A Hero's End

by Michael Deery

Braven pulled his sword up; dislodging it from the body of the man he had just killed. No, not a man; Braven decided. A murderer. A monstrosity. In other words, a Morgune. His people, humans all, had been at war with the Morgune and their ferocious leader for generations. The humans, unfortunately, were at a physical disadvantage. The Morgune were a huge, brawny race. They had large incisors, making them look all the more feral, and had light gray skin that looked almost like rock. The Morgune had been the only creatures the great Human Empire had not destroyed in the purging of the lesser races, which had begun and ended long before Braven or his father’s father was born. Long had the two races been at odds; the humans with their technology and tactics combined with great numbers made a formidable force, and the Murgune with their great physical strength, they just kept getting back up; a very even match.

Eventually though, just like with all the other wars, the humans had pushed through one day through pure weight of numbers. That day had been today. Braven had led the humans through the gates, through the town, and into the palace. Now there were only a few humans inside the palace, and only him in the throne room. The rest of his forces were executing the monsters that this reeking city teemed with.

The Morgune that Braven had killed was the so-called “King” of the creatures, and now only the beast’s son was left in the room with him.

Braven held his shield and sword ready, moving forward cautiously. The room was filled with pillars, and the only light came from huge pyres running up the sides of the room; giving the shadows a flickering essence and making it hard to recognize a living being. The dirty Morgune runt could be behind any pillar, but Braven was confidant. He had killed the king, right? His young son could hardly be a problem.

Suddenly, one of the shadows leaped at him, raising a large double-bladed axe. Braven’s shield was up in no time, but it didn’t do any good. He felt his arm bone shatter from the impact.

By the Lady, this whelp was strong.

Braven twirled artfully out of the boy’s reach, ignoring the pain, and smiled, knowing he was going to win. Now, if he could only cool down a little…

-----

Prince Tirith watched in horror as the stupid human spun and jumped right into one of the pyres.

“NO!!!!” He cried, leaping forward. But it was too late, the human was gone.

Tirith howled, throwing his axe at the wall stone wall where it stuck for a moment, then fell.

He dropped to his knees next to his father, weeping. He had lost his chance. His chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his dead king. He looked down, praying to his father, telling him that he had tried, but it was of no use. The humans had beaten them. Even now he heard them banging on the door; trying to force it open. Tirith knew they would get through the plank he had wedged it with soon.

He wept.

He wept for all his father’s people, his own people, really, who had died this day and wept harder for those who hadn’t; they would be taken into slavery and lost forever in the eyes of their ancestors.

He looked up at the fire in front of him, his tears blurring the flames. The last holdout against the humans, the Nas’gaanath stronghold and capital of the Morgune lands, had fallen. And with it went the hopes and dreams of all the creatures that the humans deemed “unnecessary”, or “monsters”. If only there weren’t so many of those scrawny pink hairless things; but they bred like rabbits, and matured quickly, at least by Morgune standards.

Tirith snarled and turned around, picking up his father’s axe where it lay beside him. He wasn’t going out without avenging the “Monsters” of the world. If the humans wanted a fight for their stupid history books, they were gonna get it.

Tirith’s tears were gone now, and he knew he would never weep again.

The humans burst into the room, finally snapping the wood. Tirith looked up at them and smiled.

He smelled their fear. Their confusion. ‘What is this Morgune doing?’, they must have thought, ‘Why isn’t he scared of so many of us?’.

Tirith answered their questions.

When he was done, he burned their bodies; at least they had a hero’s death; ancestors know they didn’t deserve it. After that, he burned his father’s body.

Then Tirith walked up to one of the pyres, closed his eyes, and held his breath.

This time, He thought, we lost.

Tirith jumped forward.

He felt the flames licking over his body, tasting it, burning it, destroying it.

He sighed. But maybe next time, He thought. Maybe next time there will be someone stronger then me.

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