The Crown on A Barbarian Brow

…but not here. Not on this grassy, hot, and treeless plain…so different from the frozen death he’d left behind…offering little protection from either the sun or the men following him.

Behind him, the mountains were a hazy blur in the distance. Before him, stretched the level prairie and nothing else.

For days now, he’d rationed his water supply, going without so his horse could have more to drink, until the animal faltered and fell under the blaze of the sun, its mouth open and dry. Holding his hand under the horse’s muzzle, Val poured the remaining water onto the animal’s tongue. As it coughed and swallowed, heaving itself shakily to its feet, he brushed his damp palm across his own dry, cracking lips, skin gratefully absorbing what little moisture was left.

Reins wrapped around his hand, he and the animal trudged on, until the moment it was Val who took a step, staggered, and fell to his knees in the dirt.

That was the moment they were waiting for. The fox was run to ground. Time for the hounds to attack.

He barely had time to scramble to his feet, draw his sword, and brace himself before they were upon him.

* * *

“Allfather, help him.” The spindle fell from Weaver’s fingers, sending her scrambling to the floor after it.

It tumbled through the clouds, landing at Ildred’s feet. Weaver followed, on her knees before the Father of the Gods.

“It’s not the time, Weaver.” Allfather’s voice was calm, making her plea all the more frantic.

“There are three against one. The odds are too unfair,” she protested, seizing the spindle and crawling back to her seat before the loom.

Briefly, she was angered. It was undignified, this uncharacteristic anxiety for these mortals, making her seem so inept. Especially since she didn’t understand why it was so. What was it about this particular family that caused these emotions that one who controlled fates would do better without?

“He’s not an untried stripling, Weaver. Though young, he’s already fought beside his father, and survived.”

“Aye, and you let the father die,” she accused, her fear making her reckless enough to speak back to the Father of the Gods. “You promised the man peace and a long life, yet you let him be killed in that needless war.”

“For this day and time, he did have a long life,” Ildred answered. “The war was necessary to force his sons into manhood, to mark the beginning of the prophecy. Yon boy fought and survived and he’ll survive this, too…without my help.”

“Why won’t you help him? she persisted. “You said his grandsire would be the ancestor of kings, yet you let Trygare die, then Riven. How can that happen if the boy dies, also?”

“Riven kan Ingan has more than one son, Weaver.” Ildred’s answer was cold.

“You mean…young Valriven isn’t the one who…” Weaver’s words trailed away. “Which one, Alfather, which one is it?”

“Not now, Weaver.” Ildred gestured to the scene before her. “You must tend your loom, else the story unfolds without you…and we know how that may go awry. These events need tending.”

* * *

Fending away one sword, Val turned to block the thrust of the second Black Shield’s blade, trying to maneuver into a position where he could face all three. They continued a circling, darting in, moving away. If they’d barked and growled like the hounds they were, it would’ve been appropriate.

The fox was at bay and they were waiting to pull him down.

Drel’s devils, he thought frantically, despairing at the odds. Prince of Demons, help me. Three against one’s too unequal.

* * *

...the clouds burst into crimson light. Ripping them apart with taloned fingers, Drel forced his dreadful way into the Cavern.

“Brother, did you hear? He called for me.” His words were a liquid stream of scarlet, directed at Ildred as if in challenge.

“I heard,” Ildred replied, unmoved by neither Drel’s blood-smeared aspect nor his words. “You shall have him…for now.”

“You relinquish him?” Confusion appeared on what could be seen of Drel’s gore-stained face under the cheek-guards of his horned helm.

“The boy’s belonged to you in body for some time, my bloody brother. The Bloodsong rages through his veins and it’s your path he’ll follow for many years. Go! Send your minion to answer his call and make him your own, but be ready to release him back to me when the time comes. Take his body for now…but I’ll keep his soul.”

“Mine, then…for now!” With a roar sweeping through the sky as a screaming wind, darkness gleaming through the rents in his blood-smeared robes, Drel rushed from the Cavern...

* * *

Val swung his sword but the man leaped away. The blow that should’ve driven the point through his chest merely struck his shoulder. Nevertheless, the Black went down, weapon falling from his hand.

One out of the way.

It was awkward, fighting with his left hand, trying to swing the sword around to meet theirs. One moved in. As their blades clashed, the other Black stepped behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Val saw the man raise his sword.

Even as he dodged and twisted his own weapon to catch the downward-moving blade, he knew it was too late. He had a brief glimpse of metal glittering in the sun before it fell, penetrating forehead, eye, and cheek.

There was a moment of disbelieving fire-lit pain.

Dropping his sword, Val clutched at his face, and the world burst into a raw and crimson wound.