Svorbald crept through the rubble of the old town by the light of the cloudless moon. It wasn’t much light. In fact, it was almost impossible to tell the difference between shadow and stone and he’d fallen more than once. Maybe he should have come to the old town during the day to get a feel of the place first. Too late now, mind. He’d crossed the river some time ago and turned left at the wilted oak, just like the tavern boy had told him.

The old church should have been right here. It wasn’t. There was rubble, which every so often became lean-tos and makeshift housing. The sounds and the smells coming from those dwellings were enough to keep Svorbald away. Where the buildings hadn’t fallen down they stood tall and crooked, leaning over the narrow streets like gossipy neighbours. Svorbald had found the sensation of travelling between them very uncomfortable.

If what the tavern boy had said was true, Svorbald should have reached the old church some time ago. Instead, he’d been stumbling around in the dark for what seemed like the entirety of the night. Idiot boy had got the directions wrong!

“Right at the oak my arse,” grumbled Svorbald. Or had he said left? Where in Tenatun’s halls was he? He continued walking, without direction, following whichever path looked the most traversable. The old town, he decided, was unnecessarily big. Lanes lead nowhere, or worse, they lead to more lanes. He skirted rubble, pushed through overgrown shrubbery, and felt more than one old stone slab give way beneath his feet. This went on for some time before he felt a tingle on his back that made him think he was being watched. He stopped and squinted into the dark. The night was cool and silent, the only sound that of his own breath drifting lazily into the air. And yet, he could not shake the feeling of unease. He spun, and called out, and when no answer came he resorted to threats.

To his left the sound of scraping pricked at his ears and he lurched towards it. More movement came from his right, and then behind him. With a curse, he realised they were all around him. “I’m looking for—” shit. What was the thief’s name? “A thief!” he finished.

The night sky chuckled at him, a half dozen throaty laughs coming from the darkness. “There might be one or two of those around here.”

More laughter.

“Not any thief — I want the bastard that stole my torc!”

A figure appeared from the black, tall and balding and very, very familiar. “Ah, you must mean this one?” He twirled something around his finger. Something whose shine reflected in the moonlight.

Svorbald stepped forward, a growl in his throat.

“Easy, my good man. I am sure this can be reconciled amicably. First, as you can see, I am not carrying any weapons. How about you throw yours to the ground so we can meet as equals?”

Svorbald scowled. “I don’t have any weapons.”

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A grin split the thief’s face. “That’s what I’d hoped.” He gave a quick wave of his left hand and somebody jumped at Svorbald. He swung to meet the newcomer, throwing a fist that connected satisfyingly. Before he could celebrate his victory, something hard and heavy struck him in the back of his head. He turned towards this new threat. Grabbing the end of a heavy club, Svorbald pulled the wielder towards him and cannoned a headbutt into the man’s nose. There was a sickening crack and the man collapsed to the floor. More heavy objects struck him all over. Svorbald barely noticed them, his huge fists swung wildly at anything that dared move in the dim light. Shouts and cries filled the air. Something fell over his head and the world went dark. Strong hands wrapped around his throat. He yanked at them, feeling the grip fall away and whoever the hands belonged to crash to the floor.

“Fasten the damn bag!” Somebody yelled. Svorbald swung towards the sound and threw a punch that met only empty air. He turned and turned, scrambling at the sack on his head. He stopped only when something cold touched his throat.

“Now, now,” said the man who had stolen his torc. “This is a very sharp blade and this part of the city is full of all sorts of fun places to stuff a dead body. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to place your hands behind your back, my friends would like to tie you up.”

Svorbald thought about it for a second, and then charged forward. There was a satisfying thud as his shoulder connected with torc thief. The two fell to the ground. Svorbald, still blind, felt for the man’s throat. His fingers wrapped around it like a vice.

An enormous light erupted behind his eyes. Then another. More and more blows rained down until Svorbald felt the strength leech from his muscles. He flopped to the floor. Even the voices around him seemed distant and echoey. Someone grabbed his hands. Svorbald tried to struggle, but a heavy knee in his back and another on his head kept him locked in place. Within seconds his hands were expertly tied, while another rope fastened the bag around his neck.

“Pasht’s Balls!” Somebody shouted. “He floored seven of us. And Ewan’s nose is definitely broken.”

“Aye, he can fight,” the torc thief agreed. “Could be we can find a use for a man like this.”

Svorbald was dragged to his feet, where a sharp prod in the back told him to walk. He stumbled twice, was laughed at twice, and refused to go forward anymore.

“No need to be so stroppy,” the leader said. “Our hideout is right there.”

Svrobald took a few dozen more steps when the bag was torn from his head. He blinked. He was in a cold, damp, brick tunnel lit by flickering torches.

Huh, Svorvbald thought to himself as the gang lead him through the tunnel. He had been close to their lair after all. He owed that tavern boy who’d supplied the directions a drink. Which is something he would probably definitely remember to do when he escaped from this mess.

They lead him further down a winding tunnel. An old wooden door opened into a large cavernous room, loosely decorated and lit by the same flickering torches. It was cold, wet, damp and full of people.

“Who’s this, Tarvin?” somebody shouted.

“Sport!” Train shouted back.

“Doesn’t look like much,” the other replied.

“You should see him fight! Reckon we could earn some decent coin off this one—” a boot cannoned into Svorbald’s back, sending him stumbling forward. He turned, teeth bared, arms struggling at the ropes that bound him. Fists rained down, eventually dropping him to his knees. “—if we can get him housetrained, that is!” Tarvin finished.

Laughter echoed around the cavern, before Svorbald was dragged from it. Another door opened to reveal a squat and squalid room. Svorbald barely had time to register it as a cell before he was shoved inside.

The door closed behind him, and with it went the dim torchlight.