Ash whitened the ground.
It filled the air, so much so it wasn't possible to breath without inhaling several strands, and the others pulled up masks.
He didn't need one, the swamps giving him a certain tolerance to all things repulsive or irritating to the nostrils. It was almost a relief, smelling something besides maggot ridden corpses or shit.
Victoria turned over a horse, though a child was beneath it, flies biting at every orifice, and she flipped the horse back over with a hand over her mouth. It was the same for every few miles, then Michael would set up a new fire for them to rest for an hour or so before continuing their hunt.
Whoops and howls led them to a band of Skull riders, all dancing round a pile of burning corpses. There were soldiers among them, some of Wayfork's kingdom, others with House Pyr's flame, and one with pale skin and long pointed ears. Curved blades cut a few throats, then Michael and Eris loosed arrows.
Victoria and Peter dashed towards the skulls, swords drawn, then sliced open bellies.
Rides hollered, swinging axes and granite hammers, though a swing of his flail pummeled several at once into the dirt. He battered horse and rider into red puddles, while the others freed the few prisoners still remaining.
The mountain elf among the captives lost his tongue to a hot dagger from the riders, and he begged them to cut his throat.
"They tortured the bastard for hours," a Creahllachian soldier explained, his own face bruised, and missing an ear. "Rather not say what they forced him to do with his tongue."
Michael led a march to the nearest camp.
Upon getting within arms reach of sentries, the surviving soldiers of the fire kingdom announced their arrival. There was no guarantees any foreign captives would be given quarter, but Michael decided it was better than any alternative, he and the others remaining in the fog.
They waited until every captive was inside the camp, and though he wanted to storm it, searching for Fat Carl, Michael gave him a stern warning.
"You can't slay royalty, that's an unforgivable sin. More so you won't be doing it in our presence!"
"Tell me, friend," he said, "is royalty really worth a swamp ogres backside if they're a coward, drunken, sloppy sack of shit?"
Peter somewhat agreed, admitting much of the up rise in battles was House Pyr's fault.
"Not saying we should gut the bastard, but the kingdom'd be better off without him."
Eris and Victoria remained silent, sad little bootlickers, and Michael scowled Peter, who was unmoved with a careless look.
"Peter, you nor our friend here,", Michael said, pointing at him, "will be coming back if you get a holy noose around your neck, or if a company of blessed knights skewers you alive!"
"And how many more people need to die by his fat ass majesty's incompetence?" Peter growled.
"There's always war!" Michael snapped, pulling up his hood. "There's always death, and killing one king will only bring about another, with a vengeance. A vicious cycle which never ends."
They spoke nothing more of it, and walked the woods close to Peter for the duration of the day.
A blonde-haired lad, more dark than golden, he had a stubby beard and a fondness for ale. Aside from an iron short bow with dark steel arrows in a quiver, he carried a mithril scimitar and dagger, and he offered a flask of black bitter ale.
"He's a level head, but a soft heart," Peter said, handing him the flask after taking a few sips. "Carl should've been dead years ago."
"Twice he's left me to save his hide," he said, taking a long swig. "I'm certain he'll put the blame on someone else."
Peter tapped his hilt. "That lad who survived the massacre of the Graves? The one who kept asking about you by the inn?"
"Aye."
"Hmm. I believe he ran into his majesty not long ago, requesting a man of the cloth, though Willbress was furious haven already excommunicated him."
"Fuck him."
"I agree. Gods fearing but serving a worm bastard and refusing a hand in need comes first I suppose."
"Any idea how we can convince him otherwise," he asked, nodding to Michael.
Peter shook his head. "He's made up his mind. Was a good man before awakening in the dungeon, but he was also naturally talented, and spoon fed. He's never tasted desperation, something I imagine you did same as me."
Though he wondered whether Peter's memories were intact, smoke filled the sky.
Hardok roared, eyes ablaze, soaring overhead, burning everything within a miles radius, commanded by a shouting Alrieon. The elvish High Lord's voice was different, one with the wind, erupting in all directions within the woods.
"Where are you hiding, false users? Proclaiming a guild by the name of royalty!"
They took up positions, each one of them behind a tree, and Michael waved for them to stay down.
"He can't find us," Michael whispered, "It's too dense fo-."
Flames roared, inches above the trees.
Hardok's wings kicked up winds, knocking branches to the ground. He turned around, a glare of malice and hunger with flame leaking jaws.
Michael loosed first. He nocked two arrows at once, all shining white tips, loosing within the same second he took to nock another. Every arrow landed upon Hardok's throat, though none penetrated. Several bounced off, ringing off heavy armor round the beast's neck.
A spew of fire incinerated trees, and Michael screamed, engulfed in flames.
The others kept loosing arrows, Hardok flying overhead. None landed, bouncing off the beasts armored belly, and Peter cursed before running off into the woods.
"Wait!" Eris shouted, Victoria scaling up the tree nearest to her.
She got eyes on the High-Lord, relaying down what little she could see.
"Hardok's covered in Ironite! We'll not get a hit on him unless we can land h-."
Flames doused her from above. She screamed falling over a dozen meters, burnt to a black tight crisp.
He cursed Alrieon's name, insulted his dead kin who he split down the middle before feeding on their innards, and promised to wear Hardok's scales as necklace. Though the High Lord stayed in the air.
Fire rained, Eris and Peter hurried through the fog. He listened to them shout, towering blazes erupting into the sky. Then it reeked of cooked flesh and scorched metal.
"The Mighty High Lord's a cunt!" He shouted, banging on his shield. "I made the bitch squeal when I let a pack of dogs hump his face off!"
His insults went unanswered.
Hardok was gone, and the stones were cooked to a crisp.
There was no chance he'd another hit on the High Lord's pet again, and it was the most frustrated he'd ever been.