The Mistwalker

Wayland lunged forward, surprisingly quickly for his age. She reached up to parry his blow, but she was too slow. A dull pain shot through her chest as the wooden dagger hit her with an immense force, causing her to stagger backwards. Wayland pirouetted and hit her twice in the ribs and once on the side of her head. Each time he took a swing she tried to evade the hits, and every time she failed.

"Stop!" she gasped, dizzy from the pain. Wayland immediately dropped the training weapons and put a hand on her shoulder. His grip was strong, stronger than one would expect from a man so gaunt.

"You alright? Too harsh?"

She shook her head. "Just a bit out of breath."

He laughed. "Of course. Then you won't mind if we continue?"

"Fuck off."

She threw down her own wooden daggers and unfastened the leather vest. Wayland shook his head.

"Alright then." He bent down to pick up the discarded weapons. "The position of your left foot is off. That's why you can't defend well. Other than that, you move well, and your speed isn't bad either. You'll make a good Shepherd, I can tell."

She scoffed. "I didn't get one good hit in."

"No, in fact you didn't get a bad hit in either. But remember, you're fighting me. I've had centuries to practise my craft."

She sighed, her head still pulsing. She silently cursed elves and their long lives. "So what you're saying is that I'll never get as good as you?"

"No. What I'm saying is that you're not as good as I am now. Whether you'll ever be as good as me, I don't know. But I can tell that you've got the potential to be better than most of the rat-whackers down here."

She helped him tidy up the rest of the things, remaining silent. Together, they walked down the Core Tunnel, passing other training rooms. All the while, Wayland talked about the Silent Shepherds' previous hideout, and how grateful he was to be rid of it.

"You see, all this was made possible by the Patron and their donation. If it hadn't been for them, we would still be using secret passwords in taverns, operating from back rooms and staying hidden in dank cupboards when the guards came sniffing about."

"Sounds horrible."

Wayland laughed and agreed. The tunnel took a sharp left, and soon enough it opened up to the Core, the dome-shaped, high-ceilinged, and currently very crowded centre of the guild's hideout under the city. She looked around and frowned. More people were standing in the Core than she had ever seen gathered here, and yet it was completely quiet.

She followed Wayland down the stone steps and walked up to the crowd, craning her neck to see what was going on. In the centre of the crowd she saw Kerrek, the leader of the Ironstar branch of the guild, together with a cloaked figure. The figure approached Kerrek, gliding over the floor silently, like a wisp of smoke blown by a breeze. She watched as Kerrek bowed, then led the figure to his room.

As soon as the door closed behind them, the whole room began to whisper, the sounds echoing against the dome-shaped ceiling.

"Wayland—" she turned around, pushing past fellow thieves— "Was that who I think it was?"

Wayland, his face paler than usual, stared blankly into the distance.

"What do they want? Will there be a new leader soon?"

He didn't answer.

"Wayland? Are you alright?" She grabbed him by his bony shoulders.

"Huh?"

"What's going on?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, the Mistwalker always makes me a little... dazed."

She sighed. The Mistwalker was the uppermost leader of the Silent Shepherds, a mysterious figure that resided in their headquarters in Syoll's Heart. At least, that's what she had been told. Nobody knew their identity, but everybody knew of their existence.

The rest of the gathered guild members had already started going back to their regular routines. Some continued a game of cards, others shared stories over tankards of ale. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

But something in their smiles seemed fake. Something about the laughter sounded forced, and the more she paid attention to it, the more often she saw people glancing towards the closed doors of Kerrek's room. Wayland tugged her sleeve.

"Come on," he said, "let's get something to drink."

"No, I don't feel like drinking." Her eyes were fixed on the doors.

"Don't stare."

"Why not?"

He hesitated. "It'll be over soon."

"What?"

He lowered his voice. "Please." She wouldn't have looked away, had it not been for the slight quiver in Wayland's voice. She turned and saw it in Wayland's eyes. He was scared. With another tug, he led her towards a free table. They were all terrified.

"There's only ever one reason the Mistwalker visits a branch hideout. Whatever happens, you keep your head down, and you don't interfere." Wayland kept his eyes fixed on his feet, cowering like an old man. She pulled out a chair to sit on, but was interrupted by a gust of wind, accompanied by a haunting wail that echoed through the room.

She shuddered. Everyone fell silent once more. Her body was frozen, by fear or by the sudden drop in temperature she could not tell. Her chest tightened and her breath stood still as she felt a cold presence behind her, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

The doors slammed open, and a bright light flashed from inside Kerrek's room. Another moment of silence passed, before the first person ran up to the doors. She followed.

"No! Wait!" Wayland cried behind her, but she paid no attention to him. Chairs scraped against the cobblestone floor as more and more people rushed to see what had happened.

She reached the open doors and screamed.

The Mistwalker was gone, and Kerrek was dead.