Chapter 41 - Alone in fury. Dicebolg reclaimed. (Final Evolution arc)

　　Goblins trooped together, roaming in packs through the green-lit halls. There were slews of rookies, the prince noted, with a handful holding on to faintly glowing magestone gems—their mind or soul items. Perhaps there was no new groundskeeper to bury them again.

　　As the prince strode past, making way for the armourer`s, he saw hordes of commons and mid-ranks, led out in chains by a stronger guard, their savagery bound till the time was right.

　　He considered waiting around for Artisan. But the man was clever; he would find the right way. And Linaria... frankly he hoped not to see her. If she had faded further, there was nothing to be gained by meeting. It would only unsteady him, or worse, trigger no true feeling at all. The prince rallied to the fact that someday he would free her. As master once more of Dicebolg. Soulgazing first to locate her remains in the Arcanifactum. And then to release the trapped parts of her soul.

　　As he waded deeper in, past the rookie halls and into the network of mineshafts... the prince thought of home. Had his king-father known all the long while, how his heir and son now suffered? Would the man mount a token offense like the weak king Alaric, Rodrich`s son who had given up the sword so meekly?

　　"Are you aware or merely drifting?" asked a friendly voice not far behind. Artisan`s.

　　"Always the latter," the prince replied, grateful that his dark thoughts were interrupted.

　　They gave a hint of a smile each, easing the strain of knowing. The fated day that would alter all things.

　　Artisan caught up and they tarried their pace. There was a long march still waiting.

　　"Gorkon?" the prince asked.

　　"Notified the second you emerged," said Artisan, craning his neck to look at the prince. "You need not worry—he will meet you when you have your sword."

　　"Why should I worry?" the prince retorted.

　　"Aye, no damn reason at all."

　　--

　　The armourer fitted him with a chain-linked mail and the leggings and greaves to match. Then a placeholder sword he picked out from the rack, and the set was completed. There was a minor enchantment applied to the mail, but the stats did not matter, not to the prince who was either capped out or too strong to notice. The magestones meant nothing to him—he did not intend to return as a rookie, so their merits were void, the bond of continuity between lives.

　　Merging in with the stream of goblins, the two set off to the blighted grounds of destiny.

　　"Who is warchief now?" the prince asked, looking around at the strident green bodies, all stepping in staggered formation, the sense of disunion that travelled along.

　　"No one," said Artisan, starting to shamble already. "The warband was broken some long weeks ago... I think you know where." A gentle pause then, to let the prince process. "It`s only raid captains now, commanding what troops they can."

　　"It might serve us. Their division is our strength. I see the chaos now, when I defy the taskmaster`s will and imprint my own. They will look for guidance and find none." The prince mused to himself, then turned to Artisan. "There will be a ballista; I have made preparations. I want you to man it, position it so that its shot hits the god."

　　Artisan shook his head. "You think a mere bolt of wood and metal will pierce his skin? Nay, I`ve seen spearheads bent and arrows blunted by simple contact... the taskmaster is too strong."

　　"Wrong god," said the prince, staring hard at Artisan, nodding down once to affirm—did his friend understand?

　　Artisan`s eyes whizzed around, calculating the implications. He nodded slowly, then vigorously. "Brilliant. That might work. It will shock him at the very least. Enrag—"

　　Shh, motioned the prince. No talk of tactics once the order is given. It brings bad luck to indulge in analyses. Let the moment to come speak for itself.

　　They walked on in silence for a while, Artisan keeping up admirably despite the progressive limp. There was no talk of Linaria, and that alone said enough. If she was well, Artisan would have mentioned. And so the prince did not ask. The only question was to himself: did he cherish her presence, and would he miss it? Yes, though not to the point of true melancholy. In the moment it may harm him, to see her not be herself but less. Though in truth, he might feel nothing but bad for himself. The emotion of loss was his own; it was her fault he had to know it. And the prince would concede it is not a virtue, to be so shut-off that everything, every rueful thought and injured feeling occurs inside, reflecting only within the bounds of the self. The lady was made secondary to her own fading. The prince was the real victim if he had to endure it.

　　What a bastard he was, but let none speak this truth—he would flay them alive. That was the real nature of the creature called prince; he realized it now. How long he had been hollow, savouring only snippets of engagement, the ones that fit beautifully within his own sectioned-off chambers of heart and mind. Walking here now, he felt every bit the ghost he had been in memory, marching along the same path with Artisan. Unseen and unheard by all.

　　--

　　When they arrived at the reinforced chamber beneath Landsbury, the prince saw to his delight that the ballista had made it there first, and he gave an agreeable nod to the ragged guardsman tasked with its provision. A team of three brawny types were busy guiding the ballista from below as it was pulled up the ladder—some clever lorekeeper had seen to the construction of a robust enough pulley system on the floor above, so the tiresome process of heaving was made feasible by the added leverage.

　　Then the prince and Artisan climbed up the ladders, unfaltering, though knowing what lay beyond.

　　The basement chamber felt the same as in memory, but so dimly lit that the ceiling was not yet revealed. In the centre stood the broken pillar that would shimmer away and show why this place was holy once and unholy since.

　　The prince noted mainly the practical; it soothed him. Kept his mind from straying. He searched along the slate tiles near the centre, to see if the conduit hex was visible now. But no, too dark. On then, to another facet of the room and those in it, to stop the thoughts taking over. The troops—there were dozens gathered already, goblins of the rank-and-file sort. A surprising number of rookies, though it stood to reason. They were more readily bent to the minds of higher-grade warriors and their own leadership, the raid captains like Zazra`s thick-bodied boss—and speaking of...Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author`s consent. Report any sightings.

　　"Up you go, Blackrose," said the raid captain, twirling her two short swords in token threat. Zazra and the flock of fools stayed well behind her, seeing the prince and what he`d become. "Get your heirloom sword and come back to die." Her voice cracked at the end, and she grimaced at her own shown frailty.

　　"Be silent; you do not command me," the prince replied without granting her as much as a glance. He instructed the ballista crew to pull it up the spiral staircase; he had need of it outside. For now.

　　"You," said the prince then, addressing the four-foot giant serving under Zazra and the captain. "Go scout outside. Count the enemy troops, both infantry and cavalry. And do not dare return without a detailed report." He gave the bastard a look, having not forgotten what threat the man had posed once. To himself and to the lady he had banished from his mind. This foolish giant would have split her in two with his axe, had it not been for Gorkon`s pre-ordained intervention. That scheming bastard god and his pet goblin rats. Oh, the prince was getting angry. It felt good, like the heart of him was almost alive, not merely an organ beating. "The rest of you stay put," said the prince to the captain and hers. "Your presence angers me. And I am better for it."

　　They all did as bid, for the prince veered way, brooked no counterargument. It was clear that he did not bluff; there was no need at this stage. Only Gorkon was his master in the realm of physical combat. And on the mental front, the god would have to prove it—the superior one was whoever walked out in an hour from now. A feverish thirst roiled in the prince`s gut. It was a gift of sorts, to be chosen as saviour-apparent. The fated hero who could stop the world from burning. He was glad to be here now, in the penultimate moment; a capstone day in the annals of history. The chance to finally uncork the rage he had dutifully kept bottled—the odd skull-bashing duel notwithstanding. All he had to do was remember. The thoughts he had pushed aside as best he could. Then the taskmaster would know. What true hell entails.

　　The prince followed the ballista outside, giving a nod and wink to Artisan, who had lagged on purpose, uncertain when his part in the war was due. The man came limping up the stairs, his blood-engorged leg bulging from the brace—their path has been long, yet still it went on. But the end was in sight, and the merriment of a free future beckoned.

　　They were swallowed up by a sombre church hall, grand and impassive—there was no hold that time could have on the holy and its opposite. Three goblin seers stood at the front near the altar, chanting hymns that had Artisan shaking; the felt awe struck deep in the goblin-made mind. But the prince was untouched—their voices were too low in power; they no longer reached to the core that could rattle. And he had seen something vital: the door was not glyph-locked now as it was in memory. This was good. One less thing to worry about at least.

　　"I feel him," said the prince, scanning the hall for evidence. "He is hiding nearby."

　　"Waiting," said Artisan. "For you to return with the sword. To your destiny below." The man wavered, then spoke his mind. "Will you fight him first, with the sword alone? It is... your judgment to make. You know what I might say."

　　The prince pondered the implication. But found his thoughts latching onto something else entirely. It was time he find out.

　　"There is no great war outside, is there?"

　　"No, my prince. I do not think so."

　　"Then my father has wittingly abandoned me? He knows what I endure and leaves me the sword... to do what he was too craven to attempt?"

　　"Aye. The truth is passed from king to king—this was Rodrich`s will, and the Blackrose loyalty runs deep for their first and greatest ruler."

　　"Then to hell with him also. I renounce Bartold as ruler and claim my birthright in name, though without the blemished rank that has brought naught but ash—I see it now so clearly, friend Artisan, all the kings in all their defects... no, I decline that wretched inheritance, the lies upon lies. My name is Cedric, sovereign prince of the Blackrose, and soon-to-be lord of all goblins, when I oust that feeble god from his nest. And now at last I know there is pride in neither title, but only in me. My heart alone will be tested—the fury that it holds. Step aside now, friend Artisan. You know what is to be done. I can count on your assistance." There was no lilting tone, and thus no question. A statement of fact that needed no answer.

　　The prince went on alone, exiting the church and surveying the ruins outside, eyes peeled only for danger, ignoring all things peripheral like the sun`s warmth and the stench of death.

　　There were goblins standing guard and bodies strewn around, human flesh in various states of decay. Some had been piled away by the goblins, a mound of corpses to dissuade their foes seeking entrance. The prince saw traces of recent skirmishes—blood that still glistened on Lothrian faces. A handful of scouts, going by their armour. They were dead for no reason, a symbolic sacrifice at best. Killed, perhaps, by the ones they called allies—Gendrin and the other blood-runed zealots. No doubt they were here, hiding with Gorkon till their moment would come.

　　Cursing under his breath, the prince again disavowed the king who had washed his hands of the matter, his dead son and Dicebolg. Both left to rot in the town of Landsbury, haven to sinful acolytes. Home to the host of hell.

　　Only the sword mattered now. Or for now at least.

　　The prince walked on, dismissing the ballista crew from their duty. So far, preparations for the siege weapon ploy had gone smoothly. The rest was up to Artisan.

　　As the prince sank deeper into the absent heart of the desecrated town, he saw the four-foot fool not far ahead—the one he had sent on a mission. Expecting nothing from a being so, the prince had sent him off purely for satisfaction. To compel with mere words and not his voice of command. That one would die soon enough. There was no forgiveness for what he had caused to the lady whose name need no mention.

　　Retracing his steps in the foulest of memories, the prince carried on, wading through corpses of some he might recognize. If he looked more intently than he had reason to now.

　　Toward the market plaza, where the smell of blood clung to the air as it soaked the ground. His sword would be there—somehow he could sense it. The dark blade called to him, and he to it.

　　He was almost glad to not be alone. The goblins around were a source of some comfort. Like the place was made new by their baleful presence. A random old town that had just been sacked. Not the weight of a foreign lifetime, estranged and still raw in some untold felt way.

　　Moving like a spectre through the streets, the prince closed his eyes—the pull of the sword was so strong. It erased the need for vision. He was near to it now, and his breath turned shallow under the fierce beating of his heart. The sword`s darkness was a void and a beacon, blacker than the absence of light, so it guided him, flawlessly through the corpse-addled path.

　　The prince held his breath, reached out for the sword that was his bane and salvation, hesitating a hair with redemption so close—what if there is only disappointment? The god dies and Gendrin dies and still the world is hollow? There is no antidote to the endless impulses, the prevarications of a brooding mind. Save for the intervention of the physical.

　　He opened his eyes and saw his own mangled corpse, the rot in his princely armour. The absence of flesh and the stench that pervaded—or it must have, but his rancid new nose could not smell it that much. He wanted to beat apart the remains of his old self and this green filthy body he dwelt in. The rage was surreal and he knew it was time—hold onto this, and a god cannot touch you. There is nothing in hell like loathing, the hate of what you were and are now. All you will be. He tore at his own face, nails so deep in the forehead it bled in big drips. Then he screamed in fell agony, doubled over in hurt but there was no way of folding his body to relinquish the pain—no true escape but the final one. To reject all of being. But first wreak some goddamn havoc.

　　The prince took the sword without thinking. It felt right but not good; the anger that fed—he on it and vice versa. A match made in heaven nor hell; there is no one looking over us.

　　He did not walk back but run. Like a beast unchained, hurtling down the path of death.

　　Gorkon stood outside the church, waiting. The prince saw him, but he did not slow down.

　　He let the fury run wild, fixing his gaze on the bastard`s green stare—wide-armed and white-robed he waited, like nothing could phase a god. But the prince had seen one dead god`s corpse in a blood-riddled memory. And he would see another fresh one dead today.

　　Fuck Rodrich for failing and fuck everyone for trying.

　　The prince slid into range, let Dicebolg crack out like in the days of old, a darker-than-black slice, aimed straight at the taskmaster`s face.