InsaneJournal

sucker punch (aeotha, fiaethe)
Skandra did not stroll so much as strut. They were in the full grip of winter's fist, and with a coat buckled on it was all right to appear to have a great deal of bulk. The high, angled collar of his coat was raised to conceal his cheeks and his chin. Every clasp was worked up to the last, with the collar resting inside of the hood this time. No sense in taking chances, being recognized or whatnot. The only part of Skandra Tyullis' face that could be seen were his eyes. What malevolent eyes they were, staring hard at anyone who dared to meet them and challenging them to a fight. His belt was cinched on over his coat, riding somewhat high. Since the coat was split for riding it hung over left and right legs below the waist. On his belt were two swords - one, the cherry-grip sidesword he'd used for so long. The other was a late addition, with a basket hilt in the style of the latest schiavona the city had to offer. And then, inside of the coat, the weapons of alchemy were concealed in the bulky torso area.

In other words, he was armed and ready for war.

In the bustle of the city he looked like another rich knight who cared nothing for temple power strutting off to fight a battle in exchange for coin or legend. No one examined him more than twice. The first time, their eyes were on the swords - one over either hip - and the green sash he'd looped over his right hip and at his back. Just enough to hang from waist to knee, but also enough to mark him front or back as a follower of the Magister. This also allowed more free movement than Skandra could have thought possible.

A fellow with raised collar, a hood that covered his forehead, gloves and high boots, two swords and a scowl was being allowed to roam wherever he liked. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers. He and Elemmire were taking different routes to the same place, in case Skandra were caught - no sense in getting her arrested. So far, it wasn't her face that was on every scrap of parchment in sight.

There weren't that many non-military folk out. You'd have to be insane not to hear the siege engines working on the walls. To see the splashes of magic that spilled over the heights. Skandra cast his eyes upward as pink light unfolded over him. A flash. Another spell had nearly broken the line of mages. He whistled lower, between his teeth. Five green spheres exploded above his head. A stir of wind was all he felt. Rustling the bottom of his coat. Yet the flashes were coming faster and faster now.

The magic being used in this fight must have been incredible. He could feel not a single jot of it in the air, as some others might, but the scale was impressive. Whatever was happening at the wall, he wanted no part of it. That was a good way to get yourself killed. Then again, he was on his way to a place at which he was reasonably certain a large group of Drow were going to try and kill a former queen.

So perhaps scale was not his problem so much as degree of difficulty.

"Bad day to be on the wall," someone hooted behind him.

"Leave your coin with us, sir," another joined in. "We'll watch it 'til ye return!"

Skandra kept walking.

He knew he was getting closer because the streets were growing narrow. Heavy wooden arches passed over his head every twenty feet or so. Soldiers in black and brown robes - the robes of Guyther's house, if Skandra remembered correctly - were watching him without comment. No doubt they didn't want to irritate someone they believed to be nobility. Skandra didn't wear a house's symbol on his sleeve or on his collar - believing, he thought correctly, that it would bring trouble as well as praise - so he didn't know why they were drawing that conclusion, but they were all the same. Waiting for everyone to arrive before they closed down the square. Or perhaps keeping it open because some poor wounded soul might wander through this way. Skandra doubted he was going to find out the answer short of asking. So he was not going to find out the answer.

Brisk, cold wind assailed him as he rounded the final curve. There, about thirty feety away and through the final and greatest wooden arch, was the square he'd arrived to survey. Despite the cold they were out in the open. From this vantage point he could see green and white flags, triangles that whipped in the wind, meant to announce that you had indeed arrived at the right place. This was where the magic happened. The square itself was taken up with buildings on every side. Four great, wooden archways emptied into the thing. And unlike some squares, it actually was square, overlooked by multi-story buildings that were lined with archers. He could see their long shadows against the buildings of this narrow corridor every time destructive magics illuminated the light's sky. They were almost as fireworks, which he remembered seeing the alchemist's guild use once in Perava. Nobody here had been to Perava, though, unless they'd gone to kill some Perubs.

Now that he was closer to the opening, he saw that there were no soldiers monitoring each individual entrance. Instead they were roving bastards, marching around the square in packs of five to complete regular circuits. He leaned closer to the wooden arch. Skandra managed to disappear into its shadow without a great deal of trouble. Now he was peering out at the darkness, watching for any sign that could tell him more. Lights in the square were not torches. They were globes of white that hovered over the assembled.

Looked as though they were made of glass, but they were not strung up on anything, which let him know that they were magic. There, in the square, there were groups of people talking urgently about one matter or another. Soldiers not wearing the brown and black were harder to spot. Yet they were there. Comrades who'd carried a wounded brother into the place, maybe. Or just there for additional security.

All of the roving soldiers had pikes. Long fucking things with hideous, curved blades almost as long as daggers but twice as wide. Lances they were properly called. And these fellows were lancers, ugly in their helmets with hooked beaks. Skandra was watching the women in white moving among the injured and the cots. Blood ran red on the stone, and on all of the bandages he could see from his vantage point. The fountain in the center of the square was being used for clean drinking water and for filling buckets that attendants would then use to try and clean up the wounded. Every so often, Skandra saw a litter leaving the square. Back to the temple for those who could not rejoin the fight. If the Drow were planning on making a move against anyone in this square, they were going to have a hard time doing it while all of these soldiers were stalking around looking mean. Looking as though they themselves were up for a fight.

There, in the middle of it, was the ex-queen. Fiaethe she'd called herself. Skandra could tell her apart easily because she wasn't wearing white. Aeotha was nearby. He could not tell what either of them were doing, really, not at this distance. Good to know they were still alive. Good to know that he hadn't screwed anything up yet. Dozens - hundreds - of priestesses were moving from cot to cot, from walking wounded to walking wounded, offering whatever they could in the way of ministrations and care. The battle was something out of a nightmare.

The plan was to adopt a soldier's garb. One of the hangers-on, perhaps, or one of the fellows that he'd passed along the way? He could easily blend himself into this crowd and keep an eye on them without anyone knowing that he was there. Elemmire should have less trouble. Once they were done, he could be on his merry way and no one would be the wiser. He could even-

That was when he saw it.

As one of the roving patrols was passing him by, the wind gusted. A hood was yanked down quite suddenly. What it revealed was a pair of red eyes set into a black face. That quickly, the visor of the helmet was lowered, and that quickly the soldier looked just like any other. Skandra had been a good five feet away, if that. No one else had been as close. No one else had seen it. Yet his heart was hammering against his chest, now. Trying to escape. At least one of the soldiers that were patrolling the square was a Drow. Were all of them?

The soldiers up top, with their bows and arrows ready to kill anyone who crossed them? It didn't matter if the archers were replacements or not. They'd shoot at anyone who started dropping blows on a soldier in a uniform. Regardless of whether or not that soldier was fake. His eyes were wide as he peered through those shadows. His breathing was starting to pick up.

He'd just gone and done something entirely stupid, and now he was probably going to die. They were talking about minutes instead of hours. And there was no time.