Leaves were on trees, though it was too dark to tell their color.
It had been almost a year since his time within the Graves, and he'd gotten better about navigating forsaken woods within darkness. Even midday, dark as midnight in any normal lands, he could lead Larosa and Turis without fear of losing them.
Two days since they left the river, a place he wished he could've brought so many more.
Peter, Eris, the captives, Father Willbress despite being a crone, and any others he let die. It wasn't all his doing, though as they pressed further south his urge to find Nathan grew.
Beneath a tree during a light drizzle, he asked Larosa what she knew of the kingsguard.
"I, don't know much for certain," she said, almost defensively. "They fight bravely, some more than others. I spend much of my time in the Archives."
"How many have died in the service of his majesty?"
She didn't reply, rubbing her eyes.
Turis answered, "One too many. Do ya' know someone among them?"
"Aye," he replied, a hand on his dented flail head, "many I couldn't stop from a massacre by the fat bastards doing. In the Graves, almost a year ago, all but a few were slaughtered by the armies of the undead. Razelael himself appeared, and I fought him so as to give what few were left a chance to survive."
"Gods," Turis said, making a sign of the cross.
Larosa was frozen stiff, and he decided drop the issue.
It was worrying enough for him, he didn't need her being wound up either, not as they crossed into woods so dark even moonlight offered little but a sliver.
Nostrils trickling, he drew Alrieon's sword upon smoke rising.
"Gods!" Turis gasped, a hand over the chest.
Larosa bowed her head, praying to the lords and whoever else she believed would come save them.
Bright as it was before, the spirits of the old wars shined. Their eyes were red, their fangs were long, and they hissed at the trio, himself in particular.
"What is your business now, lost soul?"
"Get the fuck out the way," he warned, Alrieon's blade glimmering.
"HHHHHHSSSSSSS! Where did you get that?"
He thrusted, splitting the ghost's skull nearest to him.
The rest dispersed, smoke soaring between the trees. It was still cold, and there were a few wisps of dread left in the air, though nothing more. He led a shaking Larosa and Turis onward, keeping Alrieon's blade up.
It wasn't as destructive as he would've liked, a weapon fit for a proper warrior instead of a master of warfare. Yet it was sharp, light as a feather, and not a single spirit dared raise within the air.
Upon reaching a hill there was a sudden surge of winds, and Turis tucked tighter within a cloak. Larosa gave the elder ointment before applying some for herself, and the two breathed easier as they ascended. At the top he looked down, at what may as well have been the bottomless pit to the far east of them.
"Mind your surroundings," he warned, lighting a torch with his free hand. "We're entering Marryvia."
"M'lord," Turis stuttered, "I know it may be too late to ask, but is there any chance we co-."
"Someone's out there!" Larosa whispered.
They were silent.
A minute or so later, and twigs snapped. He passed the torch to Turis, unslinging his shield, and led the way down with the razor mithril greatsword pointed out. Again twigs snapped, possibly branches, and he felt a gentle gust.
He dove over Turis and Larosa, a branch heaved overhead. It landed upon his shield, and he scrambled up to see a slight glint within the darkness.
Turis raised the torch, and there was a faint sight of armor, a man clad in heavy steel.
Almost at eye level, it was the closest he'd ever been, toe to toe with the Nemesis, who snorted steam from a cracked helm.
His flask was full, but one wild swing would be the end of either surviving captives.
Hammers out, the Nemesis banged them against one another. In a language he didn't know, but somehow understood, insults hurled his way.
"Maggot piece of shit! Why do you use a crowned princess' blade?"
He smiled. "Come closer and you'll find out."
As the Nemesis replied, he charged.
A thrust grazed the fucker's armor. Nothing penetrated, though the Nemesis stumbled. He thrusted again, repeating the same motion he saw Dany and Arthur do when using a spear. Thrust, after thrust drove his rival back.
Quick as one could blink, the Nemesis side stepped.
Hammers battered his shield. Barrages like thunder, hard as any drake claws swatted his way. He thrusted, the Nemesis shuffled aside, and hammers split his shield in two.
He parried one hammer, but the other slammed into his belly, sending him through a tree. While rolling himself up, he slung off his flail. One arm swung, the other kept the Ironite blade steady.
They paced one another, stepping in a circle, awaiting any movement.
Patience, he told himself. A feint forward, leading with sword, made the Nemesis cross hammers. Another feint, then he lashed his flail. Hammers crossed, the Nemesis took the brunt of the broken metal hunk, knocked off balance, leaning on one foot. He dashed forward, leading with his blade. A thrust toppled the Nemesis, then he followed with his flail.
Several barrages dented heavy black-steel armor. Though he slammed for the head, the Nemesis was still conscious. A break in the flail's bashing, and the bastard flipped up to stand.
He thrusted, hard as he could, for the face, but the Nemesis leaned away.
Armor thicker, movements like and elven High Lord, it seemed an impossible task, though he kept swinging. Keep him on his toes, he told himself.
Yet a swing of a hammer knocked his flail away. He led with swing for the throat, and both hammers crossed, locking his sword in place. They growled, pushing against one another. He was out classed, in weight and strength, and driven down the hill.
After pulling both hammers inward, dragging him close, the Nemesis shoved up, sending him through the air. A few dozen meters up, then he crashed into a pile of branches.
Larosa screamed.
He crawled to his feet, head ringing.
Almost fifty paces above, iron rang, and Turis shouted. The old man cursed, then hammers shattered bones. Larosa cried out again, and he ran uphill, everything spinning within the darkness.
Torchlight revealed the old man hung on one of the Nemesis hammers, by the belly with innards spilling out. After tossing Turis against a tree, the Nemesis turned on Larosa.
Fiery swigs doused his throat.
It all became a blur, save for the light flickering off the bastards armor, a rival he knew nothing of, yet saw too often.
Muscles swelled, hair standing, his breath hot like brimstone, and he closed in on the Nemesis. The latter turned, a hammer raised to Larosa. He knocked one free with a single blow. The Nemesis kicked him in his chest. He staggered back, then parried follow up blows.
Sparks flew, smoke rose from their jaws, they cursed one another, trees shattered at every missed swing. Steel hissed, white darts amongst the two of them swinging away at one another. He led with his bull horns, but the Nemesis grasped one, holding him off balance with one arm.
A hammer slammed him into the dirt. He snatched the Nemesis' ankles, driving up with a wide base. After taking him down, he sprawled up. Sword overhead, he thrusted into the Nemesis' left eye.
A long roar, razor teeth showing from a hot stinking mouth, the Nemesis cursed him again in the odd language.
He thrusted into the other eye, then thrusted into the throat.
Hammer still in hand, the Nemesis twitched, coughing up blood. He cut off the bastards head in clean sweep, then spat on the stiffening remains.
In tears, Larosa was on her knees.
The bitch. Why was she always crying?
He took one step, then turned away, dropping his sword. For a few hundred paces he stumbled away, tossing off his helm, and the heat of his flasks fiery reserves was unlike anything it was before.
Perhaps it was his time in the Burning Lands.
It mattered not.
The Nemesis was dead, yet again.
A costly endeavor.
Numbness eased his aching arms.
Though his head rang, nothing span, and he woke up to a small fire beneath a full moon.
Behind him was a tree, Alrieon's sword and the pieces of his shield laid against it.
Larosa tended to the fire, mixing herbs within a mud bowl.
"Your flail is still upon the hillside, my lord," she said, unable to look at him.
Even in several iron chunks, his shield would've been no easy task for a woman so small to carry. She was stronger than she looked, and he forced himself up despite sharp pain in his chest.
"M-my lord," she mewed, though he was already limping upwards.
Strung out, with two dull steel spikes left on it, his flail appeared as a dead metal spine.
He dragged it back down, cursing beneath his breath.
First order of business was with the smith, after he had a few rounds for Turis' sake. His armor was so battered he didn't believe it could stop a solid punch, much less a war hammer. Every time he breathed felt to be another blow to his lungs, so he held it in best he could.
"You need at least two days rest my lord," Larosa insisted, preparing another ointment for him, "then you will be somewhat whole."
"I need to reach the village."
"You're in no condition t-."
"I know what I can do!" He snapped, and she shuddered, looking away.
He sighed, touching his flask, wondering what would've happened had he just taken sips from the start.
It was getting tiresome, always having to look out for another, and he wasn't even good at it in the first place. The list went on, everyone to have fallen with him at their side, within his head.
Mighty Brute of the Woods, slayer of champions, can't even protect squires or old men.
"He was a gods fearing man," Larosa said, breaking the silence. "He will find his way home to the Hall of Lords."
"Heaven?"
She nodded.
"Maybe I should've sent him there sooner."
She hesitated, then said, "Are you always so pessimistic? You've the strength of gods."
"And no soul."
"I've seen such a soul," she said, approaching him with the mud bowl, "with a desire to learn, and protect."
"I'm no protector," he said, glaring at her. "I'm a killer. I've killed thousands over the past few months, more from the armies of men than any other."
"Alrieon would've slew scores of men until the earth burned black," she said, touching his chest with a dark cool paste. "You've done more for fathers and sons who would not live to see the kingdom again."
It wasn't in his nature to apologize.
She tended to his wounds, without hesitation, so frail even a bone walker would hold more weight. Not a sword in her hand, she had a warriors heart, and there was something familiar about her.
"Where did you say you were from?" He asked.
"Friarville," she replied, putting the last of the paste on his forehead. "The most beautiful valley in the world."
As she turned, he caught a glimpse of her watery eyes…