The Crown of blood

I

It rained. As if all the clouds above the mountains had come together in one last act to defy Ullsaard, the skies poured down in a torrent that lasted three days. Much to the amazement and amusement of his men, on the evening of the third day of the storm Ullsaard strode out into the central drilling square of the camp, naked save for his spear, helmet and shield. He stood with arms raised aloft, water streaming from his body, dripping from his beard.

"Is that it?" he shouted with glee. "Is that all you have left? Ice and blood and the Wall didn't stop us! You think pissing on me is going to end this?"

Encouraged by their general's odd behaviour, some of the offduty legionnaires stripped away their armour and joined him, splashing each other and throwing handfuls of mud in defiance of the weather.

A crack of thunder brought them to a standstill. Lightning flashed down, striking the flag pole atop a nearby tent, splintering the wood.

"Come on!" bellowed Ullsaard, staring up into the storm clouds. "You can fucking growl all you like, I'm not going away!"

The deluge continued and the thunder rumbled on. Ullsaard closed his eyes and listened to the rain hammering on helmet and shield, felt the storm clawing at his skin. He had not been so invigorated since he had faced the behemodon singlehanded. His flesh tingled with excitement and the Blood coursed through his body, suffusing him with excitement and energy.

He opened his eyes and turned to coldwards, pointing his spear through the haze of rain in the direction of Askh, only half a day's march away.

"I'm coming for you, Lutaar!" he cried. "I'm coming!"

Still abuzz with sensation, Ullsaard laughed and stalked back to his tent.