The world
stilled for a moment. Nom studied the swelling carnage that threatened to
engulf him, a swirling maelstrom of chaos and blood. The din of war felt far
away, muted. He felt the weight of his sword threatening to slip from his
grasp, the tip burying itself in the cold earth. Nom's breath slowed, and he
watched its smoky form dissipate into a sky grey as iron nails. White tufts of
snow floated down, catching a chilling breeze that swept over the lifeless sacks of meat that
were once living men. So many dead. Why was he here?
Across a sea
of muck, blood, and broken spears, he saw the shape of his brother swinging a
great iron hammer into someone's skull. It erupted in a red flash of gore – the
man didn't even have time to scream before his headless body slumped to the
ground. A chill wracked Nom's body, icier than the wintry wind. His brother
turned, started walking towards him. The hammer dragged behind him, its head
bouncing off the corpses littering the barren earth. Nom couldn't move. His
sword held him fast, its tip frozen into the muddy earth. His hand wouldn't
release it. The weight rooted him to the spot, and he could only watch
helplessly as his brother lurched ever closer. An ivory flash of skull glinted
from a deep, bloody fissure that split his helm.
His eyes
were gone.
“Nom...” the
apparition moaned, his mouth a black hole growing ever wider.
Nom couldn't
scream, couldn't breathe. The trapped sound strangled him.
“Brother,”
the word poured out of his brother's mouth with a trickle of blood, then a
deluge.
The face
drew ever closer, Nom's ears drumming. The sword wouldn't move. He looked down
and saw himself waist-deep in crimson mud. Every move felt too slow. His legs
strained and swam in the muck. The face drew ever closer. Its empty eyes
drowned the light.
Nom
struggled to keep his head above the rising tide of filth, his hand still fast
around the sword-hilt.
The face
right there. Silent.
Then a
scream.
The world
reasserted itself around Nom with a blinding flash, the echo of that dreamlike
wail still ringing in his ears. His bed, the familiar grain of wooden walls.
The world beyond his window too bright to see. His door hung open, with a man
he knew standing inside it.
He realized
the man was saying something. “-alright?”
Nom shook
his head and rasped, “Say again?”
“Is
everything alright, Master Nom?” The man's hand eased off his sword-hilt.
Nom looked
around, and swallowed spit. His throat felt raw, and he coughed mightily before
responding. “I’m fine,” he paused, turning to face his huscarl, “Thank you,
Finbar. I must have been dreaming.”
Finbar
looked uneasy as he strode to Nom's side. “Aye, you'd given me and Maven quite
the scare with all that screaming. Must've been a hell of a nightmare.”
Nom nodded,
but said nothing. He merely looked out his window, the sea waves slowly
focusing in his blurry vision.
Finbar stood
silent for a moment, then added, “Anyway, breakfast is ready. Need help gettin'
out of bed?”
Nom shook
his head and lowered his feet to the cold wooden floor. He stared at his
emaciated thighs, the liver spots trailing up and down his arms. His soft, fat
belly wrinkled with age. “I'll see you at breakfast, Finbar.”
Finbar
nodded and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
Nom couldn't
keep his hands from shaking. Only bits and pieces remained of the night's
dreaming. All he could remember was that face, the horrible visage of his dead
brother. Long dead. He looked out over the ocean again, hearing them crash and
reel against the cliffs below. Somewhere in the steady pulse of the tide was
the scream, a haunting from the inky black depths beneath the sea.
