“All our bellies’re grumbling,” a third man said.

“Baram’s got food coming out tonight, so he says,” a fourth piped in hopefully.

“Won’t be near enough,” said the first, who punched the other’s shoulder again. “Never near enough. I ain’t been so hungry in all my days, not even when out on the water, days and days in a dead wind.”

“A pity we’re not for eating man flesh,” the third said with a pathetic chuckle. “Lots o’ fat bodies out on Cutlass Island, eh?”

“A pity we’re not working for Rethnor, ye mean,” said the first, and the others all snapped surprised glances his way. Such words could get a man killed in short order.

“Ain’t even Rethnor—Rethnor’s dead, so they’re saying,” said another.

“Aye, it’s that boy o’ his, the sneaky one they call the Crow,” said the first. “He’s gettin’ food. Not knowing how, but he’s gettin’ it and feedin’ his boys well this winter. I’m thinking that Baram’d be smart to stop arguing with him and start gettin’ us some of that food!”

“And I’m thinking ye’re talkin’ll of us dead in an alley,” one of the others said in a tone that offered no room for argument. As much a threat as a warning, the harsh comment ended the discussion abruptly and the group went back to rubbing their hands, saying nothing, but with their bellies doing enough complaining to aptly relay their foul sentiments.

The mood in the Cutlass was fine that night—a small gathering, but of men who had eaten well and who had fed their families properly, and all thanks to the generosity of the son of Rethnor.

Behind the bar, Arumn Gardpeck noticed a couple of new faces that night, as he was now seeing quite regularly. He nudged his friend and most reliable customer, Josi Puddles, and nodded his chin toward the new pair who sat in a corner.

“I’m not liking it,” Josi slurred after glancing that way. “It’s our tavern.”

“More patrons, more coin,” Arumn replied.

“More trouble, you mean,” said Josi, and as if on cue, Kensidan’s dwarf walked in and moved right up to Arumn.

The dwarf followed their gazes to the corner then said to Arumn, “From the avenue called Setting Sun,” he said.

“Taerl’s men, then,” Josi replied.

“Or Kensidan’s now, eh?” Arumn said to the dwarf, sliding the usual brew his way.

The dwarf nodded, his eyes never leaving the two men as he brought the flagon to his lips and drained it in a single draw, ale spilling out over his black, beaded beard. He stayed there for some time, staring and hardly listening to the continuing conversation between Josi and Arumn. Every so often, he motioned for another ale, which Arumn, who was eating quite well thanks to the generosity of Kensidan, was happy to supply.

Finally the two men departed and the dwarf drained one last flagon and followed them out into the street. He wasn’t far behind when he exited, despite pausing for his last drink, because the pair had to pause as well to retrieve their weapons as they left. On Kensidan’s command, weapons weren’t allowed inside Arumn’s establishment. That rule didn’t apply to Kensidan’s personal bodyguard of course, and so the dwarf had not been similarly slowed.

He made no effort to conceal the fact that he was following the pair, one of whom stupidly glanced back several times. The dwarf thought they would confront him out in the street, with so many witnesses around, but to his surprise and delight, the pair slipped down a dark and narrow alleyway instead.

Grinning, he eagerly followed.

“Far enough,” said a voice from the darkness beyond. Following the sound, the dwarf made out a single silhouette standing by a pile of refuse. “I’m not liking yer staring, black-beard, and liking yer following even less.”

“Ye’re for calling Captain Taerl’s guards on me, I’m guessing,” the dwarf replied, and he saw the man shift uncomfortably at the reminder that he was not on his home turf.

“H-here on—on Rethnor’s invitation,” the man stammered.

“Here to eat, ye mean.”

“Aye, as invited.”

“Nay, friend,” the dwarf said. “Rethnor’s welcoming them looking for a Ship to crew, not them looking to come in, eat, and go home to tell th’ other high captains. Ye’re a man o’ Taerl, and good enough for ye.”

“Switching,” the man blurted.

“Bwahahaha,” the dwarf taunted. “Ye been here five times now, yerself and yer hiding friend. And five times ye been on the road back home. A lot o’ yer boys, too. Ye think we’re for feeding ye, do ye?”

“I–I’m paying well,” the man stammered.

“For what’s not for sale,” said the dwarf.

“If they’re for selling, then it’s for sale,” said the man, but the dwarf crossed his burly arms over his chest and shook his head slowly.

From the roof to the dwarf’s left came the man’s companion, leaping down from on high, dagger thrust before him as if he thought himself a human spear. He apparently figured that he had the dwarf by surprise, an easy kill.

So did his friend, down the alley, who started a whoop of victory, one that ended abruptly as the dwarf exploded into motion, throwing his arms forward and over his head and springing a backward somersault. As he went over, he deftly pulled out his twin morningstars, and he landed solidly on the balls of his feet, leaning forward so that he easily reversed his momentum and plowed forward.

With surprising agility, the diving man managed to adjust to his complete miss and tuck into a fairly nimble roll that brought him right back to his feet. He spun, slashing with his dagger to keep the dwarf at bay.

The spiked head of a morningstar met that extended hand, and if the blow wasn’t enough to shatter it, a coating on the ball exploded with magical power. The dagger, a misshapen and twisted thing, flew away, along with three fingers.

The man howled in agony and punched out with other hand as he brought the wounded one in close.

But again the dwarf was way ahead of him. As his first, right-hand morningstar swiped across to take the knife, his left arm went over his head, his second weapon spinning the same way as the first. Executing the block easily, the dwarf stepped forward and down. The punch went over his head as his second morningstar whipped around, the spiked head reaching out at the end of its black chain to take the man on the side of the knee.

The crack of bone drowned out the squeal of pain and the man’s leg buckled and he flopped down to the ground.

His charging friend nearly tripped over him, but somehow held his balance, brandishing sword and dagger at the low-crouched dwarf. He thrust and slashed wildly, trying to overwhelm the dwarf with sheer ferocity.

And he almost got through the clever parries, but only because the dwarf was laughing too hard to more properly defend.

Frantic, trying hard to block out the pitiful crying of his broken friend, the man stabbed again, rushing forward.

He hit nothing, for the dwarf, in perfect balance, slipped out to the side.

“Ye’re starting to try me patience,” the dwarf warned. “Ye might be leaving with just a beating.”

Too terrified to even comprehend that he had just been offered his life, the man spun and threw himself at the dwarf.

By the time the second morningstar ball smashed him on the side of his ribs, crunching them to dust, he realized his mistake. By the time that second ball smacked him again, in the head, he knew nothing at all.

His friend howled all the louder when the swordsman fell dead before him, his brains spilling out all over the cobblestones.

He was still howling when the dwarf grabbed him by the front of his shirt and with frightening strength stood him upright and smashed him against the wall.

“Ye’re not listening to me, boy,” the dwarf said several times, until the man finally shut up.

“Now ye get back to Setting Sun and ye tell Taerl’s boys that this ain’t yer place,” said the dwarf. “If ye’re with Taerl then ye ain’t with Rethnor, and if ye ain’t with Rethnor, then go and catch yerself some rats to eat.”