[gowb]

WORM! WORM!

The cry went up among the hirdsmen. The warband clashed their shields against their swords as their throats sang the ancient song of dragon's death. The men of Marignon, for all their fancy livery, tore their clothes in fear and despair. The once-mighty Nosphestes, Drinker of Blood and Bane of Men, lay in a frozen heap upon the ground. His great red wings fluttered raggedly, the taut skin between bones torn beyond all possibility of flight. His blood turned to slush in his veins, the chill of his tormentor giving no quarter. None of his fiery vitae could fall to the ground, so full of ice was he. The great red dragon was down, a shadow of his former glory with only a sliver of life remaining.

A massive foot lay upon the wyrm's slender neck. Its owner roared into the night, steam rising from his throat in great plumes. Sölve, Son of Neifel, raised his blade of cold flame to the heavens and cried his victory, outlined in the fires his enemies had summoned. His warband echoed his call, and their fury mixed with the cries of their opponents, until rage and despair rang out over the scarred, burning forest.

The Lord of Winter raised his blade for the final blow. In desperation, Marginon's archers loosed their arrows, each aiming for the giant's massive back.

In a twist of tragic irony, a barbed shaft found its way into the very skull of Nosphestes. The dragon's last breath escaped its jaws, and with a thrash it lay still. Sölve stood robbed of his kill, insensate to the arrows pinging off of his armor and helm.

The battlefield fell silent. The final exhalation of Nosphestes echoed across the forest, audible above the crackling of the flames and the screams of the wounded. A cold wind blew through the remaining ranks of Marignon, and to a man they shuddered.

In a moment Sölve was among them, unprepared archers falling beneath his boots and blade. Faster than they could react, he was on the Goetic Master and tore the life from their high priest. It was too much. The armies of Marignon fled for their lives, pursued by the hirdsmen of Utgard.