Forgotten Hero

by Brian Murray

  “Some have said so.”

  “I don’t care what they say, are you pretty?” snapped Tanas, a bit too sharply.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice edged with fear.

  Tanas thought for a moment. “Good, it will be said that I, Tanas, saved a beautiful princess,” he said joyfully. “I may get a pardon for my non crime of course and . . .” He let out a childish giggle. “I spent the night with a beautiful woman, even if it was on the other side of a fire.” Pausing again, he seemed lost in thought. “Well, we may as well be leaving. Oh, do you have any more honey?” he asked, his expressive face trying to hide any potential disappointment.

  “Yes, I have more honey.”

  “Excellent,” he said, beaming. “It is always nice to know one is getting paid for his services in gold, and honey is the best type of gold. Do you not agree?”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “The best kind,” exclaimed the warrior, rising smoothly to his feet.

  ***

  They packed away the camp and loaded their horses. Tanas had taken two of the Sekkers’ horses, one for Ireen and the second as a spare or packhorse. Ireen went to Tanas’s horse to load his bedroll but the horse attempted to bite Ireen, causing her to fall to her knees.

  “Oh, by the way, stay away from my horse, she is a cantankerous beast and hates all except me, for some strange reason.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Ireen replied sarcastically, picking herself up off the moss-covered ground, then handing Tanas his bedroll.

  Tanas finished packing, tied an old scarf over his eyes, then donned a wide-brimmed leather hat and an ankle-length brown leather coat, split up the back for ease of riding. He mounted his horse, leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, and the mare moved off.

  “What did you say to the horse, Tanas?” asked Ireen from behind.

  “Oh, well as you know, I cannot see, so I tell Essie where to go and she gets me there.”

  “So where did you tell the horse to go?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” he said, swivelling in his saddle. “I told her to go home. You see, I stole her from Mr. Thade over a year back. Had her stabled on her own. She is a miserable, cantankerous beast who hates people and other horses. They could not break you could they, Essie?”

  The horse’s ears pricked up, and the horse nodded her head as if she knew what was being said.

  “Does she understand you?”

  Tanas smiled broadly. “That’s another of my secrets, ma’am.”

  Quietly, the pair made their way through the forest. Ireen was impressed by how well Tanas avoided the low branches and other obstacles. The horse seemed to bow her head at the right moment, or sway, and he followed suit. Strange man, she thought, talented and deadly. Killing four Sekkers, he was definitely dangerous, but she began to like the blind warrior. He was humorous; however, there seemed to be a dark side to the man, which thankfully he kept hidden most of the time.

  “Are you still with me, ma’am?”

  “Yes, and the name is Ireen, not ma’am.”

  “Well, I cannot be that informal with a princess now, can I?” He paused. “Then again I have, in a manner of speaking, seen you naked. So does that make me your servant or your friend?”

  “I think we will be friends.”

  “Good.” He beamed. “It will be Ireen from now on. Tanas is now friends with a Phadrine princess.”

  Ireen giggled. She watched him rock side to side on his horse, humming a tune. Yes, she thought, playful but dangerous – better a friend.

  ***

  One day after Ireen and Tanas broke camp, six men entered the campsite, stopped for the night, then followed the tracks left by the horses. One day later, twenty Dark Brethren entered the same campsite around dusk. After reading the signs, they also followed the same tracks.

  ***

  Gan-Goran and Megan made slow progress in their quest to find the man named Dax, and they avoided Evlon. From the Chelms Hills, overlooking the trading city, they saw black smoke billowing into the sky so they skirted around the city. Heading straight east, they reached the vast area of Dashnar Forest. To avoid the dense depths of the forest, they skirted around the northern edge still, heading east. Megan was constantly impressed by Gan-Goran’s resourcefulness as they never seemed to run out of his favourite food – soft oatcakes sweetened with honey.

  “They can’t be hard, girl,” he told her as they rode round the forest. “I do not have teeth like yours; that is one of those things that happen with age. You wait, it will happen to you also, my dear.”

  “I will never grow old,” announced Megan meaningfully.

  “That is one thing in life you cannot avoid, it happens to all living things. Life starts like spring; colourful, a surge of new life. Then one enjoys the youth of summer, full of hot passion and vitality. Middle age is our autumn; the muscles start to ache and weaken as we watch our new spring children. Then unfortunately, there is the cold dying of winter, full of tragedy before the inevitable end. It happens to us all.”

  “How old are you?”

  The man chuckled, a sharp, cackling noise. “I, my dear, am older than winter.”

  “Well,” responded the girl, “you’re only as old as you feel and think, my friend.”

  “Child,” snapped the old man, shifting his weight in his saddle, “at this moment, I feel older than time, sitting on this miserable beast.”

  For the first time since leaving the castle, Megan laughed with true mirth, a high, perfect tone that could melt the coldest of hearts. “I do love you Gan, even if you are a miserable old man.”

  “I think I will take that as a compliment.” He peered across to the west, where the sun was melting below the horizon, colouring the sky in warm, dusk shades of orange and red. “We should really camp for the evening,” he advised, guiding his horse into the shallow depths of the forest.

  It seemed to Megan that Gan-Goran must be some kind of magiker. Every campsite he picked was perfect. Once in the Chelms Hills, they found a campsite in a hollow just off the road where they lit a small fire for cooking a stew. Moments later, several Dark Brethren passed them on the road. Megan shivered at the memory. Her fear rose, seeping through her very essence. Strangely, the warriors continued, seemingly unable to see them, hear them, or smell their cooking, as they passed a mere twenty paces away.

  Gan-Goran moved off the track, Megan following. They found a small clearing and made camp. Megan gathered some firewood then Gan-Goran, as always, effortlessly started a fire. Taking some water, dried meat, spices, and a few root vegetables he had scavenged, he started a stew.

  “Gan?”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “Are you a magic-maker?” she asked meekly.

  The old man smiled and turned to face the young woman, his eyes glinting with what seemed to Megan like mischief. “That, if true, would be my secret.”

  “Yes, it would. We all have secrets.”

  As Gan-Goran prepared to serve his hot stew, he and Megan were startled by a stranger’s voice.

  “Hello to the camp!” came a friendly voice from the darkness.

  Megan sat in frozen fear; her eyes shut, not wishing to see who was walking into the camp. Their flight may be at an end but she held her tears back. She would fight.

  ***

  Gammel cried continuously as he buried his wife and daughter. In the rain, he knelt by the graves, head bowed, his hands clawing at the light brown mounds of mud. His grief was immeasurable; his heart devoid of all love for anything living, for hate and vengeance now ruled him. He reached to his right and his fingers circled around the hilt of his father’s sword. His fingers tightened on the leather hilt as his tears flowed. Then as a face came into his mind, a malicious smile broke through his grief. The gleam in the man’s eyes tore at Gammel’s very soul. Gammel gripped the sword hilt so hard, his knuckles turned white. The rain poured down, mixing with the tears streaming down his face. Then he bellowed a
roar of rage; a bestial cry of pure, unblemished hate. He stood, his head bowed, staring down at the graves. After a moment he looked up, raised his sword, and bellowed: “Revenge will be mine, you bastard! MINE!”

  A bolt of lightning ripped through the clouds, followed by a huge rumble of thunder. He received his answer, and nodded knowingly.

  Gammel strode through the once vibrant trading city of Evlon. The roads were now scattered with dead bodies, buildings smoked, and steam rose where the rain touched the hot charred carcasses. The city was dying – no, the city was already dead. Absently, he made his way to the Great Hall, climbed the steps, and entered the building. Utter horror greeted him when lightning flashed, illuminating the scene for the briefest moment. Bodies littered the Great Hall, little bodies – the bodies of babes and children. Tears once again welled in Gammel’s eyes and rolled down his beardless cheeks. He fell to his knees and the big man made his oath.

  “In the name of all that is good and holy, give me the strength, the power to avenge these innocents. This will be my mission, my life, and I beg you to give me the strength to succeed.”

  Through his sobs, he heard a moan. Frowning, Gammel cautiously rose and followed the sound of pitiful whimpering. He stepped carefully over the bodies and reached the baron’s throne. He pushed aside the thick curtains behind the throne and peered into the darkness. The broken, huddled figure of the baron holding his stump, once his right hand, wept pitifully. The man rocked back and forth, mumbling incoherently, his eyes closed and head bowed. Gammel gently touched the man on the shoulder.

  “No more please, no more. No more screams. I beg you no more,” sobbed the man.

  “It is I, baron, Gammel, the blacksmith. The men have gone and there will be no more screams.”

  The baron slowly peered up, thinking his eyes and ears were betraying him. “Gammel, is it truly you?” he asked.

  “Aye, it is I,” replied the blacksmith, staring into the baron’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Are they all gone? The children, I mean.”

  “Aye.”

  There was no immediate answer, only more sobs. Gammel had never really liked the baron but he had a good, kind soul. Gammel reached down and lifted Chelmsnor to his feet.

  “No use staying here, Baron.”

  “There was nothing I could do. Do you believe me? You do, don’t you?”

  “Aye,” the big man said, moving back through the curtains. The baron closed his eyes and buried his head in Gammel’s shoulder, unable, unwilling, to see the carnage. They reached the door where Gammel stopped and turned. Softly, he whispered, “Baron, I want you to open your eyes and see the children. I want you to burn this picture into your mind. I want you to see, so you too will want what I want.”

  Chelmsnor opened his eyes and stared wide-eyed into the hall. More salty tears stung his eyes and he shook his head, moaning softly. The baron stood unaided and turned to face the blacksmith. “I, too have your desire. I will be the man who ends this. I will avenge all the children.”

  Gammel left the baron for several minutes and returned to the hall carrying a barrel of oil and a flaming torch. He entered the hall and poured the oil over the bodies and furnishings. When finished, he walked back to the main door and threw the torch over his shoulder. The Great Hall instantly became a great funeral pyre.

  “That’s the best send-off we can give the children. I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “It is the best, my friend.”

  “Aye,” answered Gammel, strolling down the stone steps of the once grand Great Hall.

  ***

  A month had passed, and their journey had so far gone without any incident. They travelled north, only to find Ubert surrounded by Kharnacks. Then rains bogged down the roads and the travellers were forced to shelter from the weather for several days. Stubbornly, Gammel followed the army tracks, desperately wanting revenge. During one of their few conversations, the baron persuaded Gammel to travel to Teldor, the Rhaurien capital. He argued that they could raise the Kingdom’s armies and quickly seek revenge. Upon the mere mention of revenge, Gammel’s eyes glistened with vengeance and he readily agreed. They turned around and now headed west.

  Now Gammel again flicked the reins of the wagon, urging the tired horses forward up a slope, with the Dashnar Forest to the south. Very little conversation occurred between the two men as they travelled. The baron was lost in grief for his people; at night he would wake screaming and sobbing uncontrollably. The events in the Evlon Great Hall had marked the man deeply, and he started to lose weight. His face was now hollow and dark smudges circled his once gleaming blue eyes. Chelmsnor wrapped a cloak tightly around his shoulders as the wagon lurched forward.

  The big man was also lost in his own thoughts, brooding with intent, his right hand never drifting far from his sword hilt. At night, instead of waking up screaming, he sobbed for his broken, empty heart.

  “I think we should make camp, Baron. The horses are tiring,” suggested the blacksmith.

  “That would be fine.”

  Half an hour later, they found a suitable campsite just off the trail. Gammel unhitched the horses, rubbed them down, and left them to graze in nosebags full of oats. The baron went about his usual chore, to find firewood. He came back into the clearing with a bundle of wood, and moments later the men sat by a fire, silently eating strips of dried beef and fruit.

  “Gammel.”

  “Aye?”

  “Thank you,” said the baron, tears brimming in his eyes.

  “It was nothing, man, now eat.”

  “I mourn your loss Gammel, and I do not mean that lightly. I knew your daughter from the school play and well, you know the history of your wife and me.”

  “Aye, thank you.”

  “I mean . . .”

  “Baron, with all due respect, I do not want to talk about this. Not now, not ever again.”

  “But Gammel, that does no justice to their memory.”

  “Baron,” hissed Gammel vehemently. “Their memory is held here,” he said, tapping his chest. “Now please . . . leave it be.”

  “I’m sorry, Gammel,” said the baron, chewing a chunk of dried beef.

  “Damn it, man, I am sorry. Let’s just let the topic lie.”

  The baron forced an uncomfortable smile, seeing the hurt in the big man.

  “Hello to the camp!” came a friendly voice from the darkness.

  Gammel rose with sword in hand narrowing his eyes, ready for trouble.

  ***

  Tanas, or rather his horse, led the way through the dense Dashnar Forest, with Ireen following warily. For two days they wandered on. The sun occasionally broke through the thick canopy, bathing the forest ground. Continuing their journey, the travellers happened upon a pond covered in large, deep green lily pads, and stopped to refresh themselves.

  “Have you always been blind?” asked Ireen suddenly.

  “Yes, my lady, always.”

  “Does it not, I mean, do you know . . .” The question went unfinished.

  Tanas chuckled. “You can ask the question. Do you know colours? Do you know the beauty of sunrise and sunset? Well, I do not. I live in a world of darkness, perpetual night, but that’s fine. For example, I asked if you are pretty. I don’t know what pretty is or is not. As far as I am concerned, beauty is in people’s actions, not their looks, for I do not know what good or bad looks are. I only found out recently there are people with different coloured skin. It is strange how people hold grudges over someone’s skin colour. I am lucky in that respect, I either like or dislike someone for what they do to me, regardless of the colour of their skin or what nation they’re from. People can be large or small, it does not matter. A woman can be pretty or ugly, whatever that is . . . it does not matter to me.”

  “Have you ever been with a woman?”

  The warrior’s mood darkened. “That is a question I will answer because you’re my friend.” However, he did not answer, and the conversation died. They spoke no more that day
, the warrior thinking about a time long ago.

  ***

  At dusk, two days later, they reached the edge of the forest. Tanas’s horse swung to turn north. “What’s wrong?” asked Ireen.

  “I think Essie has found some friends.”

  For another hour, they continued north, until . . . “Ah, I can smell cooking!” announced the warrior.

  “Cooking? I can’t smell any cooking,” said Ireen.

  “That’s because there’s magic in the air.” Slowly, Essie made her way forward towards the camp.

  “Hello to the camp!” called Tanas, dismounting. The warrior lowered his voice. “Wait here Ireen, I will go in and see who is there.”

  Ireen dismounted and did as she was told. She waited.

  ***

  Five of the six men halted their breakneck pursuit of Tanas and Ireen, to await the arrival of one of their comrades. He arrived shortly afterwards with the news of a small armed force following the same route, now about half a day behind. They discussed their current position, and what to do next. Under the thick forest canopy, the conversation turned into a heated argument, but soon a decision was made; the men mounted their horses and looped back into the forest.

  ***

  The Dark Brethren continued on their quest, stopping only briefly to rest their horses. The black-clad warriors ate in silence, mentally pulsing any communication to their comrades. After their mounts were fed and watered, they continued their march.

  The chase was still on.

  ***

  After deciding to rest for a few days, Dax and Thade sent the final few men home while they remained in the hills to the north of Thade’s land. For two more days they stayed, Dax insisting that Thade run daily through the hills, to increase his stamina before the journey home. On the third morning, Dax sat alone by the dying fire, looking into the woods. An hour before dawn, the darkness of night still dominated. The land was still silent with the night’s rest, and the campsite empty. Thade got up and went on his morning run, so that they could make an early start for home. Dax rose with a grunt and moved towards the woods to collect some dry wood to resurrect the fire so he could cook some oats. The warrior slowed to a stop and froze some ten paces from the trees, his eyes wide. Was it the mist swirling in the trees, the moonlight shafting through the branches, or the wind rustling the leaves? In that instant, a childhood nightmare or memory rose from deep from his subconscious again . . .