms on the outskirts, they couldn’t involve themselves in, even if they wanted to.

 Art leaned over and pulled the angry splinter from his squirming skin. He grimaced slightly as pain sprang forth, but that was quickly subdued. His bones could go to work now.

“I see,” The woman said, her voice raw from restraining her ire. “Then be gone with you. We will be busy with the mess you made.” Art didn’t need to hear that twice. He smoothly turned away from the seething guild-colored trio, and stalked away into the shadows. He turned the corner, but lingered for a moment.

Ears all perked up, shoulders hunched, making himself unnoticeable. Whispers drifted around him, low and unforgiving. And he heard the woman speak, voice steady and deep. Failing to keep it as silent as she would’ve liked, no doubt.

“Yes, he also has the seal, damn. Where do they keep getting their dust? Who’s making it?”

“Too effective to be from any third-rate alchemist. You saw what that level three kaude did. Even the Slayer was caught off guard… And that’s never any good news, even if I like seeing ‘em bleed.” He heard Beard saying.

“We’ll bring this to captain Severod, see if he can do anything with it.” The woman sighed helplessly. “Damn, fucking Tyran.”

He hated rumors.

But rumors hate me more.