Raeth, the Thundering Knight, trudged through sewer muck, muttering to himself.

“Fucking stealth missions,” He scowled. “What kind of moron builds their hideout in a fucking sewer?”

He gritted his teeth. Every step was accompanied by a gut-churning suction sound, paired with the dull scraping of his boots against the stone floor.

They told him that full plate armor was a bad idea. He was starting to see their point. The tunnel was big enough to accommodate him—but only barely.

Raeth was a large man. Not quite turned into a spectacle, yet, but more and more heads were turning—and stayed turned—when he passed.

The looks—the appraising, daunted stares he pulled into orbit almost made it worth the fact that this was his fourth set of armor this year. He kept outgrowing the damn things.

Oh, the fortunes he wasted for a codpiece that wouldn’t crush his balls.

He was a Hero. A leader of men, a breaker of walls, a slayer of evil.

Not a trudger of sewers.

Still, he had to pay for the armor somehow, and his pauldrons were already starting to dig into his shoulders.

So, the trudging continued.

His scowl deepened, thinking about how badly he’d need a bath after this. And a shave. His beard itched, but he didn’t dare scratch it. Muck had found its way to his hands already. His boots were a lost cause, to be burned at the first opportunity.

Though, if he was being honest, it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever trudged through. He was well experienced in the varietals of scum and rot left behind the field of battle. But that was under an open sky, with time to move on before anything ripened too horribly. Sewer air was heavy, thick, and inescapable.

A real battle, that’s what he liked—what he was built for. He was the vanguard, not a spy. If the universe had any justice, he thought, he’d be the one paying some asshole to do this shit.

But he wasn’t going to stop, and he wasn’t turning back. Heroes don't turn back.

Heroes on the verge of finding vampire nests definitely didn’t turn back. He could already imagine the stories they’d be telling about him: Raeth, the Vampire Slayer.

Raeth, Hunter of Hunters.

“Raeth, the Thundering Slayer.” His voice rumbled off the walls like a thousand falling stones.

He liked the sound of that.

He wouldn’t even have to work too hard to earn the title. Judging from the trail of blood leading directly to a cracked-open sewer grate, vampires were a barely intelligent form of dark creature.

Smart enough to hide, not smart enough to hide from him.

“Bet you fuckers don’t know I can see in the dark, do ya?” He whispered.

It wasn’t a blessing he often had to make use of. Good for hunting goblins maybe, but he’d sooner sell his armor than crawl back into a Warren.

It was probably the only blessing he’d be making use of for this little side-quest, other than his strength. His one powerful miracle was only really useful against larger foes in open spaces.

Just because he could fight in the pressing darkness didn’t mean that he had to be happy about it. He was the only Hero on hand to deal with the problem, and he was far too durable to be in any actual danger.

He hadn’t shed as much as a drop of blood in months, and that was when some lunatic shot him in the head with an arbalest. And before that… memories half-surfaced, of the nosebleeds he’d get every winter, every summer, at every change of every goddamn season, or even at the slightest suggestion of stress.

Thank the Gods, that was a long time ago now.

No. It’d take a good bit more than some goth monster-fucker with pointy teeth to take him down.

He wasn’t a loser. He was a Hero.

He was the Godsdamned Thunderer.

…

…

‘Finally.’

After hours of stinking darkness, he’d found the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Literally speaking, he’d found the darkness at the end of the tunnel, culminating in a hole surrounded by human skulls, emanating a smell like death itself.

He leaned over it, peering into the inky well below, careful of where he stepped. He smiled grimly into it—just wide enough to fit him and his armor.

His eyes couldn’t pierce the darkness—a useful aspect of his night vision, if a frustrating one. Supernatural forces were at work, here: As if the skulls and claw marks weren’t enough.

Raeth rolled his eyes. Subtlety, clearly, was not his quarry’s forte. He’d found the mouth of the dark beast’s den. Jagged chinks of stone were ripped from the perimeter of what was once likely a sewer grate, or maintenance passage.

It was, almost certainly, a very powerful monster.

“Weird how you start to look forward to finding these kinds of things.” He muttered into the darkness.

“I don’t blame you.” A dry voice emanated from beyond the den’s mouth.

Raeth’s sword was out and his feet were firmly planted in a twitch of motion—an awkward maneuver, with the walls of the sewer pressing around him, but one that Raeth was well practiced in.

Just because he didn’t like to fight in close quarters didn’t mean that he couldn’t.

“I imagine this is rather exciting for you, sir Raeth, ‘The Thundering Slayer.’” The voice echoed from the pit.

Raeth frowned, muscles in his back tensing. “You know me?”

“Yes,” The darkness spoke—voice touched by the premonition of laughter. “I do. Moreso now that I’ve been listening to you talk to yourself for the last half hour. Sound carries well through the tunnel, lad. Is that a habit, I wonder, or are you simply not used to being alone in the shadows?”

“If you know me, then you probably know what I’m here to do,” Raeth said, ignoring the question.

The voice laughed. It was a rich, baritone sound, echoing off the walls like the beating of a war-drum. “I know what you're here to attempt to do, yes.” It agreed.

The Hero’s jaw tightened. “I’m pretty good at my job, and I’d say the hard part’s over now that I’ve found you, creature.”

“Oh no,” The dry voice projected. “You found our secret layer. What a skilled tracker you must be—we never saw you coming.”

And, after a considered pause, “Have mercy?”

Raeth frowned. He never really got the point of banter in these situations. They were already trying to kill each other, why add insult to injury?

“They do call me the ‘Thundering’ Knight.” He answered, because his silence would be a victory for the monster.

“Ha!” Another voice echoed, sounding younger, distinctly childlike. “‘Blundering Knight,’ more like.”

Raeth blinked, tightening his grip on his sword. One of the things he picked up in the Heroing business was a healthy fear of mysterious children hiding in shadows.

“Can we get this over with?” Raeth asked, voice deepening. “Not to insult your home, but… you do live in a literal shit hole, and I’m not looking to stay for dinner.”

“Ooh, wow, practice that one on your way over?” The childlike voice called out again, laughing.

It was a high, innocent, tinkling sound—like chimes, almost. Raeth might have found it pleasant, if not for the circumstances.

“Why don’t you come out and face me?” The knight suggested, lowering the point of his sword to test the wall of darkness.

“No, I don’t think I will, Raymond,” The older voice spoke again, and Raeth’s blood ran cold at the sound of his old name. “I find it much more likely that you’ll join us down here.”

Before he could speak—could demand to know how the voice knew to call him that, the child in the dark interrupted.

“Are we keeping him, father?”

“Oh, I do hope so. Turning little Raymond here may prove rather difficult, but I imagine he’ll be well worth it.”

‘That’s it.’

“My name,” the Hero growled, inching forward, “is Raeth. And you’re making me angry.”

“And I suppose we wouldn’t like you when you’re angry, would we?” The elder’s voice was high and innocent, almost conversational. “Care to take a dive into the abyss and let off a little steam?”

Raeth scowled at the darkness, taking a reluctant step back.

“No, I didn’t think so,” The older voice sighed. “Go and fetch him for me, Jonathan, would you?”

“Yes, father.” The young voice answered.

Raeth’s scowl deepened as he took another step back, raising his sword to strike whatever emerged from the depths.

“Whatever manner of dark creature you may be—” Raeth warned, “—know that I am aligned with Heaven and that the forces of light will always rise to burn away your filth.”

A boy’s head popped out of the hole, like a gopher, shot him a goofy smile, and laughed.

Raeth’s body tensed to strike downward, but the boy's smile gave him pause.

Vampires, he was expecting. The entire reason for his being down in the sewer was the litter of bloodless corpses spawning all over the city, with neat little puncture wounds on their necks and wrists.

This child’s teeth weren’t the sort that made neat little puncture wounds.

A Cheshire grin of needle points smiled up at him, pearly white and vaguely luminous. They were shark’s teeth: filling the boy's mouth like a crowded theater—ready for ripping and tearing and mauling.

“Really?” The-thing-that-looked-like-a-boy said, voice laden with sarcasm. “The light will burn away our filth? A little much, aye, Ray?”

It laughed at him again, sounding no less innocent for the threat waiting behind his lips.

The Hero took another step back, sword falling to a guarded position.

“Stop that,” Raeth commanded, in a voice like iron. “You’re going to die here, so stop laughing, you mutant freak.”

Men had learned to tremble at the sound of his command. Literally tremble, in more than one case. It had a depth of power that shook the field of battle, like a thunder that roared even beneath the earth.

And this… creature of darkness dared to laugh? Raeth did not know what it truly was yet, but resolved that it would know him—and it would be the last thing that it did.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Goodness, you're a funny one, aren't you? No sense of irony. Are you a touch slow, maybe? No offense, only… we had certain expectations for you, and—well… you’re kind of exceeding them.”

“You dare mock me?” Raeth forced his voice even lower, sounding like the grinding of a stone avalanche.

“Again!” The boy cackled. “‘You dare mock me?’ You’re from Florida for Hell’s sake, of course I’m gonna mock you! Who’re you tryna fool?”

The boy—or creature—pulled himself fully from the abyss, and Raeth took another step back.

He looked normal, apart from his teeth. Dark brown hair, dark eyes, and a little on the thin side. Maybe twelve years old, if Raeth hazarded a guess.

“Stop that.” Raeth ordered.

“Stop what, little lonely Raymond?” The boy dusted off his plain peasant’s clothes: dirty brown shirt, dirty brown pants, no shoes. “Am I scaring you?”

The creature took a step forward.

“Stop.” Raeth held his sword in front of him, pointing out, warning it back.

The creature stopped.

“Who—what…” Raeth licked his lips, eyes flickering between the boy-shaped monster and the hole that spat him out. “What are you?”

“Draconus Grimjaw,” The monster smiled boyishly. “Err-no, call me… Ripp Gently.”

“Jonathan,” The voice still in the pit warned. “Are we playing with our food?”

The monster’s shoulders sagged, shooting Raeth a look that read: ‘Can you believe this? I never get to have any fun.’

“I’m just messing!” He called out over his shoulder, before turning back to the Hero.

“But do call me Ripp, though.” He continued, in a lower voice.

“What are you?” Raeth repeated, knuckles white as bone against the hilt of his sword. “How do you know me? My past?”

The boy—Johnathan—showed off his teeth. “We’ve got friends in common, Thunderer.”

Raeth scowled.

Jonathan continued, his accent thickening. “Ye might say we’ve got ah like taste en chums, wee Raymond.”

The Hero had little patience for dark creatures’ riddles. He got enough of them from the wise old men and swamp hags he ran into every other day.

His scowl deepened. “The only thing keeping you alive right now is my curiosity, creature. I ask for the last time: What are you, and how do you know me?”

The boy rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Well, the only thing keeping you alive is my sense of humor.” He tilted his head to one side. “And the fact that father can’t come up here right now, I guess.”

Raeth stepped forward, readying a thrust of his sword. Wet bones crushed under his boot, but he kept his focus on Jonathan.

The boy's hands flew up in surrender. “Vampires!” He shouted, wrinkling his nose. “Hell’s sake, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

‘Good.’ Raeth nodded, not dropping his blade from its stabbing-ready position. He stared intently at the monster, unflinching.

The creature lowered his hands with an exasperated sigh, wilting under the intensity of the Hero’s gaze.

“Father told me about you,” He said, looking down and away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Your name, where you’re from… everything.

“Your father,” Raeth echoed, casting his eyes behind the boy. “The one that won’t come out of his hole.”

“Can’t, Raymond,” The older voice corrected from the well of darkness, with a note of apology. “I’m a little tied up right now, unfortunately.”

“Raeth.” The Hero corrected in turn, frowning in duel parts from concentration and annoyance.

“Of course,” The voice allowed, before its tone sharpened. “Jonathan. What did we discuss?”

The boy kept his eyes down, hands still stuffed in his pockets as he aimed a half-hearted kick at a human arm bone, barely visible over an inch of gray water. “No games.” He muttered.

“And?” The darkness had no trouble hearing the boy’s low tones.

Jonathan huffed, looking back up at Raeth. “I’m supposed to offer you a deal.”

“I think I’ll pass,” The Hero set his jaw. “This is the part where you try to lure me into your dad’s nest so he can kill me, right? Well, I don’t see very much stopping me from killing you here and now.”

He took a step forward.

“It’s not that kind of deal.” The creature shook his head, smiling awkwardly, taking a step back.

Raeth tensed. He still wasn’t used to the boy's teeth.

“It’s a choice,” The boy continued, licking his lips. “Two options. You can pick either one—no consequences or hard feelings either way. They’re tailored to your needs, and I—we—want you to know that whatever you choose, we’ll be satisfied with your decision.”

Stony was the Hero’s expression. “And what choice would that be?”

The little man smiled more fully, like a demonic salesman.

“Like I said, there are two options. Both are good—great, actually. Both are so great, I think you should just pick the one that sticks out the most to you, you know? Free association—no need to even think about it.”

Raeth smirked. This was familiar territory for him. The mad ramblings of an enemy combatant trying to delay the inevitable. To think, he was worried for a moment. “You still haven’t told me my choice.” He pointed out, inching forward.

He’d hear the kid out, if only to be polite—but he didn’t get to live as long as he did by letting the enemy go, even if they were helpless. Especially if they were helpless.

He knew how this would end. Either the kid would pull a knife, or he’d make a break for it. Raeth wouldn’t let him get away.

Once you heard the phrase “you should have killed me when you had the chance” a few times, you couldn’t help but start to agree with the sentiment.

He wasn’t stupid enough to put something as precious as his life to chance.

“Right, your choice—” The kid licked his lips. “—Isss…” he leaned forward.

Raeth rolled his eyes, playing along and dipping his sword ever-so-slightly downward. It’d be a knife, then. That made him feel a little less guilty. He didn't want to stab the wretched little thing in the back—that just wouldn’t feel right.

“Join us—” the child-shaped monster whispered, conspiratorially. “—or die.”

Raeth smirked. “Sorry kid, I’m really not the kind of guy—”

His voice cut off, a warm ache spreading across his throat. His lips moved, but words didn’t leave them. A ragged gurgle escaped him as his mouth filled with blood.

“Ah well, totally fine, like I said.” The kid spoke, holding a bloody knife. “We were sort of expecting this, actually.”

Raeth’s eyes were wide, staring at the blade which wasn’t there half a second ago. Was that his blood? That wasn’t supposed to happen. That couldn’t happen. He couldn’t be stabbed. His off-hand went to his throat—finding it damp and hot. No—not merely damp, but running, leaking like a faucet as warmth dribbled through the gaps between his fingers, and down his wrist.

In a fit of panic, he called on the warm light of his blessings, swimming at the base of his soul.

“And the reason we were expecting this is because we did quite a bit of research on you, Raymond Tolk.” The child spoke as the Hero fell to the ground.

Both hands were at his neck now, burning with golden light. He stumbled away from the child, splashing foul water all around until his back found a hard purchase against the stone wall of the sewer.

How did the monster strike him? He was barely within range of Raeth’s longsword. Dark magic? That sort of thing wasn’t supposed to work on him, he was a Hero!

“I mean, we didn't learn anything really important. I only know your name, your abilities, your entire life story…” The boy counted off, shaking his head.

“… and the fact that you’re a moron. Just a hair short of being the full package, really. No miraculous self-healing—which is a bummer—but I bet you're a terror on the battlefield.” He tapped a finger at the point of his still-bloody weapon. “Or you would be, if you were a little more durable. Ah well, I guess.”

Raeth spat at him, hands no longer infused with light. His blessings couldn’t help him anyway. He could only strengthen armor with it—not soft tissue, not after the damage had already been done.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” The boy scowled, patting at his clothes with his free hand. “I think you know how hard it is to wash out blood. You’re gonna be around for a few moments yet, and I could still save you if you’re not gonna be a dick about it.”

Raeth kicked again—splashing water over himself—one hand still at his throat, the other plunged into the gray water. He forced himself to be still.

“How’s that, father?” The boy called to the pit, turning sidelong.

“Good enough, I suppose,” The unseen darkness sighed. “Tend to him now—before he expires. No games this time, please, or we’ll have wasted a great deal of effort getting him here.”

The whole of Raeth’s body was soaked in the foul water of the sewer, turning darker as his blood leached into it. He kept one hand tight around his throat in a vain attempt at lengthening these last fading moments, praying for help to descend from above.

It didn’t.

“So, ‘Raeth…’” The kid fell into a crouch, smiling over the Hero with a predator’s grin. “Raymond. My little Ray of sunshine. Where do we stand on the whole ‘joining-us-or-dying’ front? Having second thoughts?”

Raeth did have second thoughts.

They would not be his last.

…

…

Elsewhere, two weeks later

Argus could feel the power of the ritual charging the air, even from the other side of the castle. It had been building for days, now. It did not tickle his senses as it had when he was a younger man, it bombarded them, filling his head—his bones—with screaming static.

One of the gifts of experience, he thought, bitterly. The entire castle was bathed in exotic energy every year, and every year most of the staff was changed out. Not him, though. He was as much a fixture of Retmor as its walls, or some of its more eccentric personalities.

These last three years were the hardest. To think, a crusade at his age! Demon lords and lich barons and ducal vampires. And the Heroes!

Gods, the Heroes were the worst of it. The Forces of Darkness were famous for making themselves out to be royalty, but that wasn’t half as bad as some of the Heroes he’d met.

For every Goblin King dotting the countryside—and there were several—there was a ‘Mourning Rogue’, or a ‘Golden Knight’, or—and this was his least favorite because he’d met him—a ‘Champion of Hope’.

Not that they weren’t kind, or friendly, or even fundamentally ‘good’—if such a thing existed. They were just so stupid.

One every few years, he could live with. Give them a sword and a few kind words, and they’d jump at the chance to deliver the Gods’ justice to whatever evil dragon or goblin horde you threw them at.

But five?

Long had he believed that the Heroes were getting dumber, but these bands of five were only as smart as their slowest member, and they almost always ended up the leader.

‘The Gods and Their Fools laugh at us all.’ The saying had more meaning than one, he learned.

They were all fools. Fifteen Heroes called to service these last three years, all overseen by him personally. Five each year. Somehow, most of them were still alive. He took a bit of pride in that, at least. A few were even managing to live up to their names.

These next five… he would give them his best, but they would certainly be his last. He couldn’t even greet them at the circle anymore. If he tried… Well, a little discomfort would be the least of his worries. He probably wouldn’t be able to survive it.

Gods, the ritual was affecting him now. His office was warded against it, and still, he could feel the shriek of raw power in the air. This would be a strong batch, for all the harm it did him. A very strong batch.

A good note to end on, Argus thought, and definitely the note to end on.

Better still, they might not be total morons after all. If a leader emerged quickly, he might have them out of his hair and into the world in as few as three months.

The thought had barely occurred when a knock sounded at his door, and a small piece of paper slid underneath.

He sighed, rising to his feet, feeling every minute his age. He wouldn’t miss these little inconveniences when he retired, though he didn’t dare call on his magic to retrieve it. Even a lesser working would be dangerous, with the power all around him. Like lighting a bonfire in a sawmill.

It was a shaky walk to the message, the envelope, he discovered, with a blank crimson seal.

He tore it open, frowning. It was a full piece of parchment, with a single sentence written at the top, in a small, exact script.

…

Signs point to a Sixth.

—Phineus

…

“Bloody Gods and Their bloody Fools.” He muttered, staring.

Argus shuffled to his desk, eyes still glued to the page. He didn’t doubt it in the slightest. Phineus, for all that he was a freak, was never wrong.

He straightened his robes.

Really, it served him right, he thought. He was too old for optimism. It was sheer folly to even conceive that he might have had an easy go of it for once.

‘Inform the staff—’ He scrawled under Phineus’s signature.

There were preparations to be made.