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BLOOD RAVEN’S LAST BATTLE PRINCE
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The charger struggled through the ice-slush, bloody path of storming warriors as his master brandished one broad-bladed shortsword in each hand. Machraith ranted and raved, while his beast continued to labor through the field of the dead. One eye stayed on Vortimer, the boy’s heart thundering to protect his only brother.

But Machraith was too late.

The meandering poison stilled to a slow-ticking time bomb in the cool night, giving Vortimer tingling sensations he couldn’t explain. Only now, in battle, Vortimer’s blood thundered, awakening the scorching vile of dead within his body. Aching, searing splintering surged within his legs. As the fire-haired, powerful warrior Celt raised the might of his Olympian frame and broad-bladed, double-edged Celtic shortsword, Redwulf seized a warrior Celt’s Roman pilum.

Vortimer’s knees buckled, the poison numbing his wet, burning flesh. Seeing the event unfold, Machraith hysterically screamed to Vortimer, “Quick, rhyfelwr (warrior)!” Machraith desperately motioned to Vortimer the Saxon sprinting closer.