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And so, the Last Mighty Battle had come to pass, and Zargothrax was finally defeated and dissolved into liquid dust, and the lands formerly known as the Kingdom of Fife would see peace and, in time, prosperity again.
Ralathor uttered a few savoury curses under his breath, and the Hootsman reasonably chose not to inquire where he had learned those, for the fear that the Mysterious Sub Commander (their words, not Ralathor’s) might know of a way or two, to at the very least keep him separated from his growler for a few months, and that would be no life for anyone, and especially not for the Holy King of Unst.
And also, for the purpose of avoiding being on the receiving end of the Hammer of Glory that currently swung in the commander’s hand; in a rather aggressive manner at that, in which one would swing a shopping bag if the Universe aligned and their path home from the store happened to be riddled with goblins and undead unicorns all gathered to annoy the living hell out of them in particular.
Lucky for the Hootsman, Ralathor did not appear inclined to pick a fight with random demigods. In fact, he was, indeed, occupied by an entirely different problem.
The former hermit, him also the former commander of the resistance (the Hootsman was not sure what he was now, but once again chose a path that would not lead him to an untimely demise, even more so on the very first day of people actually being aware that he existed), cleared his throat before he addressed the Hootsman.
- What did the prophecy say, again? When and where was he supposed to die?
- Uhhh… - the Hootsman patted along his furry vest and pants, looking for something, and dismissed Ralathor’s rather expressive eye roll. – Hold on, I’ve a notebook somewhere here… uuuuhhhh… here!
With that exclamation, he produced a fairly worn, rugged notebook that had been a loyal companion of his through all the mighty battles, taverns, brothels, and other assorted outings, and began listing through it in no particular order.
- Prophecies… hold on… prophecies… prophecies… prophecies… beer! mead! tequila! sausages! cornflakes! ...no, that’s my shopping list! I was already wondering where I’d put that. Oh, right! Here it is! “In outer space, in 1993”!
- And this is the year…
- 992! Guy is a thousand and one years early! Damn. That’s some shitty prophecy. Well, look on the bright side! The peasants think throwing stuff into that volcano will grant them blessings! Heretics, all of them! Angus won the battle, killed the sorcerer and threw himself into the volcano! And now the volcano goddess will grant the whole land prosperity for generations to come, for sure! That’s great!
- Hootsman, I am this close to exorcising you.
- No need for that, man! I already work out daily!
The hermit had already opened his mouth to answer, and whatever he had prepared would have, judging by his foul mood, been something not meant for dainty ears, when he was interrupted, in a most rude manner, by noise behind their backs.
The Hootsman reached for the laser blaster (which he was surprised to find, he still possessed, securely lodged behind his belt, which was a miracle in and of itself, keeping his track record of losing the darn thing any chance he had, in mind), when Ralathor turned and glared at the goblinoid.
The beastie stared back, perplexed, frozen mid-sneak-step, its hand holding the sword still raised.
- Don’t even think about it!
The goblin broke out the most charming, widest, pensive (if rather needle-toothed) smile it could manage, let its arm down, hid the sword behind its back and backed away a few meters until it was certain of being out of imminent danger, before bolting off for the hills.
- Stand and fight! Coward! – the Hootsman shook his fist after the creature who, granted, did not see the gesture as they were busy running as fast as their crooked little legs could carry. – See that? Plague upon the whole land, I tell you! It’s going to take years for the folks to get rid of them now! they had such good thing going, too, and then our favourite cunt of a wizard showed up, and now you’re all back where you started! Who’s gonna want you to work on their farms now, huh?! Furry bastards!
He was about to launch the item he was carrying into the general direction of the goblin when Ralathor barked his name, and it was now the demigod’s turn to freeze, one hand and one foot raised.
- Ooooh~ right. Sorry. Forgot about that.
- It’s… - Ralathor needed a moment, to take a few deep breaths, - it’s fine. It’s been a long day.
Ralathor’s voice was bleak and void of colour, and not in the usual “I do not care, I am only here because of reasons” way. There was exhaustion and defeat in there, and something else that told the Hootsman, the hermit was ninety percent likely to keel over should anything else of much importance happen.
In a bout of grace (not one of the things he was best known for), the Hootsman chose to, instead of inquiring further, direct his attention to the item that he had almost turned into projectile weapon.
He had to admit, even if one knew what the wretched thing was capable of, the Knife of Evil was still a rather handsome, if accursed, weapon. The handle forged of star-steel in form of a dragon’s head with unblinking eyed of deepest dark rubies from beyond the stars and adorned with the insignia found on the banners of both sides of the conflict flowed smoothly into a long triangular eternally sharp blade of liquid ice, colourless save for a single pulsating vein of magic the colour of the two gemstones and thinner than the thinnest human hair, which run through its centre.
Despite its terrible purpose, it was an elegant blade fit for a royalty.
It felt surreal to know, this was a weapon designed for destruction and pain, and the taking of countless lives merely with a single stab.
The blade glistened in the pale, weak sunlight that had breached the clouds above their heads, its surface smooth and shiny, and…
- Erm… - the Hootsman twirled the knife in his hands for a moment, before offering it to Ralathor. – There’s no blood.
Ralathor looked tired, exhausted, and actually quite hopeless, and the word that slipped from his lips lacked any kind of excitement, or any other feeling, really.
- What?
- There’s no blood on this thing! See?!
The Knife of Evil was, indeed, among other things also devoid of the tell-tale spots of red that would be there had it been put to use lately.
Ralathor’s eye twitched, in that way in which an eye does twitch when its owner is about to knock something or somebody out with a well-aimed lightning bolt, as he momentarily shook the exhaustion off. Despite that, he accepted and examined the blade without setting something on fire, or even stabbing the nearest person.
(The Hootsman, sensibly, had taken a few steps away, for, while he was not entirely sure the knife would even work on him, he also preferred not to test it out right now.)
- So, what you mean to say is, this idiot—
- Language, Ralathor, - the Hootsman tsked.
- That this idiot, - Ralathor emphasized, in a rather petty manner which the Hootsman believed to be completely unnecessary, - jumped into a volcano for literally nothing?!
- Ah, - the barbarian made a gesture with his arms that looked more like flailing than anything else, - you know how it is in the heat of the battle! That cunt probably poked him a bit with that staff, and the kid thought he was about to become The Evil Emperor To Evil Emperor Them All, The Second. These things happen! Can’t blame him! This piece of shit was left right where old Zargie disintegrated, can’t blame Angus for thinking he got stabbed with it! What a show, though! You’re too serious for your own g—
NYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
From the direction of Schiehallion, a Something shot past above them. The Unidentified Flying Object broke off the top of the only surviving tree in Cowdenbeath, landed on the ground with the grace of a drunk goblin launched from a canon at the county fair, made a few dents in the soft soil on its way as it skipped like a bouncy ball, and eventually came to a halt, flat on its face, with a small pile of earth and grass formed in front of it. The object was of an average size and wore something that could have, a few hours ago, been either green or black armour complete with a cape, which was smouldering slightly, with complimentary smoke wisps rising from one corner, while the other was already entirely gone. The helmet, which the object had been handed a few hours earlier, now provided emotional support for the armour by being in a similarly miserable state, particularly since it had served them well during their landing, with one of the horns missing entirely and the other one chipped, and it had split in the middle and fallen away, and a couple more wisps were rising from a currently rather tangled mess its owner had the audacity to call – a hairstyle. One of their legs (the one bent in the knee and thus pointing upwards) was twitching.
The barbarian demigod and the hermit exchanged looks, before they turned and run, eager to reach the figure.
For a moment, the warrior remained in the pose he had landed in. Eventually, though, he raised his head, the helmet finally falling away entirely, and watched the pair who had approached, the look in his eyes glassy, the expression on his face blank if a bit stupefied, before he blinked.
He attempted to speak, but words came out slurred and muffled. He let his head fall in an act of defeat after this, raised his index finger asking them both to wait and thought for a while, after which he spat out a mouthful of grass and soil.
Angus McFife the Thirteenth shook his head, his scorched curls jumping about as he did, and rolled over onto his back.
- The volcano goddess is gay, - he announced. – She wants hot girl sacrifices.