For hours, well past sunset, he walked the war-torn woods.
Every so often he stumbled upon a pile or corpses or straggling soldiers.
He ignored the lads for the most part, though some raised spears toward him, and he swatted them dead. With little else to look forward to, and no choir singing cunt with a soft conscious to keep him from doing so, he'd kill anything so much as raising a finger at him.
Not wounded, for killing someone already down was bad taste.
What type of warrior would he be killing one unable to fight?
Al came to mind, but anyone surrendering was still able to swing a sword or thrust a spear, and he had no patience for cowards who lost their will mid-fight. There was a fine line he had, as he'd never been allowed to surrender.
It was win, or die, nothing in between.
Not his fault he was Soulless.
Horses galloped nearby, though no whooping or screaming riders atop them. They passed by, some giving him a sniff before trotting away. He didn't like horse meat, but his stomach wasn't in a negotiating mood, so he knocked a steed over the head with a spiked swing, then skinned it.
In the middle of gnawing on a mild tendered horse thigh, leaves crunched.
Light flickered, and he saw the glimmer of Elfstone robes, getting closer within the shadows.
"Plenty to go around," he muffled with a full mouth, pointing to half the horse left.
Victoria made a queasy look, then held her stomach to keep from vomiting.
Eris and Michael refused, both trying to hide their disgust, though Peter was happy to have their fill, offering up ale to wash it down. While he and the only Elfstone with a sound appetite fed, the others conjured up a plan.
"Getting Alrieon on the ground is borderline impossible," Michael said, eyeing a smoky rib. "Perhaps someone could be bait, but, no one can withstand dragon fire of such magnitude for more than one, maybe two breaths."
"I'd be more than willing," he offered, touching his flask. "Just get him down, and I'll do the rest."
Eris shook his head, giving in to having a slab of horse hide. "No offense friend, but I've seen better armor on fighting cocks."
Michael agreed, taking slow bites out of a rib. "You'd be in excruciating pain, and even then, you'd still be liable to just be incinerated."
"Been burned plenty," he said, and they grew a stern look.
Victoria mumbled, "Doesn't surprise me."
"Aye, well what the fuck else have you got?" He asked, raising his voice. "Either you adventuring questers, the best there's supposed to be, shoot the fucker down, or we keep waddling around here waiting for him to burn us alive."
Peter belched, then offered him the last of the ale, though he refused.
He was in a killing mood, at last with a full stomach.
"You're right," Michael said, stretching his bow arm. "However Alrieon's a master swordsman, one of the finest among all elves."
"Hardok'll be less inclined to stay in these skies," Peter said, clearing his throat. "Dragons, loyal as they may be, are still just animals."
"Did he look nervous to you?" Michael asked.
"He was pissed," Peter replied. "I've seen the same look in enough dogs, wolves, crocodiles, you name it."
"Very well," Michael said, drawing an arrow. "This is one of the most difficult fights we've had yet. Though I suppose we have Razelael's Bane with us, that has to count for something."
"Just take him down," he said, flicking scraps out his beard. "I'll take care of the rest."
The night was quiet.
Not even a war horn nor flurry of arrows.
By morning they were on the move, Michael haven marked another fire for them to awaken at should the worst happen. It wouldn't be necessary, as last time Alrieon caught them off guard.
They wandered the woods, Michael staying back as far as a hundred paces.
He rang swung his flail, knocked over trees, and shouted for any within the fog to face the Graves' Champion. Slayer of demons, vampyres, undead armies, and nemesis to the crown, spilling guts in the morning was the glory of his war god.
Horns blew, though of soldiers retreating, Wayfork's army, hundreds of men with a grown fear of the Brute of the Woods.
Familiar trumpets sounded, and he knew it was of the Fat Bastard's army. His fingers twitched on his flail, urging for him to seek out the greasy pig lard fuck.
"Soon," he told himself, promising at least one Pyr wouldn't leave the battlefield alive.
Smoke rose in all directions, fire grazing trees and fleeing armies.
He shouted, loud as he could, demanding Alrieon to make up for the boredom it was to kill his bitch and the wyvern rider.
"Cunts! All elves are! Your ears'd have more luck cutting something besides that butter knife you call a sword!"
Hardok's eyes beamed, less than a hundred meters above.
Fireballs waved down on him, surges of blazing gusts behind them. Hotter than even the blazes of the Graves, he was engulfed in what felt to be razing winds, burns crisping him down to his bones. He struggled to keep himself up, though bright arrows darting above kept him standing.
Still ablaze, he swung his flail forward, hoping he'd strike Hardok's jaws.
Alrieon cursed, off the beast, and he saw the High Lord with a light fading arrow in the shoulder.
Hardok soared up, arrows plunging into the beast's eye sockets.
Despite Alrieon's demands the colossal black dragon flew in circles, then took off even higher.
Flail overhead, he swung at the High Lord, at least three heads higher than him, who stepped aside with a bored look. One draw, a blade larger than himself yet so light it made no sound, cut his throat. He tried swinging again, but the High Lord decapitated him.
Before closing his eyes, he watched bright flashes, blood splattering the ground among all the Elfstones.