Chapter 40 - Two times evolved... the prince prepares (Final Evolution arc)

　　It is no great feat to entice madness in a man`s soul. Take from him the vital parts, all of what tethers him to being. Make it so rage and rage alone can fill that vacant heart. The worst kind of monster is a man with nothing to lose.

　　The whole room shook as the prince emerged, slicing through the mist of mind and its hard encasing—the egg was like stone. But the fist of the prince was stronger still. He felt his new form settle round him, the meat on his bones that would win him a war. The thirst for violence was there, though not all-consuming. He could temper it now, wield it later like the sword he would seek. They were matched now, the dark blade and he, a creature of spite and torment. Bring on Dicebolg. The time is nigh.

　　The seers had gone, and so had Artisan—they must have sensed he would in the end prevail. Only one body there besides his own.

　　Jarred awake, the statistician came running, stepping over the muck that sloshed from the egg. "What is your name—do you know where you are?" she asked in a sleep-dazed blend of both worry and duty. Her watchful eyes shone, the real one and the devil`s replica.

　　The prince looked down at her—he was a giant now, in goblin terms. "I have gone through hell in all its layers. I know all too well where I am, and the only thing worse is forgetting—a fate I am told we all share in time." The wilted rose of Dicebolg glowed fiercely on his forehead as he grasped at the far-off past. The high noble life of heraldry and purpose. Fields of homeland green, the easy mornings. A frostmage he loved in a world long ago. Yet above all there was hate—the primal motive that breaks and affirms us. "I am a fallen prince by the name of Cedric, heir to a realm so remote I could cry. Tell me my status and whether I`m ready. Can my hand hold the sword that raised me from death?"

　　"A flair for the dramatic still, I see," she said, perking up now the prince had shown mindful. "Level 30 like me and like most third-grade goblins—you hold the record for speed, but now it is done. No more to gain."

　　She grabbed her notebook, jotted down his stats.

　　--

　　Level 30 Third-grade prospect

　　Constitution (CON): 82

　　Intelligence (INT): 50

　　Dexterity (DEX): 66

　　Strength (STR): 75

　　Magic (MAG): 10

　　--

　　The prince studied them, these numbers that were true and meant nothing. Not without comparison. "Rodrich, how strong was he?"

　　She shook her head. "Too long before my time. The records were destroyed."

　　"Next we meet, you work for me," said the prince, walking off to see the hard job done. It made it more real to him, to speak the words into being. Made him strong in mind and body.

　　"See the armourer," the statistician shouted after, ignoring his brazen declaration. "Just beyond the alchemists` hall."

　　This sounded like a relayed order from the taskmaster. One of the last he would give.

　　--

　　It was night, for the halls were empty, save for the odd guard grumbling about. A minor blessing; he had time on his side.

　　Two tasks first, before the big one.

　　The prince went to the tinkerer`s hall, staring the guard off as he entered. Both the nightshift girl and the ballistae were there still. He had need of the latter.

　　Approaching slowly, the prince tried to connect like they had before. But the girl recoiled at the sight of him, a real behemoth now, larger and taller than all the dead souls she might see here and fear.

　　He was in no great mood to smooth things over, for there was a limit to his patience. A finite resource better spent elsewhere. On things that mattered more. It was due to his goblin body, the prince knew, the fully evolved state that impressed its wants. Nearer now to lashing out in a fit of fury. Empathy was lower down; it would take too long to kindle—a conscious effort he could not seem to justify.

　　And so the prince strode past, heaving the most battle-ready ballista on a wheeled cart, fastening it down with a sturdy long rope. Then he left, pulling the cart behind him. Promising that she might get it back.

　　The prince eyed the guard again, just outside the hall. "I am to reclaim my sword today," he said. "Gather what men you can, on Gorkon`s orders. Bring the siege weapon to the mineshaft near Landsbury. It is to arrive there by midday, well before I do."

　　"I not have... authority," the guard said in a broken drawl. A lack of intelligence, clearly.

　　"Then relay the order to one who does. The taskmaster commands it." Briefly, the prince raised his aura, ensuring the felt urgency of his word.

　　With the first task done, the prince went down to the scholars` hall. To crack the code in the forged words of Rodrich—the Edict of the crown he had so generously translated.

　　He slid the latticed door open—there was no guard posted outside. Nothing here to steal, save for information. No great treasure to most goblin minds.

　　Recalling what he knew, the prince made straight for the desktop. The Ledger of Tomes was his best shot to solve it quickly, this riddle planted either by Gorkon or a long-gone ally—what other options existed?

　　Jerilin Mandrake` had stood out—the name that was added to the Edict. Leafing through the author list contained in the ledger, the prince felt his eye drawn to the H of Haldonn the wise... Artisan`s pseudonym. His hobbled friend still had a role to play, but that should come later. Would the man have the strength that was needed, to man the ballista?If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

　　First to deal with this, on to the J of... Jerilin—there it was, the prince noticed in surprise. Could it be so simple? The frost and fire—mastering the master elements. By Jerilin M. Her third-grade thesis as seer.

　　Though the title did not seem pertinent, the prince searched the rack, scanning all the books starting with The`. They were not neatly organized, and so it took longer than he wanted, sifting through the old tomes with worn-out spines. He thought of Gorkon and Gendrin, and of Gael. Timeless distractions in the hell of his mind.

　　He sat down with the book and opened it, all without truly knowing—moving like an automaton as his conscious thoughts slipped. Was the weight intact, his world from before? Or was he acting in principle, vengeance for its own sake? As the end was the same, the prince let go, dismissed his self-made inquisition. Always the worry if he was whole or whole enough still. The rage was there, and it would serve; that should suffice for a man with no morals. A practical man, not lost to ruminescence`.

　　The book held discussions on magic, formal and outdated ones. Not a speck of value here... though he thought on, recalling the other falsities in the Edict. The IV` in Janil IV Redlent. And The Lost Prospect`, the title attributed to Baldirk of the mire, buried in two parts like his father before him.

　　Chapter four, then? Page 48, said the table of contents; the chapter title was Advanced fire bolts for the intermediate mage`. But that is not what he found on page 48 at all.

　　IV. The Lost Prospect`. Here it was, the hidden message. Eagerly, the prince started reading.

　　I have lived my life dismissing the chance of failure. I have meditated on it, what it means to fail, so my mind may embrace the notion, yet reject its hold. I am not beholden to what comes of me, in my great and final effort. Yet reason compels one to leave a note such as this. For you, son of the Blackrose, who has taken the care to decipher the clues in one of many forged versions of the Edict. Know that in service to the blood, I have taken to compelling a seer to adopt the name Jerilin M, and to then add my words to her fruitless toil. If you have come upon my words in this way and not out of interest in this tired old manuscript... know then that I have failed despite myself.

　　At the bottom of this was Rodrich`s signature—the prince would recognize it out of a thousand. He was reading the great king`s words. Not a trap by Gorkon, unless a highly convoluted one.

　　My aim is to thwart the god of goblins, the one you call Taskmaster Gorkon—though if you had not yet gathered this, then the rest of my words are air, for you are not ready. And may never be.

　　As a boy, I watched a great man die for no cause but the lack of grace, so I thought for a long time. Feldirk of the mire. I was there when he rode through what is now my heartland, gleaming like a god on his mighty destrier. Now that I am dead and by volition made goblin, I must recant what I spoke into being, for Feldirk was not great but shortsighted. And a coward. In life, he fought the goblins tooth and nail, attempting to cull the strength of their numbers, settling a priori for an ever-present amount of residual pests, praying them ineffectual. I spit on this. I say we rise and kill the leader—that is the only way to dispense with the goblin threat; they will not ever stop. Not unless the fallen god guiding them dies.

　　And so when Feldirk died to disease and not the sword, I knew it was providence. The man had stipulated in his will that his body ought to remain intact and preserved for the duration of three years, after which it was to be burned and buried in two parts—ample time, I suppose he reasoned, for a tentative stab at the goblin god. And see what it begets, this half-in, half-out weakness of mind—he failed to achieve anything, in life, and as a goblin. His mark is known to have faded upon first evolution.

　　I reject the idea of a fallback option; it is a sign of wavering dedication, and so one invites failure by entertaining it. This basic truth is my fundament; I believe in it wholly and call it holy, for it has done more for me than idle worship. Begone with the gods—give me courage, oh mind, and give me strength to withstand. Forging my own mind in such a way is the greatest thing I have accomplished; the rest has been corollary to this, including my kingship, which was arduous but predestined—not by a god or their collective, those futile abandoners. No, by me and my own hard will alone.

　　To become the great leader I was, I alone conspired to hang Feldirk`s body and defame him, cutting him up before burial—partly in accordance with his own frail-hearted wishes. Such an act was unseen, unthinkable; it struck discord into the populace, a partisan rift between those devoted to me, and my detractors. The rest was simple: overwhelm with greater force. Meet violence with more violence. And in the end I was uncontested. Feared by all, and it was right.

　　Then I hung the son like the father, Baldirk the spineless. Buried him in two boxes as well, to show my disdain, the people thought as they chanted my name in terror. Thus erasing from the Feldirk line their last prospect—what an infantile title, to be called so. Prospect. A may-be leader. Utterly opposed to the diametrical truth of mind. If you are, you know you are. Only cowards know the doubt inferred. But alas, it is the term the devil once conjured for a hidden class, offered now by the taskmaster to those he most values. I have rejected the honour, as I am sure you have also. Pride is in our blood alone; it is not conferred by some cowardly goblin. It means nothing; it is a debasement.

　　A Blackrose will be the one to quell the eternal curse. I cannot deny the trepidations of my body—it is soon time to fight. Gorkon has might beyond what I fathomed, but it is all inherited; he was made thus on the forge, and so his mind is weak. I trust mine to conquer his. This I say knowing all too well the burden of this goblin body, and the sordid unease it enacts—I have felt... weak, at times. As a man, I thought tears the domain of the woman, but now I tremble at night, and grandstand my way through the day; that or bestow savage beatings on my lessers. There is a goblin rhythm that is hard to shake, the verse-like drumming thoughts I endured in the forest, and in the main hall also, near the table of the gods. I am less than I was, yet still enough to bring low an ageless coward.

　　All the arrangements have been made; the magetower I scrubbed clean of defectors, those that would not deign to hide the destructive truth. For ages us mainline Blackroses and the men of the mire have been buried in two boxed parts, to avoid the dreaded curse of eternal death. But what of the greater curse of cowardice? We know what hell is and turn cravenly away. No, to hell with that. Know that it is I who have condemned you. So that you may free the world in the event I fail. Believe that I have tarnished the taskmaster`s will with my dissidence—I see the strain of fear in him.

　　I must go now, to reclaim the king`s sword, Dicebolg. I will fight with all I have. As self-crowned king of Lothrian, I am beyond gods, for I have earned the right to rule.

　　To free the world, one need only the force of mind. Rage against the frailty of doubt.

　　Rodrich, king of the Blackrose.

　　--

　　The prince was emboldened and dispirited, the two raw sentiments competing. The great king was a flawed mortal man. So sure of his own strength that it cost him. Was he brave or a fool, to come to hell of his volition? Only to fail and doom the rest of his line.

　　But one thing they could agree on. To hell with backup plans. They were a false sort of comfort. Detracting from the swell of resolve when it`s all on the line.

　　He tore out the page Rodrich had written. It was a weak moment the great king had suffered, and none but the prince should bear the burden of knowing. And none would have to. The true threat of hell stops here, today.

　　The prince got up right when he heard the morning bell. It was time now—Gorkon would know of his emergence. To Landsbury, then. Dicebolg was waiting.

　　And to the cowering god, the prince had but one thing to say.

　　Come get it, you bastard.