3. Three
three
"I haven't seen the sun in days," Qavor complained. The huntsman, a warrior and Erqis’ right-hand man, sported a look of wary irritation as his clouded breath vanished seamlessly into the thick fog surrounding them. Bare trees stood like sentinels, half-obscured, reaching their blackened branches to the milky sky as they stomped their way through this cursed forest.
"None of us have, my friend."
Erqis would have been amused at Qavor’s grumpiness if he hadn't been just as damp and miserable himself. It was impossible to tell which parts of the ground were solid, albeit slick with moss, and which were merely a treacherously thin spattering of grass over deep, brackish water. The foul mists rising from these spots clung to the insides of Erqis' nostrils and dampened his skin even under the leather he wore against the weather. No doubt he smelled like death at this point.
They'd had to leave the horses behind shortly beyond the treeline, where the grass had turned grey and crisp and the trees stood petrified. First the underbrush had been too dense and thorny to walk comfortably, and then the deep water had cost them two mounts within minutes, dragged under by their heavy saddles and stored equipment.
That had been two days ago.
Erqis led this small unit himself. The smartest course of action would have been to give Qavor another group of men to lead through the cursed forest of Brightmere, but that idea had been soundly rebuffed. So other trusted generals – four in total – had taken to cutting up his army and using different routes through the unfamiliar terrain.
"He has to know we're coming," Qavor groused, almost losing his boot to a patch of muck. "We should have just burned our way through this."
"Too wet for fire." Erqis shrugged. "What I should have done is sent you while I stayed in Duskport. There has to be some benefit to being king." He grinned at the dark look his friend threw him. King or not, there was no way Erqis would have stayed behind and let others fight his battles – not when it came to this.
Brightmere was a blight on the continent. The only realm that didn't adhere to the natural borders of Malvea's rivers, it sat like a fat splotch of mould right in the middle of the landmass he was steadily conquering; Malvea would be cleansed of the rot and then united under his own strong hand. A calculated approach to show the people his goodwill.
There was no major street that ran through this cursed land, as no one ever came here; yesterday they had found the remains of one, just a short stretch of old, cracked bricks, half submerged. The ground was not stable enough to support anything man-made, at least not anything that would last without steady upkeep.
Erqis longed for the Coastway more fiercely with each passing hour. The way from Duskport to Breakshore up the coast had taken all of a day, their horses and men fresh and the broad, winding road even under their boots. From Breakshore, they had turned inland and reached the border of Brightmere within a few short days, taking liberal rests from marches over less developed dirt roads and green meadows.
And for two days now, they had made their way through treacherous moors and uneven forest, with no end in sight and the heavy fog surely turning them in circles. Their fires at rest would not catch. There was no game to be found in these woods, no fish in the waters. Having to carry their own rations slowed their trek as much as the unsteady terrain did. After the first night spent among the marshes, they had found their last night’s watch dragged to the edge of the deeper moor, two young men drowned and torn apart by sharp teeth and blunt claws. It had made the remaining soldiers hesitant to rest at all.
The unit's conversations had dried up quickly, their morale stifled.
"Something ahead." Qavor stiffened, his steps slowed.
For a man this large, half a head still over Erqis' height and much broader of back, Qavor was deceptively light on his feet. He was also much more perceptive than Erqis was, he found, as it took him a good handful of steps more to see what his friend was seeing – wooden beams blackened by age and vulnerable to the elements, the stone foundations long since crumbled away. A well, collapsed in on itself and overgrown with wiry, thorny weeds. The bones of an arm, sticking out of the dry mud.
At one point in time, this had been a settlement.
Muted whispers ran through the soldiers as they fanned out, carefully making their way deeper into the decrepit village. There was not one building that still had a roof or more than two walls standing. It was eerily silent; on their way here, there had been a steady drone of bugs and frogs, the distant, muffled squawks of birds, but here?
There was only one thing that greeted them here.
"Bones," one of his men murmured at his side. "Gods below, so many bones."
Countless bones littered what had once been a village square. Some of the bodies were whole, others just piecemeal, scattered limbs. The villagers' clothing had long rotted away, along with their flesh. Only dry sinew remained, hardened and almost indistinguishable from the darkened skeletons it held together.
"I wonder what happened here." Erqis carefully stepped around a larger pile of ancient remains; the very idea of stepping onto the bones seemed sacrilegious, disrespectful, even to him.
"It's as cursed as the rest of this land," Qavor griped. He was gripping his bow, eyes darting around to spot an ambush, but there was… nothing.
Nothing but old death.
"Don't tell me you're scared. Collect your wits. You'll need them when we smoke out the lich."
"We should be at the fortress by now. Something isn't right here."
"Nothing is right here. That's why we came." Erqis pressed ahead, his men scrambling to stay close to their king's side. "I won't deny that it might be foul magic that is keeping us from our destination, although it’s more likely we’ve been turned around in the fog without the sun to guide us. But–" The village came to as abrupt an end as his words. Beyond, the forest fell away to make space for a large clearing, with small pools of dark water a sure tell of unsteady ground. Thick dregs of fog clung to the sturdy, browning vegetation where it grew and, just at the edge of sight, Erqis could make out a subtle, green glow.
It flashed, as if it knew he had seen it, and one by one, dark shapes began to rise from the bog.
Something cold rushed down Erqis’ spine. "Fuck."
"Fall back!" Qavor roared, loud enough to startle the birds from a nearby tree. Loud enough, Erqis hoped, to alert one of the other units to their position and possible distress.
Splitting up had been a mistake after all.
They had barely made it halfway back to the village square, trying to find one building with enough foundation left to give them some cover, when there was a low, dry groan of sinew from the direction they were fleeing from. And it was echoed from the direction they were going.
The Dread King had come.