Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech Read Free Page A

they could carry and destroyed anything they couldn’t. To the alley’s struggling merchants, the Sea Wolves were like the fangs of the Wurm itself. Beneath the linen dusters the toughs wore, each thief carried an array of weaponry, from wicked blades to grisly clubs and axes. Though the Sea Wolves might shy from murder, several cripples on the street could bear witness that they weren’t squeamish about mutilation.
    What little foot traffic there was in Blood Alley quickly cleared for the Sea Wolves. Pedestrians would rather sprint through gutter muck than get in the gang’s way. The ruffians appraised each refugee, estimating the worth of his raiment and the fullness of his purse. Today, none of the pedestrians earned their notice, only a few surly barks to clear the way. The gang had better quarry.
    “You certain the runt has it already?” said the leader of the gang, a broken-nosed brute named Vigo, to the lanky Thurian who marched beside him. The smaller man, a cutpurse called Marcheti, was effusive in his assurances.
    “I heard it myself in the Ten Anchors,” he said in a scratchy voice. “Udric is getting a consignment from the main island, some sort of private commission for one of the royals in the Lords District. Wants a necklace and won’t trust anyone but a Rhul-rat to do the work.” Marcheti gave an ugly cackle.
    “His gang’s gonna pay plenty for takin’ that idea into his noggin,” Vigo said, adding his own vicious chuckle. The seven thugs with him laughed at their chief’s prediction. The thinly stretched Chaser Island Watch rarely invested any interest in places like Blood Alley. When they did, it usually took only a small bribe to get rid of them so long as there weren’t any corpses around. There was nobody to keep the Sea Wolves from taking whatever they wanted.
    The gang didn’t notice the huddled beggar they had passed rise from the doorway. Wrapped in shabby sailcloth, the tatterdemalion shape followed the ruffians down the winding course of Tordoran Way.
    Suspended by a rusty chain fastened to the projecting end of a roof beam, a splintered wooden sign proclaimed “Relics of Rhul” in tarnished bronze letters. An oversized plaster ring dangled beneath the sign, illustrating for less literate customers the services the shop provided. The Sea Wolves stopped as they came within sight of the sign. Vigo grinned at the dilapidated shop. Boards covered the glassless window—victim of an earlier visit by the gang—but the door stood open as an indicator to passersby that Udric’s shop was indeed open for business. The clamor of the steam-driven printing presses located only the next street over would drown any cries for help.
    Vigo nodded to his men, motioning them to fan out. They stalked down the street, glowering. Those they encountered scurried into their shops or retreated back the way they had come. The gang chief grunted in satisfaction. People hereabouts knew better than to trifle with the Sea Wolves.
    “Haul your smelly carcass!” Marcheti said.
    Vigo turned away from the shop to glare at his lieutenant. He found the thief standing over a mangy beggar in the gutter beside a mound of trash. The beggar was a big man, powerfully built with broad shoulders and square jaw. His strength was evident even beneath the patina of dirt and grime. Vigo’s instincts had him reaching beneath his coat for his sword before he was aware what he was doing. He snickered in contempt as his eyes took in the rest of the mendicant he’d momentarily imagined to be a threat. The beggar sat in the gutter, one leg extended into the street. Where the other should have been there was only a bandaged stump.
    A hero, Vigo decided. Some bold champion from a war already forgotten by the kings who declared it. Whole, the beggar might have been a formidable adversary. But he was just another worthless cripple. He wouldn’t interfere.
    “Leave something in the scum’s bowl,” Vigo said. He waved the rest of