Several urkins, puffed up in fluffy balls, were sitting under the outlet of a gutter, licking the slimy cobbles. A rapion as agile as a lizard ducked into the darkness, its claws scraping on the stones. Just further on was a wine store and a bald gnome in a leather jerkin fiddling with the padlock didn’t even raise his head. His comrade, armed with a crowbar, scowled at the Wallcreeper, growling something under his breath. It was hard to say if it was a greeting or an insult.

In an alleyway leading to Narrow Street there was a sharp odour of magic and alchemy—in other words ectoplasm, saltpetre, vitriol, alum and vinegar. The gutter was clearly phosphorescing, esphilines were crawling in it, lured by the sublimational waste. Not far away, in the arcades, lurked a garou, its well-developed senses inhibiting it from attacking. It perceived the Wallcreeper’s aura in time and realised it would be better not to try. Several dozen yards further on, a lamia acted similarly. The vampiress even waited until the Wallcreeper approached, and after convincing herself that he could indeed see her, greeted him with a bow, wrapped herself in a mantle and vanished, turning grey against a grey wall.

A kludder sat moaning and scratching its belly between the buttresses of the Church of the Holy Spirit. Flying drakes, alarmed by his presence, rustled and fluttered their wings on the tracery, pinnacles and turrets of the church. Just beyond the spital, the Wallcreeper saw a shining pool of fresh blood on the stones. Led by curiosity—although the matter didn’t especially interest him—he used a spell to intensify his eyesight and peered into the gloom. A kalkabra crouching over a blood-soaked body and disconcerted by the spell bared its two-inch fangs and its fur stuck up on its head like a silver crown. The Wallcreeper shrugged and speeded up. As previously, it turned out it was still perilous to walk around Wrocław by night.

He crossed Market Street and entered a small square by a well. And then they fell on him. From all sides. Dressed in a way that made them almost invisible. They were remarkably fast. For men.

Only a lightning-fast dodge saved his life—at the last moment he caught the pale gleam of a blade coming for him. He seized the assailant by the front of his jerkin, spun him around and pushed him into the path of the next attacker, straight onto his sword blade. He spun away and felt steel brush his hair. He jumped clear and saw the sword of another assassin strike sparks against the iron grating. He grabbed the hand holding the sword, tugged it, unbalanced the assailant, flung him to his knees and with a swift movement of both hands immediately broke his neck. Another man lunged and thrust, but the Wallcreeper dodged the blade with a subtle half-turn, caught him by the elbow and wrist and jerked the sword out of his now limp arm. The attacker howled. Using him like a shield, the Wallcreeper thrust the sword into the next attacker’s belly and leaped towards the others without waiting for him to drop. When they retreated, he turned back and with a short movement slit the throat of the man with the broken arm.