Thorvald’s Wyrd 015
The wind tugged at Thorvald’s beard as he stood transfixed by the lead horseman’s single bright blue eye. Fear and joy crashed together in his heart as the evidence of his senses mixed with a hundred tiny clues beyond the edge of perception, clues ingrained in his being.
His axe slipped from loose fingers and Thorvald dropped to his knees in the snow even as he found the resolve to raise both arms, resting the Spear, the holiest of weapons, on open palms. He lowered his head so his chin pressed against his chest.
“All Father. How may I serve?”