CHAPTER FIVE: A light in the dark.

"You're sure of it, Guildmaster?"

"Yes, Tarrant. There's no doubt about it. Jack has returned."

The old man's face was crestfallen, and suddenly, he looked a thousand years old. Upon Jack's return, 2 weeks after his dream, a sudden burst of icy cold fear spiked his heart. It couldn't be misunderstood. The monster had awakened.

Weaver glanced over at Tarrant, the one would-be Hero he'd managed to recruit in his time as Guildmaster. They had met in the woods near Knothole Glade, and he had assisted Weaver in driving a pack of marauding Balverines from the village. With a blade in his hand, Tarrant had resembled a hero of the old days. Where he had obtained such skill was beyond Weaver's comprehension. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth…" He'd thought to himself on the cold, wet day.

The second day after returning to the Guild, Weaver had been sitting by the fire in the Entrance Hall, reading a rather interesting story titled "The Fall of Lucien Fairfax", when the Oak Doors had swung open, and Tarrant himself had strode in. 6 and a half feet tall with a shaggy mop of shoulder length hair (black, but with flecks of gray), barrel-chested, a longsword strapped to his back, he had smiled down from the doorway at the old Guildmaster, before requesting that he be allowed to join the Guild.

Weaver couldn't have asked for a better first Hero. Tarrant was skilful and brave, but also a quick and eager learner. He had taken Weaver's lessons in his stride, and even managed to produce a decently strong Shock spell.

Now, the tall man placed his hand on Weaver's shoulder, a troubled look crossing his weather-beaten face. "We will rise to meet him, Weaver." He said stoutly.

"Yes, yes. Of course we will." Weaver muttered in reply. "But Jack is… Well, Jack! He's unbeatable, impossibly powerful and insane to boot. As strong as you are, he'd tear you to pieces with both hands tied behind his back. No one ever rivaled his strength. Not I, not William, not Maze, only…" He sat up straight, eyes wide.

"What is it?" asked Tarrant. "Only who?"

"The Jackslayer. He defeated Jack in ages past. Not once, but twice." Weaver's eyes were full of eager anticipation. "Surely you know the story of the Jackslayer? The Hero of Oakvale?"

"Yes, of course." Replied Tarrant, his eyes narrowing. "But he vanished, hundreds of years ago. Thousands even. He can't help us. Neither can the Sword of Aeons. It was destroyed, as I'm sure you know."

"I know. But he defeated Jack, whilst the demon wielded the Sword!" he stood quickly, pacing back and forth. "If he were here, why, Jack and his minions wouldn't stand a chance! They'd be defeated before-"

"Weaver." Tarrant's slow, deep voice cut across Weaver's vocalized thoughts. "He's dead, long gone. He's not going to come riding in on a white horse and save us all. We'll have to handle this on our own."

Weaver smiled. "That's where you're wrong. You're forgetting that I, too, am supposed to be dead. I was in my grave whilst the Hero of Oakvale still walked the Earth."

Silence met this statement. Tarrant's mouth opened, and then closed. Of course, Weaver had been returned to life by the powers of Scythe and the magic of the Chamber of Fate. Would the same work for the Jackslayer?

"I believe, Tarrant, that I will be able to summon him here, as William did with me. Although it will take time, for I do not know that magic off the top of my head. It is very old magic, from the Old Kingdom, as it were."

"How will you do it?" asked Tarrant, finally regaining his voice.

"You're forgetting that many items were left undamaged in the Chamber of Fate. One of them just so happens to be a very old grimoire, from the days of the Archons." He said this all very slowly and deliberately. "I never thought it would be needed, but fate, it seems, has other plans."

"What do you need me to do, Weaver?" Tarrant straightened his posture, gripping the hilt of his sword. His face was set and determined.

"In the morning, you'll need to address that situation with the Hobbes in Greatwood. Then, I believe, a pair of traders are seeking an escort from Brightwood to Westcliff."

"Yes, and… Beg your pardon?" Tarrant's stance became slightly less rigid, as confusion hit him. "No, I meant, help with reviving the Hero."

"Take care of the Hobbes in Greatwood, then see about escorting the Traders." Weaver repeated, smiling and nodding. "The best help you can give me is to continue on with the mission of the Guild. Defend people, destroy evil."

Tarrant opened his mouth to argue, and then it fell shut. He was right. What good would a Heroes Guild be if both members were hiding underground, trying to revive a fallen comrade, when there were still people to defend?

"Very well, Guildmaster. I trust your judgment." He nodded respectfully to the old man, although part of him still wished to help with bringing the Jackslayer back to life.

The next morning, as Tarrant set off towards the towering Greatwood (even greater than the original had been, according to Weaver's memory), Weaver stood alone in the Chamber of Fate. He was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the steps leading to the raised Guild Seal, an old and leather bound tome open in front of him. His lips moved soundlessly as he read from the book.

It was difficult to decipher, as it was written in an odd variation of the Archon tongue, used exclusively by the old magicians. He felt it would take him a day or two to work out the jumble of words and runes, then perhaps even longer to summon the Hero. He had no fears of Jack attacking immediately, of course. So a few days didn't seem like much to him, not yet anyway. They could afford the time, so to speak. Chances were Jack knew nothing of the Guild yet…