Homecoming - part one

a longer, short story

Homecoming

            Spring had arrived in typical fashion in the sprawling forest kingdom of Harmingla. Torrents of relentless driving rains had moistened the landscape while mercilessly pelting those who travelled across it. Thankfully, sturdy and warm winds followed soon after, revitalizing the winter-worn forest and breathing fresh life into those who dwelt within its leafy embrace.

            Amidst the mighty forest, standing as proudly as the great old oaks, was the grand city capital, Semellen, the oldest and largest city of the Harminglan Kingdom.  Having endured there a thousand years before the dawning of this particular spring, Semellen would surely be there a thousand more.  The ancestors of its current inhabitants had laboriously built the proud city.  Those strong men and women who had crossed the Gimballa desert eons ago, fleeing a life of slavery to start a new and thriving colony.  A free and just colony was their hope and dream. In those early days, the settlement had been no more than a simple collection of farmsteads dotted here and there by a smithy or cobbler or the odd tavern or three. That sparse and crude mixture of disjointed buildings had since evolved into the current spacious and sturdy metropolis that was now teaming with life and all the necessities and modern amenities wrought by time and progress.

            A low but imposing perimeter wall spanning between evenly spaced gate towers encompassed the entire city of Semellen. Despite its lack of aesthetic appeal, the imposing structure served as a formidable shield against the many dangers lurking in the dense forest. It provided a sense of security… a comforting embrace for the citizens living within its shadowy perimeter, and was generally well-received by the inhabitants.

            A secondary inner wall stood at the centre of the Metropolis, where the original farm settlements had been located centuries before. This barrier, a testament to the city’s hierarchy and power, was considerably larger and much more ornate than its outer counterpart. It was easily three times the height of the perimeter wall and significantly more durable as it protected the inner city. That being the part of the kingdom where the King’s army and Churchmen resided and served as a protective ring surrounding the Royal family.

            In the centre of this smaller inner city stood the King’s Royal Palace, a pinnacle of Harminglan architecture. The revered Palace has been under constant construction and upgrading since the settlers had first arrived in the dense forest, and its outer solid walls even towered well above the sturdy inner-city wall and dwarfed Semellen’s paltry perimeter wall by comparison.  Watch towers adorned with numerous arrow slits and reinforced battlements had been strategically placed over the exterior of the palace giving it a hardened and threatening facade.  It was regarded as one of the most defensible structures built in the entire kingdom and considered one of the most beautiful. Once past the rough and menacing outer wall, the Palace became an object of unparalleled beauty.  The main structure had been covered with large slabs of brilliant white marble that had been meticulously selected for their full and rich veins of gold and silver and polished to a near mirror shine. Their clean lines and colour conveyed a soothing sense of peace and tranquillity to all who viewed its glory.  The Palace was a multi-levelled structure covered in great spires reaching high into the Harminglan skyline with wide archways linking the various levels and towers.  Each wing of the building had wondrous balconies affording breathtaking views of the sprawling city below to its inhabitants and guests alike. Several dozen grand gardens, painstakingly tended to by droves of tireless caretakers, covered these balconies and adjoining archways, adding to the beauty of the Royal family’s opulent home.

            In this lavish palace, the King and his family lived a life of luxury. A lifestyle that, unlike most traditional monarchies, they readily shared with their subjects.  Everyone in Semellen was treated with respect and given a fair chance to earn a decent living. None who were willing to put in an honest day’s work were left wanting. There were no homeless families or starving beggars in this city, yet alone the entire Harminglan kingdom and the sick or infirm were well tended to. The Royal Family went to great lengths to ensure each of its citizens was treated well and fairly.

            It was a prosperous and happy city, or it had been a happy city up until recently, as just over ten years had passed since the savage war with the neighbouring empire of Collmanite had ended. A peaceful, if uneasy, relationship with the Collmanite’s new leader was established when the war ended.  Peace slowly spread throughout the land, and a complete recovery from the devastating war was finally achieved.  Now, however, just as life had seemed to grow too good to be true, the peace and joy of the Harminglans was tragically shattered once again.  This time, however, it was not their neighbouring kingdom who threatened the peace, for they, as well, were equally affected by this new threat. This time, it was not humanity who threatened to shatter the peace of the land.  Instead, foul beasts now killed and destroyed Harminglan and Collmanite alike, for no apparent reason. Creatures that, until this age, had yet to have been seen walking within the peaceful forest basin.  Strange creatures that emerged upon high from the distant cloud-shrouded mountain tops. They swarmed into the forest like a flow of molten lava, leaving naught but death and destruction in their wake. Even with a powerful alliance formed between the Harminglans and the Collmanites, the beast’s progress into the forest could not be abated, nor their cruelty nor blood lust sated.  The armies of both great kingdoms were mercilessly forced back, and many of the smaller, poorly defended villages in the outer regions of both kingdoms fell prey to the savage creatures.  The armies of both great Kingdoms were forced to take refuge in the capital cities of the two devastated kingdoms.  Choosing not to battle the beasts in the smaller, less defendable villages, the armies had no choice but to retreat to larger fortified structures, abandoning the smaller settlements to their fates. The returning armies were closely followed by droves of refugees from the recently abandoned villages, not content to sit and wait for death to swoop in.  Within these capital cities, there quickly became very little room, and many adjustments had to be made. All were welcomed, and for now, there was enough food to go around, at least, until winter set in. Together in these great cities, commoner and Royal alike would make their final stand against these fowl demons.  The hope was that the impressive and well-defended walls would intimidate the savage beasts, and they would give up and return to the mountains from which they came. So, for now, they waited.  Waited and prayed.

*          *         *

            A thick, dark fog had developed outside of Semellen.  Hanging low to the ground, an impenetrable swirling nebulous hanging in the earlier morning breeze, not even the intense spring morning sun could penetrate the thick veil that covered the forest floor.

            Unnoticed by the world, the shadowed form of a man appeared within the mists on the main road leading up to the central city gates of Semellen’s low perimeter wall. The man walked with a sense of urgency but seemingly struggled with an inner reluctance as though he fought to take every forward step. Both wanting to advance but retreat all at the same time.  He struggled to keep his feet from turning about on their own accord, thusly betraying the rest of his body and walking away in the opposing direction. He was a very tall man with sturdy, broad shoulders, thick, muscled legs, and long, brawny arms.  His physique was perfect, as though he had been chiselled from solid stone by a team of the finest stone masons, not merely born of the womb like an average man. His thick, lustrous black hair was trimmed short and kept tidy, leaving no chance for stray hairs to obscure his vision at an inopportune time. His face was clean-shaven, revealing its rugged features. His surprisingly engaging face was framed by a strong, proud jaw with high-defined cheekbones and a thick, sturdy brow. Beneath this sturdy brow lay a set of hardened hazel eyes… eyes that betrayed little of the deep emotions hidden within… eyes that could burn fear into the staunchest of men… eyes that hid, and hid well a tremendous and tragic sadness.

            On his waist hung a worn and empty scabbard. Beside it, an empty dagger sheath. Over his back, he wore a faded emerald cloak, torn and tattered, that fluttered in his wake in the breeze behind him.  He wore no armour save the tough leather of his clothing.  His soft and eroded leather boots padded almost silently on the hard-packed earth below him as he steadily, begrudgingly, approached the main gate.

            As he neared the thick oaken doors of the gate, he stopped short, still hidden from the sentries on guard above by the swirling fog.  Hidden there in secret, he paused. It had been a long time, perhaps too long a time, since he had stood before these very gates. Surrounded by the mists, his thoughts drifted back ten years and beyond to the memories of a boy who had been orphaned shortly after birth. His parents had fallen to a plague that had devastated the city and surrounding farmsteads.  His parents had been in the service of the King of Harmingla at the time of their deaths.  At that time, he was a young king, one who had recently lost his queen and his second child, a son, due to complications during the heir’s delivery.  The loss of his wife and son left the king with a great and empty void in his heart. Even though he had a very young daughter… his firstborn, a girl he truly loved beyond anything under the sun, he often longed for a son to take up his throne and carry on the royal bloodline. The despondent king took in the orphaned boy of one of his loyal subjects and gave him a room in the Royal Palace. Perhaps attempting to fill the void the death of his son had caused… for both he and the boy had holes in their hearts that needed to be filled. Within this wonderous place, the boy grew up under the care and watchful eye of the king. He was reared as though he were the true son of the royal leader, and no one questioned this.

            At an exceptionally young age, the boy entered into service of the King’s army, where he baffled his instructors and learned the art form of swordsmanship with mind-boggling ease. Within a few short months of the commencement of his training, he could easily best most of the veteran soldiers in personal combat.  The sword he held was not merely a tool to be used as an instrument of death but rather a natural extension of the boy’s developing body.  He acted as though he had been born with it in his grasp.  The sword danced in his hands, and his grace and beauty shone through when wielding it almost to the point of captivating his opponents with the sheer spectacle.  The boy could easily disarm his foes during practice sessions. He would laugh and cheer at his victories, as would the king, who was often in attendance and whom the boy tried so desperately to impress.

            In less than a year of his initial training, he had earned the command of his very own garrison, a feat that had never been accomplished by one of such young age. He was, after all, still only all of fifteen years old.  This unprecedented pace bred resentment and scorn from the other, more veteran soldiers, who did not like the thought of such a young boy being promoted more quickly than they had been. Given so, their anger began to rise.  But the king’s orders were the king’s orders, and the boy-turned-man was the favoured of the king, so they held their tongues and followed this young man’s lead.  Several years passed, and the boy grew both physically and mentally.  He became a true giant of a man.  His muscles grew strong like solid rock, and his mind became sharp like a whip. Over the years, his combat skills continued to improve along with his physical stature, and the king eventually chose him to be his champion and protector at the young age of nineteen. He was proud of his title and of his strength and combat prowess.  This, of course, only added to the jealousy and unrest among the other soldiers.  The people of Harmingla, however, all loved him.

            The king’s champion was a symbol of the perfect Harminglan, and he was a good protector. When wandering trolls ventured too close to the big cities or decided to prey upon the undefended farming villages, the king’s champion went forth to deal with the foul beasts.  He did not like the taste of death, but he knew that it was necessary for the safety of his people, and after all, they were only savage beasts.

            When bands of thieving goblins strayed from their territories and terrorized travellers on the roads of commerce between Harmingla and Collmanite, he hunted them down and put an end to their thievery. He met every threat that faced Harmingla with courage and confidence.

            The young man was happy with his position as king’s champion and protector of the realm… happy until the challenges began. The bitter, older soldiers thought him too young to be the king’s champion. Their outrage began to fester over this vagrant boy being granted favouritism by the king, who treated him like a true son; as such, their anger rose, and they began to voice their grievances. Soon, some demanded a challenge, to the death, for the right to be the new king’s champion.

            Most certainly, the young champion had no intention of killing his fellow soldiers.  So far, he had never been forced to take a human life.  When he was needed to deal with the fowl beasts that plagued his homeland, he would, although reluctantly, spill their blood to save his people.  But to take the life of another Harminglan was incomprehensible to him.  He did not want to be a part of these challenges, but how could he not?  They challenged the king’s honour and authority.  How could he let down his king… the very man who had given him his love and treated him like a son?  How could he betray his personal honour?  It was sadly unavoidable.  Reluctantly, he accepted the challenges, and many a fine soldier fell beneath his superior skills.  In time, the challenges evolved to be more akin to a contest.  One to see if someone could actually defeat the mighty champion. People began to train for them, to get their noble sons ready to take their place at the king’s side.  For two long years, the challenges came, and he reluctantly met every one of them.  He began to hate the challenges.  To loath the needless waste of such fine men.  The endless, unnecessary killings reached a point where he could no longer face the thought of fighting another challenge.  The images of his challenger’s final death-throws and the pungent odour of fresh, warm blood began to invade his very dreams until he was constantly confronted with the visage of death. Awake or in slumber, he had no respite. He could take it no more.  His soul was at its limit of torment.  He was ready to go to his king and give up his rights as protector and champion.  This decision broke his heart, and he was reluctant to tell his lord.  However, fate took that decision out of his hands.  For on the very day he had decided to speak with his king and step down from his duties, the Collmanites launched their first bloody attack.  His kingdom needed him more now than ever.  What mattered most was that his king needed him.  He could not leave them without a champion, so he kept silent his tortured soul while leading the king’s army against the Collmanites. The bloody war raged on for five years.  His courage and leadership became of legendary proportions among his people.  Hundreds of the Collmanites fell personally before his blade.  He bathed in their blood and drowned in their screams, and he hated every minute of it, hated it all.  His loathing of the battles grew and gnawed at his very being.  The terrible tragedies of war drove through his heart like a heated blade as he entered village after village, encountering the inhumanities of war, man’s most brutal state… with ravaged women, slaughtered children, rampant death and disease.  It all broke him down as body after body was laid to rest. Battle after battle fought with no end in sight.  And yet he could not stop; he could not let up in his duties, not while his homeland needed him.  Not while his king needed him.  He could not leave as his heart pleaded and ached with every fibre of his being for him to do, and so still he stayed and did as was expected of him.

            The war would have continued undeterred had it not been for a Collmanite rebellion from within.  Their old king, a power-hungry fool who had started the war, was killed, and his successor quickly reached out and ended the war, much to the relief and delight of both kingdoms.  Tragically, however, the damage had already been done in the Harminglan champion’s heart.  His already weakened spirit had been broken by the ravages of war and the countless deaths and tragedies he had seen and been a part of.  He left his homeland behind without a word, vowing to himself to never again take up arms against another man, and thus, he had never been seen or heard from since.

            Now, the Champion had returned.

            The man emerged from the fog and marched up to the gate where, now visible from above, he expected to be stopped by the sentry on guard before his passage into the city was allowed. But there was no sentry here to greet him, and the gates were closed with the portcullis lowered. This was not how the main gates should appear at this time of day.

            Puzzled, he yelled up into the fog and waited for a reply.

            “Who goes there?” A sentry on the wall yelled back from above in a shaky and nervous voice.

            “A lost sheep,” was his reply.

            “Do not fool around!  Your name?” The sentry snapped back angrily.

            He had to think for a moment. It had been so long.

            “Brogan,” he said his name for the first time in ten years. It sounded strange to him, but it was good to hear it spoken aloud again.

            “Bah, I have had enough of your foolishness, man!” The sentry yelled down again. “We have no time to play your foolish games. Tell us your real name or leave and try your luck at another city. I don’t have the patience to deal with you.”

            “I have told you my name, good fellow. I have no other to tell you. I am Brogan, former Champion of King Govan, and I would like to be let in the city now if you please,” he tried to sound as polite as possible, not wanting to upset the already agitated sentry.

            Brogan heard the sentries up upon the battlements speaking to one another in hushed and hurried voices.  A short conversation was quickly followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and metal creaking as the portcullis was raised and the heavy oak gates swung open.

            As the gates opened, the sentry’s body emerged from the fog, followed by several other men, each armed with loaded crossbows at the ready. They stopped short of Brogan, and all studied him for a moment. Then, as one, they turned to the oldest of their group. That man wore a broad smile stretching from ear to ear split across his aged face.

            “It’s him!” the smiling older man exalted his confirmation as the others cheered loudly and hurried Brogan quickly in through the gates. They praised the heavens and promptly shut the heavy gates behind them while lowering the thick portcullis back into place.

            “I am sorry about the delay in opening the gates,” the sentry apologized. “We have to be careful about who we let in. I am Dalle, commander of city securities. I will take you to see the King. He will be pleased to see you as we are all pleased to see you.” Dalle had grabbed Brogan firmly by the arm and almost pulled him at an overly quickened pace toward the city's centre, heading toward the king’s Palace. This was not the welcome Brogan had anticipated.

            “What goes on here that the gates should be shut and sealed at this time of day, and why are you so glad to see me?” Brogan asked with a deep curiosity in his voice.

            “The demons, of course,” was Dalle’s matter-of-fact response.

            “Demons?” Brogan’s voice relayed his lack of understanding.

            “You do not know of the demons that plague our land?” Dalle asked, wide-eyed in disbelief.

            “No, Sir, I have been gone a long time, friend, a very long time.”

            “Yes, and so I assumed that your return meant you were here to save us from the demons,” Dalle replied, with some of his earlier excitement leaving his voice.

            “What demons do you speak of, man?” Brogan asked again.

            “I think I will let the King tell you,” Dalle said, and he once again quickened his pace, almost to a run, pulling Brogan through the jamb-packed streets towards the inner city.

            It had been a long time since Brogan had seen the great city, but it had changed very little.  Even though he travelled through it at a quickened pace, he saw familiar buildings and market squares, the comforting streets he had run through as a child, shops he had frequented and homes of people he had come to know and love.  All very welcome sights to his road-weary eyes. Although the city did seem a little more crowded now than he remembered.

            With the pace that Dalle had set, they reached the palace quickly and rushed past startled palace courtiers straight to the king’s audience chambers. As he hurried after Dalle, Brogan had little time to take in the comforting sights of the palace he had grown up in. Still, he could see the extraordinary beauty of the palace’s broad halls as he rushed through them, and it warmed his heart to be back home.

            Dalle spoke briefly to the men on guard at the king’s chambers. The guard’s eyes drew wide open when Dalle spoke Brogan’s name, and the men immediately opened the regal oak doors as Dalle, with Brogan close behind, rushed through.  Brogan could feel the guard’s eyes following him; four needles of awe and curiosity pricked endlessly at the skin on the back of his neck.

            The king’s audience chamber was as he remembered it. Immense, with pillars of white, polished marble that rose on up to meet the high vaulted ceiling. Grand tapestries hung on the wall depicting the history of Harmingla and its former heroes. Many marking Brogan’s own deeds. The intricate suits of armour and weapons of those such heroes were proudly displayed along the walls. The audience chamber would typically be filled with happy and chattering courtiers, lounging idly about while waiting to speak with the King. Now, it was empty and quiet. Dalle headed past the regal throne toward the far end of the long room. Brogan knew where he was headed.  If the kingdom were at war, King Govan would be in the war room with his generals, planning defensive strategies.  Dalle entered the war room, expecting Brogan to be right behind him. The king and his army generals looked up at the unexpected, intruding sentry.

            “What can I do for you, Commander?” the king asked, wanting to quickly get to the reason for the unwanted interruption so they could get back to their discussion.

            Dalle looked puzzled that the king did not recognize his champion and turned to look over his shoulder.  Brogan had not followed him inside. Instead, he had remained unseen in the audience chamber.

            Brogan heard his king’s voice emanate from the doorway to the war room. Like an immense ocean wave crashing against an immovable rock face, the guilt that Brogan had lived with for the past ten years nearly doubled him over as it bit deeply into his stomach and his soul.  He had abandoned his king… his closest friend… his father without a word of explanation on parting.  He could not fathom looking into that noble face as though nothing had happened and thusly remained paralyzed beyond the doorway.

            Grimacing with slight annoyance, Dalle bowed to his disturbed king and ran back into the audience chamber, again grabbing Brogan by the arm.

            “What are you waiting for?  The King is in there!” Dalle tugged on Brogan’s arm and, struggling, pulled the bulky man into the war room.  The king and his generals, who had returned to their discussions when Dalle had left as suddenly as he had entered, all looked up once again when Dalle returned through the doorway. The room immediately fell silent as the men instantly recognized who their newest visitor was.

            Brogan stood before his king with as much pride and dignity as he could muster and a magnificent sight he truly made. But, on the inside, he felt like a child who had betrayed his parents, not like a man who had made an important decision in life, and he stood ashamed.  He expected his king to grow angry… to yell… and to strike at him with his fist. To tell him how disappointed he was in him and then to have him thrown out of the city.  Instead, the king smiled. It was the warmest, most comforting smile Brogan could ever remember seeing.

            “Welcome home, my son.  You cannot believe how good it is to see you!”

*         *         *

            King Govan dismissed his staff and led Brogan out of the war room down a twisting corridor leading into the palace wing that housed the Royal family.

            Brogan walked in silence, bedside his ageing lord. What could he say to this great man?  How could he begin to make him understand his past decisions?  He was surprised at the friendly greeting he had received, and now that they were alone, he awaited for his king to turn on him and let loose his pent-up anger. That anger never came.

            “You do seem to be a little quieter than the man I remember,” King Govan said, placing a comforting hand on Brogan’s bulky shoulder. “I hope you do not hold any ill feelings toward me?” The King’s ardent concern was clear in his voice.

            Brogan thought inwardly to himself. Me? Hold any ill feelings… for you?  He quickly replied to his king.

            “Most certainly not, your Highness. How could you think I would have any ill will towards you?  It is you who should be angered with me... for what I did.”

            “No, my son. I could never be upset with you. I realized, and far too late after you left, just how hard we had been on you… and at so young an age,” the king spoke in a soft and fatherly tone. “I blame myself for your leaving… no, not right… for us driving you away!  I should never have allowed you to enter the army so soon or allowed you the commands you had, and I should never have allowed the challenges… those dammed challenges… never!” A sombre regret swept over King Govan’s ageing face. “For my mistakes, I beg your forgiveness, my son.”

            “You have not to ask of it, my Lord. I hold you in no way responsible. You did what all good leaders must do. Take the strongest men and turn them in the defence of the Kingdom. It is my own weakness that drove me away.”

“No!  Not a weakness, Lad!  Your own humanity!  A humanity that this world could use a little more of to go around!” The king had turned on Brogan and spoke sternly, but he quickly calmed and gave Brogan another warm smile. “Please, let us not look back on the past to such unpleasant memories. We had many a good time, and on your return, we should be cheer-filled and joyous. Semellen’s favourite son has returned!” King Govan held Brogan in his arms for a moment, and then they continued onward towards the Royal quarters.

            “Aleara will be glad to see you,” King Govan spoke from behind a whimsical smile.  “Very glad I should think.” He reiterated.

            “How is your lovely daughter?”  Brogan asked, his interest and affection evident in his voice. “I should think that she has grown to be quite the woman by now.”

            “That she has, indeed. She is quite well and happy, for the most part. We just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday a few weeks ago.”

            “Is she really that old?” Brogan asked, finding it hard to picture the young girl he remembered as a grown and mature woman. He had been gone so long. “I should think that she has found a good man by now to share her life with then with no shortage of proper suitors?”  Brogan questioned, revealing a definite and despairing hint of regret.

            “No, Lad, she has not,” the king said quickly, trying to sound sternly serious, but his mirthful smile made it difficult. “In fact, she has not seen anyone romantically at all, despite my best efforts to the contrary, not in the past ten years. I was sort of worried about that, to tell you, honest truths be told. Let me explain. You see, it would seem that… oh, some ten years ago or so, my lovely daughter was enamoured with a rather large and brutish, not overly bright fellow.”  The king looked from behind impish eyes at Brogan, who kept his own eyes carefully averted.  His face was reddening like a hot coal in a smithy’s fire as his king spoke to him.  The king knew he should not torment his old friend, but he could not pass up the chance to have a little fun with the big man. “Anyway, this piggish fellow just up and disappeared one day. It was after the great war finally ended, I do believe… if memory serves me rightly. I am getting older, and as you know, the memory is one of the first things to go.  Oh, yes, she was terribly upset, distraught, I would say,” he continued, shaking his head slightly. “It took me all of three days to get her out of her room and to actually eat anything.  She swore to me then and there that she would never allow any man to court her. Something along the lines of that she knew in her heart that this rouge would come back to her. I, personally, did not believe he would, not for a minute, I tell you. So callous a man would never return to her, I figured.  No, not in my lifetime, I thought.”  Brogan looked as though he was about to crawl under a rug or into a mouse’s hole to escape the king’s teasing words.

            “Oh, now, Lad, buck up! Maybe you are just the man to bring her out of her self-imposed solitude. A big, handsome fellow like yourself might be just what she needs.” By now, the king could not contain his laughter. The tormented expression on Brogan’s face was too much for him.

            “It is really not very funny,” Brogan quietly insisted.

            “Oh, I know,” the king agreed, and he laughed even harder.

            “I did not mean to hurt her by leaving,” Brogan said, hoping his lord would soon stop laughing.

            “Oh, of course you didn’t, Lad. I was only joking at your expense. An old man needs to amuse himself sometimes. Besides, she was only a young girl then. She should not have even had those sorts of feelings. Aleara is over her sadness now; I can assure you of that. However, she has held on to her belief that you would return one day… and so you have. I fear that I am going to get a royal ‘I told you so’ from her. After she calms down from seeing you, of course.”  The king chuckled some more and pulled on Brogan’s arm. “Come this way, Aleara is in her study, probably not studying as she is supposed to be, but she should at least be in there.”  The king opened the solid oak door and walked in, holding a restraining arm out to keep Brogan obscured in the hallway. Brogan heard King Govan’s voice from inside the room, speaking in a louder-than-needed and very serious voice.

            “Daughter, I have someone for you to meet, a very handsome young fellow. He is right out in the hall. Do you want...”

            “Father!” Aleara’s angel-like voice cut short her father’s sentence. It came as music to Brogan’s ears, sweet and soft but presently slightly irate. Brogan’s heart skipped a beat, and he began to sweat and fidget with his big hands. “We have gone over this a thousand times,” the princess continued, “I am not interested in meeting anyone. No one! Just send him away, please. Oh, and do apologize for wasting the poor man’s time.”

            “But this is a very special man. I just know that you will like him,” the king still seemed to enjoy playing games with people. Brogan smiled, thinking back on some of the practical jokes his king had played on him in his youth. It was all embarrassing to him at the time, but upon further reflection, it was all very amusing. “Please just meet him, this once. For me, daughter?”  The king’s pleading voice became old and frail.

            “Oh, all right, if I must. If it will get you to leave me alone, but you must promise not to bring any more men by to see me.”

            “Oh, I do not think a promise like that will be necessary. If you will… come in, lad!” King Govan called out to Brogan. He braced himself, took a deep breath, and entered the room.

            Aleara was standing beside her father, staring at the floor. She was the very picture of grace and beauty. During the past ten years, Brogan had travelled over a good part of the world, and none of the women he had encountered could compete with Aleara’s magnificence and grace.  The sun was shining through the window, highlighting a soft glow around the edges of her golden blond hair, giving her the appearance of a divine goddess. Her gown was a pale sapphire that fell in folds from her waist and was adorned with a delicate white fringe. It contrasted magnificently against her pale, milky-white skin. She wore a simple strand of pearls hung regally around her delicate neck and a loose shawl around her diminutive shoulders. She was certainly no longer that bratty, pristine little princess that Brogan had left ten years ago. She was indeed a woman now, a woman who captivated the heart and demanded respect from the mind.

            Aleara looked up with a bored expression on her face at the man whom she had expected to be some spoiled duke’s son or poppas over eager earl, but as she saw the man before her, recognition was instantaneous. Her mouth fell open in an extremely unladylike fashion. She squealed in delight and jumped into Brogan’s embrace.

            “I cannot believe my eyes,” she whispered, her face pressed up against his warm chest.  “Please, if this is a dream, let me never wake from it.” Tears streaked down her face, and she trembled with excitement.

            “It is no dream,” Brogan assured her softly. “I have returned for real.”

            She took one step back, taking in a good long look at him, then smacked him soundly across his wide jaw with the palm of her hand.

“How dare you leave me like that! Leave me to spend the rest of my life a lonely spinster!” She screeched at him. Before he could reply, she thrust her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

            Brogan’s mind was reeling. His face still tingled from her strike, and his forehead began to throb and sweat due to her forwardness. The young princess released her long embrace on him, and he took in a much-needed deep breath.

            “Daughter, that is not the behaviour of a princess,” King Govan chastised her but with little force or conviction in his voice. His smile indicated his true approval.

            “Well, are you going to speak?” She asked him. “Tell me how beautiful I am and how much you have missed me before I’m forced to hit you again.” She held onto his large hand with both of hers and batted her long eyelashes at him.

            “You are the most magnificent creature mine eyes have had the honour to gaze upon, and I have missed you more than I would my own life.” She beamed at his response and stated simply that it was adequate for now and that he could take some time to come up with some better flattery for later.

            “Come now, both of you; we have a celebration to plan for tonight!  We have to welcome home our champion in a grand fashion. Oh, I do love a good celebration!” The king smiled and grabbed hold of Brogan’s other arm.

            “My Lord, do not think me ungrateful, but what about these demons that Dalle has told me about?” Brogan wanted to hear about the evil that threatened his homeland.

            “Tonight, we celebrate! Tomorrow, we will talk of these demons. It has been over a week now, and there’s not been a sign of them.  I think our walls have intimidated the savage beasts, and hopefully, they have headed back to the mountains in search of simpler foes to fight.” King Govan started to lead Brogan from the room. “Come, my boy, I will take you to your old room.  You can change into something more comfortable and take a bath to freshen up before the banquet. My daughter did not let me clear out any of your things, so they are all still there, right where you left them. And you daughter,” the king turned to regard his daughter, “change for the banquet, and do try to act like a Princess tonight, not a lovesick schoolgirl.” Smiling like he had not done so in many years, the king led Brogan away.  As the two men disappeared from her sight, Aleara dashed into her room, summoning a handful of attendants to help make herself somewhat more presentable for the banquet honouring the Kingdom’s champion and her soon-to-be husband.

*          *          *

            Brogan stood silently, staring at the door to his old room. King Govan left him alone and went off to oversee the preparations of the banquet. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Brogan’s neck, and again, his stomach tightened as he hesitantly reached a slightly trembling hand out toward the door’s handle.

            He had heard the expression that one could not go home again.  He prayed that this was not true as he threw open the door and stepped into his past.  He could feel the aura of days long gone, and it was then, as he looked upon his old belongings, that it hit him, the final realization that he was truly home. His emotions got the better of him, and a single tear rolled down his proud cheek as he sat down upon the soft bed.  He surveyed the small room.  His old oak desk, where he had spent many days studying to better himself and make his king proud, sat along the far wall from the door, under a small window that let a single beam of light drop down upon the writing surface.  His old sword rested in the corner by the door, leaning against the wall. It brought back only painful memories.  He quickly took his eyes off that and turned to a small bureau standing beside the sturdy bed. Atop the bureau sat a tiny, ragged doll.  It had belonged to Aleara. She had given it to him when he had gone off to fight the war against the Collmanites.  She loved the doll more than almost anything else in the world, and she had given it to him to remind him of what he was fighting for. It was the only thing that helped him keep his sanity during the bloody war. Why had he not seen the love she had felt for him then? Now, he felt even worse for his leaving. Not only did he hurt his king by leaving, but he also hurt the only person who truly loved him. He picked up the shabby old doll and held it close to his heart.

            “I wish I were as lucky as my doll,” a soft, tender voice came from the doorway, “If you knew how many nights I lay awake wishing you were here to hold me like… you’re holding my beloved doll.” Brogan turned, set the poor doll back on the bureau top, and sat on the bed.

            Aleara sat down beside him and looked deeply into his softening eyes. “Why did you leave us?” she asked flatly. She needed him to explain why he had deserted her, to hear directly from him why he had left her all alone.

            “I… I did not want to hurt you,” he did not know what to say to make her understand. As he looked at Aleara, she seemed so innocent, staring at him with pleading eyes, waiting for his explanation, knowing that he had hurt her by leaving mangled his heart. He needed to make her understand what he had faced. To see what had made his soul so empty that he needed to escape from the civilized world. He wanted desperately for her to understand.

            “I don’t know what to tell you.” He simply did not know what to say or how to begin.

            “Just tell me what made you feel you had to leave.”

            “I had to get away from the killing,” he looked deeply into her caring eyes. “If only you knew what I had to face during the war. Then you might understand.”

            “Then tell me.” She pleaded with him to make her comprehend. He paused and looked as though he had left to another time for a moment.

            “There was so much death, so very much.” He found it hard to think back on those days.  He had suppressed those memories for the past ten years and had fought tirelessly to keep them from his mind. They were hidden well within him, but he slowly dragged them out and laid them bare for her to see. Brogan slowly told her of the countless men that he was forced to kill.  Young boys that should have been courting young girls, not struggling for their lives over a petty man’s need for power. As he told her of the many great tragedies of inhumanity he had seen during the war, Aleara began to weep. His imagery brought to life the war that her father had kept her so separated from. She saw the evil he had been forced to face for the first time in her life, which was painfully hard for her to hear.  She could not imagine what it must have been like for him to have lived through.

            “On what turned out to be the last day of the war, we entered the small city of Palance. It lies on the border of our two kingdoms. The Collmanites had attacked the city the day before, and we were going in to see if anyone had survived and required our help.” Brogan had to pause and clear his throat several times as this memory was harrowing for him.

            “I went into a home. A simple home. Not much to speak of. It had been ransacked and nearly burnt to the ground. I went back into the bedroom because I heard a faint noise. When I opened the door, a woman was lying on the bed. She had been stripped of her clothes and tied to the posts. Her throat had been cut, and the bed was covered with her blood.” Aleara gasped, but Brogan was lost in the memory and continued. “A small girl, no more than five or six, was sitting beside the body, holding the woman’s hand. Her mother had been ravaged and killed before her eyes.  She looked up at me with those red, inflamed eyes and asked me simply, ‘Why?’ Why had they done what they had done to her mother?  Why had they killed her mother afterwards?  She pleaded with me to explain to her… why!  The girl cried and beat her tiny hands on my chest, screaming for me to explain why. But I could not. I just stared at her as she cried. I could not answer her… had no answer for her. I did not know why. There were no words that could have made sense of it. Nothing that would bring this young child any comfort.” Tears flowed steadily and unashamed from Brogan’s piercing eyes.  His voice was thick with despair, and he could hardly breathe. “After that, I just couldn’t come back. I couldn’t face the possibility of another war, of coming back to the challenges. I had to get away from it all. Can you understand how hard it was? Now, can you forgive my leaving?” It was his turn to plead to her.  Aleara wiped the tears from her eyes and held tightly to Brogan’s large hands.

            “You do not need my forgiveness.” She moved closer to him. “I did not know what you had faced. What tragedies you had to endure. I am sorry for bringing back those memories and am so glad you have returned to us.” Aleara threw her arms around him and held him close.  They sat silently together for a while longer until the pain of the past diminished. After a long moment of silence, they spoke of the more pleasant memories of their past together while growing up in the palace. As they reminisced, the pain of the past became a distant memory, and the joy and love the two shared for each other filled their hearts and lifted their spirits. Time flew by as they spoke, and the day drew late. As such, the banquet would begin soon, so Aleara returned to her room to finish dressing. Brogan opened his bureau and pulled out his finest clothing. He put them on without the slightest hint of hesitation. He was truly home now, and everything was going to be alright.

*          *          *

            Brogan was truly surprised by the banquet laid out in his honour. Before him, the palace banquet hall was richly decorated with bundles of fragrant flowers and a myriad of additional colourful decorations. The tables were covered with magnificent roasts and freshly made loaves of bread nestled amongst a wealth of fine delicacies. The smell of the roasts and bread mixed with the scent of freshly cut flowers gave the room a most wonderful aroma.

            He estimated there to be well over three hundred people in attendance, jamming the great hall to capacity. He surveyed the crowd on the dance floor as the king’s guests moved to the music played by a lively band on a small stage at the far end of the hall. The band played the latest and most fashionable court songs, and the crowd cheered at the end of every one of them, demanding another. Given the time available since his arrival only a few short hours ago, Brogan could not conceive that the king’s staff could have assembled such a fine banquet so quickly. King Govan noticed Brogan’s questioning demeanour as he came to greet him at the banquet.

            “Something wrong, Lad?” He asked.

            “No, this is wonderful. I was just wondering how you got such a perfect celebration together so quickly, is all.”

            “Well, we can thank my lovely daughter for this,” the king said with a chuckle and a smile. “She has had the staff practice this celebration three or four times a year for the past ten years.”

            “She was that certain I would return?”

            “Yes, and I could not talk her out of it as much as I tried. I suppose it did help keep the staff busy and well-trained. It does tend to get a bit costly, though.” The king chuckled again and led Brogan to the head table. “We will be eating soon.” He said as they sat down. “You look good in those.” King Govan complemented the fine clothing that Brogan had changed into.

            “It has been a long time since I have been able to dress in so fine an outfit.  The road demands clothing a little bit more durable.” Brogan thanked his king.

            “That it does, but hopefully, we can look forward to seeing you in this sort of thing for a good many years to come.”

            The band stopped playing halfway through their number, and the crowd hushed suddenly.  Every head turned in unison toward the main entrance of the hall.  There, Aleara stood in an elegant sapphire blue gown, even more elegant than the one he had seen her in earlier. Her long golden hair had been combed back over her left shoulder and hung down in delicate ringlets over the front of her right shoulder.  Ethereally placed in her hair was a tiny, brilliant, jewelled tiara, the symbol of her royal birth and affiliation with the Royal crown dawned by her father. The sight took Brogan’s breath away. Aleara moved regally through the crowd toward the main table, where she would sit beside her father. Every eye in the room followed the beautiful princess.  As she neared halfway through the crowd, a panicked scream erupted from the balcony adjoining the banquet hall. Those who had been out on the balcony ran, screaming into the hall, pushing their way into the crowd already gathered there. A moment later, Dalle and several of the city guardsmen burst into the hall, swords drawn. They shouted for the people to remain calm and made their way quickly through the crowd headed for the king. King Govan and Brogan made their way to the entrance leading to the balcony, reaching it simultaneously with Dalle and the armed soldiers.

            “What is going on, Dalle?” The king asked as he took down one of the many swords that hung as decorations in the hall. Before Dalle had time to respond to his king’s question, the answer became all too clear as a group of strange, winged creatures flew in from the balcony, knocking most of the soldiers to the ground. They were large. All of them were eight to nine feet tall with long wings perched upon thickly muscled shoulders. Each was somewhat human in appearance, standing upright upon two thick legs. Their stout arms ended in bony hands tipped by long curved talons. Elongated necks supported extended heads filled with toothy, hungry-looking maws and darting forked tongues. They had qualities that matched the legendary dragons of old who once lived in the mountains bordering the Gimballa desert and the Harminglan forest continent. Their bodies were covered with shiny-coloured scales, ranging from the deepest scarlet to a brilliant purple hue. Their faces sported piercing steel, blue eyes that glowed faintly in the shadows cast by their prominent brows.

            These dragonmen effortlessly swatted the armed soldiers out of their way.  The swords the men wielded bounced harmlessly off the creature’s tough scaled hides. Everyone in the room could see what the creatures had come for as the dragonmen converged on the king’s location.  Aleara grabbed hold of Brogan’s arm and whispered in a scared and shaky voice.

            “Do something. Stop them!” She pleaded as the creatures drew closer to the king.

            Brogan grabbed another sword from the wall and placed himself between the king and the advancing dragonmen. As the first dragonman approached, Brogan raised his sword to strike at the creature. Years of training and instinct let him expertly observe that no scales were protecting the dragonman’s armpit. As it reached out for him, Brogan prepared himself for an attack that would take his sword in through the unprotected flesh and likely kill the poor creature where it stood. Suddenly, he hesitated. When he realized what he was about to do, his mind and body, along with it… froze in place. Brogan had left Semellen to escape the killing, to get away from the painful past. He had not been back for one whole day, and already, it was starting all over again. He felt a dizzying sickness wash over him. He lowered his sword and released his grip on the hilt. It fell with a loud clank to the floor. Surprised by this action, the creature merely brushed Brogan aside with its powerful arm, hurtling him up against the far wall. Brogan hit the wall hard, and the air in his lungs escaped as he fell to the floor with a dull thud. As he struggled to catch his breath, Brogan heard Princess Aleara’s screams over the cries of the panicking crowd and the angry voices of the soldiers yelling at the foul creatures. Brogan looked up through blurry sight and saw his king in the grip of one of the dragonmen. The same red-scaled creature that had just tossed him into the wall. The king had been disarmed and hung limply in the creature’s grasp. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead, and the crown of Harmingla lay on the floor several feet away where it had landed when the dragonman had lashed out at King Govan. Aleara, who had picked up Brogan’s discarded weapon, was slashing furiously at the creature’s legs, trying to free her father. Brogan struggled to his feet and was about to rush at the creature and try to help free his king from its grasp when, in unison, the dragonmen spread their massive wings, and all took flight.  The few remaining soldiers who were still alive, or at least not too seriously wounded, raced out onto the balcony in pursuit of the beasts. An action that was to be of no avail as the creatures were already streaking past the inner-city wall, rising high into the sky. Their flight path seemed to be headed toward the mountains, propelled by their mighty wings.

            “What were you doing!” Aleara screeched a statement more than a question at Brogan, with tears streaking down her face as she clutched angrily to the bloody crown that had fallen from her father’s head. “Why did you drop your sword? You let them take him! You’re supposed to be his protector!” She began to cry again as she beat her tiny hand on his chest.

            “I… I am sorry,” was all he could manage in reply. His stomach tied itself in a knot, his heart raced, and his forehead throbbed. He turned and began to head slowly, ashamed and defeated, out of the hall.

            “Where are you going?” Aleara cried again. “We need you. Father needs you. Don’t turn your back on us. He loves you like a son!” She pleaded to Brogan’s back. “Please don’t abandon him. Not again!” She regretted her last words before she finished saying them aloud. They had only come out as a whisper, but the hushed crowd could hear every word. Brogan, who walked hunched over, stopped and straightened to his full height. He towered over every man in the crowd, but he felt smaller and more helpless than a newborn child who had been separated from its parents. The Princess placed her tiny hands lightly on his back. He shuddered briefly when she touched him and then spoke in a quiet and pained voice.

            “I do not know what I can do,” he said regretfully.

            Dalle came forward. “We can gather the army together and go to the mountains,” he offered. “We could use an experienced leader. I know you were the driving force behind our defence from the Collmanites. We could use your knowledge and leadership.” He stepped up beside the trembling princess.

            “You have to help us, Brogan. You just have to. You’re father’s only chance,” she began to tremble harder. Her hands shook on his back, making him cringe at her touch. Brogan took a moment to gather his thoughts. He took a deep breath and turned to face Dalle and Aleara. His face had taken on a steely countenance.

            “I will go after the King… alone.” He now spoke in a confident, authoritative voice.  “Get me a fast horse, Dalle. I will be leaving immediately!”

            “Why not wait until I gather the army and muster forces from some of the other cities,” Dalle asked.

            “That is probably what they want,” Brogan replied. “If we send the army to the mountains after the King, our cities will be left undefended. From what I have seen of these creatures, our army will be ineffective against them anyway.” He gestured to the dead and dying guardsmen. “No, the army will have to stay here. Our best chance is for one person to try and sneak into their midst and steal the King away.”

            “I suppose you are right,” Dalle reluctantly agreed with Brogan’s assessment. “We cannot leave the cities undefended. The King would have our heads if we did that. Alright, you go alone. But if you cannot get the King out and end up their prisoner as well, then I will assemble the army, and we will come after you both. Either to get you out or avenger your deaths.”

            “Let us hope it won’t come to that.  Now I must hurry after them.” The crowd cheered as he turned and headed for the door.

            “Wait.” Aleara came up behind him and whispered in his ear. “I am sorry about what I said.” She apologized to the big man, unable to look into his eyes.

            “You spoke the truth and, therefore, have nothing to apologize for,” he spoke comfortingly to her. “I will get your father back. This I swear to you.”

            “Be careful,” she said softly. Then she kissed him lightly, and the distraught princess fled out of the hall to her rooms.

            Brogan and Dalle rushed for the stables and selected the fastest of the king’s horses. Brogan struggled himself into some chainmail and some thick leather armour. He took a sturdy sword from Dalle, and within an hour, the city was well behind him as he raced through the grand forest after his king… his father. He would not let him down again… never again!