The Legend of Alexandros: Belen (3 page)

The orange light guided him home; the thoughts of his village being invaded by those “goblins” gave him strength. As he drew closer he saw that the orange light were flames. A great fear grew inside of him. He reached the fields where the horses had run free and the children played. He saw there was nothing left but ashes; the bodies of mutilated horses lay burning on the ground. Alexandros hobbled into the village. Homes were burning. Blood filled the once green grass; flames filled the village.

But where were the villagers? Maybe they escaped.

Alexandros made his way home, praying his mother and father were alive. When he got to the hill where he’d been sitting that very morning he looked at his house…it was gone. His family’s little stone house, which had been around for generations, had been burned down. His father’s silver chest plate and helmet lay thrown on the ground.

Sorrow filled his soul. Since birth Alexandros was taught to be the very best—how could he allow himself to be ambushed from behind? As he stared at the now barren forest he noticed several round objects hanging from dead branches. He cautiously stepped forward, and when he got to near enough to see…he saw the heads of all villagers.

A cold chill rolled down his spine—the goblins were truly demons to the core.

Alexandros spent the next hour cutting down the heads and burying them. As he hacked down the heads, he came across his good friend Roger’s. Deeper sadness fell upon Alexandros. He buried Roger separately from the others. When he got to his mother and father, he cried for the first time ever in his life…it was pain like no other; no wound had ever hurt as muche buried them beside Roger on the hill near their home.

Alexandros felt nothing but emptiness. He sat beside the graves and mourned the loss of those closest to him. Rage filled his body—he wanted vengeance.

He made his way over to the trees where the severed heads hung and glanced down at the ground. When he noticed tracks by the dead trees that were similar to the tracks on the dirt road, he followed the tracks into the dank barren forest; running for miles —he followed them until he reached the light from the goblins’ resting camp. Then he charged into them from the trees.

The Goblins were shocked that one man would challenge them. The goblins lunged and clawed at Alexandros; they pulled down on his clothes slashing claw marks into them. Alexandros, acting on pure wrathful emotion, lifted and tossed the goblins, slamming them up against trees. With his knee, he broke their backs and threw their limp bodies to the ground. He drew his sword and beheaded goblins charging toward him. He showed no mercy. He slaughtered anything that moved.

“You are a brave and foolish warrior,” a voice said.

Alexandros, blood dripping down his face, turned to see the goblin king on horseback.

“I thought I killed you on the road, but I underestimated you,” the king hissed.

Alexandros said nothing. He stepped forward to the goblin king, but his personal guards stood before of their leader, who wore broken bronzed royal armor; his purple cape was dirty and ripped with holes, and his crown appeared cracked and brittle.

“I hope to see you soon,” the goblin king said with a ghoulish smile and rode off, the rest of his personal guards followed hastily on foot. Alexandros allowed them their escape, for he was far too weak to go on. In a short time, he had slaughtered several of the goblins; parts of goblins laid on the ground, his sword and face dripped with their blood—it looked as though he had been the one attacked.

Alexandros used a log from their fire to burn down the camp. As it went up in flames, he made his way back through the cold dank forest. What seemed like a second to cross earlier, now took him the remainder of the night.

Tears filled his eyes.

If only I had been home…

He made it back before dawn and walked through the torched village; the morning sun gave light to the goblin’s devastation. He went to the hill where his family and Roger were buried. As he stood over the burial site, he spoke to his mother and father.

“…
I am so sorry I was not here to defend you. I will not stop until I have ended everything and anything responsible for your deaths…I promise you I will never fail you again.” His voice was full of sorrow and despair. Tears fell from his eyes. “These monsters shall know what true pain really is…”

Alexandros walked back down the rocky dirt road out of Souvaolo, heading for the old merchant. The summer sun came down hard. His vision was hazy, and he was terribly dehydrated; he walked, barely even lifting his feet, until he made it to the merchant’s wagon.

The old man ran to Alexandros.

“By the gods, my boy, what on earth has befallen you?” the Merchant said with great

concern, Alexandros stared into the merchant’s eyes, and with a deep dry voice he answered. “Evil…”

CHAPTER II

A JOURNEY SET

T
ears fell from the merchant’s wrinkled face. Just the look of sorrow on Alexandros’ face made the merchant cry even more.

“Come, come rest my boy,” the merchant said softly.

Alexandros fell over and landed hard on his back; he stared up at the early morning sky. The merchant kneeled down to him and watched as Alexandros’ eyes rolled, and he passed out.

The merchant placed Alexandros in the back of his wagon. He packed his goods, grabbed his horse, tied it to the wagon, and took the boy down the road to safety. The merchant rode for hours glancing back every now and then, making sure nothing or no one followed. He soon passed the centaur village but did not enter. As night fell, he passed the Souvaolo area and finally reached a green forest with tall trees and many bushes. With the road ending the merchant unhitched his horse and left the wagon in front of the forest, hiding it among the brushes. He then placed Alexandros on the horse, grabbed the reigns and walked through the wooded terrain. Once he reached the little area he called home, the merchant placed Alexandros in a small hut. The merchant then spoke to his horse, whispering in her ear. The horse ran free.

Two days passed, and Alexandros just slept; the merchant had dressed his wounds and cleaned his clothes. The young warrior rested in an old wooden hut on a bed made of hay. The merchant was a bored soul. Other than the wanderers who purchased items from him, no one ever really spoke to him, even though he was quite intelligent…his actions, however, did not show this. He was always getting into some sort of trouble; in fact, he was banished from ever selling or entering into the centaur village for selling cheap, overpriced horse shoes.

The merchant sat bored in front of the old wooden hut; with nothing to do, he decided to build a fire, but he had no firewood and had left his tools in his wagon in front of the forest. He decided that walking back to the wagon would take far too long, and he honestly did not feel like traveling back through the forest, so he simply entered the hut and took the sword that belonged to Alexandros.

The sword was stained with what he soon realized was dried goblin remains, but without care he just carried on. He walked a bit into the forest and, with the sword, cut wood for the fire he wished to make. He took the wood back to his camp, placed it in a small pile near the old burned-out campfire, and walked to the small creek that flowed near the hut, where he washed off the bloody remains on the sword. He then tried to quietly place it back in the hut where Alexandros slept, but instead tripped over his own foot and crashed into the hut face-first. In doing so, the merchant yanked down on the ragged old sheet used for a door. He quickly jumped up to see if Alexandros had awakened. Seeing Alexandros was still in his deep sleep, he placed the sword down and crept out of the hut. Once he placed the sheet back in place, the merchant skipped over back to the old burned-out campfire and began to prepare a new one.

Alexandros awoke in an old hut. He slowly sat up and noticed that all he was wearing were his black tights; his torn grey shirt had been cleaned and patched up and placed neatly next to his sword, which had also been cleaned. His forehead wound had been nursed, stitched, and wrapped with a proper bandage. He put on his shirt and boots then slowly stood up. He took his sword and stepped out of the old hut. He saw a most lovely flowing creek, which flowed by a forest with tall thin trees; the sunlight’s rays gleamed through the forest causing the shadow of the trees to look more enormous than they actually were. Directly in front of the hut was the old merchant crouched down preparing a small fire.

“Where are we?” Alexandros asked.

The merchant jumped up, fearfully. “Oh!…you’re awake!” he answered with a joyous surprise.

“Where are we?”

“Beyond Souvaolo, deep in the centaur forest. You have been asleep for three days.”

“Old man…” said Alexandros, doubtfully. “How could that be?”

The merchant shrugged and, with an awkward smile, answered, “I do not know…you just slept.”

That evening the merchant and Alexandros sat around a small fire but did not speak; they just stared at one another uncomfortably. Every now and then the merchant would begin to say something, but then would stop and look down. This went on for some time until Alexandros grew tired of it. He took a deep breath and asked, “Old man, is there something you wish to say or ask?”

“Young fellow…I know it was goblins that attacked you,” the merchant said with certainty.

A cold look grew on Alexandros’ face. “How did you know…it was them?”

“Your sword…parts were attached to it.”

When the merchant confessed to discovering the remains on his sword, Alexandros stood up and glared at the merchant. The fire glistened in Alexandros’ blue eyes. He pointed toward the old wooden hut and said firmly, “Old man, go get some sleep…I do not feel like speaking anymore.”

His voice was demanding, so demanding that the merchant stood up, nervously smiled, and said, “Whatever you say, just do not make noise I wish to sleep.” The merchant tripped over his own foot as he made his way to the hut.

Hours passed, and as Alexandros sat and glared into the fire, his eyes were empty; thoughts of his mother and father filled his head. The sky was cool and dark; summer chills ran through his body. He reached to his sword, which rested near the fire, and mistakenly cut himself on the blade. The wound was not deep, but he could not feel the pain. Alexandros was desperate to feel something, anything at all. He made a tight fist and leaned in to place it into the fire. The fire reflected in his eyes as he stared deeply at the flames. With his hand only an inch away, he was just about to place his fist in the fire when he heard a crackling sound from the bushes behind him. Alexandros lifted his sword and stood up, fearlessly.

“Show yourself now!”

Then he heard the most beautiful voice; other than his mother’s, no voice was as soft and peaceful as this.

“Please help me,” the voice said.

“Show yourself,” he demanded, and out of the bushes that grew around the trees behind the campfire stepped a young lady.

She had long black hair that went down her back; her eyes were a shining hazel; her lips as red as a rose. Her skin was fair, and she stood tall almost like an Amazon. She wore a fancy, deep-red dress, a black hooded cloak, and a black corset covered in rose designs.

“Please help me,” she said with herin a soft voice.

Alexandros stared at her, his eyes wide open, —until he managed to stutter, “…of course.”

Alexandros took her hand, and at that moment it seemed that time had stopped and everything that had happened to him had faded away, and all that was left was her. Alexandros led her to the fire where she began to warm herself. She rubbed her hands together. Alexandros sat opposite her and studied the young lady; he had never had such strong feelings, and they baffled him.

“Thank you for your kindness sir,” she said, gently.

“It is no trouble at all, and my lady…please call me Belen. What is your name?”

“Elora.”

“Where did you travel from?”