“This world is in a lot of trouble” A true enough statement in any time but it was his father on his death bed that had said it, which gave it a certain poignant sorrow.

The world was indeed in trouble. It lacked order, guidance and strength. The world needed to be forced under control and then it could recover from its past ailments. A resolve had been building in the Warrior’s mind since his father was taken ill, a resolve to prove the legends true or prove them false. In so doing he would bring the world order.

The Crown of Command was a part of the world’s history and mythology. Historically it was known that a powerful usurper came and used a Crown that held great powers to overthrow the ancient rulers. In mythology the Crown was purported to hold great and varying abilities. It was said to give perpetual life, see thoughts, move mountains, and bestow ravishing beauty and a hundred or more outrageous claims. It was certain, at least, that it was a weapon of such power that it could reach out and destroy your enemies wherever they may be.

He struck out on his own in the cool of a spring morning, prepared for any challenge that was offered him by the Fates. He did not carry much, but he had more with him than he knew...and less.

It was not long when he came upon a crude campsite, a fire pit sufficient to roast an entire sheep. Bones littered the ground, bones of something...best not to dwell upon it. The sound of heavy breathing startled him, in the trees there loomed a face that bespoke a joy of atrocities. Ogres are not legends here; they are a brutal fact, a consequence of disorder. The Warrior had spent the scant coin he had gained on a stout axe. It was lucky that he found the remnants of a less fortunate soul that had fallen to some unknown cause, there was a touch of sorrow but it passed. A disorganized fool and his life were parted, leaving some much needed coin for a more worthy person to use.

The Ogre swung its cudgel in practice and anticipation, the Warrior charged and grabbed for his axe...but no axe was there! Damn, that scrawny runt he had met on the road the day before had filched it! Well it was bare knuckle brawling then! They clashed, each swung wildly. Bodies collided, the Warrior went down, and he swept with his feet. The impact did not cause the Ogre to fall as hoped but the pain elicited from it a bellow, giving the Warrior a chance.

He had earned his keep by bouncing young bravos and hot headed ruffians from local taverns so he jumped into his fighter’s crouch as the cudgel arced for his head. A pretty side step and he landed a fist in the Ogre’s lower back. It snorted its discomfort and its hand, as big as the head of a mattock, swung back.

To late to dodge the Warrior jumped up and latched on the monster’s heavy wrist, decreasing the blow to a tolerable slap. He held for a moment only and let go, rolling on the ground some few feet away. The Ogre turned and swung but its club lodged in the over hanging branches. The Warrior plunged his shoulder into the things belly, causing it to expel its air. The impact did the Warrior no good either, nearly dislocating his shoulder. This give and take raged for what seemed like hours. Each was panting on the ground, battered, bruised and exhausted. Wordlessly they gave their mutual consent to end the pointless battle. Each went on their way to seek easier prey.

Damn thieves and robbers and their entire ilk! The Warrior was in a rage even though his outer countenance did not betray it, a fine axe taken and no hope of money in the near future. He hoped that the land here about would reveal some lucky finds. Many were the times that a farmer would be plowing some new tract of land and uncover some artifact of an ancient battle or forgotten burial ground.

It was while searching for such a place that he came upon a creature that made the Ogre look as a child. The Giant laughed and the ground rumbled.

“Come little morsel...it has been a long time since I have tasted good meat.”

A cold fury crept up the Warrior; the Giant towered and strode forth, wielding a small tree trunk.

“I will trust to Fate on this!” the Warrior thought “If I can but get a hold on it I can climb its back and throttle the life from it!”

He made his move and met the tree trunk in mid swing. So much for Fate.

The warrior sailed back and rolled down a muddy slope into a bog and lie still in the cool mud. A bruised rib at least, more likely it was broken.

“Now, were have you gone my little piggy?” the foot falls of the Giant seemed to be moving away. He stifled a moan and lie as still as a corpse, unsure if he would not be gathered to his ancestors and a stew pot. He became unconscious.

Silence for a time. Aching he reached for his water bottle to quench his thirst and could not find it! The lanyard that had held it was cut clean! Damn that thief! It was now clear that he was being followed by some gutter rat from the city. Their kind would be the first to go!

Slowly he rose, keeping his arm close to his aching side. After some wandering he came to a clear spring that bubbled out of the rocks. It was fresh and cold, the drink cleared his mind and he found himself awakened and refreshed in a strange way.

Trudging onward he passed through an old graveyard. Graveyards did not bother him, but the knowledge that he was being followed kept him alert. As he passed out of the jumble of headstones to honored fathers and monuments to beloved mothers he sensed a presence. There, through the trees. As he peered through he saw as uncanny a creature as one could imagine.

It shambled in a bewildered fashion, it resembled a man in the same way a withered tree does when viewed from a distance. It did not look strong; he thought he would simply move away, and then it locked eyes with him. Strength beyond the physical gripped him. As if in a dream the thing lurched toward him and the Warrior found he could not move. Cold damp hands grasped him. They were weak and shaking but he could not free himself, he could not even move. Cold lips and jagged teeth closed on his exposed neck and he felt life ebb from him. Shivering, weeping, powerless...with one mighty effort he called on his physical strength and threw off the wretched thing that was feeding on him and fled!

Wildly he ran; no direction, no purpose, tears streaming down his face. A thousand physical dangers he could endure but the memory of what had happened, the loss of some part of himself, he could not bear it. He curled up in a sheltering copse of shrubs he wept.