Gothar sat down tiredly, his old wounds giving him a fit. Trollslayer, his sword, sat in the corner getting dusty. The great wars were over six months ago, and when all the veterans of them returned, there was a grand celebration where much alcohol flowed and many a story were told, some sticking to the truth more than others. The truth was the darkness had indeed been vanquished, and the evil Overlord dispatched to the burning pits of Hades that spawned him.

“Victoria! Victoria! Fetch me the mage healer!”

“I'll not be trotting through the village looking for him Gothar, he has his rounds. He will get to you when it is your turn,” his wife replied, beginning to think it was high time to send him on another quest. Regrettably there weren't any more she could think of, except sending him to market to pick up the groceries. The one thing good about Gothar's questing, aside from him not being home, is he brought back plenty of gold, and she was not lacking for anything except time for herself.

“Bah!” Gothar replied. “He should make veterans of the Great War his top priority.”

“You are all veterans of the Great War Gothar,” his wife reminded him.

“Bah!”

“Is this a convention of sheep, or am I interrupting something?” Hismal the Wizard asked.

“Hismal, you miserable excuse for a healer come here! I hurt!”

“Ooh, does the Big Bad Barbarian have a boo-boo,” replied Hismal.

“Stop treating me as a child,” Gothar warned.

“Then stop acting like one. Your wounds were not serious, just annoying. You ignored them throughout battle. If you had put a little more time into dexterity training like the assassins guild, you probably would have sustained less of them.”

“That 'dexterity' didn't help the assassins any when they got in the way of Spike Beast's maces,” Gothar retorted. “Those assassins never came back.”

Hismal was about to remark how anybody who didn't come back saved him work, but his neck was too thin and Gothar's meaty hands to close to it for him to chance it. He maintained his silence as he attended to Gothar's wounds.

“That does it, how do you feel?”

“I still feel the aches. Are you sure that ointment is full strength?”

“It is the exact same healing ointment I had been using during the war. You just added adrenalin from the heat of the battle to it.”

“Well you can't afford to be slow when facing a Death Raptor.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hismal said, almost wishing a few were around. “Heat would also help. You might have tried saving a few of those Fire Salamanders.”

“I didn't hear you complaining when I dispatched the one who was throwing the fireballs at you.”

“No, I didn't. Just looking back I wish we had done some things differently. A lot of magic is now gone, or very difficult to find.”

“Well that is the Wizard's worry,” Gothar sniffed.

“Of course you are correct Great Beastslayer,” Hismal replied, deciding Gothar would go down on his list of priority patients a bit. He took his leave, he and Victoria exchanging glances. She followed him outside.

“So Victoria, how are you holding up?”

“It could be worse I guess. But we need to find him something to do lest he drive us all nuts.”

“You are correct, I am just at a loss as to what. He is only happy in battle, and there are none left to be fought. We were too thorough this time around.”

That afternoon Gothar left for the Tavern as usual. There he and his war buddies would hang around, get tanked, and relive their glory days. Victoria took the wash to the stream to clean it. Most of the rest of the spouses of the warriors were there.

“She's driving me nuts,” Zanar said. “She offered to help with dinner, then sliced and diced the roast. I pointed out to her she hates stew, which was all the meat was good for when she got finished.

A dozen other heads nodded in unison. Everybody had their trials with the retuning heroes home.

“What if we found another quest for them?” someone asked.

“To fight what? They vanquished all evil this time,” someone else responded.

Victoria thought about it as she was pounding the clothes against a rock, and the glimmerings of an idea came to her.

The next day when the heroes were gathered again at the tavern, a miner in torn up clothes burst in.

“There is a Balrog in the mines!” he said.

There was a flurry of action as all the company left to don armor and weapons, then follow the minor back to the mines.

Victoria stood and watched.

“It will never work,” Hismal remarked as he drew up beside her. “What are they going to do when they find there is no Balrog?”

“They will slay all the spiders and rats, and the mines will be a safer place to work,” Victoria replied.

“So you are using them for vermin control. Don't you think they will catch on?”

“If they want to. I think they really want something to do, and that is the best we have to offer.”

“And when they come back in about two weeks?”

“We give them a week to discuss their valorous deeds, and we listen with rapt attention. Then the farms to the south are having problems with crows. I think Death Ravens may have been seen...”

Hismal snickered. “You know I have heard tales of a mighty dragon being sighted in the mountains where the shepherds are. While they are there, they can take care of some wolves that have been eating the sheep.”

“I will add that to the list,” Victoria replied.

Meanwhile, in the assembled host, TrollSlayer strapped to his back, Gothar sighed contentedly. It would be good to be back in battle again.

Caelum watched the logs crumble, creating a cloud of embers that danced in the evening light. He let his body sink deeper into his leather armchair, basking in the peaceful twilight. It was rare that Caelum ever had time to truly relax. The manor kept him busy enough; owning a castle would have been a nightmare. The royal family had been horrified to discover the noble hero wanted to take their daughter back to his homely village. The elaborate manor was the closest compromise they would find, and he had come to accept his new life.

“You’ve got a guest in the… oh, it can wait. Thinking about the past, dear?” asked his wife, strolling into the room. “You never come into this room unless you plan to gaze at your old sword,” she said, wrapping her arms around the back of the chair. “And it is the first year anniversary of your defeat of the dread wizard Phyradin.”

“Already?” he asked. “I didn’t realize it had been that long. I must be getting old! Yeah, I keep expecting him to crawl out of that abyss, robe charred, screeching ”˜you’ll never be able to defeat me!’” he declared, laughing. “How did you know that, anyway? I thought you spent the entire time in the captivity of the Demon King?”

“Oh, I did,” she said, tossing her hair back, “but the peasants are building a statue in the main square. It’s actually a pretty good likeness for crude granite.”

“Y’monne, are you serious?” he yelled, turning red with embarrassment. “Is it too much to go back to a normal life with my wife and my family?”

“Welcome to politics,” she said, smiling broadly. “You’re lucky they didn’t put you right into the spotlight as a hero of the realm. Noble Caelum and his divine elven sword? People looked up to you, you know. Thwarting bandits, slaying dragons, subduing hordes of orcs… why, I bet every lad from here to Seylan wanted to grow up to be just like you!”

“Don’t remind me,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, dear, I’d wish I never found that sword.”

“Oh, hush!” she laughed. “Now I know you’re being silly. If you saw the lands getting plagued by an undead scourge, you’d chase after them yourself, holy sword or no. You can’t help but doing the right thing.”

“And it’s my biggest weakness,” he muttered to himself. “So who is this guest waiting in the entry hall? I suppose the peasants want me to make an appearance at the banquet or something equally droll?”

“Well, no, not quite,” she said, staring at a spot on the floor.

“Don’t tell me it’s Nolan,” he groaned, pulling himself out of the chair. “How many times do I need to tell him that I refuse to be promoted to the captain of the guard?”

“That’s… not what he wants,” replied Y’monne, twirling the loose ends of her hair. “It seems that there’s a new threat to the realm, and… well, he wants you to take sword in hand, and go out after it.”

“But that’s going to be someone else’s job!” he yelled, thumping the wooden paneling with his fist. “It’s just not done! It’s someone else’s turn to have a heroic adventure against all odds. I can’t go and do it again! Can you imagine? Caelum the jerk who completed two quests? Who insisted that he needed twice the loot and wives of the normal hero?”

“Well, yes, I know that, dear. But he’s from the north, remember? He grew up in the Dwarven lands- you can hardly blame him for being so practical.”

“Bet you I can,” he muttered under his breath. “Alright, I’ll talk to him in the armory. Maybe if I gift a few of the minor weapons, he’ll leave me alone.”

--------------------------------------

“…which is why the kingdom needs you!” finished Nolan, unaware that his words were falling onto deaf ears. Caelum had not paid attention to a single word he’d said, choosing instead to focus on the fine weaponry around him; another reason the two men were meeting in this room.

“No, that is the reason the kingdom needs a hero. I have yet to be convinced that the hero in question has to be me. A series of robberies performed by mysterious individuals with matching tattoos? The entire thing screams of a starter quest. Once the hero defeats the thieves, he discovers other, more dangerous tattooed individuals… and pretty soon, he’s defeating the master of a crazed dark cult trying to resurrect their deity. Standard stuff. I’m sure any man could do it with the right equipment. I mean, how old is your son? I’m sure it’d be a great chance to prove himself.”

“I will thank you to leave my son out of this!” said Nolan. “The lad is barely eighteen, and I have difficulty enough with his wanderlust as it is! He needs structure and discipline, not some fool adventure! His place is at home, with his studies.”

“Whatever you say,” said Caelum, shrugging his shoulders.

“I see we are at an impasse,” he replied. “You are being very rude. If you are quite finished with your ridiculous ideas and stubborn principles, I will take my leave. I look forward to proving you wrong when the entire kingdom falls apart around you because you refused to help.” Nolan stomped out of the room, looking all the world like a disgruntled toddler.

“Well, that settles it indeed,” said Caelum, pulling down a suitable sword and shield. They were no match for a demon king, of course, but they were more than magical enough to handle a few robbers. “Y’monne, would you…?”

“Of course, dear,” replied his wife, from her place in the adjacent study. “I’ll have the servants send those arms to Nolan’s son in the morning, while Nolan is busy with the town council. It’s the excuse the boy needs to go out into the world and prove his worth.”

"A pack of ingrates is what they are. Beloved people, my aching buttocks...!"

King Valiant strode back and forth before the royal throne, furiously stroking his beard. He muttered loudly enough to be heard by the assembled advisors.

"They hailed me as a hero for delivering them from their difficulties, but now they come to depend on it. Then, when they invent new problems, who do they blame? Valiant The Heroic."

Valiant well remembered battling to slay the Mountain Dragon of the West Peaks. He held even fonder recollections of the celebrations which followed, at which odes were composed in his honour and numerous young maidens bespoiled themselves in gratitude. He thought back to his retrieval of the kingdom’s stolen gold reserves from the Dungeon of Kaaft, and the various other questings for relics and artefacts, and the cheering crowds which inevitably lined the streets upon his triumphant return.

But all of his feats of derring-do paled in comparison to the rescue of the Sleeping Princess Dionea from the Soporific Wastes. The public feasting which followed their hasty marriage had lasted a fortnight. And yet how quickly the people forget, he mused.

Umwort the Elder Minister approached the king, absently thumbing the hem of his sleeve.

"Your highness, the Farmer’s Guild is complaining that in the foothills, more sheep are being lost to wolves than before the Dragon was slain. They humbly suggest that such things might have been considered prior to your quest."

Valiant arched an eyebrow.

"I had no idea Dragons eat wolves. They mentioned nothing of the sort when they begged me to stop the Dragon stealing their daughters."

"Ah, yes, sire - about that, too. The young men are sore aggreived, for in addition to eating wolves, the Dragon preferred stealing the, ah, meatier young ladies, and now they claim the number of fair maidens is outweighed by the, ah... by the other maidens."

"Pfft, nancyboys," snorted Valiant. "In my day, we took loving where we could get it - and occasionally where we couldn’t - and that was good enough for us."

"There is that, too, sire. You defeated the Bog Orcs, and now Night Goblin numbers are on the rise, leading to reports of widespread, ah, unwanted nocturnal visitations."

Valiant stopped pacing and sat heavily on the throne. He assessed Elder Minister Umwort with a weary gaze.

"I suppose they now expect their personal hero to do for them what generations have been managing perfectly well by themselves? It would have been far easier had I not raised their expectations, and instead left them to their own devices."

"Sire, to be fair, the quality of life is far superior to earlier times. Horrific monster-related deaths are quite reduced, the gold reserves are safe in the tower, the Enchanted Goblet of Protective Fire once again graces the throne room..." (Umwort paused briefly to genuflect in the direction of the ornate golden cup) "...and Queen Dionea is, I trust, meeting your expectations."

Therein lay the problem, thought Valiant. The Queen was a woman of astonishing qualities. Beautiful, intelligent, delightful company - and with an appetite for intimacies surpassed in voraciousness only by its predilection for novelty. Of this Valiant was loathe to complain, but he was forced to admit that his bride’s charms were wearying. His exertions, while immensely pleasurable, sapped him of the energy to contemplate other feats of valour.

And besides, producing an heir for the kingdom was his public duty. He bore the burden of this expectation with especial conscientiouness. What more could the people demand of him, given this arduous nightly endeavour on their behalf? And to be fair, he occasionally laboured at it during daylight hours also.

"Umwort, in your time as Elder Minister you’ve never brought before the throne a problem to which you did not already perceive a solution. What say you on this matter of balance, and my occupation with the, ah, other heroic kingly duties?"

Umwort smiled sympathetically, masking a leer.

"Outsourcing, sire."

"Outsourcing? As in subcontracting? Hiring mercenaries? Freelancers? Hmmm, the idea has merit."

"As you’ve said, sire, you cannot do everything. And the people are clamouring for ever greater protection from the ills that befall them, while you yourself are otherwise honourably engaged. I suggest that alternative heroes be licensed to deal with the wolves and Night Goblins and such, leaving you responsibility for only the more prestigious heroic quests."

"How do you propose to pay for these heroes, Umwort? No doubt you have a plan?"

"If the people hav a problem they wish to be solved, they must request tenders for each feat, and the successful hero will be paid upon completion... with the palace treasury taking a small administrative percentage, of course."

"So it is decreed. Make the arrangements."

And so it transpired that the palace instituted a system of public heroics. Those who wished a dashing knight or lumbering ogre or cunning trickster to solve their problems submitted their petition for tender to a large pool of freelance heroes. Whether the successful applicant solved or exacerbated the problem (or proved entirely ineffective) was another matter, but the public soon found many targets for their habitual dissatisfaction.

Valiant had only one. His were riches beyond measure, treasures and artworks, and friendships with many fine lords. Hunting and sporting and comedies were available at his whim. And, should the arms of his Lady provide unaccommodating, all manner of damsels made known their willingness to provide their services.

However this had yet to eventuate. Quite the opposite, Valiant thought as he wearily surveyed his bedchamber. His duty, with all its sultry sumptuous charms, awaited upon the bed, arrayed in yet another imaginatively sheer ensemble.

"My queen," said Valiant, lying beside her. She retained all the charms which had made her such an attractive kidnapping target for the Craven Wizard Septicus. "My queen, how do you feel about... outsourcing?"

Queen Dionea raised an eyebrow and giggled coquettishly.

"Is it like that Persian thing we tried? I quite liked that - you naughty king, you!"

Valiant was pulled into an energetic embrace. He battled half-heartedly, all the while thinking fondly of slaying dragons.

The jubilant crowds massed in front the castle gate, cheering exultantly. The remains of their town still smoked all around them, yet the people knew they would rebuild. The Necromancer had been vanquished, what reason did they have to fear for the future?

Their hero stood upon the gate, still wearing his torn, gore stained tunic, drinking in the adulation. King Darimus, resplendent in his fur lined cloak and mighty crown, stood to his right. To his left was the Princess Sybil, clad in a gown of the purest of white.

The King raised his hands to silence the crowd. “People of Helassia, we are free!” The people roared in applause. “It is my honor to present to you your hero, Raelin of the clan Ythward!” The crowd's fervor reached new heights. “And,” the King continued, “it is my honor to present to Raelin my daughter's hand in marriage!” Raelin stepped forward and raised his glimmering silver ax above his head in triumph. The throng cheered louder than ever as the music and feasting began.

----------

“Nah, man, I love you man... you're sho... sho... I dunno man, but I love you.”

The castle steward, Lord Varlin, had had enough of Prince Raelin. Nearly three years had passed since the former barbarian had defeated the fell Necromancer, but whereas the rest of the kingdom had gone back to work rebuilding their shattered land, Raelin continued partying.

“I know Raelin, now please keep following me so we can get you back to your quarters.”

“My namshs Prince Raelin, beatter of the Necrerom... Nerorcom...” the Prince doubled over giggling, unable to pronounce Necromancer in his drunkenness.

Lord Varlin had served the ruling family as steward for over 40 years. The old King, father of Darimus, had named him steward at the tender age of 25, unprecedentedly early, but Varlin had never once let the family down. He managed the grain stores during the horrible years of the Necromancer's reign and prevented untold numbers from starving. He curbed the excesses of Prince Quince, Darimus' younger brother, preventing rumors from spreading about his exorbitant drinking. Luckily Price Quince was slain during the first battle with the Necromancer, before his lifestyle maligned the reputation of the royal family. No such hope for removing Prince Raelin appeared to be on the horizon. It was too late to save the family's reputation either way.

But drinking alone was not enough to raise the ire of Lord Varlin; he had managed Price Quince after all. Varlin dealt with all matters with surgical precision and objectivity, he usually didn't let his feelings get in the way of his job. Raelin was another matter. It was the depraved parties, the wanton destruction of property, and the rumors of adultery that pushed Varlin beyond his limits. Moreover, Raelin was not only destroying himself, he was eating away at the foundations of the nobility. All too many of the young lords, and even a few of the ladies, were beginning to take after Raelin. They scorned the noble traditions of serving their King and Kingdom, treating the common people like slaves rather than as their charges.

Raelin staggered over to one of the suits of armor lining the hall, holding on to the shoulders to keep from falling over. The Barbarian Price was a hulk of a man, making the suits of armor look like children's' attire. Three years of debauchery had replaced muscles with fat, but Raelin was still formidable.

“Come now Prince Raelin, we need to...” Just then the Prince opened the visor of the helmet and puked into the empty suit of armor. “Oh for the love of Vay... please, Price Raelin, let's return to your quarters.”

The price wiped his mouth on his shirt. “Nah nah nah, we's gotta go to see my wife. I ain't tired yet and I got a...”

“Yes yes, fine,” Varlin interrupted, not wanting to let Raelin finish that sentence. Princess Sybil was an angel of a woman, she deserved far better than this drunken lout. At least she had an older brother to inherit the throne. Varlin thanked Vay, and every other god he could think of, that Raelin would not ascend to the throne. As a Prince he was a colossal waste of money, a continuing source of embarrassment, and a dangerous liability, but as a King... Varlin shuddered at the thought. At least he would never be given any form of responsibility.

The pair finally arrived at Princess Sybil's chambers, Varlin struggling to keep upright with the weight of Raelin leaning upon him. Varlin was about to knock on the door, but Raelin threw it wide open and staggered in.

A silent crowd of people turned their heads and stared at the two intruders. Lords, Ladies, guards, cooks, chamber maids, errand boys, all crowded around the large bed in the middle of the room. Still in bed, at the center of this quiet entourage, lay the Princess Sybil. Her face was absolutely ashen. She alone didn't seem to notice Raelin's incursion.

A young soldier in battered mail and travel stained garments approached slowly, his steel boots echoing on the cold tiles. He knelt before Raelin. “Prince Raelin, M'lord” he began, with a shaking voice, “there's been an incident. In the forest, our hunting party was waylaid by a mob of the Necromancer's fanatics who had been hiding since their lord's destruction. They came out of nowhere, the battle...” he trailed off, trying to gain control of his fumbling words. “The King, the Prince... they fought so valiantly... they...” Tears fell down the young man's cheeks. Still kneeling he raised his head and looked Raelin in the eyes, put his right fist to his breast, and said, “Long live the new King.”

Varlin clutched his breast as well, staggering as his heart began to falter.

Raelin puked in the corner.

Moash MacThane came to the tiny river that was the southern boundary of his holding. He tied the lead rope to a handy tree and began stripping off the battered armour that had served him so well in the months he had been gone. As each piece was removed he turned it over in his hands, then placed it into a rough sack.

When he was standing as naked as the day he was born, the tall muscular man walked out into the river and lay down in the icy water. The water flowed past him and gradually cleansed his soul. Lying on the smooth rocks he remembered the face of each person he had killed in the struggle to put the rightful King on the throne. When the last face had faded from the inside of his eyelids, Moash sat up and gasped in a huge breath of night air. He splashed to the shore and put some homespun clothes that had travelled in the bottom of his pack all this time. He tied the sack of armour and his claymore to the saddle of his horse, then picked up the lead rope of the cow that munched mindlessly on the grass by the tree. The returning hero led the beast across the river and up the hill.

It was a matter of minutes before he reached his home, and only a few more to settle the animals in the barn. He put the clanking sack in an empty stall, then walked to the door of his home. He stood at the door and took three deep breaths. Only then did he open the door and walk in.

"Well, it's about time you got home," Mae looked up from her spinning. "Did you remember the milk?"

"The new King gave me a cow," Moash said, "We'll have our own milk now."

"And who do you think is going to milk this cow?" Mae set the wool she was spinning down.

"The Princess showed me how to milk a cow."

"Did she now? And what does a Princess know of cattle?"

"She was living as a dairy maid while she was in hiding."

"So what was the Prince being, a swineherd?"

"No, he was being schooled in some foreign land."

"Ah well, at least one of them will have some sense." She went over to the fire and stirred it up. "I kept your dinner warm. I was about to give it to the dogs, but you might as well have it." Moash sat in the chair that fit him perfectly. The heat from the fire warmed him to his bones. His wife plunked a bowl and a spoon in front of him, and he began to eat the savoury stew. A chunk of bread appeared at his elbow and he used it to wipe clean the bowl. A tankard banged down at his other elbow and he took a long draw on the dark ale. The bowl had been refilled and more bread beside it when he put the empty tankard down with a sigh. He tucked into the stew and once again cleaned the bowl with the end of the bread.

"I've missed your cooking," he said.

"So that Prince has been skimping on feeding you?"

"No," Moash said, "but no palace cook can compare to you."

"Now you're just trying to get on my good side 'cause you forgot the milk."

"But..." Moash sighed, "Sorry, I should have stopped at Thomas' holding and picked up some milk."

"And a good thing you didn't or you would still be there telling tales while the dogs ate your supper."

She poured more ale into the tankard.

"Faugh, you smell like an ironmonger." She pushed a large iron kettle over the fire and put some more coal in. "Go draw some water for a bath."

"I bathed in the river," he said.

"Likely you did, and you may catch your death of the cold too, but if you want to sleep in my bed tonight you'll bathe in warm water with soap." Moash got up and fetched the buckets from the corner and went out the door. When he returned, Mae had the wooden tub pulled out. By the time he had filled the tub, the kettle had boiled and she poured the hot water in until the tub steamed. He stripped his clothes once more and stepped into the tub. He folded himself into the hot water and sighed as aches he hadn't known he had melted away.

"Couldn't anyone cut your hair in that army of yours?" Mae kneaded soap into his greying hair.

"Didn't have much time for that," Moash blinked as she poured water over his head to rinse his hair. She started scrubbing his back, tracing each new scar as she did.

"So many scars," she said quietly, "I swear you'll fall to pieces some day."

"It is what I do," Moash said just as quietly.

"Aye, but I don't need to like it." She slapped his back, then started scrubbing his arms and chest. He lay back in the tub and looked up at her. Her hair was all grey now, but her blue eyes could still see through a stone if they took a mind to.

"So," she said, "Is this one going to do any good?"

"He's better than most I guess." Moash stood up and used his hands to strip the water from his skin. Mae wrapped him in a thick wool blanket.

"Leave the water, Mae," he said, "You know what I need now."

"And what would that be?" she said smiling impishly. He swept her up and carried her to the bed they shared.

"Tell me," he said, "Tell me everything that happened since I left."

"Well, Thomas's wife caught him spending her egg money..."

"No!"

"Yes, and she won't let him inside until he's paid every penny back..."

Moash sighed and let the stories of the people he loved flow into him and make him whole.