27 KYTHORN (HIGHSUN)

OI!” THE NYMPHER SAID, CLASPING THE BLANKET TO HER otherwise bare body. “Ya gives that back now, ya hear!”

The mark—Vel Lightfinger, a lowly member of the Bloodboots—clutched his gang-issued footware to his chest and ran down the creaky steps from her window. The damned nympher had lured him in like a first-day fool. And while he’d managed to stab her backup thug for good and all, the crazy woman had plucked up a morningstar from out of nowhere with the express purpose of bashing out his brains.

He jumped the last eight feet, then shoved on his boots with a hopping gait. Getting nails, splinters, or glass in his bare feet where they could fester would be just as bad as having his brains bashed out.

“Tluin you, little blade!” the woman cried from above. She seized a brick and sent it sailing at his head. He barely dodged.

“Tluin you right back, an’ twice bloody!” he shouted.

Four of his fellow Bloodboots sat waiting in the alley below. They laughed as he limped up, still securing his breeches.

Luskan was sour today. The market stood mostly empty as folk hid from the plague. To Vel and his lads, the Fury was a myth and nothing to fear. They’d gone out that night, looking for fun and they’d found it: a mugging here, some senseless violence there, and a whole bottle of wine some poor sot had “misplaced” that evening. Drunk, Vel had spent his copper on the damned nympher, despite his friends’ protests. Now he’d got what was due.

“We’ll get that hrasting nympher,” he said. “Jab me blade so far up her—” He trailed off when he saw their eyes look past his shoulder. “What?”

A man stood before them, wrapped in a tattered gray cloak and stitched leather armor. Gleaming from his behind the faceplate of his reinforced helm, his cold white eyes—seemingly without color of their own—offered the grim promise of pain to come.

“Go back to your tavern,” he said. “Shadowbane’s streets are closed.”

“Shadowbane?” Vel spat. “Hrast that! Get him, boyos!”

The five Bloodboots drew their various blades and clubs.

Shadowbane swept his arms wide and two long daggers bristled from his fists. Had they seen his lips behind the helm, they might have seen him smile.

Corr, one of Vel’s friends, stepped past. “Don’t know who you’re pushin’, you—!”

Shadowbane took him down in three quick moves. One side step to dodge Corr’s lunge, a knee to the groin, and a dagger pommel to the chin. Corr was on his back.

“Kill that crazy tluiner!” shouted the half-elf Callused Nai. “Kill him!”

He’d taken down one easily enough—now it was three: quickblade Devis, the half-elf Nai, and the extremely stupid half-orc they called Duns the Dull. Vel hung back, still tying his belt. This proved fortuitous for Vel.

Shadowbane lunged to one side and let Devis stumble past. He dived into Nai, who came second, and sent him staggering. Duns raised his weapon, but a fast kick caved in the side of the half-orc’s knee and the spiked club swung wide. Shadowbane rose and clapped his dagger pommels over Duns’s ears. Head crushed between Shadowbane’s weapons, the half-orc toppled senseless to the ground.

Nai and Devis came at him again. Shadowbane kicked Devis in the chest, knocking him back, then lunged at Nai, his daggers scything. The half-elf cursed and parried awkwardly. His short sword spun away into the shadows of the alley. As though with a sixth sense, Shadowbane gathered both knives in one hand and ducked Devis’s blade, which was stabbing for his back. He caught Devis’s arm as it thrust over his shoulder and hurled the man into Nai. Both of them tumbled to the ground, groaning.

That left Vel staring at Shadowbane, who stood before him, his cloak swirling, and his two daggers in one hand. Shadowbane dropped the second of his daggers back into his primary hand and stalked forward.

Vel was aware of a wetness in his trousers and thought he shouldn’t have bothered putting them on. He dropped his jagged knife and raised his hands.

Shadowbane saw that a small crowd had gathered in the market to watch the melee. “Your lucky day,” he said to Vel.

He turned back toward the stairs to the nympher’s building. His boots flashed with blue light and he leaped up to scale the side of the building like a hunting cat. The woman with the morningstar gasped and took cover in her room as he approached.

Once Shadowbane had gained the top, he peered down into the market, his cloak billowing on the wind. “Now hear this,” he called. “I am Shadowbane, king of the Dead Rats, and here and now, I tell you that Luskan is under my protection.”

That provoked a few startled gasps and gaping mouths. It was not easy to elicit a rise from the jaded folk of this city.

“You have heard of Luskan’s plague,” he said. “I come to tell you, there is no plague.” Guarded cheers met that, but Shadowbane held up a hand. “It is far worse.”

The people stared at him, shocked and rapt.

“A darkness haunts these streets,” he said. “It preys upon those who venture out alone—it strikes the weak and isolated. Until it is defeated, you will no longer be food for it. You will stay in your homes and taverns—in your holes and hovels. Armed bands of my Rats will bring you rations. No one else is to appear on the street.”

Those words—an enforced quarantine—rippled through the square.

“There will be a kingmaking ten days from now,” Shadowbane went on. “On the seventh day of Flamerule, you will choose a king to protect this city. Until a tenday hence, however, no man or woman shall walk these streets without my express permission and none shall raise a hand to another. I shall repay any violence done with greater violence.” He raised his chin. “You will abide by these rules.”

“Ah, Bane boil an’ belch ya up, madman!” cried one man.

A chorus joined the protest. The people of Luskan cried out in confusion and anger against Shadowbane and his claims. They decried his authority, brandished weapons, and shouted expletives.

“Very well,” he called. “I fully expected to do this by force.”

Shadowbane leaped down into the crowd, his cloak billowing, and the battle was joined.