The barman took a step forward. He shook his hands out from his sides, flexing his fingers, the hard muscles rippling underneath his tight shirt. He pointed at Daud.
“You are better off dead.” He lifted both arms and began to walk in a circle, encouraging the others to join in. Soon enough, everyone had picked up the chant.
“Better off dead! Better off dead!”
Daud waited until the barman had his back to him. Then he concentrated, the Mark of the Outsider burning on the back of his hand, the pain hot and sharp and clean.
And then he moved.
Jack called out as Daud materialized behind the barman. Before the big man could turn in surprise, he’d planted his boot in the small of the barman’s back. His body was as thick as an oak tree and felt just as immobile, but the Mark of the Outsider gave Daud more than just stealth and subterfuge.
It also gave him strength.
The barman toppled forward, tried to regain his footing, but was unable to balance himself. He crashed to the cobbles, chest-first, but reacted quickly, pushing himself back up and swinging his arm out. Daud ducked and kicked again, this time connecting with the man’s knee. There was a crunch. The barman fell down onto his backside and tried to get up, but his leg was bending in the wrong direction. Crying out in pain, he shuffled backward along the cobbles, clearing room for his companions to get to work.