BOOK ONE: CHAPTER ONE: A STUMBLING OF TONGUES AND FORTUNES

FLINTLOCK AND FURY (VOl. 1 of the Of Gods and Monsters Saga)

BOOK ONE: SONG OF BLOOD AND BONE CHAPTER ONE: A STUMBLING OF TONGUES AND FORTUNES

Terms for Chapter One

- Meragys: the continent this story takes place on

- longsnout (rifle styled weapon) - Ironbloods: a collective term used by the Alvar tribes to describe the Valoy and Elbions

- Fengor: a tribe of the Alvar race. Wielders of the Ard and the Hand of Alos. Allies of the Valoy.

- Onari: a tribe of the Alvar race. Wielders of the Ard and the Hand of Alos. Allies of the Elbions and sworn enemies of the Fengor.

- The Elbion Empire: occupying military and colonial force in Northeastern Meragys. Enemies of the Valoy Empire. Called Ironbloods by the Alvar. Rivals with the Valoy Empire over alliances with the Alvar and also for trade and land rights. Use military technology as opposed to magic to conquer their enemies. Occupy a territory on the continent called Valdegard.

- The Valoy Empire: occupying military and colonial force in Northern Meragys. Enemies of the Elbion Empire. Called Ironbloods by the Alvar. Use military technology but are not opposed to using magic against their enemies. Occupy a territory on the continent called New Valoran.

- Du Raen (Valosi word for "Two Streams", the location for the Prologue. This location is within the Elbion Empire's domain but has recently been crossed over into by a party of Valoy soldiers and Fengor warriors)

LIEUTENANT JEORN WINTERFIELD (POV)

DU RAEN (A disputed territory in Meragys)

Fighting the urge to shiver, Lieutenant Jeorn Winterfield readjusted the heavy officer's coat he wore in an attempt to block out the chill of the crisp winter air. Though he had been on his feet since dawn and had walked nearly seven miles already, the exertion did not seem to have aided in keeping him warm. Letting out an icy breath, he signaled for the band of men following closely behind him to stop, the crunching of their footsteps in the snow coming to a sudden halt. Taking advantage of the silence, he began to mull over the instructions he'd been given just a day before. Having possessed an exemplary memory since childhood, he had no difficulty in remembering the details that had been painstakingly laid out to him the night before. Seek. Engage. Dismantle. Spare. Four actions that were to be carried out with tact and precision. Though most young officers new to their posts might have paled with fear at the possibility of failure, he had simply nodded and assured his commanding officer all would be done exactly as ordered, all while fighting the urge to flash a more-than-confident grin. Even now, cold, tired and slightly hungry, he maintained his self-assurance and fully believed that all would go according to plan. Glancing back up at the gray skies, which were partially hidden by the snow-covered blood pines, he searched for a glimpse of the sun so he might get an idea of the time. With the day nearing seven o'clock, he figured it would not be long before they finally reached their objective, a small Valoy encampment donned Du Raen, which was just within the borders of Elbion territory. Tasked with confronting a small party of trespassers, which was said to be made up of ten Valoy soldiers and ten Alvar warriors of the Fengor tribe, Winterfield couldn't help but feel a spark of excitement at the idea of getting his first taste of battle, albeit a brief one. He'd heard tales of the ferocity of the Fengor warriors and rumors of a strange, dark magic they possessed that had the ability to reduce a man to ashes in an instant. The thought itself was enough to send another shiver through him, though he found he was more intrigued than frightened of such a prospect. As for the Valoy, he personally did not think much of their kind, least of all their skills in battle. He'd encountered a handful of them just recently at a parley and his opinion of them was that they seemed a silly race who cared more about imbibing large quantities of wine and telling lewd stories than giving any consideration to the art of war. He had no doubt that today should prove such an assumption correct.

His musings were chased away by the sudden appearance of one of his Alvar companions at his side. The Alvar in question was a tall, dark complected man called Wyonda, a respected prince and warlord of the Onari tribe, a distinction that was made known by the traditional markings on his face and neck, as well as by the manner of his dress, which consisted of a deer hide cloak dyed red and lined with fur and a tribal pattern of gold and green beads that were sown into his under-tunic. Black elk leather stockings served as trousers for himself and his fellow Alvar companions and on their feet they wore shoes of the same making. Though many may have felt their garb to be impractical Winterfield had been surprised to learn that their manner of dress proved to be far greater refuge from the winter cold than the cotton shirts, stiff trousers and thick, high collared coats of the Elbion peoples. However, it was also said that the magic natural to the Alvar, called Altaer or Hand of Alos, was the real reason behind their tolerance to the cold. Regardless of the real reason, for a moment he felt envious of the other man's warmth and wondered if it would be appropriate to offer him a sum of money for the fur lined cloak should the chill become unbearable. "Does the Winter Lord stop to rest his men," Inquired Wyonda dryly, "or is he lost, perhaps?" Winterfield bristled with irritation at being addressed both as "the Winter Lord" and also at the insinuation that he lacked an adequate sense of direction. Glancing at the Onari prince, he noted with increasing annoyance how the Alvar's expression, though blank, was made known in his ebony eyes, eyes that betrayed the existence of a smug smile that was undoubtedly one of amusement at perceived inadequacy on the part of the young Elbion officer. For an instant he was reminded of his father's eyes, which had often looked upon him with the same simpering glint, a wordless, crushing indication of incompetence that struck to the core. Forcing the image from his mind, Winterfield attempted to rally his reserve by raising his chin a little higher, willing himself to respond with calm and certainty rather than stammer foolishly or address the haughty warlord with youthful impertinence. "Not at all, I assure you, sir." He replied evenly, relieved his voice did not give hint to the lingering agitation he felt gurgling within him, "I am simply inquiring the hour of your Mother Sun so we might achieve our destination in good time." Wyonda, still expressionless, simply nodded at this explanation and turned his attention back to the vast expanse of woods ahead, adjusting his cloak tighter about him as he did.

Deciding he would rather freeze than suffer any further implications of naivete by bargaining for the Alvar's cloak, Winterfield ignored the chill that gnawed at his bones and proceeded to consult with his laconic guide. "We cannot be further than two miles from the Valoy encampment. I suspect we will come upon them within the hour." He said confidently. "Yes, so it would seem." Responded Wyonda slowly, causing the Elbion lieutenant to suppress the urge to grin with relief that his estimation had paid off. Looking back over his shoulder, Winterfield saw that his men and the other Alvar warriors stood dutifully at the ready, their forms upright and alert awaiting further direction from their superiors. Though they did not show it in their stances, he could detect that his own men, garbed in the same deep purple uniform and garb as him, were also fighting the effects of winter's sharp bite, their faces chapped and angry red from the chill. The high collars of their identical coats had failed to serve their purpose of sparing their wearers from the nip of the frosty air and since scarves had not been afforded to them due to somewhat dubious reasoning their only refuge from the weather was a pair of leather gloves lined with wolf fur from within that had been distributed just weeks before. Other than this, they suffered the consequences of being forced to wear uniforms made almost entirely of cotton, a decision that echoed a common belief that every member of Her Imperial Majesty's Army was not only subject to their Empress but also to the latest fashions, regardless of the impracticality of such an idea. He recalled the sharp words of a former superior officer of his acquaintance, whose response to a subordinate's complaint at having to wear the dreaded regalia had silenced any further discussion about the matter: "It is not the making of a soldier's livery that ought keep him warm but rather his love of crown and country. That alone should be sufficient enough for any man with the privilege of serving in Her Majesty's Imperial Army." The statement may not have inspired any feelings of royalist devotion in him, but it had certainly been made clear to him that if one hoped to rise to favor, they were obligated to choose the discomfort of conformity to a higher will as opposed to acting with even the smallest degree of dissent.

While his ambitions had not managed to keep out the cold, they had acquired him rank and a chance at further elevating his status, a reality that was worth more to him than the warmth of a fur lined cloak or roaring fire. So long as he continued to rise, he was determined to endure the fury of all four seasons and even the fires of Baratos to secure his vision of a prosperous future. "We should continue." He stated, releasing a deep breath into the air he'd not realized he was holding until that moment, sending a puff into the air that reminded him of smoke, frigid smoke at that. He wondered if, like the dragons in the ancient fables, Wyonda and other Alvar really breathed smoke from their nostrils like many claimed they did? He had yet to see any truth to the rumor. "As my Winter Lord commands." Responded Wyonda with another slight nod of his head. Turning back to his warriors and the Elbion infantrymen, the warlord gestured for the troupe to continue onward with a sharp wave of his arm and a curt utterance in his native language, his order immediately obeyed as the five Alvar and five Elbions once again began their march through the snow laden woods. Winterfield had hardly taken a step when he felt an overwhelming sense of dread hit him, a crippling sensation that made his entire body feel as if it were made of lead. Though he did not understand why he felt as he did, he couldn't ignore the feeling that he was about to enter one of Fortune's many halls and feared perhaps he may enter a most unforgiving corridor of circumstance should he take another step. The simple man bows to Fate. A great man laughs in its face and makes himself its master. His father's words echoed in his brain, yet another reminder of the demands of one's ambition. If he did not embrace the risk of falling, he may never rise. "Fate be damned," He swore from within, "I will be thy master." And without further hesitation, he set off into the uncertainty that patiently awaited him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A little over an hour later the troupe caught the scent of campfires burning ahead, a sign that they were at last nearing their destination. Both Winterfield and Wyonda subtly gestured for their men to tread extra softly on the crunchy snow of the woodland floor and to proceed in a manner likened to the vigilant prowl of a mountain panther. Longsnouts held close at the ready, the small band crept without detection towards the encampment, intending to fortify themselves behind a cluster of fallen trees and thick elderberry bushes that bordered the south eastern side of the clearing. The musical gurgle of the twin streams of the bivouac appropriately named Du Raen was clearly heard, its rills flowing down from the small hills at the northern end of the location and splitting off east to west beneath the careful feet of the advancing party. Hardly a moment later a clutter of voices was audible, the utterances undoubtedly that of the Valosi tongue or Fengor dialect. Lieutenant Winterfield felt his chest seize at the sound, a mixture of excitement and anxiety that pressed him on with increasing wariness. A harsh whisper from Wyonda alerted him to the sudden flashes of blue that upon closer inspection appeared to be the distant shapes of Valoy soldiers, their azure uniforms sticking out like sore thumbs in the snow white surroundings. He wondered with momentary dread as to whether or not the garish uniforms of him and his fellow Elbions were also conspicuous to the enemy force. He also thought it fairly odd they had not yet encountered a sentry, especially one with the keen senses and hawkish eyes of the Fengor. It seemed favor still smiled down on him, though such luck did little to ease the lingering apprehensions of his mind.

Finally reaching the rudimentary fortification of the fallen pines and bushes, the evicting host ducked behind the limbs and bramble, awaiting further instruction from the lieutenant and his princely companion with practiced patience. "What does Wyonda make of this assembly?" Inquired Winterfield in a half whisper as the experienced eyes of the warlord scanned the camp and its occupants. Wyonda was silent for a moment, his dark eyes piercing and intense as they looked out past the brush into the clearing. "I see Valoy warriors and their Fengor dogs seated at their fires. They drink the dragon water of the Ironbloods and speak the Valosi speech with much stumbling of tongues." The prince replied after a moment, not bothering to hide his resentment for his kinsmen, the Fengor, a hatred characteristic of the Onari which had been born of an almost four-hundred-year-old estrangement. Such antipathy had served both Elbion and Valoy intentions well in the last twenty years and would doubtless continue to prove all too convenient for twenty years more. Winterfield's more mature faculties failed him for a brief instant, a boyish grin flashing as his prior assumptions of the Valoy being more concerned with drunkenness and the wagging of tongues than thoughts of war were proven true. He marveled at how the Grand Army of the Valoy had managed to ever acquire a reputation as a force to be reckoned with, as so often he'd heard stories of their valor and ingenuity in wars against opposing nations back in their distant homeland of Valoran. "What is their number?" he pressed further, stifling any further smug expressions, "Surely there must be some posted about us that we have not detected." He prayed this was not the case and that favor did indeed look fondly on their cause. "The exact number of their host is as my lord had anticipated." Responded Wyonda softly, his eyes still fixed on the camp, "They are twenty in all. Had there been one man displaced from their ranks I would have seen his blue cloak or caught his foul stench." Winterfield did not fail to miss yet another insult aimed like a poisoned arrow at his blood rivals. If Wyonda and his warriors' ferocity expanded beyond these bitter words, Winterfield was thankful to be considered an ally to their kind, as surely the acting upon of such vitriol would be a terrible sight.

Trusting the judgement of his fellow commander, he began to consider the next courses of action. His orders were to engage with the enemy in the hopes of a brief struggle that would last no more than a moment or two, followed by the disarmament of the trespassing force and the sparing of the remaining members, who would be ordered to return to the territories within the grasp of the Valoy without further encroachment on the lands east of the Elbion borders. No further harm was to be inflicted as they left the area, as anything beyond a mere skirmish had the potential of producing hostilities of calamitous proportions, a disaster that a young upstart like Winterfield could not afford. It was then he made his decision. "Take you warriors and make your way to the northern end of the encampment. Get as close as you are able without leaving the security of the brush." He began, his voice in danger of cracking due to the strain of constant whispering, "Myself and my men will signal your shots with a round of volley fire. You are not to advance into the clearing until I call for a ceasefire, and are to remain concealed as you engage the enemy. Are my orders clear to your lordship?" Wyonda at last tore his attention from the camp and looked down into the Elbion's face, his expression more pronounced than before, the sides of his mouth turning up into a smile more likened to the blood lusting grin of a wolf than the countenance of a man. A chill not of winter's making shuddered through Winterfield like a gale, momentarily knocking his assertiveness off its feet. "They are clear, my lord." Replied the Onari, the smile not leaving his face as he spoke. Eager to be free for a few moments of the Alvar's presence, Winterfield nodded towards the other Alvar soldiers awaiting their instructions alongside his men. "Very well, see to your position." He ordered Wyonda hastily. The prince looked to his men and spoke a sharp command to them before taking off in a crouching stride into the trees, followed unhesitatingly by his warriors.

Turning his attention to his own men, Winterfield commanded them to form a line behind their position and to await his signal to begin a volley fire. Rising to look over the brush, he was relieved to see that the Valoy and their Fengor companions remained seated around the campfires, the conversation seeming to have died down a little but still blessedly ignorant to the threat that lurked behind the bramble and fallen trees. The impending weight of the present moment caused his heart to hammer before he could prevent it but rather than the fear as before it was a drumming of excitement that thundered in his ears. His destiny was tethered to the mere sounding of an order and the spilling of blood and for the briefest of instances he fancied himself a god, a god of war who had the power create and destroy with the mere speaking of words or a flourish of his hand. The thought was both terrible and intoxicating and he found he could get used to such a sentiment. "Fate, how fondly I look upon thy countenance." He declared silently, intent on usurping Fortune at long last. Taking command of time itself, he raised his hand and with a deep bellow called havoc with a single word: "FIRE!" The world turned to a fray with the sharp crackle of twelve longsnouts going off at once, a harsh echo erupting in the clearing followed by the sudden cries of the unsuspecting party caught between the volley. Despite the smoke that rose up, Winterfield watched as the bodies of Fengor and Valoy soldiers fell to the ground beside their campfires, some falling silently in death and others with a cry of surprise and anguish.

Chaos erupted in the camp, with those yet unharmed by the first volley scrambling for their weapons before retreating for some form of cover behind their small white tents. Others remained undaunted in the center of the camp, their longsnouts in hand and quickly loaded, returning fire sporadically. Shots rang out from all sides of the clearing, deafening in their endeavor and filling all of those present with a fever of hellish temperament. A thirst manifested itself within the young Elbion officer, a thirst not for water or ale but for blood. It was a craving not born of a perverse desire to consume flesh as does a predator but the rather a yearning to create a harvest of glory from the sanguine drops that fell like rain upon the snow laden ground. He felt as if he were possessed by the earth beneath his feet, the soil crying out for nourishment that only the blood of man and beast could satisfy. He now understood how some men could grow fond of the thrills of war. The discord continued for a few more minutes, the losses of the small band of Fengor and Valoy slowly mounting while the Elbion force remained untouched. The Onari had yet to reveal their losses. Though he did not want to, Winterfield reasoned it was at last time to put a close to the encounter, to fulfill the next part of his objective before it proceeded too far. Withdrawing his sword from its scabbard, he rose to his feet and gave a shout for his men to advance into the clearing, calling also upon the name of Wyonda to advance as well from his post. Both Elbion and Onari forces rushed headlong into the camp, pops of gunfire following as they did.

The smoke had begun to clear away a little and the overwhelmed force of Fengor and Valoy now returned fire with little to no effect, their shots hurried or halted by the arrival of their opponents. With a much-practiced phrase of the Valosi tongue, Winterfield called for a cease of fire amongst the Valoy and their Alvar companions, as well as a cease for his own party's fire. A hesitant silence at once resounded in the clearing, with the remaining Valoy and Fengor either being physically restrained from further action by the swift intervention of Wyonda's Onari warriors or by the ominous pointing of longsnouts in their faces by Winterfield's men. Time came to a halt as he took in the carnage that had been unleashed in just a few short moments, ruin that had risen from his hand and set itself on the enemy with punishing accuracy. In all, twelve out of twenty Valoy and Fengor lay scattered across the remains of the camp, bloated and lifeless, the first casualties in a conflict that until now had been merely one of empty threats and petty insults. The bloodlust from before disintegrated into a feeling of solemnity as action morphed into consequence before his eyes in a manner once unknown to him. The sight was reminiscent of a marketplace, the fruits of a grim harvest set out before him not entirely unlike that of a farmer who has reaped his lands and receives compensation for his favors. Rather than gold, Winterfield would receive glory from such a gleaning. Looking up again at the faces of the defeated force that remained, he was met with looks of shock and agitation from the four Valoy men, their complexions of burnt gold now sullied with dirt and black powder, as well as sweat and in some cases blood.

Their once spotless blue uniforms were now torn or disheveled by the skirmish, though some seemed to have gone without pieces of their regalia long before the fighting had begun. As for the surviving Fengor warriors, the four of them contained by the hands and weapons of their kinsmen, their visages were riddled with a silent anger that seemed trained more upon Wyonda and his Onari than on the Elbions in their presence. The traditional markings of their tribe etched themselves across their strong features, their appearance not much different than their rivals save for their manner of dress, which consisted of long sleeve tunics of deer hide dyed deep blue, amulets of varying color hanging about their necks with red elk leather stockings acting the equivalent of trousers. Unlike the Onari, they wore no cloaks to shelter them from the bitter cold, a sight that made Winterfield wonder again as to whether or not their inherent magic played a part in their keeping warm. He realized with somewhat bitter disappointment that he had not yet seen this oft spoken of magic during the struggle, from either tribe. Perhaps their magic was simply a rumor, as many had long suggested. Remembering himself amidst the angry faces and uncertain silence, he cleared his throat more loudly than intended and, hoping his flush of slight embarrassment would be mistaken for the effects of the cold, proceeded to address the conquered party with an air of assumed authority. "Why have the men of the Valosi King and his sons the Fengor violated the agreement made with the men of Elbion?" Relieved his Valosi sounded halfway convincing to himself at least, he patiently awaited a response. Almost instantly, a man of the Valoy stepped forward, laying his longsnout upon the ground tentatively as the Elbion soldiers tensed, their own weapons still poised upon him.

Raising his arms above his head, he lifted his eyes to look Winterfield squarely in the eye, his expression vacant. Wetting his chapped lips with his tongue, he spoke at last. "Monsyr, we were ordered to this place by the command of our governor, who reigns in New Valoran on behalf of His Majesty the King." he replied calmly in his native tongue, despite the shock of minutes before, "We are dispatched to meet a host of our countrymen who have been waylaid in these lands not far from here. Upon our meeting them, we are to escort them back into the lands that lie within the boundaries of New Valoran. Our intention is peaceful and in no way violates the agreement that was made between our realms, as it is not for the purpose of thievery or war that we have come." Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, his hand shaking from either nerves or cold, he retrieved a small piece of paper, which he held out to Winterfield expectantly. Rather than take the risk of stepping forward himself, Winterfield motioned for one his own men to bring him the paper. Once it was delivered, he unfolded it so as to read it contents. Though it was written in Valosi, he managed to read it thoroughly enough, the paper being that of an official commission by the governor of New Valoran to rescue a band of mislaid Valoy skinners and soldiers from the area not far from Du Raen. Despite matching up with the words of the Valoy officer, Winterfield considered the possibility of an official commission being used to disguise less honorable intentions. After all most skinners, especially those of New Valoran, were skilled at navigating the woodlands without error and most men of their kind were perfectly capable of defending themselves without the assistance of soldiers in their expeditions. He found it highly unlikely they were lost as opposed to conveniently outside their permitted trade boundaries. With good reasoning, he could not allow these men to continue, regardless if there was any truth to the officer's statement.

Noting that a campfire still burned next to where he stood, he proceeded to crumple the commission into a crude wad and tossed it into the low burning flames, an action that spurred hushed murmurs amongst the Valoy and Fengor prisoners. Looking to meet the Valoy officer's gaze again, he saw the man's expression was not so calm as before, his jaw tightened and his eyes bearing a spark of indignation. Good, he thought to himself, they understand we are not to be taken lightly. Continuing to act with perceived confidence, he straightened himself so at to appear taller and clasping his hands behind his back he poised to address the entire assembly again. "A lord governer nor even the great king of Valoran has the authority to command you to enter into a land that belongs to her Imperial Majesty, Empress Jordane of Elbon. You are hereby ordered to depart from this place and return to the sanctuary of your own borders. Should you refuse this command and enter into Elbion lands again, the penalty shall be nothing less than death." He declared, his words and intent delivering upon the sharpness they possessed, "You are permitted to leave at once without further damage to your persons and with all your provisions save for your weaponry. When you have returned to your governor, you will inform him of the mercy of Elbon and remind him that the terms of the trade agreement between our two nations are not so easily disregarded." Another silence followed, one filled with a lingering tension that did not go unnoticed by Winterfield. However, despite the anger and ferocity in his men and his fellow Fengor's eyes, the Valoy officer simply nodded in acknowledgement of the words of the young Elbion commandant. "Very well, we shall submit to this demand." He vowed earnestly, "And we offer our gratitude for the mercy granted to us by your good empress. We will linger no more in these lands." He concluded his response with a glance behind him to his troops and his Alvar allies, speaking firmly to them as to ensure their guarantee of a peaceful departure, to which they all answered with slow nods of their heads and grumbled murmurings. Sensing his point was made very clear due to the increasingly dour expressions of the Valoy and their companions, he felt he was on the cusp of the result he desired.

Ignoring the temptation to envision his victorious return to Elbion headquarters, he instead ordered for his men and those of Wyonda to retrieve the weapons of the enemy from them and to give them enough space to assemble the rest of their gear before being permitted to leave the clearing, all under the watchful eye of the Onari and their Elbion fellows. Sluggishly, the defeated men began to toss their weapons, longsnouts, knives and blades, at the feet of their conquerors, none discarding their gear more resentfully than the Fengor, who did not bother to hide the disgust on their faces at the state of affairs. Ugly glares were shot towards their kinsmen, the Onari, all of whom including Wyonda remained stone faced in the presence of their bitter rivals. One Fengor warrior in particular, the most youthful looking of the Alvar tribesmen, fixed his gaze with a vicious glint on the Onari prince, his expression giving the impression that he might spit venom in his discontent. Winterfield felt himself grow uneasy at such a look. Surely the boy would not be so foolish as to risk his life and those of his comrades over the petty squabbles of two powerful tribes. And yet there was a fraction of him that believed the youth was more than capable of the kind of foolishness people believed to be courage. Much to his fear the boy muttered something in his native tongue, a low guttural murmur that was directed toward the enemy warlord. No sooner had the words left his mouth when suddenly the young warrior fell to the ground with a great shriek, twisting and writhing in agony from an unseen force. Winterfield's gaze flew to Wyonda, whose right hand was outstretched in an odd fashion and his face now fierce with a wrath he'd kept hidden until now. The Elbion realized that it was some power of Wyonda's making that possessed the young warrior, a realization that numbed his ability to think clearly. As if he were watching a dream unfold, he stood there stupidly as the torment continued. Suddenly, the body of the young Fengor burst into what appeared to flames, his shrieks evaporating into thin air as he was reduced to little more than ashes on the frozen ground. In a flash of an instant, a chorus of shouts and the scrambling of limbs ensued, the captive Fengor and Valoy rushing forward in their shock and rage, struggling futilely against their Elbion and Onari captors.

Winterfield himself cried out Wyonda's name followed by a curse in his horror, attempting to put a stop to the mounting chaos but he'd hardly taken a step when he felt a force unlike any he'd encountered before hit him in a punishing wave, sending him flying backwards through the air as if he were merely a piece of parchment caught in the wind. He landed with a harsh thud against a root jutting out of the ground from a nearby red blood pine and felt his body explode with pain upon impact. His vision was blurred and he felt a dizziness settling in that made him feel as if he were outside of himself. As he lay broken on the ground he watched as the chaos rose to a fever pitch, though his ears were now deaf to the noises of the struggle, a silent massacre of Fengor and Valoy at the hands of the Onari warlord and his warriors playing out in a terrible silence. Men fell left to right from a blow to their heads or guts from the slicing of blades or were mangled by the flames conjured by Wyonda's hands, their twisted, burning bodies crumpling to the forest floor like falling leaves.

Smoke clouded over the clearing and soon the fumes of it began to further incapacitate Winterfield, who began to feel as if the life were slipping from him, the world around growing increasingly dark. Just as he was about to fade away into the darkness that gripped him, he saw the Valoy officer from moments before lying on the ground, a deep scarlet pool forming beneath his broken body, clutching his chest as he coughed soundlessly. Not an instant later the tall, imposing figure of Wyonda appeared to loom over the fallen officer, his expression difficult to make out in the smoke and blur. Then without hesitation the right hand of Wyonda stretched out over the doomed officer and with a silent willing of the strange, terrible magic as before, the body of the man before him was seized by flaming arms that wrapped about him, agony turned to mere ashes in the blink of an eye. Not having the strength to even open his mouth to utter a single word in protest or offer a cry of the terror he felt, Winterfield surrendered to his own injuries and fell into a dreamless world of numbing silence. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He awoke like a drowning man from what he believed to be death, drawing a breath equal to that of a roaring wind. Treetops were the first greet him, followed by what seemed to be grey clouds and flakes of snow that kissed his face as they fell to earth. Thin curtains of smoke lingered above, casting an even more dreary pall over the sight before him. A cautious breath through his nose led to discovery of a horrible stench that hung in the air, a vaguely familiar fetor his addled mind could not give name to. Realizing that he still possessing a body and limbs, he sought to lift himself from the ground but not without a chorus of aches echoing through his bones, pain sizzling through him like lightning. Biting back the urge to howl at the terrible aching, he moved so as to sit up, defying the stubborn waves of dizziness that remained. The world slowly came into focus and his eyes beheld a sight that turned his faculties to ice. Carcasses and what could be tiny heaps of ashes lay before him, the snowfall having covered the carnage in a thin a white sheet, calling to mind the white linen that was placed over the bodies of the dead in burial. He saw also the figures of moving men, fuzzy flashes of purple that could only belong to his own men along with flashes of red and black from the Onari warriors. They moved about the desolation slowly, mechanically, as if awaiting to pounce on the first sign of life in those they believed to be dead, calling to mind the circling of vultures.

A familiar voice, sudden and deep, rumbled in his ears with a slight muffle somewhere close by. "It would seem death bears no love for you, my Winter Lord." Turning his head towards the noise, he saw that the Onari lord stood hardly two feet from where he lay, towering over him like the trees. The warlord was a terrible sight, his face riddled with the ghostly smile that had become characteristic of him in a short time and his garb stained by the black powder of smoke and splattering of what was doubtless the blood of the fallen men around him. Winterfield, too numb with shock to reply, let his gaze fall to the Onari prince's hands, hands that had wielded a destruction he'd not believed to be possible. A dark red was painted across them like gloves, painted with the same sanguine matter as that which soiled the prince's tunic and cloak. One of the bloodied hands clasped something between its digits, an object of the same hue. Though he could not make it out, Winterfield felt his stomach turn at the sight, a sickness bubbling up inside him that may have been a further effect of his wounds as opposed to a reaction of horror.

The warlord seemed to notice the officer's grave discomfort, as his expression turned from a phantasmic smile to the wolfish grin he'd possessed not so long ago, this time in a manner more sinister than before. "Just as lovers seek to possess one another's hearts, so does the warrior seek to possess the heart of his enemy." He said, answering the silent inquiry behind his companion's eyes with a mildness that contradicted his manner and appearance. Winterfield watched unmoving as the Alvar moved toward him, ignoring the cries of his feverish mind to flee from the horrible scene he found himself an unwilling player in. Coming to stand just inches before him, the Alvar lord looked down on him in a way reminiscent of a predator looked upon his prey, eyes glazed with the blood lust that Winterfield realized had perhaps filled his own gaze minutes, hours or days before. Holding out the red hand that grasped the dead man's heart, Wyonda offered the bloody organ to him like a priest offering sacrifice to a god, a thought so abominable he could scarcely keep from vomiting. Whatever desires of glory and dreams of becoming a god of war he'd entertained before were instantly turned to shame filled repulsion, bile rising up in his throat as realization churned within him. By the Graces, what have I done?! He cried from within, before the effects of his injuries and shame caused him to fall once again into a darkness that knew no comfort.