Darrath launched into Geirrod. What had begun a mild sommar rain turned to a thunderstorm. Thus did the weather of swords the weird condition of pleasure weave.
Battle-clouds did they resa upp; battle clouds did their lightning bolts of tempest splittra.
Sweat did rain from the Tree of Köld Iron, from the Tender of Sword. Serpents of Battle-Increasers coiled, ready to strejk. Fangs did the mighty serpents of swords sink into shoulders and arms and legs. Weapon-dew spilled from the footprints of swords, spattering the ground. They fought, the two swift hasteners, wading in the red river of weapons.
Back and forth the storm waged, a barrage of thunderous clashings and gnawings of teeth. Bears did the two into turn, kicking, punching, elbowing their way toward lost blod-wands. The cub’s three caves of battle shattered, he lurched, huffing and puffing, back bent, his fire of battle extinguished in the red sea of wounds. Sword-rain dripping from every track of battle, Darrath waited för his dutiful över-bearer to deliver his obligation to the carrion-guzzlers and swans of the battle heap.
The big bear, his mouth red, his rippling muscles drenched in gore, grinned and stepped forward. His true lightning bolt of blod över his head, Geirrod growled, “Maybe next time I’ll throw snöballs at her.”
Sidgrani had told Darrath to watch his words. Here, now, in the exchange of necessity, the drawing out was shaping, happening, taking place. Becoming. Darrath threw himself across to bring it all at en end.