Torches in hand, they marched through howling white winds.
Lightning cackled.
Wrapped in their rags, huddled close to one another at every step, they pressed on for at least half a day. When their fingers froze, they kept walking. Fire withered, both torches doused, though they kept going. On their hands and knees, dragging themselves against the wind, they pressed on.
Upon waking up beside the redwell, they rekindled their fire and marched again.
"How did you make it last time?" Al muttered, tucked under his arm.
"Was a bit heavier," he answered, keeping his moldy hood up. "Fought every ogre alone to get out the swamp."
She laughed. "Maybe Peter was on to something."
He shook his head. "No one was depending on me."
"You think they're still alive?"
He didn't want to think on that, but nodded.
Al nodded back, and took his hand in hers, keeping it from freezing. Yet his other hand did, and he couldn't hold up his torch any longer. It was the farthest they'd gone in weeks, dusk darkening the sky.
There was no where to bed down for the night, so they started digging.
He swept away snow with his club, she carved a space with her spear, then they laid with one another.
Their last torch withered away, and total darkness ensued.
Snow bands thickened, and thunder gave them light for just a few blinks. They'd not last the night, and Al wept, cursing to herself at the thought of having to make the march again. He knew not what it meant to weep, but the emptiness in his stomach gave him plenty of the idea.
Light shined, faint, lasting longer than blinks at a time.
Club in hand, he rose to a knee. Al took to his side, spear ready, and fire danced within the darkness, floating their way.
Thunder revealed cloaked and hooded figures, stalking within the snow, torches in hand. A man shouted, nothing coherent against the wind. While waving their torches, the party spread out, lighting sparking farther ahead.
On their feet, they shouted loud as they could.
The man turned their way, waving his torch. "Over here!"
Against one another they limped towards the man.
An elder fellow, but strong, he helped them stand. The rest of the party joined them, and Al was in tears as they put a heavy cloak on her back. He tried speaking, but his lips were cold, and after they put a cloak on him he almost thanked the gods.
"My friend," the elder man said, helping him walk, "what a joy it is to repay you at last!"
He muttered something, but the man shook his head.
"Easy now. We've got a few miles to go until we reach camp."
Several minutes passed, and he felt is mouth again.
"Thank you," he stuttered, the emptiness in his stomach fading. "Thank you, brother."
The elder man smiled. "You are most welcome with us, Champion of the Swamp. Though I must say, you're a bit smaller last we met."
He grew a puzzled look and the man explained.
It came back to him, when the Nemesis delivered a fatal blow within the Graves. The poor souls he took against his better wish, every one of them had survived the white lands, and took in any soulless who braved the swamp.
"The gods send me a sign, whenever the redwell tree has gained new visitor," the man said, fire flickering ahead. "I believed it was the silence of the mountains first, but then, crows soared in the sky. The first time I've seen such birds since my last days in Kansas."
"Kan-what?" He asked.
"Pardon me," the man said, the party arriving at a roaring bonfire. "Before I was known as The Elder Bearer, I was called Paul in the world we're from."
"Paul," he said, Paul helping him sit beside the fire. "I can't repay you enough."
Paul shook his head. "You, have given us plenty. I wept against the swamp walls for many years before your arrival."
There was bread, potato stew, and wine.
They took small portions, he and Al, for their stomachs weren't used to real food. He was happy to drown himself in wine however, and he along with Paul and the others laughed and sang until midnight.
The others who called him Elder, were Leon, Iris, Rion, and a blacksmith known as Dresmund.
Dresmund recalled the armor he wore, finest to ever lay eyes on.
"Might not be able to make something so beastly," Dresmund said, he along with Paul the only ones still awake, "but it'll be better than those rags."
He ripped them off, tossing them into the fire.
Even with nothing but the cloak, it was the warmest he'd been in months. Paul handed him a scabbard, housing a short iron sword.
"Plenty more back at the village," Paul said, lying back, "but that'll do for the night."
"How many more of you are there?"
"Just a few. Mostly stragglers, and one lad who managed to fight his way tooth and nail from the swamps alone. He spends most of his time in the mountains, trying to fight off that iron clad champion."
"Iron clad?"
Paul sighed, then nodded. "One of the most frightening creatures I've ever seen. One wouldn't believe something so powerful would be in such a lifeless area."
"A dragon?"
Again, Paul nodded.
While laying back, he cursed all the gods.
What little sleep he got was the best he'd had since re-awakening in the swamps, and with a bright faced Al he followed Paul and his party at dawn. They crossed over a hill after midday, and the summit could be seen from miles away.
Atop that mountain, the largest of all the range covering a few miles, was a white flicker. It lasted for seconds at a time, and re-ignited during random moments in the day.
"You'll climb?" Paul asked as they crossed into a valley.
"Aye," he replied, stroking the iron hilt. "Should've killed him when I had the chance."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"
He nodded. "Hardok. The White Rider's greatest dragon."