My story is not a tale one would sing of in song or put forth as legend. It is of a more humble nature, but then again, it is said that legends arise from humble beginnings...
It began as all stories do, in the beginning, when we were very young. He was always the bright one, the sun to my shadow. He caught the eye and held it. It was not a matter of beauty, so much as presence. He radiated this aura of humble confidence, and a sense of conviction and concern for those around him. It drew the attention of all he passed, from the time we ran through the streets playing tag right through to the times we rode though the streets fighting bandits and ogres.
It never bothered me. Well, it never bothered me much. On occasion a small spark of jealousy would flare, but I was an ordinary man, and far preferred the quiet anonymity of "hero's friend." Besides, I too found myself caught in his unintentional spell. Some might say I was bewitched by it, but I knew that what I saw in him was something greater and nobler than exists in the hearts of everyday men. If I could not be like him, I would be content to be what I could in his shadow.
For years we rode together as bright hero and quiet companion, bringing what justice and peace we could to the land. He did it because he believed it was right; that it was what had to be done. I did it because I believed he was right. That is not to say I did not agree with bringing peace and salvation to those in need, but it is a path I never would have had the courage to follow on my own.
I am no hero.
He had that uncanny knack, like all brave men, for finding trouble no matter where it might lurk. It did not matter where we went; our mettle was tested at every turn. Evil can hide even in the brightest of places, I soon learned, and allies are often few and far between. Even the simplest tasks could lead us into confrontation, as there are those who feel the need to test the courage of a hero. Always, though, we prevailed, by sword and cunning and that brand of blind luck that is the stock in trade of all heroes.
As the years passed, I was lulled into the complacency of routine -- if our lives could be said to have the quality of monotony. We vanquished all the darkness that stood in our path; there was nothing so malevolent that my friend could not face it and defeat it with a resounding blow. He was all that a hero should be, and I was grateful to count him as my friend. Few could claim such an honor, though many tried. Who would not want to claim the camaraderie of a hero?
On those nights we were lucky enough to find lodging, we were obliged to relate our recent escapades to the occupants of the inn or home at which we stayed. We would sit in the common room, sometimes until the darkest hours, and my friend would regale our hosts with details of our travels. He spun stories of such detail and color that even I was awed, though I had seen the events firsthand. As he spoke, his eyes would brighten and his laugh would echo about the room.
The people adored him, and he commanded their respect and devotion with just his presence. Whole villages would turn out when we rode through, just so they could later say they sat and drank with the hero. To them it was an event that might be the highlight of a life, a tale handed down for generations, an oratory inheritance worth more than gold or jewels.
During his retellings of our adventures, many would wonder how we had survived against such odds. He spoke of luck and skill, though I had begun to believe that there was nothing that could extinguish the fierce courage of my friend, that he was charmed by his very nature. A hero is still mortal, however, and though he may dodge Death most spectacularly for a time, that entity is quite persistent and eventually will catch up with even the most evasive champion.
Just as it caught up with mine.
It had been a quiet day. We had covered many miles and were looking forward to taking our rest when we stumbled across a pack of wolfen, helping themselves to a flock of sheep in a fenced field. There was no hesitation in my friend's response; he drew his sword and called the challenge, as he had countless times before.
Little did I know that would be the last time I heard his voice.
There was nothing great or epic to his death; just an ill timed parry in a brutal and bloody little skirmish. I did not even notice he had fallen 'til after our foes had fled, and by then it was too late. Kneeling in a pool of his blood, I closed his sightless eyes, and gripped his lifeless hand. I do not remember how long I remained at his side like that, before I thought to dig a shallow trench for his body and bury him under a cairn of pale grey stones.
Then, I rode on alone.
I rode aimlessly. It had always been he who decided what path we should follow, by some unknown instinct to find adversity with which I believe all heroes are born. I kept to the road he had last chosen, for no other reason than I did not know what else to do. I felt quite lost without the guide I had followed for so long.
In those first days after his death, still shaken and wracked with grief, I came upon a small village. I had hoped to find a hot meal and a warm bed, but events seemed determined to conspire against me.
The village was besieged by a band of ogres.
I watched from the hills just beyond the tiny farm plots that surrounded the village. Not much was left in those fields; the ogres had eaten what they wished and defiled the rest, as was their habit.
Hours passed, and the sun had begun to set behind me before I finally began to make my way along the road. I had spent most of that time arguing with myself as to the effectiveness of my involvement in the matter. Eventually, though, my conscience won out over my common sense, and as the sky began to darken I cobbled together a plan that, at the very least, did not seem like it would result in my immediate demise.
The leader eyed me as I approached the makeshift wall that surrounded the huddle of buildings. I was on foot, having left my horse in the relative safety of the hills. It was the one concession to common sense, as ogres are well known for having a particular taste for horseflesh.
He grinned, a grotesque expression on his lumpy and misshapen face. "What you want, human?" He spat it, as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. Considering some of the things that appeared to be growing between his teeth, it was no wonder.
"I, ah, wish to buy your services."
The creature stared at me in blinking incomprehension, until I took a bag from by belt and tossed it to the ground at his feet, where it landed with a jangling clatter that he did understand.
He scooped up the bag in one enormous hairy palm. Its contents would more than buy the entire village. Fortunately, this particular ogre was sharp enough to realize that.
"Why?"
Taking a deep breath, I spun the fairy-tale I had concocted hours before.
"There is a village to the north, beyond the Wandering Fens. I have a quarrel with its inhabitants, who cast me out to die. I wish you to destroy their homes as my vengeance."
I then pulled a second bag of coin from my belt, which he eyed with great speculation. He already held a small fortune. "What if say no?"
I was quite conscious of his brethren gathering close, drawn in by the unusual exchange. I laid my hand upon the hilt of my sword with exaggerated care, if only to hide the nervous trembling of my fingers.
"Take my offer," I stated with an offhand casualness that was entirely feigned, "or die."
There was a long moment in which I did not breathe at all; it seemed that an entire age passed before the leader shrugged, plucking the other bag from my hand. "We go."
No doubt the incentive of the gold was much more compelling than the steel of my sword.
It took some prodding, but they were soon on their way. The head of the village clapped my shoulder and laughed as the lumbering forms vanished over the rise. He had heard the whole thing, and claimed me a clever man; there were no villages beyond the Fens, and whatever inhabitants the ogres might find would be more than a match for them. The gold was no personal loss, as I had taken it from the bodies of the wolfen. This was as noble a use for it as any.
Still, it felt like a hollow victory, and so I continued on, wandering without any real purpose through all the hamlets, villages or towns the road took me past. As before, each had some task for a hero. But there was no hero, so I did what I could and moved on.
The town I entered one chill morn a fortnight later no different. I could hear the low buzz of a frightened crowd, and as had happened in all the towns I had passed so far there was a shout as someone saw me. A woman caught at my stirrup, gazing up, and I could see the question in her eyes - Where is the hero?
I did not have the heart to tell her he was buried some 50 leagues back under a neat stone cairn. Soon enough the people would know; I had marked the grave with his distinctive blade. Those that passed would see, and soon the news would travel the land.
The hero was dead.
I urged my horse forward. "You have only me," I said to the woman, as I had said to so many in the villages and towns I had helped since his passing. Threading my way through the throng to the square's center, I could hear the mayor going on about a dragon.
A dragon. Not a troll, or a band of ogres, or even a basilisk. A bloody dragon. I wanted no part of dragonslaying. It was in that endeavor that Death caught up with the majority of heroes that had escaped its grasp so many times before. Dragons are large beasts, powerful and quite often cranky and ill tempered. When they decide to rampage, woe is great to whoever may attempt to intercede for the victims.
The crowd parted to let me pass, and when the mayor, a portly man who obviously felt far more important than he actually was, saw me - or I should say saw only me - his face fell.
"We need the hero!"
I pulled my horse up next to his podium and calmly met his eyes. "He's not here. You have only me."
"What can you do?" He cried, wringing his hands, no doubt seeing his doom in my not so heroic visage.
I said it, even though all my good sense screamed for me to keep quiet. "I can try and kill it."
The portly man barely kept from scoffing at me outright. "For that, we need a hero."
I sighed. "There are no more heroes," I said simply, and turned my horse and rode off down the dragon's trail.
I finally made my way to his lair in the back of a dank cave that smelled of brimstone and musk and other equally unpleasant things I had no desire to identify. The dragon was not the largest specimen of his kind, but it was not exactly small either. He was also, fortunately, asleep.
I thanked the deities for that small favor. Not terribly honorable, perhaps, but this entire venture would be quite useless if I ended up dead and the dragon didn't.
Still, it was a bit anxious for a few moments when, as I crept alongside his snoring bulk, I stepped on a bone that was lying among the other items that littered the cave floor. It broke with a resounding crack, and one barrel-sized eye snapped open, focusing immediately on me.
I managed to dodge the first snap of his jaws and, by some extraordinary luck, caught him in that vulnerable spot under the chin as his head swung back for a second try. I did not, however, quite succeed in avoiding the wagon-sized head that fell upon me.
After extricating myself, I dug the still faintly pulsing heartstone from his chest and carried it, limping and groaning, to the small stream that ran some yards away from the cave entrance. It hissed and sizzled when I dropped it in to the cold water, then the light faded away altogether, leaving only a smoky black orb worth a small kingdom in some lands.
It had been quick, dirty, and somewhat underhanded. Not so heroic at all.
I left the stone at the entrance to the dragon's cave, and did not even return to the village. Tired, battered and somewhat bitter, I must admit, I rode on. I kept to myself for weeks, avoiding populaces and travelers, quite happy to be left alone with my horse and my grousing. But eventually the bitterness faded into half-hearted resentment, and after a while more, I had to work even to hold on to that.
Realizing it was time to stop acting like a sullen child, I rode into the next village I found, prepared to meet the disappointed stares and the incessant questions as to my friend's whereabouts. Something was different, though. As always, a shout went up, but it was one of triumph rather than dissatisfaction. A child caught at my stirrup and gazed up at me. I looked down to meet his eyes and began to speak my usual response to the usual greeting, but his eyes sparked with excitement, not questions, and his voice held no disappointment.
"It is the hero!"
Julie Winningham is an aspiring SF/F writer who graduated from the University of Michigan some years ago, but never managed to leave Ann Arbor, where she resides with her husband and two feline children. She works on a variety of short stories and the inevitable novel amid the demands of a "real" job and an unfinished graduate degree in Education. As time permits she also enjoys reading, gardening, sewing, crochet, gaming and sleeping.
E-mail: chimera@umich.edu
URL: http://www.potameides.com/grace/
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