THE VILLAIN'S JOURNEY (PROLOGUE)
THE VILLAIN’S JOURNEY (prologue)
The Conqueror
stepped across the barren landscape that surrounded the tall black spire. Every step he trod landed dull and hollow, crunching against the brittle, uneven path. Death’s Peak lay before him like a monument to malice itself. Rising from its summit was the Dark Tower, the stronghold of Dreck, the scourge of decency, rising from the desolate earth as if clawed up from the underworld. The red sun was hanging low in the sky behind him, stretching out his silhouette and making him appear gargantuan against the cracked ground.
“Oh to be so tall,” he thought to himself, admiring the largeness of his shadow. “I could rip off the base of the tower and flick away its host like a bothersome beetle.” Despite the satisfied grin on his face, he shook his head to cast out the thought. “No. That would be too easy for a toad like Dreck.” Besides, Cecil was just a man. His hand subconsciously drifted to his chest, to the bulge of an object held by a chain around his neck. He patted it, just to be sure it was still there. His eyes found the black spire atop Death’s Peak. They narrowed with hatred. Up he climbed.
“I am ready for this,” Cecil told himself. The thought was repeated over and over in his mind, less like a monk chanting a mantra and more like a man lacking in confidence. His white robes were stained and frayed, bearing the marks of a man who’d fought many battles to reach this point. Dreck had not made it easy to reach the foot of Death’s Peak: There were countless hordes of minions and monsters, wave after wave of twisted creatures that had emerged from fissures in the cracked, desert ground.
One after another, each wave fell to the ferocity of his lance. Goblins with razor-sharp claws and thrashing, leaping attacks tested his stamina. Shadow-wraiths formed from the darkness under the moonlight, and slithered along the ground, flat and invulnerable until they sprang up, sickle in hand, ready to strike: These challenged his concentration and reflexes. Great armored sand-trolls—formed from the rocks and dunes of the wasteland east of the Tower—shook the ground as they stomped toward their foe, three times the size of a man. They challenged Cecil’s bravery, but though his could not withstand his lance. They fell, as did the wraiths and the goblins. The going had not been easy, but he was victorious, and would be again.
Obsidian steps rose before Cecil, each hewn from volcanic glass so dark it managed to absorb the dying light of day. The stairs ascended high up Death’s Peak, parallel to the Dark Tower, before curving toward the spire and melting into the front porch of the loathsome structure. The steps themselves had been worn down by countless feet—both human and monstrous—and some were stained with blood and dried remains, the remnants of the last challengers who dared to take on Dreck.
“So be it,” Cecil thought, his gloved hand tightening around the shaft of his lance. The weapon whistled as it sliced through the air, twirled with skill by its wielder. “I didn’t come all this way, beyond what was imaginable, just to cower now… not now… not when victory is so near at hand…”
The dry desert wind, previously relentless as he neared the base of the stairway, had subsided as he climbed the steps. His gold-trimmed cape barely fluttered, though he still ensured it was snugly fastened to his shoulders, and he tugged on the tip of his hood, careful for it not to fall behind his ears. He looked every bit the part of a hero clad in white, clashing starkly with all the grim blackness around him.
With each step as he climbed, the air grew heavier and thicker. A rancid odor wafted from above; his destination was rank with death. It was enough to turn away the most daring traveler, to send even the bravest souls fleeing westward, back to green valleys, soft meadows, and gentle rains. But Cecil was no mere traveler; he was a man on a mission, driven by more than something as trivial as reckless curiosity. He pressed on, turning his nose away from the stench. Halfway to the top, a breeze returned, not as gentle gale, but as an oppressive force, trying to drive him backward.
Cecil did not heed the wind.
His ears perked, straining to catch any sign of life in the oppressive silence. He listened for the heavy breathing of Dreck’s monstrous guards, for the chink of metal armor plates scraping against each other, for any of the telltale sounds of an ambush in preparation. If this was to be a trap, it was the quietest he’d ever marched into, more subtle than Dreck’s usual theatrical displays of power.
Subtlety had never been the dark lord’s strength. Dreck preferred grand gestures and dramatic reveals, the kind of pageantry that announced, not only his presence to the world, but his greatness. This time there was only stillness, and it set Cecil’s mind on edge. “What have you got planned this time…” he wondered to himself.
Whatever it was, he was ready. Over and over he repeated that singular thought to himself as he neared the summit. He knew all of Dreck’s tricks, more than anyone who’d ever challenged him. He’d spent a lifetime preparing for this moment. “I am ready,” he told himself, now eyeballing the final step in the grand, obsidian stairway.
A sound echoed faintly from above. Cecil’s eyes fixed on the darkened porch that shaded the great doors of the keep. The shadows were thick and deep between the great gothic pillars, able to conceal any number of fiends. He paused, staring, watching for any hint of life, waiting for his enemy to move first.
At last, figures stepped out of the shadows. Tall and thin, with fluid movements as they drew swords to challenge the intruder. “Dreck’s elite guard,” Cecil noted. These were the dark lord’s best warriors, his nearest and dearest protectors. “His last line of defense,” Cecil said, smiling to himself. If they are challenging him now, then they are all that remains between Dreck and justice.
The elite guard moved silently toward him, descending the steps so lightly they might’ve passed for spirits. Their armor was black as midnight, highly polished, catching the light of the dying sun and throwing it back into Cecil’s gaze. Their swords—long and curved—were equally black but for the edges, which shimmered like diamonds.
Cecil was ready. His lance turned toward them in a graceful arc, ready for battle. The first guard lunged at him with inhuman speed, its black blade howling through the air toward his throat. He was fast, but Cecil was faster: The sweeping strike missed the white-clad warrior’s head, and before the guard could reorient himself, the blade of the lance was driving into a small gap in his armor plating, like a perfectly thrown dart hitting a bullseye.
A hiss of rage turned Cecil’s eyes to the next guard. His lance rose in time to block a blow. The impact of the blades against each other brought about a *pop* like a thunderbolt striking the ground. Sparks flew from the collision, and the monster staggered back, its weapon shattered by the impact. Before it could recover, Cecil’s blade found its target, a narrow strip of leather. With one sweeping gesture, he sliced through the strap, and the guard’s black breastplate fell. A moment later, so too did the guard, as Cecil pulled his lance out of the fiend’s heart. The creature dissolved into shadow and ashes, leaving only a single warrior to battle.
The final guard attacked from Cecil’s flank, hoping to catch him off balance, but the white-clad warrior spun with well-trained grace, and avoided the strike entirely. The guard spat in anger and turned to face his opponent, ready to fight again. Instead, Cecil’s boot met his chest, and the guard stumbled backward before falling off the edge of the stairway. He did not howl as men do when they fall, but still… he fell. And when he landed, the jagged rocks at the base of Death’s Peak captured his body, exploding it into a cloud of shadow and ashes.
The fight was over only seconds after it began. Cecil was barely winded. He listened, waiting, expecting to hear the hurried footsteps of some surprise fighting force, some “new” last line of defense, but there was nothing. Silently, Cecil climbed the remaining steps and reached the landing of the Dark Tower.
The great doors of the keep stood before him, The oak was scorched and blackened, and reinforced with iron. To break into the Dark Tower’s sealed doors would take the greatest battering ram ever constructed, wielded by a dozen of the strongest men in history, all working for hours on end. The doors were not sealed shut, however. In fact, they stood ajar, almost beckoning Cecil to enter with his guard down.
Beyond, he could see the finely polished marble floor, seemingly wobbling it reflected the light of the burning torches overhead. There were no hints of life to be felt, no anxious breaths from warriors lying in wait, and no shadows in the torchlight giving anyone away. An ambush was almost certainly waiting for him, but it was better concealed than usual, Cecil decided.
Cecil entered, unafraid.
The stonework was faded by time and neglect, but it still retained a hint of its former splendor, back when the tower was not called “Dark,” long before Dreck moved in. To Cecil’s left was the way to the dungeon, where Dreck’s lesser prisoners were kept and tortured. The invader had no business there. Today, there was no one to rescue. To Cecil’s right was a spiraling staircase, carved from the same obsidian as the tower’s exterior. He made his way for it, listening carefully for an ambush that, thus far, had not come.
Level by level, floor by floor, Cecil climbed the tower, always ready for a fight, but finding nothing to contend with. As he neared the highest level of the tower—the private abode of Dreck himself—Cecil began to accept the reality that he really had overcome all that the dark lord had to throw at him. This was it. There were no more tricks, no more challenges, and no more subordinates to cut through. His feet finally found the final floor, a narrow hallway, carpeted with ruby cloth, leading directly to the great doors of Dreck’s great chamber. As on the first floor, the door was ajar. Unlike the first floor, Cecil could see a figure seated on a throne-like chair, impatiently waiting for his challenger to arrive.
Cecil entered, unafraid.
Tall windows, formerly stained-glass, were now shattered and exposed, with shards still scattered across the floor months, if not years after breaking. Sunlight streaked inside, casting a golden spotlight on the seated man in the middle of the room.
“Dreck,” said Cecil, his voice clear and commanding. It carried across the vast room to the ears of the dark lord.
Dreck’s hooded eyes rose to examine Cecil, looking him up and down, taking in his ivory robes, trimmed with gold, and narrowing to get a look at the face hidden within his hood.
“What is this?” Dreck asked, almost annoyed. He looked confused by the man standing before him, tilting his head to the right slightly, like a dog trying to locate the source of a sound. “You are not Sir David…” He had been expecting to see the great champion of the Kingdom of Tanaka, the renowned Knight who, so many times in the past, fought his way up the obsidian stairs to the great keep of the Dark Tower, in search of Tanaka’s crown princess, the lovely Daphne. Instead, standing before him was a silent figure, dressed not as a red-garbed knight of Tanaka, but as some kind of a warrior monk.
“No, I am not Sir David,” Cecil replied, practically growling the words, unwilling to hide his disdain.
Dreck snorted out a mild chuckle. “Has he finally retired? Good for him, if so. He always was too noble for his own good. Still, one never knows for sure with him… he has such an annoying tendency to resurface when you least desire him.” He drew in a deep breath and focused again on the man before him. “Very well. I suppose you are King Lorne’s newest hero? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you came all this way for nothing.” Dreck’s hand gestured to his right, to a large birdcage-like enclosure dangling empty from his ceiling. “As you can see, I haven’t kidnapped Princess Daphne again… not yet, at least.”
“You will not get the chance,” Cecil replied flatly.
“No?” replied the dark lord. His posture remained relaxed. If he was intimidated by Cecil, he wasn’t letting it show. “I must say, it’s been years since a great warrior entered my stronghold, much less fought his way to the summit through all my defenses. Usually Sir David would just fly an enchanted eagle or something up to the top and repel through the window…” Again he gestured lazily, this time to the broken window above them.
“I came alone,” Cecil replied.
“Indeed…” Dreck said, shrugging. “Well, if you are Sir David’s replacement, you’re certainly not lacking for confidence. I admire that in a hero: There’s nothing quite as tedious as false modesty.” He waited, expecting Cecil to reply, but no answer came. This was not a hero with a penchant for banter, much to the dark lord’s disappointment. He cleared his throat, finding the silence awkward. “As I say, there’s no Princess Daphne here, nor any Princess or prisoner of any kind. I’ve been a busy bee resupplying my armies, and securing other military alliances… not that it’s any of your business.”
“It is my business,” Cecil replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he brandished his lance.
“Very well,” Dreck said, his voice taking on a harder edge as he finally began to take the situation seriously. “You want to prove yourself? Fine. You want to test your mettle against the master of this tower? So be it. Let’s start with this…”
Dreck’s hand moved to a lever near his chair, an ornate handle carved from bone and inlaid with dark gems. With jerk, he threw back the lever, filling the room with the echoing sounds of gears spinning, as one of the Dark Tower’s many hidden defenses sprang to life right under Cecil.
At once, the trapdoor on which the man in white had been standing opened with a snap, exposing a long chute that plunged into the depths of the tower. At its bottom, barely visible in the darkness, a vat of boiling acid popped and gurgled, eager to receive whatever unfortunate soul might be dropped within. Dreck leaned forward as the trap was sprung, but froze a moment later.
Cecil had not fallen.
Instead, the man in white remained where he stood, now floating in the air above the gaping pit as if supported by an invisible bridge. His gold-trimmed cape billowed around him despite the absence of any wind. The sight was impossible, a violation of every natural law that Dreck understood, and yet there it was before him.
The dark lord could not hide his surprise, nor the growing look of confusion and dread that crept across his face. He remained motionless as Cecil glided forward, floating an inch off the ground. His cape flapped behind his head like the wings of an avenging angel.
“Your days are done, Dreck,” Cecil said, his voice calm but commanding.
“Are they?” said Dreck, trying hard now maintain an aura of confidence. “I have heard threats like that many times from Sir David.”
“I am not Sir David.”
Cecil’s hand stretched out, and flames erupted around his fingers; the tips combusted the very air itself. An orb of fire formed in his grip, pulsing with barely contained energy, and he hurled it toward Dreck’s chest with precision.
The villain leapt from his throne just in time, though his dark cloak caught a bit of the fireball. He scrambled to his feet, both to ready himself for another attack, and also to regain his appearance of command over the room.
“I am not here to rescue a princess,” Cecil said, inching toward Dreck again, stalking him like a primal predator. “I am no Knight in Shining Armor. I have come to remove you from your station, and take your place as the Lord of Darkness over this land.”
Dreck’s face contorted with disgust. “I see,” he said with a note of contempt. “That explains your ruthlessness and your lack of civility.”
“You mean I don’t banter with you like Sir David.”
“Exactly,” Dreck said, before thrusting his hand forward and firing a trio of daggers toward his for. Cecil dodged them effortlessly: One minute, he was in the line of fire, then, in a blink, he was five feet to the left, letting the daggers sail by him.
“I will not ask you to surrender,” Cecil said, charging up another fireball in his right hand.
“No, you don’t seem the type,” Dreck remarked. “But… there is no reason why we must be rivals. We have a common purpose, you and I: Clearly, you seek power. You’ve come to the right place, as I have ruthlessly accumulated power over the course of my life. Why seize it from me when you could learn from me? You and I could be allies and—” Another blast of fire rocketed toward Dreck’s head. Again he dove aside, barely missing the blast.
“Do not monologue to me, villain,” Cecil hissed. “I have not crossed the boundaries of infinity to align myself with someone so pathetic.”
“Pathetic?!” Dreck’s voice cracked as he choked on the word.
“Your time is done,” Cecil added relentlessly. He sounded like a judge pronouncing sentence on a guilty party. “All that you had, all that you squandered with your foolish plots and schemes, now belongs to me.”
“Now just a minute…” Dreck began, but Cecil did not let him finish. Another fireball was ready in his hand, sending the dark lord scurrying backward, looking for cover.
“Your meagerly defended tower, your poor excuse for an army, your easily dispatched guards, and all the alliances you cultivated with crooks, pirates, and warlords… All of it is mine, and I promise you I will do far more with it than you ever could.”
Another fireball raced across the room. Dreck staggered out of its path, but his black cloak was now burning at the edges and smoldering: Dreck smelled it and felt the heat radiating from it. He fell to the ground and slapped the cloth, even as Cecil drew nearer.
“So pathetic,” the man in white muttered. “Still, I am generous: I offer you a single gift in exchange for all I am taking from you.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Dreck hissed through gritted teeth, but even as he spoke the words of defiance, he made no move to attack. He had no skill in magical arts; true mastery of such things was a rare gift, possessed by few in the world. Cecil, it seemed, was one of those few.
“Nevertheless,” Cecil said with a casual shrug, as if discussing the weather rather than pronouncing a death sentence. Without further ceremony, he tossed the contents of his hand toward the cowering villain. It was not a ball of fire, but of whirl of wind.
The cyclone spun harmlessly as it left his palm, but quickly grew in size. Within seconds, it went from the size of a child’s toy to that of a living tornado. Dreck turned to flee, but the wind snagged him like a giant’s grip, lifted him from the floor and twisted him helplessly off the ground.
“My gift is this,” Cecil said, his voice somehow coming through clearly despite the howling of the magical wind: “A final look at all your splendor… and all your squander. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss it for good…”
With that, Cecil flicked his fingers. The whirlwind responded like a trained beast obeying its master. It carried Dreck swiftly across the great hall, past the over the shards of glass on the floor, and toward the large broken window in the back of his great hall.
A great rush of cool, dry air slapped Dreck in the face. End over end he tumbled, yet remained suspended in the air, bouncing in place by the whirlwind, looking like a man on a supernatural yo-yo.
Cecil floated calmly up to the broken window and looked over his defeated adversary. A sneer came to his face, but no words of triumph or mockery left his lips. He had too much hatred to be so trivial. Instead, he made the slightest gesture of his head, twitching it ever so subtly to his right. The whirlwind slowed, and Dreck felt the grip on his body loosen.
Before he could plead, he fell.
In the distance, the red sun finally touched the horizon, painting the sky in shades reminiscent of blood, appropriate for the changing of the guard atop Death’s Peak. The reign of Cecil as lord of darkness had begun. The reign of Dreck was over.