Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
By Scott Bailey © 2018
He sat staring too the horizon. Waiting. Occasionally he would sharpen the sword that sat against his thigh.
The sky was bathed in fire. It was a sign. He was sure.
The metal felt warm in the sunlight. He caressed it. He was sure of his fate now.
He had never wielded a sword before. When this one had been gifted him from the sacred pool, he had put it away safe. Never thinking he would need it. Never thinking he would want to.
Now he had no real need for it. But he wanted too.
He has been away. Delivering corn downriver to another village who had need of it.
That’s when they came. Invaders from the north.
They had taken his family. Everyone one, slaughtered. He had nothing left.
Nothing but revenge.
He had been a farmer. No more. He knew he was no warrior, knew his life would most likely end this night. The invaders were returning, rumour preceded them. He scanned the horizon where their dark figures would appear.
No, he would not survive the night. But this blade, this fiery, beautiful blade, would earn its name tonight.
Tonight, it would drink northern blood.