The straw mattress shifted from side to side.
Or so he believed, as he woke up with his ankles and wrists bound by chains.
Gagged by a piss reeking rope, he was naked upon a cart. On either side of him were heavy eyed villagers, pale, rusty pikes or pitchforks, and Brand was at the front upon the fat plow horse.
It couldn't have been more than an hour after dawn, as he had strength enough to break the chains.
Yet he closed his eyes again.
Brand blabbered in that old language, likely prayers, raising his cross into the air as fog filled the woods. Shadows raced within the trees, rapidly between branches, some hovering for minutes on end before disappearing.
"There's no point in pretending," Brand said, turning slightly back. "When ye' of the Soulless awaken, I, as an overseer with an old altar, am alerted."
He grunted, piss leaking into his tightening jaws.
Brand sighed, "I wish it didn't have to be this way, however it is not mere chance you stumbled upon our little secret. Worse, you had the nerve to provoke Saraiza with nothing to gain, had you a shred of patience perhaps you'd have sent your squire off sooner."
His fists tightened, and he rattled the chains. A dull pitchfork thrusted into his belly, and he groaned, from a meek runt villager with trembling hands.
Brand shouted, "Stop! He needs to be untouched!"
The cart stopped, Brand pouting and bitching.
The crone struck the pitchfork wielding villager with a staff, then ordered others to bind the bastard.
"Forgive me father!" The runt begged. "It's early in the day, he's still too strong!"
"Not strong enough," Brand said, climbing down from the horse. "Wait here, all of you."
With the whimpering villager, bound by two others, Brand led the way into the fog.
Alone with shaking worms, he considered breaking free, but he needed to be certain.
The Brander, a feeder of the beasts and blood starved creatures, and he was ripe for being fed on day after day until the end of time. Even if he escaped he'd wake up right back in the hut, or strapped to the cart again, and his heart raced at the thought of having no real options.
Killing the crone made the most sense, but would he awaken with a dead overseer? And, much as he hated the worms, what would stop Saraiza from killing the poor folk? There was no telling what else she'd do to him, his new curse crueler than his soulless blessing, and even if his flail were a hundred pounds heavier it'd make little difference.
So he waited.
Brand returned, the whimpering villager didn't, and fog cleared within a damp cold woods. They returned to the village around noon, and he had so little strength he couldn't even tug the chains. Shackle round his wrists and ankles were unlocked, his mouth unbound, and Brand kept pikes and forks pointed at him as he rolled off the cart.
"What'll you do? Keep me here as rotting livestock?" He grumbled, blood running from his throat and belly.
Brand, arms folded, replied. "Only until your friend returns. If he returns, and you'll keep Saraiza and her kin fed for at least a month."
He spat, "What if I rip you in half now?"
Brand smiled as his vision waned. "Tomorrow I'll have something special for…."
White walls surrounded him, and he drank from a bottle of cold rum.
What was it about this place that was so special? It was better than a hut, but even the inn had some sort of decoration. It mattered not, as everything faded, and he woke yet again to a mouth full of mud.
Impossible.
He couldn't move, arms and legs locked trapped beneath dirt, though his neck was free by half an inch.
After spitting out a few worms, he looked around at what little he could of the village. Within its center, facing the church, he shouted, cursed, and promised Brand even if it meant being at the mercy of vampyres, he'd rip in half.
It was a promise, for it was clear Nathan wouldn't return.
The horse was poisoned, Brand made a deal with Saraiza, ghosts flayed the lad, or he fell of the cliffside trying to skirt it towards the frontlines.
No more than an hour could've passed since dawn, and he managed to wriggle his legs. As he shifted his arms, Brand exited the church, every villager inside with candles lit upon an altar.
"We'll be fine," Brand said, walking in circles round him, "you however will become much more acquainted with those foul demons, abominations much like yourself."
"Why the fuck don't you just leave?" He asked, one gesture away from breaking free.
Brand grew a crooked grin. "I don't believe i-."
He burst out of the ground, naked, covered in dirt. Muddy hands on Brand's head he squeezed, pushing in the crone's eyeballs as bone cracked, blood spewing from sockets.
"I'll start with you, then any of those lot!" He shouted, lifting up Brand, who screamed with flailing feet. "And I'll break them like this!"
Brand's skull shattered like glass. Brain flesh spurted all the way to the church's doorstep.
Villagers cried out in horror. He approached them, hands still bloody, Brand's corpse twitching several paces behind him beside the hole he'd been left to rot in. They all had one thing in common, and despite his itching palms he'd not hold any ill will.
"No one else is to be livestock," he stammered, putting a hand on his running throat. "Do as you would witho-."
"We're all livestock now! Wretched Soulless bastard!" An elder woman spat.
A young man, around Nathan's age, shouted, "Aye! The old father was our voice of reason, and now we're left to choose which of us goes out there!"
The yelled, cursed, and threw rocks at him from within the church, but didn't step out. He got within arm's reach of the door, villagers hurrying backwards, then a high pitched ring filled his ears. While stepping back, blood rushed from his throat, not stopping until he was dozens of paces back beyond the hole beside Brand's corpse.
The blacksmith parted the crowd, approaching him. "Good as his intentions were Brand was only delayin' the inevitable. How this village lasted a century's a tale for the age, but I can't say there was much else to be done."
He growled, a hand still on his throat, pointing to the church. "Well what then? There any silver in there?"
The smith shook his head. "Nay. Aside from the father's cross, which ye'd need dozens of, nothin' here but us folk either destined to survive the night or be chosen for our last."
"How often did he take folk out there?" He asked.
"Twice, sometimes three times a month. Between then we'd offer up a chicken, or a horse. Sometimes nothing at all, and they'd take one of us at random."
At the very least they knew better than to take out all their supply, and he sat in the hut somewhat relieved not all the villagers would be skewered at once.
The smith brought him bread and ale, around noon, and he was already exhausted haven done nothing since crushing Brand.
"He was, an overseer. Ye' understand?" Smith said.
"Aye," he said, looking at the lantern.
"Ye' might not wake here, in fact, I'd wager th-."
"I know. It's fine, I'll find my way back."
Smith said nothing else, leaving him to take a bite out of stiff bread.
The ale was surprising well drafted, and he drank it all in a go, wondering how far he could make it into the woods. His flask was half full, plenty enough to give him a much needed boost, though there was no telling how much faster the bite would bleed. If he were to get sent back to the swamps so be it, however he'd make it no further than a fresh raised Soulless between his bite and the infectious waters.
He couldn't read, much less write, and left all his coin for Nathan, stuffed beneath the mattress with a notch from his belt handing out.
Flask in hand, flail in the other, a damp towel covering his waist, he marched from the village.
It was a long march, every minute his feet feeling to be stones, growing heavier several steps at a time. He dragged his flail, sometimes holding his flask with his mouth to use both hands. Neither his arms could bear the weight, and after an hour of getting no further than a mile, he rested beside a stump.
Spiders crawled along his belly, and he ignored them, saving his strength for Saraiza, or the beast, either one he'd put down for good. Just one, something to strike fear into them, something for nought, as he'd never forgive himself for being sent back by a mere scout. Not even a champion or proper fighter to claim his soul, and he forced himself to stand in spite of wobbling knees.
"A little further," he wheezed, using his flail as a staff.
There was no use.
He took a chug from his flask, fiery swigs churning his belly.
None of his muscles swelled, though he could hoist his flail over his shoulder, and he strode out, almost running. Blood was still leaking, but it slowed, and he smiled for the first time in over a month.
Fog filled the air, and he pressed onward passed the crumbled fields gates.
Shadows surrounded the field. He could feel her breath, and the beast within the caves bellowed like low rumbling thunder.
"So, you choose to meet your demise head on?" She said, rising from the shadows alone. "You're the one who slew Razelael? She of the First Sword would be disgusted!"
Saraiza opened her cloak, revealing black studded leather, a pair of swords on her left side, and a dagger across her back. She snarled, fangs glimmering against the light of the other vampyre's eyes, all who watched from the shadows as she laughed before him.
"You dare challenge me? Like this?" She laughed, approaching him.
He waited until she was just out of range, then charged.
She slid back, drifting over the ground with such speed. He lunged forward, raining down his flail, and she leaped out the way. Rocks shattered upon contact, and she lost her grin. He span, swinging again her way, though she leaped over head. One kick sent him into a rock, breaking his jaw.
He swung up, spinning his flail, even as blood gushed from his bite.
"Amusing, but pointless," she said, drawing her dagger.
One blink and she was in his face. She cut his throat before he could take one step, and blood spewed out him like a waterfall.
Leaned on his flail, he tried to call her anything he could, but only short gasps came out. He collapsed, letting his flail fall.
She whispered in his ears, nothing he could understand, and a light overtook the field.
The beast wailed, scrambling deeper into the caves. Shadows cleared, fog dispersed, and the silver light was brighter than the sun, something he'd not seen in so long.
Swords in both hands, Saraiza parried arrows, though one plunged through her shoulder. She hissed, covering her eyes. A spearman charged her head on, staking her through the chest. Her eyes glowed, emitting smoke. She wailed as her skin burned black, then the spearman kicked her over.
While she turned to a wiry withered black corpse, eyes going dark, the spearman knelt beside him, covering his wound. "Dany, take the other side!"
It was all black, but he felt Dany on his other side, aiding the spearman, Arthur he remembered him to be.
Then he heard Allison telling them to hurry. "More will come! Get to the village!"
Light rang again, against a cold sweep of smoke, and the other vampyres growled. It was nothing he could understand, but he was dragged away until Nathan pulled him atop a horse.
"Stay with us my lord!" The lad stuttered.
My flail, he wanted to say, for none of them had the strength to retrieve it.
Silver light touched him, and he opened his eyes to see the boy, the priest among Allison's party. She herself loosed arrows at howling shadows, though none of the vampyres pursued them.
He closed his eyes, the wounds on his throat sealed, as if the bite had never occurred in the first place.
"I told you I'd return my lord," Nathan said, a raspy voice. "On my honor, as son of..."