Blood seeped from his throat, every minute of the day.
It started slow, no more than a few drops, then as time passed it would run free, no matter how much he clasped a hand on it.
Ale slowed it for a moment, then it ran faster than ever, and he cursed, crushing an old tin mug in his palm. By midday he was exhausted, so much so he couldn't even bear his armor, and he needed Nathan to strip himself free as flurries fell.
"Take this," he said, handing Nathan a bag of coins. "Get out while you still can."
Nathan frowned, handing back to him. "The best I can do is head for the front, assuming I make it that far. I swore an oath to serve you, my friend, and I'll not abandon you to die in an old rot like this."
Whatever it was about this lad, he liked it.
He remained atop a straw mattress with stiff covers over him until dusk, then upon moonlight he lost his vision. Hisses turned him to one direction or the other, and he had not the strength to even grasp his flail. Nathan stayed by his side, whispering prayers, then death's black sky took him.
"Now you bleed…."
The lantern, a sleeping Nathan, and Brand approaching the hut at dawn.
"Have no fear friend," Brand said, examining his fang marks. "An ordained priest is your best bet, and though it may take some time, I've sent out ravens with a special request."
"Who in gods' name would be foolish enough to make the journey?" Nathan asked.
Brand sighed, "It's been sometime since I've visited the main lands, but there was once such an order that specialized in defense against vampyre royalty."
A week passed, and not a single raven returned.
There were two horses, one strong and used for plowing, the other riding. Nathan offered Brand coin for the fast steed, and after some convincing, he was allowed to ride for the western fronts.
"I'll return with any willing to fight as well," Nathan promised on a foggy morning atop a white horse. "Don't push yourself. Let The Brander help you."
Leaned on his shield, blood already leaking from the bite, he sighed.
Nathan was off, disappearing into the fog as wolves howled, and he was with a crone, limp eyed bastards, and a useless smith. Days passed, he bled out within the woods, waking up back in the hut, and he could only hold his flail for an hour or so after dawn. Unbelievable, he said to himself, clutching his chest as the moon shined, his muscles dried, and after an hour long headache he'd take his last breaths.
Two weeks, maybe three, he didn't know, and as a sliver of moon appeared in the sky he saw Brand returning from the woods, hooded and cloaked. Something rustled a bush a few dozen paces beyond the crone. His vision blurred, and he collapsed taking his final breaths, Brand standing over him.
"In the morning friend, do your best to ease your passing…."
Babe. Drinking. A few more muscles than most. It's all he'd see before it all faded to black, though the vampyre's hisses taunted him since making the foolish march to those forsaken mines.
"Now you bleed…."
In the morning Brand handed him a chicken stew with stale bread.
After scuffing it down, he made his way to the blacksmith, who was hammering out an iron sickle.
"Why's he called the Brander?" He asked.
Sweat on his brow, veins pumping in his arms, the smith replied, "Suppose you've been here long enough, more than most."
After checking outside, looking around what little there was to see amongst a tiny huddle of huts, the smith shut the door to his own. He offered him a bottle of rum, which he happily accepted, listening about The Brander.
"He's a godly man, much as one can be born and raised here. He can discern a good heart from another."
They were silent, and he raised an eyebrow.
"That all?"
The smith nodded. "Not much to it. It's a simple life here. Protect yourself from all ye' things of the dark. No matter the cost."
He handed the smith the bottle. "And what's it cost this village? Not a single warrior amongst you, yet in all my time here not a single vampyre's tried raising a talon."
After a few swigs, the smith said, "Aye, not much one could feed on here. Most folk here are starved, sleepin' by their own burn pits, and it'd be like you or me feedin' on a slab of ribs left to rot in the sun for a few days."
"She was starving. I saw it in her e-."
"Please friend, I do my best not to hear tales of the horrors beyond these walls. Helps me sleep easier."
"Ya' sleep fine enough to forge tools for Brand."
The smith took another swig. "Brander's a good man. He keeps folk alive here, and the vampyres stay away."
A woman screamed outside, followed by a baby wailing.
He limped out, whether because he was drunk or losing blood, or both, and caught a glimpse of an open hut where a young lass had just given birth. As expected The Brander oversaw the labor, a pair of wide eyed villagers aiding as well. Brand saw him looking inside, then shut the door, and he made his way back to his hut as blood leaked down his chest.
Door open, he stared into the woods.
The woman cried out again, then silence. He peeked out a slit between moldy walls, and watched a hooded man, who he knew to be Brand based on the upright posture, carry they baby out into the woods. An hour before the days end, his vision blurring, and he watched Brand return empty handed, cross in hand before tucking it away.
Winds shook the hut, and he cursed as blood dribbled out his lips.
"Pity," Brand said, creaking the hut's door open. "Must be terrible for you, so strong, and still so vulnerable."
"I'll wake up. I always do," he said, scowling.
"What if you didn't?" Brand asked, touching his face, and though he wanted to swat him away, his arms felt like limp noodles. "What if the next time you fell in battle was your last? How would you fight that fight?"
"I'd cut your…."
Rum, white walls, and the bitch calling him babe again. Whoever she was he didn't blame himself for leaving her behind.
What the hell was taking Nathan so long?
All his fights, the Champion of the Graves, the Wyvern King, the Swamp Shaman and his nemesis. One he couldn't face with his strength alone, and he decided if nothing else he'd be more practical before charging into battle.
Much as he hated to admit, the Brand bastard was half right about something.
He'd have been dead hundreds, maybe thousands of times over, without the curse, and with what was the biggest pain in his arse on his throat, he needed to fight like his life depended on it.
It also meant he couldn't fight alone.