Overhead, the clouds parted. Those watching from the hills surrounding the battled plain reported seeing a shaft of golden sunlight beam down upon the place where Roland stood, as if the sun itself had answered his call and showered its strength upon him. The last twelve Summerlea knights fell to their knees around him. They bowed their heads and reached out to lay their gauntleted hands upon him. Roland Triumphant gave a final shout, in a voice that boomed across the plain like the thunder of god: “Avires Coruscate Rosa!” Long live the Radiant Rose!

And from him exploded a vast, deadly force, like none had ever seen before or since. He flared blinding bright, so bright the watchers on the surrounding hills cried out and shielded their eyes, and rings of blazing golden light rolled out in stunning waves. The light swept across the plains for a radius of two miles, flattening the enemy army, incinerating everything in its path. It was as if the sun had fallen to earth and burst its strength upon the plain. Out and out, the rings of flaming light roared, until the watchers on the mountains cried out in fear, certain they, too, would be consumed by its blazing fury. But just before the deadly brilliance reached them, the fiery light receded like a wave upon sand. The rings raced back towards the center of the field, towards Roland, and met once more with a mighty boom. A tower of light and smoke shot up into the sky, and crackling blades of golden light speared the heavens.

Then it was over. The plain stood barren, emptied of all but a small ring of bodies. Roland’s last twelve Summerlea knights were laid out like the petals of a daisy, their armor shining with a high polish, their skin cleansed of blood and the grime of battle, their faces peaceful and untouched as if they had been purified in death. And there, in the center of them all, rising up from a patch of rich, untouched green Summerlea grass, was Roland’s mighty sword, Blazing, its hilt pointing towards the sun. The great ruby in its pommel was clear as a star, shining with a radiance unmatched by any diamond or earthly gem. That sword and that unearthly stone were all that remained of Roland, Summerlea’s greatest king.

Khamsin closed the book. Krysti had tears in his eye, as moved by the story as she always was. Even now her eyes were damp, and her throat felt closed and aching.

“He was a great hero,” the boy whispered.

She nodded. “A hero of heroes. A king of kings. There’s never been a man to match him. He led Summerlea to greatness and secured its safety for generations to come. There’s a statue of him outside the walls of Vera Sola. He’s the first of the Stone Knights guarding the city gates. A statue of his brother Donal, from whom my line descends, stands on the opposite side.”

“Where is Roland’s sword Blazing now?”

“It disappeared not long after his death, never to be seen again. Many a Summerlea knight has set out to find it, but none ever has.”

A brief silence fell. Krysti cleared his throat and said, “Our king, Wynter, is a hero too. A legend in the Craig. Barely two months shy of his sixteenth birthday, he killed a Frost Giant single-handedly.”

“I’ve heard something about that. I understand it’s quite a feat.”

“It’s never been done before. Frost Giants stand fifteen feet tall”—Krysti clambered to his feet and raised his hands far over his head to demonstrate—“and their fists are like boulders. They carry great swords with razor-sharp serrated edges that can shatter swords and cleave fully armored men in two with a single blow.” His lips drew back in a snarling grimace, and he hacked and slashed with gusto.

Khamsin hid a smile, charmed by the child’s enthusiasm. “And Wynter faced one of these terrible creatures in single combat?”

“He did. He’d only just earned his knighthood. To celebrate, he and his family went ice fishing on Lake Ibree, when the Frost Giant caught them unawares. It struck him a blow that knocked him senseless, then killed his mother and father and was going to slay his brother, the little prince, when Wynter reawakened. Even knowing he was unlikely to survive, Wynter threw himself before his brother, armed only with his sword.” He leapt forward and assumed a defensive stance, hands clenched around his imaginary sword. The sword swung, accompanied by hearty slashing and battle noises as Krysti the Giant Killer fought his foe. He stopped in midswing, and added, “Gunterfys was forged in the fires of Mount Freika, did you know? And blessed by the priestess of Wyrn as it was made. They say it is a sword that will never be broken.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” She filed that away, wondering how much of it was true and how much was legend. “I suppose it’s only fitting. A mighty hero should have a very special sword. Did Wynter and the Frost Giant fight for hours? Did they battle throughout the day and into the night?”

Krysti gave her a look. “That’s only in the legends. Most men couldn’t battle a Frost Giant for more than a few minutes and live. As big as they are, they have all the advantage. One blow would shatter a man’s bones into dust.”

“Ah. Of course. Sorry.” Properly chastened, Khamsin nodded. “Go on with your story.”

“The battle was fierce—and it did last almost ten minutes. King Wynter—well, he was Prince Wynter then—knew he could not let the Frost Giant’s sword or fist strike him. He used his smaller size and speed against the monster, darting in and out, slashing its flesh in a hundred shallow wounds—to weaken him, you know?” The mattress bounced and rolled as he lunged, parried, and hacked at his invisible foe. “But that only made the Frost Giant furious. The creature swung one enormous fist and sent Wynter flying across the clearing. Wynter barely had time to rise on one knee before the monster was upon him, his terrible sword raised high, ready to strike the killing blow.”