28. Darkness Resurgent

Thirdborn walked confidently through the Heroes’ Guild’s main hall, a folder pinned under his right arm.

There was hardly any need for subterfuge at this stage. Most Heroes and apprentices alike were out to witness Hulda Ludenhaas’s sentencing.

Which made this the perfect opportunity to retrieve what he needed.

He couldn’t help but feel that this was how it should be. The Lodge, abandoned. No sound but his own footsteps.

Soon it would be true.

Soon.

He descended the stairs leading down to records. The chamber below was unmanned, and an empty desk greeted him.

Thirdborn grinned.

He approached the solid metal vault door at the end of the room. He no longer possessed Wordsmith’s key, as outright stealing it would have attracted too much attention, but he had something just as good.

He slipped a paper out of the folder and placed it on the desk. He held up his hand and examined the diagram he had drawn on the page with a close eye.

His fingers began to meld together.

Footsteps echoed from the staircase at the other end of the room.

Shit! Thirdborn thought. I can’t afford to be seen down here.

He had to morph, and quickly. The sound was drawing closer.

Wordsmith? No. Too high profile. Someone might ask questions.

Her apprentice, though…

Thirdborn didn’t even recall the lad’s name, but there was no time for that. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on the blurry memories of that innocuous, shy young man. With excruciating slowness, his body began to change, bones shifting and skin melting. Even his hair grew out slightly and shifted color.

He sat down in the chair in front of the desk and placed the folder at his feet as he finished the morph. He didn’t know how accurate it was without a mirror to judge, but it would have to be good enough.

Crab-Man, the Lodge’s six-armed head chef, entered into the chamber. He walked slowly towards Thirdborn.

“Who are you, kid?” the man asked, all six hands twitching as if he was rearing for a fight. “I thought this place was supposed to be empty today.”

Thirdborn cleared his throat. It was far more difficult to mimic speech with his Power than appearance alone, so he affected the apprentice’s meek mouse squeak of a voice as best he could.

“Wordsmith left me behind to keep an eye on Records, Master. She didn’t want to leave anything to chance, you see. I am her apprentice.”

Crab-Man eyed him for several long moments. The intensity of his scrutiny brought a sweat to the back of Thirdborn’s neck.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t defend himself if he had to. He had utter confidence that he could bring down this buffoon if it came to that. He was, what? A D-Rank? C, at most.

No, it wasn’t that. He simply couldn’t afford to blow his cover. He still hadn’t accomplished all he had come to do. He couldn’t return to his brothers without the information they required.

Crab-Man nodded slowly. He stroked his chin with one of his numerous hands. “Yeah, I think I recognize you. Sorry about that, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No trouble at all, Master,” Thirdborn said with a meek smile.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Only came down here ‘cause I heard some noise.”

Crab-Man turned away and Thirdborn let slip a small groan of relief.

He spun back around, the three arms on the right side of his torso raised. Thirdborn stiffened.

“Just come by the kitchen if you need anything, yeah? It seems like an awful thankless job, this. Least I can do is give you some fresh pastries or something.”

Thirdborn wanted to yell at the man to leave. Instead, he kept that meek smile plastered on his face.

“I will do that, Master.”

Crab-Man nodded with a self-satisfied smile and left. As soon as his footsteps could no longer be heard, Thirdborn returned to his work.

Using the diagram he had drawn up as a template, he transformed his hand into a bony replica of the vault door key. Trying it out, it fit into the slot just as snugly as the real thing. When he turned it, there was a series of click from inside the metal door itself, and eventually the huge, heavy thing swung slowly inwards on perfectly oiled hinges.

He picked up a torch from one of the wall sconces and walked into the darkened Records. The shadows gave way before him to reveal centuries-old mysteries and trophies of the Heroes’ Guild on pedestals, in display cases, and secure lock boxes. Rows upon rows of shelves contained written records on every topic imaginable, some so old that the dialect they were written in would be gibberish to any modern speaker.

It was a risk, coming here a second time. He had planned on doing it only in an emergency, in case the notes he had stolen proved to be insufficient.

This would be worth it, though. He brothers might not agree, but sowing a little chaos could never be a bad thing.

He passed the famous Staff of Khruj, chained to a stone pillar and surrounded by a glass box. Its slick, oily surface gleamed in the light, appearing not as wood but more like stiff flesh. A single, unblinking eye near the top of the staff swiveled to regard Thirdborn as he passed, its pupil a narrow slit, the sclera colored an angry red.

The staff had been used to wreak havoc across Gilean for almost two centuries, since long before formation of the empire of Aribel, but not before the corrupt order of Heroes. The thing had switched hands many times. Each owner had thought themselves the ruler of the immense magical prowess the staff offered, only to be devoured once they reached the end of their usefulness.

Thirdborn could use that sort of power, himself, but not so badly as to accept his end at the hands of such a Beastly implement. He walked past it with only a passing, longing glance.

He walked past the Unburnt Aegis, which rested on a simple podium. How ironic, that such an item would be laying next to the Staff of Khruj. The large tower shield, scarred and dented from battle, yet still shining like a beacon, had been used by a legendary Centucian soldier once upon a time to drive away a Beast invasion from his homeland. The man’s name was not remembered, and even the legend itself was known only to a few in these ungodly times.

Unlike with the staff, this time Thirdborn stopped. Though he knew it was folly, he reached out and touched it, closing his eyes as his hand ran over the pitted metal.

They’ve taken so much from us. Our freedom. Our names. Even our history.

He kept going. There was work to be done.

Wordsmith’s organizational system was still a mystery to him, so navigating the heaps of relics and books took a large chunk of time. Eventually, however, he found the book he was looking for, chained to a shelf.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

The Creator’s Last Living Will.

He opened the book, took out his folder, and started taking notes. He copied pieces of the cipher, only those he needed.

A smile grew on his face.

Evangel is going to have a good time with this.

With any luck, it’ll be like Khruj all over again.

Based on the information he had managed to glean from the Heroes, they had only managed to seize a small portion of the drugs Hulda Ludenhaas had transported to various safehouses around the city.

An extra large shipment of Angel’s Kiss, no doubt meant for the celebrations of the upcoming Renewal Feast, had already been delivered to a warehouse in First Light.

It was as perfect as the Creator himself could have made it.

Thirdborn noted it down and put the tome back in its spot, careful to position it just the way it had been placed.

So far, everything had gone exceedingly well.

He only had one thing left to take.

*****

Hulda sat on the edge of the stone slab these barbarians dared call a cot.

She had suffered every humiliation she could imagine. Her clothes had been taken, her jewelry had been confiscated, her hair had been cut. The jailors made crude remarks when they passed her cell, and no matter how badly she wanted to split them in half, groin to scalp, no matter how she visualized it until she grew faint, her spear would not appear.

Her fingers reeked of human excrement from the chamber pots she had been forced to clean using her bare hands. The jailors often stayed to laugh and make jokes as she did it.

Everything was ruined. The reputation she had grown through decades of careful planning, swept away in a moment. She was now known only as a lowly drug peddler. After all these years of service, her own people were going to let her languish in this hell-hole until she died.

Hulda had done everything she did for her family. They had needed money, it was as simple as that. Years of broken promises, mismanaged funds, and deals that fell through had caused the Ludenhaas family to slowly sink into a death spiral.

Her efforts, legal or not, moral or not, had saved them all. And this was how they repaid her?

A door opened, and a sliver of golden light fell across the hallway before her cell. Her belly rumbled disconcertingly, but she refused to give these men the enjoyment of rushing to her cell door. Instead, she listened intently.

Two sets of footsteps came her way. The heavy thump, thump of jailor’s boots, and the swish, swish of lighter shoes.

Hulda didn’t know whether to hope the newcomers would stop in front of her cell, or pass her by without notice. One thing she had quickly learned was that in Wailing Hill, you were better off living beneath everyone’s notice. Beneath contempt, even. If you were invisible, you were safe.

And yet, she harbored the tiniest inkling of hope. That the queen might see reason. That she might be released.

A man stepped into view through the barred-up window set into the oaken door of her cell. A face she knew only too well.

Hulda stood with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Son.”

He diverted his gaze when he saw her.

Oren had all the features of a good, strong man—sporting a chiseled jaw, neat, black hair and a wide-shouldered frame. What a shame that it only ran skin deep.

She approached the door and put her hands on the metal bars. She leaned so close to the window that her cheeks were squeezed up against them.

“Take a good look at me, my son. This is what you have done.”

Oren looked up, fixed her with his gaze. Tears quivered at the corners of his eyes.

“I had no choice. If I had defended you, the Heroes would only have taken me, as well.”

Hulda pulled her lips back in a snarl. “Pathetic. Even now, all you can manage is tears and excuses. If only your brothers—”

The door shook as Oren slammed his fist against it. “My brothers could not inherit the family legacy! We both know that.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and glanced back at the guard standing not far behind him, hands clasped in front of him. He pretended not to notice the outburst, and Oren nodded to himself.

“Get me out of here,” Hulda hissed.

Oren shrugged. “I can’t. There’s nothing I can do. I didn’t even pass the sentence, so I have no power to undo it. Unless you expect me to stroll into Paragon’s throne room and make her change her bullish mind.” Once more, he glanced back at the guard, who merely shook his head.

“Arrange something. Do what we Ludenhaas do best. Make a deal. Without me, the other noble families will devour you. This, you know.”

“I will do my best, mother,” Oren said.

She did not doubt that. She did doubt, however, his chances at success. All the time she had spent raising him, she had only just been able to teach him how to walk a good walk and speak in public so as to not humiliate himself. When things got tough, that was all Oren had to default to. Now, as then, a sniveling little boy who cried when he had his toys taken away.

Hulda waved Oren close. He leaned up against the bars, and she put her mouth close to his ear.

“Contact your brother. Immediately.”

“Which one? You realize I have a fair number of brothers, don’t you?”

“You know the one.”

Oren took a step back, nodding slowly. “I understand. I will send him a letter as soon as possible.”

Hulda breathed a shallow sigh. Ace would be her only hope now.

The guard cleared his throat and motioned with his head towards the end of the hall.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Oren said. “Just give me a minute.” He turned back to her. “Mother, I’m sorry it turned out this way. I love you.”

“Get me out of here.”

Oren waited expectantly for a few moments. He sighed and turned away.

“I’m ready,” he said to the guard.

“You can see yourself out, master,” the guard said, wiping his red, runny nose.

Oren gave the man a questioning look, but did as he was asked and left.

The guard remained.

He approached the bars. The man was unwashed, unshaven, with a long, horse-like face. He wore a leather skullcap to protect his head against the elements, but his ears and nose were still bright red from the cold inside the prison.

As he drew closer, Hulda felt something. Something familiar.

A piece of her.

Her eyes widened.

“Who are you?” she asked breathlessly.

“I’m glad you finally noticed,” the guard said with a wide grin.

His face shifted, features melding and distorting. His hair grew out longer, his jaw grew gaunt and angular, his nose thinner. His eyes, once brown, turned a bright, startling blue. He even seemed to grow taller as his body flattened out.

There was no mistaking it. Ender, the Dark Lord, stood before her.

Hulda took a few uncertain steps back. “How…? you were…”

“Dead?” Ender asked, white-toothed grin widening. “You can’t really believe that.”

“Everyone saw you die.”

“You people saw what you wanted to see. You still are.”

Hulda opened her mouth to yell out to the guards. Maybe Oren was still close by. He was nowhere near her or Ace’s level, but he still possessed a spirit weapon.

“Before you cry out,” Ender said, holding up a finger. “I have something for you. A token of friendship.”

Upon the edge of his finger lay a small piece of silver, about the size of a fingernail. he placed it down on the wooden rim of the window.

Hulda tested it with her mind. The sliver shot up, did a spin around her, and landed in the palm of her hand. It thrummed with familiar power.

“I could kill you with this,” Hulda said.

“But you won’t.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Does it matter? Like I said, it’s a token of friendship. If you don’t wish to have it, I can take it back.”

“I’m no friend of yours,” Hulda said. She clutched the piece of metal in both hands. It was as precious as her very soul. Perhaps even more so.

“Are you sure of that?” Ender asked. “You’re old enough to remember the great ruin that preceded Paragon’s rule, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Your point being?”

“Your family was a royal house, once. You ruled Morden for centuries. Under Paragon, you have grown weak and crooked, withered like a beautiful flower taken out of the sun. How would you like to stand in the sun once more, unburdened by the wants of a despot like her?”

“I will not make deals with you, Dark Lord,” Hulda said. “I fought your kind in one war already. I will fight you in another, if it comes to that.”

Ender pursed his lips. “A pity. Very well. I will return, someday, and when I do, you will accept my offer.”

She should have sent out her sliver. She should have driven it through his throat then and there, to end the man who ended the world.

Instead, she watched as his face rearranged back into that of an unremarkable guardsman.

He walked away, and his footsteps faded down the hall.

Hulda got down on her stone slab and curled up. She clutched the metal shard tightly to her chest.

END OF 'CLASHING WILLS' ARC