A few hours of rest, and they returned to the trail.
Iron pikes stood on either side after an hour or so, and there were torches ablaze a hundred paces up ahead. Nathan read a nearby signpost, though it was of a language old beyond the first ages. It was a small village, but one with a blacksmith, as he knew hammers against iron when he heard it.
There was no more than a dozen or so huts, a small church with a star atop its tattered roof.
Hooded citizens avoided them, thin poor folk, almost bug-eyed by bony sockets. One man approached them, bald head, and dressed in black robes, a crooked smile, and a silver necklace cross sword hanging round the neck.
"Gentlemen! Welcome to the most well-kept secret in all Marryvia!"
"Where are we?" He asked.
The crone snickered, replying, "Tis a secret!"
He growled, and the crusty bastard laughed for a moment, wiping narrow beady eyes. Nathan, a firm hand on the hilt, watched the other citizens.
"You need a sense of humor to last the night in these parts," the crone said, holding out his hand. "I am known as The Brander, Brand for short, and ye who've made it thus far are most welcome."
Brand's hand was frail as he expected, but something stung. A sudden jolt within his palm, no longer than a blink, and Brand led them to a warm hut with ale and a boiling stew.
A hand over the fire, gold embers sparking, Brand whispered an incantation. Within the hut he felt a familiar sense of ease as he did in the inn, and knew the poor starved rotting village would be his new place of awakening should the worst happen.
"The spirts beyond here are much more isolated, no more than a handful very few miles or so," Brand explained, pouring them a bowl, "though it's the scouts you must be weary of, among other dark beasts as well."
He snorted, "Killed plenty of beasts. Not familiar with vampyres though."
Brand examined him, those shifty green eyes. "You've gotten an idea. Silver helps, especially those unable to take form in the flesh. However you'll be hard pressed to reach the palace without an ordained priest."
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Are you not one, old father?"
Brand laughed, "Of course not! Born and raised in these parts, I know ale, bloody screaming hordes, and cursed skies. The gods would have a dung scribbled toad over me as a man of the cloth."
By the unholy gods' luck there was no way to return to the mainlands, and he was reluctant to admit he needed to see Allison and her hooligans again.
"Is there no way to return to the kingdom?" Nathan asked.
Brand nodded slowly. "North, along the cliffs leading to the western fields. Then there'd be five, I believe six warring armies you'd have to sneak passed. It's as chaotic as these lands are black and cold, among the gargoyles who hunt within the night, you'd be lucky to last a day, even with your brutish lord here."
While Nathan cursed and muttered, he rubbed his forehead, then drank until he was numb. Brand left them alone, and he made his way to the town blacksmith, a man with a belly, but arms like tree trunks.
"Tough," the smith said, tapping his armor, "but you'll need somethin' anointed the closer ye' get to the Eldreth."
He held out a handful of coins, and the smith shook his head.
"No sense in chargin' a stranger who's made it this far. Had I enough silver I'd do it for ye' for free, but the mines were abandoned a long time ago. I'd doubt there's any left."
"Where?"
"Few miles south," the smith replied, shakily. "Scouts patrol it. Man of yer size may not even be enough."
He brought Nathan to the smith, waking the lad much as he hated to, and offered up the cross. It wouldn't be enough, not to weaken even a low-ranking scout.
So, he made for the mines after a full day's rest, leaving a protesting Nathan in the village.
"You wouldn't have made this far without me!" Nathan spat, hurrying to strap on his scabbard.
"I need to know what we're up against," he growled, grasping the lad's shoulder. "One, maybe two deaths, and then I'll bring you along."
"Ya' told me not to worry about dying," Nathan grunted, fighting his tightening grip.
"Aye, and I believe it was ye' who wanted to serve, so serve. Do as I say, lest ya' have faith in that toy round your neck to hold off blood starved demons."
A slight breeze made the lad shudder, as did he.
He released his shivering would-be squire, then stalked into the woods.
Death was but a process for him, a way to learn, adapt, and conquer his enemies. All enemies, whether a fallen angle, three headed dragon, or swamp shaman, he accomplished what none could hope to in a lifetime, and as far as he was concerned, he was the only soulless making use of it.
Yet in those woods, within a darker corner of the world, the air was odd.
As if time itself were frozen, all the sky black, even in the morning hours, crossing that old bridge may have sealed his fate.
'Concentrate. No sense in pondering fuckery', he rambled in thought.
There was a half-moon, gold with a red glow round its edges.
It reeked of coal, iron, and ash, and he approached a battered gate, crumbled on all sides surrounding a field of rocks. Upon passing through the gate he examined what few rocks there were and found nothing of value. At the ends of the field was a cavern, caved into a slope with a broken iron door hanging open.
Hisses turned him around.
Nothing, then he knocked his flail against his shield. Still, no answer, and he backed his way towards the cave as shadows loomed.
"Well, well," a woman snarled, darkness overtaking the moon. "Another poor soul, bound by death's blessing?"
She laughed, and his heart raced.
Shadows swarmed the field, and eyes like the moon appeared. Three pairs, sharp gazes, their scowls among the worst of any spirit he and Nathan encountered. Yet the shades detached from the darkness, and the vampires stepped into the fields, all bearing silk black cloaks with golden trims. Behind him growled a beast, within the cave, and he felt a breath like a furnace sweep the air.
"What will you do, dog?" The centermost vampire cackled, her tongue black as the sky, face long and pale.
Their eyes never stopped flaring.
They were at least three heads above any man, taller than himself, and they hovered across the ground. Don't let them surround you, he told himself with his shield high, though the beast's growl was growing. Chains rattled, echoing within the caves, and he turned to see nothing but smoke, violent snorts with every growl.
He'd either be ripped apart or gore by fangs.
He'd wake up in the village, then journey back to the mainlands with Nathan. They'd find Allison and her party, then he'd take the young priest for a price until the palace was conquered.
Steel hissed, striking his shield. He swung his flail, missing a vampire by an entire stride. They were faster than even the spirits, and he spun his flail, keeping himself square, waiting for just one hit.
An erupting roar shook his bones.
The beast stampeded out, steel shackles round its bull-like neck, a horn atop its snout and its teeth glimmered as a row of blades. One bite crushed his shield, and he was flung across the field.
He swung while standing up, but a blade severed throat. Then fangs plunged into his open wound. Blood suckled from him, the she vampire's fangs crushing bone, and he collapsed to his knees. It wasn't malice or hatred in her eyes, but something simple, a feral instinct among all animals.
She was hungry.
"Now you bleed," she whispered, the light in her eyes fading.
All his muscles depleted, his breath stifled, then he fell limp. The beast ravaged what was left of him, as its roars and gnashes were among the last thing he heard.
Darkness took him at last.
Nothingness wasn't as soothing as it'd been before, and he knew there would be no inn. No bright smile to welcome him for a morning bird, ale, bread, or even the chatter of adventurers and townsfolk.
A lantern, a sleeping Nathan, and a dark hut within a poor village.
"Welcome, weary traveler," Brand said, peeking his head into the hut.
"Dammit," he said, rubbing his forehead.
"I see you encountered a scout, the old lady nonetheless," Brand said, examining his neck. "Consider yourself lucky she'd not fed in so long, or that bite would've been much worse."
Brands cross shined, and he allowed the old would-be father to touch his neck. It burned, and he grunted, what felt to be hundreds of swamp bees stinging his throat at once.
Brand shook his head. "Good heavens. This'll be a bit tricky."
"What?" He asked.
"You've been cursed. Looks like Saraiza hasn't lost her old touch after all."