Gods of Earth
an excerpt

Fors was living up to his name, having enjoyed a particularly lucky day at hunting. Across his back, several coneys were strung to a thin rope which would provide him and his small family a fine meal. The coneys were quite young, and while there would be little meat from each once it was boned, the number of animals would surely compensate and the meat would likely be more tender. The day was dying, but he had some time to sit and rest before the difficult return home over the rocky, forested terrain of Wiltunscir.
His legs were tired and he had been up early that morning, preparing for his day’s hunting in the black cold of an autumn morning. Fewer birds chirped each day, and he was worried that the small animals he normally trapped would soon become scarce and he would be forced to clamber through the thick woods after larger game. He was hungry and sore from tramping, so he decided to sit down and relax in what little warmth the sun offered that afternoon.
He crested a rise upon which the huge rocks called “The Giant’s Dance” were arranged in concentric circles. He did not know where the rocks had come from, nor who had laid them thus. The work seemed far beyond anything that could be possible; therefore, Fors ignored its origins, as did most of those in his village. The rocks possessed a healing power, and he was hoping they would help ease the pains he had recently begun to feel in his knees. Fors sat down upon a small rock that had broken through the crust of the soil over recent years. The site was pleasant, as the land was cleared of trees for hundreds of yards, and the breeze was refreshing. The clouds drifted across the sky, and Fors began to feel hungry.
He spread the coneys in the late-day sun and counted them. He found that he had plenty for dinner that evening and to spare. One fewer coney would not be missed. He placed his pouch, sack of tools, daggers, and other equipment on the ground and began the hike to the woods to gather kindling and wood for a small fire.
The process was quick, and he soon returned. The fire took only a few minutes to build, and he soon had a small blaze. He selected one of the plump young coneys and prepared to dress it. He picked up his daggers, transferring them to one hand so that he could hold the coney in the other. The daggers were heavy iron tools given to Fors by his father from his father before him. Fors did not know where they had come from originally. Fors kept them sharp and in good condition, yet anyone could tell they had come from a different age. The weapons had held up remarkably well considering their vast age.
As Fors held them and tried to grasp the coney properly, the daggers shifted in his hand as he inadvertently squeezed them. The tips splayed outward as the handles were drawn in, the resultant shape resembling a “V” in his right hand. He fumbled with the young coney in his left hand, the carcass slipping as he manipulated it. He unconsciously raised his right hand toward the circular monument as he did so, pointing the “V” of ancient metal toward the circular structure. The sky darkened – or did Fors simply believe it to be so? – as a bolt of energy, unleashed from the dormant henge of stones, froze the arm of Fors, locking the elbow and hand that held the daggers. The bolt locked Fors’s hand in place, preventing him from withdrawing it and sending wave after wave of interminable shocks through his system. Froth appeared at his mouth, mixed with the blood from his bitten tongue. The coney in his other hand began to smoke as the electricity coursing through his body cooked the tiny carcass.