Darko supposed that if you squinted and tilted your head, the mountain looked like a serrated knife that ended in a little fist.
“Hmm.” He grunted and shifted, looking first at the small beach village at the mountain’s base, then along the coast.
With eyes that saw for dozens of miles, he was able to pick out the smallest details with ease. Untouched beach stretched away in both directions. This must be his destination.
He’d arrived at Mount Dreadspire.
It seemed to have erupted out of the sand, right where land met ocean, and leaned out over the calm waves at a sharp angle. Only a handful of stubborn shrubs clung to the rock. The face rose sharp and sheer, but someone had built a sort of bridge that wrapped up and around the mountain, creating a path to the fist-like top.
It was a mean scar against the serene landscape. Who in their right mind would build up there?
Even from this far away, the smell of grilled fish drifted up from the village. It made his stomach growl.
He hadn’t eaten in…what was it? Not since he’d reached master tier. That was two tiers and a decade ago. No, it couldn’t have been that long, could it?
Drawn by the smell, he turned his attention to the village.
Fishing boats bobbed lazily in the harbor. Nets hung to dry between weathered posts. Awnings shaded little market stalls, and every house seemed to have flowers spilling from boxes beneath windows. A fiddler played somewhere near the square while neighbours lingered instead of hurrying indoors.
Laughter danced over the waves. Children chased one another along the surf, throwing themselves into the crashing waves without care.
Their relaxed manner made him uncomfortable. The sun was slipping toward the horizon. They wouldn’t be laughing once darkness fell. Night had belonged to the Dark One for years.
Why weren’t they scared and preparing to hide? Didn’t they care that the war still raged? The monsters would tear them all limb—
His breath hitched, and he forced a steady breath.
The Dark One was dead. Darko himself had cut off the evil Herald’s head.
It had really happened. They’d won the final battle. What little remained of the dark armies still needed to be dealt with, but the hardest part was done.
The world would survive.
Towns like the one before him should be safe from enslavement or worse. At least he could see that there was a warning bell in the square. The rope to ring it was tied tight.
Darko should have been both elated and relieved.
No longer did the frontline need the world’s strongest tank to lead into the maw of hell. Darko wouldn’t be split, pummeled, or flayed again. Hellfire wouldn’t burn his regenerative flesh to the bone. His lungs, so used to filtering the worst of the poisons and the most horrifying of curses, now breathed clean ocean air.
The Dark One and his sickle would never swing to claim another head. It had shattered upon Darko’s neck, after all.
He rubbed at the thick scar. His body held many, though it was the only one that ached. He just couldn’t believe the worst of the war was over.
Or that he’d been cast aside by his squad.
“Hmm.” Darko grumbled again, reaching into his dimensional diadem.
It was seemingly unending and embarrassingly cluttered. He filtered over the piles of powerful weapons and enchanted armor. Then the priceless natural treasures that sat in heaps. Items of profound purpose from the best crafters were strewn everywhere. Potions to heal practically any wound sat in protective boxes. He barely noticed his gems, though there was enough there to purchase entire cities multiple times over.
He did stop upon his axe. It was a gigantic and unwieldly thing and hadn’t been his originally. Its comforting weight felt better on his back, not stowed away.
Forcibly pulling his attention away from it, he mentally selected two items in his possession. The pieces of paper appeared in his hand. As was his habit of frustration, Darko ground his teeth and opted to reread the painful dismissal first.
***
Darko,
The squad has voted. 4-1.
Follow the oaths you swore. Follow the oaths we swore to each other. Remember that you came up with the best of them.
The Dark One is dead. The war can be finished without you.
You are in desperate need of relaxation. We have forced it upon you.
We are sorry you are hurt, but there were no other options. You stubborn mule.
You will spend no less than thirty days at Dreadspire Spa. You will attempt to relax earnestly.
Your squad,
Fatima, Michal, Pavan, Zara
P.S We look forward to celebrating with you. Owning your first lands is cause for a party!
“Stupid bloody oaths.” The deep bass of his voice rumbled out as he pushed the two pieces of paper back into his dimensional necklace.
The oaths had been used against him. Clearly, Fatima had written the letter. Only she would dare call him a stubborn mule, and only she could’ve gotten away with it. Her laughter had carried them through nights no one should have survived.
He ought to go right back and—
“’Scuse me, mister!” A pip of a voice shouted, fiercely startling Darko.
He spun in a flash, eyebrows raised as if caught stealing, only to see a young boy standing not ten feet behind him.
“Woah,” The boy said in awe. “That was fast! And you’re ginormous! Are you a hero? That’s hero’s armor!”
Darko righted himself and assessed the boy. No one had snuck up on him in years. Was this some new crafty beast from the—
“Mister?” The boy’s smile turned to concern. “Are you okay? Your eyes are glowing red. And why are you drooling?”
Darko shook his head, dismissing the spell he’d reflectively woven. This was no monster. He didn’t sense even a fragment of the Dark One in this one. It was just a boy with a slightly strong core for his age.
“It’ll be dark soon.” Darko said.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m headed home. No luck finding any butterbloom.” The boy tsked, utterly unafraid to stand in Darko’s massive shadow. “You’re headed into Dreadspire? We never get heroes.”
Darko had no idea what butterbloom was.
“I am not a hero. And I am not going to the town.”
“That’s too bad. My mum makes the best fish stew. And everyone would love to hear stories from a real hero! None of those old ones from Dallan. I’ve heard those stories like a hundred times.”
Darko just stared at the boy, unsure of how to respond. The boy blinked a few times when Darko didn’t answer.
“Uh…So where are you headed, mister? If not Dreadspire?”
“The spa.”
“Dreadspire spa?” The boy seemed taken aback. “No one ever goes there. Well, some people do. But like, never. I do, when mum sends me.”
Darko found that odd. Climbing up the rickety bridge was likely dangerous, and he felt the oaths he’d sworn pull out a question.
“For what purpose?” Darko hissed.
“I run a few goods up there for the spa. Earn some extra gems. But mostly to leave offerings, of course.” The boy answered, before putting on a voice Darko assumed approximated his mother. “Zitarian Gabriel the Third, we must show loyalty to our Herald. Every fortnight at a minimum!” The boy smiled up at him. “That’s my name, by the way. But everyone calls me Zit.”
“There is a Herald Hall on the mountain?” The words left Darko’s mouth too fast.
“A whole Hall?” Zit snorted. “More like barely a Shrine.”
“Hmm.” Darko grunted, turning away from the boy to stare back at the mountain.
It was just like his squad to do this to him. The relegation was bad enough. But to force him to stay near some other Herald’s shrine? They knew the Herald he followed had no remaining places of worship. Every one of them had been destroyed by the Dark One. What an affront.
“Are you sure you’re not a hero?” Zit asked again.
“No. I am not.” Darko answered. “Now move back. Please.”
Zit must have sensed Darko’s patience wearing thin, as he heard the boy shuffle back some.
“Get home before dark, boy.”
“Why? I ain’t afraid of no dark.” Zit said. “I heard the Dark One was killed by Darko the Dreadnaught. And mum says the good Heralds will protect us.”
Darko’s broken heart chipped further. He’d heard that tone before. The boy was a true believer, then.
He cast a final glance over his shoulder at Zit.
“Your mother is wrong. All the Heralds are dead.”
Then Darko did two things.
He cratered the earth and blasted Zit with a gust of wind as he soared to the top of Mount Dreadspire in a single leap.
He then activated one of his protective abilities, teleporting the stunned boy to the safe center of the village. There was danger about, and he would not see the boy hurt.
Darko had marched into hell without hesitation. He’d been tormented, brutalized, and scorched for a decade. Yet approaching Dreadspire Spa filled him with more dread than any battlefield ever had.
His squad would learn the same lesson the Dark One had. There was no punishment that could break Darko. He would endure.
He would spend a month at Dreadspire Spa.
After he inspected the bridge.