by Teresa Grant
It turned out, however, to be a little more overwhelming than usual for her. She took his life force at the prime of his life. It was very, very strong!
“What the hell? Where am I?” Branadon demanded to the air. He was in a small crumbling cottage that was vaguely familiar. Slowly it all came back to him. Natalia had died that night… but it was daylight now. He was in the old Hag’s place, but it looked as though a tornado blew through it during the night. How did he get here? The last thing he could remember was talking with the old crone in the barn and her cackling on about the price not being too high for the job she had performed.
Mollywog forced her way into his subconsciousness and tried to explain.
“Listen up sonny boy an’ listen good! It’s time ta pay yer dues…” Mollywog was overcome by the power of Branadon’s denial. “See here now,” she continued. “We can do this easy or we can do this the hard way, but either way ye’re gonna listen for a bit,” Mollywog assured him. After dealing with the child all week, and now this, Mollywog decided that it was high time for a little vacation. A good long nap was what her old bones needed. Let this ruffian take care of things for a while. With a last effort to at least get some of the finer points across, Mollywog tried once more. “Natalia’s grandson is outside…”
That got his attention. “I’m listenin!” he growled.
“You are now his guardian. Yer real self is dead, almost a year gone by now. Your memories are only from before that day Natalia died giving birth because that’s where I took this year from. Before ya died ya were that boy’s mother Elise’s champion and one of her closest friends. Ya got one year… Make the best of it!” she advised him and started to retreat.
Let the Dwarf handle this mess, she thought again. Let him find out for himself the boy’s little special qualities. It served him right to be plunked into the middle of this mess if he didn’t have the manners to be patient and wait for all the information. Let him figure it all out for himself. She usually remained awake when her host was out and guided them into doing her bidding. Not this time! She was tired. Let the damn Dwarf deal with the little hellion outside for a while. “Have fun!” was her parting shot as she let the warrior take full control.
“Dead? Couldn’t be! The Elf will know what’s going on,” Branadon thought. For once he was going to sit Fynlaylyn down until that blasted Elf made sense and explained everything that was going on. Branadon stormed from the room planning to head straight for Arilonia, and nearly collided with a small boy standing just outside the doorway. Natalia’s grandson? But how could that be? Elise was Natalia’s mother’s name. They must have named the baby girl after her. But she was just born last night… wasn’t she? Branadon’s head was spinning.
The child was quietly staring at what Branadon was holding. He was not afraid but seemed very intrigued. Following his gaze Branadon was amazed to notice the magnificent blade in his hand. He felt like he had been dropped from the heavens, this wasn’t his, these weren’t even his clothes. He had to get some answers before he went mad.
He looked at the child again, a fine-looking boy, although a little bland for royal blood. Natalia would think him just perfect. No, he had to keep reminding himself… she was dead. The madness was closing in once more.
“Where’s your mother son?” Branadon asked the youth.
“She flew away last week and hasn’t come back yet,” he answered. “She went to tell my other parents of my hatching.”
“Nonsense!” Branadon bellowed. Interpreting the ‘flying’ to mean his mother had left in a hurry. Branadon would not accept the hatching comment either. “You’re talking nonsense boy. Just what are you playing at? Come, we will talk of other things until I can find an adult who can tell me what the Hell is going on. We’ll go to Arilonia for some answers.”
Branadon looked about him as if he might find his favorite steed grazing nearby in the thickets. What he saw was the charger Mollywog purchased looking back at him with a challenge. The horse and the child formed a solid bond in the past week. The two were inseparable for the last few days. Cramming this much life into such little time made for a very intense little boy. It was as if the horse sensed that he needed allies and had set himself up as the child’s first protector. He did not like this stranger raising his voice to the boy. The boy laughed at the pawing charger. “Hektor, it’s okay, he’s going to teach you and me to be great warriors. Come meet our new friend,” he cajoled, calling the animal to him.
Branadon watched in amazement as the horse seemed to almost understand the boy and walked timidly forward to be patted and fondled. Eyeing Branadon warily, he nudged the Dwarf with his muzzle and nickered softly. Branadon reached up to pat the steely neck. The horse was magnificent! Branadon felt like he was in a dream. He hoisted the child onto the horse’s back, and grabbing a fist full of mane, hauled himself up behind him. The boy mentioned there was a saddle inside the cabin, but Branadon was in too much of a hurry to get his answers. Besides, neither of them seemed to need it.
“What’s your name boy?” Branadon asked.
“I don’t have a name,” the boy replied. “Do you?”
“Course I have a name. It’s Branadon, but you can address me as Sir, or Commander,” he growled, still very uncomfortable with the situation he found himself in.
After a while Branadon mussed aloud, “How could you have grown to the age you are without a name? Don’t be messin’ with me now lad, we’ll get nowhere if you can’t tell the truth,” Branadon scolded.
“I’m telling the truth,” the boy insisted. “Noni Molly said that no one would ever follow a Prince who lied. I’m going to be a King one day. Did you know that?”
“Well, I guess that just might be the case. But you are sure adding to my list of questions, and not helping with any of the answers,” Branadon grumbled.
“Sorry Sir, I’ll try harder. Noni said you would be a bit confused. She said I wasn’t to bother you with any questions for at least the first day. So maybe tomorrow you can tell me how to use that sword?” the boy asked hopefully.
“One thing at a time boy,” Branadon replied. “What am I to call you if you haven’t a name? What did your mother call you?”
“I don’t know. She left a couple days after I was born, and I haven’t seen her since. She told Noni she’d be right back.”
Poor kid, Branadon thought, assuming the boy was abandoned long ago and wondered what kind of woman the baby Elise had grown up to be, that she could abandon Natalia’s grandson so easily. Why would she have left him there with the old crone and not with the King? What of Fynlaylyn? Surely Arilonia held all the answers!
“Well, I’ve got to call you something. It seems I’m going to have to come up with a name myself then, aren’t I? Let’s see, you come from some mighty stalk, that I can tell you. I’ve got it… Nathanial, after your Grandmother, Natalia, she had the spirit of a warrior.”
“Nathanial… hmm, what do you think Hektor?” the boy asked the horse very seriously. The horse let out a mighty snort, which could have been taken either way, but seemed to satisfy the young boy.
“Yes, I like it! You can call me Nat for short, or Nathan to my friends, but always Nathanial to my enemies who will quake to hear it shouted from my heralds. Yes, it’s perfect! Thank you, Sir. It is a mighty gift.”
Smiling to himself at the boy’s solemn gratitude, Branadon also felt that it fit quite nicely.
In reality, Natalia’s death was more than twenty years ago if the old hag was right. Her death sat heavily on Branadon’s heart, for as far as this lost bit of Branadon that Mollywog had brought forth was concerned, it was only yesterday. It was comforting to have this piece of her beside him.
Promises aside, Nat’s thirst for knowledge was insatiable. Although Branadon was feeling the beginnings of a good-sized headache, answering the endless barrage kept his mind from all the questions roiling around inside his own mind, as they made their way through the forest.
How had h
e come to be here? What of the baby named Elise? Was he truly here to pay his debt to the old crone? How could he be dead when here he was alive and well?
And, what of this boy?
So many questions!
He kicked the horse’s sides sending him into an easy gallop to hasten them to Arilonia, and the answers he prayed he would find there.
Coming into town Branadon was in for yet more confusion. Everywhere he looked things had changed. How could it all look so different when he was just here yesterday… wasn’t he? This was so confusing.
There were more buildings, and a lot more people. As they passed the Blacksmith shop, Branadon could not help but notice the stares and gasps from town’s people as some of the older ones quickly dropped their gaze, made the sign over their hearts to ward off evil, and hurried indoors.
The Blacksmith stood with his mouth open and eyes agog, unmindful of the hammer that slipped through his slack fingers and dropped to the ground in the mud near his heavy boots. He stared at the blade strapped to the Dwarf’s side and the face that was not just a glimpse this time, but actual flesh and blood, of the man he’d so respected and was still mourning his loss.
Recovering himself quickly, he stepped back within his shop and shut the huge ironbound door with a clang as though he had just seen a ghost.
Finally, it began to dawn on Branadon that maybe the old hag had spoken the truth. To any who used to know him, he would appear to be an apparition.
Spurring Hektor on, he cantered through the now empty streets and headed straight for the castle.
When had he died? How had he died? Would Elise know him? Would the King still be alive? Questions multiplied with every jolt of the horse’s gait.
Word must have spread before him, because there was not a peasant to be found all the rest of the way to the castle door.
Even the sentry looked pale as they approached. Only the man’s vigorous training and complete dedication to duty held him firmly at his post.
Branadon could also see their arrival was attracting a number of the off-duty guards as well. Many of them were strolling forward, curious, but as yet, not ready to confront the stranger who so resembled their revered Commander. Many of the older soldiers still told amazing stories of his bravery in his youth. It was unmistakably him, but a younger version to the one that had been laid to rest last year.
Branadon dismounted and walked past the sentry as though he had every right to do so. Not knowing what else to do, since technically Branadon was not an enemy or an unknown visitor, the sentry let them pass. Nat followed along in his wake drawing little, if any, attention to himself, as everyone everywhere stared at the Dwarf.
Mickael and Dryfus were sitting in the main conference hall making last minute decisions and cursing the delays that one after the other kept interfering with their departure for Neglavale.
Looking up, it was never decided who was more stunned at their encounter, they or Branadon.
Steel rang as Branadon automatically brandished his sword at the being wearing the tunic of office in Arilonia. It was half man and half Dragon! What the hell had been going on around here?
“What have you done with the King?” he demanded, trying to get control of his shaken composure.
Mickael and Dryfus stood, dumbfounded.
Faced with Elise’s fallen champion, they were too amazed to even notice the sword pointed towards them.
“Branadon? Is that really you?” Dryfus asked hopefully. “We thought you were dead. Elise saw you dead!” Mickael exclaimed, as they rushed towards the confused Dwarf. Not understanding his aggressive pose, they tried to embrace him, but only succeeded in flustering him all the further.
“Stand off, Sir! I do not know you!” Branadon exclaimed.
Nat on the other hand, was anxious and delighted to meet such interesting characters, but stayed well back in order to see what Branadon would do with that sword.
“Branadon, how could you fail to recognize us? We’ve been told we have a rather unforgettable face,” they cried with a laugh, so overjoyed they were to see their old friend alive. “Elise will never believe this! She was devastated when she lost you! And you could not have picked a better time to return. There’s war in Neglavale again and Rylan could sure use you now!” Dryfus confided in him, still reeling from the surprise.
“Confound it all! Where is Neglavale? Who is Rylan? And where is Elise?” Branadon bellowed at them. “Where is that blasted Elf? He’ll answer my questions!” he demanded, as he turned and stalked off hollering Fynlaylyn’s name at the top of his lungs.
Mickael and Dryfus turned to the boy with a puzzled look, but Nat only shrugged his shoulders and explained, “I only met him this morning,” as though that absolved him of further explanations.
“And you, young sir, who might you be?” asked Mickael.
“My name is Nathanial, but you can call me Nathan, or Nat for short if you like?” Since practically everything Nathanial saw was new and exciting, being faced with a half man, half Dragon was just another wonder to be enjoyed.
“Well Nathan, or ‘Nat for short’, it seems our mutual friend here has found himself in a bit of a quandary. We better find him and try to calm him down a bit.”
Together they headed down the hall after Branadon. They could still hear him bellowing Fynlaylyn’s name as he searched the castle, frightening servants and leaving chaos in his wake.
Nathaniel studied the portraits lining the walls as they went, taking particular interest in the older Kings, as he looked at their crowns. Realizing he was lagging behind, he rushed to catch up with Mickael and Dryfus.
As he fell in behind, they entered a large chamber and found Branadon, quiet now, sitting in a high-backed chair, facing an ornately carved and canopied bed that lay empty.
It was preserved in the event a King should ever take up residence again in Arilonia.
“He is gone then,” Branadon stated flatly, as the room obviously had been unoccupied for many years. “Fynlaylyn, is he gone too?” he asked sadly. “What nightmare is this that I find myself in, that everyone I knew and loved can vanish in a day with no explanations.”
Mickael came up beside him and placing his hand on his shoulder, trying to console him, said, “Come friend, we shall make ourselves comfortable and figure this all out together. For you are not alone, there are plenty around who knew you well and love you still. Come, tell us of your adventures and we will piece together the puzzle of your memory and help you recall all that you’ve forgotten.”
With devastation in his eyes, Branadon looked at Mickael, “I’m afraid that will be impossible. I have no memories to recall… I fear that I wasn’t even here.”
Nevertheless, Branadon stood and followed them back to the Great Hall. Nat fell in behind, for once keeping quiet as he felt he could learn more by listening.
No one seemed to notice that in the time it had taken to enter the castle and now, instead of an eight or nine-year-old, he looked more like twelve or thirteen. If his family really were about to go to war, he would not be left at home like a baby.
Branadon took a seat at the large solid pine table where he had sat so many times before, but today it looked as though he never saw it before in his life. It was sanded down and refinished. There should have been a carving just to his left where he idly doodled a picture with his knife, while having to endure one of the Kings rather windy battle recollections.
With a deep sigh, he began slowly, “I’ll tell you a story good Sir…”
“Please, Branadon, its Mickael and Dryfus” they corrected. “You’ll remember us again once you’ve had time.”
“Time… time I’m afraid is the one thing I have very little of. You see, yesterday my Princess died… my King went into mourning… and a baby was born. Her father left in disgrace... My good friend lay recovering from near fatal wounds just down that very hall, and the last thing I can remember is the Witch. The old hag did something to me.”
Turning over
his hand, Branadon stared at the crease in his palm, only now it was the length of a small pea. His hand looked strangely smooth where his lifeline should have run the length of his palm.
Looking up he continued, “That was yesterday… today, this morning, I found myself in the old crone’s lair. Her cackling filled my brain, something about how it was time to pay up, and I’ve got one year to live... Have I gone mad?” he implored them, looking lost and alone.
Turning around to look at the boy as if to reassure himself and use him as an anchor for his churning mind, he stared. For there was the boy who left with him that morning, but time again was playing tricks with him, there stood a young man of fifteen, not a boy of eight.
“Nat?” Branadon asked quizzically.
“It’s Okay Branadon. All is as it should be, you’ll see. Your mind is sound,” Nat assured him confidently.
Nathanial could not stand the torment on the Dwarf’s face. Stepping forward he took Branadon’s face in his hands and spoke softly. “Noni, please come out. We need some answers,” he begged.
For a second, Branadon’s features were replaced by an old woman. Mickael and Dryfus jumped back. “What sorcery is this?” they demanded.
Ignoring the commotion, Nathanial tried again, “Noni, I know you’re there. I can feel you.”
“Buzz off brat; yer the Dwarf’s concern now! I’m havin’ a rest,” Mollywog answered peevishly, not at all pleased at being disturbed.
“Just for a moment Noni Molly,” Nathanial pleaded. “We need some answers and then you can go. Please Noni?”
“Ahhh! Can’t an old lady get any rest?” The voice coming from Branadon’s mouth was that of the ancient crone, even his face softened to take on more of Mollywog’s features.
“He’s possessed!” cried Dryfus.
“Oh, button yer lip Dragon-boy, I’m a Wog. If anythin’, it’s the other way round far’s I’m concerned.”
“Mollywog?” Mickael asked. They had heard rumors and old wives’ tales about her ever since arriving in Arilonia. They even flew over her cottage once or twice wondering if even half the stories were true.