"How many are stationed there?" The illustrious Lord Herbert Duvald asked for the fifth time. His patience was running thin, and the smell of so much blood on the floor was beginning to make him feel as if his next meal should wait. This odd eyed demon foreigner did not have the strength to stand on his own two feet anymore, his hands bound by ropes, making his body sag like the worthless shit that he was. Fortunately, he was about to be useful. "There were 80," his translator told Lord Duvald. "Before the skirmish." 

"Ha!" The Lord Herbert barked audibly. "If we had known that then we would have attacked a week ago! We merely sent 50 men the other day in a light patrol. Another 50 and we could have continued on and sacked the bloody thing. In fact, we will do just that." The Lord smiled, then waved dismissively at the foreign prisoner. "Hang him tomorrow." The men surrounding him untied the prisoner, and the torturer began cleaning his bloodied blades. 
[hr] 
The one thing they could agree on, Rylen thought to himself as he patted his mount's side. Horseback riding was something to truly be enjoyed. The stables were located within the gates, but there was a smaller (but well barred) rear entrance they gained access to, and both men rode out into the night, searching for something illusive and half suspected. Rylen still thought this was daft. He was a crusader sergeant going off because of a whim. 

Meldarion had said otherwise. The battle the other day had seemed too convenient, and perhaps they could find some answers at the site the skirmish took place. They needed to collect some of the soldier's pendants as well, after all. Their families needed them to feel complete after their loss. He'd made a convincing argument, especially for a man who usually let the blade do the talking. 

They left armored and armed, just in case. Meldarion always had his curious sword with him, a thick, straight single sided blade that was honed to cutting and stabbing perfection. Rylen never understood where he got the thing. His scalemail armor though was crimson, and was reputed to be made of Dragonscales from Ludegren the Blooded. That is one thing the crusader knew was true. 

His own armor was standard for his army. Chainmail over leather, with his tabard atop him and his longsword at his side. He had a small studded mace strapped to his lower back for quick and unexpected strikes. He was a man of honor, but he'd do what he needed to in order to survive.

Their horses galloped into the valley, and the mists swallowed them up as they trotted towards the Dorochi pass. The feeling of the dead rising from some dark sorcerer wouldn't be too far fetched in this strange land. He felt bad enough that men died under his command. Him dying from their vengeance fueled corpses wasn't exactly an unjustified thought. [i]Stop thinking like that. [/i]