Reborn: The Fall, #3

By James Maxstadt

Some evil never truly goes away.

 

Sometimes it just waits to be reborn.

 

Glinfildia, Abenfar, and the invading army have all been defeated. But with a victory that came at a staggering price.

 

Days after the battle in the throne room, Dalmorpheus still hasn't returned Home. Instead, he's taken up residence in Zan's old apartment. The loss of his best friend feels like more than he can bear, and he's not ready to take up Siphanthia's offer to reform the Shriven.

 

Then, a mysterious message shows up in an alley in the human world. Words that have no right to be there and simply can't mean what they say. Dal has no choice but to return Home to warn the new Queen about what he's seen.

 

But it's only when he encounters a human seemingly using magic that he really begins to worry.

 

A new threat is out there, and before all is over, Dalmorpheus, his people, the Shadowkine, and everyone else Dal holds dear will be in mortal peril.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenweald Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jan 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215604236

James Maxstadt

James is the author of more than fifteen fantasy novels. He loves writing books with quirky characters that are full of action, humor, and a lot of adventure. A fan of fantasy since he was young, James thinks a good story that can take a person away from their everyday life is something worth reading. He’s found over the last several years that writing such stories can be just as rewarding. When he does have his head in this world, he can usually be found relaxing at home with his beautiful wife Barb, doing some home renovation or woodworking project, or signing books at comic conventions and Renaissance Faires. Follow him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DukeGrandfather

Book preview

Chapter 1

FOR THE THIRD TIME in ten minutes, Dal hit the wall of his apartment with the tip of his sword, throwing off the stance he was trying for and breaking his concentration.

Damn it. He cursed under his breath and took a swig from the open wine bottle on the table nearby.

It wasn’t very good wine, but he had several bottles of it, and it seemed a waste to not drink it. Of course, that might be the real reason why he wasn’t doing so well with his forms.

Or, it very well could be because his new apartment was just too small. In his old one, he had plenty of room in the spacious living area, to say nothing of the terrace where he’d practiced in the open air, even sparring with Zan there on more than one occasion. There had been benefits to being up so high, plus the wards he’d laid down over the years had kept prying eyes from observing what he was doing.

Now, though?

He dropped the point of his sword to the floor and sighed as he looked around.

Four walls that were way too close for comfort, and a window that looked out from the third floor of an old, run-down building to a garbage-strewn alley below. If he wanted to see the actual street, he needed to go into his even smaller bedroom and peer out through that grimy window. Not that there was much to see there, either.

And this— or at least some place very much like it— had been where Zan had lived for years. From the time of the Fall to the defeat of Glinfildia, Zan had kept an apartment in this seedy part of town, where his services as the Crimson Avenger might be needed. All the while, Dal had lived uptown in comfort and the near constant company of a revolving door of willing human females.

He’d believed he’d been happy with that life. Hell, he had been happy with that life!

At least he was until Siphanthia had shown up again and begged his help against her sister, the powerful Glinfildia. After that, everything had gone sideways. The only really good thing to come out of it had been his friendship with Zan... and look where that had ended up.

Enough, he thought to himself as he tipped the bottle to his lips again. It was time to do something more.

Siph had come to see him a few days ago, asking him to return Home to teach a new generation of Shriven. He hadn’t said yes, but then again, he hadn’t exactly said no, either.

That was a lie, he chuckled. He had literally said no, and more than once.

Until she’d told him that Linda was pregnant with Zan’s child and that eventually he’d be teaching that one as well.

That changed things. That got him to pull his sword, the one Samonius had given him to replace that which Glin had destroyed, out from under the bed and get to work.

Work that was going... not so well. Downright horrible, in fact.

Why did he do this to himself? You’d think he would have learned.

When he’d agreed to get back into action against Glin, he’d been horribly out of shape, in just about every way imaginable. His reflexes had been slow, his magic weak, and his hand-to-hand skills atrophied to the point of uselessness.

He wasn’t quite that bad again, but he was definitely rusty.

Hardly in shape to train anyone, let alone a whole new group of Shriven. He needed to improve, quickly.

But it wasn’t going to happen here, cooped up in this tiny, dingy apartment.

Which led him to consider a few options.

One, he could get a different apartment. Somewhere uptown again, with a wide, open floor plan and some outdoor space. He’d pay dearly for it, of course, but that didn’t matter to him. He had plenty of human money and could always get more. However much he needed, in fact.

Or, two, he could return Home. There was more than ample room in the Palace to practice and train. That wasn’t even taking into consideration the old Shriven compound. Home had more than enough room to spread out.

Neither of those choices appealed to him at the moment. A new, bigger apartment felt like selling out the memory of his friend. Zan had lived in a place like this and his skills had never deteriorated. He had stayed as competent and deadly as he had ever been, more than a match for Dal, even being Bereft— stripped of all his magic.

Going back to Home— at least right now— felt wrong, as well. It was more than just not wanting anyone else to see him struggle with the simplest of things. He simply didn’t wish to experience the closeness of his own people around him. Not even Siph.

That left him with a third option. It wouldn’t do much for his sword-play or his magic, but it would let him practice his hand-to-hand skills.

He grinned as he finished off the bottle.

Yeah, he said out loud. That’s the answer.

He dropped the empty onto the sofa and walked to his bedroom. From the drawer of the rickety nightstand, he pulled a bright red bandanna. Smiling, he tucked it into his back pocket, carefully stowed his sword out of sight again, and headed for the door.

IN THIS PART OF THE city, it didn’t take long for Dal to find trouble. There was always someone trying to prey on somebody else. Sometimes it backfired and the would-be aggressor found themselves on the defensive. Unfortunately, though, most of the time, it worked and the victim was left bruised and bleeding, if not worse.

Which explained the gangs of young men and women who roamed the streets. It had become a numbers game, really. My crowd is bigger than your crowd, so don’t mess with us. The same type of thing that had been going on for years and showed no signs of stopping, no matter how stupid it all was.

There was something about Dal, though, some invisible aura that told the roving gangs and would-be muggers that he was not one to be trifled with. It was rare that he was threatened in any way when he walked the streets, usually only to go to the liquor store or buy food. He had to admit that he hadn’t done a very good job of carrying on Zan’s work as the Crimson Avenger. Zan had really seemed to care about these people.

Dal had no problem with humans; they were fine and sometimes provided a welcome distraction. There had even been a few over the years who he would have considered friends. But, in general, humans were crude, noisy, and sometimes cruel. They shouted their opinions about everything— no matter how wrong-headed— at anyone who would listen, and woe betide anyone who dared to disagree.

Yet, there were also times of nobility and grace. Situations when people really reached out to help others, when they showed this spark of greatness, what they were really capable of.

It never lasted, of course. But Dal had to focus on those times, not the others. He needed to become more like Zan, if he was going to stay in the human world and help them.

But was he? Siph’s offer still nagged at him. Teach a new generation of Shriven? Teach Zan’s child?

It was a serious commitment and one that he wasn’t sure he wanted. He also didn’t know for sure that he wanted to return Home. Not yet anyway.

His ruminations were disturbed by the sound he’d been listening for, even while his mind was occupied with other matters. There, just down the street, was exactly the type of thing he’d been hoping to find.

Five young men surrounded a couple of young girls. Walking with them and talking loudly. The girls walked with that universal posture of being horribly uncomfortable and scared, but not wanting to make a bad situation any worse: shoulders hunched, grocery bags clutched tight to their chests, eyes down and mouths shut.

None of which mattered to the young men. Dal could hear the words, come on, why don’t you smile? and I’ll help you with that bag. It looks heavy.

The one who said the last reached out and grabbed one of the girl’s bags. She tried to keep hold of it, but he yanked and it ripped, spilling a carton of milk and a few cans to the sidewalk.

Dal had to wonder what two pretty, young girls were doing out on their own, at this time of night. Not that they shouldn’t have been able to, but there were lots of things people should be able to do. That didn’t make it smart.

Then, the girl whose bag had ripped spoke. Words in a human language Dal didn’t know spilled from her lips faster than the tears which started down her cheeks.

Whoa! These two ain’t from here! one of the young men cried. "Wonder if they sound different all the time?"

His friends laughed at that and surrounded the girls in a tighter pack, stopping all pretense of helping. Now, the two young ladies were unable to move forward at all.

Hey, honey, one said. Why don’t you bend down and get that stuff, huh?

More laughter and lewd gestures. The two might not understand the words, but they were well aware of what the young men wanted.

Dal had seen enough. He reached into his back pocket and took out the red scarf, which he quickly tied around his lower face, hiding his nose, mouth, and chin. He wasn’t worried about his pointed ears. The glamour he kept up whenever he was outside— it was automatic after so many years away from Home— would hide anything else.

Hey, he yelled. You guys are going to move away from those girls. Just go and there won’t be any trouble.

Which really wasn’t what he wanted. Oh, he did want them to leave the girls alone, but not for the boys to move on. Not yet.

For one, he wanted the practice, and two, he wanted to teach them a lesson. Let them see how it felt to be helpless.

What are you supposed to be? one of the young men asked.

They had all turned to him at the sound of his voice, but none seemed particularly worried.

I’m the Crimson Avenger, Dal said. He didn’t manage to sound as confident as Zan had when he’d said it. As a matter of fact, Dal felt downright silly and was sure that his cheeks must have gone as red as the bandanna.

The Crimson Avenger? The group of young men laughed, but there was an undercurrent of unease in it.

Hey, man, I thought that guy was dead, one of the others said quietly.

Nah, man. He just went away. Maybe that’s him, back.

The young men were now all focused on Dal, which was giving the two girls a chance to get away. Even in their fear, however, Dal couldn’t help but notice that they scooped up the spilled groceries first.

One of the boys noticed them but didn’t move to hinder their escape. Instead, he scoffed and turned back to Dal. He grimaced and started walking forward.

This ain’t no Crimson Avenger. That dude had like short red hair. Look at this fairy. He’s just some wanna-be.

Dal nodded. He hadn’t even thought of Zan’s hair being so much different from his own long, silver hair. It didn’t matter.

What did was that they had heard of— and apparently were afraid of— the Crimson Avenger.

Now, he just needed to get into the role.

He remembered Zan’s method and tried to duplicate it. He rose to his toes and started a back-and-forth hopping motion, his fists coming up in a fighter’s stance. There was something missing, though... ah, yes.

Yip. Yip, yip, yip. Dal tried to keep his voice pitched high like Zan had. He’d said it was what some human fighter, someone Zan said was almost as good as him, did.

The effect was... well, less than he’d hoped for.

The young men stared at him, their eyes wide, and began to laugh.

Dal stopped the yipping and the bouncing.

Screw it, he said aloud, and ran at the group.

That stopped their laughter, but it didn’t make them flee. Instead, they stood their ground and converged on him en masse.

This was more like it! Dal dodged a fist, spun away from a kick, and lashed out, catching one a glancing blow on the chin. He was much stronger than a human and had been trained by the best, so he pulled his punch. Even so, it was enough to drop the youth like a stone.

Dal realized that he was smiling. It felt good to move! To strike! To avoid the blows of his enemies.

A quick kick to the gut put another one down, this one hunched over and puking, which left three of them.

They backed up, eyeing him suspiciously.

Thought you said this wasn’t him, one snarled.

It isn’t. This from the one who’d noticed the hair.

Sure fights like him.

No, Dal thought to himself, I don’t. Zan would have put me down any number of times by now. But it’s close enough for you guys.

He doesn’t, the first one insisted, and Dal had to give him credit for being more observant than he would have thought. He’s slower.

Maybe, Dal said aloud. Still too fast for you though.

And he proved it. He lunged forward and seconds later, two more of the young men were lying on the pavement, one clutching his knee and moaning, while the other was completely out.

Which was when Dal felt the blow to the side of his head, directly behind his right ear. It was hard enough to pitch him forward and stung like crazy. The last young man— the one who’d been so observant— had rabbit-punched him a good one.

Dal’s cheeks colored again, half in anger and half in embarrassment. He’d let a human get in on him! That was simply unacceptable. Not when there were only five of them.

He spun to find that the last youth hadn’t run, as he would have expected. Instead, he’d pulled a knife from somewhere, the kind that folded in on itself, and now stood with it held out, waving it threateningly.

To another human, he probably would have looked like he knew what he was doing with the weapon. To Dal, it looked amateurish at best.

You don’t want to do that, kid, he said. Why don’t you take these guys home and think about ways you cannot be such jerks?

The young man laughed briefly. "You’re not so tough, ‘Crimson Avenger.’ Or whoever you are. Maybe I’ll teach you not to interfere with us. What do you think?"

Dal shook his head, stepped forward, and knocked the knife from the kid’s hand with a quick slap. On the return, he caught the young man across the face. He let a little more of his strength power that blow, and the kid spun around and crashed to the ground.

Dal looked down at the groaning, writhing young men sprawled around him. He didn’t feel any sympathy toward them. No more than they would have for their victims if he hadn’t intervened.

What he did feel was annoyed. He grimaced and rubbed at the side of his head as he turned to make his way back to his apartment. He really needed a lot more practice if he was going to become the new Shriven Elder.

Chapter 2

OVER THE NEXT COUPLE of days, Dal kept at it. He cleaned up his apartment, got rid of all the empty bottles and food containers he’d allowed to accumulate and even took his bedding to the laundromat down the block. He practiced his battle magic at night, keeping various items spinning in the air around him and then sending them flying at the wall, only to bring them up short just before they hit.

He exercised and ate better. He even cut down on the wine.

It was still hard to practice with his sword, but he pushed the few pieces of furniture he owned up against the walls of the room and worked in the center. It wasn’t perfect, but he supposed it did give him a little more confidence with up-close fighting. Every Shriven knew that you didn’t always get your choice of battlefield.

In truth, swordplay was the least of Dal’s worry. It had always been his greatest strength. He was good with battle-magic and unarmed combat. Better than most, actually. But the sword... that was where his artistry stood out. There were few— very few— that had any chance of standing against him if he had a blade in his hand.

He supposed that practicing with his sword was more to give him comfort than out of any real need to improve. Years of training, under the almost— and at times, outright— abusive teachings of the Shriven Elders had ingrained it into him so deeply that he didn’t think it would ever leave him.

No, what he really needed was to hone his fighting reflexes. That was obvious by the fact that he’d actually been hit by a human.

So, every night, Dal hit the streets, donning the Crimson Avenger mask whenever he saw trouble, and his earlier lapse which had allowed him to be struck never reoccurred. No one even came close, and Dal left a string of bruised and broken bodies behind him, until the mere sight of his red bandanna was enough to send trouble running.

And while that was nice, it also defeated the purpose of what he was trying to do.

That was driven home when he was walking down one of the worst streets in the neighborhood a few nights later. Not only were there no gangs of young men to break up, but there were also no problems at all. There were even a few children playing on the sidewalks while their parents sat on the steps, enjoying the warm summer air.

He stopped and took a minute to look around.

The laughing and smiling made him realize that he’d been all wrong in his thinking of what he was doing. He’d been viewing it as a means to train, against those who really posed no threat to him. Not even when the occasional gun had been pulled. Dal had simply removed it before it could be used, a couple of times by the subtle use of magic.

But that’s not what Zan had been doing. It wasn’t why he’d become the Crimson Avenger.

This, Dal thought, as he watched the humans. This was what it was about. Making it so that people didn’t have to live in fear.

In a way, it was similar to what they’d all tried to do when Glinfildia came back. She needed to die, so that others could simply live.

Maybe it’s time for me to move on, after all, he muttered to himself.

Still, it didn’t hurt to take one more stroll around, just in case. There was always someone just waiting for the right opportunity.

It took him a little while to find such a person. Down a side street, one man had another pinned against the wall of a building. The pinned man wore the dirty, shabby clothes and had the gaunt, unkempt appearance of one living on the street, while the other wore much nicer clothes.

Dal put on his mask and entered the alley.

Something wrong here? he asked.

The large man holding the other glanced at him. He looked Dal up and down and then released the homeless man.

You’re that Crimson Avenger guy everyone’s so scared of, he rumbled.

Dal studied his foe. He was large for a human, with muscular arms and a wide chest. His hair was cut short and topped a flat face with cold, blue eyes that studied Dal in return.

Dal smiled despite himself. This was something new.

This human wasn’t afraid of him at all, even knowing who he was. In fact, he looked over Dal the same way that Dal studied him. He took notice of the way Dal stood, the way he carried himself, and his build. In short, this man was a fighter as much as Dal was.

Only, this man was still human, and was, therefore, not going to be a problem.

I can’t imagine why someone like you feels the need to pick on someone like him, Dal said.

The man glanced down at his victim, who hadn’t moved. He sat slumped against the wall, staring from the human to Dal and back, muttering something incomprehensible to himself.

This one? the man rumbled. I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s not worth your time.

Still, Dal shrugged. You know. Crimson Avenger and all.

I get it. Defender of the weak, et cetera.

Dal nodded. Afraid so.

Let’s get to it, then, the man replied and brought his fists up.

He was good. Dal could see why the man had such confidence in his abilities. He knew how to move and how to read his opponent. He was strong and fast and could throw a punch.

Unfortunately for him, Dal wasn’t human.

Less than a minute into the fight, Dal knew he could end it at any time. The human left himself open in ways that normally wouldn’t have mattered, but against Dal they might as well have been gaping holes. He wasn’t fast enough to lay a finger on Dal, had Dal not wished it.

Dal found himself enjoying the fight. He toyed with the human, letting him land a punch or two and pulling his own, in return.

After a few minutes, he stepped back and held his hands up. The human was panting; Dal’s breath was even and calm.

Had enough? Dal asked. We can stop if you want.

The human glared at him and wiped sweat from his forehead. You are good. Maybe your reputation isn’t exaggerated.

You can walk away, Dal told him. Just... don’t come here anymore. Leave these people alone.

I can’t promise that, the man shrugged. You know how it is. Orders to follow and all.

How many evils had been committed in the world, in all the worlds, by those saying that exact same thing?

Whose orders? Dal asked. Maybe he would just take this fight to them.

Can’t say.

Can’t, or won’t?

Same thing in this case, the man said. I’d like to keep my head where it is.

Dal studied him again for a moment. You fight well. It’d be a shame to have to...

I appreciate that. But, really, it’d be better if you did. If I walk away, I’ll either be back here as soon as you leave, or I’m dead anyway.

I can help you, Dal offered.

Nah, too late for that. Some choices you can’t take back. Listen, I do appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. So let me make it easy on you.

The man sprang forward to attack, coming in with a ferocious upper-cut that Dal easily avoided.

All right, then, he said.

Two blows later and the big human was sprawled on the ground.

Dal turned to the homeless man. You’re safe now, he told him. You can go on to... well, wherever it is you want to go.

That felt wholly inadequate, but Dal really didn’t know where the homeless went at night. A mission? A doorway? It wasn’t something he’d ever cared about enough to look into.

The homeless man continued to stare at Dal and mutter. Finally, he slowly slid back up against the wall. He shuffled off without a direct word to Dal, leaning against the wall for support.

Dal watched until he reached the end of the alley and rounded the corner. He was about to turn away himself, when he noticed something written on the wall at the far end. The homeless man’s shoulder had scraped right over it.

Since it was several feet away, down a poorly-lit alley, Dal was sure the graffiti didn’t say what he thought it did. The very idea was just ridiculous.

He stopped abruptly when he closed the distance, though. Not so much because he chose to, but because he simply froze. The world seemed to tilt and he experienced a weird kind of out-of-body sensation.

There was no way he was reading this. It wasn’t possible. How would it have gotten there? Who could’ve done this?

But it was.

On the wall, spray-painted like any other tag, were the words, Glinfildia Lives, in stark, black letters.

Dal reached out and touched the paint. He studied it compared to the other examples around it and on the other wall. He was no expert, but this wasn’t old.

Whoever had written it, had done so in the last few days.

Dal staggered back down the alley, his head spinning.

How would a human even know the name Glinfildia? It wasn’t like it was a common human name. And Glin had never cared about the humans, not even before she was exiled by her parents. They were beneath her, useful only when she could take them over completely and use them as cannon fodder. So, how?

Oh. Dal stopped and glanced back. It’s one of us.

He felt stupid. Just because he was the only one he knew of who had remained in the human world, it didn’t mean he was alone there. All of his people knew how to make gates, and it would have been easy enough for some kid, some teenager, to slip through and paint that on the wall. They were probably all excited by the thought of such a dangerous slogan, like stupid kids everywhere.

He shook his head, trying to remember if he had ever been that silly. Of course, his upbringing was a little different. The Elders didn’t give the Shriven trainees much time to worry about spray-painting an alley wall in another world.

Then again, Dal had to smile at the memory of some of the other things he’d done. He’d incurred the wrath of the Elders on more than one occasion, usually by being the loudest mouth in the room, cracking jokes when he shouldn’t have, or pulling some sort of prank. It hadn’t been easy for Dal to take his training seriously, even if later on he came to depend on it for his life.

He took a deep breath and let it out. He’d have to report this to Siph. She’d want to know that someone was coming back here and that they were using Glin’s name. Not that any human would have any idea what it meant, but still... it was too soon to have anyone, stupid or not, idolizing that name.

Glinfildia would never deserve such a thing, actually. Not after what she did and who she’d killed. Not just Zan, although that was by far the most personal to Dal. Glin had been responsible for the deaths of so many of her own people, including Orbanieus and Mabthandia, the former king and queen, as well as the entire Court. Who knew what wonders no longer inhabited the world because of her cruelty?

No. No one, stupid kid or not, should be looking up to her in any way.

He supposed it was a good excuse to—

Oh, sorry friend, Dal said.

Another man had come into the alley at the same time Dal had been exiting it, still wool-gathering and not paying any attention to where he was going, and Dal had walked right into him. The man stumbled and clutched at Dal to keep from falling.

The rank odor of an unwashed body hit him before anything else. Then, Dal noticed the clothing and the gaunt appearance. It was the same man that Dal had saved from a beating. After he left the alley from the opposite end, he must have circled around the block. He moved pretty fast for a guy who couldn’t seem to get away from the wall a few minutes ago.

You shouldn’t go down there, Dal said, gently pushing the man away. That other guy is still there. He’ll wake up soon, so you go somewhere else. Okay?

The man kept his eyes down and swayed slightly. He whispered something that Dal didn’t hear.

I’m sorry, what was that? You’ll have to speak up a little.

He imagined the man was probably asking for money and a flash of annoyance went through Dal. It wasn’t enough that he had just saved him? It was gone quickly, however, and he dug into a pocket, looking for a few bills. After all, safe or not, the guy still had to eat.

Here you go.

Dal held out the bills but the man didn’t take them. Instead, he stayed where he was and whispered again.

I still can’t hear you, Dal said. This was getting annoying. If he couldn’t get the guy to look at him and take the money, he’d leave him there. There was only so much he could do.

Then, the man did lift his head. Dal gasped and took a step back.

The homeless man’s eyes were clouded over with a white film and roved around wildly, as if he didn’t have control over them. Dal had seen this before, when Glin had—

That was impossible. Glinfildia was dead and no one else knew what foul magic she had even used to do this!

She’s coming,