Elad falls. Burning, he stumbled to the edge of the fort and threw himself out as if he expected to be carried away on the foul air. Down, in the dark and crowded courtyard, lies yet another child of Elwain dead for Elads hand. An infant this time.
Though it was at the cost of a life, Elad the Mad is dead for the hand of Carangeir.
The pagan stands on the top of the fort, watching. His hand still gripping his sword with fingers that pale and tremble from rage and his cheeks still wet with the blood from men he has slain to get here.
“Is this it?” His voice is meant for none but the wind around him and the fire behind him. “After all these years, is this all it is?” Somewhere, the fight is still going, steel against steel and shouts of dying men. Inside Carangeir, though, is silence. An empty, aching silence that is almost deafening after the pounding rage that has driven the pagan here. “Both my uncle and now this man. Dead, by my hand. And for what?" .
His question is answered only by the last screams from the siege, and they hold no wisdom, and the hate that drove him with promises of solace is nowhere to be found.
A farmer far down on the ground, cowering from the battle looks up to the fort and utters a prayer for protection to any god that can hear him.
Framed by fire, long, graying hair flying in the wind and blood on clothes and face, unarmored and covered in old pagan symbols, holding a sword, the visage of Lord Tisbury over the burning fort will spark many songs of the night when the devil came to claim Elad the Mad.