The warm trickle of blood runs across the side of his nose then down across his lips and chin. His blood. They have him cornered, defeated. Three trained warriors, swords held towards him. They have him, backed into this corner, but they won’t advance yet. Not while he still holds any kind of advantage, however small. In this tight space, he can force them into a one-to-one.
But he has to leave, eventually. He staggers back on a wounded leg, sword held before them to ward off any quick slashes. The warriors stand firm, grips shifting on their blades, panting like braced wolves.
He swore he wouldn’t do this again.
One hand holding the sword out, the other reaching behind him. He lets the cloth bag fall to the floor and feels his fingers curl into the empty eye sockets. He brings the red mask to bear, letting the rope fastenings loop over his ears, changing his bloodied visage into a snarling demon.
He feels the blood run back across his chin, then lips, then the side of his nose. He feels the deep wound on his head knit itself back together. His sword begins to hum with hunger.
The three warriors lower their stances and prepare to strike. He has already struck.
Paddy Dobson
9th January 2021