The small figure the size of a child walked with bleeding bare feet along a dark tunnel in a cave of nightmares. Water dripped down in large and small drops alike catching the figure's dark skin past loosely hung rags. The water melded with sweat to leave lingering damp and the cold sapped the figure as the rags clung to its body with a numbing grip. It held a rusted iron sword in its grip; the blade was short only the length of its arm and had been picked up with the rags from the dead.

The lingering oblivion of sleep weighed on it and it felt scantly better now that it had rested. Its hollow cheeks were encrusted with tears parting the dirt stains like a stream down a mountainside. It pulled the rags closer as a fresh but chilly breeze blew through the dark tunnel.

It had no directions to follow, only the remembered advice to keep to the left if it reached a dead end go back and take a right. With every right turn, it remembered by repeating the number silently. Not because he was afraid of being heard but for the pain and dryness of his throat.

It kept to the walls always with a hand on the rocky surface as step by step it made its way in the dark. It winced as a fresh blister popped, but it kept on walking, it groaned as a sharp stone sliced through the heel of its foot. It grunted when it caught its foot and slipped then moaned as it bumped and cut its knee. It got back up and kept walking tears dripping down his cheeks as its throat closed till it felt like it was choking. It remained mostly silent and moving.

Shuffling forward in the dark.

A roar echoed through the tunnel. The figure, Rags, dropped the sword and its knees buckled as the air was torn from his body. Crouched to the ground, it curled into a ball and pushed its hands against its ears willing with all its might to keep the sound out. It lay there on the ground long after the roar had ceased gulping for air. Its eyes screwed shut squeezing out the last few tears. It could not get up; when it paid attention to its hands, it saw they trembled.

The air felt cool as it slipped through the nooks of the rags and onto its skin. It noticed the ground was cold and hard and did not mind. It stayed like that for a while. It became aware that it had lost count of the number of right turns it had taken. Further, it had forgotten the way it had been going and the way it had been. The name of gods flew to its lips bidden by terror and pain the words silently passed unuttered.

It was lost, as it stared into the dark, the soul unwound till a single thread remained. It uncurled from the ball and lay flat on his back. It breathed in and out, and that was all it did. It waited for Death, as the word rang in his thoughts clearer and more immoveable than the name of any god, wealth or mortal. Something bright disturbed his sight, a light in the distance. It came closer and closer. Till it blinded its sight.

*

“Get up, boy.” A harsh voice spoke. Rags remained dazed at the light. The owner of the voice gave Rags a swift kick to the ribs. “You’re not dead. Up. Up. Get up! You are going to live for a little longer, then you can die you little noble brat.” the voice, a man’s voice. The voice of one of the robber’s.

“You…” Rag’s remarks were cut short by another kick this time lower catching the kidney.

“Up!” he shouted.

Silently Rags picked up the sword with a quick grab and got up. In slow, awkward movements. His grimaces of pain and the rusted, blunt edge of his sword were unveiled by the light of the man’s torch. A flake drifted off the torch and was caught by the wind gently falling away till it fizzled out before reaching the ground.

“Water” croaked Rags.

“Here.” The man had hesitated but then passed over a flask to Rags. “No more than a sip boy, that gotta last us.” He spoke quickly and Rags obeyed. “…, boy. Now if my nose is right, and it is always right. The Beast is close. It is tricky, ain’t it, I thought I was escaping but no, no. Into the lion’s den, I trod. Well, well opportunity I think, it will have Brick’s stuff and much, much more. Treasure.” He rambled his wide grin hidden by the shadows of the cavern. He took the flask back and stored it away.

“Treasure. How can you? Didn’t you hear it? I had thought maybe that I could help them. Treasure. Forget the treasure.” Rags mumbled to himself, his gaze away from the light and into the dark. The man smacked Rags, a punch to his temple, letting his torch drop to the floor. Rags stood dazed but a new warmth and vigour flowed through him and he turned to his helper, his attacker.

The robber looked even dirtier than before. He had a big, broken nose and the same wide eyes with green pupils like the emeralds he coveted. On his lean face with the carved smile framed by two large ears. The hollowed-out features emphasised the bones of his cheeks that protruded out and his skin bound to fit his skull. Pale, like the warmth, had left the body. Tall and broad shoulders, his arm and thighs thick like tree trunks.

His dark hair and his brown dirt-encrusted leather clothes melded in the shadows. The clothes were well maintained but too big and had patches like they had been repaired many times. His gold buttons shone brightly bound at the wrist and boots with a gold buckle tied tight to keep his too wide trousers on. Gloves were frayed and faded black with dried splashes of red on them.

A short sword hung at the left side of his waist tied to his belt while a blackjack could be seen hanging from the saddlebag he was carrying on his back. The hilt of a knife poked out from behind his waist.

In one hand he carried that hammer, he had crushed that poor woman with it. The faint smell of shit and sweat lingered like it had been too long since someone had dared to tell him he stank like a rotting corpse.

Where the other one was, Rags didn’t want to know. That one he felt could guess his thoughts. Even dumb brutality was preferable to an examination of the soul. Even death would be better than being seen.

“No, no, boy. You don’t get it. See you are going to help me carry my goods. Understand, I gave you water didn’t I, now you help me.” Rags' sword hand twitched as if remembering it again. The Robber gave Rags’ hand a swift kick knocking the rusted metal out of sight its clatter rang nearby.

“Fine.” Rags uttered the word, his eyes downcast. There was no resistance left in him. He recognised only his insignificance by the principles of his understanding.

“Good, good,” said Robber and shoving Rags he added with a wide smile and flash of mirth flickered in his eyes. “You first, take the torch and boy no tricks.”

Rags without complaint picked up the torch. Holding the torch at arm’s length, Rags started walking in the direction the Robber was heading.

The Robber followed behind two strides distance away from Rags.

Not that Rags knew, he couldn’t even hear the steps of the Robber. He could hear the crackling of the flames, his boots, and his breath all of which disturbed the almost noiseless dripping of water down the walls the rest of silence.