The Killing Day dawns cold and clear. The army assembles in the square, the men's breath frosty white pillars in the frigid air. The soldiers stamp their feet to drive the numbness from their freezing legs, and slap their arms against armored chests to warm shivering bodies. Cold steel rattles as swords are sheathed and spears are sharpened on whetstones.

"Men of Jarlsholm," Ragnar shouts. "Too long have we suffered the assaults of the Ghormundr. Too many men have we lost to the savage Beast. Today, we seek our revenge. Today, the Monster will feel the wrath of Jarlsholm, the strength of the Men of the North. Today, the Ghormundr dies! We return with its head on our spears or we return on our shields!"

The square reverberates to the lusty shout of twenty voices, the clatter of swords striking shields, and the pounding of spear shafts on the cobbled stone of the marketplace. The sense of imminent victory is strong.

Blind Boy appears from the stable, and the celebration suddenly ceases. All eyes are on the slight figure with the enchanted instrument; could this small Boy really serve as their salvation?

The Boy hears the shuffling of many feet; the ring of steel on steel; imagines the stares of scores of eyes as they gaze his way. He knows the might of Jarlsholm is arrayed about him. Never in his life have so many depended on his talent. For a moment, he is terrified; he absently plucks a note on the Tablanet. Instantly, a shout erupts from the gathered host, and the deafening celebration begins again.

"The Ghormundr's death!" shouts Ragnar.

"The Ghormundr's death!" echo the soldiers.

Blind Boy finds himself buoyed by the excitement of the crowd. "The Ghormundr's death!" he yells, joining the chorus, and the mass of men and weapons begins the march to destiny.