The man’s head snapped side to side, his eyes constantly rolling toward things not there. “Feh-feh,” he muttered, his words caught in a never-ending stutter. “Feh!”
Threefold God, Kalen thought. How hard had he hit the man?
“Oi!” cried one of the Dustclaws from across the street.
The man bared a mouth full of broken teeth. “Feh?” he asked.
“Oi!” A hand clapped the man’s shoulder and he fell to the ground as though struck. There he lay, panting and moaning, his hands twitching like dying spiders.
Two Dustclaws stood over the ailing man, staring down with wary gazes. “What’s the matter with him?” asked one.
“Gods only know,” said the other. “Bring him inside. Master will want to see.”
The first of the guards stooped to take the crazed man by the arms, but the man thrashed violently, clawing the hands away. When the guard reached for him again, the madman caught his arm and closed his teeth on his wrist. “Shazsah!” the guard cried. “Dhao-spawn bit me!”
“Zah!” The other guard stomped on the madman’s stomach, curling him in a pained ball. “Blood-burner. He’s on mist, perhaps?”
“He should hope that’s so,” said the wounded man, poking at his wrist. “Else, he will feel every inch of my blade through his guts.”
“Burning sand,” said his comrade with a nod.
Kalen had no more idea what had happened to the madman than the Calishite guards did, but he knew to take an opportunity when it appeared.
With their attention on the ailing man, the guards did not notice as Kalen moved around a stack of refuse and shot across the street. One of them looked over his shoulder, but Kalen stepped inside before the black eyes could focus.
In the main audience chamber of the Dustclaw tavern, listening to one of his thieves try to justify a botched take, Warchief Duulgrin blew out a rumbling, bored sigh.
The half-orc chieftain had never liked this rotting pustule of a city, with its dull monotony of daily muggings, alley beatings, and hiring out bodyguards for con men and playpretties-and occasionally having one of those clients beaten for skimping on payment. He longed for the days of glorious battle, leading hundreds of screaming orcs to crush opposing armies who dared enter the lands of Many-Arrows.
Duulgrin had chosen exile rather than death as punishment for his failures. But now he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Aside from the rare grand-scale gang war to punctuate the monotony, Duulgrin felt utterly wasted in Luskan. Which was why, when the two Calishites dragged the madman-thrashing and moaning incoherently-into his throne chamber, the half-orc chieftain of Dustclaws was in the foulest of foul moods. Ah, this was a welcome distraction.
He dismissed the fast-talking thief at his feet, who scurried away, and then he turned to the newcomers. “What is this goblin filth? Bring him!”
His voice lacked the deep resonance of his orc forefathers, pitched instead rather high, like that of an oversized weasel. Duulgrin’s tone had led many to underestimate him over the years, which he’d always used to his advantage.
The Calishites-Duulgrin hadn’t bothered to learn their names-cast the bloody man down before the warchief’s throne. The half-orc flexed his fingers, feeling his iron knuckle duster rub coarsely across his skin. This small pain comforted him-he liked the agony of battle.
“Feh-feh!” the madman was saying. Something awful had happened to his face-some sort of impact that had pushed all his piercings into his flesh.
“What, by Gruumsh’s lost eye?” Duulgrin asked.
“Feh-feh.” The madman pulled a shard of silver, stretching his cheek until blood welled and the piercing came loose. This, he tossed aside. “Feh!”
Duulgrin scowled. “Take this broke-wit from my sight,” he said, waving.
The chieftain turned, but a hand fell on his ankle. He looked down and there was the madman staring up at him through blood red eyes. “Feh,” the man said.
“Feh?” Duulgrin bent lower toward him.
“Feed,” said the madman, showing a dozen bloody teeth. “Feed.”
And he closed his teeth on the half-orc’s bare foot.
It hurt, aye, but it was not the pain that angered Duulgrin-the pain woke his warrior’s instincts. It was the disrespect the half-orc could not tolerate-not in front of his men, not even were he alone. He had not commanded the blood and blades of three score cutthroats for a dozen years by showing a weakness like mercy.
He kicked the madman away, shattering his jaw with a wet crack.
“Feed, eh?” Duulgrin stepped down, crushing one of the madman’s hands under his boot. He bent down and pulled the ailing man up by the collar. “You want to feed, do you?”
The man moaned in pain and confusion. “Feed!”
Duulgrin roared and slammed his forehead into the madman’s face with an audible crunch. The man yelped and his head fell back. Duulgrin butted him again. And again.
If the piercings cut him, the half-orc didn’t show it-all he felt was the thrill of inflicting pain, of blood spurting in his face. His father’s rage had taken him-the old way of the orc once more rising in his veins. The madman moaned, and Duulgrin laughed.
Finally, he pulled back and shook his head. Blood flew. “You like the taste of that?” he said. “Eh? How do you like it?”
The madman-his face reduced to ground meat-burbled a reply.
“Aye?” Duulgrin leaned down. “Feed, perhaps?”
Blood spurted from the ruined face like a geyser, coating Duulgrin’s nose and mouth. The half-orc reeled back, startled. The taste was foul beyond foul, tinged with rot. He wiped blood from his eyes and glared around the room-at his men, at his mistress, at the fool thief who’d tried talking his way out of the half-orc’s wrath. Duulgrin growled, blood trickling from his lips.
No weakness.
He spat the blood back in the madman’s face. The man fell back to the floor, twitching but making no more noises.
Duulgrin shook his head once to clear some blood from it, then grinned at his men. “Back to your posts,” he said. “Don’t bring this bloody shit into my house. You come through those doors again, you bring me something I want, not just something to kill. Though”-he grinned, blood trickling over his chin-“this gave me something to do.”
He could see the big men trying not to tremble.
“Now get out.” Duulgrin waved to the corpse. “Take that with you.”
The two Calishites dragged the mess no longer recognizable as a man out the doors, leaving a trail of blood.
Duulgrin gestured to the thief. “Now, where were we?”
The back door to the alley opened and the two guards hobbled out, the bloody body between them. They stepped down from the threshold and walked three paces into the alley. They hefted, swung the corpse twice, and tossed it against the opposite wall.
The first Calishite paused and looked around warily. “Hold.”
“What is it?” said the other.
“Nothing,” the first said. “A mirage.”
The second one grunted. They went back inside.
After a moment, a shadow-which had slipped out behind them-nodded, satisfied there were no onlookers. Then Kalen parted from the wall and moved toward the corpse, his hand on his dagger’s hilt. He hadn’t found Myrin anywhere in the tavern. Kalen had found holding cells, but they were all empty. Nor had they looked like anything that could hold Myrin, with her magic. No, someone else must have her.
He’d also spied on the chamber of the gang chief in time to see the guards bring in the hapless madman. Based on that performance, Kalen never wanted to face Duulgrin himself. Fortunately, Myrin hadn’t been there. If she had … well, then he would have fought all of them.
The Dustclaws didn’t have her, which was one gang down. They had, however, been kind enough to leave a dwarf-crafted dagger unattended-a match to the one on Kalen’s belt. Now, it was time to move on. Still, he couldn’t shake his unease regarding the madman’s fate.