Guilds, taverns, and some of the most frightening folk Nathan had ever seen.
Most stuck to their own parties, bands of travelers, mercenaries, treasure hunters, and all things the gods would despise.
Some wore gold cloaks, and rings on their fingers smelted from the high forest of elves, and they were among the most renown guilds in all the kingdoms. It was a town of wonder, Draynsville, suspicion, and celebration, for when adventurers returned on their journeys of conquest and victory the taverns filled with singing until morning.
Swords, axes, spears, and many more razor-sharp weapons, some larger than a grown man. Such strength they must've taken to carry, much less wield in battle.
It was a clear morning, the sun beaming down on a cobblestone road, and trumpets blew announcing his majesty's arrival.
Some adventurers offered their bows, others did not, and not even Captain Winwell nor Lady Arika made a mention of it, so long as they stayed clear of the king.
The party would press onward to the forsaken woods, find nothing, and Carl would return to the capital yet again empty-handed.
By some godsdamn luck, a massive man clad in armor walked the road.
Without question the largest man Nathan had ever seen, he bore armor not even a pair of war horses could've mustered. His flail was massive, a steel hilt at least the height of a man, the chain with a mace head spiked with razor steel. His black iron armor would've kept him safe from even dragon fire, and the shield on his back larger than himself.
Don't, Nathan wanted to tell Captain Winwell, but the renown officer of the Royal Guard rode his steed to advise the brute to make way.
'Better him than me,' Nathan thought, unashamed of considering cowardice.
He'd rather face an army of the undead than confront that man, who paid no heed to Winwell.
"That's his majesty of the House Pyr! You'll show some respect until he's passed through, ogre!"
Why? Why the fuck would you call him an ogre?
One swing of that flail would've wiped a company clean, and even a holy knight. blessed by all eight lords.
"Stop! That's an order bastard!"
The brute marched on, towards the woods, and Carl found his desire for aid from the famed adventurers.
"Wai!" His majesty demanded, and Winwell cursed as the escort was directed towards the woods.
The brute didn't budge but glanced back for no more than a seconds. He entered the woods, cold howls sweeping the escort, and Nathan's chest grew frigid.
Hand on his hilt, the other on his sword cross beneath his collar, he prayed to eight lords, namely the Lord of Life. What madness was driving that man? Large as he was the supernatural were something even the sharpest swords couldn't stop, and Nathan came to the realization that the rumors were true.
Since he was a lad, of all the tales to keep him awake at night none did so more than those of the Soulless. Ye' of a different world, brought about to the land of the kingdoms, destined to suffer death, and forever lost to the mercy of the pagan god.
Upon crossing the woods, Nathan felt his chest sink, and, after watching the Lady Arika be the last to enter, he knew the woods would be his grave.
"Your majesty I must insist," Winwell said, turning every guard around, "this must stop!"
Carl growled, "Are you defying the house? You want to visit the gallows so badly, or perhaps a pike shoved up your ass so far it sticks between your teeth?"
Winwell spat, "I did not spend the last twenty four years in this service to watch you march men to their deaths!"
"Careful," Lady Arika said, her voice raspy, drawing her mithril scimitar.
She approached Winwell on horse, her blade light and so thin Nathan couldn't see it upon her straightening it towards the captain.
"Are you not a holy knight of the order? This is the most interesting bout we've had in the last three years. Worst we'll run into is grave robbers or bone dust."
Winwell, hand on his hilt, tightened his jaw.
Carl smiled, waiting for a gesture, anything to give him an excuse to have Arika slay the captain for disorderly conduct.
Winwell removed his sword hand, then cursed, leading the party onward.
Over a hundred paces behind the brute, who appeared more as a shadow as they went further into the wood, men bickered amongst one another.
"Let's get the fuck out of here…"
"It's not too late…."
"The fuck's this fat bastard thinking?"
Bickering turned to silent shivers, every man struck with the same fear overtaking Nathan.
The best in all the kingdoms shook at the knees from howls echoing, high pitched shrills much more piercing than a wolf.
Werewolves? Vampires? Razelael himself? No, Nathan thought, shaking his head, taking deep breaths, remembering father's training. It mattered not, for at the next blood curling shrill, men were starting to freeze, turning away until a scowl from Arika kept them in line.
Carl waved for the party to return, but it was dark as night. It couldn't have been, as it was only an hour past dawn, yet there was no telling which direction was where.
The brute approached them, and many stepped back as he got within arm's reach of Winwell. Like a tower of iron, smoke emitted at his every breath.
"You led us on this madness!" Winwell shouted. "Take us back, or every sword in the kingdom'll be hunting for your head."
A heavy coarse voice, the brute said, "You going to tell them yourself?"
A foot tapped Nathan's shoulder, and he looked up to see Arika.
"Watch the woods. Leave the bickering to his majesty."
Sword drawn, others following suit, Nathan took up a position beside a stump.
The brute offered coin for his majesty to turn the party around, which surprised Nathan, though Carl refused.
"You dare give me spare change!"
Rickety screeches cackled within the shadows.
Frozen so stiff he couldn't even bring himself to keep his sword up, Nathan saw the light. Eyes, dozens of them, and skulls shuffling about lurking in the shadows. Torches withered thin, and the skeletons knocked their weapons upon shields.
Arika rode out to them, her steed a roaring beast with hundreds of battles, decapitating anything in her way. Skulls rolled in the dirt, and she was smiling. Even as skeletons surrounded her, cutting her off from Winwell and the others, she laughed.
The captain himself took up positions with the guard, Nathan among the right flank, and his majesty waved around a short sword.
"Drive them back! Fight for gods and country!"
Clatters, clinks, hissing snarks, it was all blurry nightmare.
Nathan thrusted, chipping metal off a rusty round shield, and a skeleton screeched at him. Shield to shield with fellow guards, he shoved back, then drove his blade through a brittle rib cage. Another skeleton swung down an axe, splintering his shield, and he yanked it back before putting his sword through its face.
Clustered against the wagon, they couldn't get any further than arm's reach. There were so many skeletons Nathan believed they would be crushed to death by sheer numbers alone.
One sweep of a massive flail cleared several ranks.
Bones rained over the party. Again, the brute swung his flail, turning dozens of skeletons to dust, and hissing turned to wails. They were afraid, so much so many dropped their weapons. He didn't let them flee, crushing them with his shield or bashing them with his flail.
"Push!" Winwell commanded, fighting dozens of skeletons on his own.
Atop his horse the captain appeared as a steel artist. Not as fast or finesse as Arika, though deliberate, precise, straight to the joints with little but a gesture. Surgical, putting the tip of pristine steel through any exposed cracks, and a skeleton fell apart upon one strike.
Shadows loomed overhead, and Carl yelped.
"Gods! Gods!"
On either side the Nathan, guards began to flee.
A massive black axe severed dozens in half, and blood soaked Nathan's face. While wiping his eyes clean as he could, the towering skeleton roared, its eyes blazing with green fire.
"Jump!" He screamed towards the wagon.
Carl fell out, inches from the axe crashing down, the wagon splitting in two.
As the axe rose overhead the brute barged into the giant, knocking it to its backside. One slam of his flail shattered its ribs, then another crushed its skull. More giants arrived, and the brute, the Brute of the Woods as some rumors had told, toppled them all. His flail wasn't just an oversized steel whirlwind of death, it was the only way Nathan and anyone else still alive were to escape the forsaken woods.
Smoke filled the air, and the ground shook.
"Get them out!" The brute shouted.
Winwell, the captain off his horse, covered in blood snatched the reins of the only horse left. He hoisted a shivering Carl atop, and demanded Nathan do so as well.
"Protect his majesty!" The captain ordered, losing his voice. "Don't stop until you reach the wood line!"
Nathan's hands trembled, fire surging around them. "I can fight! Let m-."
Flames illuminated the woods, Arika's crushed corpse the first thing he saw.
Then all the fifty-man escort, their bodies riddled with bones and twitching guts. He held himself up, trying to keep down the vomit, and Winwell shoved the horse, giving he and Carl a head start. Though he rode on, keeping his majesty upright, the bastard, he listened to the captain's cries. No more than a minute or so, then it was only roaring blazes and thunderous steel collisions.
Hundreds of paces away, in the cursed void of all the land, he saw him.
He saw the angel who stood beside the Ninth Lord, its wings rocking trees with every beat.
One man stood against it, clad in armor, a flail doused with blood.
A hand on Carl's chest, keeping the bastard upright, Nathan pressed onward, vowing to return for the sake of the fallen.