The Shattered Crown

TWENTY-NINE

He was hurting. Not like in the old days, when the hurt was good and it fed his rage. This was a new hurt. Deeper. Like a fire down inside, and the only thing that would put it out would be the killing.

Nobul hadn’t wanted to frighten Rag, she’d saved him after all, but there was no way she’d want to see what was coming. And he might well have kept his promise and done her along with everyone else he could find. Best if she was far away from here.

There was a dim light coming from the hatch in the ceiling and Nobul took a step towards it. There was a numbness running through his whole body — even the dog bites had stopped hurting. He was hungry and thirsty and he’d spent too long in a dark hole not moving a muscle. A voice inside told him he needed help from an apothecary, but there was work to be done first. It would be messy work. The kind most men would shy away from. The kind Nobul Jacks was born for.

Each step he took towards the light became more assured. Every inch he drew closer to the hatch he was filled more and more with a sense of purpose.

Time to forget the pain. Time to forget your aches.

You know what fucking time it is.

The stairs creaked a little under his weight. His hand gripped the chain still manacled to his right hand and he twisted it around his fist so it wouldn’t make a noise. Best not let anyone up there know he was coming for them. Might ruin the surprise.

At the top he could hear someone whistling. Nobul crept up and peered over the lip of the hatch. There, silhouetted in a doorway, was a naked man taking a piss out onto the dark street. Where his clothes were was a mystery, but he wouldn’t need them anyway. Not where he was going.

As Nobul pulled himself out of the cellar, he wondered if this man had watched him in that pit with the dogs. Wondered if he’d had a good old laugh. Cheered with the baying crowd or spat on him as he fought for his life. As he threw the chain over the man’s head and tightened it around his throat, Nobul realised he didn’t give a fuck either way.

Credit to the bloke — he gave a good old struggle for his life, but in Nobul’s grip he had no chance. At first the man clawed at the chain about his neck, his feet kicking out as he tried to get purchase, but Nobul only tightened his hold, lifting the man off the ground. Then he did that little dance hanged men do when they’re trying to run from the noose. When he could sense the end was near, he forgot about the chain and tried to reach Nobul’s face, clawing for an eye. It did him no good.

The man went slack. Nobul held him there a while, just to make sure he wasn’t faking it, and then lowered the naked corpse to the floor.

For a moment he stared out through the open door. It was dark, the chill of the night blowing in like the breath of winter. He could walk away now, take his freedom. There would be time for vengeance later. It was the sensible thing to do.

But when have you ever done the sensible thing?

Nobul closed the door. He turned the key that was still in the lock, then took it out and tossed it into the cellar.

Carefully Nobul opened an internal door. Wouldn’t want to spook anyone. Wouldn’t want to let the whole place know he was coming.

A wave of warm air hit him as he entered a tavern. A fire crackled in one corner, and there was a bar covered in empty tankards and bottles.

He walked across the room, past the slumbering bodies that lay all around. Someone stirred as he walked by but didn’t wake. When he reached the other side of the room, Nobul slid the deadbolts across the door, then picked up a chair and wedged it under the handle as tight as he could make it.

Wouldn’t want anyone running off before the revelry had ended, would he? And Nobul knew damn well how much this lot liked a bit of revelry.

Before he could decide where to start, Nobul’s eye fell on someone sleeping next to the bar. His head was leaning to one side, and he was breathing noisily.

As Nobul recognised him he felt his heart begin to beat faster. Shivers of excitement crept down the back of his neck.

He’d made this bastard a promise. Time to keep it.

In his right hand he twisted the chain tighter round his fist, while his left reached out for the bastard’s shirt. As he pulled him off the floor, Toothless opened his eyes, letting out a bark of protest. Nobul slammed him back against the bar and held him there, giving his eyes a chance to focus.

Toothless looked confused, angry, then scared as he looked into Nobul’s blooded face.

‘Wakey wakey,’ said Nobul.

Toothless opened his mouth to reply — to beg, or perhaps to snarl his defiance. Nobul smashed his chain-wrapped fist into Toothless’ open mouth. The man squealed as the side of his face erupted in a gout of blood, what rotten teeth he had left flying out of his head.

‘What did I tell you?’ Nobul growled, smashing his fist into Toothless’ face again before he could answer. ‘Can’t remember, fucker?’ Nobul hit him again and Toothless sagged against the bar. ‘I told you I was gonna kill you.’ He picked his victim up in one fist, bringing his face close. ‘And I always keep my promises.’

Nobul let Toothless sag, his head lolling back on the bar. The bastard brought up his hands weakly, pleading for mercy. Nobul brought his fist down, smashing Toothless’ head into the bar top. Again and again he pounded that head, pulping it, cracking it, breaking it. Each blow rang out across the tavern, and behind him Nobul could hear people waking to the sound of murder.

Good! Let them watch this. Let them see what was in store.

Long after Toothless had stopped moving, Nobul let the body slip to the floor. He should have been satisfied at that. Seeing this bastard dead should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

A woman screamed. There was a commotion, furniture scraping on the floor, someone running for the exit.

Let them run.

He turned to see a naked man coming at him, arm raised, a long black piece of iron in his hand. There was time to see the fear in the man’s bleary eyes before Nobul stepped forward with a crushing head butt. It stopped the man in his tracks, the metal falling from his hand. Another butt of the head and the man fell at his feet.

Nobul stooped to pick up the metal. It was a poker, still warm to the touch, and it felt good in his hand. He raised it, smashing the solid iron into the man’s head where he lay. A scream went up from a woman. Nobul turned and walked towards her. She carried on screaming, rooted to the spot.

Was she another witness to the dogfight? Did he fucking care?

He smashed the chained fist into her mouth and she fell back stunned. Another punch to the side of her head and he felt her skull crack.

People were running from him now, some cowering, desperate to hide. But there was nowhere to hide, not from him.

Nobul turned to the front door. Half-dressed figures were fumbling at the chair and the deadbolts he’d secured there, frantically trying to get it open. Nobul was across the tavern in a bound, raising the poker. A few nights before they’d been laughing and jeering and waiting for him to die. Now they were just a screaming mass of bodies, ripe for the kill.

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.

But he’d had his reckoning for that, hadn’t he? He’d done his killing till there was no more killing to be had. Though there was one more would die before long.

Friedrik.

Nobul would be sure to pay that cunt a visit soon. And it wouldn’t be as quick an end as he’d granted those poor bastards back in the tavern.

‘You’re alive, then?’

Nobul looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Her gaunt frame was barely visible in the shadow, and until she took a step into the room he didn’t recognise her.

‘Fernella? How did …?’

He stopped, and stared at the old woman he’d not seen since the day he laid his son Markus in the ground.

‘You got here last night. Scratching at my door like some little mouse. I barely recognised the Nobul of old. But looking at the state of your fists, I reckon that Nobul’s here after all.’

He looked down at his hands, thinking about the killing they’d done, and smiled.

‘Aye, I did some things last night. Things you don’t want to hear about.’

‘No, I reckon I don’t. But by the looks of it, some things have been done to you too. They deserve what they got?’

‘Does anyone get what they deserve?’

Fernella shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ She gestured to a chair that had fresh clothes piled up on it. ‘Get dressed. You can’t stay here. Got children downstairs, don’t want them seeing you in that state.’

Good old Fernella. Mouth as blunt as a hammer. Heart as big as a lion.

He dressed as quick as he could, though it was a bit of a struggle putting the shirt on. A bit tight around the chest too, but it would do.

Downstairs Fernella was pottering in her kitchen. She’d been right, there were half a dozen kids sitting at her kitchen table. Most of them looked up at him, fearful of what they saw, and just like she’d asked him he went straight for the door.

‘You want it back yet?’ she asked as his hand grasped the door handle.

‘What?’ Nobul replied.

‘The box you give me. You want it?’

He shook his head, the haunting shadow of last night’s dream playing on his memory. ‘Not right now.’

Fernella laid a hand on his arm. ‘Suit yourself, lad. I’ll keep it until you’re ready.’

‘Don’t rightly know if I’ll ever-’

‘No. Don’t say that. The man you were. The man who came back last night. Soon enough this city’s gonna need him. You understand me? He could do some good.’

Nobul looked at her wrinkled face and those eyes that had seen so much.

‘Aye, maybe,’ he said.

He opened the door and walked out into the street.