Small Realities

Inside the mind of Lance Schonberg

Thorvald’s Wyrd 118

Had the sun-thief lurched to his feet and backed against an ice wall, or merely dropped to the floor and rolled over to crush Thorvald under his greater weight, the giant would have won and Thorvald would be a flattened and rapidly cooling corpse.

But Icewind did neither of these things, such a direct approach somehow alien to his sorcerous mind.  Instead the would-be god pounded on the floor with one fist or, with the same hand, made desperate attempts to squeeze fingers between his neck and Thorvald’s arms.

Thorvald held his grip, teeth clenched against pain and numbing cold.


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