Free House of Shadows by Neumeier Rachel

forced to a desperate sorcery, he might not now have time to play even a single note. The man behind him was huge, but cat footed for all his size; he’d come silently out of the evening mist—Taudde hesitated, trapped between the thugs before and behind. But the big newcomer unexpectedly went right past him.
    The big man strode right toward the leader of the thieves, who swung at him with the club, a short vicious blow. But the newcomer simply caught the club in one huge hand and wrenched it away from his attacker. He used it himself, three rapid blows that left the thug’s leader moaning on the cobbles. The other two thugs stepped back, cursing, lifting their knives in threat and warning.
    “Benne,” Taudde said, belatedly recognizing his rescuer. The big man gave Taudde a quick look over his shoulder and then gestured with the club he still held, suggesting retreat back along the street.
    “Yes,” Taudde agreed. He felt shaky: shocked by how close he’d come to being forced to choose between alerting every mage in Lonne to his presence or being beaten to death on the city streets. He slipped his flute back into its concealed pocket and turned to go the way Benne had indicated.
    But there were more thieves there, emerging from another alley: two—no, three—no, at least four, and how was it Lonne, which prided itself on its civilized ways, could prove so lawless? But there they were, four more thugs—at least four, and two of the first three still on their feet and dangerous. At least the one Benne had clubbed was groaning on the ground. And unlikely to get up without aid: Benne was a powerful man. Taudde had never been so grateful that his rented townhouse had come with servants attached.
    “Well?” he asked Benne now.
    The big man gave Taudde the club, smacked a massive fist into the palm of his other hand, and strode forward. Taudde, uncertain of the tactical wisdom involved in ignoring the knifemen at their backs, nevertheless followed in Benne’s wake. The club felt strange and heavy in his hand. His flute would have been far more comfortable, or if not that, then at least a gentleman’s sword rather than this street thug’s tool.
    From Benne’s confident manner, Taudde half expected the thieves to give way and fade back into the shadowed alleys that had spawnedthem. But there were six of them left, after all, and they must have decided those odds were uneven enough to suit them. Two of the recent arrivals had the same sort of club Taudde now held. One of the others had a knife, like the two behind, and the other a wicked length of chain. That one seemed to be the leader, now that the other man was down. He looked brutal enough for the role.
    “Nem, you get around—” that man began.
    Benne didn’t wait for the thug to complete his orders. He turned abruptly, smooth as a dancer, took a long step back, grabbed one of the knife wielders who had been edging forward, dropped him, half turned, stabbed the other knifeman in the stomach, completed his turn, and was back out in front of Taudde before any of the other four thieves or Taudde himself could quite comprehend what he’d done. The complete silence with which he’d performed this devastating attack, and in which he now faced the remaining thieves, lent a surreal quality to the whole performance. The man he’d stabbed was on his ground, curled up around his injury, making horrible small noises that served as an effective accompaniment to Benne’s own silence. The man Benne had grabbed, from whom he’d taken the knife, wasn’t making any sound at all. Or moving. Taudde realized, belatedly, that the big man must have broken the thief’s neck in that first moment.
    The other four thieves, understandably, were now hesitating to attack. One of them muttered an oath under his breath. Their leader stared in disbelief past Benne and Taudde at his three dead or injured companions, then shifted his gaze back to Benne’s face. Benne simply stared back,