Rasial hated the deep tunnels of Khyber’s Gate. The smell of sewage and smoke filled the air, and the cold torches were few and far between, leaving long pools of shadow in the subterranean passages. But business was business. He stood beneath the flickering torch, cleaning his fingernails with his dagger and trying to look calm.

“Rasial?” The voice from the shadows was soft and oily. A moment later, three people emerged from the darkness. As promised, they were unarmed. The man in the lead wore a tattered brown cloak and his face was hidden by a deep cowl. A man and a woman stood behind him, dressed in roughspun cloth patched with burlap. They were covered with dirt and scabs, and their faces were almost devoid of expression. How did I ever come to this? Rasial thought.

“Yeah.”

“Rasial … Tarkanan?”

“That’s me.”

“I thank you for meeting us so promptly. I trust you have the merchandise that we discussed?” The voice of the hooded man seemed to shift slightly every time he spoke … it was barely noticeable, but the pitch and inflection changed from moment to moment.

“Yeah, I got it.” Rasial tossed the small pouch in the air and caught it with his left hand, revealing the glistening black dragonmark and the sores upon his palm.

The hooded man seemed hissed. “Yesss, good.”

“The question is if you can uphold your end of our bargain,” said Rasial. “Gold is a start, but until you prove that you can deliver on your promises, this—” he tossed the bag and caught it in his right hand—“stays with me. And if you’re thinking of trying anything stupid—” he extended his left hand, and for a moment the shadows seemed to be drawn toward his palm—“I’d stop now.”

The hooded man laughed, a horrible, gurgling sound. For a moment his face was revealed by the torchlight, and Rasial gasped. It was a horrible ruin, with exposed muscle that seemed to pulse and twitch with his laughter.

“Oh, have no fear, Rasial,” the stranger said. “All your problems will be over soon enough.”

His two companions leaped forward without a sound, moving with unnatural speed and in perfect unison. It was clear Rasial couldn’t outrun them, so he hurled the pouch at the wall of the tunnel, hoping to smash its contents and steal their victory, but to his shock a fleshy tentacle lashed out from the spokesman’s arm and snatched the purse from the air. The next thing he knew, the man with the vacant stare was right in front of him, slashing at him with claws that had grown from his hands.

What were these people?

Rasial spun to the side, but even as he did he felt a burning pain along his ribs. The stranger’s claws tore into his side.

But now it was Rasial’s turn. He slammed his left hand into the man’s face, letting his power flow through his palm and into his attacker. As always, the pain was excruciating, but as bad as it was for him, it was far worse for his victim. The stranger cried out—the first sound he’d made—and fell to his knees, clutching at his face. Rasial smiled. But he had forgotten about the woman. The next thing he knew there was a sharp pain in the pack of his neck, and he found himself falling.

Darkness stole his senses before he hit the ground.