Open for Business, Chapter I

 The bitter cold cut like a blade across the Halas docks, the gray-green ocean whipping foam off the tops of waves, and ice chunks floating in the hostile sea. The sun never rises this time of year, but the days were growing longer, and the eternal twilight of summer would begin soon.

The men fanned across the docks, taking places at markets, fishmongers, docked longboats, bait shops, net repair stalls, and other dockside shoppes crammed onto the pier, shuttered lanterns providing just enough light to do business by, legal or otherwise.

The black-scaled Iskar walked beside a hooded man as they made their way towards the arranged meeting point.

"I don't get it, Dragskarr," the man said from under his hood. "I treated those girls like family, raised them all in a, well, not loving, but a good home where they were spared the rod, and this is what they do to repay me?"

"Varlikh," the Iskar growled, "they wish nothing to do with you now, save Kali. She? Be lucky she has a sense of humor about her, if wicked at that, that one trait of hers keeps you alive." The Iksar’s amber eyes scanned the horizon, a storm of old pain brewing within their depths. "Perhaps you should not have been so generous with the rod after all."

The figure under the hood stopped dead. "I gave them a roof, a family, and a trade. I made them into women, Dragskarr. And I have the scars to prove it." Varlikh's voice was a low, gravelly threat. "And I will have their loyalty for it, one way or another."

Dragskarr let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound of shifting stone and distant thunder. "You speak of loyalty as if it is a thing to be carved from flesh, Varlikh. You gave them skills, not love. You gave them a roof, not a home. You are surprised they fled your nest the moment they could fly?"

Varlikh’s gloved hand tightened on the hilt of one of his obsidian daggers, the black leather creaking in the cold. "Do not mock me, lizard. I am not in the mood for your ancient riddles today."

"Riddles?" Dragskarr’s scales seemed to absorb the meager light, his amber eyes glowing faintly in the twilight. "You used to give me orders, too. Now look at you. A lone thug working for the mages. Every bit their whore, and trust me, they have better than you." He gestured with a clawed hand towards a shivering net-mender. "He has more self-respect, and he's a known snitch for the local constabulary."

A muscle in Varlikh's jaw jumped. He said nothing, but the air grew colder still, the silence between them heavier than the sea air. Varlikh’s piercing eyes, hidden in the shadow of his hood, fixed on the Iksar. "And what of you, shaman? What of the darkness that clings to you like rot on a fallen log? You speak of respect, yet you serve alongside me, a killer, as if it were your natural element. You mend my assassins, you bend storms for me, you walk in my shadow without flinching. Tell me, what wound in your soul allows you to thrive here, in this den of vipers? What secrets do you keep that make you so at home with monsters?"

Dragskarr's amber eyes blazed, a flash of lightning in the gloom. For a moment, the very air seemed to crackle around them. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cold, placid calm of a frozen lake. "My secrets are my own, Captain. As are yours. But unlike you, I do not mistake my cage for a kingdom."

"There's the bastard," Varlikh gestured with his head. "The man we're supposed to buy the slaves from. This whole syndicate helped the Plague Cult when they last dared show their faces around here, and we left them alive if they would rat them out. Seeing how the Plague Cult could be back, I'd say our little deal with them is null and void. But not before we get some information." He looked at the Iksar, a silent question hanging in the air between them.

Dragskarr didn't even look at the target. His gaze was fixed on Varlikh. "The Queen sent me to temper you, Varlikh. To be the wisdom to your ruthlessness. But today... Today, I am merely the storm that follows the lightning. Lead on."

They approached the fisherman, a burly Halasian with a beard full of braids and a permanent scowl etched onto his face. He was haggling with a net-mender over a price for a repaired net, his voice a rough bark. Varlikh stopped a few feet away, letting the fisherman finish his business.

The fisherman, whose name was Bjorn, finally turned to them, his eyes narrowed. "You're late. And you brought a pet." He jerked a thumb at Dragskarr.

"Your cargo is still here, isn't it?" Varlikh's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "We're here to buy. Let's not waste time with pleasantries."

Bjorn spat on the icy wooden planks of the dock. "Straight to business, then. Two hundred gold pieces. They're fresh, healthy, and quiet. A good bargain."

"I want to talk to your fucking boss," Varlikh spat.

Bjorn's scowl deepened. "My boss doesn't talk to the likes of you. You pay, you get your merchandise, you leave. That's the deal."

"I'm not here for a deal," Varlikh said, his hand still resting on the hilt of his dagger. "I'm here for information. About the Plague Cult. You and your syndicate were supposed to be our eyes and ears. You failed. Now you will answer for it."

Bjorn laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "The Plague Cult? They're a ghost story, a boogeyman to scare children. They haven't been seen in a damn long time. You're chasing shadows."

"Am I?" Varlikh’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Or are you just lying to save your own skin? Tell me about the shipments. The ones that came in last month. The ones that weren't fish."

Bjorn’s face paled. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me," Varlikh growled, taking a step forward. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. The crates marked 'salted cod.' The ones that were delivered to the old warehouse by the lighthouse. What was in them?"

Bjorn’s eyes darted around the dock, looking for an escape. He saw none. Dragskarr stood like a monolith of black scales and simmering rage, blocking one path. Varlikh, a coiled spring of menace, blocked the other.

"I... I can't," Bjorn stammered. "They'll kill me."

"They'll kill you if you don't," Varlikh said, his voice a low, deadly promise. "But my death will be quicker. And it won't involve a Plaguebringer's touch."

The threat hung in the air, a palpable thing. Bjorn broke, his fear overwhelming his loyalty. "It was... it was components. Alchemical components. Strange things. Bloodstone, grave mold, things that... that hum. We were told to deliver them and not ask questions."

"Who told you?" Varlikh pressed.

"A man. A man in a gray cloak. No face. No name. Just a voice. He paid well. Too well to say no."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know! He just... vanished. After the delivery. We haven't seen him since."

Varlikh's eyes narrowed. "You're lying. You're holding something back."

Varlikh's eyes went to a nearby cloaked woman, standing ten yards down the dock, looking at shiny lures hung on a board filled with hooks of all sizes and jagged implements of the fishing trade. Her eyes met Varlikh's, and they glowed an ethereal violet as Talianimi's mind went to work on Bjorn, ripping the secrets from his mind in a violent assault to find the truth. The fisherman's eyes widened in terror, his mouth agape in a silent scream. He clutched his head, stumbling back, his face a mask of pure agony.

"He's not lying, Captain," Talianimi's voice was a silken whisper in Varlikh's mind. "He knows nothing more. He's a small fish, swimming in waters he doesn't understand. But he does know one more thing... a meeting. A meeting tonight. At the old lighthouse. The man in the gray cloak will be there. With others."

Bjorn collapsed to the dock, gasping for air, his mind a shattered ruin. He looked up at Varlikh, his eyes wide with a new kind of terror, the terror of a man who has seen the abyss and had it look back.

Varlikh looked down at the broken man, then at Talianimi, who had already turned away, her attention back on the lures. He then looked at Dragskarr, whose amber eyes were fixed on the lighthouse in the distance, a grim understanding passing between them.

Varlikh pulled the man to his feet and stared into his eyes.

"The deal's off," Varlikh said to the quivering fisherman. "The girls are ours. And your life... is on borrowed time."

He shoved the stumbling fisherman towards Tali. "Know where the girls are? Dragskarr can fetch them."

Tali shot a look of disgust at Varlikh. "We're getting them; the rest of the team is already on the way to the lighthouse."

"We don't have time to fuck around, Tali," Varlikh growled.

"We're not leaving them to be sold to the Plague Cult or worse," Tali's mental voice was sharp, a shard of ice in Varlikh's mind. "You know Alustrae would have our heads. Or worse, your Queen."

"My Queen wants results, not sentiment," Varlikh shot back. "The lighthouse is the priority."

"The girls are the priority," Tali insisted. "They are our leverage. And our responsibility. You brought them into this plot, Varlikh. You will not abandon them."

Varlikh's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He looked at Dragskarr, who remained impassive, a statue of black scales and simmering fury.

"Fine," Varlikh spat, the word tasting like acid. "Dragskarr, with me. Tali, come along if you want to fuck around. We'll get the girls. Tell the others to handle the lighthouse. Keep your psionics to yourself unless you have to. I want at least one of them alive to talk to."

Talianimi's lips curved into a sly, knowing smile. She shot a look of disgust at Bjorn. "What about him?"

Varlikh glared at the quivering contact.

Varlikh's lip curled in a sneer. Without another word, he seized Bjorn by the front of his thick, fish-oil-stained coat. The burly Halasian was a strong man, a man who wrestled nets and hauled crates, but against the captain's dead, unnatural strength, he was a child's doll.

He shoved Bjorn backward.

The fisherman’s feet left the slick wood of the dock. For a sickening moment, he was airborne, a portrait of surprise and dawning horror. Then he struck the display board with a wet, percussive thud.

The impact drove the air from his lungs in a choked gasp. But the real pain came a heartbeat later, a symphony of steel piercing flesh. Dozens of hooks, meant for the toothy maws of deep-sea predators, sank into his back, shoulders, and the back of his legs. They were not clean, surgical wounds. The barbs, designed to hold a fighting fish, tore and ripped as he slid down the board, his own body weight completing the gruesome work. The board pushed towards the edge of the dock as she struggled.

A wet, tearing sound followed by a splash as he hit the icy water below.

He surfaced, sputtering, a strangled scream bubbling past his lips.

"Fuck him," Varlikh smiled, "he's fish food."

The three turned, without another word, and walked towards the boat holding the girls.

"That's the boat," Talianimi's eyes narrowed as her mind scanned the vessel for signs of life, "A dozen killers on board, six girls in the hold."

Dragskarr grunted, his amber eyes narrowing. "We will need someone to take the girls once we have them. We will be responsible once they are rescued."

"This is why I don't like getting bogged down in good guy shit," Varlikh cursed, turning and hiding behind the barrels with the others. "It's always messy. We don't know anyone in this fucking-"

Varlikh was stopped by the sight of a dark elf male staring at him, well-dressed, but in very fancy black leather armor that made no sound. His eyes scanned Varlikh with a hint of disgust, and then turned to Talianimi. "You do now."

"Who the fuck are you?" Varlikh sneered. "And what the fuck do you want?"

"Zesik, Fancy Security, Tali asked me to be here," he said, quietly, peering over Tali's shoulder, taking her in as much as his eyes scanned the ship."

"He's a gods damn slaver," Varlikh growled, "No way in fuck am I allowing him to be in charge of the girl's safety. I may be a right asshole, but I'm not that much of one to pass them between slavers."

"I'm not," Zesik's words grew cold, "anymore."

Dragskarr turned towards the new man. "You had better be sure."

"He's not," Talianimi glanced at the three. "End it. I'd know. He left the business, and he wasn't really that much into it except for his own pleasures." Her goat-like violet eyes found Zesik. "But I also know what you do when you think no one is looking, dark elf."

Zesik's face tightened, and he looked away. "I can get them somewhere safe, Captain. I can get them out of Halas."

Varlikh studied the dark elf, then looked at Talianimi. He saw something in her eyes, a flicker of something he couldn't quite place. A memory, a connection, a shared secret. It was a rare vulnerability in her, and it intrigued him.

"Fine," Varlikh said, his voice a low growl. "You get them out. But if I find out you've sold them to a brothel in Freeport, I will personally skin you alive and feed your entrails to the sharks."

Zesik's face hardened, but he nodded. "You have my word. But then again, it would most likely be you, chum."

"Your word is worthless to me," Varlikh sneered. "But Talianimi's isn't. And if she says you'll do it, you'll do it."

"I will," Zesik said, his voice flat.

"Nobody lies to me and lives," Talianimi said coldly, her eyes darting to Varlikh.

"Right, luve, you know I'd never lie to you," Varlikh said, turning back to the ship. "Now, how do we get on that boat without them knowing?" He looked at Dragskarr. "You're the shaman. You tell me."

Dragskarr's amber eyes glowed with a faint, internal light. "The sea is angry tonight. It will hide our approach. The wind will carry our voices away. The fog will blind their eyes. But we must be quick. The sea is a fickle ally."

"Then let's not keep it waiting," Varlikh said, drawing his obsidian daggers. "Tali, you stay here with your pet. Dragskarr and I will handle this."

"You're not going without me," Talianimi said, her voice firm. "I need to see for myself what's happening on that ship. I need to know if the girls are... unharmed."

"Fine," Varlikh said, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "But you stay back. You're not a fighter."

"I'm a survivor," Talianimi said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "And I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty."

"Then let's go," Varlikh said, and with a nod to Dragskarr, the four of them slipped out from behind the barrels and into the swirling fog.