(Second Book Complete!) Runeblade: A Delving & Skill Merging LitRPG

“Hells, Grave-eye, what the fuck kind of job was this? I know it paid well, but the drake was level one-hundred-and-seven? Are you trying to get me killed? Sending me to watch some team of scions like that?” Ingle raved, pacing back and forth through his office.

Tuning out the rest of the woman’s nonsensical ranting, Grave-eye was of half a mind to have Gorm kill her, just for the sheer impudence of daring to take that tone with him.

Alas, the woman was too strong—and too useful. It was hard to find competent delvers of her calibre that were willing to get their hands dirty. Though even Ingle only did so infrequently, selectively, and for a good price. He could respect that.

Grave-eye sighed, leaning on his desk as he rubbed his brow. Regardless of her wanton disregard of his station, Ingle was reliable. She never spilled a word about anything—not even when he tried to pay her to find out who else procured her services—and her testimony had been proven to be bound in adamant at every turn. That alone kept her alive.

It just burned like gutrot that she knew it, someone as careful as Ingle wouldn’t dare to test his ire if she thought there was a hint of a risk to it.

Which made the impossibilities that spewed from her mouth all the more difficult to believe. A drake? At over level one-hundred? Two missions ago the pair of fools had fought a simple spider, barely around level eighty from what he’d been able to dig up. That was an impossibility, pure and simple. Every report—including Ingle’s own—had suggested that both fights were at the edges of their capabilities. That rate of growth? In three missions? When they hadn’t left the city in between?

It was simply impossible.

Let alone the fact that the team was fucking Bronze!

To a superior mind such as himself, it was simplicity itself to deduce that there was a greater scheme afoot. The guild was up to something.

He was certain that this was under their sanction—their guidance. Impossibly strong bronzes kill a drake, and then a day later the guild manager herself is selling off drake remains under the proviso that the contract records stay sealed? While claiming that it was an unexpected threat that the Wardog had handled himself? No way; no fucking way.

“Thank you for your services, Ingle. You can leave now.” Grave-eye said, tossing the delver a coin pouch with the three platinum he owed her.

Ingle stopped mid sentence, glaring at him as the pouch hit her in the chest and fell to the floor.

Still, in testament to her crude intelligence, she didn’t say another word. Swooping up her pay, the delver left—stomping hard enough to rattle his liquor cabinet.

That caused a vein in his forehead to throb in disgust and outrage—but with the magnanimity that was required of his station, he let it go.

There were far more important things to worry about.

Leaning back in his chair, Grave-eye let out a sigh as he kicked his polished boots up onto his desk.

“Drink?”

Grave-eye clutched his chest, nearly falling out of his chair in fright.

He shot his hound a look that could have scoured flesh from bone. He’d forgotten that Gorm was standing in the corner. The man had a frightening ability to fade into the background for a grotesque giant. Honestly, it was a miracle his mother had even survived birthing the half-breed mongrel.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to do that, you imbecile!” he hissed. “And what kind of question is that? Of course I do.”

“Of course, Grave-eye.”

Tuning out the presence of his manservant, Grave-eye returned his mind to more important matters.

Like the fact that it was so bleeding obvious that the guild was nurturing a pair of wayward scions. They only did that when the person in question had no ties to a prominent dynasty. Exiled rejects, independent prodigies, and those in hiding.

Grave-eye grinned. That meant they were a prime target. Oh yes—this was quite the valuable find.

And he knew just what to do with it.

His teeth bared to the world, Grave-eye could already feel the heights that he would be able to rise to with this sort of winning hand.

Glass clinked as Gorm placed his drink on his desk. He snatched it up before it could leave condensation on the rich leather cover—he hadn’t spent so much on a refrigeration cupboard just for his hound to ruin his furnishings.

“Gorm.”

“Yes, Grave-eye?” his hound responded, as placid and slow as always.

“Send a message to Old Yon—tell him we should meet. That I have something worth his personal attention.” Grave-eye replied.

Gorm frowned. He must have been struggling to remember how to make contact, it would only make sense for someone so diminished. Oh how Grave-eye wished that he could have someone capable for a servant.

Too bad he always ended up killing those—they always fell to the temptation of plotting against him. At least his hound was too stupid to ever do such a thing.

“Are you sure you should do that? Old Yon’s a hard man—his favour might not be as pleasant as you think.” Gorm replied.

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Grave-eye narrowed his eyes at his hound. That was the problem with fools, they could never see the big picture.

He was at the height of Deadacre’s underworld—of course he should be treated with the respect of his station. A low-born fool like Gorm could never understand the ways of men of action and influence.

Gorm sighed.

“Yes, Grave-eye.”

…

Grave-eye felt the chill touch of the grave brush against his neck—the crypt air of the catacombs beneath the church that he had been directed to were damp and foreboding.

Not for the first time, he wished that Gorm was with him.

It wasn’t fear! No, it was just unbecoming for a man such as himself to be without his servant. He was of half a mind to give Old Yon a piece of his mind when he arrived at their meeting point.

Walls of bone moaned as a gust of frigid wind rattled through the sockets of the many skulls that watched him.

Grave-eye pulled his cloak around him and hurried onwards. The sooner he could return to his glass of brandy and book that was waiting for him by the hearth, the better.

….

Glancing at the lidless eyes that watched him from every angle, he could only wish that his contact had thought to meet somewhere with a little more taste. It was all just a touch too macabre in his mind.

He could respect a setting of scene as much as the next man—but did it have to be so ghastly?

Thankfully, his journey through the tunnels seemed to have come to an end. Taking the next left hand junction—he’d spent a whole hour memorising the directions that had come in response to his request—Grave-eye found himself staring at a door.

It was blessedly well designed. The gadrooning on its panels was divine—pleasant curved impressions that radiated from a central point where a filgreed brass knob rested. Why, it even had caryatids supporting the arch above! They were beautiful things—artful renditions of what looked like hellish denizens screaming in anguish.

Not his first choice, and a little last century, but he could respect the artistry in the work.

This was a little more like it! Someone had even gone through the effort to dust the thing!

Hurrying forwards, Grave-eye hammered the knocker—three times, as etiquette demanded.

He frowned. After waiting a few minutes to politely give any occupants time to respond, he knocked again.

Still nothing.

Uneasy at the prospect of breaching propriety, Grave-eye tried the latch all the same. It was unlocked.

The door opened into a flawless corridor of stone—if a drab one. Slabs of light grey polished stone lined the flaws and ceilings, each edge set perfectly square. The place was lit by wardlights, but few of them, leaving the reaches drenched in shadow.

Finding the whole thing a little unnerving, Grave-eye tentatively stepped through.

His steps through the passage were hurried—the time of his meeting was growing close, and he refused to be late. Nothing else harried him—he refused to even entertain the thought.

Though his stomach churned all the same.

After what felt like an aeon in the dark, twisting through myriad turns, he arrived at another door.

This one was plain, but well built, with a kind of rustic refinement to it. Made of what was blatantly heartwood—an expensive kind too, he could recognise the rudy red of jettum anywhere—it had been fastened together without any visible nails. Mortise and tenon joints, the kind of expense only a man of taste would bother with.

Grinning in excitement, Grave-eye hurried over, knocking three times.

“Come in.”

The voice was smooth and calm, with the kind of rich baritone more suited to court than a catacomb.

Grave-eye stepped through the passage, finding an office. Much like the door, it was a simple thing. A large wooden desk in the centre of the room, with two chairs for guests before it. There was also a single book shelf that sat against the far wall, as well as a fireplace that sat adjacent to the desk.

All of that fell to the wayside as he took in the man that was seated in his position of authority.

Old Yon.

He wasn’t what Grave-eye had been expecting.

The grandeur that a man of his station should have oozed was utterly absent. In its place was an utterly forgettable visage of mediocrity.

Middling height—perfectly so, the man couldn’t have more than five and three quarter strides—with brown eyes and simple features. His clothes were rough spun, but tough and well made, if utterly lacking in refinement.

He didn’t even inspire dread. For a man like Old Yon, he’d at least have expected a glare that could kill, or something.

All in all, Old Yon was…pedestrian. Forgettable to an extreme degree. If Grave-eye had passed him on the street, he’d have been more likely to spit on the man than greet him. A thought that brought a rush of concern down his back as he realised who he was standing before.

“Sit.”

Grave-eye sat.

Keeping his back perfectly straight, Old Yon reached behind his desk. He pulled free a heavy leather sack sack, straining under the weight of its contents.

“This—” Old Yon set the bag on his desk. It clinked—loudly. “—is a thousand platinum.”

Before Grave-eye could so much as gulp, Old Yon reached into his pocket and retrieved what looked to be a silver medallion. He set it down next to his absurdly large coin-pouch.

“And this is a communication artifact.” Old Yon finished, touching the disk of metal.

Pausing for a moment, Old Yon gave him a long look. His heart fluttered.

“You mentioned you had something valuable for me—this could be your reward. Hells, if it’s good enough, it might only be a down payment.” Old Yon said, before he tapped his fingers on his desk.

“That is only if what you have is valuable. Thankfully, I don’t believe that you are stupid enough to waste my time—wouldn’t you say, Rondel of Silverwind?”

Grave-eye froze. That was impossible. He’d erased everything. Covered all tracks. How could the man know?

Rondel finally admitted to himself that he was out of his depth, and the fear that had been waiting beneath the facade embarrassed him.

“Of…of course, Old Yon. I wouldn’t waste your time.” he stammered, failing to keep his apprehension out of his voice.

Old Yon smiled, and he saw the man’s mask crack. A malevolent intelligence lay beneath—calculating and cruel.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me about these…promising seeds that you have uncovered, and I’ll do my own verification. If against all odds, you’ve proven yourself as valuable as you believe, this platinum will be yours and there will be more in it for you later when the job is done.” the underlord explained, every word punctuated with a conviction that the world would bend to his demands.

“If, beyond all likelihoods, you are somehow this capable, I will call upon you in the future with this.” Old Yon tapped the communication medallion. “I always endeavour to have…fruitful relationships with aspiring up-and-comers.”

Old Yon smiled. A plain thing—like what you would expect from a fishmonger who’d manage to sell a bumper crop of a haul. Somehow, that made it all the more terrifying.

“So, Rondel, why don’t we start from the top.”

Grave-eye took a steadying breath. It was far too late to back out now.

Gathering his thoughts, he began to talk.