Son of Khyber

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Rain mingled with blood on the floor of the alley, pooling around the corpse and the hatchet that lay next to his outstretched hand. Thorn pulled her blade free from the dwarf’s body and searched the walls around her for some avenue of escape. Nothing. The walls of the dead-end street were high, smooth, and slick with rain. The nearest window was far beyond her reach. And her enemies had already found her.

“Well. This is unfortunate.” The man paused in the mouth of the alley, considering the scene before him. His teeth flashed in the dim light of the cold fire torches. “Until now you were a simple cutpurse, dipping your fingers into our territory. A lesson was called for, certainly, but you would have survived it. Now… well, I can’t let you walk away from this.”

“He attacked me,” Thorn said. She held Steel in a loose grip, ready to throw the dagger. “I didn’t want this.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that.” The man was too well dressed for this district-his cloak enchanted to repel the rain, and beneath the cloak a shimmering glamerweave. He carried no weapons that Thorn could see. No one would come into Callestan without a weapon. From what Thorn had heard, the infants teethed on knives. That this man had no weapon meant that he had no need of one.

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