His mercenary army was destroyed by the treachery of the Mad King of the North. His men were fed to the front lines of a hopeless battle, and he was here only because no man on the field could cut him down. The Head escaped south then, to Brensa. Here was a harvest of desperate men he could take to begin to rebuild his mercenary company. It would be a hard climb back from destruction and he only wanted a night of relaxation and drink before the long days of recruitment began again.

And now a fool had just spilled his ale. He drew his war cleaver, smashing the face of the walking corpse with the heavy pommel as he freed the thick blade from its sheath.