For hours, going until sunset, he searched for the Elfstones.
Peter and Victoria very well could've been dead, as he didn't know for certain if Willbress made it up until dawn. He was half sleep himself, and the old father very well could've croaked at any point early in the morning's darkness.
Smoke filled the air, and he knew he'd gone too far, in a circle, right back towards the nest.
What did it matter?
Like many times before, an undead boneyard or revenants of the old wars, he was right where he wanted to be.
So he pressed forward, flask ready, waiting for the first growl.
Yet nothing came.
No smoke leaking jaws, blazing eyes, or towering scales of the gods' chosen pets. They were all he expected to be and so much more, and the three headed monster pumped his heart the most. His pecker was hard, thinking of taking down the beast with a swing of his flail, reckless as many would claim it to be.
Though as he approached a scaly corpse, blood puddles knee deep on all sides, he found one of several drakes and wyverns.
They laid every dozen meters or so, claw marks so deep they may as well have not had scales, and organs ripped out, some splattered or burnt. Nothing of the works a couple of stone archers did the other day, it was grotesque, something feral. He considered ripping out a few teeth, maybe an eyeball, though a whizz overhead turned him around.
An arrow landed, a few paces behind him.
From the smoke appeared Peter first, then Victoria behind him, both covered in soot.
"Hell happened here?" He asked.
Peter, looking around, replied, "Was hoping you could tell us."
Victoria shook her head. "We might be too late."
Peter put a hand on her shoulder. "All the more reason to keep going."
She rubbed her eyes, then nodded, and he believed there may have been an answer for the slaughter. Smoke rose from the pits, though hatchlings were silent, not even a peep nor fiery bark.
"The three headed dragon is one of two remaining kings," Victoria explained, the trio stepping through a fleshy rib cage. "He who burns with sunfire, and the other to breath fire of the moon."
"Can't breathe if its dead," he said.
"We'll be too, if we don't end it fast," Peter snorted, looking at a pale barrel sized eyeball. "Perhaps keeping you in the rear wasn't the best idea."
"You two are still here because of it," he argued, though they all knew there was no turning back.
Whether Michael was still alive or not, they would fight for his sake.
However failure meant death, whether permanently or sent to another cursed arrangement for one without a soul to bargain.
Upon reaching a twitching wyvern, its eyes still bright blue, they stopped to get any answers. It spoke in the old tongue, something Peter knew bits and pieces of. A few gasps, then the beast fell silent.
"Olmourge," Peter said, referring to the three headed dragon, "had a disagreement with the others."
He said nothing, looked to a lone pit ahead of the trio, then led them onward.
Another few hundred paces and there was a tight suction of air. Light flickered, three different pairs of eyes, and he took a long swig of his flask.
Peter and Victoria nocked their arrows, though Olmourge was slow to get up.
On shaking limbs, the three headed king limped their way. Smoke filled its jaws, but nothing came out. It cursed at them, spitting hot drool overhead, damning the kingdoms of men for sending the death gods servants.
"Did you think I would not forsee it? Ye' of soulless, man's greatest legacy, the power of the old gods, none more trifling than he who fell from the light!"
Shield down, he approached Olmourge, who growled backing away.
Thunder lashed at the beast's center head, splitting it open. It growled, blood running down its face, and the other two heads' eyes rolled backwards. The trio backed away, the three headed king slamming into the ground.
While Olmourge fell silent, a white robed figure stepped atop him.
Alrieon, skin reddened on his left side, raised his great sword at the trio.
Stomach churning, he readied his flail, preparing to lash forward.
"Using the gods' weapons comes with a price," Alrieon muttered, leaping to the ground. "Even killing your leader took something more out of me."
They approached one another, his flail, the White Rider's sword.
Alrieon growled. "I will make the most of it, sending you all back to hell!"
Instead of swinging he lunged forward, shield up.
Alrieon thrusted, backing him away. Again, the White Rider thrusted, though stiffer on the feet than before.
Yet his sword hand was fast as ever, and every loosed arrow was parried or sliced in two.
Upon another arrow loosing, he swung his flail. Alrieon didn't parry, but thrusted, avoiding the arrow, and penetrating his eye. He grunted, stepping back, a hot blade's tip severing his left socket. Shield up, blood gushing down his face, a stinging throb he'd never felt, he stayed tight.
One leap, dozens of meters high, Alrieon heaved down atop Victoria. She dashed out the way with inches to spare, the White Riders sword splitting rocks.
Peter landed an arrow to the shoulder, and Alrieon cursed, stumbling back.
Flail spinning overhead, he swung wild, anyway he could, as much as he could. Alrieon thrusted, slicing the side of his neck, then leaped away. He swung against the ground, and spike steel sent rocks flying to the White Rider. The latter parried some away, though a few struck him in the head.
Victoria landed an arrow on his throat. Sword in hand, the blade glowed white, and he shouted, spitting blood.
"Demon filth!"
One step, Alrieon covered fifty paces within a lunge. Blade ignited, he thrusted. Peter shoved Victoria aside, taking the blade through the chest. She drew her sword, Alrieon yanking his blade free, then swung, yet the White Rider leaped away.
He rained down his flail, shattering brimstone as Alrieon dove out the way.
The White Rider thrusted again, though he leaned in with his already empty socket. Alrieon cursed, twisting and turning, but his own skull was worth at least a dozen or more. He grasped the High Lord's wrist, then held tight.
Despite trying to pull free, Alrieon may as well have bene locked to a mountain.
White fire burned his head, thousands of hot pins running through his skull, though he didn't let go.
Alrieon let go of the blade, but Victoria ran her sword through his throat. She turned her blade, he grasped the High Lord's face, releasing his flail, then crushed it.
A caved in face, blood spewing from all sides of the throat, Alrieon collapsed.
Victoria rushed over to Peter, who gargled blood as she held him in her arms. No matter how much he tried to speak, it was all muffled, drowned in blood, and he closed his eyes.
"Stay awake!" She shouted. "Peter!"
Smoke cleared, light fading from Alrieon's blade.
While Victoria wept, he took the White Rider's blade and noticed it to be the same metal Hardok wore as armor.
For miles on end, leading to the white walls of fog, the nest was a wasteland of broken eggs, black scaled corpses, ash, and bones. In the sky, for the first time they'd seen without clouds, was the sun, beaming overhead white as the three headed king's gaze.
A hundred paces ahead, among tall brimstones, was a church, at least what appeared to be one.
Its walls were white, a star atop it like the one he'd seen on the innkeeper, and its glass windows were tinted gold. Inside, chained to an altar of white smoke, was Michael, bone thin but still breathing.
He ripped the chains out the ground, and Michael wept, leaning forward.
Victoria took the Elfstone leader in hand, and they wept together for a few minutes. He waited outside in silence, tending to his eye by wrapping a strip of his cloak away.
They rested by the altar all day, going into the night.
Brown walls appeared.
There was a sudden hot gust of wind, and he believed a dragon were overhead. Bells rang, though unlike anything he'd ever heard. It was blaring, almost like a voice, in fact, it was a voice.
INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING!
Eruptions shook the ground.
He peeked out a window, and fiery smoke blasted the ground. There were buildings made of stone, men taking shelter in them, some covering their ears screaming, others appearing almost bored.
INCOMING! INCO-.
The bells stopped, an explosion shattering it in pieces.
He fiery blasts spewed from a round metal object, a machine blessed with sorcery, something he started cheering at. Others cheered as well, some pulling out the devices he used to speak to the woman with. A few minutes passed, then it was silent.
"You good bro?" A man dressed in all tan asked, patting his shoulder. "Fun ride huh?"
They laughed, though sweat ran down his forehead.
Before he could ask anything else, his heart pounding so rapidly, it all faded black.