The Stoneweaver

Chapter 18: Mob

"Best if we're more discreet, sire," whispered Nunn.

So what if he was getting loud? Falf was tired of waiting. Five long years slinking in the dark, ducking his head under low tunnel ceilings, bowing to men like Broca and that fat blacksmith Burlan.

He was done with it!

"Discretion is for cowards," Falf said. "Your man over there isn't getting anywhere. I'm taking charge." Falf pushed past the little man.

"Wait!"

But Falf ignored him. He strode up to the table where Kent was talking to the carpenter, their chairs pulled away from the table. The other men were drinking or whispering to each other. Just like he thought. This was going nowhere.

"Cowards!" Falf spat out.

It was like he had slammed a dagger in the center of the table. The men looked up at him with danger in their eyes.

"Is that what you want to be known as? Cowards?"

The carpenter rose from his chair.

"Old man," he growled, "You're losing your head." He reached out a beefy hand and wrapped it around Falf's chin. "Your scrawny neck don't look like it will hold it up much longer. One quick twist should do it."

He leaned in close. Falf could smell his sour breath.

"Just call me coward again," said the carpenter.

Yes. This is what he wanted. An example. He'd burn this scum into ash and the whole tavern around them. Then see what the mob would do.

Falf swelled himself up with a monstrous breath. His Talent sparked along his skin, from his scalp to his toes, igniting the change.

The carpenter jerked his hand back from Falf's neck and cried out: he had burned his hand on Falf's skin, which was now growing hot to the touch.

This was going to be fun.

Just then, the door slammed open and a woman rushed in. Her clothes were torn and a nasty bruise swelled on the side of her jaw.

"My daughter!" she cried. "The Guards have my daughter. Rape!"

Dozens of chairs slid back at once and the hard men inside the alehouse shot to their feet.

"They're raping her! Help!" pleaded the woman, her eyes darting around in terror.

"How many men!" shouted Kent.

"I don't know. Help her, help her!"

"It's the rape of River Street, all over again!" shouted one man.

Bodies surged to the door. Kent leapt up to the table and shouted. "Wait! Gather the weapons! They'll cut us down otherwise! Barkeep, the weapons, the weapons!"

"The weapons!" thundered the men in the bar.

Talk of conspiracy was one thing. But a blatant attack on one of the daughters of the district? That needed blood for answer.

The barkeep pushed past the knot of angry men into the back, trailed by three of his servants. They returned with their arms full of knives, swords, crossbows, axes, spears, and clubs. Falf felt a sword pressed into his hand. He had already let his Talent fall away. The carpenter had forgotten; the man was hefting a two-bladed battle axe in his hands.

"Everyone armed?" asked Kent.

The men lifted their weapons in the air and shouted.

"Help her!" cried the desperate woman. It had been a bare minute or so since she entered the tavern, but the anguish on her face hadn't lessened.