by Mike Morris
Professional soldiers were different. They calmed down when battle started. Their senses heightened, their awareness expanded, time slowed to a crawl. That was what made them so good, so dangerous. It was work. Calculated. Unemotional. And the Black Dogs were the best. They stood in a circle with enough room to swing their weapons without posing any danger to their companions, but close enough that they covered each other's backs and blind spots. They waited for the enemy to reach them, breathing steady, their state of mind almost tranquil as they set to work.
The first man to reach Nial swung a meat hook down. Nial brought his sword up and in, sweeping between the redcloak's legs, slicing into the groin, up into the stomach. As the man fell, Nial thrust his sword forward, the point piercing another redcloak through heart and lung. There wasn't much that could stop a Black Dog's sword in motion, four feet of steel, honed to a fine edge. As a student in the monastery, they had practiced on the carcasses of pigs, hacking into them and cutting them, learning the best ways to carve through a man. The work here was not much different.
Behind Nial was Robert the Hammer. As brutish as he was lovable, he grinned behind that bushy black beard of his while his hammer did its bloody work. Breaking bones, shattering skulls, dropping men.
Alan was poetry in motion, sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Alan punch his dagger into a man's mouth, then thrust his sword through another's neck. Alan lived for the battle, lived for killing. He may have been a man of God, but Death loved him.
The corpses around them continued to grow but still the crowd came on, those at the back pushing forward, oblivious to the fates of those in front.
Someone lunged at Edward, tripped and fell down, avoiding the priest's blade, but Edward reversed his sword and plunged it through the man's head.
Jack swept his blade from right to left. The blade sliced through his opponent's torso, exited in a spray of blood and continued through into the man next to him. The sword caught on a rib, sticking until Jack kicked the man off the blade, letting him fall to the ground.
"Watch your feet, lads," warned Nial. "Don't slip up on blood and guts."
Robert brought his hammer down on another silver mask, crushing his skull. "Go home, you fools," he called out to no one in particular. "I've got better things to do than kill you all." Still, his hammer did its work.
Ten minutes passed before all were dead. Ten minutes to kill thirty men. The Black Dogs stood over their corpses, eyes wide and weapons ready in case there were more of the bastards waiting to try their luck.
"Bloody hell," said Robert. "Where did these madmen come from?"
"No idea. I thought we had come to deal with two traitors, not fight an army of them." Jack gulped some air, stretched some stiffness from his arm.
"Edward, look under some of the masks, see if you recognize them," said Nial. "Get the innkeeper to have a look too. We need to know where they came from. Jack, you and Erik get our men."
Jack didn't need to ask who Nial meant. The Black Dogs didn't leave anyone behind if they could help it. He walked over to the fallen priests. Adrian still had a quiet look of surprise on his face, as though something unexpected had happened in a dream. Will was the opposite. Being shot in such close quarters was never pretty. Two more to chalk up to the endless war. Two more good men gone to stand with their brothers in heaven. Two more names to add to the list of the fallen in His glory.
Jack and Erik carried the bodies of their comrades over to their cart, placing them gently into it. Erik covered them with their cloaks. "Go in peace, brothers. It was my privilege to serve with you. May God honor you for your sacrifice. You made the world a better and safer place." He drew the circle of God in the air with his right hand and kissed the circle that hung around his neck.
Jack couldn't help but wonder how many more would fall before the war was over. How long before he was covered in a shroud of his own cloak?
He looked around the town square, at the corpses on the ground and at the locals cowering in their doorways. The Black Dogs had won, and yet it felt like they'd lost. He rubbed his face, shaking the darkness from the edges of his mind. A good meal and some sleep would put him in a better frame of mind.
Jack glanced over at Nial and, for an instant, he could see the years bearing down on the big man. Nial caught him looking and switched his game face back on. He'd never let his men see anything bothered him. He set the example. "Any luck?" Nial called out to Edward.
"No one the boys or I recognize. A few of the townsfolk reckon they might've seen one or two in passing, but none of them live here." Edward scratched his head. "Dirty business, Nial."
Nial looked around the town square. "I don't like this. These men were organized. Recruited. Someone's doing the Nostros' work for them here. On our land. In our country. It's bad enough we must prepare for an invasion, but to have our enemy turn our own people against us?" He shook his head.
"Who's behind it?" asked Edward.
Nial looked at his friend, rain running down his face. "I don't know, but we need to find out before it's too late."
The knot in Jack's gut tightened. More trouble was coming.
2
Shelly
It was late. Far later than Shelly was used to. Past her bedtime for sure. She wished she was there now, tucked up, all nice and warm. Instead, she was on her way to the baker's with snow falling around her ears and a nasty wind nipping at her ankles.
She'd no idea why she'd offered to pick up the bread. Even her own mother had said it could wait till morning, but no; Shelly had to prove she wasn't a little girl who was scared of the dark anymore.
It was her brother's fault. He was such a tease. Why had he sung that song as she was about to leave home? She couldn't get the words out of her head now. The tune niggled away at the back of her mind all the way to the baker's.
"Watch out, watch out, there's a Nostros about. Don't hide, run fast, they think you're meat. Whatever you do, be quick on your feet. No one's safe when there's a Nostros about."
It was a song she knew well. From the moment they were old enough, every kid learned the words of warning by heart. Every kid knew about the demons who lived over the ocean, eating humans. Abios may be the last country still free from the demons but that didn't mean much. Even Shelly knew the Angel Sea that separated the conquered lands of the Middle Kingdoms from Abios wasn't that big. The Nostros could come at any moment. That's why everyone knew to be careful — to keep their eyes open and not wander around after dark. Only fools went out at night — or silly little girls like Shelly.
Getting to the baker's wasn't too bad. She knew the way well enough. She'd lived in Brixteth all her life, after all. It might've been the poor end of Arbour, the capital of Abios, and the posh ones who lived over the river might think everyone in Brixteth was a crook and a scrounger, but Shelly knew better. People from Brixteth looked after each other. They might pick your pockets while they did it, but that wasn't the point. It felt like one big family to Shelly.
The sun was long gone and what street lamps there were barely made any impact on the dark, narrow streets, but plenty of people were going about their business still. Enough familiar faces to say hello to, but Shelly kept moving. She darted this way and that between everyone, moving fast, not giving herself time to get cold — or scared.
She got to the baker's just before he closed up for the night. "You're out late, Shelly," said Roger as he handed over his last loaf of the day. Roger was old, much older than her dad, with a round belly and rosy cheeks, but he always had a smile for Shelly and occasionally some cake too. "Couldn't wait for a fresh loaf in the morning?"
"My dad likes some bread with his dinner," said Shelly, standing as straight as she could while tucking the warm bread under her arm. She hated it when the old ones treated her like a child. Her parents were the worst offenders. Even with a younger brother, they still acted as if she was a baby. "Besides, it's not late." She stared at the
baker, daring him to say otherwise.
Roger chuckled, annoying Shelly some more. "If you say so, but run home quick and don't hang about. The weather's getting nasty out there."
The baker wasn't wrong. When Shelly stepped out of the shop, the snow was much heavier. It'd be knee-deep by morning. Hugging the warm bread against her chest, Shelly watched the tiny white flakes drifting down between the buildings, mesmerized by the way they danced in the wind. Little dots against the black sky, like falling stars, appearing out of nowhere, coating the streets white for a second or two.
It was only when Shelly looked up and down the street that she realized how empty it was. The snow and the cold and the dark had driven everyone indoors. She could still hear the murmur of voices, but it came from behind closed doors and shut windows and gave no comfort. It only emphasized the fact she was alone. She glanced left and right but only the shadows lingered in the bad weather. A knot of dread grew in her stomach. And that blasted song played in her head.
She adjusted the scarf around her face and neck and set off home. At least the bread was warm. She cradled it under her arm, trying to protect it as much as she could against the cold. If she was quick, she could be home in five minutes, eating it with her family in front of the fire.
The snow, however, had other ideas. Shelly managed three steps before she slipped on some ice and went down hard. She dropped the bread as she threw out her arms to break her fall. It did little good and she went sprawling, banging her knee, jarring her arm and knocking the wind out of her lungs. Embarrassment burned her cheeks as she tried to catch her breath. She was glad no one saw her tumble.
"Need a hand?"
The voice startled her. A giant shadow of a man bundled up against the cold loomed over her. He offered a gloved hand which Shelly took. Back on her feet, she brushed herself down while the man fetched her bread.
"Thank you. Most kind," she said, trying to sound grown up as she took back the loaf. She began to smile, but a closer look at the man stopped her. Something about him wasn't right. It wasn't just his size or his good clothes or the fact he had appeared out of nowhere in an empty street. There was a glint in his eyes that was just wrong. She took a step back and again looked up and down the street, hoping for anyone else to be out and about, a friendly face to call out to. Of course, there was no one.
The man must've sensed her uncertainty. He stepped closer. Too close. "Have you got far to go? It's evil weather. Especially for a girl your age." The heavy scarf muffled his words, making him hard to understand and his accent difficult to place. The one thing she knew was that he wasn't a local. So what was he doing in Brixteth?
"No. Not far." Shelly thought it best to say no more than that. Everyone knew not to speak to strangers. If they weren't from Brixteth, they were trouble, as her mother used to say. She looked down at the bread, aware of the man watching her. The snow had taken the heat out of the loaf but she hoped it wasn't ruined. She tucked it back under her arm and dropped her head once more. "I'd best be off."
The man blocked her way.
"Do you need me to walk you home? Make sure you get there safely?" he asked.
She stepped around him, keeping her eyes on the road in front. "I'm fine. Thank you very much." She walked as fast as she dared, watching her feet so she wouldn't slip again. The man's eyes felt heavy on her back. All she wanted to do was get home and get warm. Feel safe again. Get that horrible feeling out of her stomach.
Cowcross Lane was narrow. Two people could just about pass without bumping shoulders but there wasn't much more room than that. The orange glow of fires and candles leaked out through dirty windows but they offered Shelly little comfort as the cold nipped away at her cheeks. She nearly knocked on one of the doors so she could get out of the snow but thought better of it. She was nearly home, after all.
She started to quicken her pace but the ice underfoot soon reminded of the dangers of too much speed. "Watch out, watch out," she sang to herself. Suddenly, being twelve years of age didn't seem that old. Shelly shrank into herself with every step and the night got colder and darker. Her imagination turned every shadow into a monster and she twitched at every flutter of a curtain. She really was just a little girl out far too late who was very afraid of the dark.
Somewhere, someone laughed, a deep throaty roar of a laugh. It startled her, set her heart racing. She stood still as she searched for the source of the sound, her wide eyes scanning all around. It had come from everywhere and nowhere, before disappearing as if it never existed. As silence settled once again in the street, Shelly resumed her journey.
The only sounds she could hear were her lonely footsteps and her racing heart. It was only after she passed Butcher's Alley that she noticed another sound. At first, she thought it was just a trick of the night, but no — it was the sound of someone walking behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder but saw only an empty street. It was just her imagination playing tricks. Realizing she was holding her breath, Shelly exhaled and continued on her way. She would make her brother's life a misery when she got back. His silly song had made her jumpy.
The snow had settled over Ludgate Square but Shelly didn't care. Her home was a street away. The snow took some of the slickness away from the pavement so Shelly could pick up her pace. Thank goodness, too, because the cold had snuck in through her clothes, adding to her discomfort. Plus she'd no doubt the bread was ruined and she wasn't even going to have a decent loaf to show for all her trouble. It would be the last time her mother allowed her to go to the baker's, but at the moment, that was a good thing.
It was a relief to escape the confines of Cowcross and enter Ludgate. The knot in her stomach eased as Shelly skipped across the fresh snow, enjoying the crunch underneath her feet. She could see her home.
"You're not home yet."
The voice came from behind her. Shelly turned, slipping as she did so and, for the second time that evening, fell to the ground. And for the second time that evening, she found the stranger looming over her.
Shelly scuttled backward, ignoring the cold on her hands and the wet seeping into her clothes. "Where'd you come from?" she asked, failing to hide the quiver in her voice.
The man waved his arm vaguely in the direction of the baker's. "I followed you." Even though his face was still covered, Shelly was sure he was smiling.
"I told you I didn't need any help getting home."
The man laughed and took a couple of steps closer. Shelly noticed that, this time, he didn't offer to help her up.
"I just want to go home." The words squeaked out of Shelly's mouth, an answer to an unspoken threat.
The man pulled the scarf from his face, revealing alabaster skin, a cat's nose, pointed ears. The man's grin grew broader. "Watch out, watch out..."
3
Jack
Snow had fallen in the night over Arbour, but already it had turned black with dirt, soot and grime. Jack Frey smiled. The capital left its mark on everything and everyone. It didn't matter how pure you started off or how far you'd come, it found a way to get into you until you were one with it. Jack had been born in the city and it was ingrained in his soul. He loved the place and everyone it and, by God, he was glad to be back. For a short while, at least, he could pretend all was well in the world.
Despite the early hour and grey skies, the streets were already busy. The long winter nights left little time for people to go out and earn their money, so once the sun was up, no one wasted a moment. Stalls were set up along the pavements, shops opened and their stock laid out. You'd hardly think a war was imminent, judging by the way everyone behaved. Jack couldn't imagine why anyone felt the need to buy fine lace or spend an afternoon wandering around an art gallery when the threat of a demon attack loomed. But then, he'd always found the rich of Arbour to be baffling people. Somehow, no matter what else changed in the world, he felt that would always be the case.
Even so, as he headed toward the river, he felt happier than he had in a long while. It
was good to be home and not worrying about the Nostros. For a morning, at least.
He'd spent the last four months helping to prepare the country's defenses against the expected Nostros invasion and it was hard, thankless work. Most of the towns and villages the Knights of Saint Stephen visited were hardly welcoming, if not downright hostile. It was all but impossible to convince them that demons were on their way to kill or enslave them and that time, money and manpower had to be spent in order to stand a chance of stopping them.
Jack didn't blame them. He'd been just as incredulous when he was a boy, before he'd ever heard of the Knights — or the Black Dogs as they were more commonly known. He'd heard tales of the Nostros before he'd joined up, knew the song that all children were taught, but they were just stories and folklore, just another monster under the bed designed to make him and everyone else behave. Even when he'd been saved from the gallows and forced to join the Order, he hadn't believed in them — despite living amongst the Black Dogs twenty-four hours a day and being trained to be a holy warrior. He only changed his mind when he was taken into the crypt beneath the monastery at Whitehaven and shown the corpse of a Nostros and realized the threat was real. Of course, since then — since he'd taken his vows — he'd faced the Nostros in battle and nearly died as a result. He had scars that proved they were only too real.
His hand drifted to his neck, as it always did when he thought of what happened that night on the beach. You couldn't see the scar — the black leather dog collar the knights wore around their necks covered it — but Jack knew it was there. Ironically, if he'd been wearing the collar that night, it might've stopped the Nostros from ripping a chunk out of his neck. That was what it was designed for, after all — except Jack had found his uncomfortable and removed it like a fool. If it hadn't been for Lin, the escaped slave they'd found, Jack would've died. Luckily, she'd stemmed the bleeding until help had arrived. The demons had taken his brother Brendan, though, and for a good few months Jack had thought him dead too, until they'd found him in the cells during the raid on the Nostros castle — or what was left of him. The demons had tortured him and fed on him, leaving only a shell of the man he knew.