“You are better off dead.” He lifted both arms and began to walk in a circle, encouraging the others to join in. Soon enough, everyone had picked up the chant.
“Better off dead! Better off dead!”
Daud waited until the barman had his back to him. Then he concentrated, the Mark of the Outsider burning on the back of his hand, the pain hot and sharp and clean.
And then he moved.
Jack called out as Daud materialized behind the barman. Before the big man could turn in surprise, he’d planted his boot in the small of the barman’s back. His body was as thick as an oak tree and felt just as immobile, but the Mark of the Outsider gave Daud more than just stealth and subterfuge.
It also gave him strength.
The barman toppled forward, tried to regain his footing, but was unable to balance himself. He crashed to the cobbles, chest-first, but reacted quickly, pushing himself back up and swinging his arm out. Daud ducked and kicked again, this time connecting with the man’s knee. There was a crunch. The barman fell down onto his backside and tried to get up, but his leg was bending in the wrong direction. Crying out in pain, he shuffled backward along the cobbles, clearing room for his companions to get to work.
Daud sensed, rather than heard, the movement behind him. He spun around to see that the Sixways Gang had now formed a semicircle around him. Some of them were grinning; they were enjoying this. Those at the front had put their pistols away, and were now swinging blackjacks and blades. Guns were too easy. They wanted this fight to last as long as possible.
Daud inhaled through his nostrils, the air suddenly cool and electric. The back of his throat tingled and the back of his hand burned and he could feel his heart pump in his chest as the first flush of adrenaline faded.
He had to admit: it felt good. Maybe this was what he had missed. Maybe it had been wrong to steer away from violence for so many years after his exile. Who was he trying to fool? He was Daud, the Knife of Dunwall. He was a killer, an assassin. Even without the Mark, he was a sublime fighter, his skills unparalleled in all the Isles. Age had done nothing to weaken him. And with the gift the Outsider had bestowed upon him, the power he was able to draw from the Void, he was invincible.
Perhaps in reaction to his thoughts, Daud’s left hand lit in exquisite pain, the Mark of the Outsider burning white hot. The agony was so excruciating he wanted nothing more than to tear his hand off with his teeth if he had to.
And then, no sooner had the pain flared into terrible being, it faded, leaving nothing but a dull ache. His entire left arm suddenly felt like a lead weight.
Daud wondered if the Outsider was watching him. Wondered if the Outsider knew what he was thinking, if the Outsider was playing with him.
He wondered if he would ever be free of that parasite. In front of him, some of the Sixways Gang danced on the balls of their feet, others rolled their necks, flexed their shoulders.
Then three men lunged forward. Daud waited until they were in striking distance, then feinted for the one on his left, the man ducking back in reflex then swinging his blackjack, before realizing Daud was out of range, having pushed off with his left leg, darting instead to target the thug in the middle. Forearm horizontal, elbow braced, Daud’s arm collided with the man’s throat, crushing his larynx. The gangster staggered and swung, but the attack was weak; Daud parried the soft blow easily with his still-raised forearm, then slammed his boot into the man’s thigh. There was a crack and the thug sagged forward, head down, presenting the back of his neck to Daud. Daud didn’t waste the opportunity and slammed down on the back of the man’s skull with both hands. Vertebrae crunched and the thug dropped, his chin met by Daud’s swiftly rising knee. Teeth went flying as Daud sidestepped, letting the gangster’s body drop to the road.
Two tree-trunk arms wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The man hissed in Daud’s ear, his breath hot and smelling of sour onions.
He couldn’t see his attacker, but the man was big. The gangster reared up, lifting Daud clean off his feet, as two more men lunged in to join the fray. Daud lifted his legs and kicked out, his boots connecting with their faces, sending them staggering backward. The gangster holding him roared in his ear and squeezed as he adjusted his footing for better balance.
Daud used this to his advantage, rocking his upper body forward just as the gangster thought he was stable. The sudden shift in Daud’s center of gravity caused the man to tilt forward, his grip loosening. As Daud’s feet touched the ground, he winged his arms out, breaking the gangster’s grip. He ducked left and then right as he dodged two swinging blackjacks, before weaving in the oppositedirection to deliver nose-breaking punches with the heels of his hands, left then right.
There was a bang, and Daud felt the trailing hood of his jerkin puff out, pulling sharply on his neck. Daud glanced to his right and saw smoke rising from a pistol. Someone was obviously keen to bring the fight to a conclusion before more of the gang were taken out. The shooter paused to check her aim, sighting down the barrel with one eye closed.
Daud dropped as the pistol fired again, the shot safely wide. Daud ducked down and darted forward before pushing himself up and throwing himself at the shooter. He caught the woman’s wrists, flinging her arms high and sending the gun spinning into the air. The woman fell and hit the cobbles on her back, while Daud directed all the force of
