“Do you remember,” Stephan looked at his mother, forcing mirth into his voice, “when Azalea fell on her nose back when she was first trying to walk, and then we couldn’t get her to stand on her own feet for half a year?”
There was a smile on his face, a brittle one. And his family could tell. It was the last chance he would get to be with them all. All except Tom, the big brother whose smiles and whispers guided Stephan straight to mischief and things he wasn’t supposed to do, earning them both a spanking more often than not.
And after suffering head-splitting episodes one after another, Tom excused himself and went home to his dumbstruck wife, Martha, who couldn’t understand how her husband had suddenly forgotten everything about his little brother.
Everyone chuckled; Azalea pouted, showing the only sincere reaction, and after the strained laughter died, Stephan’s mother straightened.
Here it comes.
“Stephan,” she said in that worried voice of hers, “what’s happening with Tom? Do you know why he can’t remember you?”
It was a normal question, one any concerned parent would ask, one Stephan had to lie about.
“I received a really powerful class, and he got cursed because of it. Lacy too.” The words rolled so smoothly off his tongue, he wondered whether he was lying at all. “That’s why I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”
I don’t want anyone to suffer because of me.
And yet that would be his lot in life. He knew it. The burden of command and knowledge of future events was such that he would have to choose who would suffer. He would send brave men and women to their deaths, just like Anita had said.
I’m a stranger to her now, too.
And one day, I will wake up here, a stranger to everyone in the whole world.
The thought made his lungs feel squeezed between his ribs.
“Is it really that horrible?” his mother asked. “You’re scowling. What did you get?”
She paled. “Don’t tell me you’re a warlock.”
“I’m not a warlock, Mum,” Stephan chuckled sincerely, thinking how shocked she would be if he explained to her that warlock was a Magician class evolution. Or at least that’s what people guessed about the mysterious class. Though I might have enjoyed my life more had I become one.
“But I can’t tell you what my class is, as it might endanger you. Lady Clara knows, and she agreed with me that it’s for the best if you don’t know anything.” Stephan could feel the tears, just beneath the water line, and changed the topic.
“Let’s have dinner and talk about the good old days.” He smiled. “I want you to tell me something about Tom and Greg you’ve never told me before.”
***
Midnight came all too soon, followed by the traitorous morning. Stephan stood at the door of a house that was once his home and would never be again. He kissed and squeezed his family tight, minding not to crush the future strangers with all the strength he had accumulated in his previous lives. Then, he was off. Like last time, he took the road east, drinking in the same fences of odd farms and homesteads scattered within the town’s reach. When Brighthollow disappeared from his sight, he looked around. After making sure there were no curious eyes, he ducked into the forest and turned south.
He had spent the sleepless night thinking about what his next move should be. After considering and questioning himself for hours, he confirmed his resolution to head south. While growth and education were important, so was collecting facts and information around the kingdom.
With the light-tower network connecting major cities and fortresses gone, he would have to visit each of them before forming a plan of action. Fortunately, he had more than one lifetime to finish the impossible task of being everywhere at once.
And after visiting the nearest Royal Knight in the east, the next closest one seemed like the logical choice for his newest journey.
What do I know about the south? Beyond the border is the hilly wasteland in which bandits and wild beasts live. The entire border region is lush and heavily forested, with the Desertcutter River serving as the kingdom’s boundary, keeping the wasteland at bay.
Stephan had read what books previous Marshals of the East had gathered on all the regions close to the four academies, and knew a bit about their headmasters. But surface-level information was as useful as knowing the Marshal of the East existed before he set off from Brighthollow the last time.
Treetop is fourteen hundred miles away. Stephan started jogging, estimating his speed while pacing himself so as not to get tired at all.
I can make it there in two weeks, less perhaps. The only thing bothering him was that he lacked the time to stop by every town and village to heal the injured. But he had learned his lesson about advertising his class to everyone while lacking the sufficient strength to defend himself. At level twenty, his power was nothing to sneeze at, but overconfidence was a lethal curse.
I should’ve reinforced that helmet. Standard issue is two to three times thinner than what Knights wear. Or I should’ve brought a shield or hidden behind merlons when the arrows came. I knew full well stray arrows could find gaps and kill Knights, and yet I acted like I could just shrug them off.
Stephan laughed at his own stupidity. If armor were optional, Harold wouldn’t have worn that monstrosity of his when we went to fetch the Queen.
Stephan kept running south, passing five towns in a blur well before sunset. When he reached the sixth one, he headed straight for the temple of many gods, the cool air and smell of incense welcoming him as he greeted the Priest.
“Good evening, I’m a wandering Healer,” he lied smoothly. “I can heal any wounded your town may have in return for food and shelter for the night.”
The elderly Priest looked him over, from the top of his head all the way to his boots.
“See.”
The moment his eyes started glowing gold, he dashed for War’s altar and snatched a mace. “If you’re a Healer, I’m the King, you foul servant of the dark!”
Stephan’s jaw dropped. “What? Wait, stop—”
The Priest wouldn’t.
“Help!” he roared and charged, mace held high above his head.
Stephan stepped aside on instinct. He grabbed the mace in one hand and put his foot in front of the old man’s legs. Disarmed, the Priest fell to the ground.
“Please stop. I’m not a servant of the dark.” Stephan sighed, then pushed his spirit into his hand, making it glow. “See? I really am a Healer. I just got my class yesterday.”
“You’re lying again. Healers have no way of obscuring their class and level, and I can’t tell the first thing about you.”
That left Stephan stunned silent. I should’ve put more thought into this. I just expected they’d let me heal someone and give me a meal—
“Help!” the Priest shouted again, making it impossible for Stephan to think. “Warlock!”
“Will you stop shouting?” Exasperation bled into Stephan’s voice. He couldn’t tell who he was angrier with, himself for not thinking his story through or the aggressive Priest acting like a fool. “And I’m telling you I’m not a warlock.”
“That’s something a warlock would say!” The Priest drew a breath to shout for help again, but Stephan had had enough nonsense.
“Shut up,” he growled, “a warlock would have killed you or silenced you with magic; they wouldn’t just stand here, looking at you shouting for help. Now if—”
“There’s a warlock?” Two men burst into the temple, one wielding a cleaver, the other a cudgel.
“Look, can we talk about this?” But before he could finish talking, they attacked.
In one smooth motion, Stephan grabbed the cleaver, slapped its owner unconscious, and threw it at the ceiling, then punched the man with a club in the gut. He folded like a rag and fell to the ground, puking while the other one lay out cold on the floor, blood trickling from his open mouth.
“Warlock!” the Priest shouted again, getting up, ready for a fight, when another three men ran into the temple.
Five minutes later, the Priest and three dozen men and women lay beaten and bloody on the temple floor, a crowd of screaming and shouting onlookers standing outside.
Stephan was still struggling with what to do, when three men and four women entered the temple. They went down on their knees and touched their foreheads to the cold stone of the temple floor.
“Oh, great herald of the dark,” the man at the front spoke into the floor, his voice strangely reverberating, “have you come to lead the faithful ones against these hypocrites and liars?”
Stephan frowned. What?
He nearly uttered the words, but realized what could be happening. “Are you the only ones here?”
“Yes, great one. Herbsvale is too small a town for a larger gathering, but the passing faithful join us and share communion. So we do get some news from the rest of the kingdom.”
Did I really just stumble across fiend cultists?
If that was the case, Stephan had no idea what to do with them.