The mission was real. More than that, it was possible. The Outsider would die by his hand, and he knew exactly how to do it—and with what. Because the rumors told of an artifact, an object straight out of myth and legend. A relic of another time, another place. A weapon—a bronze knife with twinned blades.
The knife that had created the Outsider.
It was real, and it had reappeared in the world. Or so the rumor went, the story fueled not by some cultish interest in the heresies of the Outsider but speculation as to how much such an object would be worth on the black market.There was a small, secretive trade in magical artifacts; Daud knew that well enough. And the Twin-bladed Knife would be the most sought-after relic of them all.
And as the Twin-bladed Knife had brought the Outsider into being, it was—so the legend went—the only weapon in existence that could end him.
That was good enough for Daud. And now his mission had a concrete objective, because to fulfill it—to kill the Outsider, to free himself and the world from that malign influence—he had to find the knife.
His search began where the rumors ended. In Dunwall, at the ruined factory.
“Urghhh…”
Daud’s reverie was interrupted by the moan from the body at his feet. The Overseer lay on his back on the gantry, mask still in place and reflecting the growing dawn light. As he began to stir, Daud nudged his head with the toe of his boot. The Overseer jerked awake.
“Where am I?”
Daud swung his leg over the Overseer and stood astride him. The Overseer jerked again, sucking a lungful of air in through his mask before coughing violently. He lifted himself up onto one elbow and leaned over to spit a rope of watery mucus through the mask’s grimacing mouth.
Daud lifted one boot and planted it on the Overseer’s chest, shoving the man back onto the platform. The Overseer’s fingers clawed at Daud’s calf as the assassin pushed down, hard.
“Please! What are… you… doing…?”
Daud moved swiftly, dropping down onto one knee, the impact winding the man beneath him. Daud grabbed a handful of his coat at the collar, pulling the man up from the gantry as much as he could. Daud leaned down until the tip of his beard touched the metal chin of theOverseer’s mask. His voice was a low growl. “You’ll speak only to answer my questions. If you ask any of your own, you die. If your answers are not to my satisfaction, you die. If you tell me any lies, I’ll know, and you die.” He tightened his grip on the tunic. “Do we have an understanding?”
The Overseer breathed hard. This close, Daud could see the man’s eyes through the mask. They were very blue, very wide, and very wet.
Daud took a deep draw of the cool morning air. He could smell the sharp electric tang of the metal platform beneath him as it warmed in the sun. He could smell the earthy scent of the Wrenhaven River. But there, faint now but growing stronger, the acrid, sour stink of fear wafting from the Overseer beneath him.
Now that was the Dunwall he remembered.
“Nod if you understand,” he said. At this the Overseer nodded quickly. A whimper sounded from behind the mask. Daud paused. Was the man… was he crying? Daud snarled and yanked the mask off. He frowned. Daud wasn’t sure what he expected to see underneath, but part of him was surprised.
Daud was older than he cared to admit, and he had been away from Dunwall for a long time. But he honestly didn’t remember Overseers being this young. His captive looked like a boy, surely not even in his eighteenth year? His clean-shaven face was round and still filled with baby fat, his skin red and flushed and wet with the tears that continued to stream from the boy’s big blue eyes—eyes that stared at Daud’s face in pure, wide terror.
At least Daud knew he wouldn’t be recognized—his beard was long, the black whiskers streaked with white. And the Overseer was just too young to know who he was anyway. The boy—the man, Daud corrected himself—would have been a child during the rat plague,when the Whalers had stalked the streets of the city. Back then, Daud’s face had been plastered everywhere: posters offering a reward for his kill or capture appeared in almost every tavern and every alley in every district of the city.
Daud opened his mouth to ask his first question, but it was the Overseer who spoke first, despite his captor’s threats.
“You’re him, aren’t you?”
Daud froze. The Overseer squeezed his eyes shut tight and held his breath, his lips pressed together until they were almost white.
“You don’t know me, boy,” Daud said through clenched teeth. He paused, considering his options. The boy was terrified—but hopefully still able to answer Daud’s questions. “What’s your name?”
“Woodrow,” said the Overseer. “Hayward Woodrow.”
Daud snarled and slid his knee off the Overseer’s chest, then leaned back, pulling the Overseer up with him by the neck. “Listen to me, Woodrow—”
“The Knife of Dunwall. You’re him, aren’t you?”
Somehow, after all this time, despite his own changed appearance, this Overseer—this boy—knew who he was. Knew—or guessed. Daud considered. Maybe it didn’t matter. He was surprised, yes, but he also knew it wasn’t really him that the boy was babbling about. It was his legend.
Woodrow swallowed. “It’s only… I mean… I’m sorry.” He stammered, looking for the words. “Only… the Knife of Dunwall, we still talk about him and what he did. Before my time, of course. I’m only a First Initiate. I mean, I never… he’s just a legend. The older ones… I mean, the more senior members
