Oak stumbled into the light. A circlet made of pain sat upon his brow, encasing his head with cruel wire. Everything was too loud and too bright. Disoriented and out of balance, he leaned against a doorframe to steady himself, head drooping so low his jaw touched his chest.

Red, red, and more red. Blood covered his hands up to the elbows and his blades dripped with gore. Oak blinked, surprised and not sure why.

Geezer poked his thigh with his snout and whined. Oak replied with a tired laugh and centered himself.

The blood stains and baptizes in equal measure. I feel hollow, but I am hallowed indeed.

Like a wet dog, Oak shook himself. He felt like he had forgotten something. Like there was a thought on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't place it in the right context. A leaf landed in a river and the current carried it downstream. The thought drifted away from him, vanishing behind a bend.

Whatever. Status.

Infernal engine

Current status:

Souls: 123 Fuel: 15

Something didn't add up. Shouldn't it be one hundred and twenty-two Souls and fourteen Fuel? Well, no matter. Oak wouldn't say no to an extra soul.

After all, every drop of rain, no matter how small, contributes to the flood.

Dragging his feet, Oak walked down the corridor, back towards the stairs. Geezer followed like a shadow, fur as black as night, swallowing the meager light of the oil lamps. Sleep called to Oak with its siren song, but the work could not wait. There was still plenty of blood to spill and souls to reap; Endrit Carcani and his retinue waited for Oak's blades on the third floor.

Zef leaned against the wall of the corridor at the halfway point, staring at the ceiling. There was a pool of vomit next to the veteran and a huge purple bump protruded out of his forehead. By the looks of it, he had run into a wall and the wall had won. Oak nodded at the man as he and Geezer passed him, but Zef waved him off, too preoccupied with feeling unwell to engage in conversation.

A large group of Ferhati warriors crowded around the stairs to the third floor. Every man looked more ferocious than the last, teeth bared and puffing their chests, but none dared to be the first to climb over the corpses blocking the stairs to get at the enemy.

It's all bark, no bite with these fools.

Geezer growled, and the crowd parted. Men shoved each other to get out of the way faster. Oak shook himself again to clear the last cobwebs from his mind and rolled his shoulders. He didn't have to say anything. Silence fell as the men stared up at him with wide eyes.

"I am going up. Follow me or don't. But stay out of my way."

First things first, Oak needed to make some room. Slipping and sliding down the stairs because your boot caught on a corpse's sword-belt wasn't something you wanted to do in front of an audience. He sheathed his cleaver and grabbed hold of a corpse lying at the foot of the stairs.

There was a bolt sticking out of the dead man's eye.

With one arm, Oak flung the corpse aside and stepped on the stairs, grabbing hold of another unfortunate pile of dead meat. This one had a bolt sticking out of his eye as well. And so did the third corpse. Someone had a theme going. He could respect the effort involved.

Sadly, the fun was over. Oak could have sat around and waited for the Ferhati warriors to discover their courage and storm the third floor, but he had no interest in letting the battle drag on any longer for a very simple reason.

In Oak's experience, the longer a stalemate of this sort lasted, the likelier it became for someone to do something unimaginably stupid. Idiots were crafty. They could create disasters you had not envisioned even in your wildest dreams. And since he didn't want to be in the vicinity when the stupidity inevitably boiled over, it was better to get this battle over and done with.

Cleaver and short sword held at the ready, Oak crept up the stairs and peeked onto the third floor. A hard-looking woman in her forties with a crooked nose sat behind a table, aiming a crossbow at his face. There were two loaded crossbows on the table in easy reach and a girl of around fifteen summers stood behind the back of the woman's chair, holding a quiver full of bolts.

Oak ducked back into cover, and a bolt flew over his head. Thanks to his enhanced reflexes, the bolt hit the wall behind him with a muted thud, instead of nailing him between the eyes. But it was a close thing.

Right. Maybe some diplomacy is in order. That woman is a devil with a crossbow.

"How is it going up there? Seems like you've lost a step, lady," Oak hollered.

"Nah. You are just faster than those other sons of bitches," a creaking female voice replied. "And we are doing fine, thanks for asking!"

"My name is Oak. What do folks call you?"

"Flaka or shipmistress, if they are out to lick my arse."

A shuffling sound reached Oak's ears. The girl was surely loading the bow Flaka had shot at him with a moment ago.

"You know, if we were in the Northlands, this night might earn you a name, assuming you lived through it."

"Already have one, and I don't need another."

Geezer sneaked past Oak and settled in to wait, muscles tense and ready in case he needed to pounce up the stairs. The hellhound locked gazes with him, looking calmer than he had any right to be. It wasn't long ago that Geezer would have pissed himself at the thought of a fight.

Oak felt like a proud father. His little coward had grown a spine.

"Fair enough. Can't be too hasty with names," Oak replied. He would have named the woman Notch. Or Bolt. He couldn't quite decide which sounded better. "That your kid up there with you?"

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Yep," Flaka replied, voice dripping with resignation.

"You seem like a smart lady." Oak shrugged at Geezer's questioning look. It never hurts to pay someone a compliment. Especially when that person is an armed woman. "The way this is going, neither of you will see dawn. At some point, these Ferhati boys are going to stop standing around with their dicks in their hands and storm up these stairs. That will not end well for you, and you know it."

"I sense a 'but' here, pale man," Flaka said, voice oozing cool detachment, but Oak could tell she was interested. Her speech felt rushed, like the words could not get out of her mouth fast enough.

"I doubt you had anything to do with the death of those babies. Frankly, you seem too competent to be involved. If you lay down your weapons, I will see to it that you and your daughter are not harmed."

There was a pause as Flaka considered Oak's offer.

"Did Endrit really kill those babies? Is that truly what this is all about?" Flaka asked.

"He ordered the killing, I guarantee it. Yan and Mirela did the deed."

"Well, shit."

Another pause followed. Flaka and her daughter whispered to each other in the local tongue.

"Would you be willing to swear by the Choir you follow that we will not be harmed?" Flaka asked.

"Will a demon suffice?"

"I guess it will." Flaka sighed. "Not like we have a lot of options."

"Then in the name of the Demon of Wrath, Ashmedai, I promise that if you lay down your weapons and surrender to me, you will not be harmed."

"All right. How do you want to do this?"

Oak thought for a bit. "Unload all three crossbows at the wall behind me and walk over here. I will take you downstairs. Don't be alarmed, I have a big dog with me. He is called Geezer and he won't bite unless I tell him to."

Flaka did as Oak asked and shot three bolts at the wall in quick succession. Then she and her daughter walked over to the stairs and Oak stood up to meet them in all his bloody glory. Flaka's daughter flinched in fear at the sight of an enormous black hound and a pale giant covered in gore, but the woman herself just lifted an eyebrow at Oak.

"Was it really necessary to bathe in the blood of my relatives, Northman?" Flaka asked and looked him up and down like he was a muddy dog asking to get inside from the rain.

"It's a battle woman. Shit happens." Oak shrugged. "Where is Endrit?"

Flaka froze in place, gaze jumping between him and Geezer.

"Out with it."

"Feels different, helping you directly compared to just getting out of the way to save my own skin. He is still my uncle, you know." Flaka's shoulders slumped while her daughter breathed a sigh of relief. No love lost between Endrit and the girl, it seemed. "After he and Halit exchanged words, Endrit locked himself in his quarters with his younger brother. First door on the right, can't miss it."

"Really? The big man hid away like a rat, leaving you women out here by your lonesome?"

"Nah. I couldn't stand the thought of hiding, so I came to fight out of my own volition."

"Shit, Flaka." Oak whistled. "You are a hard woman and I don't say that lightly."

"The hardest."

Oak and Geezer climbed up the remaining few steps to the third floor and Oak herded Flaka and her daughter to the stairs. He didn't think Flaka would do anything stupid, but it wasn't wise to leave an enemy at your back.

Hmm. Might be best if I told those antsy Ferhati warriors on the second floor to expect us.

"Now, listen up you maggots!" Oak roared. "I am coming down with two prisoners. If you touch even a hair on their heads, I will gut you like a fish!"

***

Oak kicked the door down and charged through the doorway, holding a table as a shield. Geezer followed at his heels.

"You fuckers! Incest ridden mongrels!" a male voice shouted and a crossbow bolt struck the center of the table. Oak thought it sounded like Endrit. A glass bottle followed the bolt, but it ended its journey harmlessly against his improvised shield.

Its purpose served, he chucked the table at Endrit, pulled out his blades and rushed the patriarch's little brother. Geezer could look after Endrit for now. Little brother was not so little, though age had bent the man's back. Unlike Endrit, the brother was fat like a sow and tall to boot, making Oak wonder how it was possible the two men were even related in the first place.

"Oh, fu–" the table smashed into Endrit, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Don't come any closer! I mean it!" Little brother held a sword in a shaking grip and pointed it at Oak, jowls trembling.

"Wolves and lambs can never be of one mind." Oak slashed the sword from the little brother's grip with a cut to his wrist and buried his cleaver between the man's eyes. He wrenched his weapon free and the fat man toppled backwards onto a sofa.

The frame snapped in half under the corpse's weight.

Whistling, Oak walked past a lovely set of dainty chairs and a small dresser engraved with images of ships at sea. There was a small home shrine on top of the dresser dedicated to Mammon. The statue of the Demon of Wealth, Trade and Greed looked lifeless. A crack had formed in the sculpture's bare chest and the coins at the Demon's feet had lost their shine.

I doubt Mammon is happy with Endrit. From what I know, the Demon does not covet failure.

He kicked the table lying on top of the Carcani patriarch, eliciting a groan from the man. Geezer stood next to Endrit, staring the patriarch down with his gleaming eyes.

"What are you waiting for, pale savage?" Endrit asked, thick eyebrows furrowed in rage. His crossbow lay behind him, bolts scattered all over the floor. "Get on with it."

"You played your hand poorly, old man. Most of your clan is dead."

"Do I look like I care?" Endrit spat at Oak, spiteful to the very end.

Oak said nothing. He knelt next to Endrit, lifted his cleaver and brought it down on the man's wispy hair. The top half of Endrit's skull clattered to the floor, spilling brains all over the expensive-looking carpet. Not satisfied quite yet, he hacked the rest of the Carcani patriarch's head to pieces with brutal chops, sending skull fragments, teeth, and gore flying everywhere.

+ 2 Souls

+ 4 Fuel

Breathing hard, Oak stood up and stared at his handiwork.

A Ferhati warrior whose name he had not cared to learn entered Endrit's private quarters, took one look at the state of the corpse, and sighed. "Halit wanted his head. How are we supposed to bring it to him now, huh?"

Oak gave the conundrum the consideration it deserved. "Bring me a bucket," he said. "A bucket and a shovel."

***

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Halit asked, staring at the contents of the bucket with a disgusted look on his face.

"You wanted his head," Oak shrugged. "Now you have it."

Oak left Halit to tend to the bucket and walked away to the stone fence surrounding the Carcani compound. Muttered curses lashed his back, but he paid Halit's whining no mind. He was too tired to care.

Men still stumbled out of the Carcani manor and the surrounding dwellings in ones and twos, dragging the wounded with them. The Carcanis had not gone quietly into the night. Zef and another fellow emerged from the manor, carrying a man's corpse between them, faces stricken with grief.

Oak squinted. The corpse looked an awful lot like Behar. A terrible feeling spiked in Oak's gut and a faint shadow of a memory rose from the depths of his mind. He remembered how the cleaver had felt in his hand. The impact. How Behar had fallen at his feet.

No. By the Hells. I killed that boy, didn't I?

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