[Archive Entry]

  [Date: Late Summer, 3301 A.D.]

  [Archive Name: Anathema]

  [Mission: Recruitment]

  [Archivist’s Note: When the world seems to have crumbled — look to the stars. Perhaps your journey has only just begun.]

  The silence of the thicket was shattered by the crunch of underbrush, the rustle of leaves, and two heavy breaths. Trees flashed by, gullies gave way to plains, and jaws snapped shut with a dull thud—again and again, catching nothing. Sinking fangs into flesh, surviving at expense of others is the lot of a predator. A rabbit jumped out into the clearing, slipped between leather-booted legs, dove beneath a wagon, and was gone. The wolf, however, was met by a wall of shields and spears. The beast crouched down and snorted; he was hungry, yet his instincts warned him: those creatures armed with gleaming fangs and wrapped in dead skin were dangerous. The wolf’s amber eyes flashed from under its brow. Without turning, it took a few steps back, then vanished into the forest like a white shadow.

  "Quite a large critter," chuckled a young man sitting inside the carriage, dressed in an indigo-black mantle embroidered with gold trim.

  "Huh, you call that a beast? Such a joke." The caravan master yawned, waving a hand dismissively. "Creatures have grown cowardly these days, nothing like they were ten years ago."

  "And what was it like ten years ago, dear Muresh?"

  "Are you serious, mage?" The merchant’s eyebrows shot up. "Heralds were shouting about this on every corner! What hole did you crawl out of?"

  "I was studying at the Academy of High Sorcery. Reading books."

  "Clearly not enough, if you don’t know your own homeland’s history," Muresh sighed.

  "The journey is not short. I’d be glad to listen to a man of wisdom." The mage’s lips stretched into a genial smile.

  Flattered, Muresh shifted in his seat and poured himself a cup of wine. The merchant’s carriage was spacious, a true house on wheels, complete with compact bedrooms, a bath, and even a fireplace beside which, settled in a soft armchair, one couldn’t resist a good chat. Only the wealthy or guild mages could afford such luxury. The caravan was headed from the capital city of Lophos to the empire’s northern border.

  "Before the Great War, the peninsula was ruled by four feudal lords — you’ve at least heard that much, I hope?"

  "I have."

  "Well, each ruled their own territory: one the North, another the West, the third the East, and the fourth... the South, damn him. Back then, traveling to another lord’s domain meant hiring so much guard you’d go broke. Not to mention the forests teemed with chimeras hungry for human flesh, and all the sorts of outcasts scurried back and forth like cockroaches!"

  The merchant paused to wet his throat, then reflexively reached for the deck of cards in his inner pocket. An avid gambler, he nearly cut the conversation short for a game, because of unpleasant memories, but came to his senses just in time. Had his companion not been a mage, Muresh would’ve fleeced him without the slightest compunction. Commoners knew better than to cheat magic.

  "Sounds rough," the mage nodded, nudging the merchant to continue.

  "You’ve no idea…"

  Having finally suppressed the urge to take out his deck, Muresh continued:

  "Tired of living in fear, the Northern lord proposed to the other three feudal lords to cut down all the dangerous non-human vermin—but only the Western lord responded to the call."

  "Did the others really get cold feet?"

  Wish things were that simple… Look there."

  Muresh jerked his chin toward a burly mercenary escorting the caravan—a red-haired, blue-eyed man with a wild beard. His muscular frame gave the impression of steel rods, laying beneath his skin.

  "Eastern-born. Strong as ten men, and when he rages—heaven help us all. If you're looking for brave men, head East. Only, they love water more than dry land—the ocean is their true home; it both feeds and clothes them. They never had a desire to venture into the forests."

  "And what about the South?"

  At the mage’s question, the merchant grimaced. Swishing wine in his mouth, he spat out the window.

  "It’s not godly to say, but... They’re all devils! If they’d just vanish into the earth, the rest of us could breathe easier."

  "You’ve cursed Southerners more than once, Muresh..."

  "And for good reason! Let me tell you, mage, Southerners are worse than your lot. Take that as a compliment. Next to those snakes, mages are saints."

  The wizard tilted his head questioningly, and caravan master asked him:

  "How would you feel about a man who, instead of fighting chimeras, embraces them?"

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  "I’d be surprised, I suppose."

  "Eh..." The merchant again waved a hand. "Everything’s a curiosity to you mages, isn’t it? The South is a rotten place — poison and stench everywhere, yet they manage to live in that reek. Sure, credit for endurance, but that filth’s made them no better than chimeras: olive skin, black eyes, not a spark in ’em. And so cunning and deceitful..."

  Muresh turned to the window, his mood thoroughly soured. After a moment, he muttered into his graying black mustache:

  "They say it right: ‘To be born in the South is misfortune. To stay and live there — madness.’"

  "I take it things didn’t end peacefully?"

  "The Great War began, like I said."

  The merchant had no desire to continue, but idle chatter beat dull silence. The greenery outside offered little entertainment. After draining another cup, Muresh fixed the mage with a glassy stare.

  "We, Northerners have fought monsters for our entire lives, and never yielded. Our lord’s great—great—grandfather decreed it. When the Northern lord heard the East and South refused, he knew they should strike first. He stood before his warriors and the Westerners and said, ‘Those who ignore the tyranny of beasts — or worse, live in peace with them — are unworthy of naming men!’ They decided to hit the East, and it was a brutal battle... Many were lost that day."

  Muresh fell silent, chewing his lip, while the mage glanced out the window to study the red—haired warrior.

  "Yes, he’s got a fierce look. I’d think twice about arguing with him, let alone fighting."

  "You bet!" The merchant nodded. "Hard labor and cold winds shape a man. Their infantry is the best on the peninsula! The enemy met us with steel, holding every inch of land like it was their own mother!"

  Slamming a fist on the armrest, the caravan master winced and nervously shrugged his shoulder. He had an old arrow wound still troubled him.

  "If not for winter, we wouldn’t have faltered...! The Easterners holed up in their bastions, leaving us to the mercy of the biting wind. And we left the battlefield."

  After these words, the mage noticed: the merchant was missing half of his right ring finger — frostbite.

  "The war was postponed until spring?"

  "We wanted to... Who knew the Southern Snake would interfere? He struck from the sea, in the dead of winter, the backstabber. Thought to finish us and the Easterners while we were weak. When those black slanting sails emerged from the snow at dawn, even the bravest hearts quailed. Their ships closed in, bowstrings sang, and a hail of arrows fell. The East fell before sunset."

  Muresh whispered the last words, trying to vividly recount the scene that still haunted his nightmares.

  "Once ashore, the enemy turned on us. You can’t hide from a Southerner’s arrow behind a shield — it’ll burst, releasing green mist, and a moment later, you’re on the ground, coughing blood. That feeling of helplessness, standing there... waiting for death, watching comrades, the men you shared dreams with just yesterday — all of them dying one by one... It’s vile. Tell me, mage, do you believe in miracles?"

  "Not really."

  "Well, I had to... While my boys and I hugged the dirt, trying not to breathe, a figure in a long robe walked past as if nothing was wrong. It was the Heaven's Overseer."

  "The Grandmaster of the Mages’ Guild?"

  "The North knows how to pick allies," the merchant’s face twisted into an unpleasant grin as lamplight pulled it from the gloom. "Aye, magic’s strong — like nothing else even matters..."

  "‘The envoy of higher powers, the master of sorcery stepped onto the battlefield, banishing evil,’" the mage quoted from The History of Magic.

  Instead of answering, the merchant tossed a handful of crackers into his mouth and nodded.

  "That account always struck me as too pompous and unlikely."

  "It’s all true...!" Muresh barked, spraying crumbs. "The Heaven's Overseer just walked out, waved his hands, and the poison was gone..."

  For all his worldly wisdom, the merchant was utterly ignorant when it came to magic.

  "And the blood birds? Also true?"

  "Khh, you should’ve seen it! So much blood was spilled in the Great War, if you bottled it, you could build a tower to the heavens. Your guildmaster used that blood — bent it to his will, turned it into monstrous birds, big as dogs. We blinked, and those creatures blotted out the sky. Steel and arrows meant nothing — they dove at the enemy, pinned them down, and pecked them to death...!"

  The caravan master gestured wildly, mimicking the sounds. His tale quickly devolved into a bad bard’s horror story. The mage’s mask of composure nearly cracked under the strain of a creeping smile.

  "Believe me, mage, I wouldn’t wish your Grandmaster on my worst enemy. The hunger and fury those demons radiated... Otherworldly."

  "So, magic ended the war," the mage concluded.

  "Exactly! Can you imagine? You mages are detached — worldly matters don’t concern you, you’d sooner die than lift a finger. So when the Heaven's Overseer stepped onto the battlefield himself, everyone was stunned."

  "Thank you for the tale, Master Muresh." The mage bowed courteously, a hand to his chest. "You won’t read that in books."

  "History’s written by the victor, so... keep it to yourself, got it? Who knows what an old soldier might’ve let slip. There’s one God and one throne..."

  "And before them, we shall never cease to kneel," the mage finished for him.

  ***

  On the fifth day the caravan arrived at the northernmost point of the empire as dusk fell. Wooden wheels clattered over rough cobblestones as wagons and carriages encircled the village’s lone inn. After the exhausting journey, everyone wanted just a hearty meal and a long sleep. The mage stepped out behind Muresh.

  "Stable the horses! Unload the goods! Save your whining! You lot will be off carousing while I’m stuck sorting orders till dawn! Move it!" the merchant barked.

  "The air here is... delicious," the mage remarked, inhaling deeply the warm scent of pine carried on the summer breeze.

  "Course it is. Locals don’t keep livestock — lucky if anyone’s got a sorry excuse for a chicken coop," Muresh shrugged.

  "How much do I owe you?"

  "Forget it, mage. You’re decent company — made an old veteran’s trip less dull. Those twenty aurs won’t break me."

  "Thank you. You’re a good man, Master Muresh," the mage replied with a restrained bow.

  Unconsciously, the merchant smiled back. There was something about the fair-haired mage — something that inspired awe and absolute trust. It made a man want to bare his soul.

  "So, what brings an Academy graduate to this backwater?"

  "I heard a Master of Magic lives here. I’d like to pay him a courtesy visit."

  "Heard right. The Child of Truth is my best customer — only reason I bother coming here. Don’t tell me the esteemed master’s started covering room and board too?"

  It was true that the Child of Truth taught magic to anyone willing to learn, free of charge. But it was also true that his students were expected to support themselves. That was the Master’s principle. The merchant narrowed his eyes. The young mage, though impeccably dressed, carried neither luggage nor a pouch. Traveling this far without a coin meant traveling to nowhere.

  "Pleasure making your acquaintance," the mage said instead of answering, clapping Muresh on his bad shoulder.

  The old arrow wound flared at the slightest careless movement, and the caravan master instinctively winced — but a second later, he realized: the pain was gone. At all. Stunned, Muresh opened his eyes, but the mage had already vanished into the gathering twilight.

  That injury had cost him the ability to lift a sword, rendering him useless to his liege. He’d spent his wartime earnings to start his merchant venture. The healers of the Mages’ Guild charged exorbitant fees, and years of penny-pinching had almost gotten him there…

  Running a hand over his shoulder, Muresh gasped. There were no even a trace of the old wound.