“C’mon dad, can’t we play Kick the Goblin today?”

Maladarg the Merciless tilted his head, considering his son, then the itinerary for the remainder of the day. He had a hero due in about five hours, a rousing speech to give his dark force before sending them out to subjugate the third island kingdom of the south, and a princess to kidnap.

But Zeloykak knew exactly how to smile, half hopeful, half resigned, his eyebrows tilted just right. His father couldn’t deny that smile anything.

Maladarg tapped a quick spell into the moondial and nodded. “Only for a few minutes, Daddy has to get ready for another hero.”

Zel grinned and scampered over toward the goblin pits. There were a few dozen whelplings there today, crawling slowly around as they tried to accustom themselves to their flabby limbs.

Maladarg didn’t actually know the rules to ‘Kick the Goblin’ - Zel changed them every time. But the basic principles were the same. When spooked, infant goblins would curl up tighter than a caterpillar, making them ideally suited to roll around like lopsided balls across the floor. Their tough hides and minimal memory spans meant that, though this had been occurring for several goblin generations now, Maladarg had noticed no long-term ill effects from the game.

Zel ran from one goblin brood to the next, giggling as he bopped each baby to make them curl up. Maladarg began slowly nudging them toward his son, watching them roll across the packed dirt of the ground. Zel ran back and forth to return them, and soon they had three or four in perpetual movement across the open space between them.

Several of the others uncurled themselves after being overlooked for several minutes, and slowly crawled back to their broods.

Finally, the moondial sent out a bright pulse of light, and Maladarg realized they’d been playing for nearly the whole morning.

“Oh, I have to go. We’ll pick this up next week.”

“Can I go with you?” Zel dropped his goblin and looked up pleadingly. “I’ve never seen a hero before.”

“They’re terrible and evil beings who would kill you as soon as look at you,” Maladarg warned.

“But I’m older now. I can handle it!”

Maladarg chuckled. “If you want to come, I have three conditions.” He crouched down to look his son in the eyes, and Zel stilled, his usual exuberance fading as he realized the import of the moment.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

“First, you stay hidden. No matter what happens. You stay out of sight, and you don’t make a sound. Understand?”

Zel nodded, putting both hands over his mouth.

Maladarg smiled. “Second, if you feel any sun magic, you run. Go through the secret tunnel and seal it behind you. If you even *think* you feel it, you run. It’s easier to reopen the tunnels than replace you.”

Zel nodded, eyes growing even wider.

“I’m glad to see you understand how serious this is. Heroes are not to be taken lightly.”

“And third?” Zel asked, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Third, you are not to open any of your power. I will be using mine at full strength. Any distraction could mean your death, my death, or both. Keep your control firm. No matter what happens. Even if I’m killed. Even if you have to flee. Do not open your power until the heroes are long gone. Got it?”

Zel nodded fearfully. For a moment, Maladarg thought - hoped - he might have abandoned the idea. But his son was as stubborn as he. As brave and unwavering.

He reached out and hugged the boy, who returned the gesture with all the strength in his little arms.

“But you’ll be alright, won’t you Daddy?” Zel whispered.

“Of course. And if they do kill me, I’ll meet you in the secret room I showed you. Just don’t let anyone follow you.”

“I won’t.”

“Then come. We must find you a place to hide.”

The heroes arrived shortly thereafter, arrayed in the usual motley collection of enchanted and salvaged gear, weapons gleaming with powerlight.

Maladarg sat upon his throne to welcome them, enhancements in place to expand his image to far greater stature than the unimpressive reality.

“Welcome, heroes. I’ve heard many a tale of your exploits. Have you come to partake of the hospitality I offer?”

He gestured to the ready-laden dinner table, carefully filled with a selection of each hero’s favourite foods. They didn’t often take him up on the invitation, but he’d found it tended to shake their confidence each time and so continued the tradition.

The ranger shifted her grip on her bow, arrow still pointed flawlessly at his heart. Or the heart of his giant image. In reality, it would fly several feet over his head, and spear through only the black curtains which covered the windows.

“We’re here to avenge Geralda and the people of Farmburg!” proclaimed the youngest swordsman. “I will smite you, vile villain!”

Ah, another ‘Chosen One’. They tended to show up every few years, convinced that just because they found their grandfather’s old sword or grandmother’s spellbook they could slay the emperor of the world.

Maladarg laughed, the sound harsh and ominous, the acoustics of his reception chamber amplifying it and echoing it until it seemed to come at the heroes from every angle.

It had taken him days to work it out just right. Well worth the effort.

“None has lived who tried,” Maladarg proclaimed. “You are a fool and a child. Depart now, and I will not seek retribution for your folly. Remain, and you suffer the same fate as your friends.”

“We stand together,” said the dwarf, setting his shield before him and glowering. “And your end has come.”

Maladarg frowned. That dwarf looked familiar. “Have we met?” he asked, leaning forward until he seemed to loom over the party. “Did I kill your father or something?”

“Nay, my brother,” the dwarf growled. “And today he shall be avenged!”

“Well. Today you’ll join him in whatever dwarfish afterlife may exist,” Maladarg said, leaning back in his throne.

“Nay, he was an Oronite, and I follow Savarsus. There will be no reunion.”

Maladarg shrugged, dark power springing up from every corner of the room. “It matters not to me. Flee now, or die.”

They didn’t flee.

As he’d expected, this team was powerful and experienced. Their only weak point was the kid from Farmburg, who flailed about with his blue-glowing sword as though expecting enemies to run straight at him. Maladarg quickly disabused him of the idea and removed the sword from his possession. Along with his arm.

That was when things started to go downhill.

The sword landed with a clatter - right outside where Zeloykak hid. Forgetting his promise to stay out of sight, he inched out just enough to grab the sword and drag it into his hiding place with him.

It would have gone unremarked, but the farmer boy had already started toward it, intent on retrieving his heirloom relic.

“There’s something hiding there!” the ‘Chosen One’ screamed, pointing. Before Maladarg could react, arrows and spells shifted targets and flew toward his son’s concealment. He could sense Zel, frozen in fear, clutching the stolen sword and definitely not running for his life.

Without hesitation, Maladarg threw himself into the path of the oncoming missiles, dropping all illusions and control spells, channeling everything into slowing time around him and moving himself through the air as fast as inhumanly possible.

“RUN, ZEL!” he bellowed, as the combine efforts of the party slammed into him and threw him against the wall.

But Zel wasn’t moving. He still sat frozen.

Another volley of arrows and spells. Maladarg drew on his dark power and pushed it out, sending the concealing curtain flying, knocking Zel over with its force.

“I said RUN!”

It was enough. Sobbing, Zel turned and fled down the hidden passage, slamming his hand against the failsafe trigger to initiate the tunnel’s collapse.

Satisfied, Maladarg returned his attention to the heroes around him. He was sealed, now, his power locked by their mage. Sunlight flooded through the now-open curtains, dissipating even the shadows he already held. Arrows continued to fly from their rangers in steady rhythm, pinning his cloak to his gaunt frame.

“Izh thith nethetherith?” he slurred, finding words difficult through the arrows through his lungs.

“You have met your match,” quavered the ‘Chosen One’, drawing a sigilblade dagger and approaching while the others covered him.

“Only this time,” Maladarg said, managing a sinister smile between wet coughs. “But you’ve also made an enemy today, boy. I wonder, that Blade of the Chosen. Who was its true intended recipient?”

The hero snarled, and sliced off Maladarg’s head.

Zeloykak waited in the hidden room, pacing beside the circle. Darkness surrounded him utterly, darkness more complete and impenetrable than stone.

The blade still clutched in his hands glowed blacker still.