Dog’s Bite: Part 1

The old raider’s eyes didn’t twitch; they didn’t blink. His gaze was stone, unyielding, and his veins ran with mountain-cold water. His shoulders were so broad that he loomed cliff-like, dominating a third of the table he shared with two men. Buried within long, iron-grey hair and a thick beard of the same steely shade, his face was craggy and etched with hard years.

He’d just raised the bet by a full five crows. The stack of small copper coins rested mockingly below the five cards he held in his enormous, scarred hands. He rested his elbows on the battered, beer-stained tabletop and watched his opponent closely.

Across the table, Sorren wondered why he hadn’t learned his lesson last time he played with the brigand. He’d figured that the old warrior would be bad at cards, seeing as it was common knowledge that Red County men didn’t gamble.

That wisdom had turned out to be a heart with no beat.

Sorren lost a fistful of crows in their first game and blamed it on the cards. The second time, another murder of coins had flown the nest; he’d become suspicious that the raider had cheated.

This go-round, however, he realised, with a sinking feeling, that he’d lost because Splint had a face that might as well have been carved from alpine wood. The man’s expression seemed as disconnected from his thoughts as the sun from the underside of a fishing boat.

“Call or fold, Jingle. Would you have me die of old age whilst waiting for my turn?” Hotep’s voice carried the flat, languid accent common to the Free Cities. He sat to Sorren’s right, his chair tipped back against the tavern’s front wall. He gave Sorren a look that made the older man want to slap him.

“I’ll call,” Sorren said, sliding his own stack of crows forward. He covered his immediate grimace of regret with a pull on his beer.

“And I… will fold.” Hotep laid his cards on the table with a flourish before packing his pipe and lighting it with a taper. Smoke poured from his nose in two ghostly streams and his eyes glittered with anticipation.

“Full stable. Hammers full of stars.” The old raider spoke the words like a man delivering a death sentence.

Sorren was pleased that he managed to hold back his outburst, if only for a couple of heartbeats. He’d hoped his composure would make the Red County man sweat. Splint just looked at him coolly.

“Fuck!” Sorren barked, catching the attention of the sparse patrons in the smoky taproom. He met a few of their looks, frustration boiling behind his eyes and daring any of them to speak. It was too early for pointless bar fights, however, and they went back to their drinks without a word.

Sorren puffed out a long sigh as he scattered his cards across the table with an exasperated flick. He lifted his own pewter tankard, draining the dregs of his beer before checking the sky outside the grimy window they sat close to.

“Still a good few hours of waiting ahead of us.” He sighed, glancing down at his dwindling pile of copper, then up to Splint’s neatly stacked wealth.

“Don’t mind,” came Splint’s rumbling reply. He had a grisly scar that puckered across his face from his left temple, beneath an oft-broken nose and through the right corner of his mouth. The disfigurement tore through his lip, giving him a permanent snarl that twisted unsettlingly when he spoke. It twitched, which was practically a grin for the grim-faced northerner.

Their banter was interrupted by a muffled shout. The three mercenaries turned to peer out of the murky glass, Hotep craning his neck to see. Beyond the dirty pane they could make out a man standing in the street gesturing wildly and yelling with spirited abandon. He looked like he’d been sleeping rough and eating rougher. Regardless, a couple of people stopped to listen, drawn in by his feverish energy.

From their table in the dingy tavern, the man’s words were lost, but the passion in them was obvious.

After they’d watched for a few moments, Hotep asked, “I wonder what has got him so excited—Patriotic fervour or revolutionary zeal?”

Half a dozen passersby had now gathered around the ragged fellow, which, predictably, spurred him on to ever wilder gesticulation.

“More’n likely it’s madness. Watch will find the poor bastard soon enough,” Sorren replied matter-of-factly.

This kind of outburst was becoming commonplace in Nepatino. Folks were demanding that others rise up, take back their city, and overthrow the tyrants. That all seemed like a terrible idea to Sorren. As soon as one tyrant died, another would simply take his place. Only this time, he’d be the same breed, but with intimate knowledge of how one might try to overthrow him.

Sorren couldn’t deny that it was the Grand General’s own fault, however. He was a greedy, paranoid, and predatory man who constantly sought ways to squeeze more from the merchant class, who then squeezed the common folk. The common folk, in turn, squeezed the most impoverished by swelling their numbers. The slums were growing and with every street that fell to destitution, another brick was thrown into the wagon bed. It was only a matter of time before the axle snapped and the wheels came off.

As he pondered this, Sorren watched the crowd around the raving man grow to more than a dozen, most of them nodding, and a few even joining him when he raised his fists. It struck the aging mercenary as odd. The firebrand looked like little more than a beggar, yet the crowd was a disparate combination of workers, artisans, and one man even wore the colourful tailoring of a merchant.

The Watch, in their grey tabards, came barrelling into the group with the suddenness of shattering glass, swinging indiscriminately with brass bound cudgels.

Sorren felt a twinge of horror as it seemed the people would fight. But the crowd broke quickly, with the grey Watchmen delivering a few complementary blows as they fled. The worst was saved for the ragged man, though. His leg broke with the first strike; the snap came with a spray of blood across the dry dirt road, visible even through the filthy window. The heavy clubs then rose and fell until the man’s rags were soaked in crimson.

The leader of the uniformed thugs, his wide-brimmed hat marking him as an officer, waved his club around and yelled something threatening and indistinct. A crowd had gathered to watch the violence, three times the size of the one that had gathered for the speech. The Watchmen dragged the bloody body away, and just like that. It was over.

Excitement done, the street scene returned to normal, and the Nepatino citizens continued about their business. The only difference was the dark brown patches of stained, uncaring dirt beneath their feet.

“I could stand to play a few more hands, aminos. I wonder if we would have to stop calling you Jingle once your purse was empty?” Hotep’s straight, white teeth showed as he smiled and nodded towards Sorren’s dwindling coins.

He ran a hand lazily through his long hair, a shade darker than his neatly trimmed moustaches. The tallest of the three and lean, when he relaxed in his chair, he seemed to sprawl across half the tavern. Where Splint was dour, scarred and fearsome, Hotep looked like a stage hero played by a handsome but aging actor. His face had few lines, and those were the kind that came from a lifetime of smiling.

“Aye, I reckon you would,” Sorren said as he scratched his bald head. “Well, it’s your deal.”

His pride was still raw as a skinned palm, but he couldn’t help but return the grin. They played for copper because, no doubt, they’d need their silver. And none was trying to beggar the others.

This was why Sorren had sought out these two in the first place. The city’s fastest growing trade was violence, and yet, the three of them had been earning a pittance working alone. Only a year ago, when he’d arrived, merchants, dealers, and city officials were happy enough to hire any man who carried a sword and looked like he knew how to use it. But as tensions in the city rose, so too did their standards for muscle. Now they wanted hardened crews—killers with experience and real training.

As Sorren’s final card glided to a rest before him, he gathered his hand, careful to keep his expression stoic even as he grinned inwardly. He watched Splint consider his bet. The old raider reached, unhurried, for his crows, plucking a pair that perched atop a neat stack. Had he hesitated, nearly taking just one?

Sorren matched the bet, taking care not to appear too eager. Hotep folded immediately, ruefully puffing his pipe and looking up with thinly veiled irritation. Without a word, he dealt a new card to each of his companions.

The old raider didn’t flinch; he didn’t smile. He simply slid the rest of his stack forward.

“Raise ya.”

“Alright.” The bald sellsword did his best to keep his voice level. “Call.”

Excitement set his knee to bouncing ever so slightly. His cards were strong, and he was convinced Splint was bluffing.

Did the Red County man’s eyebrow shift—just a hair?

The old raider placed the tips of thumb and forefinger atop his crows.

“Raise—” The words were cut down even as they formed. The winesink’s front door boomed as it slammed open behind Sorren. Three new arrivals, talking too loudly, crashed into the grimy, murmuring peace of the taproom. Sorren’s gut filled immediately with the sour feeling that always came, unbidden, when he anticipated violence. However, the men wore the sturdy, greyish-brown shirts typical of Nepatino’s industrial workers—clothes meant for labour, not trouble. They did carry themselves with a certain swagger that boasted of overconfidence. But that wasn’t particularly unusual. What had put him on edge?

Sorren didn’t let his gaze linger on the three men for long. Instead he looked to Hotep who could observe them without turning. Whatever had made Sorren’s gut go sour clearly had his companions’ attention as well.

Splint had already slipped one hand below the table, all but certainly resting it on the venerable axe propped against his leg. It had taken Sorren nearly a week to persuade the Red County warrior to stop placing it on the table wherever they went, as that suggested all manner of bad intentions.

Hotep would have seemed completely unfazed, except for the subtle gesture he made as he tapped his pipe clear of ash. He indicated the new arrivals with his eyes while miming a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Without a word, the three of them began collecting their copper.

One of the three louts appeared to be the leader. He was half a head taller than the other two, with a round belly and bull-like shoulders. His companions appeared to be brothers. Though neither had Paunch’s bulk, they both looked nastier. The elder was weather-worn and brandished a cruel, humourless smile; the younger, both paler and gaunter, moved furtively and swept the room with narrowed eyes. Sneer and Nerves followed in the wake of the bigger man, leaving him to do most of the not-quite-bellowing.

Paunch crossed the taproom and slammed a meaty palm on the bar, unleashing an ornery, crass whoop before looking to the barkeep.

“Barman! Ales for me and my brothers here!” he boomed, before pivoting to face the once-peaceful common room. Elbows resting on the painted oak of the bar, he surveyed the space
. His eyes lingered on Sorren’s party for a moment before rolling on across the other patrons.

The barman, a short, portly fellow with a long red beard, managed a pained smile and busied himself with the pouring. Without turning, Sorren could now cast a surreptitious glance at the men. That’s when he spotted the weapons. Paunch and Nerves had short-handled clubs on their belts, the rough, banded heads hidden by the hems of their loose shirts. It seemed Sneer was packing a pair of daggers, one high on his hip and the other lurking at the small of his back.

The concealment was amateurish, at best, but it was enough that the barkeep paid them no mind. Two months ago, the city’s Grand General had decreed that people might only carry arms under licence.

The licence itself took the shape of a small tin circle with unfamiliar characters punched into it. Hotep wore his on his belt, beside the sheath on his right hip. Splint’s, worn with apparent disdain, was pinned off-kilter to his hauberk, barely visible below the thick furs of his collar.

Sorren’s own was on the breast of his heavy, part-plated, and well-patched surcoat. The tin looked ill-suited. Too shiny and new for armour that was older than he was. To this day, when he donned it, the bloody face of the previous owner would flash across his mind.

The bald sellsword hoped that Paunch and his lackeys weren’t stupid enough to pull their weapons here. But then again, they were pig-headed enough to draw attention to themselves while illegally carrying arms. Sorren figured any bet on their intelligence would be a poor wager.

The barman slid Paunch’s drinks to him, tension tightening in his shoulders. Other patrons began casting wary glances at the big man and his friends. Noticing the trio’s weaponry, most hurried to drain their cups.

The three louts ignored the other occupants, instead falling into almost subdued chatter. Sorren felt his shoulders relax a touch, but the sourness in his gut remained.

“You think they’re heavies?” Sorren asked softly, turning to Hotep.

“Hmm. Possibly. But you’d expect tattoos on display, or the clothes to cover them. They look like working men—perhaps from the brewery down in the Riddens.”

“Which’d be worse?” Splint grumbled the question. He was a man who spoke rarely; as if every word was a carefully hoarded coin.

“Workers, I reckon,” Sorren said. “If fellas like these are carrying, they probably feel they’re part of something important. That kind of notion makes folks a dangerous mix of self-righteous and eager.”

Hotep nodded, and Splint offered a grunt of agreement. If these men were among the rabble-rousers and revolutionaries—and people had noticed them—things were unlikely to stay civil for long.

If it were just a matter of Paunch and his pals kicking off in a peaceful tavern, Sorren wouldn’t have been worried. Their weapons, such as they were, left a lot to be desired, and they wore no armour but their misplaced confidence. These idiots drawing the attention of the Grand General’s Catechizers, however, was a sharper-edged blade.

Sorren’s mouth had just opened to suggest leaving when the front door swung open again. This time it didn’t open with a bang. Instead, it creaked cautiously. Four men entered, dressed and armed similarly to the three at the bar. Leading the way was a tall man with a shaved head and a neat black goatee who held the door for an older fellow. The elder’s beard was tangled, white, and wispy, but he walked with a straight spine. Finally, a pair of thuggish-looking youths slunk in behind them.

Pate, his shaved head reflecting candlelight, was wary. He eyed Sorren and his companions, then tracked his gaze across the other patrons. Apparently satisfied, he motioned the others toward the bar.

“Ah, Gimba. Good to see you.” Paunch boomed, loud enough that Sorren felt the need to check the window, just to see if the whole street had heard him.

Pate scowled at the big man, and hissed a stern, quiet reprimand at the boisterous cretin. Paunch looked stricken for a moment before forcing a laugh, which Sneer echoed hesitantly. The workers exchanged greetings and handshakes before the bartender joined them. With evident reverence toward the grey-beard, the portly man beckoned him, Pate, and Paunch to follow into the back room. Sneer, Nerves, and the two youths remained in the taproom and did their best to look menacing.

“So, the barman knew what they were about,” Sorren muttered, irritation and disappointment staining his voice. “Bad for business, mark my words.”

The other two nodded. Splint’s granite-hard expression was fixed as always, and Hotep glanced out of the window as if considering leaping through it.

Sorren cursed inwardly. If he and his companions got up to leave now, Sneer, Nerves, and the two glowering young men would stop them. They’d posture, level threats, and probably accuse Sorren’s group of being toadies for the Grand General. Ironically, that was far more likely to draw the Catechizers or the Watch than letting them walk. But, again, betting on their intelligence seemed a poor wager. Apparently, the other patrons had realised the same; despite their now empty cups, they all remained seated.

“We should go,” Splint growled, glancing at the four men.

“Seconded,” Hotep replied, narrowing his eyes at the door that the old man and his cronies had gone through.

“Any ideas how we do that without drawing the wrong kind of attention?” Sorren hoped for a stroke of genius from either of his friends.

“Nope.”

“Might be a little too late for that, aminos.” Hotep nodded toward the bar.

Sneer was leading his companions to their table.

Shit, thought Sorren, his gut souring doubly. Suddenly he realised he needed to piss.

“Shit,” Sorren muttered, glancing at his companions as he surreptitiously moved a hand beneath the table. His dagger was simple, fighting steel—long, thin, and made for piercing mail.

“‘Ello, friends. Don’t get up,” Sneer sneered as he grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it to their table. He straddled it backwards, leaving his daggers clear to draw. He wasn’t a clever man, but he might’ve been just smart enough to be dangerous.

“Look, we picked this place to wait before an afternoon appointment.” Sorren lifted a hand in a gesture of calm. “We’ve no interest in you and yours.”

“Ooh, an appointment?” Sneer somehow twisted his mouth with even more contempt. “Ain’t we a fancy pack of dogs?”

Nerves and the two youths grinned with little mirth, but too many teeth.

“Careful… Dogs bite.” Splint’s voice rumbled like an approaching thunderhead.

The sound of it, combined with the old raider’s scarred face and grim expression, made Sneer hesitate.

“Fuck you, Northman,” was what Sneer settled on after a moment, his meagre wit apparently already drained.

Sorren shot up, sending his chair toppling back with a clatter. Sneer tried to follow, but his awkward, straddled position stopped him from rising before the bald mercenary had moved. Sorren pressed in, nose to nose with the smaller man.

“You better apologise, boy. You’re a puppy, barking at wolves. You don’t curse us without paying a price.” Sorren, despite his locked gaze and cold-steel tone, had just saved Sneer’s life.

If Sorren hadn’t put himself between the two, Splint’s axe would be buried to the haft in Sneer’s empty head. Splint was a Red Counties man. He did not bandy words.

Sneer didn’t back down, and Sorren felt—rather than saw—his companions rise and stand at his shoulders. Nerves and the two youths hesitated a beat before squaring up beside Sneer.

“Dogs don’t get apologies. All dogs get is—” Sneer’s words caught in his throat. Everyone in the room turned toward the front door. The old, sagging wood opened once again with the sinister squeal of tortured hinges.

“When it rains, it pours,” Hotep muttered. Sorren stepped back and held in a sigh.

Five men stepped into the weary tavern, long black coats cinched over chainmail hauberks. The last man through the entrance removed his black, broad-brimmed hat and dusted it with easy, almost casual deliberation.

“Gentlemen. Am I interrupting?” The Catechizer officer’s smile was a razor, and it glinted like it could cut throats. His slate grey eyes sifted through the silent tavern’s occupants, one brow raised with mild curiosity.

The patrons had all tried to edge away from the confrontation without acknowledging it. The black-clad man weighed the four workers, watching dispassionately as their hands crept toward their poorly concealed weapons. Finally, his iron gaze took in the three mercenaries.

“Hmm. Looks like my timing was a little off.” His voice was as hard as his stare, though it was dusted with feigned amusement.

“If I’d come in a few dozen heartbeats later, one half of you would have killed the other. That certainly would have made dragging you to the dungeons easier.”

“Sorry, sir—uh—we’re not with this lot.” Sorren gestured toward the workers, internally cursing the uncertain waver in his voice.

“Oh? Well, we’ll soon be sure of that.” The Catechizer’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which held cold intent, coiled tight.

“What my companion says is true, aminos. We were here for a drink and a game of cards before these fools arrived. We have an appointment for later today; you can look it over if you wish.” Hotep said, his tone carefully deferential. He used the old term, common to the Free Cities for men of higher station.

“Then lay down your steel and remain still. We’ll sort this out once we arrive at the dungeons.” The false joviality was gone now. Only the cold intent in the black-clad man’s eyes remained, and it crystallized into terrible animus.

At that moment, everything seemed to freeze, the same way a delicate glass bottle will seem to freeze as it hangs over the precipice of a table. The falling and the shattering are inevitable, but the moment stretches on regardless.

Sorren’s sour gut froze solid. The quarters were too tight and he faced too many enemies in too many directions. Daggers, clubs, and short axes filled fists all around him. All the impotent ways he might have extinguished this conflict span through his mind.

However, he already knew it was too late. There was no stopping the violence.

He drove a knee up hard into Sneer’s balls even as he gripped his shoulder. Sorren’s weapon was a falchion—broad, curved, and built for butchery, not fencing. The longer steel would be too slow when faced with Sneer’s vicious daggers. But the hard bone of his knee? Driven by practiced muscle, it smashed into the worker’s undercarriage and proved an effective equaliser.

Sorren whipped his falchion free of its sheath. With a grunt, he drove it forward, and dragged Sneer onto the blade. The tip bored into his chest and found his unprotected heart. Sneer was dead before he hit the rushes.

As the body fell, he glimpsed Splint’s axe shear the first youth’s lower jaw from his face. Splint followed up with a hog-head-sized fist, slamming into the second youth’s throat.

Hotep moved to guard Sorren’s back, his curved sword and dagger poised. Nerves rushed, snarling, at the blonde man. With graceful, practiced swordplay he easily turned aside the wild swings and forced the worker back against a table.

The five Catechizers spread out in a rough semi-circle like the grim fingers of a black hand, each wielding a heavy club in one fist
and a long, glinting knife in the other. Sorren felt a buzz of panic as he looked at them, but he clenched his teeth and crushed it down. It looked bad. But then again, it almost always did. Hotep was caught up with one man already, leaving only Splint and Sorren to face them.

Sorren stepped backwards. Splint moved to his shoulder without a word. The Grand General’s black hand reached out.

Before the hand could close around their throats, the backroom door crashed open. A short axe flashed through the momentary quiet and thudded into the ear of the right-most Catechizer. Blood misted the air. The lantern-jawed man fell limp, his booted feet battering the floor in spasm.

Pate came charging with a short sword, eyes burning. Paunch lurched in behind him, short club raised high, bellowing an incoherent warcry. The old man followed warily, his jaw clenched almost as tight as the fist wrapped around his axe.

With the black hand’s pinky sheared off, the odds evened. Evened, the way an avalanche evens the odds for a goat fleeing wolves.

Two of the Catechizers split off to engage Paunch and Pate, while Sorren charged forward to meet the officer and his closest crony. Splint loped alongside him, axe dripping and face spattered. Hotep would guard their backs, sword and dagger an assurance forged in steel.

The sharp pressure of fear pressed against Sorren’s throat. The two men in black were waiting, coiled tight with restrained violence and steady from hard experience. If he had been stepping up with anyone else, he wouldn’t have bet on himself. But walking into trouble with Splint was like having a storm rather than a sword in your hand.

The man was so strong it boggled the mind. Combined with his sheer ferocity and deceptive speed, he was like a landslide of jagged, relentless violence. It always shocked Sorren to remember that the old raider must have seen three score winters. Sure as dusk, those winters in the Red Counties bred a dangerous kind of man.

Sorren met the officer first with a close, testing thrust. His opponent’s black club knocked the blade aside and, in the same motion, his knife flashed toward the bald mercenary’s head. Sorren slipped back, jerking his face away to narrowly evade the steel.

In that same instant, Splint smashed his axe down into the other Catechizer’s shoulder. The man tried to stop the attack, his club and knife coming up in a practiced cross block. But the blow slammed through the defence, driving the axe-head all the way to the breastbone. It was like hitting a scarecrow with a bastard sword.

The Catechizer stopped Sorren’s counter slash with both weapons, just as it hissed toward his neck. But Sorren was waiting for that. The tight, cross-body cut was only a diversion. He slipped free the simple, needle-point dagger and pushed forward with all his weight. The Catechizer’s knife pressed against his surcoat before squealing upward and catching against Sorren’s gorget. The old mercenary exhaled a growl of satisfaction as he punched his own dagger through the black-clad man’s hauberk and between his ribs.

The man who’d swept into the tavern so confidently, with all the authority of the Grand General behind him, gasped in agony.

Guilt had always haunted Sorren. He’d killed too many good men to avoid it. But somehow, there’d be no remorse for this one.

Sorren twisted the knife and tore it free before letting the grey-eyed officer crumple.

A yell snapped Sorren around. Hotep was facing Pate, who pressed in with a veteran’s controlled aggression, while the white-haired old bastard circled with an opportunist’s focus. Sorren’s friend fended them off, but he was on the back foot and losing ground. Hotep was an excellent swordsman, refusing his two opponents’ attempts to flank him, but he’d soon be cornered.

Splint was already charging. He gave no roar or growl. He was pure, silent ferocity.

On the edge of Sorren’s vision, the remaining Catechizer smashed Paunch’s skull, a gout of blood spraying from the big man’s mouth. Opportunity knocked, and Sorren had learned a long time ago; never leave that door unanswered. The old soldier vaulted a table even as he launched his dagger, left-handed, at the blood-spattered, black-clad killer.

It was a terrible throw, and Sorren knew it would niggle at him in the wee hours for many nights to come.

The Black Hand’s final finger easily swept the knife out of the air with his forearm. A grin spread across his pock-marked face, but it suddenly twisted into a scream of pain as Sorren’s falchion bit deep into his knee. The briefest moment of distraction was all Sorren had needed. The low slash was a cruel blow, but the next was truly vicious. Sorren snapped a short, sharp kick at the already brutalised joint. The resulting wet crack made him shudder, and the Catechizer shrieked in horror at the ruin of his leg, bent grotesquely back.

Sorren winced as the scream stabbed into his mind. His falchion made an end of it. Two feet of well-tended, razor steel went through skin, muscle, and windpipe. The tired old soldier drew it, almost mercifully, across the screaming man’s throat, bringing him to a gurgling silence.

And just like that, the bar was quiet. In the chaos, the other patrons had made good their escape. Sorren was glad of that. Surrounded by blood and cooling bodies, he turned to his companions. Hotep was wiping his sword clean on the shirt of the freshly disembowelled Pate. One of the Catechizers’ knives glinted as Splint looked it over before tossing it aside dismissively.

“We need to get out of here…and quickly too.” Sorren wiped his steel on a bar rag, collected his dagger, and anxiously checked to see if it was damaged. He was relieved to see the point intact and the edge free of nicks. He sheathed both weapons as he joined his friends.

“One thing before we go,” Hotep said. He picked his way carefully, over bodies and broken furniture, to the bar.

“Aha! Perfect! Come here.” Hotep hopped over the painted wood and ducked to grab something, while his free hand beckoned the others.

Apparently content that he’d robbed the dead thoroughly enough, Splint joined Sorren at the bar. They both leaned on it and peered over, bemused. Hotep had gathered a few rags and a bucket of mop water.

He thunked the bucket on the painted surface, dipped a cloth, and held it toward Splint’s face.

The old raider pulled his head back, frowning first at the rag, and then at Hotep. Understanding dawned on Sorren as Hotep gave an exaggerated, effeminate sigh, flapping the rag dramatically in Splint’s direction.

“He needs to wash the blood off your face, Splint. Our dark clothes will hide most of it—but if we go walking about like we’re fresh from a slaughterhouse, we’ll be lucky to make it thirty paces.” Sorren placed a hand on the northman’s shoulder.

Splint’s expression softened almost imperceptibly, and he nodded at Hotep.

As the blond man started wiping red smears from the old raider’s brow, Sorren turned his back on them for a moment.

He felt hollow. His legs were weak, his hands full of nervous energy, and his chest rasped like burnt-out bellows. He hated this feeling. The moments before a fight were bad enough, but the aftermath was always worse.

It hadn’t always been this way. When he’d been a young imperial conscript, he’d survived his first battle and been flooded with euphoria. He’d gone mad with celebration, just like every other survivor. Even now thoughts of that night made him smile. But that lustre had faded with every fight.

Now you’re just an old fart, brimming with regrets and worries.

The face of the man he’d just killed, mouth agape and eyes screwed up with pain, curdled into his mind. It was followed by other faces. The shocked expression of disbelief of the black-clad officer, the glassy eyes of a friend who’d died in an arrow volley years ago, a boy clutching a bloody, gaping wound where his leg should be…

Sorren shook his head and let out a long breath. Forcing down the bloated lump of cold remorse in his throat, he turned to his friends again with a strained smile.

Hotep finished with Splint’s dripping beard and handed the northman a rag to wash his hands. Sorren wondered if they felt the same sickness after a fight, but couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Sorren kept himself meticulously clean-shaven, an old army habit. His face was a much quicker job. Once Hotep was done, Sorren returned the favour, making sure to get the drying blood out of his friend’s pale moustaches.

“There you go. Pretty as a portrait,” Sorren said with a grin. Hotep laughed, of course. He laughed easily. But both had to turn, with raised brows, when Splint let out an amused snort. After a beat of stunned silence, Hotep and Sorren chuckled at Splint’s hasty recovery of his habitually grim expression.

The moment left Sorren thanking his stars. After meeting these two disparate fighters, it had quickly become apparent that they’d be fast friends. They enjoyed each other’s company, and finding a laugh after bloodshed was no easy thing. Hotep and Splint trusted him to be their leader, and he trusted them to have his back.

“Let’s go,” Splint grumbled, snatching a bottle off a shelf and stuffing it into his satchel. Splint led them into the deserted kitchens, where they found a door that opened into the alley behind the tavern.

As it creaked open, a creeping dread knotted in Sorren’s stomach. What if the Grand General’s other black hand was out there, ready to snatch them up, and carry them off to the infamous torture chambers beneath his palace?

But the alley was clear of black-clad inquisitors and murderous workmen alike. Only a pair of skinny, pale dogs moved in the rubbish-choked alleyway. The beasts squabbled over some unidentifiable morsel, but fled barking as the three men emerged. There was little comfort in the quiet, though. The air was heavy with an ineffable yet utterly palpable sense of danger, even as they made it to the streets.