Chapter 42: Dorne VII

Mid 157 AC

It was late morning by the time the dead had been stripped of any supplies and buried, though the dead Stormlanders lay in piles, their bones and flesh to be a fitting feast for birds and beast upon their departure. The tall grasses that had so wonderfully concealed their numbers would soon give way to shorter pastures on their march towards Flavor Hollow, along the Wytchroad that had so wonderfully allowed for their rapid advance into the Stormlands. Yet now, at the crux of their journey, the morale that held his fellow Dornish together had finally cracked, and with it, their cohesion.

Alfrid, deep down, knew the fault to be his own. Despite his growing successes, despite the sheer damage they had caused, the morale had been sapped by the losses of men and time itself. Many a whisper had filtered to him deriding his savagery, of the slaughter of smallfolk, and now his newest upcoming action to see victory done. They longed to instead return home, to rest and recuperate before the dragons arrived in earnest to take their homes. What was the morale of a man deep in enemy lands compared to one defending the land upon which his ancestors had dwelt for thousands of years?

"You would abandon us in our time of triumph?" Alfrid calmly asked amidst the tense silence, the unity of their army now divided. On one side lay his uncle and cousin Michael, the younger of the two. Many a lord and their men stood beside them, but near as many stood with Alfrid, including his cousin Wyllam. Older men with little left to lose, young men disobeying the orders of their elders for glory and bloodlust, the remaining men who had unknowingly fallen under the sway of his true god…

"We have too many injured to continue fighting effectively, and our mounts grow fewer by the day," Wyllam the Elder replied, looking between his own group and their opponents, his eldest among them. "Those who stand by my side agree this course of action has reached its logical conclusion, for continuing it is nothing more than madness disguised as bravado and vengeance. We cannot stay here, let alone finish the fight in that village against Lord Wytch. Despite our victory over them, we lost too many supplies in the ambush to continue as we have been, and no village will be as easily taken as they once were to resupply what we have lost. What few scouts we still have indicate the Baratheon lord draws ever closer, and with him, far more men than we could ever hope to outlast." That they would likely not be taken as prisoners was left unsaid, another casualty of Alfrid's own doing.

"They move slow, father," Wyllam the Younger replied, standing firmly beside Alfrid. "They have always been moving slow. By the time they arrive to find the remains of Flavor Hollow and their Stormlord ilk, we shall be on our way home, far from their scouts."

"So will we, with the number of wounded we have, some of whom may not make the journey out of these lands, let alone to the border," his father replied sternly. "That you choose to stand beside your bastard cousin in this, my son, is a slight I cannot fathom, nor forgive."

"Michael will see the Wyl name carried on should I fall," was his reply. "But I will return, for the gods are just, and neither they nor I will not allow for our grievances to go unpunished."

"Unpunished? Look around you boy! The vengeful ambitions of your cousin have dragged us further into these lands than we were ever meant to. The Martells bade us to make the enemy suffer through their own lands on their way to Dorne, not to try and raze this half of the Stormlands to the ground! We have no idea of the true strength of the forces arrayed against our homes, let alone how fare the other houses against the dragon's vassals."

"Yet you went along with it, as we all did, father," his son said. "We have brought these lands to their knees, so that the dragon's may know a pittance of the price they will pay in our own lands, should they continue their march. We have bought time for Dorne, as we all knew was our mission. That many have died in the name of Dorne so far from her embrace is a small price to have been paid for her continued freedom."

"My lord uncle, if you wish to take the wounded and return to the border, then by all means, do so," Alfrid said. His heart yearned to call Wyllam the Elder out on this cowardice, but the voice of his true god forbade it, tempering his blood with the knowledge that, despite their goals being so close, it was wise to not risk them all in this same endeavor. "We each have our part to play in this war. Our courage and their injuries will win us the day, while your care and consideration will see your men return to Dorne as heroes, of whom women will flock to, men will name their sons for, and who shall become known as experts of defeating Stormlords at their own game in wars to come."

"Better we all returned," his uncle replied, but with a defeated look in his eyes. Alfrid had seen it grow as the days went on, when the older man thought none were looking, but he was always looking, always searching for weaknesses among his fellow Dornish, even his kin, to exploit for the benefit of their mission… for his benefit. "If you will not listen to reason, then at least bear in mind a warning, my son. Should the battle go awry, flee with all due haste, for there is no shame in living to fight another day. It was how our ancestors drove out the dragons the first time, and despite your insolence, I would see you return home alive and defeated rather than as bones."

"There will be no need to flee, father," Wyllam the Younger replied as he sipped from the flask Alfrid had handed him. "I will see you in Dorne, this I swear."

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Evening was upon them as they approached the outer ruins of Flavor Hollow, the light of the western sky ebbing as night's inky darkness approached. A full moon shone overhead, bathing the area in a light glow, more than enough for Alfrid to see the enemy's defenses. The sentries had not yet seen them, given their slow and careful movements, but that would change soon enough.

"Pitiful," he muttered, silently cursing his uncle's abandoning of their righteous cause. Fleeing south and east would skirt them around the Baratheon host, most likely, but it would do them little good to go anywhere else. Here, they could have encircled the enemy entirely, for none stood before them to halt their advance. Instead, he could see the cooking fires and the men huddled around them, with more shapes moving along whatever stakes and low walls they had hastily created around the outer perimeter.

"Bring out the prisoners," he muttered as he donned his helmet, motioning to cousin Wyllam.

With a soft whistle, men strung along by rope at their wrists, stripped of everything else, were brought to the front of the line. Behind them stood Dornish shields and spears, the forefront of their coming advance. Behind them were the rest of the men, their remaining mounts tied a short distance from a ruined barn. To fight in these streets on horseback would fail, much as it had their earlier attack led by his father. As none had returned, his father among them, Alfrid knew him to be dead or worse, Nadresy rest his soul. Yet despite his father's death, Alfrid knew better than to repeat his mistake of the raid and charge in with no regard for the situation. Instead, every man that could yet fire a bow had gathered with whatever jugs of oil they had saved from their camp, as they would not need them after this night.

"Give them Dornish fire and steel," he replied, moving to the front with the prisoners. One whimpered as he drew close, his Stormlander blood strong, but his resolve having failed him long ago after receiving Alfrid's 'hospitality' this morning. "Forward!"

As one the bowmen lit their arrows, and amidst sudden cries of the distant sentries, let loose a torrent of fire streaking through the sky. Alfrid knew they would likely not hit many men, but that was not the point. Chaos and confusion were his allies in this coming battle, as they had been his entire time in the Stormlands. Many landed amidst open ground of the town, along where the enemy's camp had been erected, but more than a few found targets among the standing buildings and tents. Soon, fire began to spread as the winds picked up, and in the eastern sky, dark clouds began to roll in, occasionally wreathed in lightning. Good, the winds would grow the fires faster than they could put out, for even as another volley streaked through the air, he could see the silhouettes of men with buckets splashing whatever they could against the fanned flames.

Amidst the distant rumbles of thunder finally reaching them, his men advanced, their naked prisoners at the front, kept in line by rope and threat of spear through their back. Every Dornishman had been taught that few armies could match the discipline of a Dornish line of spears, for every man in Dorne trained with the spear from the day he could walk until the day he could no longer hold one. As a warrior, it made them dangerous, but as a soldier, of one spear among many, it made them deadlier than a pit of vipers, and as relentless as a sandstorm. "Loose!" Alfrid cried, the flaming arrows finding more targets than before, their march slow but constant. Sentries continued to cry out alarms, and more figures moved amongst the flames, many with buckets of water, but they seemed scarcely armored. What men would willingly undress to sleep when the foe was at their doorstep? The fools.

Men armed with bow and crossbow alike appeared at the outer ramparts, some with a light gambeson or helmet, and others lacking armor entirely. In the light of the growing fires, they did not fire, just as Alfrid had planned with this one last gamble. His 'shields' were performing better than he'd hoped.

"Loose!" he cried again, and several sentries went down screaming, others ducking behind their cover as the flaming arrows filled the sky once more. Smoke was already beginning to billow, a great column of white that the moon filled with baleful light. The eerie glow it cast made it easier to see, much to his concern, but it was an inevitability. His men soon found their targets and let loose another volley, even as the defenders tried to return fire. A captured Stormlander cried in pain as one of his own kind's arrows stuck into his shoulder, yet he continued his slog, more fearful of the spear at his back.

A sudden volley of arrows rained from the sky. Curses! Archers at the back of the camp had fired over their comrades towards his own, many falling short of his archers, but not his spearmen. A few here or there grunted in pain, their shields and armor blocking most stray shots, but the 'shields' in front had no such luck. Some fell without a sound, the arrows of their own riddling them. Dark blood seeped from their wounds in the dim glow, and those that fell yet lived received a spear to the heart for their troubles.

Then the light began to disappear amidst a rumble of thunder, the clouds smothering the light above them. A bolt of lightning flashed, far nearer than the others, likely within the camp of the enemy, and the resounding crack of the following thunder shook his very bones. "No matter," Alfrid said, his blood running hot as the glow faded, and the world was once again a deep gloom, lit only by the burning cottages and ramshackle fortifications his foe had hastily erected. Light rain began to fall, and as they drew close enough, Alfrid sensed the time was now. "Press the attack! For Dorne!"

As one, the remaining prisoners were pushed forward at spearpoint, the phalanx behind them advancing well up to the first entrance of the defenses. Whatever sentries remained tried to fire into their ranks, but shield and helpless Stormlander alike blocked their shots. Some went down with cries, their companions slowing as the weight of dragging their fellows began to grow. Those that tried to turn back were met with a wall of shields and spears. More arrows flew, and some fell with Stormlander arrows or bolts in their backs, and with fewer between them and his men, more such projectiles soon found more appropriate targets.

Yet they had prepared for this, and as one, the Dornish phalanx shoved the survivors to the ground, advancing over the top of their pitiful forms with heavy stomps and flashes of sharp steel. The first line of defenses, simple stacks of stones and logs stood in their way, but the men pushed, their spears lancing out at whatever enemy lay within reach on the other side. As several went down in founts of blood, the others retreated, just as Alfrid arrived behind his men.

"Push!" Wyllam cried beside him, his voice carrying easily over the battle. "As one, for the love of your people, and of Dorne herself, push!"

As one, with cries escaping in a cacophony of rage, the phalanx pushed, and the flimsy barricades collapsed before their combined might. The first line had been breached, and as the errant arrow stuck itself into a polished shield or whizzed by overhead, they marched on, coming into a small clearing behind these first obstacles. The next line was much the same, between the burnt remains of two small cottages, in which pitiful smallfolk, armed with nothing more than small slabs of thin wood and burnt sticks for spears stood in their way. None even bore the livery of their lord, so unready were they for this attack!

"Advance!" Alfrid cried once more, and as one, the phalanx moved forward, a wall of shield and spear that the smallfolk could not hope to match. Indeed, just as they met, and the smallfolk's attempts to spear them simply glanced off the shields, his Dornish returned their strikes. Unarmored and undertrained, the few smallfolk that survived the first strike fled back, dropping their weapons amidst screams of terror and agony as their fellows were butchered before them. Most were simply speared, some where they lay, others where they stood, and the survivors were simply stomped or gutted as Alfrid's men continued into the camp.

The pitiful barricades before them once more gave way with a mighty shove, and the area opened into a wider, flatter field. Tents lay about, some aflame, others yet disgorging whatever men were able to arm and armor themselves more than the first sentries had done. Many were knights and men at arms, but with his sharp, gleeful eyes, Alfrid could see many of these were wounded men. Those that were not swelled their ranks, but they remained a haphazard collage of arms and armor, some near naked save for a breastplate or helmet, others in full gear. Behind the rain-soaked foe was a small rise that overlooked them all, wreathed in lightning that seemed to never stop crackling over its lone tent. From here, arrows flew into his ranks, but Alfrid widely grinned beneath the shields of his fellows. His Dornishmen held firm, for here was where the battle would be decided, and his legacy cast in stone and the minds of Dornish everywhere.

"Men!" he cried. "Have at them!"

His phalanx grew at the expense of its depth, lengthening to nearly be as wide as the line of the enemy was. Here, in closer quarters, he knew Dornish excelled against foes that could not bring superior numbers to bear, and with a roar, they began their final advance. Behind him, one last volley of Dornish arrows flew, striking many shields and men alike all along the Stormlander battle line. Their arrows depleted, his bowmen then drew their swords and followed, entering the camp and positioning themselves on the flanks of their spearmen brethren.

Their mutual lines met in a clash of steel and screams as the rain grew heavier upon them, the ground beneath churning into a muddy, bloody mess. His men stood firm as they advanced, their wall of spears piercing any man whose armor was loose or missing, their guts and blood spilling in torrents of disgusting smells and pitiful cries. The ground churned beneath their feet at the phalanx pushed, the men along the flanks slicing their way through whatever smallfolk levies were sent to try and attack them. The fools, even in their pitiful armor, were no match for true Dornish steel and might!

Almost as one, the line of Stormlanders began to falter, men falling back in ones and twos, and then more, in groups of five, some running even as the remaining Dornish arrows from the last of Alfrid's reserves fell among them like sharpened hail. Some fell, arrows in their backs, yet others continued as with a great series of shouts, the men retreated before his advancing line. Alfrid's soul soared through the connection to his patron, their suffering satisfying Nadresy more than a hundred hogs could hope to.

Then the wind began to grow still, and the rain cooled to the touch. Alfrid noticed at once, his men following shortly after, as confusion crept into their ranks even as they advanced towards the fleeing enemy. Any upon the ground were speared where they lay, cries of mercy and ransom forgotten as the noise of the storm seemed to deepen. Thunder rumbled overhead, deeper than it should as the black clouds soon gave way to a sickly green hue, brightened only by the lightning coursing along their forms.

Amidst a greater rumble that shook the sky itself, rolling over their backs from the west, a new wind blew. A western wind, coming from whence they had, rushing along with whispering rain and a growing chill. Then, it happened, amidst a greater rumble of thunder, high and behind them. From atop the small rise emerged a new line of men, the flashes of lightning and the dying fires of the burning village casting them into both relief and great shadow. Castle-forged steel, hued blue and with red trim stood starkly in contrast with the great white swords they held aloft. No, not swords, these monstrous blades held before them could not be simple swords, for Alfrid had never seen a blade so large. The men holding them were large as well, the red tufts along the ridge of their helmets making them seem even taller as they let their retreating fellows pass.

Along their flanks, men with great pavise shields appeared, their frames rimmed with steel and studded with iron. Even in this light, Alfrid could see their armor was a mix of plate and brigandine, with weapons alternating between warhammers, axes and mighty crossbows. Though fewer than his number, these were no common rabble of levied smallfolk or destitute hedge knights. These were men trained and armored to fight people like him and his men, meant to smash through any line of defense and bring ruin to their foes. Then before them appeared a man, armored in full plate, his livery matching that of all those atop the small ridge, and the western wind grew stronger, even as the clouds overhead continued eastward amidst colder rain and louder rumbles of thunder. A white spearhead, atop a field of red and blue stripes…

A chill unaffected by the rain went down Alfrid's spine at the realization… this must be the Lord Wytch… but how? How did the man live when Alfrid knew his own arrow had pierced his chest this morning? How did he yet move, when the coagulated 'gift' of his god had coated that arrowhead, and would have laid low any man whose flesh it pierced? Yet there was no mistaking it, for Alfrid recognized that sigil anywhere, having laid waste to every village from Dorne's border and into these lands, and that damnable lord was here before him, where no man should be! Whispers of his god soothed this fear for a moment, but that fell away as lightning flashed once more, a great bolt that cast, for a moment, the entire area into near daytime. He feared not the flail by Wytch's side, an old and ugly thing that seemed to glow for a moment after every flash of lightning, nor the darkness that seemed to frame the man as he stood before his men, nor even the fact the man still lived, despite the 'gift' of Nadresy still surely wreaking havoc upon his body.

It was his eyes. Even from here, Alfrid could see the purple Valyrian eyes peering out from that great helm he wore, shining with rage amidst every flash of lightning, and in the back of his mind, he felt his master… tremble? No, impossible, his master did not feel fear. His god did not fear a mere mortal, no matter the circumstances. Rousing his courage, Alfrid made to give an order, but his men had already stopped at Wyllam's bellows, assuming a defensive stance. Confusion replaced his fear, as he glanced up and down their silent lines, and then he saw why his cousin had given the order.

As a single mass of stormblooded men, the enemy was marching upon them. Not running across the muddied ground beneath them, not charging amidst bellows of fury and anger, but slowly moving towards them, parting around their lord as silent waves of steel before the man began to follow them, surrounded by his own sworn shields of full plate and resolute hate. At the center marched the ominous men with their massive swords, the blades shining eerily bright as the last of the fires died under the increasingly cold rain.

Alfrid sighed in nervous excitement and saw for the first time his breath form before him. At that moment, the wind roared to life behind him, pushing from the west with a sudden strength that defied explanation. No western winds blew when autumn's rage was funneled through Stormbreaker Bay and into the Stormlands. Not unless… autumn was over. If that were true, then the first storm of winter was upon them, and to the men that knew plains and scrublands, dry forests and grasslands , that meant the danger of one thing, that the might of the gods could be upon them, descending from the sky as a vengeful example of their wrath…

Then his thoughts were driven from his mind as Lord Wytch and his forces met with Alfrid's own, and all hell broke loose. From behind, bolts flew from mighty crossbows, slamming into his lines. Most shields held, some cracking under simultaneous strikes, but wherever a gap had appeared, a man fell, blood spurting from his wounds. His men retaliated as the enemy drew near enough, trying to pierce their foe as they had done the other smallfolk.

Yet too many spears simply glanced off the rounded armor of the center, either failing to find purchase on their slippery shape or barely seemed to find a joint as the great white swords flashed. Spears were broken in a cacophony of shattering wood, as trees bent and broken before the might of a southern gale. Screams sounded as shields and men alike in the first rows were set upon by these… pikebreakers. In wide arcs these men swung, and amidst the flashes of light, Alfrid saw heads and limbs fly in fountains of blood, with some men being cut in twain before his very eyes. As merciless as storm waves upon a foundering ship in deep water, he watched his phalanx break apart under this onslaught, and even when one of these pikebreakers fell behind or took a wound, they seemed not to care at all. From behind, the retreating Stormlanders, more prepared and many of them far more armed and armored than before, rushed in to support their fellows, swelling their numbers along the entire front. Under this renewed onslaught, Alfrid saw flanks begin to close in, and he could fell the tension as his men looked to him for what to do.

He wished to cry for them to attack, but how could he? What could he do against this storm?

"Meet it," a voice whispered in his head, as his loose skin was chilled by the falling rain. "Meet it with the gifts I have given you and your fellows, the gifts we have kept secret all this time."

"My god?" he whispered, the cold abandoning him as his body grew warm, far warmer than it should. He had known the others would not understand his newfound patron, and under Nadresy's tutelage he had managed to keep them mostly unaware of his gifts, hidden as they were. Now though? "Truly?"

"Indeed, my prophet. Let them know the power of your master, and the price of my vengeance!"

With a cry of anguished joy, echoed by many others in their midst, Alfrid freed himself from the control over his body he'd been forced to maintain, and effect was immediate. In burst of wet and crunchy agony, he felt his jaw widen far more than it should and his eyes bulge from their sockets. His howl grew deep and low, his teeth aching as his body rebelled against itself, the white froth of his master pulsing beneath his skin. A flash of light, and in his newly sharpened vision, his flesh seemed to boil, with white snakes moving beneath the skin in wriggling masses. His sword hand trembled, sharp talons erupting from the tips of his finger in spouts of blood and white foam, each longer than the finger itself as it grasped his sword tightly. His other hand melted as that same foam erupted from his flesh, solidifying over it as his fingers fused into two parts, lengthening and growing sharper amidst his joyful proclamations.

"Attack! For Dorne and the one true god!" he cried, his guttural call echoed by shouts and screeches from his fellow believers. Ignoring the terrified looks of those few among them who had not learned of Nadresy, he charged into the melee just as the phalanx began to fully break, and the clean battle lines descended into a chaotic melee.

Ducking beneath the wide swing of a pikebreaker without a thought, his head retreating into the mess of loose skin his neck had become, Alfrid struck his sword against the side of a coming knight, knocking the man's shield aside. With a lunging strike, his other hand, as solid as iron, clamped down on the man's sword arm and twisted. In a gout of blood, the offending arm was broken near off, and as the man screamed, Alfrid's sword found his neck, plunging into his body with a sharp slide of steel.

He withdrew his sword even as the corpse fell, moving onto his next foe. His head darted forward as the man made to swing, his jaw opening far more than it should, and clamping down on the man's exposed head. With a crunch, he bit through the man's skull, his teeth now a solid, sharp line. Spitting the remnants away as the man gurgled and fell, he advanced more, as the chaos grew amidst their number. Crushing a man's shoulder with his free hand, he saw Wyllam make for the others to follow.

Yet the ungifted Dornish did not join in the fray. Those that could, some giving cries of sudden fright or screams of terror, retreated from the frontline, Alfrid and his follower's new forms proving to be too much for their minds to handle. In their madness to flee these sudden monsters of what had once been comrades, they abandoned their cause, turning tail and fleeing from whence they had come.

"Cowards!" Alfrid cried, even as his head retreated beneath a pikebreaker's strike, his sword flying from his hand as he punched into the man's chest, talons piercing the steel plate with contemptuous ease. "Craven fools!"

As he saw their retreating forms flee, he felt a change in the air. Dodging another blow, he sidestepped and severed the leg of a men at arms, ignoring his cries as he turned to Lord Wytch. The lord was moving toward him and whirling his great flail above his head, silent but resolute in his march into the fray. The glow of lightning did not fade from the flail, instead lingering on its twirling form, and from behind, the sound of the storm intensified beyond anything they had seen.

"You monsters in the skins of men!" Lord Wytch then roared, drowning out the thunder even as the winds grew ever fiercer, and the deepening cold turned the rain into streaks of small hail. "Foes and fiends, devils and demons! You have slain my people, ravaged my lands, and now look to turn tail and flee at the first true fight you face? There is nowhere you may run, nowhere you can hide from the Wytch, for you shall FEEL-,"

The swinging intensified, and strange sigils, in a language Alfrid did not know, glowed a baleful, greenish light upon the flail's length.

"THE WRATH-,"

The winds shrieked as his fleeing allies untied and mounted their horses-,

"OF THE STORM!"

Above the battlefield, where the winds of the west met the storm of the east, the clouds buckled and bowed as a slate of metal under the blow of a great hammer. Dipping down, swirling with crackling lightning, a central cloud grew lower, and lower, spinning faster and faster as it did so. The roar of the winds soon drowned out the battlefield, drowning even the blood thundering in Alfrid's ears as the final shape of the cloud took form, and it's winding tail touched the surface.

A whirlwind had formed, the most devastating storm known to men who dwelled away from the coast, and with flashes of lightning striking within its whirling frame, it began its path of destruction. From along a northern ridge it came, not along a winding and unknowable path, but with a direct course, straight for the outer limits of the village.

Straight towards his fleeing Dornishmen, and whatever mounts they still had left to escape upon.

Beside him, Wyllam cried in shock and anger as a bolt pierced even his armored shoulder, a font of blood and sickly foam spurting onto the ground. Alfrid moved to his side, only for his cousin's words to die in his throat as another bolt appeared, shattering his cousin's skull, brains and more foam erupting as it punched through his face and erupted from the back of his head. He fell, wordless, as the battle continued in this terrible storm.

Abject terror seized Alfrid's heart as the whirlwind descended upon the village's western edge, and amidst the fighting, he heard the screams of the terrified horses and Dornishmen long before he saw the ensuing destruction. Entire buildings were broken apart, their timbers flying as great arrows cast by the bow of an angry god. Men and horses were torn from the ground, screaming as they careened up into the sky, flung off to parts unknown or were consumed by the wrathful winds themselves, disappearing into the bowels of the great mass of wind and debris. Those that remained on the ground were smashed with whatever the winds threw at them, great lengths of wooden timbers spearing horse and rider to the ground in eruptions of dirt and ichor. Others were crushed by the remnants of houses falling from the sky as great agglomerations of debris, their bodies simply becoming smears across the ground as the wind retrieved its deadly cargo.

Then a crack of thunder saw the Wytch upon him, and he barely managed to dodge the strike aimed his way. He could hear the whine of the flail pass overhead, a strange echo that carried with it the rumble of thunder and the screams of the harshest winds known to man. He rolled and grabbed a sword, his talons curling tight as he struck back. The flail's chains, pulsing with that same strange greenish light, shone as the end swung towards him, forcing him to dodge once more.

Alfrid swung his sword towards Lord Wytch, the blade striking his arm, but the armor held firm, and he retreated to avoid the flail from splitting his skull open. Again and again, he struck amidst the cacophony of battle and storm, the icy hail turning the battlefield into a churning mass of mud and ice, bending and even breaking his enemy's armor on occasion, but none of it fazed his foe. Every dodged blow from Lord Wytch was followed by a rumble of thunder, every swing amidst a crack of lightning searing across the sky, those glowing Valyrian eyes showing nothing but hate and a desire for him to perish. Around him, his fellows grew fewer, fighting the same desperate fight he did, against foes of the storm and hate, men whose sole purpose was to see them all dead.

Alfrid railed against the terror in his chest, stoking his hatred and rage. Before him stood his hated foe, the one his master so thoroughly ordered him to destroy. The source of his frustration, his stinging defeat, his sorrow and desperation and all his other woes. It was this man that had denied him his chance at a life, a name, and the power to rise above his low station.

With a roar and renewed vigor, he pressed his attack, turning his foe on the defensive for the first time. As lightning flashed and his blood sand with the heat of his homeland, Alfrid Sand advanced, cleaving limbs and ripping flesh from whomever tried to interfere. All around, the battle continued, and his own took precedence over anything his men cried to him. A bolt punched into his shoulder, but the thick casing of a shell that had grown over it held firm, splintering but otherwise holding firm, and with nary a thought he pulled it free before continuing his attack.

His sword was struck from his hands, but he ignored it, using his talons and massive claw instead, head ducking into the folds of his neck to avoid whatever blows to his head Lord Wytch made. His foe grew tired, even amidst the battle, he could sense it, he could taste it on the air, and the injuries he had sustained continued to weaken him. After punching the man upside the head, his talons ripping the helm from his Stormlander features, Alfrid dodged another wild swing, and then struck.

His talons punched into the plate along the man's chest, rending through the metal like soft cloth, with flesh and blood warming his cold hand, and as he raised his great claw to deliver the final blow, the flail came his way. Without hesitation, he grabbed onto the arm wielding it instead, robbing the swing of its power and ducking beneath what the blow would have been. Even as the flail hung limply from his great claw, he smiled, grin growing wide.

"Now it ends," he whispered, and opened his maw, his fused teeth jutting forward as his neck extended.

Then pain erupted from his clawed arm as a sword cut through it, severing it. Enraged and in pain, he stumbled back, swatting the offending pikebreaker with enough force to rip through his plate and leave deep, bloody furrows along his torso. He turned to Lord Wytch and made to grab him again, seizing the arm hold the flail. He ignored the useless strikes from the lord's free hand, and attacked once more, his jaws leaping towards the struggling lord.

The larger of the two, the man managed to lean, earning Alfrid's jaws upon his plated shoulder, which began to buckle and crunch beneath his otherworldly bite. Then something in the periphery of his vision moved, and Alfrid's eyes swiveled to see the flail suspended above him, moving against the wind and hail to hover, like a serpent about to strike. In a flash, it had launched itself at him and the chain was wrapped around his throat. Gagging in agony as the metal burned against his patron-blessed skin, he tried to retreat his head into the folds of his neck, but to no avail. The strange metal pressed tighter against him, the flail's chains seemingly alive as they began to twist, constricting him more and more. Amidst a strangled cry, he let go of Lord Wytch, his free and remaining hand trying to pry the icy chains from his flesh. Yet they tightened more, as if alive and filled with a great desire to see him dead. Impossible!

"Master!" he croaked out, spittle flying as his skin began to turn red. "Master, help me!" Yet the bond with his god conveyed only a sense of terror as Lord Wytch grabbed his free arm despite his grievous wounds, Valyrian eyes boring into his own, with a sense that not just Lord Wytch stared back at him. Time froze as their silent gazes clashed, enemies beyond compare, and then with a savage grin, Lord Wytch bellowed the most frightening words Alfrid had ever heard.

"Know that the gods come for you next, abomination, for you too shall learn to DREAD… OUR… WRATH!"

A bolt of lightning struck near them amidst the battle, and with a mighty tear, Alfrid felt the chain rip through his neck, severing his head from his body. All at once, the world grew muffled as his fleeting mind struggled to find sense of it all. Spouting blood and foam, his twitching form fell to the ground, and as the whirlwind died as suddenly as it had formed, and lightning against the sky crackled with an unholy intensity, for a moment, Alfrid saw something high in the skies to the west. A great pair of wings, barely silhouetted against the clouds, and a face of terrifying proportions, that of a man and a vulture staring right at him. Then he was gripped by his hair as his features, so blessed by his god, agonizingly returned to normal. His ears began to fail as, his head held aloft, the last sound he heard was a great roar of triumph, and then it all went dark, for the final time.