When the Villian Comes Home

by Gabrielle Harbowy

  Rhaedon escalates again and again until he dabbles in raw, primal evil. Only then does the wizard succeed, and then beyond his wildest dreams.

  He breaks free, kills Rhaedon in one blow, and consumes him. Power fills him, a reservoir of strength so wide and deep as to have been dug by the pain and suffering he’s endured, but he can only sip at the surface of it.

  He escapes Rhaedon’s keep to find it buried in the dead of winter. The Homelands are far but he travels the snowbound distance in the space of a day, awkward in his new power like a freshly-hatched chick stumbling about its nest. He somehow knows the way instinctively and tries to not question it. He arrives in the dead of night, weeping on a hilltop at the sight of lands he thought he’d never see again.

  He is found by his brother, patrolling in the dark. A cloud slides over the moon, deepening the gloom. He expects help but finds none. “I have been sent,” he is told, his brother’s voice a hiss in the night. “You are unclean and an abomination, and not welcome in the Homelands. You are banished, and if you return I will kill you myself. You are forgotten.” He cannot believe it. He begs, sobs, pleads for relief, but he is answered with silence.

  He is alone, truly alone, but the cold emptiness left in the pit of his soul is warmed in short order by the rage in his heart. Dragons did this to him, and dragons will pay for it.

  He returns to Rhaedon’s keep. By day he inhabits the dead wizard’s library, learning to harness the foul power now bound to him. By night he curses the countryside and its people, tearing his sustenance from their bones and testing his new skills. The few heroes who dare to pose a challenge expect to find Rhaedon but find him instead. They are excellent practice. Almost a decade passes before he is ready.

  His first dragon kill is almost too easy. The beast doesn’t know what to make of him and certainly doesn’t take him seriously, and it dies with surprise in its eyes and a hole large enough to walk through in its heart.

  More dragons fall to his vengeance and soon they abandon their solitary lifestyle in favor of survival in numbers. He taps more of his power, rising to their challenge. They gain allies in their fight and he takes his war to them as well, killing and destroying with surgical accuracy and horrific violence, appearing without warning and denying the dragons any hope of safe harbor. He targets all who would stand with them and soon the whole of Navarr knows him. He is the Scourge.

  5

  He stepped off the aerostat tower’s gantry arm and slid out of the line of Kin making their way to the ground, stopping at the railing and letting the breeze blow through his hair. Below him was Tin’tean, the largest city in the Homelands and its capitol, marble buildings carved in organic shapes placed among ancient trees in perfect harmony. Beyond the city lay the whole of the Homelands, the Kin’s ancestral home. At the horizon he could see the purple snowcapped peaks of the Shield Range, the barrier between the Kin’s lush lands and the burning wastes of the Barrens. “From here to the Crown of the World,” as the saying went, the Kin’s ancient claim and oath.

  He’d not seen this in decades, and it suddenly struck him how the aerostat tower had been placed for the greatest spectacle. Any outsiders arriving would be presented with this grand display of Kin power and wealth. He suppressed a sneer at the thought. His eyes naturally fell on the broad expanse of the Avenue of the Host as it wound through the city, following it all the way to its terminus at the Citadel, the seat of Kin power, six tall obelisks marking the wall surrounding the central taller spire. The Avenue was teeming with Kin, as was the whole city. In the distance he could see the line snaking into the Citadel, Kin queued up to pay their respects to their dying king.

  Conclave was a time for all Kin to come together and celebrate the King Who Was and the King Who Will Be, and they were streaming in from all over Navarr to this place as fast as they could. Already the aero that had delivered him was making ready to depart and free its berth for another arrival. Inns would surely be full by now; citizens were likely opening their homes to their brethren. He would have a hard time finding suitable lodging, but he wasn’t planning on staying long enough to need it. Just long enough to see the old king’s eyes, and know he would soon be gone.

  He made his way down the tower’s spiraling ramp and onto street level, face set in a thoughtful frown to avoid casual conversation. The Avenue was crowded but he weaved his way through without much incident. A few of the more jolly folk tried to speak to him anyway, but the poisonous glare he shot them was enough to turn them away. Those standing in the queue were considerably less boisterous. The line moved slowly but steadily, gradually drawing him inside the Citadel’s walls. He could see a storm brewing in the distance as the sun began to set. He was patient. He had all the time in the worlds.

  The line passed through a soaring entrance hall and down an echoing marble corridor a hundred hands wide. Ahead would be the reception hall where the king and royal family would receive their subjects; the king laying on a raised lounge of spun goldsilk, the Herald Queen with her staff standing on one side and the prince regent, the King Who Will Be, standing on the other.

  The corridor sloped upwards toward the hall and as the line moved forward suddenly he could see them. Pure, clean anger instantly seized him when they came into view. He was rooted to the spot for a moment, fighting his immediate inclination to start slaughtering his way to them. The queen and prince solemnly greeted each Kin as they approached. The old king did his best to do likewise but for some he simply lay there, trying to conserve his strength and prolong his stay on this world.

  No, he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of knowing he had been here. Old voices from a hilltop whispered in the back of his mind, but the gentle friendly tap at his shoulder from the Kin behind him shook him from his reverie and got him moving again. The hallway, the reception hall, the somber line of Kin and the royal guard arrayed around them all shrank away but for those three at its apex. His dead heart thundered in his chest with anticipation.

  The queen and prince bowed to him as he stepped forward, dipping their heads in unison. He only saw them peripherally; his eyes were fixed on King Aifeal’s prone form. Already the first wisps of Ascension were rising from his frail body, tenuous strands of mana twisting into the air as his physical form began to lose coherency and evaporate. The old bastard had maybe two days left. He’d gotten here just in time.

  He bowed, a politely grim smile on his face. The king’s eyes rolled to meet his and froze, then widened. The old mage seemed to deflate with a sigh—a relieved sigh. “You’ve come back after all,” he whispered.

  The Scourge froze. Impossible. His disguise was impenetrable. He looked up in alarm to see the queen and prince looking back at him, as confused as he was shocked.

  The queen saw it first, her teal eyes growing as realization dawned. “Alc—”

  He was faster than she. “Don’t,” he spat at her through clenched teeth. “Say that name and I’ll burn you down where you stand.” His brother the prince took a step forward, hand flashing to the hilt of his saber.

  “No,” the king murmured, raising thin fingers. The prince stopped, one step shy of drawing his blade and ensuring his own death. Aifeal turned his head carefully to his wife, who still gazed in horrified amazement at her disguised son. “Clear the hall,” he said. “I will speak with him.”

  That brought her back to the present. She shook her head. “Aifeal, no…” The Scourge locked eyes with his brother and felt his muscles ripple with the promise of imminent violence.

  The king nodded once. “I will. Have the guard seal the hall until I am finished.” The queen looked back at the Scourge, then the prince regent, then finally at the rest of the hall. Deviation from protocol was strange enough, but whatever had caused the prince to nearly attack this random Kin had gotten the attention of the royal guard and the other Kin still waiting in line. Aifeal had spoken and it was her duty to pass the word. She hesitated on
ly a second before pressing her lips together and nodding once. She turned, gesturing for the prince to follow. He reluctantly fell into step behind her, finally taking his eyes from his brother and stepping from the dais.

  This was all highly unusual, but after a moment the guard followed orders and began herding everyone from the hall. The Scourge waited, watching his dying father as if daring the king to attack him. The king simply lay on his lounge and stared up through the skylight at the darkening sky. When the tall marble doors finally boomed shut, he returned his gaze to his son. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to sense my own flesh and blood?” he asked with a tired smile.

  That answered his first question. He wasn’t in the mood for games. “And yet you stopped Eadmhar from drawing his sword? You’ve gotten soft in your old age, Father,” he said bitterly, beginning to pace. “I didn’t come here for a reunion, you old fool. I came to watch you die.”

  The king sighed again, his breath visible in the air despite the hall’s warmth. His eyes drifted shut. “I owe you an apology—”

  The Scourge whirled on him, the silver tips of his boots ringing on the marble as he stormed to the king’s bedside. “An apology?” he shouted, burning blood pounding in his ears. “Do you think that could possibly undo what you did? Do you think it would change the past somehow and set things to right? By all means then, Father, please apologize to me.” He stood back, arms thrown wide.

  “And an explanation,” the king continued patiently after his son’s outburst. “I am sorry for what happened to you, and for what I did. Not since the decree passed my lips has a sun risen without my regret to greet it. You, my beloved firstborn, you were my heir and the best of us.”

  “And yet you banished me! I fought to survive, to endure, to escape, to return to the Homelands, and with it in my sight you sent your new heir to turn me away? Tell me, Father,” he yelled, beating his chest. “Tell me how much you regret turning away another Kin in need, tell me how much you regret denying your son.”

  “I had no choice,” the king moaned, fingers tangling weakly in the lounge’s sheet. “The Council divined what had happened to you once Rhaedon was slain. They wanted to kill you before you could harness your power and become a danger, and because—” He choked to a stop, clenching his jaw, trying to will the words to come. He looked to the barred doors, unable to look at his looming son. “Because your corruption was proof that none of us was worthy of our claims. Better you never return and your disappearance stay a secret forever than have to face that.”

  The Scourge seethed, furious, hands clenched in fists, waiting. He could feel his grip on his temper slipping, one strand at a time.

  The king’s words came quicker now as his story spilled out. “I bargained for your life. I convinced them to spare you in exchange for banishment, in the hopes that you would go on to live a full life in peace, safe from the fears of ill-advised old fools.” Aifeal’s glimmering eyes rose again to meet his son’s. “I banished you so you could live, because I loved you. I could not bear otherwise.”

  “And do you think I’ve lived up to my promise, Father?” The Scourge laughed. “Oh yes, I’ve achieved so much! Thank you for the opportunity, I hate to think what wouldn’t have gotten done in my absence.” He gave him a mock bow, far too deep to be serious.

  “No,” the king whispered, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I don’t regret saving your life, but you must stop your campaign against the dragons.”

  The Scourge snapped upright, nostrils flaring. “You dare?” he whispered, then shouted, “You dare tell me what to do? You’ve disowned me, dear Father. Better than that, you’ve banished me from the Kin.” He stalked back toward the king, body trembling, and jabbed a finger at him. “The dragons think they know what’s best, that they can just meddle with those they consider their lessers.”

  “As you have done with them?” the king asked.

  “They brought this upon themselves, and I will not stop until they have all learned that the price of their arrogance is very high indeed!”

  The king patiently met his son’s eyes. “Are you so blinded by your revenge that you cannot see what you’ve done? The dragons were isolated. Powerful, yes, but unorganized. They couldn’t muster any sort of real power in Navarr because they never saw the merits of it. Until you came along. Until you started slaying them with impunity. You are the one who united them. You are the reason they brought the lesser races under their wing, the better to protect them from your eventual predation, and when they joined the Draconic Combine you only proved them right. You woke them to the influence they always had but never knew. Their reign over Navarr is your doing, as surely as if you’d drawn the borders yourself.”

  The Scourge slammed to a halt, physically and mentally. “No,” he said, eyes empty, but he knew it for the truth. It was perfectly clear to him now. How could he have missed it all? How had he not seen the signs? His mind whirled, his thoughts tumbling about without traction. In his campaign to show the dragons the folly of their ways, he had embarked on the very same path as they, and in the process ensured their rise to power.

  The king paused as his son floundered, then whispered, “You must stop it, Alcre—”

  You are forgotten, his memory whispered in his ear.

  “NO!” The Scourge’s fury blasted Change from him. Blond hair and perfect skin flashed to vapor, talons reaching out as he grew taller and stronger with his anger. The shockwave hammered the walls of the reception hall, shaking ancient dust from the tops of the pillars. Shouts started outside the closed doors and the Scourge turned to his father, pointing a too-long finger toward the entrance. “I am the Scourge,” he hissed, leaning down until the king could see nothing past him. “It is my charge to put the arrogant in their place and I can see now that I’ve been lax in my duties.” He grinned a smile full of teeth that had no place on a Kin’s face. “I believe I will correct that.”

  The doors flew open and the royal guard charged in with spears at the ready, but stopped when they saw the monster with their king. “Impossible,” gasped one. The queen stood by a door, watching with horrified eyes as the prince regent raced past, pulling his sword from its scabbard and roaring a battle cry.

  “Excellent,” the Scourge hissed, still grinning, as he stepped away from the king to face his brother’s charge. His arms moved in quick, practiced movements as he began to spin The Fist That Pierces.

  “STOP.” It wasn’t a shout, but a thought—a base urge triggered deep inside everyone’s minds. Eadmhar stumbled to a halt, his blade clattering from boneless fingers. The Scourge froze where he was, one hand raised in an electric blue glow, ready to split his brother in half. King Aifeal lifted from his bed to stand in the air above it. Ethereal fog rippled and poured from him like steam from a boiling pot. He was sublimating completely from the effort. The Scourge was the last to turn and see it, and even he lowered his arm in awe at the sight, his hand still glowing with primed death.

  “I cannot change the past, but I can change the future.” It wasn’t the voice of the elderly king, weakened and waiting for Ascension. It was the voice of his childhood, the voice of his father, good and strong and clear. “Pass the words of this, my final decree.” Kin gasped from the doorway and the queen shook herself and strode forward to perform her last duty, crystal staff in hand. The king turned to his firstborn. “My son suffered a grave injury, and I have compounded it with my foolish shortsightedness. He is Kin, as he should always have been. Never again will Kin be driven from Kin. The true nature of the Scourge will remain the secret burden of us all, from now until the worlds wind down.”

  The Scourge felt his hand unclench and the power captive in it leach back into the mana stream. He hadn’t sobbed since a dark hilltop decades ago, but now his eyes began to burn as the King Who Was gazed down at him, smiling, calm and at peace as he dissolved into nothingness. “I love you, and I am sorry,” he wh
ispered. And then King Aifeal, 38th in the Line of the Kin, was gone.

  The Scourge turned, numb, and slowly walked from the dais where his father once lay, the echo of his hooves the only sound in the hall. The guards and the crowd behind them parted to let him through, watching as he passed. Behind him he heard a soft sob and then the sharp ring of crystal on marble, followed by his mother’s quivering voice. “Pass the word from Kin to Kin, from here to the Crown of the World. The Scourge is Kin, as he should always have been. Never again will Kin be driven from Kin. The true nature of the Scourge will remain the secret burden of us all, from now until the worlds wind down.”

  He heard the Herald Staff come down again and the decree was sent, a brilliant ring of light that flashed past him as it carried its message to every Kin. As he left the Citadel, Kin stopped to turn and watch, to see the legendary nightmare now among them as he should always have been. Behind him, bells began to toll the passing of the King Who Was, fading into the distance as he walked into the night, hooves carrying him away from Tin’tean and deep into the forest. Thunder rumbled, and when the rain had finally soaked him through, Alcreagh stopped, turned, and spun open a gate.

  STEVE BORNSTEIN has been in the military, travelled to distant lands, and held the sorts of jobs you watch shows about on the Discovery Channel. His villainous inspirations include Snidely Whiplash, Ming the Merciless, and Walter Bishop. He lives in Central Texas with his wife, where they pay daily tribute to their feline overlords.

  About the Editors

  ED GREENWOOD is a Canadian writer and librarian best known as the creator of the Forgotten Realms® fantasy world setting. He’s also an award-winning game designer and New York Times bestselling author, once hailed as “the Canadian author of the great American novel,” whose fantasy novels have sold millions of copies worldwide in more than thirty languages. Ed shares a farmhouse with his wife, a reigning cat, and over 80,000 books. He’s currently busy scripting a monthly Forgotten Realms® comic book from IDW, and writing his usual three novels at once. His most recent novel is Elminster Enraged from Wizards of the Coast.