The sound of the horn tearing through the night sky grew, no longer a single blast but a cacophony of several, answering each other like the howls of a starving wolf pack. Oldred's initially steady and calm pace had now become a hurried dash, a tempo he rarely employed. In her dark cell, Nu'al tried to listen for the footsteps of her accidental savior, but the sound was now lost, swallowed by the thunder of dozens of boots hitting the earth and the wild, bloodthirsty cheers of the cultists. The entire village had become an angry beehive.
Nu'al: "Th-this is bad…"
Nu'al whispered in a panic, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it ached. But in the midst of the terror, a realization dawned. The chaos above was a curtain. The noise was the score for her freedom. This was the only chance she would get. With hands that trembled violently, Nu'al inserted the iron key into the rusty lock and turned.
*CLICK!*
The sound of the mechanism disengaging was louder than thunder in her ears. Nu'al then shoved the heavy cell door open in a rush, ignoring the rumbling footsteps that echoed from above as if the ceiling itself would collapse.
*KLANK!*
The door swung open. Without hesitation, Nu'al climbed the slick stone steps. She pushed the wooden door at the top with extreme slowness, just enough to create a small crack. Her wary eye peeked out. She saw several cult members run past, carrying blazing torches, old rifles, and gleaming machetes. Their faces were hidden behind grotesque animal masks, but their eyes glinted with a wild fanaticism. They disappeared from her view in a hurry, heading in the direction of the loudest commotion.
Nu'al waited for a few seconds that felt like an eternity before finally slipping out. Moving like a rat, she ran with cautious steps into a quiet alley, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the notice of the cultists whose entire attention was now focused on Oldred.
***
Meanwhile, Oldred, rushing through a narrow, empty alley, suddenly sensed movement. From a dark path to his left, three rusted steel tines shot toward his head. A pitchfork.
Oldred dodged with a reflexive motion, his head tilting to the side. But the fork still scraped against his mask with a deafening **SKRRREEEKKK!**, striking sparks in the darkness. Before his attacker could retract the weapon, Oldred stomped his boot down on the wooden handle, pinning it to the ground with the sound of cracking wood. Without a pause, he drew the cleaver from beneath his coat. A low, brutal swing slammed into the cultist's leg. The shin bone snapped with a sickening **KRAK!**
The cultist screamed in agony, but his cry was cut short as Oldred yanked his still-embedded cleaver, dragging his opponent forward and throwing him off balance. It was then that Oldred drew his heavy meat hammer. The second swing was a dull explosion of flesh and bone as the mallet smashed into the side of his opponent's animal mask. The figure's head twisted at an impossible angle, facing completely backward. Fresh blood immediately began to pour from the snout of the mask before he collapsed to the ground.
Oldred stood for a moment over the corpse, his breathing calm. He lifted his gaze. At both ends of the alley, shadows had detached themselves from the darkness. He was surrounded, from the front and the back. Dozens of eyes glinted from behind animal masks, reflecting the torchlight they carried. His escape route was sealed.