"Daddy? Who was Backhand?"


    "Blackhand, honey, his name was Blackhand, and he was the strongest of them all. He was a man of the highest standing and he knew neither rest nor relaxation."


    Steinarr Freedfire, youngest son of Hallr Blackhand and bearer of Dead Sword Crowfeeder, wets his throat with a mouthful of wine. Warmth pools in his gut but does little to quell the desert in his mouth—a dryness more severe than any he experienced in the Saracens'' sands.


    Beneath the trail of stars, Little Halla leads the way home with a broad smile on her face. She tosses a flimsy bundle of flames between each hand as she walks, crimson fire flowing like a horse''s tail in its wake. Stubborn baby fat clings to her chill-reddened cheeks, her rather short stature doing little to conceal the mass of her labor-honed body.


    Little Halla seems happy as she skips along, but how much might that be a fa?ade? Steinarr knows better than anyone how deep the blades of terror can pierce and how easy they can be to conceal. Solrun said that Little Halla is battle-born, that Little Halla is not one who would suffer from such mental scars; but Solrun does not, cannot, know Little Halla like he does. She is a child, a baby, soft and unready.


    "Hey, Eric!" Little Halla shouts as she waves her hands before her. Eric turns with a raised brow as Little Halla grins. Cupping her palms together, tongues of crimson flame flicker between her fingers as she pulls her arm back, "Check this out!"


    She steps into the throw and lets fly the blazing bundle. Flames trail as the ball soars, splashing against a pile of earth serving as a road-fork''s marker. The flames lick harmlessly against the dirt, yet Little Halla is oh-so proud all the same.


    Little Halla needs to hone her kunna. A fragile fireball like that could never hope to scorch hair let alone–


    Steinarr thrusts his hand as a jet of crimson flames engulfs a charging warrior. Skin chars black in an instant, the familiar screams cut short by Crowfeeder''s deadly edge.


    Steinarr grimaces, eyes screwing shut as he downs another swallow of wine. Warmth spreads across his chest, soothing his memories under a blanket of calm thoughts. He takes a deep breath, letting the shadow-summoned past leave him along with the exhale.


    Little Halla is a child—his child, his baby girl—she does not need the lessons of Captain Steinarr. He''s earned his rest with twenty years of blood-spilled installments; he doesn''t need to go back to Persia, where he buried those dark dreams. His work is done, it''s over now.


    Salgrun sneezes as he walks beside Steinarr, his gaze fixed to the dark-draped forest lurking by the side of the road.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Salgrun is, to not mince words, a sub-par man. He puts on a brave face yet trembles when battle is met. His spear shakes, biting thanks to passing luck and by accident more than any skillful intentions. He wouldn''t have lasted a year in the Varangian Guard, if he were even accepted into its ranks.


    And yet, wasn''t it Steinarr''s job to take such pitiful excuses of warriors and turn them into true Varangians? Wasn''t that where he excelled?


    No, not in the leading of men, but in their slaughter.


    "Captain! The gate, close the gate!" One of his warriors cries out, urging Steinarr on as the enemy hordes close in. Not all his men have made it across the threshold, yet every passing second means tha–


    Steinarr forces another drink of wine down his throat, eyes creasing as he scowls. That battle was over fifteen years ago, yet it haunts his dreams like it happened only yesterday. Why? Why must he suffer in silence what other men can spend a single afternoon laughing away?


    The truth of the matter is that Steinarr... He has two talents, fighting and farming, and even that may well be wrong. What is fighting but threshing the chaff from the wheat? What is training but helping plants grow?


    Though the farmer sows what he will one day harvest, he does not command his crops to grow. He merely readies his scythe and reaps the end result.


    ...Little Halla, sweet daughter, does not deserve this curse. She should live a life full of laughter and smiles, a life never knowing the sting of loss nor the pain of an absent homeland.


    A scream splits the air as a toddler''s blood-dry corpse greets the dawn.


    But he''s already failed her there, hasn''t he?


    ...There''s nothing left to do now but shield her from the cruel world as much as he can. Little Halla is a precocious child, she is one to run the fields and climb the trees. Steinarr had thought that she would calm with time, but it seems that he will have to take matters into his own hands.


    But how? He can''t punish her for adventuring, for such things are only expected of the youths. Likewise, he can''t punish her for dreaming of being an adult...


    That''s it! If Little Halla wishes to act the adult, then an adult''s responsibility shall be hers! If he can keep her busy enough, she won''t have time to engage in activities that endanger her or the family. That way, he can protect her whenever he''s needed.


    Crowfeeder greets his palm as fingers twist tight about the handle. A smile curls at his lips, his smoke clearing up for the first time in weeks.


    Come, man, myth, or any murderous monster, come and discover a long forgotten past.


    Come, o'' wicked vagabonds, and learn what was buried so long ago.


    <hr>


    Solrun, Seeress of Asvir, watches the stars as they climb the horizon. Her fingers comb through her Kolla''s hair, braiding a red ribbon into her straw lengths.


    "Mother," Kolla says as a certain dark star flickers, "the future is found in the past."


    Solrun hums, "Indeed, child, it seems that the past won''t stay buried for long."