Buzzes trickled his ears, flies surrounding him upon waking up.
It was still dark, just an hour or so before dawn, and the Nemesis' corpse was riddled with maggots. He leaned against the tree, helping himself up, but couldn't take a step. He spat towards the bastard's corpse, then reached for his flask.
It was empty.
He held it overhead, shaking a few drops out.
A few steps, and he limped towards his flail and cracked shield. The latter was too heavy, and he left it beside the Nemesis' bloody black infested corpse.
The cliffs were a few hundred paces away. It would've been easy to skirt it back to the river.
Blackness called to him first.
Unlike any wind, an echo, thunders rattling every step he took towards the endless drop. His flail was dry with blood, but spikes were still sharp enough to cut. He looked towards Dany's corpse, crows picking out tiny chunks of flesh.
After cursing to himself, damning every god of the black earth, he limped to the Nemesis, the cocksucking pig humper. It wasn't much, but he mustered some drizzle from his pecker over the bastard's body.
"Until I skin you again, cunt," he muttered.
It called again.
Silence befell the air, inches away from jagged edges.
He stared over the cliff. Darkness, something which made him hold his breath, as he'd seen it before. It was the eternal whisper death made every time he took a blade through the chest, across his throat, into his belly, or into his heart. Whenever he was severed at the waist, drowned in swamp water, strangled by dung festered serpents, or his head popped open by crusty ogre palms.
One step back, and he knelt beside his flail.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
It's all there is to do, and nothing would fix it. No morning welcomes from a summer eyed innkeeper, a promise from a dutiful lad, nor a silent strength of a lost soul.
He limped north, strength fading from him as the hours passed.
At nightfall he rested beneath a half-moon, all his strength gone, and he believed even reaching the river would an impossible task.
Neck over his flail head, he wondered what Nathan had been doing. He shook his head, unable to consider anything other than hearing someone else scream. Someone needed to, and even if he fell fast, he needed to watch a crying shitting lad bleed to death.
At dawn he crawled, dragging his flail behind himself, and upon reaching a slope he limped down. The valley was dry, leaves bundled amongst mud, and he rested for the rest of the day before making the journey uphill.
He didn't stop.
Not until he heard a flowing stream did he slow his pace, and he scooted downhill pulling his flail along.
The river was colder, the fog dense as ever, and horns bellowed after a few minutes of him soaking his face.
Smoke filled his nostrils. He looked north, and beyond fog were trails of smoke, miles on end, fires razing the woods, yet the fog was still thick. Alrieon's men, their horns blowing over a mile away, were everywhere, and he readied his flail. Upon crossing the river, taking a moment to let cool streams ease his aching muscles, he used his hilt to scale the hill.
Faster than he moved since felling the Nemesis, he crossed into the fog.
There was a sudden pep in his step, though his arms were still sore, his left split open even with tightened wraps.
Another mile or so and war cries sounded on the hills.
Deep horns, something like thunder, and he saw horn helmed men charging into shield walls.
Steel with gold trims, whoever this army was had a much more impressive armorer, better than any of the fireborne kingdom. The horned men were larger, brasher, shouting curses to their war gods. Slaughter was as natural to them as the howling riders, but they were organized.
No more than a few hundred gold trimmed shield bearing soldiers, and maybe just over a hundred horned riders.
Flail over his shoulder, he limped onward.
The first to notice him was a round mounted horn helm. A few joined the fat fucker in charging him, but a swing of his flail split open every horse.
"My lord!" A horn helm shouted to a massive man atop a great horse. "There! The Grave Kingdom's brute!"
Among the largest of the horned riders, their lord was at least seven feet tall.
Atop a horse, more bull than steed, draped in mail skirt with spiked hooves, the lord was cautious. A helm similar to his own, yet trimmed with gold, the lord wore arm silver arm rings, each representing a lord or elite knight slain in battle. A massive battle-axed was slung over his back, though he kept to the rear of his mounts, demanding more riders onward, eyes like a hawk.
"Run him down!" The warlord boomed, pointing at him, a thin half-grin.
He whirled his flail overhead.
A few pulled their reins, yet those who didn't were swatted into red ribbons. Bones scattered, blue-black intestines spilled, blood sprayed like dust, and whoever didn't ride into him turned at once. The warlord cursed, drawing the colossal battle-axe, but knights howled within the shield walls.
Opposite the pike thrusting horned riders, the gold shields pressed forward, knights demanding victory in the name of her majesty of Wayfork.
"Push! Kill them!" A knight atop a white horse boomed.
Chaos, as he missed so much.
Something about killing live prey for a change made his heart flutter. No Allison or self-righteous Embers to keep him from his fill, and so he flung his flail against two armies.
A clash of iron, steel, and lads, so young they could've been mistaken as babes. Not until he could reach for a rusty collar did he see them, facing their enemy shield wall. Their mail was fine, steel with a hint of gold, and a few turned his way upon his staggering flail leaned steps.
"To arms! To arms!" A knight shouted, gold armor beneath a heavy brown cloak.
Dozens turned his way, and they were young as he imagined.
None could've been any older than that boy priest, and some shivered with tear filled eyes as their knight barked orders.
"Kill the brute! Spears! Spears! Forward!"
Other soldiers turned their way, and there was confusion as to which enemy was where. The knight tried commanding, soldiers facing either the horn helmed mounts, or the soulless tower of crooked iron and blood.
He imagined what he must've appeared as, against the fog, a looming horned demon with a spiked death rope.
A swing, less than half of what he could muster were both his arms whole, swept dozens away. Their bodies burst apart, mail cracked like clay, and heads flew off shoulders. He kept swinging, lads dropping their weapons with wide teary eyes.
Battle lust took his heart, and he crushed anyone in his way, a gust of steel and terror.
The gold armored knight wailed, turning to escape into forward facing ranks, but he swung, turning the coward and anyone around him to red chunks. Horned helms kicked their steeds, and the warlord among them demanded a retreat.
"Fall back! Into the fog!" The warlord shouted, frustrated with a purple face.
Much as he wanted to pursue the only warrior worth a damn, he had not the strength to break out in full stride.
So he kept swinging, severing gold mail soldiers to pieces. His flail arm swelled, but he kept swinging, even as his head grew light.
Trumpets blew, men cheered, and he found himself just a few ranks from another opposing shield wall.
Before the withering ranks, boys sent to kill in the place of men, was a shield of flame insignia soldiers. Their mail was dark, but their swords were sharp, and he stopped swinging, letting them skewer what little was left of their enemy.
They faced him, some with spears up, but a white knight among them heeded them to ease their arms.
"Razelael's Bane," the helmed knight shouted, sword still up. "He who wields the fabled flail."
"Aye," he muttered, the fireborne kingdom's men still killing enemies begging to surrender.
The knight removed his helmet, revealing a head of short blonde hair.
"Sir Robyn, Son of Lady Arika," the knight said, extending his hand.
He shook Robyn's head with his free hand, then looked to the horses at the rear of the kingdom's line.
Upon an iron skirted steed, face full with a black beard, Carl glared at him.
Fat Carl, atop a warhorse as if he'd done a day of fighting in his life, beckoned Sir Robyn and himself.
There was a wagon behind his majesty, a grand chariot dripped with dark silk curtains and the flame borne sigil of three blades down a dancing blood red fire. White knights guarded either side of the wagon, it was pulled by horses similar to Carl's, and there was a cross star atop it.
He made his way through the ranks, Robyn at his side. His majesty smiled, bowing to him along with a lord, and a lady, who exited the morning dew-covered wagon.
"Welcome my lord," Carl said, a wide grin of relief. "To the Burning Fields."