Frank crashed through the kitchen door, rattling its hinges. He charged past a row of steaming pots, reaching for the dwarf just as he summersaulted over a table, his hand snatching air. Slipping in a glob of eel fat, he skidded sideways and shouldered into a big-bellied cook who was carving fish. The cook hit the floor and his blade launched skyward, tumbling end over end, dropping straight for his own face.

  Frank caught it in mid-air, then felt a wormy smile spread across his palm.

  Staring up from the ground, the cook flashed a confused look, somewhere between thank you and fuck you. Trembling, he reached for the knife, taking it gently from Frank’s hand. Still shaking, he held it up as though to defend himself with it.

  A loud slap rang out as the dwarf hit the back door, his apron flapping like a shredded sail, stocky legs pumping furiously.

  “You’re welcome,” Frank said, vaulting over the cook, trying to keep the dwarf in sight.

  It was the same bastard who had framed him and Kelmar for Iliquith’s murder; he was sure of it. He could still picture the weasel fingering him from across the courtyard, miming despair in front of the city guard. If the recognition in the man's eyes didn't prove it, then his instinct to flee certainly did.

  Frank burst out of the kitchen and into an alley between sagging tenements, the stones slick with early morning slime. The mist was starting to clear under the heat of the rising sun, but the world was still veiled with a dreamy haze. Through the gloom, he spotted the dwarf heading for the mouth of the alley, ducking under a hanging shark twice his size and shoving past an old woman who spilled a pail of fish guts.

  He started to shout but checked himself. The last thing he wanted now was attention.

  The dwarf moved with startling speed. He ducked left, vaulted a crate, and vanished into a slit between buildings, a passage too narrow to call an alley.

  Frank cursed. It would be a tight fit for a regular man, near impossible for him. But what choice did he have? If he didn’t catch him, the dwarf was sure to alert someone – city guards, the Rat Cult, the Red Coin.

  Frank didn’t know who the bastard was working for exactly, but that didn’t matter. They were all out to get him. Everyone in this godforsaken city was.

  He slid the shield off his back and settled it onto his right arm, wary of his left. Turning sideways, he wedged himself into the passageway, holding the shield overhead, Thune’s sack bouncing at his hip.

  “Sometimes I think I would have fared better back in that dungeon,” Thune muttered. “There was a quiet dignity in imprisonment, at least.”

  “Not too late to send you back.” Fresh pain erupted in Frank’s chest as the walls squeezed his busted ribs, crushed whatever was still broken in his back. He gritted his teeth, holding his breath, and pushed forward, inch by inch. He felt like he was back in the Temple of Blasphemous Flesh, sliding down the tight gullet of the Godling.

  All births are painful. Even rebirths.

  With a gasp of relief, he forced himself through the narrow path and out into a cobblestoned courtyard. All around him were cracked plaster walls, shuttered windows and crates marked with flaking trade glyphs. In the middle of the yard, two fat-bodied sea birds fought over a chunk of something that might once have been a squid.

  Frank scanned the yard but saw only piles of detritus, mounds of rotten offal, shorn nets, wet rope. There was an alcove set into the wall of a far building, a small shrine to some sea-bleeding martyr smeared with candlewax and rat droppings. No sign of the dwarf, though.

  He turned a slow circle, gaze passing over the rooftops, the corners, the dark alley mouths. The mist roiled before him, parting and then reforming in the salty breeze. It refused to give up its secrets though. The bastard was gone.

  Don’t search with your eyes.

  “What does that mean?” he muttered. He hadn’t addressed the Allflesh directly, not since the first time he’d heard its strange voice in his head. It felt too weird to do in public, like talking to your imaginary friend in front of the other kids at school.

  But something had changed. The Allflesh felt closer now, less a voice in the back of his mind and more an ethereal presence hanging over his shoulder, like the ghost of a dead grandpa.

  He can hide his body, but not his fear.

  Frank sniffed the air, finding it tainted with that familiar in-between sensation again, the heady tastesmell of fear. It was bleeding a trail through the mist like squid-ink in water. He limped after it, breath rasping through clenched teeth. His ribs burned. His back throbbed like a war drum. But the image of the dwarf whispering into someone’s ear – Sazhra’s, Kelmar’s, Vorrh’s – lent him fresh venom.

  As he drew closer, he heard a faint sound high up on a nearby wall, saw a shadow shifting against the white plaster.

  There!

  The dwarf was scaling the side of a fish-curing house, his small body wedged into a seam between two buildings, bare feet splayed across bricks slick with bird shit. His apron had torn away, leaving a flap like a lolling tongue. He was twenty feet in the air and moving with the desperate grace of a racoon, clumsy but committed.

  Frank surveyed the climb. No stairs. No ladder. Just a stack of wooden crab cages leaning against the wall like a drunken skeleton. If he could get high enough, maybe onto the awning of the net-drying shed, he could jump and cut off the bastard. He just hoped the roof would hold.

  His hand itched, the bad one. Brother Belzu’s Gravesilk wrap had helped some, but it wasn’t perfect. He clenched and unclenched the hand, tried to put it out of his mind.

  Leaping over the crab cages, he landed on the shed with a crash. One sandalled foot stomped through its ceiling, and he scraped his shin pulling it free. From here, he could see the dwarf hauling himself onto the low roof of the smokehouse, panting, pausing to glance behind him.

  Their eyes met.

  Frank grinned despite himself. The bastard was afraid.

  Break him. Reach for his eyes.

  Frank resisted the urge. He was still struggling with the aftereffects of the last time he used his powers. Instead he crouched low, the boards creaking beneath him, and vaulted to the rooftop.

  The entire building groaned as he landed, shingles shuddering under his weight like an earthquake. He skidded, sandals slipping on damp moss, then found purchase and sprang forward. The dwarf was darting toward a parapet at the far side of the roof, one hand flailing for balance.

  As he reached the edge, the dwarf didn’t leap. Instead he stopped, turned to face Frank and then stepped backward into thin air, dropping from view.

  Frank raced after him, breath ragged in his lungs, Thune’s sack bouncing with every step. He cursed, realizing he was about to hit the edge with too much momentum to stop. He dropped into a baseball slide, shingles tearing at his legs and shredding the Gravesilk bandage, as he braced himself with his empty hand.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Finally, he skidded to a halt. Rising to his knees, he peered over the side to see a rickety scaffold extending to the street below. A shape darted beneath it, a brief flicker of movement, barely visible.

  He rolled over the edge, landing hard on the scaffolding. Scrabbling like a monkey in a tree, he swung down into the alley below, climbing one-handed, his heavy shield still at the ready.

  “Leave me,” Thune cried, as he landed. “Whatever stray dog picks me up will no doubt treat me better.”

  Frank ignored him. And the screaming in his own back.

  The dwarf had turned down another narrow run, this one choked with barrels. Frank followed, rats scattering at his approach and his sandals splashing through dirty puddles scummed with muck. The scent was overwhelming, rot and blood and piss, but beneath it all, he could still taste the fear, could still follow its glistening thread.

  He saw open space up ahead, and felt a cold hand grip his heart.

  The alley spilled out into a fishmonger’s arcade, all stalls and hanging hooks, tattered sails for shade, bloodstains on the stone. And people. Lots of people. Fisherman and delivery boys and haggling sailors and city guards.

  He pulled up as the dwarf approached the end of the alley, his chest heaving, eyes wild from the chase. There was no way he could follow the bastard out into the open, the guards would spot him immediately. But if he hung back, the dwarf would run to them for help. It was hopeless. He felt like a wolf who’d followed his prey right into a trap.

  The thought filled him with rage.

  He wanted to strangle that dwarf, if only he could get his hands on him.

  Then, as if trying to fulfill this wish, his hand rose before him, moving of its own volition. He barely noticed, his mind afire with panic and anger, the Black Bile and Yellow Bile flooding his veins until he felt like he might burst, until the pressure inside him was strong enough to crush a scream from his lungs.

  But when it finally did burst, it wasn’t his mouth that erupted. It was his hand.

  Phrenic Leash

  Psychoplasm Cost: 10

  You manifest a cord of concentrated psionic energy between yourself and a terrified mind. Choose one Frightened or Terrified enemy within 30 feet to make a Will save. On a failure, a psychic tether forms, stretching between you and the target for up to 5 minutes, or until line of sight is broken. The tether is visible only to those attuned to psionics; to others, it manifests as a cold pulse or creeping sense of dread when near its path. While the tether is active:

  Leashing Radius: The target cannot willingly move more than 30 feet away from you. Attempts to do so are blocked by an invisible force.

  Psychic Tripwire: Any creature that crosses the tether suffers Psychic Damage (major wound) and must make a Will save or become Shaken for 1 minute.

  Tether Detonation: You may end the tether early by detonating it, dealing Psychic Damage (major wound) in a 30-foot radius around the target.

  Psionic Pull: You may pull the tethered target toward you. This movement may be resisted by the target’s Will (instead of Might). If the target ends up within 5 feet of you, it becomes Shaken.

  Psionic Reserve: 60/100

  “No!” Thune shouted.

  But it was too late.

  The snarling mouth in his palm peeled open, and a yellow tendril of concentrated psionic energy shot out of its fanged maw. The tendril launched across the alleyway, striking the dwarf in the middle of his spine just as he was about to exit onto the arcade.

  He froze, his body stiff as a board.

  “Gotcha,” Frank muttered, hauling on the cord. The dwarf shot backward through the air, flipping twice, before landing at his feet.

  He groaned and tried to crawl away. Frank nudged him with his foot, just hard enough to roll him onto his back.

  “You’re faster than you look,” he whispered. “But not faster than my sword. So keep your voice low, answer my questions and we both get to leave her alive.”

  “If you kill me,” the dwarf coughed, spitting pink froth, “you’re dead. You hear me? You’re a walking corpse.”

  Frank peeled back his hood. “Too late.”

  The dwarf’s face twitched. “What happened to you?”

  “Someone tried to kill me.” The leash was still active, sunk into the dwarf’s chest like a beam of light, but curled and undulating like a squid’s tendril floating in slow currents. He could feel the dwarf’s pulse travelling through it, the frantic rhythm carrying up his arm as though he were holding the bastard’s heart. “But you knew that already.”

  “Look, this isn’t personal. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care.”

  “You tried to frame me for murder. That feels personal.”

  “I was just trying to make some coin.”

  “Who put you up to it?”

  “It was the guard captain, Rallis. And a girl, one of those Rat Cult whores.”

  “What’s her name.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. But she’s got her nose in everything lately, acts like she knows more than she should.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “The cult and the city guard are working together?”

  The dwarf shook his head. “No, Rallis is operating behind the guards’ back. Maybe the girl is, too.”

  “What are they planning?”

  “They aren't planning anything.” The dwarf sneered. “Rallis isn’t clever enough to pull something like this off. He’s an errand boy. The girl too. More likely, they’re both answering to the same person.”

  “Who?” Frank said. “I want a name.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Frank’s grip tightened. The tether pulsed. A soft groan escaped the dwarf.

  “Give me a name.”

  “I don’t have a name,” the dwarf said, sweat beading his brow. “I swear it. But I heard Rallis and the rat girl talking once. She’d been summoned to Nimok Manor. She was afraid to go alone.”

  “What about the Red Coin?”

  The dwarf shook his head. “They’ve got nothing to do with it. It was all a ruse. To make it look like Sazhra was trying to pin Iliquith’s murder on them.”

  “And make Sazhra think they were coming after her. Someone was trying to start a war. But why?”

  “That damned book.”

  “You know about that?” Frank cast a furtive look up the alley. No movement.

  “It was all Iliquith would talk about.” The dwarf sighed. “He said it would be the death of him. And he was right.”

  “So why’d he agree to translate it?”

  “He couldn’t tell the princess no. He owed her too much.”

  “Are you the one who killed him?”

  The dwarf snorted. “No, but I would have. And that I’d have done for free. Payback for the way the bastard treated me.”

  “You’re coming with me. I have more questions. But it’s not safe here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve told you everything. I swear.”

  Frank squeezed the tendril and the dwarf cried out. Too loud this time.

  From up the alley, Frank heard the clatter of boots on wet stone. He turned to see three city guards rounding the corner.

  “What’s going on down there?” one of them called, bronze armor glinting dully in the haze.

  “Nothing,” Frank shouted, raising his shield to hide his face.

  Frank tried to haul the dwarf to his feet but the man resisted. It was like wrestling a strong child. He stood, raising his hood, and moved down the alley, walking steadily, trying not to draw more attention. He hauled on the tether as he walked, yanking the dwarf to his feet.

  “Stop,” one of the guards called, reaching for his cudgel. “We want to speak with you.”

  Frank continued walking.

  Be polite, don’t run, keep moving.

  Someone had told him that once, but he couldn’t remember who. The name was floating in his head, just out of reach. They’d been talking about how to act while moving through a crowd. Where had he been?

  The burning sands of Komar-Pey, in the fighting pits as a surging crowd embraced him.

  No … that wasn’t right.

  He’d never been to a fighting pit.

  It was his old publicist who told him that. And she’d been talking about ... Comic-Con.

  What was Komar-Pey?

  “That’s him!” one of the guards shouted, the sound of his voice clearing Frank’s jumbled head.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the guards were passing the dwarf, one reaching to grab him by the back of his tunic.

  “It’s the horned bastard!” one yelled. “We found him!”

  Now. Show them what fear really means.

  Frank reached down the psionic leash, deeper and deeper, until he found the kernel of terror at the core of the dwarf’s heart. Then he twisted it like a key.

  The tether exploded.

  Not with light or heat, but with a wave of raw psychic energy that tore through the alley like a banshee’s wail. The dwarf shrieked. His eyes grew wide and bloodshot, and then he collapsed, twitching and foaming at the mouth.

  The guards screamed, too.

  The first one clutched his face, weeping and clawing at his own eyes. The second dropped his cudgel and vomited, reaching into his mouth as though trying to pull something loose. The third fell backward, striking his head against a wall and sliding to the ground, all the while howling like a madman.

  Frank returned to the dwarf. He stood swaying over the small body, his legs weak and his palm throbbing with a pleasant, satisfied ache. It had all happened so fast. The Skulltaker body always had a mind of its own, or at least powerful instincts. It moved the way he wanted to move, but sometimes before he willed it. The use of its psionic powers had always been at his discretion alone, though. It was something the Allflesh could encourage but not act on, not without his consent. The speed with which his body triggered the Phrenic Leash felt different though. True, it had still been at his command. But whatever will he'd had to resist the urge seemed diminished now, like a pistol with a hair-trigger.

  He thought about hauling the dwarf away – he still had so many questions. But he was conspicuous enough without a small, seizing man slung over one shoulder. Better to leave him.

  “Can you read his mind?” Frank said, whispering to Thune. “I still had questions for him.”

  “There is no mind left to read.”

  “He’s broken?”

  “Yes.” Thune said. “And so art thou, even if thine eyes fail to see the cracks.”