mist (narrative)
There were some docks that could be unnerving. These were some of those, sturdy wood planks partially submerged in water. One could not see the legs of the thing, though the pier was well-grounded by well-intentioned men. One central platform, wide enough for six men to walk shoulder to shoulder. The smaller docks for each particular boat. The dockmaster's cabin was more of a shack, not nearly so well-constructed as the docks themselves, but that was hardly a concern. There was new coin coming to these docks. New business bringing life to what had once been nothing but a smuggler's stopping-over. There were armored men on the pier, for one. Sure, it was nothing but a leather cuirass, but it counted as armor all the same. Important men in well-woven coats with high collars. Human men, or so they appeared. Mist was rolling in from the mountains, plunging down the face of it like an unstoppable force.
It was a perfect day for sneaking.
"At these prices I would sell my own mother, good sir," the first said.
"You might need to," the second said. "I do not care what they are paying, Ware. These men are dangerous."
A lantern. Good thing to have if you were walking around such low docks in the mist, wood creaking beneath your boots, all of it suggesting a sinister presence. Worked both ways, though. You could see clearly for a few feet, but everything beyond might as well be a black wall. Ware squinted out into that black anyway, eyes narrowed, searching for something that might not even exist. These were mercenaries, not soldiers. Impressive to look at. Would they hold up against the Free Army? Time would answer that question. His companion was armed with a rapier and dirk on his belt - but everyone thought those were just for fun. Certainly no one would say it, just in case they weren't.
A ripple seemingly from nowhere. The current always moved the water, always kept the pier wet, but this was something different. Ware's narrowed eyes followed it for a moment before he shifted his grip on the lantern's pole.
"Back to our original question," Ware said. "There must be at least ten thousand gold in this. Over the long term, of course."
"Assuming you get to keep your money. You heard about what happened to the last crew that ran shipments into this area."
Those stories were well-known. Ships found on the riverbanks, run aground because the rudder chain had been cut. All hands dead. Some with their throats cut, some with swords in hand, but it was always the same. Extra security had been added, and so far one additional shipment had come without incident, yet it might not be enough. They were waiting for the next, with guards on the pier and more with the wagons. But those were a quarter-mile away. Too far to come if they needed help, and the fellows would only arrive at the pier when they were sent for. A foolproof arrangement, he thought.
"Have you met with Olas yet?" the second man asked when Ware did not reply.
"Oh yes," Ware bared his teeth at that blackness around them. "He's an arrogant bastard, hiding his face that way. I don't enjoy doing business with him, Toll. Perhaps Gershul will replace him."
"You do realize that Olas is his son?" Toll laughed. "That makes it more likely that you will be replaced."
A crash alerted both of them to a problem. Ware was flinging himself down the pier in a heartbeat, lantern rattling on that long pole as he moved. Neither man was fat, but neither man was especially fit - therefore the docks shook with their uneven stride, and almost drowned out the sound of a splash. There were two mercenaries waiting when they arrived. More were coming. But all eyes were on the body in the water. One of theirs. No visible sign of injury. He was simply floating on the water, dead. What Ware and Toll could not see, as they barked orders for the mercenaries to spread out, was simple. It never occurred to them to think that something could hide beneath the pier. Or someone. Someone such as Skandra Tyullis, face pressed against the space between boards - sucking in air between slats of wood and listening as best he could with his ears below the surface of the water.
An easy thing. Fingers eased, oh so slowly, onto the lip of the pier. Legs braced against the hard wooden column that supported it. Pushing with his legs, pulling with his arms, brought him out of the water like a thrown knife. The mercenary never finished turning before Skandra's arm snaked around his neck. Both of them fell into the water together, Skandra dragging the mercenary to his watery grave. A knife went into the back two times. Three times. Water this murky hid the blood. So that from above, it looked as though the man had simply died. The sound that followed, his death knell.
The soldiers were following orders, fanning out, their lances held low. They were not watching their own backs. They were searching aggressively for someone foolish enough to use the mist as true cover, and not simply a diversion. Skandra was following one of them beneath the water. He wore trousers and boots, with a great many knives strapped to his arms and his torso. Murky water made it hard to spot what you were looking for, but that foolish lantern cast just enough light for him to see by. Just enough to follow shadows over light. The lance left a trace all its own, a trace he could see, a trace he could feel. After a handful of seconds swimming from one leg of the pier to the next, Skandra came back up, pressing pursed lips to wet wood. There. Blessed air. The man was facing south, with Skandra to the north.
Time to play.
Water rolled from his shoulders as he emerged from the water, pulling himself with exaggerated care onto the wooden dock. Lying on his belly, eyes red and vicious, a monster from the deep. The normal sounds of the current's water sloshing over the docks concealed his entrance well enough. Soldier didn't even notice him. Pushing up from his stomach into a crouch as the soldier advanced, weight resting on his down knee, almost like a runner at the blocks. Face blackened by filthy water and filthier wood he might even appear to be a nightmare. The boots were quiet even when he erupted into a run, a knife in either fist. The soldier didn't even turn. One knife into the small of the soldier's back - the other around the front, into his throat, destroying his ability to scream before the soldier even realized there was a need. The speed of their collision carried the soldier down, and over the edge of the pier.
Skandra let go of the body as soon as he felt water envelope him, swimming with all his might beneath those wooden slats. Odd. The men running to the rescue of their dead comrade sounded like thunder up above, rolling thunder, the sort you might see on the plains. Once again lips were pressed to wood. He could hear them talking in excited voices. Ware was telling Toll that there was an archer. Someone hitting them from afar. Skandra bared his teeth in a smile. The day Skandra Tyullis killed anyone with a bow was the day he beat someone to death with it.
There were more soldiers. Fortunately none of them had noticed that slight grimace of glass as they ran, a shaking that he'd not been able to hide as he moved deliberately up and down this pier not ten minutes gone. They were all in the right place for it. Skandra eased himself out of the water again, hoisting himself onto the pier a second time with nary a sound. At least, nary a sound their boots didn't cover. Some were looking around frantically, but they didn't see what the lantern blotted out with its fiery death sentence. Skandra had debated for some time exactly how to ensure no one could bring up reinforcements to this dock. And the last thing he'd decided on was probably the most obvious. A flint eased out of his pocket, and struck a small lip of metal that none of them had noticed, peeking out between cracks in the wooden slats.
One of the docks did not simply erupt into flames. There was a concussive blast as fire and force shattered wood, flung mercenaries into the air. Someone cursed in the darkness as another section shared the fate of the first, blowing a man's leg away from his body as the splinters fell like rain on the surface of the water. No doubt someone was going to see the fireballs, but Skandra would be gone long before that happened. A third. A fourth. Eventually the Immortal was forced to throw up his arm, block out the light, protect his vision against the blistering heat and brightness of the thing. Each one coming closer to his hiding place, each one chasing Ware further away from his comrades. Toward Skandra Tyullis. By the time the last section of the pier showered them in flaming pieces of wood Ware had fallen flat on his face, the lantern and pole slipping into the water. Still wood was falling in the mist - at least, the mist that fire had not dissolved. Skandra found his way to his feet with little trouble.
"So where did you meet Olas?" Skandra asked casually.
"My... my god, you... help me! Someone help me!"
"This is a sad fuckin' way for a man to die," Skandra dropped down, sitting on his heels in front of the collapsed merchant. "What happened to all that money, Ware? Have courage, answer my questions, and I'll let you live."
"I... I... who are you?" Ware sputtered in panic.
"Gershul's kid."
"You aren't Olas!"
"The other kid."
"Well how many of you are there!" Ware screamed.
"Enough. Where is Olas?" Skandra had seized the fellow's collar.
"You think he'd tell me that?" Ware asked in desperation. "He's always afraid the Free Army's going to catch up with him."
"He isn't afraid of the fucking Free Army," Skandra snarled. "If he's somewhere there's got to be a reason. What's the cargo?"
"Y-y-you aren't the one burning the ships?" Ware seemed shocked.
"Course it was me," and the snarl faded to a laugh. "But the ships didn't have any cargo on them, you fucking idiot. Just empty boxes."
"I don't know anything else!" a wail this time. "I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!"
This was going nowhere. Ware shrieked again when Skandra managed to fish the heavy lantern pole out of the water, before it slipped away completely. Shrieked a third time when Skandra removed a length of rope from his belt, and began looping it through the lantern's eye-hook.
"I never approved much of torture," Skandra talked as he worked, looping the rope around Ware's boot. "My feeling is, if you're up front in your intentions, you never really need it."
"You're going to torture me?" Ware howled.
"I just said not," Skandra gave him a cross look. "See, the problem is, if people aren't honest with you from the beginning they aren't going to be honest at all. You're fooling yourself if you think otherwise."
"What the hell are you doing, then!"
"Well, Ware, I'm gonna kill ya," Skandra grinned darkly. "Because I just can't think of a good gods-damned reason you ought to stay alive."
"What about-"
"-the money?'" Skandra's grin widened. "Maybe you can bribe your way into the heavens. Let me know how it turns out."
Ware was still screaming when the lantern pole disappeared into the water, and the rope dragged him below the surface. River was deep enough, and Ware faint enough of heart, that he'd be dead inside a minute. Skandra stood up straight, adjusted the straps hugging knives against his arms. How long had Olas been here before he'd decided to set up shop with two of the dumbest fucking merchants alive? A sign of desperation, or maybe a trap, but he didn't think Gershul would let Olas endanger an entire operation just to lure Skandra into a trap. The Immortal sniffed several times, clearing his nostrils. Shook his head to snap the water out of his hair. Hands on his hips, Skandra stared at the surface of the water. Dark now without the lantern. Not a soul was stirring. Just a ruined pier, bodies floating on the surface of the water. Black smoke mixing in with mist rolling across the water.
One minute.
The Immortal turned, and began jogging in the direction of the field house. There might be a log in there. Then it was on to the woods.