Mourners still crowded the lower streets, ringing bells, lifting tankards of ale. Tylar and the others slid among them, becoming harder to track. Here, any word of daemons and escaped prisoners fell on drunken ears, deafened further by the countless bells.
Even the horns chasing them grew distant, their blaring cries slipping farther and farther behind. Tylar suspected more than one guard was happy to let them escape, unwilling to challenge a godslayer and the daemon he could summon.
As Tylar donned a cloak stolen from an ale-soaked mourner, Rogger spoke in quiet tones. “You should’ve killed that knight back there. He’ll not rest until one of you is dead.”
Tylar scowled, picturing the bald fury in the knight’s eyes. “Mistaken or not, the man was doing his duty. I will not cut him down in the streets for that.”
Rogger shook his head, scratching his beard. “You may live to regret such mercy.”
“I’ll settle for living until the morning.”
As they continued through the lower streets, a sharp cry drew Tylar’s attention to a side alley. His step slowed. It was a woman’s cry. Two large men clutched a girl between them, their rough intentions clear. She struggled, sobbing.
Tylar knew these assailants. Frowning, he glanced to the sign hanging above the neighboring door-the Wooden Frog.
It was Bargo and Yorga.
Rogger stood at his shoulder. “Why have you stopped?”
“Stay here.” Tylar strode into the alley, sword low. It was time someone put an end to this pair’s tyranny over the weak.
Yorga held the girl in a thick-armed hug, while his partner fumbled with the ties to his breeches. Bargo was having trouble, too drunk to make his fingers work. But he blearily noted Tylar’s approach. “Wait your turn,” he slurred thickly. “You can have ’er after we’re done.”
Tylar recognized the lass, one of the Frog’s tavern wenches, no more than sixteen. She met his eyes, terrified.
He moved from the alley’s shadow into a slice of moonlight, keeping his sword beside his leg. “Should I be jealous?” he asked, stepping around. “I thought those pinpricks of yours stiffened only for me.”
Yorga focused on him. His mouth opened. Without a tongue, he could only gurgle his surprise.
Bargo swung around, half-teetering. He had finally managed to free his waggling manhood, flopping at half- mast. His eyes traveled up and down Tylar’s form. “You! The… the scabber knight.”
Yorga shoved the girl away. She landed on her hands and knees, crawled a few steps, then jumped up and fled in tears.
The two Ai’men bunched together, filling the alley, blocking the exit.
“There’s no Shadowknight to protect you now,” Bargo grunted.
“No,” Tylar agreed and lifted the blade into view. “But I do have his sword.”
The brawlers paused, clearly recognizing the black diamond on the hilt.
He leaped at them, moving with a swiftness borne not of shadow, but of fury and retribution. If it weren’t for these two, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament. None of this would’ve happened. All he had wanted was a pint of ale to celebrate his birth year.
Bargo tried to swat his sword aside, but Tylar parried and stabbed at the man’s flesh. Tylar sliced where it would do the most good, proving there was more than one way to cut a man down.
Bargo yowled, falling to the side.
Tylar spun on a toe and slipped between the two brawlers. Yorga grabbed at him as he passed, but Tylar easily ducked, escaped the pair, and backed to the exit.
Yorga swung around as Bargo continued to moan, sliding down the wall.
Tylar waved his sword in clear warning at the tongueless man. Unless Yorga foolishly pressed, no more blood needed to be shed. As a knight, Tylar had been schooled to use his head as much as his sword.
Yorga was clearly subservient to Bargo, his lack of tongue binding him by need to his partner. And with Bargo’s brutality plainly fueled by lust, it required only one keen cut to end this pair’s tyranny, altering their relationship forever.
“I’ve found you a new tongue,” Tylar called to Yorga, pointing to the severed manhood lying in the alley’s filth. “I don’t think Bargo will be needing it any longer.”
Bargo clutched his groin, blood welling between his fingers. Yorga stood, dazed.
“You’d best look after your friend,” Tylar finished and joined Rogger and Delia in the street. Horns could be heard in the distance. “Let’s go.”
Rogger glanced a final time down the alley. “Remind me never to get on your sour side.”
After another stretch, the trio left the streets and pushed into the black warren that was Punt. It greeted them with its reek, dark laughter, and sudden cries.
“You have friends down here?” Tylar asked Rogger.
“Aye… as well as anyone could have friends in Punt.”
Delia slunk closer to them. Dressed in her finery, she was as out of place as a diamond in a sow’s ear. Throughout their long flight, he had tried to get her to flee, to head back to Summer Mount.
Her answer was always the same: “I have nothing back there. All I cherish is tied to you.”
He hadn’t pushed too hard. He had a thousand questions he wanted answered, and she seemed to know more than she let on.
But the handmaiden wasn’t the only one with secrets.
Tylar watched as Rogger led the way now, heading toward whatever low friends he knew down here. He remembered the thief’s shout as his sword hand was pulped under the hammer, repeating words supposedly spoken by himself in ancient Littick.
Agee wan clyy… nee wan dred ghawl.
Break the bone… and free the dark spirit.
After what happened, the truth of those words could not be denied. There was clearly more to this bearded thief than lice and larceny.
Rogger wended down byways and crawl throughs. Here the walls ran thick with black mold, and the buildings tilted drunkenly. Windows, when not broken, were shuttered tight against the night. The trio had to fight through piles of refuse, chasing rats and dire vermin from underfoot. The air reeked of fetid humours, blood and bile of every ilk.
As they marched, Delia paled even further. With her black-daubed lips and dark hazel eyes, she looked like some risen ghoul, fresh from the grave. Her dress was soiled and clung heavily to her. She had long shed her lace cap, revealing black hair, lanky and loose to her shoulders.
Occasionally some scabber would spy at them from afar, but Tylar kept his sword in plain sight. None could mistake the weapon… nor the stripes on his face.
Let them think me a knight if it will hold the worst at bay.
But Tylar suspected there was a clearer reason they passed the narrows unmolested. The underfolk had an uncanny ability to pass information from one mouth to another. The creatures of Punt knew a godslayer walked their streets and stayed away.
Delia spoke at his side, her voice soft and concerned. “Are you hurt?”
Tylar glanced to her as he walked, the confusion plain on his face. Was she asking if there were any repercussions from his torture?
“You’re limping,” she said, nodding to his gait. “And hunched oddly.”
Tylar straightened. Distracted, he hadn’t even noticed himself falling into old patterns, moving as if his body were still broken. He continued onward, forcing himself to walk more evenly.
Rogger cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your bones may be healed, but I ’spect it’ll take a bit longer for your mind to catch up.”
Tylar scowled and waved him onward.
At last, Rogger ducked along a dark alleyway and marched up to a low door made of rusted iron. “Here we are.” He knocked.
A small window opened, enough to peer through.
