They had planned it to be a battle of heroes. The champions of each army fighting so that other men did not have to. But the Crooked God had other ideas, ideas that did not conform to the supposed rules of combat dreamt up by these little men. It had filled the skin of Tal Cádu, champion of Erith Mon, king of Vangöst and the northern tribes. Tal Cádu, the Crow Feeder. Did none of them ever consider why he was called that before they set him to their bloody work?

The cheering had stopped some time ago. The warriors of Vangöst had called loudly, clashing sword on shield as the men of reputation had advanced between the lines. Those of Rhauthien of the West had done the same. It is easy to cheer for violence and death, especially if it is not yours. But when the Crooked God had taken Tal Cádu, there had been nothing but stunned gasps, even from those who had heard the rumours. Some things can never be thought normal.

Now that it was over, and the god had left him with nothing but its echoing laughter, he saw to his despair what had occurred. Flashes of the slaughter – it could never be considered a fight – came back to him as his eyes focused on the heap of mangled flesh that surrounded him.

He had met the champion of Rhauthien, the massive, brutal-looking Jueton Horse-breaker, with an insane giggle. Jueton had glared down at him from under bristling dark brows. What was this gibbering fool, naked but for his boots that he had been set against? This was some insult of Erith Mon, but he would sweep this madman away and take the field for his lord. Jueton had raised the massive mace in his equally huge, knarled right fist and beckoned for Tal Cádu to come to his death. But the figure before him had twitched and writhed as if in some intoxicated dance, its face distorting into a bizarre mask as the body seemed to hunch and expand. A green fire had flickered across the tattooed, scared limbs, and they, too, had bulged and twisted like the branches of the sacred Yew.

What had been Tal Cádu advanced, sword held low in right hand, axe held low in left. He no longer bore resemblance to a man, and he would do things that no man should ever do. Jueton crouched behind his round shield painted with rearing horse and stared across the iron-bound rim, suddenly afraid. He would not be unmanned by this freak, by this thing that the northern Druids must have conjured. Roaring his battle cry, he leapt forward, the mace crashing down with all his considerable weight. With a crazed laugh, Tal Cádu stepped inside the blow and struck the onrushing shield with his naked right shoulder. For Jueton, it had been like running into one of the huge sacred stones that stood in rings in the high places. He staggered backwards, the mace head ploughing a furrow from the soft earth. He planted his feet and lifted the shield on his numb arm as the axe in Tal Cádu’s left hand flashed up in a diagonal slash. The twin-bladed head of the axe carved a deep slice through the pained horse and bounced from the iron boss, kicking up orange sparks. Jueton’s already throbbing arm sent a jolt of pain up into his shoulder, and he cursed through gritted teeth.

“You fucker! I will smash in your demon head!”

Tal Cádu opened his mouth far too wide, almost as if he would swallow his enemy whole, and he screamed with a mixture of rage and bloodlust that finally put an end to the shouts of the gathered armies. The mace swung again in a wide arc aimed at the ribs revealed by the upswing of the axe. But the axe was already descending, reversing its upwards path. The heel on the bottom of one of the blades hooked over the rim of the shield and dragged it down and across Jueton’s body with a strength he could scarcely believe. The shield rim fouled the incoming mace, and suddenly, Jueton Horse-breaker looked at his death and felt a cold he could never have imagined. The sword in Tal Cádu’s right hand chopped down into the side of Jueton’s head, shearing off part of his jaw so that the shriek he gave was accompanied by a flapping tongue which no longer had a contained resting place. The blade rose again, and the Crow Feeder twisted within his skin as he brought the blade down in an arc that took off the shield arm and then the mace arm at the thick wrist. Jueton staggered yet again. His ruined face a howling mask of pain and disbelief, then Tal Cádu set to work chopping and slashing, and then stepping over the remains and laying into the panicking line of warriors behind until the god left him and all was red ruin.

Some otherwhere, a crooked thing laughed mirthlessly in the darkness.