S.G. MULHOLLAND

        The warrior knelt; blood flowing into his face from an open wound on his head and running past his water blue eyes discolouring his lion’s mane hair and beard, on to the ice at his feet. He looked at the weapon in his hand. Weariness was setting in; there was nothing he wanted more than to lay down and sleep but he could not allow that to happen. Inside he knew, that to lie down now would mean defeat, and defeat was not an option. His head weighed upon his neck like a boulder, but still he found the willpower to lift his eyes and gaze at the gigantic hulking mass that was his enemy.

         The serpent, its head lying to one side on the frozen water, took in heavy laboured breaths; its scales were charred by marks of struck lightning and its loose-fitting fangs hung listlessly among a sea of fellow sharpened terrors.  Blood trickled underneath a blinded eye and down its neck, while the remnants of what had once been its spiked tail was torn off and thrown next to the opening in ice from which this vicious serpent had emerged.  The malicious beast turned and stared at the warrior with its one remaining eye and, in that moment, its lips curled back in a twisted reptilian smile.

         He had never once felt so challenged to stand, as if somehow merely staying upright was the bravest and most courageous act he had ever undertaken. He would not let go of his hammer; it was his heart, his soul and victory was tied to it. His fingers begged him to drop the rune encrusted war weapon. His will bit back at his agony and told him to stand firm upon the ice.

He took a moment to gaze at the horizon to his left.  On the tip of a distant mountain, he could see his city burning and above that hung the burning branches of the world tree which had begun to twist and fall into ash as he took a ragged breath and mournfully wept a silent tear.

Looking back at his foe he laughed, almost sarcastically, and stretched his lips into a blood frenzied grin. 

         “One last time, old friend, one last time!” and, with that, he rose: he charged, screaming so as to shake the world and make it known that valour would never let him surrender, that he would not falter, that he would never fail himself or his kin. As he charged, the runes, so intricately carved upon his hammer, began to burn with an iridescent blue fire as all around him thunder cracked and lightning sparked.

      The serpent drew itself to its fullest height, fangs bared, dripping venom, ready to strike. Quietly, it studied the warrior’s movements; carefully watching him make his charge. It readied itself, picked its moment; he was in range and about to meet his doom, when unexpectedly the warrior leapt into the air, rising majestically to meet the serpent face to face, eye to bloodied eye. The hammer struck with the full force of a storm on the serpents head, breaking the face of the demon and finally rejoicing in its death. Blood and venom sprayed upwards in a crimson black fountain that drenched the warriors’ wounds in one last act of spitefulness. As the beast fell, the bloodied stump that had once been its tail flailed uselessly.

     The warrior turned and, in a few steps, exhaustion finally won. Falling to his knees, head raised, he looked again at the world tree burning on the horizon. And then he beheld something he had never seen before: as its branches fell and crumbled into ashen snow, he saw the stars and gazed in wonder upon a new vision of immortality.

      The moment was all too brief. No sooner had he been granted his prize, then a thick, ethereal fog gathered around him. Weird shapes darted about fluidly as shadows pressed in close, yet still held him at arm’s length.

     A mist shrouded figure emerged, green eyes stabbing through the fog like two arrows in a shield.

    “It is time,” said the figure, its voice sounding more like the hissing of a cobra than actual speech. “You must come with us.”

    He had no fight left in him; only defiance and stubborn indifference. He shot them all a contemptuous glare, knowing full well they wanted his blood and his hammer. Staring hard at the shapeless figure with its piercing green eyes, he hacked up as much phlegm as he could and spat at it.

     “Not for my father’s entire kingdom,” he cried and, with the very last of his strength, hurled his hammer into the night sky. It burned, like a flaming spear, piercing into the horizon.

     "Goodbye,” said the warrior as he watched his old friend tear its way forever into the distance.

     Wasting no time, he turned, facing the spirits once more. Bringing his gigantic hands above his bloodied head and taking one last breath, he paused for a moment and looked at the green eyes one last time. Then, grinning through bloodied teeth, he crashed his fists down, shattering the ice beneath him. The lake cracked and fractured as he glared at the shapeless figures around him.

They reached out to stop him from falling into the cold chill of the water.

   “You may have beaten us spirits, but you will NEVER defeat us.” And with these last words, threw himself into the lake.

   Water wrapped itself around him; a quilt of frost crept its way into his bones and slowly massaged his very marrow, turning it as brittle as mouldy wood. His blood ran blue, making a river of ice out of every artery in his body. His hands, which had only a few moments before wielded the very symbol of a warrior’s pride and honour, turned black and twisted in on themselves. Sinking into the deep blackness of the lake, the cold hand of death wrapped its nimble fingers around his heart and squeezed until it burst.

    The spirits wailed in anger as a strange transformation came upon them. They moved, darting radically; their wailing becoming higher pitched, as if they were in pain, their very life essence twisting and contorting, being broken and reshaped.  The shapes within the mist became more clear; more lifelike and corporeal, and not once did their agonised wailing cease; a bloodcurdling scream so loud and powerful, that the very walls of the city began to shake.

     It was the cry of something very old dying a long and lingering death.  As the tortured scream slowly faded, an old and gnarled hand could be seen emerging from the mist:  a new evil free to walk the earth.