through Pasha Basadoni's heart instead.
'Three lieutenants,' he said to the stunned Sharlotta. 'Hand, Jarlaxle, and you.'
'So Entreri is guildmaster,' the woman remarked with a crooked grin. 'You said you could not trust Kadran Gordeon, yet you recognize that I am more honorable,' she said seductively, coming forward a step.
Entreri's sword came out and about too fast for her to follow, its tip stopping against the tender flesh of her throat. 'Trust you?' the assassin balked. 'No, but neither do I fear you. Do as you are instructed, and you will live.' He shifted the angle of his blade slightly so that it tucked under her chin, and he nicked her there. 'Exactly as instructed,' he warned, 'else I will take your pretty face from you, one cut at a time.'
Entreri turned to Jarlaxle.
'The house will be secured within the hour,' the dark elf assured him. 'Then you and your human lieutenants can decide the fate of those taken and put out on the streets whatever word suits you as guildmaster.'
Entreri had thought that this moment would bring some measure of satisfaction. He was glad that Kadran Gordeon was dead and glad that the old wretch Basadoni had been given a well-deserved rest.
'As you wish, my Pasha,' Sharlotta purred from the side.
The title turned his stomach.
Chapter 17 EXORCISING DEMONS
There was indeed something appealing about the fighting, about the feeling of superiority and the element of control. Between the fact that the fights were not lethal-though more than a few patrons were badly injured-and the conscience-dulling drinks, no guilt accompanied each thunderous punch.
Just satisfaction and control, an edge that had been too long absent.
Had he stopped to think about it, Wulfgar might have realized that he was substituting each new challenger for one particular nemesis, one he could not defeat alone, one who had tormented him all those years.
He didn't bother with contemplation, though. He simply enjoyed the sensation of his fist colliding with the chest of this latest troublemaker, sending the tall, thin man reeling back in a hopping, staggering, stumbling quickstep, finally to fall backward over a bench some twenty feet from the barbarian.
Wulfgar methodically waded in, grabbing the decked man by the collar (and taking out more than a few chest hairs in the process) and the groin (and similarly extracting hair). With one jerk the barbarian brought the horizontal man level with his waist. Then a rolling motion snapped the man up high over his head.
'I just fixed that window,' Arumn Gardpeck said dryly, helplessly, seeing the barbarian's aim.
The man flew through it to bounce across Half Moon Street.
'Then fix it again,' Wulfgar replied, casting a glare over Arumn that the barkeep did not dare to question.
Arumn just shook his head and went back to wiping his bar, reminding himself that, by keeping such complete order in the place Wulfgar was attracting customers-many of them. Folk now came looking for a safe haven in which to waste a night, and then there were those interested in the awesome displays of power. These came both as challengers to the mighty barbarian or, more often, merely as spectators. Never had the Cutlass seen so many patrons, and never had Arumn Gardpeck's purse been so full.
But how much more full it would be, he knew, if he didn't have to keep fixing the place.
'Shouldn't've done that,' a man near the bar remarked to Arumn. 'That's Rossie Doone, he throwed, a soldier.'
'Not wearing any uniform,' Arumn remarked.
'Came in unofficial,' the man explained. 'Wanted to see this Wulfgar thug.'
'He saw him,' Arumn replied in the same resigned and dry tones.
'And he'll be seein' him again,' the man promised. 'Only next time with friends.'
Arumn sighed and shook his head, not out of any fear for Wulfgar, but because of the expenses he anticipated if a whole crew of soldiers came in to fight the barbarian.
Wulfgar spent that night-half the night-in Delly Curtie's room again, taking a bottle with him from the bar, then grabbing another one on his way outside. He went down to the docks and sat on the edge of a long wharf, watching the sparkles grow on the water as the sun rose behind him.
Josi Puddles saw them first, entering the Cutlass the very next night, a half-dozen grim-faced men including the one the patron had identified as Rossie Doone. They moved to the far side of the room, evicting several patrons from tables, then pulling three of the benches together so they could all sit side by side with their backs to the wall.
'Full moon tonight,' Josi remarked.
Arumn knew what that meant. Every time the moon was full the crowd was a bit rowdier. And what a crowd had come in this evening, every sort of rogue and thug Arumn could imagine.
'Been the talk of the street all the day,' Josi said quietly.
'The moon?' Arumn asked.
'Not the moon,' Josi replied. 'Wulfgar and that Rossie fellow. All have been talking of a coming brawl.'
'Six against one,' Arumn remarked.
'Poor soldiers,' Josi said with a snicker.
Arumn nodded to the side then, to Wulfgar, who, sitting with a foaming mug in hand, seemed well aware of the group that had come in. The look on the barbarian's face, so calm and yet so cold, sent a shiver along Arumn's spine. It was going to be a long night.
On the other side of the room, in a corner opposite where sat the six soldiers, another man, quiet and unassuming, also noted the tension and the prospective combatants with more than a passing interest. The man's name was well known on the streets of Luskan, though his face was not. He was a shadow stalker by trade, a man cloaked in secrecy, but a man whose reputation brought trembles to the hardiest of thugs.
Morik the Rogue had been hearing quite a bit about Arumn Gardpeck's new strong-arm; too much, in fact. Story after story had come to him about the man's incredible feats of strength. About how he had been hit squarely in the face with a heavy club and had shaken it away seemingly without care. About how he lifted two men high into the air, smashed their heads together, then simultaneously tossed them through opposite walls of the tavern. About how he had thrown one man out into the street, then rushed out and blocked a team of two horses with his bare chest to stop the wagon from running down the prone drunk. .
Morik had been living among the street people long enough to understand the exaggerated nonsense in most of these tales. Each storyteller tried to outdo the previous one. But he couldn't deny the impressive stature of this man Wulfgar. Nor could he deny the many wounds showing about the head of Rossie Doone, a soldier Morik knew well and whom he had always respected as a solid fighter.
Of course Morik, his ears so attuned to the streets and alleyways, had heard of Rossie's intention to return with his friends and settle the score. Of course Morik had also heard of another's intention to put this newcomer squarely in his place. And so Morik had come in to watch, and nothing more, to measure this huge northerner, to see if he had the strength, the skills, and the temperament to survive and become a true threat.
Never taking his gaze off Wulfgar, the quiet man sipped his wine and waited.
As soon as he saw Delly moving near to the six men, Wulfgar drained his beer in a single swallow and tightened his grip on the table. He saw it coming, and how predictable it was, as one of Rossie Doone's sidekicks reached out and grabbed Delly's bottom as she moved past.
Wulfgar came up in a rush, storming in right before the offender, and right beside Delly.
'Oh, but 'tis nothing,' the woman said, pooh-poohing Wulfgar away. He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her, and turned, depositing her behind him. He turned back, glaring at the offender, then at Rossie Doone, the true perpetrator.
Rossie remained seated, laughing still, seeming completely relaxed with three burly fighters on his right, two more on his left.
'A bit of fun,' Wulfgar stated. 'A cloth to cover your wounds, deepest of all the wound to your pride.'
Rossie stopped laughing and stared hard at the man.
