12

Outer Mismiyer

It happened again.

Ludgar did something stupid, and he didn’t get punished for it. Instead, he got rewarded.

The structural order of the universe seemed to fall in on itself whenever he got involved. What should have been the tightly constructed nature of cause and effect was subverted by the chaotic nature of that man’s decision-making skills.

Sethel loved it.

‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,’ said Caspar, speaking bluntly. ‘This isn’t what I signed up for.’

‘Killing people?’ Sethel asked.

‘Not that! I mean working for a gang. I want to be a soldier. Maybe work my way up to a knight someday. Didn’t think I’d be working for a drug lord.’

‘Few people end up where they plan to be. And either way, you’re still getting rid of dangerous drug abusers. Some knights do that for free. Why should it matter who pays you?’

‘I…. uh. Huh, I guess you’re right.’

‘Feel better?’

‘A little.’

It wasn’t where Sethel wanted to be either, but if he wanted to become the greatest sorcerer the world had ever known, then he’d have to start small and work his way there. Acquire some coin, buy some new tomes, maybe some sigilstones. Soul magic may be dangerous, but powerful, if used right.

‘The longest journeys always start with the smallest steps.’ And killing a few members of Hands was a small step indeed.

The hound known as Thaun seemed unable to ascertain how they migrated into Mismiyer, and their collective presence precipitated a number of civil altercations. Mostly muggings, some general violence, and even a little raids unapproved of by the Serpents. Some missing people too; not an uncommon occurrence in Mismiyer.

Sethel considered this less a matter of inter-criminal warfare, and more like generalized extermination.

Even these few petty crimes didn’t attract the attention of the Serpents. What did was the mugging and subsequent murder of a local alchemist. Again, it was something that wouldn’t have even turned the head of the White Cobra, as the average alchemist is as available as the muskwarts found at the side of any path, but this alchemist possessed a special ingredient. The root of a petrified tree thousands of years old, said to grant immeasurable strength. Highly rare, highly dangerous, and even more highly illegal.

Even Sethel had to admit that starkvol root was not something to be messed with.

The temptation was there, but he wasn’t fool enough to take it; they were paid to deal with the Hands, and would be given extra for the recovery of the root.

The gang members situated themselves in the long destitute homes that once stood proud, before the constant eroding waves of the Broken Sea fell them. The Hands placed themselves in like maggots infesting a carcass and used the incumbent mist to sneak into the heart of the city.

The city itself was situated on the largest of the islands that littered the sea, and the remains of the much older building could be used as makeshift walkways between each of the islands in this destructive archipelago.

Today, the fog had lifted somewhat, and only turned the distant horizon into the characteristic grey void that Mismiyer was so known for.

They walked the broken islands and jagged coast that constituted the island where Mismiyer stood, admiring the shells of an ancient town that once stood.

‘It’s a wonder Mismiyer is still standing,’ Kathiya said, not expecting an answer.

‘Blackstone,’ Sethel answered anyway. ‘Surprising resistant against erosion. Once they found out, everything was built with it.’

‘Guess that’s why the city looks so dark.’

It took around an hour before they reached the end of the first island, where an old tower had fallen and now lies between two islands.

The stones wet from the spray of the sea, wind strong, and the stone crumbling. A very imperfect bridge. It was madness to cross, and they were doing it anyway. Except Ves’sa; she was already at the other side.

They walked along the outside wall avoiding the windows and fissures in its structure. They stopped at a great split at what would be the middle floor, which formed a wide chasm. Not an enormous one, but one that required a considerable jump.

Kathiya made it across fine, with the acrobatic flair characteristic of both thieves and cats.

Then Ludgar. A heavier landing than he would have liked. Some of the stone bricks broke off and fell into the grey water below.

Then Caspar jumped and landed clumsily on his rear, heavy axe not helping.

All in all, quite a dramaless event.

Caspar lent out a hand to assist.

‘I need not your assistance!’ Sethel proclaimed, then he attempted the jump.

He didn’t even make it halfway.

The group looked on. It took a moment for them to process the event.

‘Oh shit, he just fell in,’ Ludgar said, quite matter-of-factly.

Only now did Sethel wish he paid more attention in levitation class.

His fall was shorter than expected, and he ended up drier than expected. His arm was in more pain though.

He opened his eyes to see the rushing water frothing at the edges of the toppled tower, and how he was hanging over it. He looked to his arm to see talons attached to it. He looked along the talon to find legs above them, a body above those, and the angry head of Ves’sa staring down at him.

She swooped him up out the hole and dropped him by the rest of the team where he fell face first.

‘My most sincere gratitude!’ he said as he rose and offered with a bow. It was always difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic or not. It didn’t help that he always held this slight smile, and no one could tell if he was being smug or if that’s the natural way his face fell.

Wordlessly, Ves’sa took off and flew into the haze of the Broken Sea’s sky.

‘I really hope she’s just off scouting,’ said Ludgar. ‘Was quite an effort getting her to join.’

‘Just how did you happen upon that one?’ asked Sethel, dusting himself off.

‘It’s complicated. We’ll just say it wasn’t pleasant for either of us and leave it at that.’

They did just that and they continued on along the gloomy archipelagos.

Nightfall came. Without the visible sun, it creeped in like blood staining a white shirt.

The shadows of stormchasers danced with each other overhead, sinking, rising, twirling in the mist, their broad fins gently catching the air and pushing them upwards. Their haunting song calling to the void.

Stormchasers herald the coming of a storm, and this was prime feeding ground. Whether they can predict the coming storms, or if the storm follows is up for debate.

Ves’sa emerged and directed them the rest of the way. They followed the glow of a faded orange light flickering within the hollow window of the decrepit shell of an old keep.

No sentries.

They certainly weren’t soldiers. Feels like an age since he last properly fought someone who actually knew what they were doing.

They walked through the only half standing arch of what was once the gatehouse, now a mostly shattered mess, and kept low through the courtyard, the low, broken walls providing ample cover. Sloppy handprints marked the inner walls, the signature that Hands had claimed this territory. What they used as paint, they were unsure, but could make a logical guess.

Kathiya took the right flank, climbing the toppled wall and moving along the parapets, while Ves’sa took the left.

The last three took the main entrance to the keep itself, doors long since missing, spacious entryway ripped of anything even remotely valuable. Instead, they had a large pile of refuse left in the middle. The unwanted parts from their raids: rugs, clothes, furniture, bodies.

At least they now knew where those missing people went.

Ves’sa stood atop the balcony, looking down at the junk, before going off deeper into the bowels of the old keep. Keeping themselves low and quiet, they did the same.

They could hear their cries, their shouting, their laughter. Manic mood swings were not a characteristic effect of huska, but there were many more drugs that produced such.

They followed the red haze of the huska smoke, its burning taste stinging the back of their throats and eyes. They followed it till they reached the old guard barracks, where furniture had been stripped and made into an open fire. Some had strewn themselves about, feeling the numbing and weightless effect of the huska; some were dancing in the light of the fire, probably from dayglow mushrooms; the rest looked to be staring at things no one else could see, empty vials of jyabajuice beside.

A party celebrating their last haul.

By the time Ludgar was finished, it would be their last indeed.

Over ten of them, all marked in handprints and tattered clothes. And even as intoxicated as they were, there was quite a number more than them, and the drugs made them unpredictable.

But Ludgar still had his ace up his sleeve.

‘So,’ he whispered, placing a hand on Sethel’s shoulder, ‘how are these conditions?’

Sethel took a moment to ponder, tongue running along the front of his teeth. ‘Favourable.’

‘Right. Time to get to work.’

There was no use being discrete. Best thing to do in a scenario like this is to rush in and take them out before they could figure out what was going on.

Sethel started it off, directing his staff at the open fire, where a gout of jade energy poured forth and the fire grew into a virulent, green inferno that consumed the dancers.

Ludgar and Caspar took to the flanks where they dealt with the ones under the influence of jyabajuice, who couldn’t prioritize attacking what was real and what was not; one seemed more interested in striking down a violent looking mop.

They fumbled around in a panic as they left their weapons everywhere, except anywhere that was convenient.

That was one of the fundamental rules of being a merc; always keep a weapon close to hand. On a list, it would be about the third highest. The second being: fight for the side that pays best. The first: fight for the side that will win.

The ones laying on the old furs and rugs limply tried getting up, reaching for whatever they could, but too much huska turns muscles to mush, and they were about as effective in combat as a slug.

Others ran in, weapons in hand. Sethel was already on them. With a flick of his wrist, a blast of telekinetic air lifted the smoulders and embers of the fire, sending it directly into the doorway, forcing them to take cover and shield their eyes.

From behind, arrows pierced them. Kathiya had started her assault from the shadows. Between Sethel’s fire, Ludgar and Caspar’s melee flurry, and Kathiya’s ranged suppression, the Hands were well and truly fucked.

For the amount of people he was fighting, this was one of the easiest fights he had been in.

Beyond what was once the soldier’s barracks was a spiral staircase leading to what must have been the lord’s private chambers.

Ves’sa was alone, looking for an easier way to the higher floors than through the mess below. An outer door led back to the battlements, and she saw a ledge far above on the main body of the keep. It was high; high enough to be important.

She landed on the balcony on the keep’s top floor. Inside, it was darker and far quieter than the chaos below.

Using her bow, she caught the unaware fussing with something on the central table. Some hairless, portly thing of a much larger size, wearing a necklace of bones and other oddities, grabbed a yellow vial and rushed for a door at the end of the room. Quicker than he looked, as her arrows missed their mark. Her aim could be better, like the cat’s. She needed to train more.

The few that were left fell quick, one shot in the leg and trying his best to pull himself anywhere else through fallen vials and strange ingredients.

An alchemy lab. Not organised like the ones she had seen the lizard use, but much more inconsistent in design. Built from whatever they had available. Whatever was stolen and whatever they could find.

By it, something was slumped over.

A body. Robed. Some trauma to the face. Foot shackled. Throat slit. The wound still fresh. Recent.

The alchemist.

Clearly, he had outlived his usefulness.

The last dragged himself away, pushing himself back along the broken glass till he was against the wall with nowhere left to run.

‘P-please!’ He cried meekly. 'I have a family!’

Why beg for mercy? Why beg for it if they’re not willing to give it? Because they have a family? So did the others whose lives had been taken. So did that alchemist. Why should theirs be of any more importance?

She was rarely happy, but it had been a while since she felt like this. Never wanted to kill something as much as she did now.

Even as she plunged the blade through his heart, it didn’t feel good. Whatever justice she was enacting brought no pleasure, no satisfaction, no solace.

Just another dead among many.

A family?

Family shouldn’t be taken for granted like this. Not used like a shield. You need to be the shield.

The others forced their way in, with little Caspar falling through the rotten timber of the locked door, only to find the rest of the job taken care of. All that was left was to break into the private chamber their de facto leader had locked himself in.

‘I see they put the alchemist to work,’ the lizard said, in a more jovial manner than appropriate. ‘Let’s see what he’s been cooking.’

He opened one of the glass alembics and took a quick whiff. His face reflexively contorted and he stepped back.

‘Bad news. That’s definitely starkvol.’

‘Well shit. Looks like we’re out some money,’ said the black wolf, kicking one of the limp bodies from the alchemical table.

‘It’s far more inconvenient than that. He’s alchemised it into a potion.’

‘I mean, yeah. That’s what you do with alchemical ingredients.’

‘I don’t think you understand what kind of potion starkvol makes.’ As if to punctuate the point, some thunderous noise shook the foundation of the keep, sending dust and stone falling from above. Sethel picked a blade from the ground, holding it in one hand and his staff in the other. ‘We should leave. Right now.’