door.
‘Please,’ the storekeeper begged, ‘I…’
‘That black bastard’s power has been smashed once,’ the youth raged. ‘Do you
think honest citizens will just stand by while he spreads his web again? That
sign …’
The shop door flew open with a crash, cutting off the customers’ escape. Half a
dozen figures crowded into the limited space, swords drawn and ready.
Before Bantu had finished turning, the newcomers had shoved his comrades roughly
against the walls of the shop, pinning them there with bared blades against
their throats. The youth started to reach for his own weapon, then thought
better of it and let his hand fall away from his sword hilt.
These men had the cold, easy confidence of those who make their living by the
sword. There was near-military precision to their movements, though no soldier
ever worked with such silent efficiency. As confident as he was at terrorizing
storekeepers, Bantu knew he was now outclassed; there was no doubt in his mind
what the outcome would be if he or his comrades offered any resistance.
A short, swarthy man came forward with a step that was more a glide. He leaned
casually in front of the storekeeper, yet never took his eyes from Bantu. ‘Are
these boys bothering you, citizen?’
‘No, these … men were just asking about the sign on my post outside. They …
seemed to think it was Jubal’s mark.’
‘Jubal?’ the swarthy man repeated, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.
‘Haven’t you heard, lad? The Black Devil of Sanctuary’s dead now, or so
everybody says. Lucky for you, too.’