In that time, he has crossed down the muddy trade road through the cut of the rain and is only now reaching where Mykos is still, imrobably, standing. The sheeting weather has plastered the Tevene soldier's dark hair to his skull. The water that courses down his face and off his chin is only slightly pink.
Here, in the shadow of the short wall and scaffold, Flint shifts the crossbow out from under the tarpaulin edge and uses its blunt end to whack the soldier's sword aside. Mykos drops it with a readiness that seems to suggest he had forgotten he was still baring it.
A word is given to him, too low to carry to the top of the scaffolding, and Mykos allows himself to be caught by the elbow and helped to sit down hard in the middle of the soggy track. His spare hand—if it technically qualifies as that—remains pressed tight around where the shaft juts out beneath his jaw. In the grey haze, Flint bends over him: a dark, stopping shape. He relieves the man of his belt knife and flings it idly into the offing.
The conversation between the two men in the road is brief and, by necessity of the crossbow head being lodged in the roof of Mykos' mouth, largely one sided. The shot man makes a clumsy gesture. Seems to hesitate for a moment over some question put to him. Flint asks the question again. Receives a slow nod of agreement. When the exchange is complete, Flint gives the man a thumping pat on the shoulder. Straightens. Raises a hand to Marcus: five fingers, then one. A jerking motion to indicate the toll house. Six more inside.
A few moments to breathe. To crouch down and stay still, a hand still resting on the crumpled dead guard in a thoughtless kind of way. Adrenaline, magical exertion, the sort of recursive churn of satisfaction and disgust that comes with killing up close, all given a moment to filter out through the blood, disperse, and the rain becomes louder than his own heartbeat. Marcus watches the figures of Flint and the injured guard, instinctively awaiting signal.
Six more inside. A little more than they'd anticipated, but not unmanageable. He glances across in the direction of their back up, but its useless to try to see anything. The road would be visible to them, though, and so they ought to be ready.
Picking up his staff, Marcus moves quick and quiet across the scaffolding, staying low. The tollhouse is heavy stone and narrow windows, designed to be defensible, and so: he disappears behind the low wall, to do as he'd offered.
It will take a little time—a few minutes, at worst, for him to find somewhere not in immediate sight of the doorways, to focus, to place a hand just beneath one of the narrow windows and begin a streaming of thick, choking smoke inside the structure.
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Here, in the shadow of the short wall and scaffold, Flint shifts the crossbow out from under the tarpaulin edge and uses its blunt end to whack the soldier's sword aside. Mykos drops it with a readiness that seems to suggest he had forgotten he was still baring it.
A word is given to him, too low to carry to the top of the scaffolding, and Mykos allows himself to be caught by the elbow and helped to sit down hard in the middle of the soggy track. His spare hand—if it technically qualifies as that—remains pressed tight around where the shaft juts out beneath his jaw. In the grey haze, Flint bends over him: a dark, stopping shape. He relieves the man of his belt knife and flings it idly into the offing.
The conversation between the two men in the road is brief and, by necessity of the crossbow head being lodged in the roof of Mykos' mouth, largely one sided. The shot man makes a clumsy gesture. Seems to hesitate for a moment over some question put to him. Flint asks the question again. Receives a slow nod of agreement. When the exchange is complete, Flint gives the man a thumping pat on the shoulder. Straightens. Raises a hand to Marcus: five fingers, then one. A jerking motion to indicate the toll house. Six more inside.
no subject
Six more inside. A little more than they'd anticipated, but not unmanageable. He glances across in the direction of their back up, but its useless to try to see anything. The road would be visible to them, though, and so they ought to be ready.
Picking up his staff, Marcus moves quick and quiet across the scaffolding, staying low. The tollhouse is heavy stone and narrow windows, designed to be defensible, and so: he disappears behind the low wall, to do as he'd offered.
It will take a little time—a few minutes, at worst, for him to find somewhere not in immediate sight of the doorways, to focus, to place a hand just beneath one of the narrow windows and begin a streaming of thick, choking smoke inside the structure.