The Third could not believe their good fortune. The task Zant had set them in was humiliating, demeaning. To rendezvous with Bulblin was a job far beneath their station as one of the Nine, and Zant's disappointment in them after failing to capture Midna rankled. Now arriving at the spot where the light spirit Faron had met its end, the Third saw that they had an opportunity to redeem themselves.
Bulblin had been found, alone, astride his steed in the woods when the Third had emerged from the corridor of shadows. Their mood, already sour, had not improved to see that neither of the two quarries that Zant had sent Bulblin to retrieve were in tow. It had taken more than a little restraint not to simply melt this oafish beast into a puddle of boiled blood on the spot; more bad news was the last thing that they wanted to have to report back to their king and prophet. Fortunately for Bulblin, he was not completely useless, and the Third had stayed their hand.
"Our lord demands that you report your progress, creature," they sneered. Bulblin sat astride his mount, either too brave, prideful or stupid to recognize that he was face to face with a higher being.
"My soldiers have the weapon," the fat creature answered steadily, laying one hand across the haft of its enormous battle axe. "Zant will have his prize in time."
That, at least, was good news. The sword and its wielder, according to the word of their new god, was the only true threat remaining to them. Midna and her pet were annoyances, but they were no real issue. The Third had only ever witnessed fear in their king when he spoke of the Hero, and it was that trepidation that kept the veil of twilight from settling over the farmlands to the south. To provoke their enemy into action would be a mistake.
But he was too dangerous to leave alive, Zant had explained. Hence Bulblin was chosen to act as reconnaissance. None of the Nine really expected the brute to succeed, but using him to draw the hero out from hiding would pose far less risk. Better to use someone expendable than waste resources less replaceable than the goblinish warlord.
"And the Hero's Heir? Is the line of heroes ended?" the Third asked. They could guess the answer, but wanted to be sure that Bulblin himself confirmed it before reporting back to Zant.
Bulblin glanced down the trail and did not answer right away. The Third bristled at the open disrespect. They were a sorcerer of the Twili, a sorcerer in the service of King Zant, greatest king the Twilight Realm had ever seen! And this thing, this little creature dared keep silent. They grit their teeth, nearly ground them down to stumps in frustration.
"Speak!" The Third ordered. Bulblin looked back at them slowly.
"You think me a fool," he said evenly. "I know this."
"You were given a task by our king, animal. Is the task complete?"
"Zant fears this man, the man he sends us to destroy. Fears him too much to risk sending you or your kin, though your might far exceeds mine."
"Our Lord fears nothing!" The Third hissed. Bulblin smiled.
"He expects myself and my soldiers to die, to break against his foe. Our deaths serve no purpose save to draw this heir out from hiding. I have lived enough battles to recognize a feint when I see one."
"Do you mean to tell me that you defy our king's command?" The Third almost hoped that Bulblin intended exactly that. It would give them an excuse to execute him in Zant's name. It was not to be.
"I do not defy him, but I also will not place blind loyalty over good sense. I will draw out this heir in my own fashion. My soldiers and I have already raided the township to the south, and took some prisoners there."
"Taking slaves was not your assignment…"
"Do you know anything of hunting, wizard?"
The Third paused. They did not. There was never any need for it in the Twilit Citadel, where food came as they asked for it or was served at feast. Worrying about catching and killing and preparing it was someone else's concern. Someone lowlier and less important then them. They did not speak.
"My soldiers and I hunt often. We know we'll how to capture all kinds of prey, but none moreso than that which is mightier than we. Do you know how to hunt something stronger than yourself?"
The Third stood straighter."There are none mightier than the Nine."
Bulblin laughed, long and heartily. "There is always one mightier than you, wizard. To catch a predator, one must set a trap. Our quarry is the heir to a great hero, and what hero would not come to the rescue of children in peril?"
Now the Third understood, and they could begrudgingly admit that it was a good plan. Smarter to let the hero come to them rather than charge straight at him, lest the trapper end up entrapped themself. They were about to speak again, when everything seemed to shift around them.
From somewhere nearby, hidden by the trees, erupted a pillar of pure white light, so bright that it smarted the eyes to observe. The Third shrieked, hurling a sleeve over their hood to cover their face from the sudden inferno of brightness. They could feel the comforting stillness of the Twilight melting away around them, could feel the way their flesh seemed to heat nearly to immolation even through their thick robes. This was not possible, the Third thought frantically. Somehow, the veil of Twilight was lifting.
As they lowered their arm, blinking their throbbing eyes painfully, the Third saw that the deed was already done. The sky was a piercing, garish, cloudless blue, and the way that the air moved around them felt unnatural and thin. Even their powers seemed diminished, dwindling under the invasive light that seemed to twist and writhe around them, as if it were alive and searching for a way to wriggle under the Third's robes and seize them.
"What is this?!" The Third snarled furiously, still blinking, barely able to squint through the stinging bright saturation of the world around them.
Bulblin seemed unaffected, still astride his mount, stroking his fat chin thoughtfully. "My soldiers will be dead, then," he muttered, more to himself than the Third.
"What do you know of this?! How has the light returned?! The Spirit is dead! My fellows made certain of it!"
Bulblin shrugged his heavy shoulders, "I know not how; your magic is foreign to me, but I may know who is responsible."
"Midna…" the Third growled fiercely under their breath. There was no one else it could be.
"Indeed. My soldiers and I spotted her and her companion in these woods some minutes ago."
"And you did nothing to capture her?! To kill her?!" the Third howled.
"I gave chase as best I could," the warlord replied, and the calmness of his tone infuriated the Third even more. "The man she travels with evaded me, but my scouts have his trail. I sent them to retrieve him and the princess for me."
"You witless vermin!" The Third screamed, whirling from Bulblin before he could retort. Despite their discomfort, there was already a dim hope forming in their mind. Midna was nearby, and the Third was almost certain that they had injured and exhausted her during their last confrontation. Zant had forbidden it, but this was the opportunity that the Third has hoped for to redeem themself.
Zant would forgive their failure to catch Midna before if they could kill her now, and the Third was certain that such an accomplishment would behoove Zant to forgive their transgression as well.
"Remain here, see to the weapon and to your snare. I will deal with this myself," they shot over their shoulder to Bulblin, who did not answer. The Third did not bother to wait and see if he would. Time was of the essence now; the return of the light to this wood would alert Zant and the other members of the Nine in only a few minutes. They could expect that some of their fellows would be dispatched to investigate and to lower the veil of Twilight back over the land. The Third did not want to share any glory for this victory, not of it could be helped.
Using the Corridor of Shadows to travel less than a mile down the trail was perhaps a pointless use of their powers, but the Third decided it was necessary to spare themself the humiliation of letting Bulblin see them run. A court sorcerer put little stock in physical prowess, and their thick robes were hardly suited for a hurried dash through the undergrowth.
So it had passed, and now the Third stood upon the sands of the spring where Midna lay. Once again they had found her, and this time there would be no escape. The little imp was not injured, at least not that the Third could see, but that would not matter; they were stronger than her, that much could be surmised from their last encounter. The edges of their lips pulled into a slow, cruel smile. The savage that Midna called servant was there as well, bloodied and hobbled, but alive, which was more than could be said about Bulblin's soldiers.
"We should leave here before more enemies come," the hoarse voice of the mongrel could be heard as the Third stepped forward.
"Too late," they answered, and saw how both of them whirled, looking as guilty as children caught sneaking sweets. To the Third's eyes Midna did appear different, her form undiminished by the stinging sunlight that surrounded them. It was not difficult to recognize what she had done, the bargain she must have struck with the not-quite-dead light spirit that had once dwelled here. She had done the unthinkable, taken the hated light unto herself, entwined her very soul with the magic that had seen their people banished and ostracized. It was a disgrace, a betrayal that the Third could not brook.
"What have you done to yourself, Princess?" the Third sneered, "Not only are you a weakling, but a traitor to your people as well. Bathing this world in ugly brightness again, your father would be rolling in his grave."
Midna's eye narrowed in anger at their words, and the Third smiled wider. They were going to enjoy this. Even weakened by the light of day, they knew that Midna would be no match for them. She could seek the aid of Faron if she wished, it would make no difference save to make her even more unworthy of life. Not only was she a failure to their people, but now a filthy traitor as well. She had bargained, parlayed with their ancient enemy, and even if the Third had felt even a shred of sympathy for her plight, it was gone now. She deserved every anguish that they were about to deliver unto her.
Power surged inside of the Third, they felt the strength of their magic seeping from their skin, tainting the very air around them in an inky miasma. Midna leapt up into the air, hovering before them. The Third hoped that their barbed words had carried enough sting to galvanize a real fight out of their former princess this time; they wanted to kill her quickly, but still have a tale of triumph worth telling to Zant when they returned.
An impact struck against the Third's legs, a flower of pain suddenly blooming as something heavy crashed into the side of their knee. There was a sort of shifting, grinding feeling as of bone sliding from alignment, and they realized their folly just a moment too late. Midna's servant. In their confidence, they had forgotten to get rid of him, and now they had paid for it dearly. The wooden stave that the mutt carried crashed against the Third's legs again, and they stumbled, unable to regain themself. As weight fell upon their injured leg, a fresh agony burst from toe to hip, and they found that they couldn't support their own weight anymore. Midna seemed frozen in surprise, as though even she had forgotten her servant, and as the Third collapsed into the water with a splash, the northman knelt over him, unable to stand himself, but drawing back the club for another heavy blow.
The Third screamed, rage and pain and utter disgust surging through them, and they hurled an arm up to shield their face as the bloody stave traced an arc down towards them. The head struck home, catching the Third's wrist, and they howled as bone splintered and it felt as though everything beyond their forearm had been turned to jelly. Pain clouded their mind, a pain like they had never felt before. This was not how sorcerers were meant to fight! They could not think, could not focus on anything at all but the thought of getting this rabid animal away before he could strike them a third time. The Third's good hand came up, and the magic flowed through them now, guided by their desperate will. A ward formed around their fist, meeting the stave as it swung once more, and as it struck it splintered, snapping in two so fierce was its flight.
"Cur!" the Third roared, letting fury guide them, and they cast death at the northman as he scrambled back, grasping for anything he could use to defend himself. Invisible hands seized him, pinning his limbs to his sides and lifting him from the water. The Third squeezed, squeezed so tightly that their own fingernails cut into the skin of their palm, and they could practically hear the snap as first one rib gave, and then another…
Fire burst around them. Midna had recovered from her shock, and now she was retaliating. The Third hissed as their robes caught and smoldered. Heat made their skin crisp, and they hurled the northman back down into the water. Midna was the threat, the real threat, they had to deal with her first…
The waters of the spring curled up and over them, drowning the tongues of flame that licked at them, and to buy time the Third hurled the water at Midna in a wave. As she carved through it, the Third conjured a tide of scuttling, crawling things that slid out from the hem of their robes and leapt up from the water to bite and snap at Midna. At her command the crawling things turned to sand, then hardened into shards of glass, and flew back at the Third.
They concentrated through the pain, the mental toll of the back-and-forth magical duel more than they had anticipated. It was a difficult task, recalling the runes and phrases in their head that spoke the language of the gods, inscribing reality itself and re-writing the laws of the world to obey them and turn Midna;s attacks against her. The Third was fluent, as fluent as any sorcerer was in that arcane art, but the royal family was privy to runes and phrases that they were not, the vocabulary an oral tradition passed from monarch to monarch in secret. Midna's curse disoriented her, made her mind a jumble that was difficult to decipher into the runes she needed, but she had adapted marvelously. Even with her power and versatility stifled, the princess of the Twilight was creative enough to work around her failings.
But it would not be enough, the Third decided. Despite their injuries, and Midna's competence, they were quicker than her, and as the mages battled back and forth, now Midna's strength was fading. Her wards could not protect her, fully, and one spell, then two slipped through her defenses. A bruise against her thigh, a surgical slit across her cheek, the Third was whittling away at her now, and while neither Twili was used to the pain of injury, the Third bore it with more grace than her. She was growing sloppy.
Footsteps behind them, or rather the clumsy splashing of that oafish outlander, and the Third did not spare him a glance. They could tell from the noise where he was going; an attempt to circle around from behind and attack the Third's flank. They flung out a sudden cloud of burning steam from the folds of their robes, fanning out behind them to halt his advance, and let out a frustrated grunt as Midna turned yet another attack back on them. This was growing tiresome, and time was not on their side before their fellows arrived to steal the glory for themselves.
There was a whistle of steel, and the Third lost all cohesion. Another flower of pain burst to life in their right shoulder, a sharp length of iron burying itself just beneath the bone of their shoulder blade. They lost focus, their attack on Midna flagged, and now the mongrel was upon them, one fist clutching at the Third's hood and dragging them backwards into the water, the other gripping the hilt of the dagger that had buried itself in their back. The steam should have stopped him from getting close enough to strike…
The Third fell backwards, the waters of the spring rushing up over them as the northman pushed them down. Water filled their eyes, their nostrils, and a gasp of agony sent bubbles spitting from their mouth. This was not right, this could not happen! Midna and her little creature could not triumph, not now! The Third could not fail Zant again. With their good hand, they grasped at the northman's fingers that held them beneath the water. His grip was iron, too strong to break, and in a panic all magic seemed to flee from the Third's mind. Their legs kicked and thrashed, and the pain in their limbs and body seemed to get worse and worse. Through the blur of water over their eyes they could see Midna floating above them, hovering just out of reach. Traitor! Blasphemer! Witch! Fury and hate boiled inside them, and the Third screamed into the water, salty tears stinging their eyes.
Everything seemed to be fading away, and the Third could not keep themselves from drawing breath much longer… Their lungs would fill with water and they would die here, die a failure to their king and their god. They could not let it happen! There was a sudden motion, and the northman's hands were gone from them. Midna seemed to look away, and the Third scrambled to burst out from the shallow water, their lungs burning with desperation to draw breath. Air, nothing besides air mattered in that moment.
Their head broke the surface, hood soaked and plastered to their head, their wounded hand and leg throbbing with pain as they tried and failed to rise to their feet.
"Third," said a familiar voice nearby. "You should not be here."
Two more of the Nine had arrived.