Larosa was cold as ice for the next few days.
Twice they needed to stop, as she'd not last more than an hour before exhaustion set in. There was a fever farther west within the Burning Lands, one which she was weary of long before their arrival at Allgrad.
"I prayed the field doctors would heed my warning and make use of all the herbs and elfweed brew I stored," she said, shivering beneath her cloak. "Although, knowing Isaac Pyr, he's liable to have sabotaged it just to spite me."
There was a name which made his head fume.
Nothing, not even Quarrath offering him a rematch at the crack of dawn, would stop him grom squeezing the life out of the Pyr brat. Al saw the frustration on his face and eased him with a gentle shoulder rub.
Yet he didn't sleep all night.
At first light, red still staining the fog, though not as deep as the rejuvenator's valley, they pressed onward. Arrow shafts stuck out the ground, hundreds, maybe thousands by the time noon arrived.
Larosa was still cold, but she was too awe struck by the battlefield to let the fever bother her.
Carrion crows nibbled on tight black flesh. Bone scattered in one place, blood puddles the other, and some corpses were so fresh they still twitched. Not a horn nor a trumpet yet, though Dany was alert, as if they'd stumble across a battle any moment.
"It's quiet out here," she explained, greatsword drawn. "Thousands upon thousands of them, they won't know their close until they see the white of their eyes. Whoever catches who first, and some can slaughter hundreds before the other side can even get a chance to react."
"What kind of madness is this?" Al asked, nocking an ironite arrow on her bowstring, strung of the same metal. "Why are they fighting?"
Larosa shook her head. "No one really knows. At one point it was over what used to be the most sacred kingdom in all the land. Centuries later and…it's just a cock measuring contest."
He snorted, though didn't say the real reason.
Fighting and killing brought out a different side of a man.
Though he knew little enough about his previous life, he knew he was a fighter. A soldier, and all soldiers, regardless of age, who found lust in combat couldn't turn away from it. Nothing came close such excitement, save for a warm pair of tits beside a fire.
Al looked at him, and he knew she was reading him like a book.
If it were battle-lust which consumed men, what would a blood lust do to a man? Perhaps Nathan was beyond saving, but he'd intervene as a servant of the death god to find out if it were true.
Iron clang. Steel grazed, sparks flying a hundred paces or so ahead.
Shouts and curses, howls and laughs, there was something ahead, though no telling how large.
Fire razed in the sky, though both sides were too close, too clustered to break off.
"Dragon! Dragon!" Some frightened knight shouted.
Larosa stayed back with Al, the latter pulling arrows from her quiver.
With Al, he rode into the burning battle, though there were no dragons.
Opposite gold mailed soldiers, fireborne soldiers cheered, the 'Blood Phoenix'. Wayfork's army, at least thrice the size of Fat Carl's tiny brigade, retreated. Many soldiers dropped their swords, knights included, as Paracles scorched the field.
A swing of the blood feather mercenary's scimitar engulfed dozens of soldiers at once.
Paracles himself, not so quick as he remembered, dashed through smoke. He opened throats with lightning-like speed, waved whirlwinds of fire, and drove his blazing scimitar through steel like butter.
Volley's rained from the enemy, and the Phoenix Blade either dodged or cut up any arrows within arm's reach.
He stayed his flail as Dany lowered her greatsword.
Nothing was to come of their interfering, save a slaughter worth no more than killing innocents.
A heave dark-steel greataxe split a gold plated knight from collar to waist. Gravous cursed, ripping the axe free, then started killing soldiers begging for mercy.
Dany cursed, kicking her horses' heels, but he rode in front of her.
"Are you seeing this?" She hissed. "We can'-."
"Trust me," he said, listening to Gravous howl like a rapid dog.
Al and Larosa approached.
Furious as Dany was, Al raised her bow, then lowered it upon Houser Pyr's signature trumpet call.
Fat Carl himself was atop a steel skirted warhorse, or rather, what used to be Fat Carl.
The king looked cold, though not as Larosa had been sick for the past few days. Bitter, tight eyes, still a red face from drowning himself in ale and wine, he was a weary looking majesty. In a black steel suit of armor, lobstered grieves, the fire sigil with three swords on the breastplate, and a black longsword strapped to his waist, he was a warrior.
Dare he say Carl was much more impressive than Isaac, though he'd not seen the turd yet.
There was no sign of Isaac, and as Carl marched his lines around the flames, his majesty caught sight of them.
In total disbelief, Carl's mouth hung open. His majesty pointed to them, and led a host of a dozen white knights their way.
Gravous, ripping his axe out a bloody split skull, growled.
Paracles was leading the march, spreading flames to either side the army of fire, which seemed to have an advantage in the cursed battle-scarred lands. The fiery blood sword made a glance their way, but didn't join Carl.
Carl was silent.
White knights unsheathed their swords, pointing them with shaking hands at the party. Some knew Dany more than himself, as he'd yet to recover his full strength or height.
Yet Carl knew it was him, scratching his stubby black beard. "Bastard."
"Fat cunt," he spat.
An odd silence, and they shared a small laugh.
"Where the fuck's your brother," he blurted out, uninterested in being in Carl's company for long. "We've unfinished business."
Again, Carl was silent.
One of his knights, a young man with short black hair answered, "That's none of your concern, soulless wretch! His lordsh-."
"Mind your fucking tongue!" Carl snapped, unsheathing his longsword. "That's the man who slew a an angel of death, show some fuckin' respect!"
"Forgive me, your majesty," the knight stuttered, bowing.
Carl faced him again. "He's not my brother. Any luck and he's rotting in the blackest pit of hell by the next fortnight."
Larosa came forward, her jaw tightened.
"Did you really kill him your majesty?" She asked, a voice cold as the air.
Carl examined her, a gloomy look on his face.
"He's been condemned until the end of his days," Carl said, looking away from her. "Last I was informed, he rots away in the Withering Towers, awaiting yet another trial. My apologies, young master."
She wanted to say more, he knew it.
Yet Larosa held her tongue, and backed away, cursing beneath her breath. Al comforted her, while he and Dany asked about any whereabouts of Nathan.
That sparked an eye on every knight, and even Carl shuddered.
"We don't speak of him," Carl whispered. "Truth be told…"
His majesty waved his escorts off.
Sir Royce, the mouthy little lad, was adamant to stay by his majesty. He put a hand on his flail hilt, and the boy scurried off with the others, regrouping with the fireborne army.
Gravous stayed, eyeing them like a meal.
"…I've not seen the boy, poor soul," Carl said, running a hand through his receding hair. "His father passed, not long after the first vampyres appeared within the main lands. Natural causes, probably the illness, but it seems nothing's gone right for the boy, or anyone since then."
Though he nor Dany said a word, Gravous kept a stern eye on them.
"A vampyre," Carl went on, shaking his head. "Not in a hundred years or so has anyone been bitten. I can't imagine what he must've gone through to suffer such a fate."
Carl offered them a place in his host, though they refused.
He wanted to ask what the Withering Towers were, and Dany must've read his mind as she tugged his arm, giving him a sharp look.
"I'd make use of your strength, but," Carl said, looking at Gravous, then the fiery fields, "I've spent the last bit of coin on these swords. One more season, maybe two, and I'll need to explore more lost tombs."
"Spare yourself," he growled.
Gravous's axe hand tightened.
Carl looked sad, and he couldn't believe how he almost pitied the man.
As if somehow, the weight of the world, all the kingdom's misfortune had at last fell onto his majesty's shoulders. Carl for once in his miserable life accepted it, and appeared as a warrior forever doomed to death and bloodshed.
"I…if you find the lad again, lest we encounter him ourselves, tell him I-."
"Thanks your majesty, I'm sure your merry fucking sorry'll make him whole again," he muttered.
"Easy boy," Gravous snarled, raising his axe. "Long as his majesty's paying me in coin and whores, you'll watch your soulless cockgrinned mouth."
He dismounted, and Dany guided everyone else back. Al kept a hand on Larosa, who stiffened, looking at Gravous.
Carl was concerned, but didn't stop him from facing the cunt Phoenix Blade.
"Only cocksucker with seed on his breath is you," he said, making balling his hands into fists. "I don't even need a sharp stick to run you dry like a bitch."
Gravous smiled, spinning his axe with one hand.
It was a cute trick.
"You touch that lass?" He asked, pointing at Larosa.
Gravous snickered, "Aye, I did! What of it? Was the Lord Isaac who offered her up, not my fault he was a treacherous warmonger and a traitor."
Al cursed, as did Dany, who wouldn't hold her blade for much longer.
He looked at Carl. "You hearing this shit?"
Before Carl could answer, he punched Gravous off his feet.
The brute bastard didn't even see him coming, a slow buffoon with more muscle than skill. Just as Leon drilled he and Al in the mountain village, swift like water, and strike like a serpent.
He knew serpents well, and gave Gravous dozens of strikes. No venom, but quick bashes to the nose, jaw, and eyes. When he was finished, the Phoenix worm was bloodied and bruising from ear to ear.
He picked up Gravous' axe and snapped it in two.
"You've got until I return to the Burning Lands to be go-."
Trumpets sounded.
Carl spun his horse, cursing while riding off. "Come! Ya' bloodied one of my two good swords, I'll need your ironite!"
The trumpets kept sounding, over and over.
Fireborne soldiers formed walls, and Paracles took up a mount joining them.
Fog grew dense, thick red as dark blood.
In all directions shadows loomed, eyes beamed, and chants of old elvish echoed. Larosa's cross-star shined, as did another light faint within the fog.
Three wyverns, their wails cries of light thunder and fire crackle, soared above the clouds.
Flail in hand, he kicked over Gravous, and faced the nearest wave of rejuvenators. The ground shook, gusts swept the smokey fields, blowing ash into the air.
Unlike most fights he'd been in, this one reminded him of Eldreth's halls the most.
Of all three wyverns, dead flesh hanging from nostril to tail, one had a rider. Long silver-black hair, black mithril mail, the three-pointed star of Cerebus on the center, and a red glowing longsword, the rider was his brother, cursed by the First Sword.
It was Nathan.