Before first light he parted ways with Isaac.
He didn't see off the runt piece of shit, though he farewelled a meditating Paracles with a nod. The feather sword nodded back, eyes closed, and he made his way what he believed to be south.
A few hundred paces away he stopped, making sure Gravous wasn't following. He prayed to the black gut gods the fucker would take a chance, there was something about that Phoenix Blade he hated.
The black gods didn't answer his prayer, but he'd see to Gravous's head being put on a spike next to Isaac's.
Warbands were at it early in the morning.
Some killed without a fight, others were in full blown battles. Drum shook the ground, horns wailed against the wailing of men, horses whimpered, dogs howled, and there were deeper roars as well.
"Forward!" A lord shouted, cracking a whip.
Riders howled, whistling the blood tune of their favorite pass time.
Axes and swords, shields raised against arrows, horses trampling faces, reeks of shit, guts, piss, and hot iron lasted until midday.
No matter how far he traveled there was a battle.
No matter how many times war greeted him in daylight, a foggy endless passage where souls were doomed to their final resting place, it made him smile. He was a battle master among men, a terror of the night, and he was only getting stronger.
"Fall back! Fall back!" A knight in dark steel armor shouted.
Less than a paces away, appearing from the fog in the late afternoon, he walked with his flail in hand.
It all hit him at once, the urge to take lives. From the massacre in the Graves, to Peter being gutted right before his eyes, Victoria's tears swift after, he needed to kill.
None were spared.
Battle fury coursed in his veins, though not like a furnace with hot coals. It was deliberate, cold as the woods. Lifeless chills striking his muscles, he swung his flail at whatever, whoever was before him. Beneath his boots he stomped skulls, popping open heads like bone filled melons.
A man, soaked in his own piss, pleaded for his life. He drove the bottom of his flail through the coward's face, spitting on the twitching corpse after.
'Spare no one. No one's ever spared you.'
Skull riders rode up behind him. He spun, greeting them with a lashing spiked sweep. Horses splattered in half, riders burst to red chunks, and he roared with steam. Kill them all, he told himself, a frigid voice.
"I am the Bane of the Graves! The Brute of War, and servant of the death god!"
INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING! He recalled, those fiery breaths of the dragon.
In one world he was the soldier who waited, hiding from fire raining above. In another world, he was the fire. He was death, and entire armies fled or trembled beneath him.
"Your gods failed you, for they brough you to me!" He shouted, stomping faces open more faces.
Thousands of men, armies of all different banners, some flame, gold sword crosses, black feathers, wild riders, horned helms, and heavy dark cloaks, fled.
Riders ran him down, dozens. Some were the skull bearing bastards, others were kingdom knights, and a handful were horned men, taller than the rest. He shattered lances like glass, swinging his flail wild. A bash of his shield pummeled several horses at once.
The skull savages howled, circling him as he slaughtered knights. Then a whirl of his flail severed the as well, an axman split in three pieces with wide eyes. it was slippery, guts and blood splattered around him, and he cursed upon getting a mouthful of dark intestines.
A knight limped towards him as he recovered.
Young lad, helmet off, a head with short black hair. He towered over the boy, who bore gold armor with the sigil of an eagle and crossed longswords. Sword up, the lad trembled while glaring at him, then tears welled.
He left the lad to wallow in blood and guts, making his way up hill.
At dusk his way into a valley. He'd have given his flail arm for just a sip of cold water, maybe an ale if the gods were generous.
It was too cold, and he knew it to be one of three hillsides marked on his map. Yet the blood soaking his armor made it into his pouches, and his map was a tougher read. He kept onwards through the night, stepping over corpses, weeping men, arrows, and dead horses.
It was silent for the most part the following day, save for a small campfire.
Captives, naked men and women, among a dozen or so riders with skulls painted on the back.
They waved torches, burning red fires, honoring their pagan gods, then turned on the captives. Many were whipped, walked like dogs, forced to hump one another, and one caught his eye. Her red-brown hair was uncommon, and as he got within arm's reach, a Skull Rider yelping upon sight of him, he stared into her hazel eyes.
Larosa said nothing, shivering with blood on her face down to her belly. Her left breast was swollen, and she may as well have been a ghost she was so white.
Weapons strapped to his back, he ripped up the rider beside her. Hands around the throat, he separated head from shoulders, spine dangling free as the rider's body twitched.
Other riders wailed, some scrambling upon their whining horses, retreating at once. Those who didn't he pulled apart, like tender meat fresh off a roast. With a rider's rib, he used as a bone sword, thrusting other riders through the chest. He pulled out throats, yanked innards free, and within a few minutes the camp was empty, save for the nine captives.
He put cloaks on them, gave them every drop of water he could, then stayed with them throughout the night.
"What happened?" He asked Larosa, who still shivered.
She said nothing, and he left her alone.
None said a word until midnight, a former squire to a knight known as Winwell.
"We were lost my lord," the lad stuttered, horns echoing within the woods. "We-."
Horns echoed again, though farther away, and every captive wept, tucked within their cloaks.
"When the battle was lost," the boy started again, "Father Willbress was nowhere to be seen. Sir Robyn tried leading us away, in spite of his injuries against you, and…we were separated. The riders ran us down, picking up any stragglers."
"What was she doing there?" He asked, looking at Larosa.
"I-I believe Carl demanded her away from the main camp, upon Lord Isaac's arrival. His lordship is rumored to have been forcing himself on her."
He removed his helmet and made his way to the edge of the camp.
Fingers locked within an old oak, he cursed, crushing bark and lumber as though it were brittle bone. Though he was no more than a few days march from the river, it wasn't in him to leave yet another set of souls to the mercy of the Burning Lands.
He was getting closer, closer than he'd ever been.
Perhaps one of them knew the way on their own? In fact, he had such a better idea.
"What do you know of Marryvia?" He asked the two captives still awake, one being the squire.
"The kingdom of the vampyrium," the squire answered. "One of the most pagan places in all Creahllachia."
"Aye," the other captive said, and elder man with long white hair. "Dense as this hell be, there's another hell far much worse."
He shook his head. "There's only one hell, from what I can see. You'll be well protected in Marryvia, away from the king's grasp."
The elder man grew a cautious look. "The lady is a master apprentice, on par with the Archive Master himself. House Pyr will pay top gold to slay whoever's responsible for her disappearance."
The squire agreed. "She's the reason so many lads have survived what would be mortal wounds. To lose her would take the lives of thousands."
"She's no good if she's dead," he argued, "something which'll happen sooner than later if she stays in Fat Carl's greasy palms."
Neither the elder nor squire disagreed, and though they were reluctant to leave the royal army behind, they knew not any direction leading back.
First light was cold, so cold none could move more than a few paces at a time.
Larosa found a few herbs and plucked roots from a better oak than most. After grinding them with rocks, she held them over a torch fire, then whispered into her palms. She touched every captive's chest, and they all awakened with a heightened sense.
She offered him a hand, though he refused, recommending she save it for those who need it.
Not a word from her. It didn't take a smart man to figure it, and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and march for Isaac Pyr. It wasn't enough for the Pyrs to send lads to their deaths; they needed to make suffering where none ought to dare.
'I'll make him suffer,' he promised to Larosa in thought.
A long walk separated them from the river, and as dusk settled, blood curls rang in the sky.