It told the story of mere children, Finn and Emmie, of the last active Legend Hunter, Hugo the Great, of Estravon the Assessor. Of gateways and lost Legend Hunters. Of time travel and a beach battle.
The message further instructed Lucien to read up on it, check all the reports and to write a report about those reports. And then he would be expected to report back on whether there was anything further to report.
He was ordered to do all this without delay.
Naturally, Lucien went for lunch first. Later, munching on a salad sandwich, he licked a finger, turned the pages, peered at a blurry photograph of Darkmouth’s beach post-battle, which showed a carpet of desiccated Legends half buried under collapsed earth. He marvelled quietly at this scene.
What Finn, Emmie, Estravon and Hugo had achieved simply by returning from the Infested Side was unprecedented. Here was a small group of people – a Legend Hunter, an Assessor, two children – who had done not just something extraordinary, but almost unbelievable.
They had gone to a stale and ruined world full of creatures hellbent on destroying humans. A place where, it was said, even the soil tried to kill you. And they had lived to tell a story that would echo through the generations.
As he pushed a rogue piece of lettuce into his mouth, Lucien felt a twinge of envy towards those Half-Hunters who had been there for the battle. He had a bolt of longing for the adventure experienced by mere children, especially that boy Finn who had now gone through two gateways in his lifetime and come back alive each time.
Lucien was here in Liechtenstein, twiddling his thumbs, shuffling through bits of paper, finding occasional excitement from seeing how far he could tip his chair back on two legs before he fell over.
Meanwhile, Darkmouth was the last battlefront in a long war against Legends. And it was home to a true hero. There was no doubt about Finn’s heroism. No doubt whatsoever.
Unless you thought about it.
Which Lucien began to do.
Finn sat on the edge of his bed, his toes wriggling in giant claw slippers he’d got for Christmas, knuckles pressed hard into his stinging eyes as he tried to rub away the images of the night before. As morning sun slanted through the blinds, his mind was still unable to comprehend the reappearance of a man he thought long gone, but who was back. Just not in a form Finn recognised. He’d called his father immediately and together with Emmie they’d spent the late hours examining a scene none of them could fully understand.
As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, he was waking to a momentous couple of days. The Completion Ceremony would take place tonight. He would be thirteen tomorrow. It had been building to this his whole life.
But, right now, something else was beginning to dominate his senses.
Pancakes. He could smell pancakes.
He stood and put his head out of the bedroom door.
“Something’s going on,” said Clara, passing him on her way to the stairs. “Something is always going on.”
Finn didn’t know what she knew, and thought it best not to offer any information. He didn’t like holding things back from his mother, but neither did he want to be responsible for blurting out that a couple of Half-Hunters had been disintegrated by the returning phantom of Mr Glad. That kind of thing would spoil anyone’s morning.
He followed his mother, trudging downstairs and realising he could hear a couple of voices in the kitchen already.
“Do you want more pickles with that?” he heard his father asking.
“Mmmm-mmmm,” he heard Broonie agree, his mouth clearly full, presumably with pancakes and pickles. This was highly unusual.
Clara reappeared in the hallway, grabbing her keys. “I know this is a big day for you, Finn. But I really need to get out before that breakfast is over.”
Finn didn’t know what she was talking about. “Mam, why is Dad making Broonie pancakes?”
“Last meal of a condemned man,” said Clara, throwing on her jacket and heading for the front door. “A condemned Hogboon actually. Your dad’s looking after things before the Completion tonight. Anyway, it’s going to be a crazy day for you. For us. So I’m going to go to work and find something more relaxing to do for a while. Maybe look at pictures of rotting teeth or something.”
He could hear Broonie slurping while Hugo asked him if he would like more moss on his pancakes. Clara sighed and left.
Finn went into the kitchen, the shuffling of his huge slippers announcing him.
“Hey, Finn,” his dad said, with a cheeriness so forced Finn knew it could only be building up to something bad.
Finn gave him a wary look. Broonie raised a knobbly hand in acknowledgement, unable to speak because his mouth was so full of pancakes, moss and something that looked like a fat twig. Or a skinny slug. Finn couldn’t be sure.
“I was just explaining to Broonie about what happened last night,” said Hugo.
“Nasty business,” said Broonie, specks of food spraying from his mouth. “That scoundrel Mr Glad is back. Doesn’t bode well.”
“No,” said Finn, unsure about what was going on here.
Hugo spooned some more moss on to Broonie’s plate. “I’ve had to tell the Council of Twelve about this,” he said to Finn. “We’ve got some ghostly version of Mr Glad disappearing Half-Hunters into thin air, and he said those words …”
“Tick, tock,” said Finn, still watching Broonie slurp up his treat.
“Tick, tock is not good. Tick, tock sounds like something’s about to go off. The Twelve were on their way to your ceremony anyway, so there’s no point in trying to keep this to ourselves any longer.”
Finn had hoped for a bit more reassurance than this. That his father was stumped was not a good sign.
“The ceremony is definitely going ahead then …?” asked Finn, torn between a desire to be made a Legend Hunter and the hope it might be done without too much fuss.
“I’d expect so,” said Hugo, matter of fact, while fishing about in a drawer in search of something. “Even if things are going badly, the Council of Twelve likes a spectacular event. In fact, I was just telling Broonie what a big day it is for you.”
“I’ll stay out of your way,” said Broonie, licking his lips clean of squished pickles.
“And I was reminding Broonie,” continued Hugo in a pointed tone, “that lots of special guests are due in Darkmouth. The Council of Twelve. More Half-Hunters. The golden monkeys.”
“Ah no, are they really doing the golden monkey thing?” groaned Finn.
“They won’t get so much as a whiff of this old Hogboon,” said Broonie, giving his armpit a quick sniff. “No need to worry on that score.”
Hugo turned, and Finn saw that he had a roll of electrical tape and a pair of scissors in his hand. Broonie realised