"Bold, Unsung" by Tom Anspach

Endrigar the bold reflects upon life as he lies, still and silent in his armour. What prevails most upon his mind at the present is the power of stories; their endurance of the ages, their persuasiveness if told in a moving fasion, the manner in which they grant an ethereal immortality of personality. He only but idly considers the idea of a story written of and about himself. Endrigar does not often grant himself enough credit.

Stories, most especially grand epics and sagas, tend toward a certain universal standard; or so Endrigar believed. There was always a hero, or heroes, although what now defines a 'hero' is no longer what it must have been ages ago. There was an enemy of some sort, an entity which aroused conflict. Some stories contained warring armies, others bespoke beautiful women, and yet more entertained vast treasures. All universal elements of the story, at the end of which (Endrigar, while an exceedingly well-educated man for a soldier, does not know the word 'Resolution') there was a prize of sorts, the gaining of which was as much a cause of conflict as the rising of the enemy. For good or ill, complicated or simple, it was sorted out.

Endrigar muses further on the mystique of stories, absently noting the shadow of a vast cloud passing overhead whilst a fly buzzes loudly in his ear of a moment. He knows the grass and earth beneath are wet - soaked, or even sticky - althought this too seems of no consequence. He is relaxing, enjoying the last warm glow he will see of the sun this afternoon.

Stories, he thinks, are a reflection of life. Life occasionally mingled with dreams and wishful happenstance, or symbolic representation intertwined within both, or either thereof. Of the stories we know, as many as not are simply fancifully coloured tales of would-be's, could-have-been's and never-have-been's. These are the faery tales and bedtime stories for children; of castles in the clouds, mystical woods wherein a wary traveller may traverse many worlds, tales in which fantasy gains a dimension of reality within the imagination.

Many other stories of heroes and enemies were of theoretical historical significance. This lord threw down that tyrant, said peasant hero defeated the devil-wyrm, the grand rebel-kingdom destroyed the evil empire, et cetera. Should the hero fail in his quest, whatever it might be, there is always time in the story for another to take his place; else, the hero somehow achieved victory through defeat. Little matter what enemy, he would be thrown down. It was simply an eventuality. One might find comfort in the cold, impersonal and mechanical measurement of time. It is always only a matter of such.

More clouds gather and caress their predecessor, their combined shadows bathing the land in an early and sombre twilight. Endrigar pays no mind. He is too deep within his thoughts, resigned already to what comes. He enjoys the remnants of the late sun's warmth, and even goes so far as to silently revel in the sound of the flies, now gathered in a small company about himself. They are alive. Endrigar appreciates life, values it highly above all other things. He is a soldier, with a man's faults, but in a way he is one of the Enlightened. To him, the sound of the flies is a symphony of living creatures, no matter their size or preferences.

There were so many stories, so varied and colourful, myraid and wonderful, grand and terrible. There was a great epic Endrigar knew, and it surfaced now. He called it forth to memory fully, his imagination working incredibly to give faces and characteristics so detailed and intrinsic to each of the story's personalities it seemed as if he'd once known each of them.There are many more than he remembers now, he knows, but those are the faces of less immediate personalities. Those are the 'extras'.

There was, of course, a hero. What his name was merits little significance to Endrigar. They are all of the same mold, regardless of even the most alien differences. This man was what had come to be known as the generic hero; tall, fair-haired, clad in shining armour. He'd risen against a tyrant of some sort, the Mad Wizard Chol'deChol. It was a simple story. If only Endrigar could remember where he had heard it.

The story followed the normal run of things. Chol'deChol comes mysteriously one nondescript day, out from the wastes of Amarra, to the hero's home kingdom of Elignion. At first, all is well as Chol'deChol advises the frail and aged king, aiding the elder to guide a dominion as encompassing as any great empire. The wizard waxed mighty in his power, enhancing his abilities daily as the sovereign grew ever more feeble.

When comes the day that nameless king of vast and mighty Elignion should pass on to the next world, it will come as no surprise to any listener in hearing of Chol'deChol's seizing of the throne. But, there is a Prince somehow, a young boy impossibly conceived five years before. He is hidden by his mother before he can be discovered and butchered. She, however, is found out and herself destroyed by Chol'de'Chol personally. There are but two witnesses to her brief eternity of agony: Victim and Tormentor.

Endrigar huddles in on himself somewhat, for the evening seems to grow unnaturally cold. It does not occur to him to leave, or to wrap himself in a blanket. The chill settles into his bones slowly, but he aknowledges it only enough to shiver slightly. The hymn of the flies does not desist, even with the passing of daylight. Endrigar no longer takes note of them, either. He is lost in the retelling of the story.

The boy-Prince lived out his days in relative peace on a common farmstead, ignorant of his heritage as is so often the case. He grew to manhood, a kindly soul, taught simple values and simple respects. He cared deeply for his foster parents, assuming them to be his true parents. He was, above all, content.

Until the day came, that day which is prescribed by fate for all such as he was. The Mad Wizard's armies marching, marching, forever marching to wars never ended nor justified. One such an army had marched through the Prince's home, destroying the countryside as it did so, slaughtering his family whilst he was away on a too-convenient errand. The errand itself is not essential to to story. What is important is that he was not present. He returns home to find it sacked, mourns the loss of his family, and somehow discovers his true lineage.

Endrigar pauses momentarily to consider how absurd and unrealistic the story is. Important causes are always inconsequential in relation to the ends they bring about. It is always too convenient, he thinks, too unreal.

So it comes that the nameless Prince rises to power, of sorts. He gathers armies to himself, fights and wins innumerable battles, wreaks havoc and vengeance for all the long years of cruelties and injustices done. Enemies fall like wheat to the scythe, and as the years pass, ever does the Prince grow in popularity and strength of arms. It is only a short time now, that fateful day when the Prince will no doubt face Chol'deChol himself. With the Armies of Dawn and a magical blade at his side, he cannot fail. The wizard will be thrown down, his fortress pounded to dust. It is always so.

Endrigar pauses again, the raucous screaming of a million flies intruding upon his thoughts. He adjusts himself slightly, to a somewhat more comfortable position. He does not notice the shattered sword which lies mere inches from his outstreched hand. The pommel seems to have dragged itself there of its own accord, unnannounced and equally unimportant. It seemed to flicker briefly; a trick of the light, no doubt.

Endrigar cannot now remember the end of the tale. He thinks with all his mental capacities, slowly forcing to a conscious level those scenes from years gone, from a tale told in a soldier's passing. He wishes he had paid closer attention. The story seems to gain significance as he recounts it.

The Prince. The Prince marches on Ulun'dai, Chol'deChol's seat of power. Dark and forbidding, the fortress looms impregnable against a blooded sky, mad laughter reverberating across the field of Arlonath which surrounds Ulun'dai. The end draws near. The Prince will soon destroy his enemy, cast Chol'deChol from Elignion for eternity.

Endrigar struggles in his rememberance against a pain in his chest. It is dark now, and he cannot see the raven perched atop his body. It is an unworldly thing. Endrigar believes himself to be pierced by another arrow.

Another arrow?

He frowns. Whence came the first?

After a few moments, he ignores it; pain always ends, eventually. He returns to his story, the flies reverberating through his existence, howling, shrieking, covering all like a crawling wave of blackness. All but the ravens, the night-crows. They are unnatural; no natural raven feeds after the sun has set.

Endrigar remembers now. Blood. Pain and blood and death, a cyclopean monument to murder, the hacked and savaged corpses of a quarter million men strewn about the field of battle. Smoke now rides the wind currents of Arlonath, tinged red with blood and flames and witchlight from a lurid sky. The Army of Dawn has fallen, crushed to the last. No man stirs within a hundred leagues and yet bears naked steel that is not a servant of the enemy.

The Prince has failed. The Prince has failed. The Prince has failed. Over and over again the words ring out across Arlonath, as ripples on a calm sea, until it has spread through all Elignion and beyond. The Prince is dead. He has fallen to fey magicks, become a wraith, lost forever to the worlds of the living and the dead. He is bondsman to Chol'deChol, tortured spirit as were his parents before him. He is lost.

Such things are whispered, after the final battle. There are no more heroes, no redemptions for the just. There comes no hope now beyond a swift and painless death.

Endrigar the Bold reflects upon life as he lies, gird yet in battered armour. What prevails most upon his mind still is the power of stories; yet, no matter how absurd or fantastic a story may be, Reality is always more so. A story is but a dulled facet of reality, a tiny, fractional piece. A story is never as absurd as the truth behind it. He only but idly considers a story written of and about himself. He does not often grant himself enough credit.

Mad laughter, mocking, eternal, resonant with triumph reaches Endrigar's ears. He sighs, barely enough strength left within him to accomplish so simple a feat. Even so, in this moment of minor victory, he is betrayed; the breath within becomes corroded and cold, a wheeze so feeble the breathing is futility. His sigh becomes a death rattle.

Stories, most especially grand epics and sagas, tend towards a universal standard; or so Endrigar believes. His idle consideration concludes that there will be no stories of himself, his tale dying with his final breath.

Endrigar muses further on the mystique of stories, pondering what, exactly, defines the term 'Hero'...

Then, Endrigar dies.

He is, however, correct.

His story dies with him; felled by a stray arrow, a lost battle. His name is not important, his parents, his quest and purpose. None will follow after him. He is lost.

No one likes a story where the hero lost. None will write of his tale.