The battle-fever. The blood-drunkenness.
Egil had spoken of it often, usually over a cup of sour wine, describing it as a burning ecstasy that hummed in the marrow, a sensation that brought a man to the very precipice of the ultimate truth, yet always kept him a hair's-breadth from falling.
Alpheo had never believed it would be his bread to eat.
Yet here he was, wading through the black mire, washing himself in the same river of gore where his soldiers had lived and died for a decade.
Most notably the old fear was gone.
In its place was a terrifying, crystalline clarity. He felt alive in a way he had never been, every nerve ending was a wire of white-hot lightning.
Death was everywhere, keeping him company wherever he looked.Even as he closed his eyes he could feel its cold caress.
