“The heroes are dead, the wizards are turned to stone, and here you are, standing. Look at you: your trembling arms can barely hold that blade. Step aside.”
His father’s sword was heavy in his hands. He’d no time to dress—he’d woken up to the fires, the screaming—and he stood there naked before the Desolation. His father, too, was dead, dead with the rest of the heroes, but his sword—he had at least left his son his sword.
All around him, the temple burned, and the smoke surrounded the boy. He blinked his bleary eyes, and coughed as tears rolled down his cheeks.
The Desolation laughed, “Out of my way,” and tried to step around the child.
With a little spring, the small figure leapt between the Desolation and the temple, the quavering tip of the sword held up between them.
With a growl, the Desolation said, “Fine,” and he swung his great ax.
His forehead cleaved, the final hero lay twitching on the temple’s steps, the sword still clutched within his dead hands.
The heroes are dead, the wizards turned to stone, but the boy stood. Had he lived, he could have won no greater honor.
Tale Told 