Wyrdbane by Weird Wilkins

I always thought I’d die in battle…

Now I lie here, the drifting snow slowly smothering my twisted form. My skin, blackened and wracked with weeping welts, sloughs in great hunks from my charred bones.

I try to speak, to curse at the one who has wrought this upon me, but I can manage nothing more than garbled splutters. I lie here, quietly drowning in my own putrid blood.

The agony of my pox-ridden body is second only to my shame.

I am to be denied Valhalla.

To think, the old ones said there would be glory in hunting witches...