I Am Not a Hero

Note: I am still updating this story. Because I feel this story is pretty much complete, I will leave it posted and up for review. What's to come? I've added detail about Brothers Ryk (specifically Alryk), so they are even more distinct from one another. I've also added a partial origin for the Orness and their prophets. This is just a start. As soon as I stop being lazy about it, I'll be adding more about the Orness and their prophecies, and background on Kaltor's first rise to power, his hiatus, and his inevitable return. This will be my next step towards making this story even better. The details I included on the brothers and the Orness are just a start, as I intend to add more about the prophecies and Kaltor soon. For now, I will be including the newest text colored in navy, to keep track of my latest additions. (You'll notice no navy; I haven't updated this in a while.) I know it's important that I add more about Kaltor and the mysterious Ornessian prophets. I will do so, just as soon as I figure out what it is I want to write. -- Lightbringer

I Am Not A Hero

         I am not a hero. The story I tell does not excuse my actions, or my failure to act. I do not ask for forgiveness. What I am . . . what I have become, weighs on my conscience. Everything I am is a lie. I don't want to spread false truths amongst the people, but I am a coward. I cannot let the lies continue, but in my shame, I am afraid to tell the truth. It has gone too far, and I can see no way out. They think I am a hero, a legend, their champion. What would they think . . . what would they do, if they discovered I nearly cost them everything?

         There were stories of the dark lord Kaltor. While much of the original text had been lost, the remnants spoke of Kaltor's banishment and how he would rise again. The stars were aligning. The prophets saw this as a sign. Violent crimes were growing exponentially. Monarchies were rising and falling. Everything the Orness spoke of was coming true. The end was quickly approaching. All that remained was for champion of prophecies to come to light.

         Born in the right place and time, I was found by the last of the Ornessian prophets. The details of my life matched up with the texts. I was the champion prophecy spoke of. I alone had the power to stand against Kaltor and rid the world of his evil once and for all. Understand, I was just a boy at the time. I didn't believe the stories. If Kaltor was so evil and dangerous, why had I never heard of him before? If the Ornessian prophets were so revered, why had I never seen any of their predictions?

         The Prophet focused on telling me everything he knew. He was concerned, but he was patient with me.  He brought out ancient scripts, trying to convince me of the Orness as a people, and the importance of their prophecies. To me, they were just old scraps of parchment, forgeries for all I knew. Even if they weren't, how was I supposed to know if what he was saying was true? I couldn't read Ornessian, for all I knew he could have been making it all up. He spoke of the Orness as a peaceful people, a race of men dedicated to truth and justice. Their prophets were revered above all else. Any statement or judgment brought down by one of their prophets was considered law. Because they were a people of honor, they would follow through  with procedures, at the behests of the prophets themselves, to ensure that every prophecy was true, and that every law passed was an honorable one.

         The Prophet spoke of dreadful visions, one far worse than any his ancestors had discovered before. A minor prophet among the Orness had dreamt the coming of a dark lord, one who would responsible for the destruction of the entire Ornessian race if he was not stopped. The minor prophet was ignored at first, the others not believing that the event speaking of their own destruction would come from someone so low in their ranks. Eventually, the young prophet convinced them to hear him out. Discovering the truth in his words, they knew their destruction was imminent. There was hope though. To counter the dark lord, was a champion of light. The Ornessian mystics learned, that if they could find this hero in time, their race and the rest of the world could be spared. Unfortunately there was no hope for the prophets themselves. 

         The prophets told the people of their plan, and for the first time in centuries, they were met with resistance. They commanded their people to leave, scattering in all directions. To survive, they must lose their identities, and spread themselves amongst the other nations. The prophets alone would face the dark lord. The Orness argued with their leaders, demanding they couldn't leave their homes, their lives, and everything they knew. They wouldn't abandon the prophets; they would not leave them to die. They would fight alongside them and defeat this man who threatened their existence. Try as they might, the prophets were unable to convince their people to abandon them. Doubtful as I was, he convinced me the stories were true. He drilled it into me, making certain I understood how vital it was for the prophecy to occur as written. I followed the guidance of the Prophet, and began my training. 

         I was introduced to a man named Alryk, who taught me the ways of combat. Alryk was by far the toughest teacher I ever encountered. Alryk's training was unusual and hard for me to understand. While his brothers trained me in skills I saw as more practical, Alryk's training focused on discipline. His training focused on understanding both the motivation of your opponents, and understanding your own motivations. He was a stern and unforgiving man. Tall and sharp featured, his steel gray eyes felt as piercing as any sword. His training methods were brutal, yet efficient. Instead of teaching me how to hold a sword, or dodge an attack, his training involved teaching me how to take a hit, how to fight while inebriated or under the influence of some other toxins. He would often tie weights and heavy chains to my arms and legs, and force me to spar with his brothers under those restraints. His training wasn't about style or finesse, though he could wield his choice of weapons as well as any other. With Alryk, if you weren't your best, he let you know it. He didn't believe in training with kid gloves. He wanted results. He was a hard man, difficult to deal with at times. As hard as he was, I knew he meant well. I knew I was not meant to overhear the conversation, but the words still ring in my mind. Alryk stood in conference with the Prophet. His words were direct and simple, and they were about me. “He's not ready.”

         His brother Edryk trained me in martial arts and weapons. Dark haired and heavily muscled, this was the man the troops looked to. Edryk was as good with a sword as he was with his words. Through Edryk, I learned that fighting isn't about who's the strongest. Though it was clear in his mind, that a little muscle couldn't hurt. He taught me the differences in fighting styles. Without Edryk I would never have understood that some styles are virtually useless against others. Edryk had a way of commanding his troops. When he commanded, it never felt like he was telling you what to do, it always felt like he was telling you what you would have wanted to do anyway. Seeing the way Edryk fought, I could never understand why he would always defer to his elder brother. I quickly learned why when Alryk walked onto the training field to spar with his brother. Edryk was not jovial when he practiced with his brother, he was focused. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed. At first I thought them equally matched, until I noticed the sweat pouring off Edryk's brow. The fight ended as a draw, but Alryk would clearly have won if it was a true battle and not an exhibition. As impressive a fighter as Edryk was, his brother was a far more terrifying opponent.

         Ozryk, the youngest of the brothers, trained me in stealth and survival skills. This blonde haired youth was barely old enough to be considered a man, yet he was far more capable than most war veterans. He was filled with passion. Everything he did was for his elder brothers. He cared more about impressing them, than he did about the prophecies. He considered me to be his peer, and while he respected me, it was his brothers he considered the true heroes. He taught me the importance of shadows, and how to use them to spring on an unsuspecting enemy or spot the enemy before they could sneak up on me. Ozryk's greatest skill was his ability to anticipate his opponents actions. He could practically predict what his opponents would do next. It was one of the most important things I could learn. As much as I tried to match his abilities, Ozryk would always laugh at my inability to anticipate what he would do next.

         When they thought I was ready, the Prophet himself trained me in mysticism and magic. I knew how important I was. I understood I had a destiny to fulfill. There was no one and nothing that could stand in my way . . . I was wrong. For a while, I lived up to their expectations. I led men into battle, claiming victory against Kaltor's armies. I personally defeated a number of his lieutenants. I felt invincible. I would not discover the weakness of my leadership until the day came to face the dark lord himself; the day when everything I was became a lie.

         The casualties were high as we breached Kaltor's fortress. We lost men on the field as arrows rained down from the battlements. As we fought our way into the courtyard, we lost even more men to the dark Magi that hurled fire and lightning. The group of men who made it through were a fraction of the original invasion force. Most of the surviving force perished as we worked our way to the throne room. When we smashed through the oaken doors, Kaltor's elite troops were waiting for us. Every one of his elite were armed with steel or deadly magic. We stood face to face with his men, weapons raised. As we were about to clash, a single word sounded. "Hold". The voice came from the throne where Kaltor sat.

         Seated in an iron throne of midnight black, he looked down at us. There was no fear in his eyes; no display of emotion. He studied my men for a moment before turning his gaze on me. He smiled. His teeth were pristine white and perfectly straight. To this day I'm not sure why I didn't react, why Ozryk saw the threat that I did not see. Still seated, Kaltor raised his arm and pointed at me. At the last moment Ozryk threw himself in front of me . . . and Ozryk was no more.

         It couldn't have lasted longer then a few seconds . . . Maybe it was one of my talents; the gift of sight that allowed me to see it. Maybe it was one of Kaltor's tricks. Ozryk was struck . . . I watched his body rip apart and unravel. He exploded, his flesh and blood splattering everywhere. Covered in the gore which was once Ozryk, I froze, overcome by fear. I heard the twin screams call out "Oz". His elder brothers looked to me. Their words were lost to me as shock and panic took me hostage.

         Alryk, the elder of the remaining brothers, grew angry as he realized I was doing nothing to avenge Ozryk. The look of disappointment on Edryk's face was even more telling. Alryk called for retreat, but his brother, either still thinking of vengeance or foolishly believing I would do the same, stood his ground. As he called out to a couple of the men to protect me, Edryk raised his sword and charged the throne with a battle-cry. Kaltor's elite were no match for him. As quickly as they stood before him, Edryk cut them down. The men, inspired by his ferocity, joined the charge. The elite fought back desperately. All the while, Kaltor remained seated, tapping away at the armrests of his throne. He watched his own men being slaughtered just as I had. Kaltor was not frozen with fear as I was. He sat watching on his throne as if it was a play. He laughed, congratulating a good display of swordsmanship, regardless of which side was doing the killing.

         The Prophet, our prophet, the last in the line of the Ornessian mystics, grabbed Alryk's shoulders and pulled him from the fight. Instructing Alryk to protect me, he told him the prophecy must not fail. The Prophet told him to get me out of there at all costs, that the chosen one must get to safety before Kaltor chooses to strike again. All around us men were dying. Alryk would not abandon his remaining brother; he would not retreat. The prophet, struck, fell to the ground. As I cowered away, Alryk screamed at me, demanding I stand up and fight. When my terror became unbearable, and I tried to make a run for it, he grabbed me and hauled me back into the room.

         The numbers slowly dwindled on both sides until the only fighting man left standing was Edryk. The dark lord continued to smile, amused by it all. Alryk relaxed his grip on my arms when he realized the only one left to fight was the dark lord himself. It was bad enough that I had been frozen by inaction. It was worse still that Alryk, distracted in his attempts to keep me from fleeing, was kept from joining the battle. How many men would have survived if the brothers had fought side by side? The Prophet groaned, inadvertently causing Edryk to turn his head. It was a brief distraction, but that one moment spelled his doom.

         Like his younger brother before him, Edryk, Kaltor's newest target was obliterated. The inspirational fighter was now nothing more than a stain of blood on the marble floors. They were all dead. Ozryk, Edryk, our troops, Kaltor's guards. Only Alryk and the injured Prophet remained. The Prophet was bleeding to death; it was only a matter of time. Amidst it all, Kaltor remained seated in his throne, not a scratch on him, as the blood pooled around his boots.

         Rage flashed through Alryk's eyes as Kaltor sat there laughing. Barely looking at me, Alryk tore the sword from my scabbard and shoved me to the ground. He must have known what would happen. He must have understood what drawing the sword of legends would do to him. The Ornessian prophecies claimed it was the only weapon capable of killing the dark lord. The sword could only be safely wielded by the chosen one. Anyone unworthy of that title would die. As I watched him slowly approach the dark lord, I felt a surge of shame. Too afraid to fight Kaltor on my own, yet too petrified to run, I watched Alryk walk towards his death.

         Knowing it would kill him, knowing he faced an opponent he could not possibly defeat, Alryk took the sword anyway. Despite it all, despite the deaths of his brothers, he challenged the dark lord. The laughing Kaltor rose to accept the challenge. They fought toe to toe, blade to blade. Overpowered and overmatched, Alryk continued his assault. Every cut, every hit, every moment he held the sword brought Alryk one step closer to death. Soon there would be no one to stand in Kaltor's way, and then he would kill me too.

         The two men fought in a flurry as their blades lashed out. Alryk, bleeding from a number of wounds, gave ground as Kaltor danced around him.  The dark lord was toying with him, laughter punctuating each and every one of his cuts. Alryk let out a scream of rage, and his sword moved in a blur. Kaltor stopped laughing as the smile faded from his face. It was over. His eyes went wide as he stared at Alryk. The dark lord stumbled and fell to his knees, grabbing for the blade that pierced his chest. Kaltor coughed up blood, breathed his last breath, fell to the ground and died. For a moment, I thought the prophecy was wrong. He wielded the sword, he killed Kaltor. Alryk must have been the chosen one, I thought as I saw him standing heroically over the dark lord's body. When I saw the look in his eyes as he turned to me, how deathly pale his face had become, I understood. He was never meant to wield the sword. He overcame the poison of the sword just long enough to do what had to be done. Alryk took a single step toward me and collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

          I sunk to my knees as tears threatened to spill from my eyes. It was all over. The only thing left to do was try to keep the Prophet from dying.  I bandaged the Prophet's wounds the best I could, and constructed a rudimentary litter to carry him on. In that I failed too. The wounds and the distance were too great. He died two miles outside the city, but not before relaying his last message. He told me the prophecy has been fulfilled.  When the Prophet slipped into unconsciousness, I told him what really happened, that Alryk had fulfilled the prophecy in my stead. I remembered those first lessons the Prophet had drilled into me. I remembered him telling me how important it was for what was written to remain accurate. I had to tell the people I slew Kaltor with my own hand. What really happened didn't matter. The prophecy must be fulfilled. History must record me as the champion, regardless of the facts. No one could ever know the truth.

         After he died, I did everything the prophet told me. Though I told the people the brothers Ryk were instrumental in defeating the dark lord, I did not tell them of my cowardliness. I took full credit for killing Kaltor. Boasting success, I almost convinced myself of the lie. When night came, there was no room for boasting. Struggling to sleep, all I heard were Ozryk's screams echoing in my head, all I could see was the haggard face of Alryk. The death of the brothers haunted me. The days when I don't wake up in a cold sweat have long passed. I would never have a decent night's sleep again.

         I wanted to forget everything the Prophet told me. The people had the right to know the truth, but I was ashamed. I had lied to them. The longer I waited, the worse it would get, but I was too afraid to tell them. What would happen to me if they discovered the truth? I could almost see the looks on their faces. The ones that would turn their heads away from me in disgust. Others who in anger, would reach for their weapons, and seek revenge for their fallen comrades.  Then I see the faces of those who seeing their hero is a failure, would lose hope and fall into despair. I do not know which group I am most afraid of facing. Last night I threw my sword in the river, but the nightmares still come. The guilt is eating away at me. I've considered throwing myself in after the sword. Let the river take me, I say to myself as I watch its dark waves calling out to me. This time of year the currents are strong and the water is ice cold. I would not survive very long if I went in at night. It's the coward's way out, a suitable way for me to die.

         I am a coward, too cowardly even to take the coward's way out. It's not dying I'm afraid of; I'm afraid of what will be waiting for me on the other side. Wherever it is that I end up after I die, it will not be pleasant. There will be no heaven for me. I am responsible for the death of so many good men. Whatever is waiting for me on the other side must know this. I am not . . . what I pretend to be.