A Dark Horse: Chapter Eleven

Again, the world and overwhelming majority of the characters belong to Brandon Sanderson.

It was a nightmare.

It wasn't ash that rained down from the sky; fire shone as it careened toward the city, and splashed on the stony streets leaving only a charred stain where it had landed. The mist was gone from this night, only to be replaced by smog that left tears in the eyes and a foul taste in the air. Still, the smog wasn't enough to muffle the few screams that pierced Vent's ears. The end had come.

The end. The end of everything, and it's his fault. You should have stopped him while you had the chance.

Though the heat was that of a summer day, Vent shivered. The voice had tormented him as long as he could remember, and now it was his personal demon in this hell. The voice was his personal demon, and the Lord Ruler was the devil who had finally bestowed his final wrath on the planet.

Vent flared his pewter, and felt the muscles in his legs grow tense. The shop doorway he huddled under offered little shelter. Too many had already died, whether from the precipitating fire or the various buildings that had collapsed. He would have to run, and hopefully find a space under an already demolished building to avoid harm. The plan wasn't especially safe, yet something told Vent that safe plans were hard to come by these days.

There's no safe place. He'll kill you.

Vent took a breath, then ran out into the open. The fire was tenacious, latching on to his sooty clothes as they fell from above. Vent ignored them; as long as the flames didn't burn his skin, they could turn his clothes to soot. His eyes darting about the deserted street, they landed upon a pile of bricks, formerly some poor family's house. Vent imagined himself buried underneath the rubble, safe from the flames and away from the Lord Ruler's eyes. With pewter, it was possible.

Within seconds the young man was heading for the pile of bricks, his arm outstretched to clear a place for his trembling body.

Too late!

Vent turned around, and saw the devil's eyes. The crown of his head reached twenty feet above; his eyes burned, not like the fire that ate through Vent's clothing, but like snow and mordant wind combined. His hands reached out to the Thug, and Vent noticed the Lord Ruler's nails were ten inches long. Grey and metallic, they glinted like terrible spikes, and they reached for his throat –

Hooves pounded on the cobblestone streets, and Vent suddenly felt… well, not scared.

Vent woke up in a cold sweat. "Lord Ruler!" The dreams again, but… No, they were simply dreams. Dreams that were no doubt typical of a paranoid that had grown up on the streets, darting this way and that to avoid trouble with obligators and other street urchins that had a few years on him. Not for the first time, he imagined that he had known about his Allomancy in those days; it would have saved him from numerous beatings.

But it probably would've gotten him killed once an obligator noticed it. Sighing, Vent turned his head to the side. There was no way he was going to fall asleep again, not after that particular dream. It wasn't just that it had seemed too real – he had so many dreams of the Lord Ruler chasing after him – but the ending. He hadn't died this time, but woke with a feeling of something he had never felt in those dreams. Hope? Bravery? Whatever it was, it had Vent chewing the inside of his cheek in thought, ignoring the scars he'd inflicted on himself with the habitual behavior and pewter-enforced jaws.

Hooves. And that feeling of… something. Why did dreams have to fade so quickly? Vent gave up on trying to figure it out, and turned his attention to the room again. Kelsier's apartment was small but cozy, with simple furnishings. Vent had made a pile of blankets his bed, all retrieved from Keep Hastings. It was a bit colder than he expected, true, but at least he didn't have to worry about nobility dropping into the kitchen for a midnight snack. Nobility made him anxious.

Mare slept in her cot, propped against the back of the room, and Kelsier was in the one bedroom. They were sleeping, unless Vent's sudden shout had woken them. Back in Keep Hastings's kitchens at least several servants would have given him irritated stares. Vent felt naked without the familiar burn of pewter in his stomach, but at least he had Mare and Kelsier nearby. Sure, Kelsier wasn't a Misting, but he had dealt with enemies before; he wasn't defenseless by any means. As for Mare, the Tineye'd probably know about any intruders before they even touched the building. Yet, what comforted Vent most was that he wouldn't be on his own should disaster strike.

You're that confident in your fellow house-mates? Your guard is slipping.

Vent found that he was gripping his topmost blanket, so that his nails were digging into his palms through the fabric. It had been a while since the voice had spoken to him, outside his dreams, of course. He forced his hands to unclench, and gazed above at the ceiling. "Yes," he answered in a whisper. Mare and Kelsier... they weren't friends, not exactly. But they were his teammates. And as long as there was a job to do, a heist to pull... Well, was there anyone more useful for a job than a pewter savant?

The thug grinned, not nervous at all.