least likely. Too late to turn back now. He’d just have to brazen it through and
hope enough respect lingered for the Hell-Hounds’ uniform to give him safe
passage.
Dropping a hand to his sword hilt, he slipped into the jaunty, swaggering gait
of old, all the while trying desperately to remember the latest whorehouse
rumors of which factions controlled which portions of the town. His walk went
unchallenged, and he was just beginning to congratulate himself on the endurance
of the Hell-Hound reputation he had fought so hard to build when a stray gust of
wind carried the sound of derisive laughter to him from one of the watch-posts.
With that, an alternate explanation for his uncontested progress came to him
with a rush that made his cheeks burn in spite of the cold. Maybe the Hell
Hounds’ reputation had simply fallen so low that they were considered beneath
notice … not a sufficient threat to bother springing a trap on.
It was a humbled and subdued Zalbar that finally arrived at Ischade’s residence.
He paused on her doorstep, momentarily lost in thought. Soldiers were never
popular, and he had suffered his share of abuse for wearing a uniform. This was
the first time, though, that he had been a subject of other arms-bearers’
ridicule. Sometime, after he had rehoned his sword and his skills, he would have
to see what could be done about reestablishing the respect a Hell-Hound uniform
was due. Maybe he could interest Armen and Quag as well. It was about time they
all started giving a bit of thought to their collective future.