By Werner Fitzharriss
The sound of singing swords reaches the senses of the soldier on the balustrade. He knows his time has come, he knows that soon his own sword will slither from its sheath, shine and sing its own song among the steel of other soldiers. Lights dance in the distance. The host of the enemy nears. The king dances his merry dance and cries curses to his enemy’s gods.
This is the one! He shrieks. This is the one!
And he is right.
This is the one that will find him slain come the dawn, laid out like a pelt beside his soldiers, his servants, and his soldiers’ sons.
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I like turtles.
Labels: Werner Fitzharriss