Chills woke him beside the shore.
No growls nor hisses, though the same footsteps of thunder lingered.
While sharpening her rock spear, Al greeted him with a smile.
Peter wasn't so thrilled, missing the comfort of his beloved home by the passage. It was unnatural, so it was probably for the best, though the mad lad was insistent on finding himself a holy noose.
"With any luck I'll go to Marryvia myself," Peter muttered. "Lady Quarrath should understand, or I'll just throw some garlic at the bitch."
He and Al exchanged a look.
They said nothing, neither wishing to speak on the First Sword, wanting nothing more than to reunite with the Embers. The latter wasn't even guaranteed, though they knew Peter knew little of what he was rambling on.
"You're better off coming with us now," Al said, looking up and down the shore. "Lest you want to go made sitting on this wet rock alone."
"Already mad," Peter said, running a finger round the top of his staff. "It's you lot who need a cat scan."
Al rolled her eyes. "In any case, we owe it to you for getting us this far."
Peter waved a hand. "Ya' had it figured. I just gave ya much needed morale."
"I'm sure the others miss you," he said.
A concerned look, and Peter shrugged. "Maybe, and just maybe, Vic. Michael and the other lad always hated my guts."
"He didn't rise here with you?" He asked of Eris.
"Was a good lil' lad, just like Michael," Peter mumbled. "Probably out the dungeon by now, wearing gold cloaks and feastin' like a king."
Al knelt beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to stay here."
Peter opened his mouth, but said nothing, then shoved her away.
"Well, you lot ready?" The mad lad asked.
He stood, ready with his club, and Al handed him a pair of spears.
Within the water formed tiny waves, like one would skip a pebble across a pond. One step after another, ogres stalked between the trees, high as any great oak within the kingdom. Their stench, foul as it was, didn't bother the trio, as there was enough time in the swamp between them.
What did startle them was the number of white breaths, snorts between the treetops.
Either they were larger than before, or he was smaller.
He couldn't have been so much smaller, as nearest footprint could've fit at least five of him. Al raised a spear but froze. Peter cursed, staff ablaze, fire revealing the jagged jaws of a bearded one-eyed swamp lord.
It smiled, its pale tongue hanging out, blubbering in the old language.
"Fuck's it saying?" He wondered.
"Trespassers," Peter answered, waving his staff. "We don't belong, somethin' to that effect."
"How do you know?"
"The fearless Elstone leader was a linguist. Taught me enough about old elvish, bein' a language of sound more than words."
So it was pissed.
With another step forward, the ogre was almost in arm's range. Al shouted, throwing her spear, then darted off. A club, the size of a tree, swung down. He and Peter dove out the way, opposite directions.
Its lone eye shuffling, the ogre mumbled. Hot saliva spilled plopped over his head, and the ogre kicked him against a tree.
Spine shattered, he fell forward, sharp pain stiffening his back. Within ankle deep water he couldn't move, and water filled his lungs within seconds. Fire roared, whether from Peter or the ogre, yet darkness was overtaking him.
White walls, his friends on either side, and a bottle in hand.
Then the alarms rang, horns, warning of the incoming dragon bombs.
'INCOMING! INCOMING!'
He awakened with a trembling hand, his flail hand, or club, or anything he could get his hands on.
Al put a hand on him, and he jolted.
"You were screaming," she said, removing her hand. "Something about, incoming."
"It's nothing," he stuttered, forcing himself up.
"You sure?"
"I'm fine!"
She didn't believe him, but went on sharpening new sticks.
Peter managed to burn the ogres toes, causing it to stagger.
"Stay right behind me," the mad lad said, lighting his staff. "Break every bone in its foot."
Yet upon leaving the shore they were met with several ogres.
Tall as trees, some so high they couldn't see their faces, just over twice the size of an average man, or wide as they were tall, they were naked or draped in shit smeared rags. Some let swamp bugs pack between their arses, and whenever they walked scrunching could be heard with every stomp. Al and Peter gagged, the latter of the two vomiting upon sight of one scratching its backside.
In spite of white bile on his face, Peter swung fire in all directions.
Not a simple wave of a torch, but ripples scorching the air. More than just an old stick with flame, it was a spell of sorts, something Peter didn't believe would happen for a number of years. Yet in the time they'd been in one another's presence, fighting in the swamps was all they'd done.
Ogres backed away, the taller ones in particular.
The few who stood not much higher than a village hut ran at the party. Faster than expected, he couldn't get a full swing, so he rammed his club into the ogre's belly. It belched, then swatted him down.
Fire sprayed into its face. Al then drove a stick spear into its belly, bleeding it to its toes. It collapsed on its knees, and Al drove another stick through its throat.
More ogres, all around the same size as the first, charged them at once.
Peter slung his staff, fire sparked in all directions, and the ogres staggered back.
On his feet, he swung at the nearest knees. The ogre buckled, then he broke its jaw with another swing. As it collapsed another spat at him, blinding him with stinging drool. While he swung mad, fire spurted, spears flew, and the tallest ogres roared.
Footsteps rocked trees, one tumbling over. It slammed atop him, and he heard nothing more.
On the shore again, he woke to a snoring Peter and a resting Al.
All day he stayed down, trying to remember.
Any of his fighting style, if he had one at all, and he realized there was not much to it. All his battles, armies and champions, and he'd little more than one or two moves. Bludgeon or swat and hope for the best. One Phoenix Blade made it clear to him, and he did nothing to change what was as predictable as the sun rising.
While the others slept, he raised his club.
Paracles could move like the wind. He had no such speed, and even Dany or Arthur were able to exchange swords with vampyric knights. A few steps, trying to mimic the fighting styles he'd seen, and he cursed, throwing down the club.
"Perhaps later," he muttered to himself.
"Ya' got the right idea," Peter said.
He grew a flustered face, hoping no one had seen him practicing.
"Surprised ya' even made it so far," Peter said, leaning up. "What was it like to fight a god?"
"She's no god," he growled. "A good swing would've turned her to red paste like the rest."
Peter shook his head. "You plan on recovering all your strength? That could take years, and who know what kind of effect your intrusion might've had."
Puzzled, he looked away from Peter, picking up his club.
"Killin' Razelael brought about the fog," Peter said, sipping on the last bit of swamp brew, "Alreion's death made Hardok a wild dragon, and I'd wager you taking in that wiry lad's changed the trajectory of these lands."
"Call it the will of the Lord."
Peter frowned, emptying the brew down his throat.
The following day brought about drizzle, then later in the afternoon thunder shook the skies. There couldn't have been a better opportunity, as not once since the downpour started did any festering giant linger nearby.
Even after going a hundred paces or so in, they'd yet to encounter a single ogre.
"Will of the gods indeed," Peter said, a firm hand on his staff's head.
They stalked between trees, so high they couldn't see the tops.
A trunk moved, and on the other side was a three eyed ogre, scowling down at them. It roared, raising its head toward the sky. Thunder echoed, lightning cackled, and ogres stampeded through.
"Hurry!" He shouted, slamming his club down on the ogre's foot. "It's not much farther!"
While the ogre grasped its toe with one hand, it slapped him against a tree with the other.
Al threw spears at it's good toe, and it wailed, backing away. Trees cracked, then leaned down. Peter dove out the way, then ignited the trunk. Still on his back, Al helped him up, though he limped with cracking ribs.
"Go!" Peter shouted, fire roaring along the tree, rain turning to drizzle.
From one end to another, the mad lad made a wall of fire. Ogres approached it before running back, spitting, and lashing water to put it out. Peter led a handful away, but the rest pursued himself and Al.
Light shined ahead, along with a smooth mud path.
Yet a pair of ogres stomped from behind trees ahead, both with clubs, doused in dung robes.
Al let him go, then heaved her last stick forward. A failed block, and the left ogre took the stick through its left eye. It wailed, charging forward, and Al met it with her spear. She leaped away from a down swing, then stabbed the ogre's belly. It growled, swatting her away, and she lost her spear.
He limped onward, getting within striking distance.
A swing forward, he missed. Both ogres slammed down, and he blocked, falling to his knees. His right forearm cracked, but he held himself up. Against both ogres, he held firm, screaming while being pressed back. They couldn't budge him, but he couldn't move.
Al ripped the stick spear out the bleeding ogre's eye, then drove it through again. It stumbled back, roaring, and the other ogre swung for Al.
On his feet, a hand over his belly, he limped towards Al and the raging ogre. It backed her into a tree. She ducked, and its club shattered bark several inches deep. He swung at it's back legs. She thrusted behind its throat, and the ogre whined.
On its knees, Al twisted, then left he stick spear.
She helped him limp onto the mud path, and they listened to roaring fires.
Ogres roared or whimpered, yet there was no sight of the mad lad. For a minute longer they waited, until a tree high ogre stomped their way.
A few more paces towards the cold opening, and the ogre stopped. They turned, and despite wishing to go back for Peter, he suggested they honor his will.
"He'll find a way out when he's ready," he mumbled, blood leaking from his mouth.
Into a white field, flurries brushing about, they approached a tree with orange and brown leaves before collapsing.
Their bones froze, yet they slept sound through the night.
Winds gusted, hot, the mountains beckoning them.