A Tale Worth Dying For

Copyright © 2026 by Sam Larson

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Barthu sipped from his flask as he watched the tiny village. His squinting eyes deepened the creases in his aging face. He tugged the brim of his hat lower against the wind whipping his snow-white hair.

Perhaps at last he would find one in this forgotten hamlet.

He hefted his knobbly staff and trudged toward the cluster of wooden huts and thatched roofs perched atop a hillock on the Delnari Plains.

A shadowy figure watched from a rise in the grass a hundred paces behind.

---

Children raced from house to house, gathering friends and whooping with delight.

Barthu the storyteller was here!

The villagers greeted him with warm smiles and grateful nods, though he hadn’t passed this way in over a year.

He shook hands and shared news from his travels. Freya—his wife—had always been better at this part.

Her absence was a deafening silence in the quiet moments.

As evening fell, Barthu settled within a ring of stones around the fire pit just outside the village. He struck flint to tinder and breathed life into the flames. Children whispered to one another—what tales of far-off lands and forgotten heroes would Barthu share tonight?

He rubbed his aching knees and glanced at the gathering crowd. Gods, he didn’t have many years left. If he was going to find one, it had to be soon.

He should be with his son in Devnar, but… This was too important.

A round-faced girl hopped up and down. “Do a magic trick! Please, Mr. Barthu!”

A smile cracked Barthu’s weathered face. “First, the magic of a story. Perhaps we’ll find other magic later on.”

He drew out a snakeskin hand drum and a reed pipe. Behind him, in the flickering firelight, something shifted.

---

Barthu launched into crowd favorites: The Riders of Torgalath, Sevreth and the cursed lion, Galan Einar’s triumph over the Deshku clan. He slipped into his storyteller voice—acting out key moments, punctuating them with sound effects and musical trills, pausing at all the right moments.

The adults smiled and chuckled before drifting away, relieved to have the children entertained for a while.

As the fire sank low, Barthu dropped his voice to match its glow. “Now, little ones. I’ve told you about many heroes of the past.” He paused, then leaned in with a loud whisper. “But there are stories of future heroes as well.”

An instant hush fell over his captivated audience. He smiled inwardly. A good story’s magic hits every time.

He scanned the little faces.

Would the gods give him a sign?

“Before this world existed, when the seven gods pooled their wills, they created the Foundation Stone, from which everything came into being. But all you smart folk know that story, am I right?”

Children nodded eagerly.

“Of course!” An older boy in the back shouted.

“Yes, yes, I’ve told you that one before, I’m sure,” Barthu said. “And you’ve heard of the Gifted Era, of course.”

A ripple of unease passed through them. A few glanced around, as though afraid someone might overhear. They knew this was approaching topics that were only spoken about in the safety of one’s own four walls, when your mother was tucking you into bed.

“Rest assured, little ones. There are no Belgarans here. We may speak freely,” Barthu said. “The gods bestow the Ancient Power to mankind through a select few, but only for seventy-two years at a time. After that, the Ancient Power disappears for three and a half centuries—until the next Gifted Era.”

The children seemed to hold a single shared breath. Only the fire’s crackle, the chirping crickets, and faint murmur of village voices broke the stillness.

“The Children of the Stone…” a boy breathed.

A prickle crawled up Barthu’s arms.

“Yes, lad. The Children of the Stone. People think of them as legends, untouchable heroes—and they were. But listen to the most important thing I will tell you this night.”

Children leaned in closer, eyes widened.

Barthu spoke slowly, his voice deep with longing. “The next Gifted Era is almost here. And when it comes—the Children of the Stone could be any one of us. You, or you—or you.” Barthu pointed at random into the crowd.

“Listen well, little ones. The heroes of the future will not be foreigners. They will be people like you and me. Perhaps…” His voice caught—too much hope slipping out. “No. I shouldn’t speak,” Barthu muttered.

“Say it! Speak!” they cried.

“All right, all right. The old stories speak of early signs. Perhaps one of you has seen or experienced something strange, something…unexplainable?” He searched every eager, innocent face.

Please, gods. Show me your saviors.

Silence—just disappointing silence.

Barthu’s shoulders sagged under the sudden weight of his sixty-odd years.

On to the next village.

Perhaps he could pass through Devnar on his way south.

---

Barthu packed up his things with a heavy sigh as the last children headed back to their homes. Time to collect a few meager donations and find a warm hearth or barn to rest for the night.

He rose slowly to extinguish the fire when something to his right caught his eye.

A little girl peeked from behind a rock, her face full of curiosity. Barthu opened his mouth to call to her when a smooth voice spoke from behind.

“What a fascinating story, Barthu.”

Barthu whirled around, dread blooming in his gut.

In the shadow of a large boulder, something black flickered. Only when the voice spoke again, did Barthu make out a vague shape: a hood, a black cloak.

“Stories can be dangerous; don’t you think?” the shadowy figure said.

Barthu squeezed his staff, fighting to steady his trembling arms.

Stay hidden, girl, he prayed. “Stories are the most powerful magic, Thane.”

“Ah, you know of me.”

“I know what you do. Let me at least see the face of my killer.”

The hooded figure stepped out of the shadows. A black mask obscured his features but left his smiling mouth revealed.

“It isn’t my face you’ll be seeing, but the god of death’s,” Thane said.

Barthu’s other hand was in his pocket, fingers slowly feeling for what he was seeking.

The girl had stayed back, her expression hesitant, perhaps afraid.

Had she seen something? A sign?

“Why do you serve such evil?” Barthu asked.

“I serve the god of death—and the gods-chosen king.”

Barthu’s fingers found the shell of gortham powder in his pocket. He flung it to the ground at Thane’s feet. The tiny clay shell shattered, green powder pluming upward. He prayed to every god that it was enough to knock out this assassin.

Thane kicked the clay shards aside, smiling as emerald tendrils drifted past him. “Nothing like some gortham to stimulate the senses.”

Barthu bared his teeth and raised his staff. “The Children of the Stone will come. You cannot—”

Steel flashed.

Before he could react, the cold blade of a straight sword pierced his throat.

Barthu stumbled back, clutching the wound. Blood leaked through his fingers, spreading down his chest.

Oh, gods—not like this.

His legs buckled. Thane was humming a slow and eerie melody.

He wanted one last glimpse of the girl—but he had to keep her from Thane.

The starry sky blurred and dimmed. He had failed her—failed them all.

---

Gurda had been too young to remember most of Barthu’s stories from years past, but his words tonight had shaken her bones.

Something strange had happened weeks ago, a moment she’d blamed on a ghost or her imagination. But when she’d shouted at her older brother, the pebbles by her feet had lifted—not rolled or bounced—lifted, as if tugged by invisible strings.

Too scared to speak in front of everyone, she’d stayed back.

From her hiding spot behind the rock, Gurda saw Thane’s blur of motion, then Barthu crumple. An involuntary gasp escaped her as blood spurted from his neck.

She needed to run.

But her feet refused to move.

Thane’s head snapped toward her. Gurda shrank back behind the rock, her lungs frozen. She belly-crawled through the grass toward the village. Her father would know what to do.

Heavy footsteps…drawing closer behind her.

She lurched to her feet and bolted.

Figures emerged from the darkness ahead, armored and silent. Heavy arms seized her. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, swallowing her scream.

She thrashed like a trapped animal.

Thane approached and knelt before her. A faint smell of incense and rotting fruit rolled off him. “You stayed behind. To speak with him alone?” He tilted his head, studying her.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. She could only stare into his eyes, cold and gray as stone.

“Perhaps you’ve seen something…unexplainable,” Thane murmured.

Gurda whimpered. Warmth ran down her legs as her trembling body gave out.

“She goes to the king,” Thane said softly. “Just in case.”

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