“My Vaich, allow me,” said Torin. Torin was older and larger, with great muscles from plowing. Skyre nodded, and the man gripped the axe tight near the head. He pulled. He grunted and groaned, but the axe did not budge. He put his foot upon the stone, leveraging himself, but even as his skin flushed and his veins bulged, the axe did not move.
Next came Eirn, who tugged and groped uselessly, then the next man, and then the fifth. Till all who was left to place his hands upon the iron was the Vaich.
“It is just like the story,” whispered Cían. “Only Cathal could wield it.”
Skyre remained still. He thought, he might go forwards, and place his hands upon it, and fail aside the rest.
He had passed trials before, but all of those were primed for his success. This one cared not for his blood nor his birth. It did not know his name. It had lain in wait for a hundred… maybe a thousand years, and no one had it allowed to claim. If he failed now, then suppose he was never divine. Just a man with a crown and a scar on his chest.
His body hummed, brimming with a need to prove himself… and yet, he wondered if it should matter. If he went down the mountain with the axe held high, would they cry his name? Would they bow before him?
Maybe it would change nothing. Maybe it would bring no happiness. Yet, to defend a realm, a people, aheart…
That would be a thing of legend.
He reached forth, his fingers grazing the grip. Its heat pulsed deep within. It seemed to breathe beneath his touch, and slowly, he clasped his hand about it.
The mountain shook.
The men faltered, their feet digging into the dirt, eyes frantic as the trembling grew.
“Another ettin?” said Eirn.
“An earthshake?” said Cían.
But it was neither. It was nothing natural at all.
Skyre released the iron handle and his gaze pulled towards the cavern as a great, echoing groan arose.
“What is it?” growled Torin. “Tell us, boy! How did the story go?”
Cían quivered, eyes wide in fear. “I-I dinnae ken! They said the monster was… was some devilish thing! A creature of ravenous hunger—”
A wave of smoke poured from the cave, beating against them like a tide. The air stuck in their lungs and they coughed and choked upon it. Skyre peeled his teary eyes open, finding something staring back at him from the dark.
Something frightening.
And familiar.
Two eyes of molten gold blazing in the shadow.
He was frozen in place, breathless and emptied of strength. He remembered the moment. The heat. The bodily sound of a roar, piling in the throat. The cave lit up crimson and there was a rush of wind as the field was drowned in a torrent of fire. Skyre was pushed aside as Cían threw himself upon him, pressing him down into the dirt.
The heat was unbearable. It flooded the summit like an open forge, only the stones braced against its force. And when it passed, the air was left trembling.
Fearfully, Skyre glanced aside, seeing nothing but smoke and sparks.
“S-Sire…” He looked up at Cían over him. “Are you… alright?”
“Yes, I’m—” Skyre’s heart dropped. From the side, Cían seemed as he had moments before, youthful, happy… full of life. But as Skyre’s vision came into focus, he saw that half of him was black and charred. His arm was gone—instantaneously cauterized—and his leg was horribly burned. But his head remained intact and for a fleeting moment, Skyre thought… he might live.
He gazed across the field.
Torin was gone. And what remained of him was little more than roasted bone. Eirn and the others had taken shelter behind the stones, but no one moved.
No one breathed.
“W-what do you suppose… it is?” mumbled Cían.
