Torsn may not have been a man yet, but he had no use for the old seer’s riddles. What could a cripple know of gods? The ragged cloak smelled of smoke, the breath even ranker. “Torsn of Turl, forsaken not you.”
When they came, it sounded like a rockslide. The sleepy village stood little chance against flame and sword. Screams followed shouts. Silence drown grunts.
Torsn did not run. He knelt at the fire, holding iron in flame. Could it be true?
When the murderers entered, he stood, staff glowing orange.
It is time, father Crow declared from the window.
Photo is copyright by Ian Sanderson.