Blood splashed his face as he struck. He could taste it on his lips, warm and familiar. He punched out with his fist, the chain biting into his knuckles, and it felt good. It stoked the fire, teased his hunger, and there was only one thing that would see him full.
It didn’t take long before there was nothing but corpses lying before the door. Broken and torn.
He span on his heel, hungry for more, and scanned the rest of the tavern. As he walked across the room he heard a whimper from beneath a table and flung it out of the way. Someone cowered beneath it, his face tear-streaked and screwed up in terror.
‘Please,’ said the man, holding up his hands for clemency.
Nobul stared down, remembering something through the mist, suddenly thinking there was one other bastard who had it coming.
‘Where’s Friedrik?’ he growled.
‘I don’t know. Hells, I’d tell you if I did, honest I would,’ pleaded the man. ‘For Arlor’s sake, please show me some mercy.’
But there was no mercy here.
Nobul brought the poker down so hard he heard the skull crack. Before the man fell Nobul stabbed out, shoving the iron into his eye, hot blood squirting onto his hand.
There was noise from the back room, as the rest of the revellers banged against the door, screaming for help.
Nobul took his time as he stalked them, a smile creeping across his lips. What was fucking wrong with these people? They’d come here for a killing. Wasn’t that what he was giving them?
As he entered the back room there were more screams and desperate shouts. One of them had the guts to attack, and Nobul almost laughed as the man came at him. He was holding something in his hand, a club or a table leg, and Nobul raised his arm as the weapon came down. The pain as it struck only fed the fire. One quick punch to the throat and the attacker was down, clutching his neck, gasping his last on the floor.
Nobul stooped and picked up the cudgel. His eyes were wide, his mouth was stretched open in a death’s-head grin. He went about his grim work with satisfaction.
The screaming and banging didn’t carry on for long. There was some pleading in there too but the noise and the faces all seemed to twist into a blur of nothing. When it was over, when his arms were tired from the killing, Nobul was almost disappointed.
He stared at the corpses. They’d been no challenge. Though he was breathing heavy it had been nothing to finish them.
The cudgel dropped from his fingers as he made his way back through the tavern to the front door. The chain unravelled from his fist and dangled from his battered hand as he pulled the chair aside and unlatched the deadbolts.
When Nobul opened the door he half expected a bunch of Greencoats to be waiting for him. Or in the least a gang of Guild enforcers.
There was no one — just him and the night.
As he stepped out he staggered, the fatigue of the past few days finally catching him on a single gust of night air. He had no idea where he was — most likely somewhere in Northgate. The street was deserted as he stumbled along it. A dog barked at him from a side alley. Someone closed their shutters with a sharp bang as he staggered past.
Nobul didn’t care who saw him. His clothes and flesh were torn, his breath ragged as he stumbled along. The chain at his wrist jangled like a plague bell as he walked.
Bring out your dead. Bring them out for burning! The Lord of Crows is here!
At any moment he could stumble into a Greencoat patrol, but Nobul didn’t care. It wasn’t like those murders were going to be reported. He’d killed a bunch of punters in a Guild tavern — they were never going to call the authorities to investigate. They’d want to sort that out by themselves and they’d be after him soon enough.
Well, let them come. They couldn’t do anything worse than they’d already done.
The further he went the more Nobul’s feet dragged. He could feel himself going hazy at the edges, but he fought against it. If he fell here in the street there was no telling who would find him. He had to find somewhere safe — to rest, just for a little while. Gather his strength. Plan his next move.
Nobul lost his footing and fell to the ground. It was wet and cold and for a moment it brought him to his senses. As he rose once more he keenly felt every ache and pain in his body. His legs were like lead, his arms two slabs of meat dragging him down.
There was a door at the end of the street. Was it a door he recognised? Was it even a street he recognised? As he approached it he tripped on the step, falling forward against the hardwood door. There was a knocker above him and he reached up. It seemed so far away, and the dark was closing in. If he could reach it before …
He couldn’t see. It was bloody dark and bloody cold and bloody loud and there was something on his head.
Nobul reached up and adjusted the helm. What he saw made him want to pull it back down over his eyes.
The valley rose high on both sides like it was reaching for the sky. In the middle, two massive statues met each other — warriors locked in eternal combat.
Bakhaus Gate.
Beside Nobul stood an army, men on horseback, banners of all colours tattered and blowing in the breeze. They chanted a name over and over, raising their swords and shields and bellowing their defiance. At the other end of the valley, growling and roaring, the sound echoing like the end of the world, was their enemy.
Nobul tightened his grip on the hammer at his side. How were they supposed to win this? What were they supposed to do against such a ravening horde?
Then he heard what the men around him were chanting.
Black Helm! Black Helm! Black Helm!
Eyes started to turn his way like they were looking for him to lead them. Eyes wide in fear and fury. They wanted him to head the charge. Into that mass of metal and teeth.
Nobul was glad of the helmet. It masked his fear. He lifted his hammer. It felt heavy. So heavy he could hardly raise it, let alone swing it.
A hand patted him on the back. Another gave him a push. One reluctant foot after the other, Nobul moved forward. A horse whinnied at his ear. His tread got faster. Voices began to shout encouragement.
Let them lead the fucking charge then. Let them throw themselves at the bastard enemy.
He was trotting now, moving with impetus. The hammer gripped in two hands. He was shouting, but he couldn’t make out his own words over the noise. The enemy started to move. Charging on, bounding ahead in their grey armour, blades raised, mouths gaping wide, fangs bared.
He was going to die here. He was going to be torn apart and he didn’t care.
‘Come on, you bastards!’ he screamed.
The monstrous wave engulfed him.
His eyes flipped open to the bright morning and he’d have sat bolt upright if he had the energy. Or the will.
Instead he just lay there, wondering where the fuck he was and who’d dressed his wounds.
Nobul raised his right hand. The manacle was gone, leaving a raw red band around his wrist. His knuckles were bandaged and he clenched his fist, wincing at the pain. The flesh was torn and battered but at least none of his knuckles were broken.
Gingerly he raised a hand to his ear. Half of it was missing but the wound had been stitched. He could smell the sour tang of liniment. Someone had tended to him with expert care.
With no small effort, Nobul managed to swing his legs over the bed. He was naked, and looking at his body he realised how battered he’d been over the past few days — scarce an inch of his skin had escaped the black bruising that covered him.