“The paths to glory, victory, and success are not roads, they are mountains.” Archaius the Conqueror (1110-1040 B. F. E.).

The Isle of Bones had more than earned the name. The land was white and dry, making it look like a literal dead land. It even felt like bones under Garassk’s feet as he finally stepped off the boat. But it was still preferable to being cooped up near Morgwar.

“So where are we supposed to go from here?” Rathorn asked. “How big is this island?”

“We won’t be getting lost,” Morgwar replied. “This entire island is one kingdom, and it’s all further inland. There’s nowhere to go but forward from here.”

The journey toward the kingdom proved to be haunting. Despite the dead look of the land, a forest did manage to thrive as they pressed on. The trees, rocks, and bushes all combined to create a twisted path, but Garassk and the soldiers weaved their way through them.

“So do any of you know anything about this kingdom we’re heading towards?” Garassk asked.

“Only what we’ve heard in stories,” Thora said. “No one has set foot on these lands for hundreds of years. At least, no one who has ever returned to tell of it.”

“That’s… not the most helpful answer,” Garassk said.

“All we have to go off of is speculation,” Morgwar growled. “I’ve heard some sailors who have passed through here claim that archers have shot at them. No archers shot at us, so perhaps it’s just a story.”

“Or maybe they’re just in the kingdom,” Rathorn said.

“Archers? Where does that come from?” Garassk squawked. “And yes, I heard you say that no one has set foot here in years, and all that, but you must have some idea. Those stories have to have come from somewhere.”

“The land is allegedly cursed,” Morgwar said. “No one knows exactly how, but undead citizens is the most popular guess.”

Garassk didn’t know how to phrase the rest of his questions, so he walked the rest of the way without saying a word. The skeletal forest was a fascinating sight. The ground looked like snow, but the leaves on the trees were as green as a summer’s day.

Castle towers poked out over the horizon as they drew nearer. The trees started to thin out, giving way to the kingdom itself. Oddly enough, the buildings were not as chalk-white as the land, suggesting that they had been built from stone and wood taken from elsewhere.

“Gods above,” Thora whispered. “It looks amazing.”

“We’re likely among the first to set foot here in hundreds of years,” Rathorn added.

“The second,” Morgwar growled. “But we’ll be the first to leave.”

He snorted and pushed forward. Garassk followed at a slower pace, watching every corner for a possible ambush. Rathorn and Thora followed his lead.

The city itself was empty once they got up close. The silence, however, was unnerving.

“Where is everyone?” Thora asked.

“Is there anyone?” Garassk added. “This place is so empty.”

“Given that this land is allegedly cursed, that might be for the best,” Rathorn grunted.

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“In any case, we’re here for a crown, not to meet he locals,” Morgwar reminded them.

“Right,” Garassk said. “But where do we go from here?”

“The castle,” Morgwar snorted, pointing.

“Right,” Garassk said, nodding. “Tallest building. Lead the way.”

The eerie stillness didn’t let up as they entered the town. Wind howled, but life was nowhere to be found. Garassk recognized several buildings by their design, but no one was using any of them. The inn had nothing but vacancies, the smith was not using his forge, and the gods had abandoned their temples.

The taste of rot grew stronger as they drew near the castle. Garassk struggled not to gag.

“What is that?” he croaked in disgust.

“More dead bodies than I’ve ever been around,” Rathorn said. “And I’ve fought in wars.”

“Yes, I know,” Garassk said, desperate to not hear Rathorn’s story again. “But how is the scent traveling? Something is very wrong here.”

“It’s probably a sign that we’re on the right track,” Morgwar said. “We’ve been stumbling blind this whole time. Follow the clue.”

Everyone groaned, crouched low and stepped carefully. Garassk flicked his tongue out constantly, leading them toward the stench of rotted flesh. He reached for his sword and tightened his grip.

Around the corner of the castle, a chasm stretched out in front of them. A group of twelve soldiers stood guard, all of them rotting, and wearing armor that looked as if it had been through enough wear-and-tear for centuries. Their movements were stiff and jerky, resembling puppets more than a living person. Fresher corpses littered their feet.

“What the hell is this?” Garassk whispered.

“It appears that the kingdom of the Isle of Bones isn’t completely empty,” Morgwar said. “Draugr soldiers still walk as if they were alive.”

“Explains the stench,” Rathorn said.

“And those dead men,” Morgwar said. “They’re Hrogvorth’s. He must have left them to be butchered while he takes the crown.”

“I don’t suppose he’d be one of the dead?” Garassk sighed.

“No,” Morgwar answered.

“How do we deal with them?” Thora asked.

“Carefully,” Rathorn said, sifting through his bolts. “Archers, get ready.”

“What?” one of them said.

“I’m going to go up that hill and shoot at them, Rathorn explained, pointing towards the hill. “When I let off my first shot, I want you to hit them from the other side.”

“Hold it,” Morgwar cut in. “I give the orders to my men, not you.”

“Very well, excellency,” Rathorn said. “Let’s hear your plan for how to deal with them.”

The archers exchanged looks before turning to their king.

“Do as he says,” Morgwar grunted. Rathorn limped off to carry out his plan. Garassk turned to watch the undead soldiers pace around the hole. He wanted to ask what they were guarding, but he worried that too much noise would alert the undead to their presence.

The air cracked as Rathorn shot a bolt. It sailed downwards and struck at the neck of one of the draugr. The figure staggered and shrieked, causing the others to break from their pattern. As they turned toward the shot, Morgwar’s archers made their move. The undead soldiers found themselves peppered with arrows. They turned toward the new attack, but their movements were slowed by the arrows.

Morgwar seized on that chance. He barreled toward the walking corpses and smashed at them with his fists and axe. By the time Garassk, Thora, and the rest of the soldiers felt safe enough to join the fray, there was little fight left to be fought. The draugr had been reduced to rotted slop, and all that was left to do was avoid stepping in it. Unfortunately, the slop was everywhere, making this mostly impossible.

“I think they’ve been dealt with,” Garassk said, checking carefully where he placed his feet. “Now what were they guarding?”

“From the look of things, a graveyard,” Morgwar said. “Or, to be more precise, a secret passage in a graveyard.”

The orc king waded into the hole. Rathorn slid down from the hill he’d hid from and joined the rest of the soldiers on the ground. Once they’d made their way through the gory mess, Garassk and the others followed Morgwar down. Garassk clenched his teeth as more cold air forced its way through him, and prepared for worse on the other side.