Chapter 43 - Death of a prince (Final Evolution arc)

　　There is a hopeful truth to the nighttime hour, one we all buy into. That sleep restores and does not erase—the body that lies down is the same one that rises. An unconscious drift, steadied by a firm state of mind. But how do we know the dream does not lay to waste some living part of us? A sliver of self that is slain or simply replaced. There would be no telling. No one there to miss what is lost. Mourn now for the you that is not yet gone but will be. There is nothing that tethers us securely to being.

　　These were the last thoughts the prince would have, yielding to the warrior-poet`s wisdom, the from-the-outside-looking-in style of analysis designed to supplant emotion with pure reason. And it works. Briefly.

　　Sheer unrelenting terror—that was the last true emotion the prince would know. Screaming from the deep and ever deeper within. Till the prince`-part was far removed from the operative mind of him. So far, even, that it might as well cease to exist. The functional outcome is the same. Death.

　　A hard fearful scream. The last conscious uttering from the prince, caged away beyond the impenetrable layers of hell and mind that make up the new inhabitant. He is housed in the same body that had been his.

　　This new being answers to one name only.

　　Goblin Lord.

　　--

　　The Goblin Lord opened his eyes, for his ears snapped up to the sound of turmoil. There were goblin troops on the staircase, entering the room from above... at least five or six, going by footsteps; the surroundings were dim now, without the light of the god forge`s sparks. He got to his feet, arranged his face in a proper snarl of contempt—whatever look might suit a leader. The glint of the dark blade caught his wandering gaze; it was right there at his feet. His muscles were sore as he bent to pick it up, placing his hand firmly on the hilt and... "Graaaa!" he uttered with foul and deep hatred in his gruff goblin voice. Fire seared through his palm, blistering over where the blade had rejected him.

　　"A...at your service, new taskmaster," yelled one of the goblins trotting down, picking up the pace so as not to disturb the leader further.

　　"The taskmaster is dead. I am the Goblin Lord who has slain him," replied the Goblin Lord as he stared the lot down, freshly descended and standing there ill at ease. He glowered at them to ensure it was known—he gave out the orders.

　　"I come to report, Goblin Lord," said one further back. "Are you... well? You have lost the mark." He pointed at his forehead, standing tall. A giant among goblins.

　　The Goblin Lord recognized him as a four-foot fool`, and how right that was—how dare this low-rank raider ask such a question? Narrow-eyed, the Lord bore into them, lips sealed in oppressive silence. So inducing further speech.

　　The four-foot one bent his head in respect. In wordless submission. "All humans are dead," he started. "The witch woman took out two raiding squads with strange magic, but we got her good." He motioned at the smashed-apart corpse of a darkmage; the large hat on her head was the only thing left intact. "That one was already dead," he continued, pointing at the human male with flame-blackened arms and runes on his body—the one whose neck and eyes had been crushed by Gorkon. "And these last two were piss weak."

　　"Them?" asked the Goblin Lord, receiving an eager nod in confirmation as he studied the bodies. A fat human male and a female, both with runes on their body. They had been stabbed to a gory death, sporting fifty or more tiny wounds each—the result of greedy goblin hands working their daggers from every which angle. The Goblin Lord let his attention linger on the male, regarding him more closely than he had reason to. Perhaps he had known this one in some horrid past, sensing the spurts of a distant aversion roll over him. Then he turned away. Done with the matter, whatever there had been between them.

　　"One more thing, my lord," said the four-foot scout. "No casualties outside... except for one." He shuffled around uneasily, shrinking before the intense gaze the Goblin Lord gave. "The old taskmaster had given the order... to slay that hobbled friend of yours. And I am..." he looked around at the goblins nearest to him, his cobbled-together new squad. "We are... sorry to report this order was completed."

　　Ponderous, the Goblin Lord took a moment to himself. Tried to envision why he should care. "His last words?"

　　"He was frantic, running around yelling he will win; he will win... he will free us!` as we... ah... they chased him down."

　　"Hmm," the Goblin Lord mused. He had indeed won. The hobbled one had been right in that. And servitude to a great master is freedom of a sort—all goblins united under the Goblin Lord`s banner. "He died without dignity then?"This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

　　"Yes, my lord... not a warrior`s death at all. Was shitting himself knowing time was up... ah, if you were to ask me what I think, that is." He bent low, the four-foot scout. "A goblin should die on his feet, weapon in hand! But this one with the brace... got delirious at the end—mumbled something about free souls and bashing corpses."

　　The Goblin Lord snorted in disdain. "Goblins who don`t die well... are no friends of mine."

　　He turned around to leave, noting three final things of some importance. The first was the old taskmaster`s hardened body—like his divine brother, Gorkon`s corpse was strangely intact, as though gods would not die but merely slumber. The second matter was the reforged blade on the forge—Ziegb鰈t. It had not shattered, and seemed stable now, perhaps because all seven shards were gathered within it. Though the humans with the runes were all dead, there could always be more—no telling with vermin like that. And then the third something that warranted a look... the rotted corpse of a female human frostmage. It looked ghastly, and the Goblin Lord knew vaguely their connection—he had dreamed of her once. A strange dream in which he was a man of some status, a human male with bulky blue armour and a know-it-all grin. This female had shown him affection, and he her. But only in the dream. A nightmare, really... likely induced by a foreign hex or dark magic. It did not matter now. She was dead anyway.

　　"Set fire to it all. Raze the church, this basement floor included." And just like that, all three problems would disappear. The god`s half-corpse, the three damn god-blades, and the treacherous frostmage.

　　The Goblin Lord retreated to his den, for he was now master of the world below.

　　His stride was assured, proud and unwavering. Regal almost.

　　Like a king without a crown.

　　-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

　　Epilogue

　　In Dei Absentia, Hominis Errata

　　(The faults of man in a godless world)

　　I, Reignaut IV, the lord hightower archmage, last of my breed, should like to confess the following, not for once to my noble contemporaries, but to the greater-still next generations. May they mend the world under Her divine guidance.

　　My health is failing so pray forgive the sparse language and lack of clear focus. I must write this today, for tomorrow the Lord or Lady may claim my soul. In my eighty-three years I have beheld, with my own eyes, both hell and heaven, in that order, laid out before me; these are true and literal states, not merely metaphors as some would and will say, chiefly those born in the age of wealth and plenty, qualities that are hostile like demons to the mind, eliciting naught but a blinkered sense of reductive rationalism. My age was a spiritual one, and in our endless night we prayed for salvation, and were granted more, so much more.

　　The year now is 1004 in the Age of Strife, precisely the same number of years past the death of Bartold the weak, last king of Lothrian. As the records state, it was grief that ailed him, for he outlived his fallen son Cedric by scantly a year. And indeed, I have tabled with many a scholar with a heart for Lothrian folklore; there are those who allege that disarray came in the wake of the great kingdom`s fall. But alas, these are emotive contrivances, and it has always fallen upon the magi to rectify the misgivings (be they amiable or malevolent) of the lesser disciplines.

　　The Age of Strife dawned overnight, with the withering of magic—a sharp initial reduction, and continued gradual loss of the potency of magestones. This has been conjectured by some renowned scholars, including this author, to have been caused by the total loss of divinity in the world. To evidence this assertion: the sages and clerics noted an immediate and complete impossibility in relation to the casting of holy magic, which persisted not quite until this day, but indeed until one week ago.

　　Moreover, after the last failed goblin raids in the early years of the Age of Stife, when it was made clear that they had increased in number but also in stupidity, and had dwindled in size and combat skills, these ostensibly foul creatures have gone functionally extinct. Only half a dozen sightings occurred in this year, and it has been so for at least the better part of a century.

　　It is no coincidence, I find, that with the waning of the goblinkind, other and more aberrant beings started to emerge; they are spectral fiends denoted in ranks of lesser and greater daemons, consisting only of wanton magic energy—these are indomitable streams in the minds of us magi, and the best among us can at times sense the impending doom of a spawning, but all are powerless to combat them.

　　And it is so that over the 1004 years of Strife, mankind has retreated from a world so blighted. Civilization is condensed in the last hold we call Bastion, at a location I am not at liberty to disclose—we must turn away nomadic humans seeking refuge. Outsiders bring only discord, with feeble minds set on food and sexual indiscretions; and it is not proper to relinquish our high duty to maintain mankind as the elite alone, guardians of knowledge and purpose.

　　Know that despite all this, and because all this, I will soon die a fulfilled man. For one week ago, She, the glorious and impervious Goddess descended for us all to worship. Having heard of our plight through the ceaseless prayer I and other magi have devoted our lives to, the Golden Goddess has judged us worthy of divine intervention; She speaks only of justice and rightness, her words as flawless as beauty itself, which she personifies deifies. To break with the old, She holds that the magi orders are to be restructured, abolishing the need for a magetower and an archmage. I am blessed to learn of my former usefulness, a life spent in devoted prayer; and of my uselessness henceforth, so that I may die without regret.

　　Signed,

　　Reignaut IV, the last hightower archmage

　　Post Scriptum

　　This writing is to be enshrined in lorebooks as the last magetower encyclical, Goddess willing.