by
Bobby Derie
As the lines formed, pale stars fell softly on the sky, and the wind whipped up.
Hoarfrost extended pale fingers up the length of sword and dirk. Bloody icicles hung from from the wounds of the dead and dying. The howl of the storm outscreamed the clang of weapons and the oaths of bitter foes. Hands shook, parries slowed, and all skill was lost to the chill north wind, as the men clashed with chattering teeth, toes and fingers numb.
Father Winter entered the fray, and the battle raged as one by one, he conquered.
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