The Hero's Call

And so the great magician had sent his fell beasts out from his dark fortress and into the surrounding lands, where they had wreaked havoc upon the lives of the good, honest people who lived in the country bordering his evil domain. When the horrific assault was over, hundreds lay dead, thousands were injured, and there were dozens still for whom no fate could be determined. Crops that would have yielded bountiful harvests in just over a month were completely charred, and the survivors wept quietly over the hunger that would grip their bellies and the cold that would gnaw their flesh in the winter months (and that was assuming that the magician did not finish them off first). For now, all they could do was mourn the loss of their homes and loved ones, and curse the name of the magician who had wronged them so.

Of course, it was rather silly of the good people to mourn their losses and shake their fists in the direction of the magician’s domain; the magician had been a constant threat for generations, and it was only by his apathy that they had not perished years before. They all knew his patience with their proximity to his fortress would run out sooner or later, and with the founders of the once happy villages dead for two hundred years, the magician had been very generous indeed. However, their folly in settling so close to an evil power that clearly wanted no company was the farthest thing from their minds. Their thoughts focused on one thing only as they buried their friends and neighbors: vengeance.

It was because of this concept that the meeting in Alstrin was called. The town’s best and brightest (by which is meant the richest and fattest) gathered in the mayor’s grain silo, the only building still fully intact, to discuss the best way to strike at the magician. One thing was certain as the conversation progressed: none of the men there wanted the job.

“I’ve got a bad back,” said the butcher. “I wouldn’t be able to go more than a league with a pack strapped to my shoulders.” Thus spoke a man who was seen daily hanging fattened hogs on large metal hooks in his smokehouse.”

“I’m allergic to dust, ragweed, and animal dander,” protested the jailer with a sniffle. “Put me on an ass in the middle of a forest and my sneezes will let the magician know I am coming before I am a mile out of town.” This from a man with an enormous flower garden and about fourteen cats.

“I’m far too old to go on such a quest,” mourned the mayor. “Surely you would not throw an elderly man into a trying and fearful quest, would you?”As he spoke, bits of white powder fluttered off from his hair and mustache, forming a white halo on his shoulders. He had rubbed flour into his hair shortly before the meeting.

“Then who shall go?” demanded Grabis, the town historian. “If none among you are willing to risk yourselves to end this peril we all face, then who?”

The men seated at the table looked at each other uncomfortably. “Someone else,” said the butcher. “And before you pull the moral obligation card, remember that you are not exactly volunteering yourself.”

“Of course I could not go!” protested the historian, who actually had a bad back and was considerably older than the other men. “After all, if the quest is successful, somebody has to record the tale.”

“Then who shall go, if not one of us?” asked the jailer. “Who in this town has the strength, endurance, and willpower to take the fight to the magician’s fortress? Who hasn’t been killed, that is.”

“That stable hand is still in one piece,” said the butcher. “He’s strong, smart, and no coward. He knows his way around a sword, and can live off the land as good as any beast. He’s the perfect man to take out that filthy spell weaver.”

“A stable hand?” The mayor raised his eyebrows; more flour trickled from his scalp and settled like snow upon his lapel. “Don’t you think we should get a knight, or a warrior, or somebody who actually knows how to fight?”

“No, they’re all dead,” said the butcher. “Anybody who actively tried to defeat the monsters was killed immediately. Besides, I’ve seen that boy spar. He moves as though the sword were part of him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him land a blow that wasn’t in his full control.”

The mayor was frowning. “If he’s so good with a sword, why is he mucking out stables for a living instead of defending the village?”

“Because the law states that only the sons of nobility and wealthy land owners can become knights, which barred Allo from the opportunity, even though he wanted to enlist,” replied Grabis. “If I remember correctly, you had a part in the passage of that law.”

“Well, I think under the circumstances I can reconsider my decision.”

“Excellent!” The jailer pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Sounds like we’ve got the perfect man for this task. Now the only question is, will he accept it?”

“Of course he will,” said the mayor, clapping Grabis on the back. “Our good historian will cater to his sense of duty” He laughed in a very un-jolly manner.

* * *

It was decided: the task would go to the young stable master, Allo, who was strong enough to endure the hardships of travel and battle, and naive enough to believe that the decision to send him out to defeat the evil magician was decreed by fate and not the bickering of lazy old men. It was up to the boy to put an end to the evil that threatened the land, and it was up to the historian to convince him to go.

Grabis felt bad about conducting his assigned task. He liked Allo. It seemed wrong to throw him into the fray all of a sudden to perform a dangerous and highly unpleasant chore. Sure, the kid was tough and the best chance of anyone to complete the mission and return, but Grabis still did not like casting him into it without his consent.

Of course, Grabis told himself, such an assignment might change Allo’s life; he really should have been allowed to become a knight. He was a good man, brave and strong, who had often taken time in the past to help people he did not even know. In all honesty, he truly was the best man for the job. The opportunity for greatness was something every young boy dreamed about, and Allo was one of the very few young men for whom it was possible.

Allo was busy repairing one of the stalls when Grabis approached to inform him of the task he must undertake. As expected, Allo listened gravely to the historian’s every word, though he did show some doubt toward the decision.

“Why me, Grabis?” he asked. “Why of all people must I fight the magician?”

“Because of all people, Allo, you are the worthiest,” said Grabis. “You have the strength, bravery, and intelligence to undertake this quest and return.”

Allo frowned. “That was not good enough incentive when I wanted to become a knight in the first place. Or have recent events resulting in a rethinking of the old system?”

“I understand that you still harbor some resentment toward the elders for keeping you from your dream.” Grabis put his hand on Allo’s shoulder. “But right now you are the last hope for Alstrin. When someone has the ability to enact change for the better, it is their duty to see it out.”

The wisdom seemed to work. Allo nodded and the doubt left his face. Just as Grabis was about to congratulate himself on a job well done, the boy asked, “So what do I get out of this?”

Grabis was struck dumb by the question. It was the first time in his knowledge that anyone had found personal motives in altruistic tasks. “Well, you would certainly have my gratitude,” he said finally. “Not to mention the thanks of everybody in this town.”

“Will I be hailed as a hero upon my return?” Allo’s gaze went misty from the thought of parades and banquets held in his honor.

“Well, it is a very long journey, my boy. The way will be fraught with danger at every turn, and you will likely find yourself more than once delayed by battle. Honestly, by the time you return, we will probably have forgotten the reason you left.”

“So, there’s not much chance that my name will ring in the streets of every village and town from here to the seaboard?” The misty expression had left Allo’s eyes.

“Allo, we’re three weeks of hard riding from the nearest settlement. Most other towns don’t even know we exist, let alone that we are sending out somebody to defeat the magician. Maybe if we had, I don’t know, some kind of box that sends out messages to other people, we could get the word out. But, since nothing like that to my knowledge exists, it is pretty unrealistic to assume that people are going to know what you’ve done.”

Grabis noticed that the doubt had returned to Allo’s face, and sensed a refusal in the boy. “Come now, Allo, it isn’t such a poor exchange,” he said. “Even if your name will not be known in every village, town, and hamlet in the land, you will at least have our eternal gratitude, and that is something.”

“Does that ‘something’ involve me getting some kind of honorary title, or even monetary gain?”

“Well . . . no. It’s naturally deserved, of course, but there are a number of people in high places who would protest any bestowment of honors.” Allo frowned again. “But hey now! Who needs money or titles? That’s nothing but just a substitute for happiness anyway. Say, haven’t I seen you looking rather wistfully at a certain young lady named Martya? Would not a life spent with her be worth the trials you will face?”

“Indeed it would, Grabis, but without a dramatic increase in my land and personal finances, her father would never consent to the match.”

“Maybe once she hears of how you saved Alstrin, she will fall so helplessly in love with you that she will reject her father’s wishes and run off to marry you without his blessings.” Grabis winked.

Allo shook his head. “She would never do that.”

“She would if she loved you.”

“Grabis, if marriage had anything to do with love, material wealth would not be the deciding factor in gaining parental approval.”

“Times can change the way people think, Allo.”

“Not fast enough for me.”

Grabis sighed. “I suppose that is true.” It was starting to occur to him just how contemptible the ruse was, to send a young man, a boy, into grave danger on behalf of a town that would give little thanks for his efforts. Certainly the magician was no small threat, but something about throwing Allo into such an unrewarding task was so vile that Grabis could almost taste something foul in his mouth.

Allo likewise saw the downcast expression of Grabis’ face, and misread it as an expression of hopeless loss. He felt guilty badgering this old man with his selfish desires while the survivors of the magician’s attacks were busy trying to pick up the pieces of their homes—and their lives—enough to survive another day. Not far away he could see Martya, the girl he had fallen in love with years ago, helping her father dig a grave for her grandmother. Grief was thick in the atmosphere, and the faces around him showed little hope for the future. Such pains should never be allowed even once, much less enjoy a second occurrence. Allo would prevent that second occurrence. It was time to stop playing around.

“Do not worry, Grabis,” he said. “I will go.”

Grabis looked up at him and stared. “You must be joking.”

“I never refused to take on the task, did I?” Allo smiled.

Grabis smiled in return, partly in relief, mostly in pride. He opened his mouth to thank the boy, no, the man, but Allo cut him off.

“Yes, I will go,” he said, “but I will not like it. I will not like anything about it. This is a dirty, unpleasant, thankless task you have thrown upon me, and I anticipate it will be a long time before I feel warm or comfortable again. Yes, I will go and face the magician and bring an end to the suffering of my people, but do not entertain any illusions of grandeur in what I must do, because I am without doubt that the entire ordeal will, in a word, suck.”

“But you’re still going to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what’s important.” Grabis clapped Allo on the back. “Come, let us try to get you outfitted for travel. The armory is no more, but I’m sure most of the weaponry and armor is still intact underneath the rubble.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I must say, you have impressed me today, Allo. Even knowing what danger lies ahead and what little thanks you shall get for facing it, you still choose to go onward.”

“Of course,” Allo whispered back. “That is the task of any hero. Surely you did not believe that war and battle is filled with naught but glory and adventure?”

“I admit I did, but you have opened my eyes,” Grabis laughed. “You go on ahead. I must inform the townspeople of your decision and make preparations for your departure. I think . . . I think I shall start with Martya.”

“That would be a considerable kindness of you, my good historian.”

Grabis bowed. “Take care of yourself, Allo,” he said. “I want you back in one piece. I am sure your tale will be worth recording.”

“I will be careful, Grabis.” Allo returned the bow. “And I thank you. It will no small consolation that my ordeal will be remembered.”

Allo turned and started walking toward rubble that had until several hours earlier been an armory, then stopped and turned back. Grabis felt his heart jump in fear that Allo might reconsider his decision to go, but he had nothing to worry about.

“One more thing,” said Allo, “if I find my horses in any condition less than excellent upon my return, I shall bring down upon all of you a wrath the even the magician cannot muster. I mean it: not one tangled mane, not one loose shoe.”

“Go, go, my good Allo. All will be taken care of.”

When Allo had left, Grabis peaked into the stables at the thirty or so horses looking at him expectantly. He heard a familiar dull patting, and an repugnant smell filled his nostrils. He groaned; his task would not be much fun, either. “Where in the heavens is the shovel?”