Chapter 4 - Skeir

‘The negotiations have failed once again. No matter - this will all be over before sundown.’

- Last words of Immerian General Voscius the All-Seeing

Why, wondered Skeir as he was shoved into someone’s drink, did fucking dusters always have to ruin everything?

The night had started out well enough. He’d tracked down one of the best secret brokers in town, and Wren had been forthcoming with her answers for gold - though he’d been a bit skeptical at first, who chose to name themselves after a water fowl? - and she’d even given him a lead.

He was one step closer to his vengeance.

He was walking up to the bar to get more drinks when everything turned to shit. Those Iscerians had turned this place over with that stupid lament. As though they hadn’t invited the sack of Rhetium in the first place - and were now here inviting more trouble.

Over the shouting, he heard the reports of metal and the crashing of broken glass. There were people in this bar, he knew, that were never walking out of here.

The woman opposite him, a mercenary - Valmontese, judging by the fair hair and pretty armor - was now covered in ale where he’d spilled it. She snarled something inaudible at him before taking a swing right for his head.

Seeing the blow coming, Skeir put up a hand to block her fist with his forearm. Then, in the moment that the woman was off balance, Skeir darted forward into the circle of her reach. With his left hand, he got his assailant’s arm into a lock, holding it there to launch a right jab up and into her face.

Once. Twice. On the third impact, he felt the woman’s nose break. The fourth knocked out a few teeth. The fifth and final one rocked her back on his heels, which Skeir used to sweep her legs out from under her. The mercenary crashed to the floor, insensate.

But still breathing. He didn’t feel the urge to finish the job - knocking out drunks at a bar was a far cry from putting them in the ground. He tried not to kill strangers, at least not those who didn’t deserve it.

The whole scuffle had taken less than six heartbeats. As Skeir recovered, he tried to survey the room to see where Wren had gone.

A few feet away, the two door guards were busy wrangling what looked like half of a longboat crew, limbs flying with the kind of reckless frenzy never found in sober soldiers. That was a brawl, plain and simple.

The other half of the Helkorite group was dancing with the bravos, and there Skeir saw blades and blood drawn. That fight, he knew, would be much less civil in its outcome. Both skirmishes blocked the only doorway out of here, and stood directly between him and the far tables.

Through the scrum, Skeir spotted Wren. She’d used their corner table as cover, and was busy trying to edge along the far wall of the room to get as close to the exit as she could. Looking at the scene, though, Skeir didn’t like her chances. With each passing second, the whirlpool of violence drew more people into its wake.

Biting back a curse - he needed her to get him to Undertow tonight - he tried to push forward, but it was going to be impossible without getting dragged into one of the melees. There were too many people, and -

A hoarse scream was the only warning he got as one of the huge door goons barreled into him from behind, throwing him off his feet with a ground tackle. More fat than muscle, but sometimes when it came to a fight mass was mass. Skeir hit the boards of the Mess with a thud, air knocked right out of his lungs.

With the weight of the other man now pressing down on him, he couldn’t hesitate. Gasping inaudibly, Skeir did his best to roll so that he was facing upwards. From there, he dug his heels and elbows into the floor - ignoring the increasing agony in his chest - to get himself enough room to wiggle out from beneath his latest opponent.

The thug knew what he was doing, though. He wasn’t about to give Skeir any room to maneuver, getting on his hands and knees to follow him across the floor.

This will take too long if he pins me. He needed to evade his attacker, keep him occupied until he could recover and get to a better position. Already on his back, Skeir put everything he had into a supine mule kick. He got lucky; the edge of his heel caught the man’s chin, sending him tumbling backwards. The back of his head hit the base of the bar with a thud.

It was the window he needed. Skeir scrambled over to his opponent. He wrapped his left arm around the side of the big man’s neck and locked it together with his right, then lifted and squeezed.

The man bucked a few times, but he’d done this before, and within a few heartbeats the struggling stopped. He’d wake in about ten to fifteen seconds, but by then Skeir would be gone.

He rose to his feet, throat still hoarse, pushing past another pair locked in a grapple. The brawl had changed into something else, something uglier; when weapons were out, that usually signified the kind of fight that saw slit throats rather than bruised faces.

And as he turned to look back at the far side of the room, the soldier spotted the first victim of the night.

Wren lay two tables away from where they’d been sitting together, shards of broken bottle buried deep in her face and neck. She’d tried to crawl, he noted, but hadn’t made it very far. Dregs of blood and beer mixed together on the floor.

Skeir rushed to kneel next to her, but he saw right away that she was too far gone. Her pupils were wide, furtive prayers emerging from the ruin of her lips. Skeir didn’t see anyone in the immediate vicinity of the body; someone must have thrown a bottle and hit her by accident.

Virtues be damned. He’d needed her to make his introduction.

This was just his luck, too. His first real contact, and he had to watch her bleed out before he could get everything he needed.

Skeir took a second to let his frustration ebb away, getting another look at his surroundings. What had once been an endless tangle was now a few disparate knots of combat; most of the Helkorites lay unmoving, along with the tavern’s hired muscle and one of the bravos. The other patrons were gone, as were the rest of the staff.

He needed to get his things and get out of this bar. Wren might not have given him everything, but he had enough to go on. The summons he'd drawn from Ornal had been real. The rest of Ninth Company was here, in Equinox.

And these rats - Undertow - had smuggled them in.

They’d made it easy for him. No more chasing lone conspirators all over Alteria, hiding out in small towns along the Sevren frontier or hiking into the mountains after stories of deserters. He could end it all here.

But first, he needed to find them, and that meant a clean getaway so he could plan how to get to the rats. Skeir rose and turned to stride for where he’d left his bag -

- only to find himself face to face with yet another figure in his path. Thin and impeccably dressed, with a sunset-coloured brocade left open below the nape and a set of fine calfskin boots. The bravo’s buttons and buckles all dripped with gold, matching the ornaments in his long braids and the basket-hilt of his drawn dueling blade.

“Another of Daniva’s brood, I see.” The Iscerian’s face was a mask of poise amid the unfurling chaos, but Skeir could see the traces of faint contempt at the edges of his mouth. “Have you nothing with which to defend yourself?”

Skeir glanced a few feet past this obstacle, to the wrapped up montante placed beneath his chair when he arrived. Too far. He raised his bruised knuckles in a mocking salute.

“Do I need anything else?” he growled.

The bravo was quick, darting a step back going for a wide slice that would open his guts in one move. But Skeir was ready, already bent at the knees to angle right and out of the way.

Normally, this would be when he’d move in to cripple his sword arm, but this Iscerian knew better. He’d stepped to his own right side, brandishing the point of the blade back between them.

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The bravo went for a lunge next, and Skeir didn’t even see the strike before the tip of his weapon buried itself above his shoulder. Only a lifetime of reflexes saved him from a killing blow, as he took half a pace back and pivoted his chest at the last moment.

It was only after the bravo ripped the sword out that Skeir felt the first sharp edges of pain.

Hello, old friend. He invited the red, breathed it in. It buried its hooks deep, a second skin beneath his own. His knuckles tightened, chest racing. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

“At least you know your paces, southerner,” the dead man drawled, “which is more than I can say for your countrymen. How many more times will I bleed you tonight, I wonder?”

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in Skeir’s belly, tore itself from his throat.

“One.”

Up came the sword, but he was already charging. The pain would come for him again, but that would pass. In truth, all that stood between him and his prey was a scar.

What was one more after hundreds?

When the stab did come - off center, he’d surprised the man - Skeir didn’t flinch. Instead the soldier pushed on, using his momentum to impale himself further on the dueling blade, inch by inch until his torso was kissing the edge of its guard.

His mouth curled up into a bloody rictus as he saw the bravo’s confidence crack, eyes widening. The Iscerian moved to release the hilt of the sword and step away, but it was too late, far too late.

His hand snapped out to grasp one of the duelist’s braids, yanking him forward and into a headbutt. The bravo reeled back, stunned. Skeir followed it up with a knee to the groin, then an uppercut to shatter his jaw, and finally a backwards shove into the nearby wall.

On the way down, the bravo collided with a hanging lantern. No kymist’s toy, this; a single shattering of glass, and the fire and oil once contained within engulfed the fallen swordsman… and the floorboards surrounding him.

Of course. The blood-rush was fading, the flames were already putting down roots, and he’d run himself through on a sword.

The Iscerian, now burning, was too occupied with his screaming to notice that Skeir now stood over him. He debated putting the man out of his misery; a few good stomps to the skull would be enough.

He left him to burn instead. No sense risking his boots to the fire.

The way now clear, Skeir hobbled to the chair he’d been sitting in. Carefully so as to avoid shifting the blade in his chest, he rummaged through the outer pockets of his bags until he found what he was looking for.

Two glass vials fell into his palm, each filled with a clear liquid. He could see the glowing orange glow reflected across them, a portent of the spreading fire at his back.

On all the endless fucking hells. There was nothing for it; this would have to be a rush job.

Skeir grabbed the hilt of the dueling blade with both hands and began to pull it out from the front. The red was in his lungs, in his mouth. He opened wide and cast it out, shouts of agony joining the roars of the adolescent blaze.

With each second that passed, his vision grew dimmer. If he passed out from blood loss here, he knew that in half a bell he would be one more body on the pyre. Shadows swam around him. If he looked, he could see faces peeking out from the gloom. Jaromir. Lydda. Orlan.

He held on, and the weapon clattered to the floor.

With trembling fingers, he opened the healing vials, applying one each to the wounds. The effects were immediate, closing up the flesh and muscle tissue and stopping the worst of the bleeding. He could take care of the others later.

There were still the internal injuries, of course. He’d need to visit an actual healer, and soon.

“What’s next,” he asked no-one in particular, “challenging a Mourner?”

Another name for Il Coru, the last sworn champions of Old Immeria. A walking death sentence.

Only the fire answered. It had raged steadily across the space, cutting off the door and the front of the bar. All those spilled drinks in the fight would definitely have helped. The whole place would go up inside in a few minutes. Skeir scanned the Mess, ignoring the bodies of those dead or soon-to-be.

There was a ground floor window off to his right - that would have to do.

Gathering the bundle, he hoisted it over his shoulder. Even through the ache in his chest, the weight of it was immediately comforting; still heavy enough to tell him that nobody had rummaged through his things in the chaos.

After getting himself stabbed, breaking a pane of glass with his body hardly seemed foolish at all. Skeir wrapped his body in the cloak from his chair, making sure to protect his face and hands from any more cuts. Thankfully he only fell a few feet as he tumbled into the alleyway, rolling to avoid the worst of the impact.

He lay in the dirt for a minute afterwards, staring up at the passing surface of the Azure Moon and letting his breath catch up with him.

“Fuck me,” the Helkorite groaned. That had definitely not been part of his plan.

He needed to get going; these streets would be swarming with Thronekeepers soon, and the faster he got to the rats, the faster he could start tracking down his real targets.

Skeir didn’t hear any footsteps before he felt a hand grab him and haul him to his feet.

He pushed off the figure without thinking, putting his back against the alley wall and reaching for the bundle at his shoulder.

To his surprise, in the half-light he saw not a guard’s uniform - or worse yet, the pomp and gilt of another Iscerian dandy - but a woman in dockworker’s attire.

Between the dirt under her nails and ground into her palms, he would say she was a laborer. She had a slender, athletic frame, sleeves rolled up enough for Skeir to see some real muscle. Olive skin, dark eyes, and she kept her hair tied back wrapped with what looked like some kind of rag. No weapons he could see, but at his push she’d dropped easily into a stance that told him she knew how to throw a punch.

She had one of those faces that seemed familiar but nondescript; the kind of person who looked somewhat like everyone else, but you couldn’t say why.

“That was either the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, or by far the most stupid.” At that moment, he couldn’t tell if she was being sincere. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. He saw her glance down at the stab wound in his shoulder with open skepticism.

“Uh huh. Look, there’s no shame in getting some help. Can I at least escort you to a healer?” The stranger arched her neck towards the fire consuming the Mess. “Seeing as you just stumbled out of there, you could also have smoke in your lungs. Best to take it easy.”

“I’m fine,” he barked, rougher than he’d intended. “Just go about your business and pretend you didn’t see me. I promise you, I’m not worth the trouble.”

He was halfway out of the alley when she spoke again.

“And what about Undertow? Are they worth the trouble?”

Skeir’s knuckles tightened as he remembered why she’d seemed familiar. She was in the bar, before the fight - she’d been drinking with the crew out of Novimark. He hadn’t seen her when the punches started though; she must have slipped out before it got going. He turned to face her.

“What do you know about them?”

“I know that you’re about to go confront a group of experienced human traffickers alone and injured. I also know that no matter how well-trained you are or what kind of plan you think you have, that scenario leads to you either in prison or dead by sunrise.”

He looked at her, really looked this time. The dirt on her nails was one thing, but the way she’d just spoken did not match her appearance. It was too practiced, too measured.

Not to mention, he’d never met a laborer with teeth as straight as hers.

She did not waver at his gaze; in fact, judging by the hand at her waist and the way she was squaring her chin, she welcomed the scrutiny.

“So how are you going to help me?” It really didn’t take a genius to see where she was going with this.

“By being a second set of eyes, for starters. Based on those scratches, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that I’m also probably better suited to negotiation. You want to make a deal with Undertow, I’m the woman to help you broker it.”

Well that confirmed what he’d already been thinking. This was definitely not a dockworker.

She wasn’t entirely wrong about his odds, though: he wasn’t sure he could fight off a whole gang if things went bad a second time tonight. Although, in his experience all the talking in the world couldn’t protect someone from brandished steel.

What a kind world that would be.

“And if I let you come along, what would you be getting out of the deal? No way you’re a Helkorite sailor.”

Her eyes narrowed in his direction. She clearly hadn’t expected him to see through her disguise so fast, and was now weighing whether to trust him. The danger of working with perceptive people was that, sooner or later, they sniffed out all your secrets. She had to be wondering how much he’d seen inside of two minutes.

She seemed to come to a decision quickly.

“Information. I’m… looking for someone. I think the people in Undertow can point me in the right direction. We’ll live longer working together than we will alone.”

She had every right to keep her cards close; he had no intention of telling her about Ninth Company if he could avoid it. Whoever this woman was tracking down, it wasn’t his problem - but his odds of staying alive were greatly improved with an ally, even one of convenience.

A survivor’s pact. Skeir could live with that for now.

But if she got in the way of his vengeance, he decided, her life was forfeit. Then, alone or no, she would come to regret seeking him out.

“You’ve got a deal.” Against the backdrop of the inferno, his bloodstained hand reached out, clasped her dirty one.

“I’m Skeir. What do I call you?”

“Issa.”