“I think there’s been some misunder—oof,” Fayne said, then dropped to her knees in the wake of a punch to her stomach that cut off her last word.
The torchlight flickered, casting wavering shadows against the chamber wall.
“You do this to yourself,” said Rath. “Simply give me the gold.” He nodded, and the half-orc bruiser who’d put his knuckle prints on her stomach hit her again—with his foot.
Breath knocked out of her, Fayne went fully to the ground, curled like a babe. She cradled her midsection, struggled to breathe, and glared up at the handsome dwarf she’d come to meet, and whom—until two strangled breaths ago—she’d hoped to hire. Her mistake, she supposed, was to trust him to meet her alone in an isolated chamber of Downshadow.
He’d brought four men. One—a bowman—kept watch down the tunnel. A second, a lanky human with pasty white skin and yellow hair, stood impassively at Rath’s side. The other two—a half-orc and a very ugly human who might have passed for a half-orc—had gone to work on her shortly after Rath demanded more coin than she claimed she’d promised. She called it a misunderstanding. He disagreed.
“Can we,” Fayne panted, “can we talk about this … with words?”
Rath stopped them with a raised hand; Fayne could have kissed him. He stepped forward, and the grace with which he moved stunned her. He cupped her chin in two fingers, and her body went cold and rigid as though he pressed steel to her throat. Slowly, he raised her to her knees.
“Until I see the gold,” Rath said, “fists and feet will have to suffice.”
He stepped away, pulling his hand from her chin so fast she thought he might draw blood. The ugly man, whose arms were wider than Fayne’s chest, punched her cheek and sent her into the wall. The punch disoriented her so that she didn’t even feel herself hit the stone.
Beshaba, she thought, where do men learn to hit women like that?
Before she could ponder that deep and relevant question, a hand grasped her red hair and wrenched her head up, the better to slam it against the wall. The half-orc took his turn as well, kicking her stomach and sides. Stars danced across her vision, and Fayne finally felt the cold steel of a knife against her jaw.
“Getting personal, are we?” she murmured.
“Hold,” Rath said, and the thugs did—as obedient as dogs. “Little girl, you must understand—I do not hurt you out of malice. This is merely business.”
“Aye,” she said, and she spat blood from her split lip. “I understand. And my reply is: Bane bugger you all.”
Rath sighed and waved.
Crack.
Fayne didn’t even know what they’d done to her. She felt staggering pain, and then she slumped against the wall again. Every part of her hurt.
“You’re a pretty thing,” said the thug. “Be a shame to peel your face off.”
“I agree.” Fayne looked right at him, as directly as she could with the dizzying stars in her eyes. “But where I’d grow a new one, I don’t think you have that luxury, pimple pincher.”
The thug snarled, reversed his blade, and brought the pommel down hard on top of her head. He shoved her to the floor.
Serves you right for antagonizing him, her inner monologue noted.
She made squishing sounds as she tried to rise. Dungeons were worse than gutters. Sludge—mostly dust, mud, and human waste—covered her hair and leathers.
Do business with scoundrels, her patron always said, expect to be dunked in shit.
“Big man,” she murmured lazily. “Big arms, big knife … little blade, I’m guessing.”
The thug’s face went red. “This one’s keepin’ her mouth shut, boss,” he said. Fayne knew that look in his eye—that of a man eager to prove a manhood sullied. Mostly by unsheathing it. “Bet I could make her squeal for you, if only—uhn!”
Fayne looked up, head swimming, and saw the ugly-faced thug slam into a puddle of filthy water three paces distant. Rath rose from where the man had been standing. The dwarf had thrown him that far?
“Do not embarrass yourself,” Rath said to him. The thug sat up, shook his head, and snarled. “You hrasting worm, I’ll …”
And Rath leaped across the intervening distance and drove his fist down across the man’s face. Bone cracked, blood spattered the ground, and the thug curled into a quivering lump.
Fayne blinked. “That’s … ooh.”
Rath turned toward her, and his eyes gleamed in the torchlight without the slightest remorse. He might as well have stared at her with polished emeralds.
The half-orc, Fayne saw, was looking at him with fear in his eyes.
“Give me the coin you promised,” Rath said. “Do not, and there will be consequences.”
She couldn’t help it. “Like punching me to death?”
Rath looked down at the thug, and Fayne saw his lip curl. “His crime was worse than yours and deserved greater punishment. You made a simple error of judgment. He exposed his own cowardice and weakness, which in turn dishonors me, his employer.”
“So you won’t just kill me,” Fayne said. “No profit in that.”
Rath shook his head.
“In that case …” She smiled dizzily. “Piss on the graves of your fathers, beardless dwarf.”
With a sigh, Rath waved to the sickly pale man at his side, whose fingers were studded with rusty, iron claws like fingernails. Gauntlets, perhaps? The man stepped forward.
“Your wight is supposed to frighten me? I’m a grown woman, dwarf.”
“Hold,” Rath said.
The sallow face glared at her.
“You’ve come to your senses, girl?” asked the dwarf.
“A few more blows and I just might.” She coughed. “It’s just working so well.”
Rath waved, and the half-orc charged forward to kick her in the side.
“That was irony!” Fayne whined in vain.
The half-orc drew back his leg to do it again, but Rath held up a hand and spoke a word Fayne didn’t understand. The hobnailed boot didn’t meet her belly, so she decided it was her favorite word of the year.
“Rath?” said the half-orc.
“Our sentry approaches,” replied the dwarf. “Silence.”
“Thank the gods,” said Fayne, “that more hitting would be accompanied by further cries of pain.”
Rath gestured to her. “Stifle it.”
The half-orc kicked her in the stomach. The world blurred.
When her eyes worked again, a stick-thin man with a strung shortbow in hand and a quiver of arrows at his hip appeared in the corridor that led to the larger cavern. His eyes flicked to his dead comrade, but wisely he held his tongue.
“Battle,” he said. “Attacked a merchant, downed his guard—didn’t kill ’em, though. Probably itchies in Downshadow, looking for coin to scavenge or deeds to do.”
Itchie, Fayne recalled, was a term for a sellsword, and most of those brave—or stupid—enough to live in Downshadow were something of the sort. Poor, hungry, and angry. Itching for a fight.
“Who?” Rath asked.
“Kolatch,” said the sentry. “Awaiting a trademeet, probably.” That name swam around Fayne’s head—sounded familiar. “The fat merchant hisself is coming this way, wild eyed. Babbling sommat like a shadow attacked him, or the like.”
Fayne was about to speak but was spared the commensurate blow by the damnably late arrival of her common sense and the appearance of a figure in the tunnel: Kolatch. When he stumbled into their chamber, she knew him—the merchant from earlier that day. His eyes rolled and his hands shook. Even if he weren’t so maddened, he wouldn’t have recognized her from the shop—not with a different face and a different gender.
Not seeming to notice the corpse, Kolatch scurried toward Rath and cried, “Save me—the black knight—save me!”
His hands never touched the dwarf. Rath stepped low in a crouch and threw Kolatch into the wall with a shrug. The merchant slumped. Fayne almost laughed at the way his frog lips burbled, but she sus
pected that making sounds would bring pain.
The thugs looked at one another, seemingly confused at the merchant’s ramblings.
Kolatch’s eyes focused on the tunnel and he whimpered. “The knight! The black knight!”
Fayne saw a cloaked man silhouetted against the crackling torchlight of the corridor, striding toward them. His worn cloak fell around him like a gray waterfall. She could see no face in his cowl, but she could feel his eyes upon her—upon them all. She shivered.
The figure stalked forward like a great black cat.
“I have no quarrel with you folk,” he said in a cold, direct voice, muted only a little by his full steel helm. He pointed at Kolatch, who gasped as though struck. “Only him.”
The knight’s gaze shifted to Fayne. The torches flickered as though from his glance.
“Leave that woman be and flee,” he added.
The self-assurance in his voice made fear—and excitement—rise in her stomach. He might as well have been delivering the words of a god.
The merchant gagged. “I’ll pay all the coin I have!” he cried to the men around him. He pointed at his attacker. “Just save me!”
“Bane’s blessing.” The half-orc left Fayne and drew his steel. “I’ll take that offer.”
The helm began to pivot as the half-orc charged, scimitar high.
They moved almost too fast for Fayne to follow. The knight raised a scabbarded sword high, caught the scimitar, and stepped around, bringing his pommel down across the half-orc’s face. The thug staggered a beat, snorted, and slashed again.
The knight ducked, moving with all the grace of a master tumbler, and punched the flat of his sword into the half-orc’s gut. He could have unsheathed the blade and disemboweled his foe, but instead he slammed the pommel into the thug’s lowering chin. The half-orc spun senseless to the ground.
Fayne could have cheered to see her attacker thus beaten, but she saw the sentry nock an arrow and draw the fletching to his cheek. “‘Ware!” she cried.
The knight turned toward her, taking the arrow in the shoulder instead of the throat. He staggered back a step, and Fayne’s heart sank. The archer laughed—then cursed as the knight, undeterred by the wound, bounded forward. The archer fumbled with a second arrow.
As he charged, the knight shifted his grip to the sword hilt. He closed and whirled, blade coming free of the black lacquer scabbard in a silver blur. The sword slashed the bow in two, and the scabbard took the hapless archer in the jaw. He dropped like a stack of kindling.
The pale-faced man fell on the knight, lunging with his sharp nails stretched forth like knives. He’d been waiting arrogantly for his moment, and now it had come. Blue lightning arced around the man’s claws, and Fayne realized—horribly—that they were one with his fingers, and not part of his gauntlets at all. A spellscar, she realized—the spellplague had bound razor steel into the man’s hands and enhanced it with magic.
As Fayne watched, the malformed hands closed on her rescuer’s steel helm, seeking to wrest it off. The knight wrenched free, but the man caught his left arm. The claws tore into the black leather, and Fayne saw smoke rising from the rent and smelled burned flesh. The pale man’s face was rapt in frenzied glee. It was over, Fayne realized—such a wound would stun the knight, and then the spellscarred man would gouge out his throat.
She knew the knight would be in hideous pain, but he did not show it. Instead, he glared into the spellscarred man’s face and the ugly smile faded. Then the helm slammed forward, crushing the ’scarred man’s nose and sending him moaning to the ground.
The knight whirled back to Fayne. In one hand, he held the gleaming sword, which flared like a wand of silver flame. His left hand thrust the empty scabbard through his belt, then reached up to snap off the arrow in his shoulder. He winced only a little and made no sound. Through it all, Fayne never saw his eyes waver. They stayed cold and solid as ice.
She stood slowly—no sudden dramatics, and certainly not reaching for the knife she kept in her boot. When the knight didn’t react, she realized he wasn’t looking at her.
“Draw your steel,” he said.
Across the chamber, Rath shrugged. He stepped forward from where he had been leaning on the wall—as he had throughout the duel. His smile was easy as he idly touched the hilt of his sword in its red lacquer scabbard. “Another time, if you prove worthy.”
Rath moved to the center of the chamber. His posture did not threaten, but neither did he seem cowed.
“Stop,” said the knight.
“I have done nothing,” said Rath. He pointed to Kolatch, crawling toward the tunnel. “I think you have more pressing matters.”
With that, the dwarf turned and—bending low in perfect balance—leaped into the air. He grasped the edge of a hole in the ceiling at least a daggercast above the chamber floor. Fayne blinked as he swung up into a tunnel shaft she had not seen before.
How could a mortal creature move like that—jump so high without a running start?
“Ye gracious gods,” she said.
The knight looked after him a moment, then turned to the exit corridor.
“Kolatch,” he said. His voice did not rise.
The merchant squealed, grasped his chest, and fainted dead away at the word.
Then Fayne watched, eyes widening, as the knight in the gray cloak bent low, tensing his legs, as though to follow Rath upward. Magic, surely—she thought. But …
She gave a wheezing sort of sigh and stumbled against the chamber wall, sliding down into the ever-present dungeon refuse. “Ooh, my head.”
The knight appeared over her and his hand caught her under her arm. He cradled her like the helpless victim she only half-pretended to be. She felt such strength in his hands.
“Are you well enough to stand?” The cold voice broke her thoughts. “Are you bleeding?”
“My pride, perhaps,” Fayne said, “and I shall need a new coat.” She plucked at the garment, which was more muck than cloth, grimacing.
“Well,” the knight bid her, and he turned.
“Wait!” Fayne caught the edge of his cloak and knelt at his side. “It could have gone worse for me. How can I thank you, my hero?”
As she spoke, her fingers brushed her necklace gently and let her illusory face shift ever so slightly. The bruises remained—his eye would stay on those—but her cheekbones rose higher, her eyes became a little larger and softer, and her lips swelled just a bit. She spoke more softly, her words weak and afraid.
In all, she became a bit more enticing—more the grateful damsel. She played upon his need—the need in all men—to protect. To feel strong and in control.
“Not necessary,” he said, but she could feel his body relaxing as he considered her.
“How,” Fayne pressed, “can I thank you?” She stepped closer—into his arms, should he raise them to embrace her. Most men wanted to, when she plied her charm—and most men did.
Her savior, to her brief disappointment, was not most men. He stepped back, out of her reach, and his sword hand moved toward her, interposing sharp steel. Its fierce glow had dimmed, but the blade still glimmered faintly.
“Does your blade call me dangerous, saer?” she asked, using the form of address for a noble knight of unknown rank. She looked him down and up. “Perhaps you should listen to it.” She could see nothing of his face, but she was sure his cheeks would be reddening. Unless he had no shame—which she wouldn’t mind either.
“These men.” The cold voice startled her—the voice of a killer. “Do you know them?”
Before she could begin the explanation that came naturally, he held up a hand. “You are far too capable a woman,” he said, “for this to be random.”
Fayne grinned. “You noticed.”
The knight’s mask was impassive.
“Yes,” she said. “I had arranged to meet their ignoble master—the dwarf, Arrath Vir, known to his friends and foes as Rath. Or so I’m told, at least.” She kicked the nearest thug—t
he half-orc—who groaned. “These tripelings I do not know.”
The knight nodded, once. “And that one?” He pointed at the slain man.
Fayne shook her head. The truth was easy. “Our friend Rath dealt that death with his empty hand. However”—she smiled and stepped closer—“your hands need not be empty this night. My talents are other in nature—but no less moving.”
The knight sheathed his sword. “You are rather forward,” he remarked.
“Better than backward,” she said, and she reached for his helmet.
The knight caught her arm and held it with a grip like steel. “No.”
Fayne bristled at being thwarted but only smiled. “How am I to kiss my champion?”
“That would be difficult.” He shoved her away, though not hard enough to hurt her. He turned and tensed his legs to leap.
“Wait!” she said. “At least a name!”
He looked over his shoulder.
Fayne shifted her weight and wrung her hands in a way that was very like a demure maiden. “Your name, saer, to remember for my prayers—and to ward off other knaves. A name to call in the night”—she laughed—“when I’m attacked, of course—so that you might save me.”
He hesitated. “Shadowbane,” the knight said.
She shivered in all the right ways. “Well met,” she said. “I am Charl.”
Shadowbane paused, and she got the distinct sense he was smiling. “No, you aren’t.”
Fayne put her hands on her hips. “And why would I lie?”
“I don’t know, Charlatan,” Shadowbane said. “Why would you?”
Fayne licked her lips. True, that had been an easy riddle. “Care to find out?”
He held her gaze for a moment, then jumped, blue-white flames trailing from his feet.
There was magic in his leap—of that Fayne had no doubt. It propelled him up like a loosed arrow. She knew that blue light—had seen it just a moment before: spellplague magic.
Spellscarred, was he? This Shadowbane? How intriguing.
Fayne couldn’t help but marvel as he reached the ceiling and pulled himself over the ledge where Rath had disappeared. His movement was athletic—whereas Rath moved with unnatural grace, like nothing human or dwarf or anything like—Shadowbane moved very much like a man. Near the peak of human achievement, yes, but a man nonetheless.
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