A grey morning, something Nathan hadn't seen in some time, brought rain.
It lasted all day, and it was a freezing wet insult to his already weary body.
He sneezed or coughed with a hand over his chest. None of his prayers took away his sickness, so he rested for a bit longer within a cluster of trees, wrapping his wounded shoulder.
Rain turned to a waterfall like downpour, and Nathan had little more than his cloak to cover himself.
Fingers numb, at least the blood of the riders was washing away. Though he was hungry and his muscles ached, having just a few scraps of bread left the fucking Brander allowed him to take.
It was a mistake leaving his lordship, the battle master, in the hands of those villagers.
All sorry eyed souls, led by a narrow-eyed snake who reminded Nathan of one such member of House Pyr.
Even if he were to reach the front, what guarantee was there anyone would help? He was shunned, excommunicated by the church, banished from ever serving the throne, and his family's honor would die with him.
Father would tell him to never give up, but dishonoring the family was unforgivable.
He would never forgive himself if he gave up on what little honor he had left, and he'd throw himself into the abyss before allowing himself to freeze to death in a forsaken mud land.
Atop Brock just after noon, the rain finally stopped. Sunlight beamed from an opening within the clouds. A few arrows were lodged in the ground, and a ransacked wagon was in pieces within a puddle. Another hundred paces or so and the ground was littered with arrows, and corpses.
Horns blew, almost a half mile away, and Nathan kept a hand on his sword hilt.
Reeks of decayed flesh filled his nostrils.
Brock snarled, spitting and sneezing until the later afternoon. Clouds cleared the sky, and it would've been a pretty sight were it not for the trails of destruction.
Fallen banners, of the kingdoms of Wayfork, Banish, Rorik, and the mountains of Navornhelm. All the major armies, much smaller than his majesty of the fireborne kingdom, but all in the same place. Among the banners were flags and cloaks of different warbands, leaderless thugs who scavenged whatever they could.
Upon a boulder, where a horse laid ripped in half, were claw marks.
Only one such creature could leave claw marks in stone, much smaller than any dragon.
Nathan rested Brock until an hour after dusk.
Atop the fighting steed again, he kept his sword drawn, watching the cloudy skies.
It was still so far from the battlefield, yet it appeared much of the fighting dragged on into the woods. So much reward for slaying an angel of death, as the armies of the dead dissolved only for the kingdoms to take their place.
It was a land of fear, monsters, and no place for a gods' fearing young man.
He wanted to see Larosa. The river flowing in the valley, fireworks beneath a midsummer sky, grilled steak between fresh baked bread covered in cinnamon. It was all too far, and he had nothing but his family steel.
And of course, a brave steed, who didn't snort as much as the night went on.
Fire flickered ahead, just an hour after midnight.
He smelled the bird meat, seasoned with spices only found within the capital. Banners swayed, proud as the largest ground force of all the kingdoms of men, the flame insignia red upon its black silk cloth.
After dismounting Brock, he raised his cloak. Cross out, hanging outside his collar for all to see, he stalked into the camp with a slight limp.
"Were you injured brother?" A tall soldier asked, approaching him.
A young man, one whom Nathan trained a year prior in the serpent style, Raul examined his wounds.
"N-Nathan? Is it you?" Raul asked.
He raised a finger to his mouth. "Is his majesty here?"
Raul, hesitant while looking around, replied, "You're not supposed to be here. Aside from being excommunicated, these are dangerous lands, far too dangerous to be traveling alone!"
He sighed, holding out what little coin he had left.
Raul took a few, then led him to a small fire, away from most of the camp.
No more than a thousand, Raul explained, they were one of dozens of units his lordship, the Turd Lord, had strategically positioned across all the eastern side of the woods. They were all to make gradual advances towards the main battlefield and converge at once like a giant fist of steel and iron.
"So it's been told by Lord Isaac," Raul said, as Nathan finished a bowl of bean stew with stale bread. "What madness drove you out here?"
"I need an ordained priest," Nathan said, wiping his mouth, "for the Bane or Razelael."
Raul coughed on a moldy apple. "He's real? His lordship of House Pyr claims it was his own doing and his mercenaries. "
Nathan tightened his jaw. "Lord Isaac's a-it doesn't matter. The one who made it possible to travel these woods is in danger, he was bitt-."
Deep horns bellowed.
Soldiers snatched up their spears, shook others awake, or shouted for defensive lines.
"Raiders! Raiders!" A knight shouted, riding throughout the camp.
"To arms! To arms!" Raul shouted, gathering his men.
The man Nathan once taught the serpent's dance to was in charge of over two hundred men.
Along the camp's western side, Raul bore a full helm, a short sword and longsword strapped to his waist. He was the first among the line, and Nathan joined him, horns bellowing non-stop.
With nothing but his family blade, Nathan knew he was in need of a shorter weapon. A short arm was worth its weight in gold in a shield wall.
He settled for an axe he looted off a nearby lad, one who couldn't have been any older than eleven.
"You ever killed before?" Nathan asked the trembling red-haired boy.
The boy stuttered incoherent words among the horns, and Nathan ruffled his shoulder.
"Follow my lead, and thrust hard!" Nathan said as flickering torches brightened.
Heavy mail, round wooden shields with spiked brims, huge war axes, and blood stained spears.
They were on both sides of the camp, east and west, commanded by the Rorik army of Chief Maurador.
Rumored to be a huge man, tall as a giant, Nathan didn't see such a man ahead. Yet the cursing, spitting, howling barbarians, wolf crests on their shields, were larger than the average soldier of the kingdom. So much so Nathan said a prayer, for swiftness and accuracy.
"Lord of sword and shield, be my guidance," he whispered, the wolves getting so close he could see their yellow teeth. "Let my steel rain like fire!"
Shield to shield, neck to thigh, it was as he'd practiced.
Yet he was raised for open field combat, a dance of death. As towering, bearded warriors, all at least twice his own age, got close he knew he was out of his element.
A rusty brimmed shield was within arm's reach.
He heaved his axe forward, then yanked hard.
A round Rorik wolf, a split beard twisted with beads, fell forward. The lad next to him thrusted, screaming with teary eyes. A fine thrust, right into the enemy's throat, though the spear was lost.
Unable to pull the spear free, the boy stayed his shield.
Nathan cursed, calling the greasy bastards pig fuckers of the north. They spat, black tar like spit, a lifetime of never cleaning their teeth. Creahllacian cunts, boy lovers, and sons of whores the wolves called them.
Another axe hook brought forward a lanky tall man.
However a shield's brim bashed into Nathan's head. He shouted, blood streaming down his forehead, shoving back. Tight as though they were all being shoved into crates, it went on for minutes.
The boy, so young he should've been with his mum or enjoying a child's life, cried. Men bled out, the enemy's breath was like shit, there were no footsteps, only clustered metal pings. Just a wave of iron and steel, a few lines separating the camp from being a slaughter.
A deep bellow echoed in the sky, but not horns.
Again, a curl-like boom shook the air, and both lines fell silent.
"Gargoyles!" A Rorik axe man mumbled, eyes widening. "Gargoyles! Retreat!"
"Fall back! Fall back!" Raul shouted, stuck between wooden shields in front of him, iron shields behind him.
Rorik horns blew. Kingdom trumpets sounded.
Blood curls from the sky blotted out all, and Nathan couldn't hear the man next to him scream. It pierced his eardrums, shaking his bones. His axe arm stiffened, every cry of the gargoyles.
Clouds parted, revealing a bright half-moon.
Dark wings blocked out the light, and men screamed.
"Stay together! Dammit," Raul stammered, trying to get some room. "Protect the camp! Spread out!"
"Kill 'em!" A Rorik soldiers shouted. "Kill the whore bred cunts!"
"No! Get the fuck back!" Another shouted.
"We're trapped here!" A Rorik wolf cried a few ranks back.
A horned gargoyle plowed through the rear ranks behind Nathan.
It was large, bigger than Nathan could've ever imagined. Dark blue skin, almost black, with white talons and an incredibly muscular, it must've had the strength of at least a dozen men.
Again, it ran down dozens of men into the dirt. Some were skewered on its front horns, and it dragged others into the sky.
More gargoyles descended from the clouds, slamming into scrambling Rorik ranks. Some wielded axes, others no weapons at all. It mattered not, for men were ripped to pieces.
The axe man in front of Nathan, with enough room to run at last, was snatched into the air. It was a red gargoyle, a demon Nathan could've sworn. A long tug, and the axe man was ripped in half, blood raining from above.
Lines were breaking apart, men were scattering. Nathan tugged on the lad, who was frozen with wide eyes.
"Move!" He shouted, dragging the boy his way.
They ran for open space, looking up as gargoyles ripped people off the ground.
Rorik soldiers were running amongst the camp, eyeing the skies as well. Gargoyles scooped up, or skewered whoever they pleased. It was a feeding ground with no escape, and the lad tugged Nathan's arm.
Before the boy could say anything a massive gargoyle, larger than the first he saw before, ripped the boy from his grasp.
"This is the greatest army of all kingdoms?" the orange gargoyle, three horns atop its head laughed. "Pitiful!"
Squeals made Nathan's chest sink.
So small in the gargoyle's palms, the boy appeared no larger than a rodent. One squeeze, a single palm with dagger long claws, popped the whimpering lad's skull open.
Even amongst other gargoyles, it was a monster.
It glared at him, and he took off.
He darted through other Rorik soldiers, his own countrymen, and dove through a fire. The gargoyle taunted him, missing him by inches soaring away.
"Put up a fight boy! Or I'll take you somewhere and kill you slow," the orange demon growled, turning back.
Nathan retrieved a spear.
It dove, face first with beaming eyes. He heaved the steel tipped line spear forward, though it made no more than a scratch.
Before him the gargoyle hissed, licking blood off its face. "How amusing! You're braver than you look!"
A swipe of its claws, and Nathan dove. He rolled over a withering fire, though gargoyle charged through. Snorts were followed by a pair of hooves crashing down, knocking the gargoyle to its back.
Brock stood over the beast, hind legs ready to slam down again.
"Brock wait!" Nathan screamed, but the gargoyle ripped the steed down.
Like tearing through minced meat, the gargoyle pulled Brock apart. Innards splattered the already bloody ground. With Brock's upper half overhead, the gargoyle drank blood before taking a bite.
Sword drawn, Nathan charged.
He may as well have bene thrusting into a brick wall. Not even an inch of penetration, and the gargoyle shattered his sword with a single blow. A heavy backhand sent him into a nearby tree, cracking his ribs.
Tightness took his breath, and he drew his dagger.
Though carnage ensued amongst the camp, gargoyles ripping apart kingdom soldiers and scattering Rorik wolves, it was Nathan and his orange killer.
"You fought well, human," the gargoyle said, light brightening the sky. "I'll give you an honorable de-."
Blazes ran along the ground.
Gargoyles wailed, flapping their wings while taking to the sky. Arrows plunged into their backs. Fiery darts scorched their faces, light shining from the east.
The orange gargoyle smiled. "Finally! A real challenge!"
Against the tree Nathan's vision blurred.
As the gargoyle flew off, fire razed through the air.
Not of dragons nor man, but of a trained mercenary. One whom served the House Pyr, of his lordship.