With the killing of that man, that Yarmdon commander, there had been such a swell of ecstasy that he'd hardly been able to contain himself. Panic hovered where that emotion arose, for Beam knew it did not belong to him. Ingolsol once more arose to the surface, and delighted.
"Despair…" He heard that word over and over as a whisper. He'd shouted it the moment Beam had claimed Kursak's life. The sweet shock that had been in the young man's eyes. The regret, and those faded dreams. Ingolsol had drunk them in greedily. He'd ached in irritation as they were forced to wait.
And now that same urging pushed him towards the other side of the battlefield, where the roars of an angry giant bellowed out once after the other.
"KURSAKKKK! YON VIG! KURSAAAAAAAAAAK!"
They came again and again, like the repeated gusts of a storming wind. Beam did not understand the language, but he read a challenge from it. There was a mighty man over there – he wanted to test his sword against him.
