Downshadow Read Online Free PDF Page B

Knight ‘n Shadow tavern.
    “Threefold God,” Shadowbane murmured, running his fingers over the hilt of his bastard sword. It bore an inscribed eye in the palm of a raised gauntlet. “Your will be done.”
    As though in answer, Shadowbane felt that same ancient weakness inside him—the numbness in his flesh that gave him power and stole life from him little by little.
    He did not beg for strength, for he would not beg.
    Never again.
    “I think there’s been some misunder—oof,” Fayne said, then dropped to her knees in the wake of a punch to her stomach that cut off her last word.
    The torchlight flickered, casting wavering shadows against the chamber wall.
    “You do this to yourself,” said Rath. “Simply give me the gold.” He nodded, and the half-ore bruiser who’d put his knuckle prints on her stomach hit her again—with his foot.
    Breath knocked out of her, Fayne went fully to the ground, curled like a babe. She cradled her midsection, struggled to breathe, and glared up at the handsome dwarf she’d come to meet, and
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    whom—until two strangled breaths ago—she’d hoped to hire. Her mistake, she supposed, was to trust him to meet her alone in an isolated chamber of Downshadow.
    He’d brought four men. One—a bowman—kept watch down the tunnel. A second, a lanky human with pasty white skin and yellow hair, stood impassively at Rath’s side. The other two—a half-ore and a very ugly human who might have passed for a half-ore—had gone to work on her shortly after Rath demanded more coin than she claimed she’d promised. She called it a misunderstanding. He disagreed.
    “Can we,” Fayne panted, “can we talk about this … with words?”
    Rath stopped them with a raised hand; Fayne could have kissed him. He stepped forward, and the grace with which he moved stunned her. He cupped her chin in two fingers, and her body went cold and rigid as though he pressed steel to her throat. Slowly, he raised her to her knees.
    “Until I see the gold,” Rath said, “fists and feet will have to suffice.”
    He stepped away, pulling his hand from her chin so fast she thought he might draw blood. The ugly man, whose arms were wider than Fayne’s chest, punched her cheek and sent her into the wall. The punch disoriented her so that she didn’t even feel herself hit the stone.
    Beshaba, she thought, where do men learn to hit women like that?
    Before she could ponder that deep and relevant question, a hand grasped her red hair and wrenched her head up, the better to slam it against the wall. The half-ore took his turn as well, kicking her stomach and sides. Stars danced across her vision, and Fayne finally felt the cold steel of a knife against her jaw.
    “Getting personal, are we?” she murmured.
    “Hold,” Rath said, and the thugs did—as obedient as dogs. “Little girl, you must understand—I do not hurt you out of malice. This is merely business.”
    “Aye,” she said, and she spat blood from her split lip. “I understand. And my reply is: Bane bugger you all.”
    Rath sighed and waved.
    Crack.
    Fayne didn’t even know what they’d done to her. She felt staggering pain, and then she slumped against the wall again. Every part of her hurt.
    “You’re a pretty thing,” said the thug. “Be a shame to peel your face off.”
    “I agree.” Fayne looked right at him, as directly as she could with the dizzying stars in her eyes. “But where I’d grow a new one, I don’t think you have that luxury, pimple pincher.”
    The thug snarled, reversed his blade, and brought the pommel down hard on top of her head. He shoved her to the floor.
    Serves you right for antagonizing him, her inner monologue noted.
    She made squishing sounds as she tried to rise. Dungeons were worse than gutters. Sludge—mostly dust, mud, and human waste— covered her hair and leathers.
    Do business with scoundrels, her patron always said, expect to be dunked in shit.
    “Big man,” she murmured lazily. “Big arms,