It was the wrong weapon for an alleyway which even at its widest point was straighter than the span of the chain fully extended, but the hooded man seemed to have no idea of how to defend himself. The weighted end of the chain wrapped itself tight against the staff-it clacked like wood, despite the glow which suggested it was of some eerie material-and the tough jerked it toward him.
The hopping manikin disappeared with a high-pitched shriek of terror. The hooded man staggered forward, managing to keep a hold on his staff only by lurching toward the punk whose weapon had snatched it. The blue glow was snuffed out as if the gold-plated chain had strangled the life from the wood.
The hooded man was a magician, had to be with his staff and capering manikin. Samlor-and probably the street toughs as well, though psy- chotic pride ruled the actions of their leader-expected magical retribu- tion for the attack. A thunderbolt might shatter them, or icy needles from nowhere might lace their bodies into bloody sieves.
Nothing happened except that the leading thug gripped his opponent by the throat and shouted, “Finish ‘im, dungbrains!” to his fellows as the victim struggled to free his chain-wrapped staff.
The caravan master waded in to do the job that magic wouldn’t take care of after all.
One of the three youths hung a half step behind his fellows. Samlor punched the base of his skull left-handed. The steel cap concealed be- neath the bright bandanna rapped the knuckle of the Cirdonian’s index finger, but the bodkin point of Samlor’s push dagger plunged in to its full length.