Nessalir the Red

A web of ice, white and glowing a soft blue, covered the gray and stony skin of the son of Yovarth. His icicle-like beard shimmered as red hot embers fell upon it. Sparks flew all around him as he tore across the bonfire, kicking up burning logs with his oversized boots.

He wore upon his face a mask of rage and hatred. And when Nessalir saw his twisted expression, she felt rising within her a sense of satisfaction--for at long last, this frost giant knew a fraction of the pain which ever burned within her.

"Come, giant," said the drakkowar. "Come and know your death."

If he heard her, he gave no indication. The giant raised his sword (a jagged length of sharpened iron the length of a man) and brought it down upon Nessalir's head.

She rolled to the side, coming back up to her feet just in time to see the giant swing the blade back around toward her, screaming in rage as he did so. In an instant, Nessalir considered leaping back, out of the path of the sword, but immediately that idea was discarded. The weapon was simply too long. Instead, Nessalir took a risk and dove forward.

The giant had not been expecting this, and he cried out in surprise as she dodged between his legs, under her foe, and slammed her ax into his calf with all her might.

The sheen of ice which covered his skin shattered, and the flesh itself broke apart as though it were clay, revealing red blood so dark it was nearly black. The giant roared in pain and renewed rage, spinning around and kicking Nessalir hard in the side.

She flew across the clearing, slamming into the trunk of a tree. The world wobbled and shook around her, and a dull ache spread across her body. Shakily, she tried to regain her bearings. Nessalir took a deep breath, and pain blossomed within her anew. Blinking rapidly, struggling to maintain consciousness, she glared at the giant as he approached her slowly, like a hunter stalking its prey.

"I will not pretend you are not skilled," said the giant. "You have proven yourself a worthy foe, dragonspawn. I will eat your heart, and add your strength to my own, such that you shall be remembered in every battle I partake in. In me, your strength will fight on. But you? Today is the day you die. Today is the day that Frelholt, proud son of the Great Father Yovarth, puts an end to Nessalir the Red!"

"Frelholt," Nessalir repeated, tasting the giant's name on her lips. "After I kill you, I will speak your name to no one, and you will be forgotten."

The frost giant sneered at her. "Your days of killing are at an end." Like a coiled serpent, he lashed out, striking at her with his great blade.

Nessalir ducked under the blow, ignoring the pain, powering through the way her head swam at the sudden motion. She heard the tree behind her splintering apart as the sword broke through it, and she threw herself behind the giant once more. Bellowing out her rage and bloodlust, Nessalir thrust her sword up and into the back of Frelholt's knee.

Dark blood oozed from the wound, and the giant stumbled. Nessalir withdrew her sword and spun, striking now his other knee. With a cry of pain, the giant fell, hardly even managing to catch himself on his hand.

Her vision was red. Nessalir leapt upon the giant's back and hacked away at him. Near-black blood flew through the air. He screamed and thrashed, but Nessalir heard it not. She was lost in her vengeance, in the need to kill and put an end to the giant, to pay him back for all those she had lost in Lorveg.

So she cut, and she screamed, and she felt the blood as it sprayed across her body, mixed with the tears running down her face. Her heart pounded mercilessly as she savaged the frost giant's body, tore into his flesh like a frenzied shark. She cut and she cut and she cut.

And when at last her heartbeat calmed and the battlehaze lifted, Nessalir collapsed. She slid off the bloody corpse of Frelholt and fell to the red-soaked dirt beside him. She stared up at the cloudy sky, and it blurred, and she sobbed.

Turning onto her side, the drakkowar wailed. She let loose all her pain and all her sorrow, all her grief for Koroth and the other countless lives lost. This giant was dead, but she could not even be sure if he had taken part in the attack that destroyed her life. Even if he had, it was not some frost giant by the name of Frelholt who had led the massacre.

The souls of the dead could not rest any easier.

As time passed, her sobs weakened. Nessalir returned to herself, recognized that she lay alone amid the dead and ruined campground. Slowly, she stood. Her whole body ached. Her lungs and throat were burned, and her ribs were cracked, and her head felt fuzzy--and yes, the arrow-wound in her shoulder now lanced hot pain down her arm. Her dragon's blood had blessed her with swift healing, but even she would need to rest for a week or more before she was fit to fight again.

Her eyes scanned over the massive corpse beside her, over the charred remains of the bandits. She found Geved's cart, and she found other plunder that the bandits had taken. She stood, nearly lost her balance as her head swam, and began to walk, ever so slowly, back to Iarius, to tell him that the villains were slain, and the stolen goods could be returned to their rightful owner.

When he saw her, he asked if she was alright. Nessalir assured her he was, that her wounds were nothing a few days of rest wouldn't fix.

It was clear from his expression that the scholar recognized her lie for what it was, but he did not press her on it, for which Nessalir was grateful. Together, they returned to the merchants to tell them the good news.