“Day 206 since the Fall of Ectassus.
This entry in the journal was made by Estenyen, a servant... I asked Nicholas how best to put it. We now serve in the Black House. That is what the Emperor’s warband will henceforth be called, even though the retinue itself no longer exists.
As required by the charter of our new place of service, I am keeping a diary. Mendera is presently at the Emperor’s temporary palace in Vetrograd... forgive me—the Metropolis. It seems my comrades and I will not be idle in the capital for long. In the young Empire, there are plenty of places where heroes may be needed, though I remain rather skeptical about that title.
The castle of the Sidhe of the Burning Dawn was... Nicholas has reminded me that I must not describe classified subjects in the journal. I do not quite understand the word ‘secrecy,’ nor do the rest of us, save for our esteemed Speaker.
If I’m being honest, I have been growing increasingly worried about Nicholas of late. He disappears more and more often into a bookshop in Vetrograd, where he converses with a certain Anor. This is an old man who’s clearly connected to the mountain tribes of beastfolk that are now called the Matabar.
The war is over, of course, but I don’t believe that the non-humans who fought on the side of the Fallen King will not attempt to avenge their defeat. Perhaps without the Sidhe Flame, they have lost their power and the support of the Fae, but even without that...”
The page broke off, and Ardi, arming himself with tweezers, carefully turned the nearly-disintegrated diary of Estenyen—a knight from the legendary Sergeant Mendera’s squad.
Ardan was not surprised to encounter familiar names in the short entry. He had long suspected that Nicholas the Stranger, the author of the treatise on Star Magic and the art of the Aean’Hane, had been connected to Mendera. And the same applied to Aror, whose “Anor” pseudonym Ardi had also spotted on the pages.
Hec Abar, Anor—his family had never been particularly creative when it came to inventing false names.
“...a certain Lady Talia Malesh, a renowned Star Mage specializing in all the dark creatures we have fought for many years, is to be attached to our squad.
I cannot say that I feel any particular joy at this. Nicholas assures us that Talia is a scholar rather than a combat... oh yes, it’s now called a ‘military’ mage. As if the country has no other problems besides inventing new words... Honestly, I don’t even understand what this ‘New Monarchy’ means. After all, we served the blood of the Agrovs before, and we serve them still. For nearly one and a half thousand years now.
It’s as the priests of my faith once prophesied—a faith that is no longer welcome in our new, vast country: ‘So long as the phoenix throne is warmed by the blood of the Agrovs, the race of men shall endure.’ Nowadays, even mentioning this prophecy can lead to an encounter with the Holy Inquisition.
I bear no ill will toward the Face of Light or his followers. My faith, which is now called the faith of the Old Gods, teaches us that we all see the same thing, only from different sides. The Old Gods, the Sleeping Spirits, the Face of Light, and all who will come after their rites are forgotten and dressed in the garments of strange holidays, are nothing but reflections of a single whole. But what is that whole, precisely? The Old Gods teach us that a mind bound by flesh cannot know the answer to that question. And a mind freed from flesh has no need for it.
And so here I stand, very much in the flesh, gazing westward. We are being sent to the Enario Theocracy. Who could have ever imagined that a prince exiled from the Kingdom of Atrua fifty years ago could create an entire nation founded upon fervent devotion to the Face of Light? However, they rely upon the most radical doctrines and dogmas, which even Ivar, a devout follower of the Face of Light, is not too sure about.
We are soon to depart for the Ral borderlands. There, according to Remi—who was told this by Mendera in exchange for a bribe in the form of a pair of legendary pastries from our esteemed cook—a tracker by the name of Kram is set to join us. Apparently, he has spent his entire life in the Ral Mountains, knows the local steppes, and, moreover, was trained by the Giants in their shamanism of body markings.
He will likely be a fine addition to our squad. Though I am certain that the bosses... forgive me—the leadership of the Black House are worried that the events that happened at the castle of the Sidhe of the Burning Dawn may repeat themselves... Perhaps Kram is not so much a new comrade as a way to keep an eye on our actions.
It is rather amusing to write about this in a journal that I will have to surrender to the book-house... library... archive—whatever it is called... of the Black House...”
At this second break in the page, Ardi set down the tweezers and reached for his cup of now-cold tea. It was so strong it made the jaw clench. Forest elves, owing to the peculiarities of their digestive systems and taste receptors, brewed all herbal beverages at a concentration capable of inducing kidney necrosis in most humans.
This was precisely why, long ago, one of the favored methods of execution among the pointy-eared denizens of the forests had been to make a human prisoner drink “strong” tea. A tea that was strong even by their standards. Then they’d watch as the wretch writhed in unbearable agony for weeks, as his saliva darkened, and he coughed up gray blood laced with pus.
Why was Ardi thinking about this now? Perhaps because he ought to have thought twice before asking Magister Lovarskay to make him tea. In his defense, by the time that momentary weakness had come over him, he had managed to unpack, unload, describe, and classify the contents of two dozen crates.
Or perhaps it was because Ardi was reading “The Book of Estenyen”—or rather, the portion of it that had been cleared for public viewing. No one was particularly concerned with hiding the fact that the squad of the celebrated hero, Sergeant Mendera, had served in what would now be called the Second Chancery. But neither was it being put on deliberate display, because everyone knew how that story ended.
Mendera had fallen, killed by his own subordinates. Lady Talia Malesh had vanished at the border with the Enario Theocracy. And across the entire world, wounds had appeared in the form of the Dead Lands. And over the following ten years, every member of the squad—Baskhag, Estenyen, Remi, Kram, Marsel, Stepnyak, Ivar, and Nicholas—had perished. Not one of them had met the Eternal Angels through old age or illness.
Though, considering the fact that the incident at the Theocracy’s border had almost made them the most wanted individuals in the young Empire... The last time they had been seen together, rather than separately, was in Vetrograd/Metropolis, where, just weeks after the appearance of the Dead Lands, they had attempted to attack an unnamed member of the Galessian aristocracy.
Why they’d done so and how… History had no answer to these questions. The attack, it seemed, had not succeeded, and the squad had dissolved. Its members had scattered across the continent. They’d bought themselves a few additional years of their admittedly-inglorious pension, after which they’d been found and... buried in unmarked graves.
And so ended the tale of the legendary heroes who had turned the tide of the War of the Empire’s Founding. The heroes who had allowed the human race to rise up and cast off the yoke of the Firstborn were scarcely remembered at all. Sergeant Mendera continued to be honored as a hero only because he had been murdered by his own treacherous subordinates.
“What a peculiar feeling,” Ardi whispered while studying the journal lying on the iron tray.
The shriveled leather cover gazed up at him like a wrinkled face, one in whose aged folds time drew the faintest of breaths. Half a millennium had passed since then. The country had survived wars, rebellions, famine, declines and ascents, and still, the diary of a hero of the past had lain, waiting—not for its hour, or its year, or its decade, but for its century.
And now, after such an unfathomably long time, it silently regarded Ardi. Perhaps, in that moment, the young man could understand what inspired mages like Mart Borskov to devote themselves entirely to the study of the past.
Smiling, Ardi once more took up the tweezers. For the sake of the registry of the “Third Paragraph of exhibits,” he needed to describe the ancient journal, including all its pages and their condition. And since no one had set Ardan and Boris any strict performance targets, the young man was taking his time with the crates.
“Day 279 since the Fall of Ectassus.
Kram has proven to be if not the most agreeable of men—to say nothing of the fact that his grim face gives the impression he is perpetually displeased about something—then at least quite companionable. In his own way, of course. Nicholas jokes that the size of Kram’s bow compensates for other deficiencies. Kram does not understand his humor, Marsel is eternally disapproving of his boorish manners, and as for us... We stand in line for Remi’s pastries.
I do not love war. I do not love it now, and I did not love it back then. But in moments like these, when we huddle under the rain in the sparse foothill woodland, gathered around a campfire beneath Nicholas’s Star Magic spell shielding us from the heavens’ moisture, I am glad. Glad to be with these people. To see their faces. Hear their laughter. Even their quarreling.
Speaking of Nicholas. I continue to worry about him. A year ago, he was not a Star Mage, and now he bears their regalia. He has kindled his first Star. He even has seven rays in it. I used to think that such... people as Nicholas could not become Star Mages, but it seems like I was wrong.
He and Lady Talia sometimes withdraw and discuss something in their incomprehensible language that’s full of clever, lengthy words. She, unlike Kram, gives me cause for doubt. I suspect she knows more than she says. Marsel agrees with me. She and I are keeping a close eye on Lady Malesh.
As for Baskhag, Ivar, and Remi—they seem as carefree as ever. Just yesterday, Nicholas was pulling arrows from Baskhag’s armor, and today, the man is already laughing heartily and attempting to radically deplete our supply of mead. As for Stepnyak, he gazes eastward more and more often. Toward his native steppes where the Shanti’Ra raised him.
Sometimes I forget that Stepnyak was raised by orcs. Only when he opens his perfectly-human mouth does this particular detail of our comrade’s biography become more than obvious.
Day 292 since the Fall of Ectassus.
We have arrived in the village of Lashmes. It’s a perfectly ordinary, rather pleasant little settlement. Despite its location on the border with the Enario Theocracy, it looks quite cheerful, and in some ways, even inviting.
Perhaps, when my term of service ends and the hour comes to set aside my spear and armor, I shall come here. I shall smile at the witty jests of the innkeeper’s wife, upon whom all have bestowed their tender affection, including even the reclusive Marsel. And she prefers the company of the dead...
Of course, our reputation has been somewhat dampened by Ivar’s attempt to break into the storeroom of a temple of the Face of Light. And in a rather unconventional fashion—he asked an acolyte whether it was permissible to break into the storeroom.
Sometimes, Ivar is strange.
But we love him as he is.
I don’t quite understand why we were sent across the entire country. It took us nearly three months to get here. And for what? To take part in a festival the villagers are hosting tomorrow night?
The reports of demonic activity in the area are clearly exaggerated. And the demons themselves, since the Fae abandoned their enchanted castles, are encountered less and less frequently. I expect that, before long, the hunters who pursue them will have to turn their attention to magical chimeras and beasts just to keep from losing their livelihood.
However, Marsel and... Remi disagree with me. Those two feel uneasy here. And Remi says he can hear something strange. Lady Malesh is also being suspiciously quiet and withdrawn.
I don’t know what awaits us ahead.
My hope is that we have simply fought for too long and grown unaccustomed to peacetime. It seems foreign to us, dangerous, and...”
The last surviving page of the diary broke off there. Estenyen’s entry ended on the 292nd day since the Fall of Ectassus, and the first Dead Lands appeared on the 296th. And no one—no one on the entire planet—knew what had happened in those fateful four days.
Even the full version of Estenyen’s transcribed diary, which was held in the Black House archives, provided no answers to that question. And honestly, that version differed from the publicly known one only in certain operational details.
Once, long ago, this diary had likely held great historical value. But now, half a millennium later, people could not have cared less. They were far more concerned with the prices of Ley-energy, groceries and tram passes than with the journal of a traitor to the nation.
Ardi sighed and transferred the journal to a special stand, which he promptly covered with a glass dome fastened to the wooden platform by miniature, barely-visible tin clasps.
Lifting the exhibit, the young man carried it to a considerably neater and smaller trolley than the one still waiting for its turn. Ardan glanced at his wrist—if Magister Lovarskay’s passing remarks were to be trusted, the next shipment would arrive very soon.
“A quarter past four,” Ardi shook his head. “And Tess has tomorrow off...”
Thinking about how he might have spent this night not in the company of dust, Imperial artifacts, and a crowbar, but with his beloved fiancée, Ardan returned to the desk. Hovering over the documents like a hawk, the young man scanned the inventory.
By all appearances, the “Third Paragraph” of the exhibition, dedicated to the era of the early Empire, covered the final years of Gales and Ectassus and the first few years of the New Monarchy.
“Shangra’Ar shaman beads, a jewelry set made by the Ral undermountain masters, letters written by the Princess of Atrua, the cloak of the man who tutored the youngest daughter of the Galessian king,” Ardi read the descriptions of the items that he had already extracted from the crate and labeled.
The exhibition most likely had no coherent purpose behind it. Rather, the reserves had simply surrendered whatever had not already been claimed by other museums. It was just something to fill the halls with.
Only for the final shipment, whose manifest lay on Magister Lovarskay’s desk, had the Mages’ Guild mustered something more substantial. In the list—consisting mainly of jewelry and weaponry enchanted by the Aean’Hane—Ardan found one rather colorful entry:
“The surviving pages of a translation from the high elven dialect, authored by an unknown Galessian Star Mage.”
That the Black House possessed works that dealt with translating the language of the elven subspecies that was closest to the Fae was beyond doubt. The problem was that their most valuable records were written in the language of the Fae, which only Speakers and the Aean’Hane could read.
What Ardan couldn’t quite understand was why the Mages’ Guild intended to put these pages—three in number—on public display. At first, the young man even thought it might have some connection to the Puppeteers and their interest in the subject, but...
The Puppeteers and the organization they represented, judging by all the indirect evidence, had a history spanning centuries. To say nothing of their ties to the Aean’Hane of the Firstborn, the Homeless Fae, demons, and other “fairy-tale trappings.” He was almost one hundred percent certain that they already had people who could freely read such things.
“It’s just paranoia,” Ardi told himself. “Or my professional deformation. Though in this case, there probably isn’t much difference.”
In total, the final shipment of exhibits that were going to be delivered to the new museum consisted of nine items.
“Let’s hope none of them are heavy,” Ardan sighed yet again.
While he waited for the grating, intermittent trill of the mechanical bell, Ardan spent his time trying to dilute the elven tea with water. The end result was either utterly undrinkable or... not a result at all. But the young man could find nothing else to occupy himself with.
Of course, he still had crates left to open and describe, but as Milar liked to say: “Rest is just as important as the work itself.” And Ardi had already done an admirable job—the several large splinters that he had managed to embed in his palms could attest to that. They were particularly prickly and difficult to extract, too. The wood used to manufacture these crates was clearly of the lowest grade.
“If Bazhen agrees to Boris’ proposal, long hours of discussion await us,” Ardan mused, already envisioning how Bazhen would latch onto the opportunity to order furniture from the city’s finest workshops for their apothecary.
While thinking about how much still remained to be done before their enterprise began to make any economic sense, Ardan loaded the crowbar, the list of expected items, and... his own staff onto the heavy trolley with its low platform.
“What kind of bloody mage walks around without a staff?”
Ardan smiled at the voice of Yonatan Kornosskiy echoing in his memory. Not even two years had passed, and these days, Ardi never truly parted from his faithful wooden companion.
Opening the doors that led to the cement ramp, Ardan began pushing the trolley upward. He really didn’t find it difficult to do so, but a human might’ve struggled a little.
Locking the trolley’s wheels, Ardan approached the receiving bay’s gates. Flipping open the control panel’s cover, he pressed the squeaking button. It was a rather simple device that broke a Ley-circuit, thereby deactivating the lock on the gates. They had started practicing how to assemble such devices in Convel’s workshops three months into their first year.
Ardi, who was waiting for the characteristic click, paused.
Time continued to tick by, but the lock on the gates was in no hurry to open.
Oh, right... the generators had been shut off. But why did that thought provide no comfort whatsoever?
“Just paranoia,” the young man reminded himself. “Paranoia and nothing more. It can’t be something truly bad every single time!”
Ardi still hoped that fate had not grown so trite and steeped in hackneyed irony as to introduce him to loathsome adventures every time he dealt with those whose destinies had intersected with Aror’s.
And yet, before manually sliding the bolt up and turning the key in the lock, Ardan retrieved his staff from the trolley’s platform.
Throwing open the gates, Ardi offered his face to the frosty air of the nighttime capital. The square upon which the building stood was completely without power; only the glow from the buildings on the far side of the invisible boundary of the disabled generators pushed back the acrid gloom.
A small truck had already stopped beside the raised concrete loading island. The canvas curtain of the van attached to the chassis had been thrown back, and inside, among the crates, stood two men. Both were roughly thirty, broad-shouldered, wearing work clothes, with faces decidedly not heavy with sleep.
Near the chassis, leaning against the engine cover, a third man was smoking. His fur hat was pulled down over his eyes, and he was taking sharp drags and exhaling the grayish haze of cheap tobacco with equal restlessness.
“We were starting to think you wouldn’t open up, Mr. Mage,” one of the loaders smiled broadly and waved his clipboard of papers. “Sign the acceptance form?”
Ardan, leaving the trolley behind him, walked along the wooden gangplanks into the canvas-covered truck.
“Yes, but let me check the inventory first,” Ardan waved his own clipboard, mirroring the loader’s gesture.
“How about we skip the red tape, Mr. Mage?” The man pleaded, smoothing his luxuriant mustache. “You’re our last stop on the shift. We were counting on getting the old girl”—he patted the wooden railing—“back to the station early so we could head home to bed. We owe you nine crates, right? Well, there you go—count them. Nine.”
Ardi tried to smile, but clearly did not succeed, because the loaders tensed up for some reason. Oh, right... his fangs...
“I will check the manifests on the crates, and after that, I’ll sign,” Ardan held firm.
The man spread his arms out.
“Your call, Mr. Mage. If you enjoy freezing your arse off in the middle of the night, then so be it—we’ll keep you company.”
Ardan nodded and began his inspection. In the largest of the wooden containers, according to the sheet affixed to its boards, the saddle of an elven prince was stored. The saddle of a prince who had participated in the burning of the church where the Martyrs had perished. Or had they become the Martyrs after they’d burned alive alongside their children, with only one of them—Vasiliy—surviving?
The question was, in essence, quite theological. The saddle, incidentally, had once been enchanted so as not to chafe the rider’s thighs, but the enchantment had been removed by the Empire’s Star Mages “just in case.” This, of course, was not written on the manifest—simply common knowledge.
Making a note on the sheet, Ardan moved on. He compared the list in his hands to what was marked on the crates with considerable thoroughness. Apart from the elven saddle, the shipment contained no other large, bulky cargo, for which Ardan was grateful. After all, items such as the “Goblet of the Dwarven King” or the “Scripture of the Northern Giants” could easily end up weighing next to nothing or being big enough to require half the truck all on their own.
“Mr. Mage,” the same loader from before said after nearly ten minutes, “how about wrapping it up? Everything seems to match.”
“Yes,” Ardan nodded and placed the final checkmark on the list. “It matches.”
The loaders exchanged glances.
“So what’s the problem?” The man asked, somewhat more quietly.
Ardan sighed and shook his head.
“The problem, gentlemen, is that there are two of you, and a third near the engine, yet there is a trail of footprints in the snow leading toward the building.”
“Oh, that,” the ever-smiling gentleman waved it off. “That’s Sekentiy. He ran to the latrine, Mr. Mage. Poor fellow held it in the whole drive.”
Ardan checked his watch.
“A quarter of an hour has passed since I came out here to meet you.”
“Stomach trouble, Mr. Mage,” the gentleman patted his belly while his partner circled behind him. “He ate some spoiled cottage cheese before the shift. We warned him—Senekiy, don’t go overboard, and-”
“Is it Senekiy or Sekentiy?” Ardan asked.
Sleeping Spirits...
“Who can remember,” the gentleman shrugged. “It’s a stupid name. He’s new. Literally just started working yesterday.”
Ardan sighed and was about to reach up to scratch the back of his head with his staff when he caught himself just in time. He’d just come close to slicing his own scalp off with its finial. Lea Mortimer had been right—may the Eternal Angels have mercy on her—about him needing to rid himself of that dangerous habit.
“I can hear your heartbeat, Mr. Unknown,” Ardan admitted honestly. “And I know you’re lying. Also, loaders don’t have shoes that clean, your palms have no calluses, and each of you, incidentally, has rather well-concealed revolvers under-”
Before Ardan could finish, both “loaders” drew their iron, cocked their hammers, and aimed them at Ardi. And the third man had already leaned out from behind the van’s corner with nothing less than a military rifle.
“Enough playing soldier, young man,” the “loader” said, his tone suddenly heavier, and smoothed his mustache once more. “It was not in my plans to send a practicum student to the Eternal Angels. So, set down your staff, sit on the floor, and wait while we tie you up.”
Ardan narrowed his eyes. The Puppeteers were not known for their excessive peacefulness. Nor were gangsters. Also, Ardi had seen their faces and could help a guard sketch artist create portraits of these men for wanted posters. Something didn’t add up here.
Ardan loosened his hold on his Witch’s Gaze.
“What do you want?”
“For you to put down that staff—not like it has a single seal on it—and step aside,” the stranger repeated. “Damn... Where’s Banov? He was supposed to receive the cargo... Why is it students from the Grand again?”
“Students from the Grand again?” So, entirely different mages had been scheduled for practicum duty tonight? That sounded quite plausible. But because of it, nothing else made sense.
“Anar, what are you-”
“Why are you saying my name out loud, you idiot?!” The owner of the luxuriant mustache barked at his partner. “Knock this imbecile out, tie him up, and let’s do the job. We grab the diary and get out before another smartarse latches onto us with questions. Damnation! Why am I running my mouth?!”
Ardan tilted his head slightly.
“You do realize that the cargo would be easier to intercept on the road than inside the museum?” Ardan pointed out.
The “loaders” exchanged glances. Evidently, the thought had not occurred to them. This was unsurprising given the fact that two of them were holding rather basic revolvers, while the one currently training the military rifle on Ardan was bracing it not against his shoulder, but against his chest. It was very likely that he had never used such a weapon in his life.
They were too peaceable, too nonconfrontational and, by all appearances, unaccustomed to using their iron for its intended purpose.
A diversion.
“Who came here with you?” Ardan asked, pouring his Will into his Witch’s Gaze.
He directed it at the “loaders”—conveniently, they were standing right in front of him. The torrent of his power crashed down upon minds shielded by nothing beyond their natural Paarlax field. Ardan swept aside this natural defense and, dispensing with ceremony, bore down upon the robbers’ minds. He didn’t do so hard enough to cause harm, but still firmly enough to leave them no means of keeping the information to themselves.
Bang.
Bang-bang.
Ardan instinctively struck his staff against the truck’s floor, and, ready to deflect a hail of lead, twelve translucent discs began to whirl around him. But the bullets never even touched the spectral Orlovsky’s Shield spell.
Blood dripped onto the white snow.
Three corpses with skulls that had been shattered by bullets lay before Ardan. One of them had even tumbled from the truck and fallen upon the chest of the third, crushing both the body and the military rifle that the poor wretch had very nearly bitten down on while shoving it into his own mouth.
Disfigured, torn-open faces from which the mask of horror mixed with incomprehension would never lift stared into the night sky of the Metropolis. One of them even did so with a single remaining eye.
All three of them had shot themselves.
Snow was falling.
It drifted slowly onto the rooftops of neighboring buildings, settled upon the dormant branches orphaned of their leaves, and blanketed the wrought-iron lacework of ornamental lampposts. A thin layer of it covered the streets and roadways that were weary from the day. Only—no matter how long Ardan waited—the snowflakes never touched the ground around the corpses, nor the truck, nor the young man himself.
The entire square, including the museum, was enclosed beneath a stationary shield.
Ardan activated his signal medallion several times, but there was no way to verify whether it had worked or whether the signal had never escaped from beneath the dome.
Looking at his two accumulators—one red and one green—Ardan turned his gaze toward the building. He had been in the underground storage for more than five hours, and the last time Magister Lovarskay had visited him had been nearly three hours ago.
Who could say what had happened inside the building during that time.
“Sleeping Spirits,” Ardan exhaled.
He crouched beside the trail of footprints left behind by the unknown fourth “loader.” Why had they used small-time thieves? What, precisely, were they meant to distract people from?
“What kind of deal did Aror make to ensure that my entire luck is limited to Sevens?” Ardan muttered under his breath and scooped a fistful of snow from the stranger’s footprint.
Ardan listened to the stifled whispers of the snowflakes. They still remembered the foreign tread. They held within themselves the sensation of a hard sole that had broken their crystalline “bones” and disturbed the eternal peace that the coming winter had promised them.
Ardan touched that memory. He filled it with his Will and, opening his hand, blew upon the snow. Despite being only a small handful, it flew from his hand in a swift flurry. Veiling half the square in a curtain of snow, it showed Ardan, for just a single instant, a picture of the past.
From all sides, silvery, shimmering silhouettes approached the building. Armed with rifles and revolvers, nearly two dozen figures advanced carefully upon the museum. Among them was a gentleman who kept striking the snow with his staff, and... several more dragged bound orcs behind them, who were shambling listlessly in the wake of their captors.
The blizzard settled, and Ardan, still on his knees, furrowed his brow. Inside his head, a single thought hammered:
What in the ahgrat is going on here?!