NIGHTINGALE: THE BLACKHEART MURMURS

The blade glistening with acid slips beneath the guard of the thug, sliding deeply into his chest. The thug releases a whispered gasp of pain as the blade cleaves through his heart. His eyes roll back and his body collapses lifelessly to the ground.

Short controlled breaths burst from Nightingale’s mouth as he turns, the gang lay scattered around the alley, pools of blood already starting to congeal on dark stone floor. Only two gang members are still standing, blocking the exit from the alley as they steel themselves to attack The Blackheart.

Taking a deep breath Nightingale rolls his neck, trying to relax the taught muscles in his shoulders. His blade hangs limply down beside him. Raising his left hand he beckons the last two men, daring them to attack with just a curl of his fingers. He smiles to himself as he watches the two thugs bristle, spurring each other on, they let out screams of abuse before launching their attacks. Nightingale erupts into action the moment they fall for his trap, launching himself forward like a black clad missile, his blade trailing slightly behind and to his right. With a deft flick of his wrist the blade launches forward sending a stream of acid into the face of the thug on his left, then darting to his right Nightingale steps in to deal with the other bruiser. Much to Nightingale’s surprise the other cut-throat was far faster than he expected, lashing out with a vicious dagger as he closes in. Nightingale pulls his own lunge up short, pivoting on the blood slick floor and redirecting the attack using his forearms. He grabs the wrist of the thug as it slides past him and twisting it brutally so the elbow points to the sky. Too close for the blade, Nightingale brings the metal of the basket hilt that curls from his fist crashing down onto the exposed elbow, shattering the bones. At the same time driving the heel of his shoe into the thugs kneecap, he grunts in satisfaction as he feels the bone and tendon tear and dislocate. The cut-throat drops screaming to the ground, clutching his ruined limbs. One quick sharp kick later and the thugs moans are silenced.

Turning back to find his final opponent, Nightingale is shocked to see his splash of acid was more accurate then he expected. The ruffian kneeling on the floor, clawing at his acid ruined face, the skin still bubbling as it burns. His melting eyes drip from their sockets as the acid digs deeper.

Grunting Nightingale lashes out to end the bandit’s suffering quickly. Turning his back on the corpse he walks back towards the end of the alley. There, away from the death, is a pile of boxes and rubbish stacked haphazardly against the wall.

“It’s safe to come out,” he says. Normally the voice of The Blackheart is horribly distorted to put fear into the hearts of his victims, but now he speaks softly with his natural voice.

Crawling from under the rubbish are two young elves, underneath the smears of grime it is obvious they are a young brother and sister. The younger boy yelps at the sight of all the bodies and clings against his sister, pressing his face into her dirt incrusted clothes.

“It’s ok, don’t look. The bad men won’t bother you now.” Taking a handful of gold coins from one of the bodies he presses them into the young girl’s hand. “Take these for you and your brother. Show no one but use them wisely, stay safe. Now go.”

The gold coins vanish from Nightingale’s hand, hidden somewhere amongst the girls rags she nods her thanks, then clutching her brother tightly to her, hiding his eyes from the scene. She delicately picks their path through the gore.

Nightingale waits cloaked in the shadows of the alley until he knows the children have left and are safely on their way, smiling to himself under the mask. He then turns his back to the bodies and glares at the wall. Cursing inwardly, he begins to make his slow climb back to the roof tops, hauling himself up slowly, his body protesting with fatigue at each brick that he grasps. Just over halfway up the crooked walls of the building Nightingale allows himself a breather. Rolling onto a ledge, he stretches out laying against the cool bricks. Bathed in the darkness, he looks up at the night sky, the stars twinkling above him, sighing happily. It’s the simple pleasures in life. Voices echoing down the alley way pull him from his quiet reflection

“I’m telling you William, all the evidence points to the fact The Blackheart will be hunting the Reapers. All we need to do is search their turf, their usual haunts, and we will have a chance to find them… or at least what’s left of the Reapers.”

Rolling in the ledge to bury himself deeper into the shadows, from his vintage point he watches the two men with deeper interest and regard. The first man, the one who spoke, is a large man, his coat stretches across his body, a curling handle bar Mustache sits proudly on his face, and his slick black hair is pushed back. Even from this distance Nightingale can see the balance in the way he moves, this is a man used to fighting and with no fear on the streets.

Beside him runs a gnome, Small even for their kind, a shock of orange hair sprouts wildly from his head as he daintily darts between the refuse in the alley. Almost dancing from clean patch to clean patch trying his hardest to not let any of the rubbish touch him.

“Yes Sir, I’m sure your right,” replies the halfling.

Not breaking his stride, the big man says “I told you so many fucking times… The name is not Sir, its Sam.. or at least Samual. One day you will get it right, Williams.” There is a small smile playing around his lips as he speaks with no malice in his words.

“Yes, of course Sir,” the small halfling replies, running through a routine that has played out for years. “But… do you think the evidence this time could be wrong? We have already been through seven alleys… perhaps just this time…”

The big man, who Nightingale now knows is named Sam, points down the corridor of brick work. “Look William! Theres blood splashes up the wall. And I could be wrong, but is that a foot sticking out behind that rubbish?”

William nods, “I concede, you are correct, Sir. I believe there are more than one pair of feet over there Sir,” pointing to multiple locations where bodies lie broken and bloody.

Moving quickly and nimble for a man his size, Sam weaves his way through the bodies and rubbish, making sure not to disturb the crime scene. Stopping he reaches down and checks one of the first bodies he comes to. “Hmm. Still warm… this is fresh. See how the blood hasn’t dried, it’s still wet. Can’t have happened more than ten minutes ago.”

Sam’s lips move, talking to himself as he walks the scene, pointing to things and miming out imaginary attacks. Nightingale hidden in the shadows watches with bemusement, entertained by the ridiculous nature of the show beneath him. Finally Sam stops moving and nods to himself

“Ok, I’ve got it. This wasn’t planned, it wasn’t carried out with the precision of his planned attacks. I think this was an act of necessity. See how all the action was kept away from this pile of rubbish? I reckon he was protecting some one or something. From the size of the space left in the refuse, I’d say either one small adult, or perhaps… two young children.”

Bemusement is replaced with shock as Sam recounts the exact reasoning behind he attack. Nightingale had been stalking the gang in an attempt to find there hide-out when they attacked two young children in the alley. He couldn’t work out if it was just fun for the gang or there was more to it, but he wouldn’t stand by and watch them murder two young innocents.

“Ok, ready for a show?” Sam asks William with a playful wink, drawing a scroll from the inside pocket of his duster.

Grinning broadly William replies, “Always, Sir.”

Nightingale listens from above as Sam begins reading from the scroll, the words seem very familiar, but it isn’t till almost the end of the spell he realises the big man is casting major image into the crime scene. His brow furrowing in confusion, why cast major image when there is no one to fool? What a pointless waste.

Ghostly images begin to slowly appear, the shadows of the two children run down the street, reenacting the events of earlier. More images fill the alley as the gang members double file in, menacing the two children. One of the children throws a bottle from the rubbish striking the leader in the face. Nightingale watches in amazement as the ghost bottle soars through the air, tumbling to the floor and rolling to stop exactly where its real counterpart lies.

So that’s what started the attack. He muses.

The gang close in, and at their leader’s behest begin assaulting the children, their obvious intent is murder.

Suddenly The Blackheart appears. Unlike all the others this is an instant appearance, no running down the alley. Its obviously Sam knows where he first stepped into the fight but not how he got there. Maybe so caught up in the rumours of his “demonic origin,” believing the stories of him just appearing from the night. Instead of just thinking of the reality of it and that Nightingale had just dropped in from the very ledge he now lies upon watching the shadow show.

His shadow self distracts the gang, releasing their would-be victims to focus on the new threat. The Blackheart signals the children to run behind him and hide in the rubbish and then the fight begins.

The dance of violence and gore that fills the alley shocks Nightingale, not because of the horror of what he did, but because it is the perfect recreation of the fight. His shadow self-twists and turns, striking foes and leaving only death in his wake. He watches in awe until the final body falls and The Blackheart turns to the rubbish telling the children to go free.

“That was very interesting Sir. So, the villainous Blackheart put himself at risk to protect two children?” Asks William, watching as the image of Blackheart freezes talking to the two young ones.

“It would seem that way. He was effective taking the gang down, so I’m surprised that he missed one and let him get away.”

Nightingale is pulled from his state of shocked awe on hearing this, blinking in disbelief. Missed one? Where?

“Did he sir?”

“Yes just towards the back, just over there, you see?”

The scene rewinds itself, moving backwards through the fight until the exact spot Sam is pointing to is filled with the outline of a ghostly figure. “See while Blackheart was dealing with these first two thugs. That one there, he is slowly moving back behind the gang while the others are moving forward and then BAM, the second he is behind his fellows he runs. But where would he be going? Is he just that much of a coward, or is there more to this?” Sam stands there quizzically stroking his mustache as he tries to work out this puzzle, “Maybe he was afraid? Scared out of his life of crime. Or perhaps he didn’t like what they were doing to the children or maybe he was just going for…”

“For help.” William interrupts his partners musing, taping him on the shoulder to point back down the alley where they enter. Now filling the once empty space was a group of ruffians, all wearing the same colours as those lying on the floor. And snarling at the front of it all a man who fits the shadow outline so perfectly.

“Well shit, I didn’t have that down on today’s harrow reading... Don’t suppose you lot are here for a nice chat and to clean up the alley?” Sam teasingly asks the growing mob, who respond by drawing their weapons and making obscene comments about pig fucking.

“I thought not. Well partner, ready to clean up our streets?” Flinging back his duster Sam reveals a matching pair of hand cannons slung low at either hip, with an almost eagerness the weapons seem to jump into his hands ready to unleash death upon those who deserve it.

“I thought you’d never ask, Sir. Lethal or not, Sir?” William asks with a mighty smile on his lips.

“I would say we should be gentle with our fellow citizens. Leave them able to talk, even if they aren’t able to walk... or are eating through a straw for the rest of their lives.”

“Of course, Sir.” William retrieves his own weapons, two wicked looking blades that crackle with electricity.

With that the alley erupts into chaos, the gang spurred on by numbers begin to charge, Sam’s smile becomes huge and feral. The nice approachable grin is gone, replaced by the drawn fangs of a predator, sensing their prey is near. His hand cannons belch fire and lead, raining down justice upon the approaching toughs. Bullets rip through shoulders and shatter kneecaps, sending people spinning and tumbling into those around them.

With everyone’s focus on Sam and his loud vicious hand cannons, people seem to have forgotten William. His path would almost be lost to the naked eye if wasn’t for the arch of lightening and the slashes of blood caused by his blades. Darting between the press of bodies his blades lashing out, severing tendons and dropping thugs screaming to the floor.

Nightingale’s brows furrow. He’s seen hand cannons in action and knows their weakness is the time needed to reload, normally meaning they could get one or two good shots in before having to stop and be covered. But Sam seems to be able to constantly stream bullets without stopping. Perplexed Nightingale watches trying to see what trick the big man has.

Even with the ferocity of the counter attack, the sheer weight of numbers is slowly pushing them back. One hoodlum breaks from the pack charging at Sam, a club made of a broken chair leg and nails raised above his head ready to strike. Sam grin grows even broader, he intercepts the incoming club wit the barrel of his left hand cannon, guiding it harmlessly passed his body, at the same time seamlessly punching the right hand cannon forward, slamming the barrel into the mouth of the thug, shattering his teeth and jamming the barrel deep into the back of his throat, looking over his attackers shoulder, he takes aim and pulls the trigger. The back of the mans head explodes, showering those closing in with blood and bone, one unlucky man spins on the spot and tumbles bonelessly to the floor as the led ball smashes through his eye socket.

“Too many to play nice, William. Lethal force approved.” Sam yells above the growing maelstrom, falling back another two steps as he opens fire again.

“Thank you Sir, duly noted.” Something switches in William then, his blades still move with the same precision as before, but now where the blows were slowed in a need not to kill, the attacks come faster, becoming a wall of glittering steal. Each lashing strike causing a deadly laceration. Two overconfident cut-throats move forward trying to flank their smaller opponent. Not waiting for them William kicks a bottle towards one of the thug’s faces, causing them to flinch for just a second. But that’s all he needed. Lunging towards the other attacker, his blades lash out with inhuman speeds. The first cut severs the Achilles tendon, dropping the thug to one knee. As he drops William’s second attack rakes up the inside of the thigh, cutting the femoral artery a crimson eruption bursts from the wound. Stepping to the outside of his victim, placing him between William and the recovering cut-throat. The next blow slides through the criminal’s flank, destroying his liver and bending him forward, placing his head perfectly in place for the final blow to slit his throat. The body begins to tumble forward, but William is in constant motion. He steps onto the dying man’s back and launches himself into the face of the second attacker. Four feet of fury flies through the air, driving his daggers into the thug’s shoulders, using them for leverage. William rears up, ripping the daggers out and driving them both down into the thug’s face over and over, riding the twitching body to the floor. He rolls away striking the legs of those he passes.

Nightingale’s attention is torn from studying Sam by movement behind the two detectives, as three more gang members sneak around behind, slowly and stealthily making their way down the alley to their blind sides.

There is no way they will hear them over the din of the battle. Nightingale has a choice, drop into battle and save these two detectives who are obviously hunting for The Blackheart, or leave them to their fate.

Groaning to himself he knows there is no real choice here. Pulling the mask back up to cover his face, he climbs to his feet and begins moving along the ledge until he lurks in the shadows above the three would be assassins, blade extended from his fist- its edge steaming softly as the acid bubbles along the metal. Maybe if he is quick, he could kill these three before the main fight finishes.

Steeling himself, he leaps. Falling like a blackened comet his blade strikes true, ramming deeply through the nearest attacker, driving him to the floor. Much to Nightingale’s surprise the assassins recover their wits quickly, not waiting to see what attacked them. Leaping forward their weapons swinging with deadly force. Nightingale barely dances back, withdrawing his blade, sending it back inside his body and across to erupt from his left hand just in time to stop the blow whistling to his head. His right hand now free, he clenches it, trying something new he had been working on. He mutates his scorching ray spell, smothering the fire instead with acid, two bolts of steaming bubbling acid streak from his first as he unleashes it into the chest of his nearest attacker. Nightingale continues pushing forward, his fist pressed into the weakened flesh of the mans chest, he keeps pushing until the melting flesh gives way, his hand erupts from the back of assassin and then Nightingale releases the final bolt into the face of the horrified thug standing gob smacked.

Removing his arms from the corpse he lets it tumble to the floor. Its then the silence of the alley really begins to sink in. Slowly Nightingale turns to see Sam standing, one arm extended towards him, ending in the barrel of one of the hand cannons.

“You, Blackheart, are under arrest. You will come with us to undergo questioning about your actions and the death of one of our colleagues.”

Nightingale’s arm lashes out, extending as the blade lances past Sam, mere inches from his face. It slams into the gang member standing behind Sam, a knife in his hand ready to drive it into the detectives back.

“Sorry Sir, I missed that one.” Williams says almost sheepishly.

“So I see.” Sam turns his head to look over his shoulder and make sure there are no other surprises waiting for him. “Thank you. But that doesn’t change the fact that yo..”

Nightingale taking advantage of the distraction lets out one final spell. Darkness flows from him covering the alley, the last thing he sees is the look of shock and anger on Sam’s face before the darkness swallows them all.

“Fuck. No. Grab him! Don’t let him get away.” Sam yells in frustration, launching into the darkness grabbing at the spot he’s sure Nightingale/The Blackheart was standing. He stumbles over one of the many bodies littering the street.

Nightingale darts in the darkness to the wall. Extending his arms he begins to rapidly haul himself up the stone work to the safety of the roofs, all the while cursing inwardly how close and stupid that was. He moves as quickly as he can across the roofs of Korvosa, and in the distance the voice of Sam cursing can be heard echoing into the night. Unsure if he has just made an enemy for life, or perhaps found two people who may actually be able to understand him. Nightingale feels the next time they meet things may go a little differently, but he hopes he will have the time to speak to them first. To speak to them on his terms, not hauled into the police station, not where he could be revealed and put the others in danger.

These thoughts plague him on his journey back through the darkened streets, changing his clothes back into those of Nightingale and not the disguise of the black heart. He rejoins the main streets, losing himself amongst those traveling the nights. Dawn breaks, the bustle of the city comes to life, and he finally arrives back at Zelara’s. He walks in a square around the building first to make sure he isn’t being followed, then satisfied, sneaks in through the back door and into the kitchen area, feeling relief to have made it back safely and unnoticed.

“Hello Mister Nightingale, late night?”

Nightingale almost leaps from his skin as the voice of Taylan fills the once quiet space, turning he finds Taylan sitting off the side a plate of pastries half eaten in front of him.

“Ahh Yes.. I was just visiting some old colleagues to try and get some information. Why are you here Taylan, I thought you’d be with your wife.”

Taylan grins happily at the thought of his wife “Well Miss Calli pointed out that for safety we probably shouldn’t be with people we love right now any longer than neccisary, so Alice will be safer with the other girls than with me. So I’m here, and with the green dragon around we did all agree we should keep watches. This one is mine.” Picking through the pastries he selects one, eyes wide with joy he begins to munch on the sweet treat.

“Ahh yes, that does make sense. Well I’ll get to bed and relieve you in a few hours.” Nightingale turns to leave the room, breathing a sigh of relief it was Taylan and not Calli that found him. That would have led to far more awkward series of questions.

“Good idea.” Taylan says between mouthfuls of pastry. “Just one question. Why is there blood on your shoes?”