I am probably the last wizard or at least half of what I used to be. At death’s door I somehow turned ethereal and have kept that “ghost” form for so long that I have almost forgotten what it’s like to taste and touch. I go incognito, and very few know that I am still alive. For such a delicate mission that I plan, silence is golden. Yet location is paramount.
I settled down in an old, decrepit house on the outskirts of the god-forsaken village of Springdale. You could say it is a lovely place. And indeed, it may seem like one: fragrant meadows, dense forests, mountains which prop up the sky with their snowy peaks. Hardworking peasants, a tavern offering affordable food and drinks — everything seems perfect. Yet, beneath that facade, life is anything but good.
It’s not just the Deadly Swamp a dozen miles to the east, which harbors weird aliens who occasionally attempt to expand their territory. Nor is it solely about the dungeons scattered around, which always pose a threat. It is about villains. Not an ordinary band; they wield several powerful artifacts that grant them a formidable strength I can’t ignore. My best tactic is to remain invisible, all while quietly pursuing the most unique artifact — the Aard of Being — deep within the dungeons.
They say, it rejuvenates, it can bring back your youth. But I’m old, well past the point of desiring a longer life; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. In my case, the Aard of Being empowers me — an ageless ghost — to reclaim my mortal material form. Only then can I hope to restore the Wizard’s Order, reigniting a flicker of hope for progress in this dystopian world. It may sound strange: I’m willing to trade a chance to mend the decayed civilization for my imminent death. Yet, it is true.
And right now, I’m about to take another step toward it.
***
See you later, my dark abode.
An isolated cellar buried a couple of yards beneath the ground holds a few chests of jewelry, but of true value to me are the box of paper and the gallon of ink. No one can enter the buried room with two hidden doors that only open from the inside. But I still keep a watchful eye on the tunnel stacked with fake chests filled with all sorts of junk and check that the decrepit house is intact. Today’s inspection ended with the usual result: hitherto, I had been predictably undiscovered. However, there is still reason to be wary.
My acquaintances had left to spread a word in yet another town about the artifacts found in the Last City catacombs, somewhere nearby. This should naturally cause an inflow of adventurers through Springdale. And indeed, strangers have started to arrive, yet my companions are not there yet, though a whole week has passed.
Should I break free from my prison by choice? The deal is that despite being unbodied, I’m still barely visible and can generate a little rainbow in the light of a luminary. Rumors of Springdale spirits and ghosts do not fit well with my plan, so I leave my shelter during dark nights or in case of emergency. So far, it’s neither, but something in between — a restless evening. And since I can no longer find peace and need inspiration for my post-apocalyptic treatise, it is time to visit another secret location, where I once had a few insights.
I dove back into the cellar and, like a worm, slithered toward the nearest spring bubbling up from the ground. I like streams, they carry me down the hill while hardly messing with my shape and requiring little mana, allowing me to be myself. The flow became smooth soon and I sped up, covering another few miles over springs. This might trigger random glares in the water — well, if you noticed them at all — I have a few opinions of yours… I typically vote for reflected moonlight, if any — and one can hardly resist. But my favorite, especially when there are few strangers around, is “You are just seeing things.” But, jokes aside, I fool around very rarely, and only when appropriate.
And now I’m finally far enough from the village, free to fly above the surface to my favorite place I call God’s Tear. It is an indestructible drop-shaped stone, stuck three quarters deep into the ground, leaving its tail above. Not even adamantine can leave a mark on its surface. My high-level magic also fails to affect the Tear. I wish to try it out someday once I’ve regained a material form, however it is quite obvious that this venture will bear no fruit. I bestraddled the stone, and it somehow managed to provide support for my semi-ethereal self, rendering me completely invisible…
A crimson sunset was burning all around, one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. But feasting my eyes was not enough, and despite intense mana drain, I turned all my senses on. The sounds and smells of the environment amplified by the wind made me feel alive again.
My lyrical mood was interrupted in a most unceremonious way by a few approaching strangers. They effused a thick strain, and in a while, a tangible disturbance reached me. And even worse… an awful stench! I did not ask for such a contrast, so get ready for your emotional swing as well, buddies.
It seems they’ll be passing by me shortly. This is where the spectacle of a fight awaits — wild roars, knocked out teeth. I’m not bloodthirsty; it’s just more beneficial for everyone involved, believe me, I know their nature — it is best that they blow off steam right here, right now, which is sort of true for me, too, — getting all rainbowy all for nothing…
Inertia in thinking is a thankless burden, especially in our fast-paced reality. Okay, let me double check myself, that should be simple.
How come orcs popped up in my mind? Well, there wasn’t much choice left. After decades of wandering the Lands of Amun, I can say in confidence that the Total War had decimated most of the intelligent species or driven them to the brink of extinction, completely redefining the balance of races. The “Big Four” — humans, dwarves, elves, and orcs — now dominate this world.
Considering that the group neglects roads, riding through wasteland, I would venture a guess that they are either got lost or one of them is an elf. You’d have to search high and low to find a better tracker or hunter. But an elf amid this reek? No, their extraordinary sensitivity does not come for nothing. The same applies to their keen senses of smell, hearing, and sight. Foul odors, rumbling sounds, and the blinding lights — each disrupts the elf’s ability to function effectively.
Any chance there is human in it? Absolutely. This is the “default” race which can be found anywhere — they are surprisingly good at getting on with everyone else. Not a human lead in this group, though. He would never tolerate this stench of his own free will. Hence, if there is a human at all, he could be a subordinate of someone who can withstand the reek. An orc or a dwarf.
Orcs got stuck at a tribal level both socially and culturally, which inevitably provokes conflicts with more advanced races. Thus, they prefer to assemble parties exclusively of their own kind.
The last possible scenario is a dwarf leader. Quite likely, he benefits from inexpensive orc inferiors. But dwarfs are too smart to ever get lost and not that reckless to travel a wasteland full of predators — yet again, until there is motivation that jingles in your pocket. Is there any risk that can pay off a hundredfold to interest a dwarf? I can only think of… some fictitious artifacts in the Last City Catacombs. Meaning, the officer’s gossip might have worked like magic.
Fine, I could have misdiagnosed the party, and now I wish this were true — a group of adventurers led by a seasoned dwarf, but… my best guess is that those are some lost orcs, angry as hell. And one had better stay away.
And finally, here they are, jet-black figures riding in a row, and… I’m stunned.
Metaphors have a special meaning here for me. A savage peasant would stress himself with Riders of the Apocalypse, but in the rays of the setting sun I clearly see the smoldering coal.
Winds that have brought you here, rolling stones, could not blow out your genuine flames — no wonder — you burn your internal resource for nothing. Well, let me try to release this sparkling conflict that keeps you somewhere far away amidst this miracle. Though all I can do at the moment is to give a gentle push to enable a conversation. This will barely be enough, but I’ll do my best to make the metaphor real — I want you to keep this heavenly fire that you fail to see.
***
The three riders were moving slowly, looking around intently. The sunset was still burning, therefore I had to be careful and dove under the road to wait for an opportune moment to intervene.
The strangers — filled with irritation — rode over me and the only meaningful thought I managed to capture was the horse’s name, Peggy. Not much… and I was still unaware who was there, but it seemed to me that I succeeded and thus I followed the riders, keeping close enough to eavesdrop on the brewing conversation.
“We should have stayed in that last village. I told you we wouldn’t be able to get to Springdale till dusk,” a Baritone noted discreetly.
“And the lil’ boy got depressed without his beer,” a Bass prepared to defend himself and buzzed discontentedly. “Springdale is the only village around with a tavern.”
“We all know who’s unable to make another day without a beer, Grampy,” a Displeased Youth disagreed, took a brief pause and counterattacked. “And this makes our journey in this wilderness even more mysterious…”
“Don’t even start it again,” Grampy was obviously irritated.
“But he is right,” the Baritone was concerned as well. “We haven’t got a single quest since we left trade routes. Are you still sure we’ll find a job here?”
“Both of you make me sick,” the Bass sounded vexed. “Will you finally stop whining if I tell you?”
“Get to it then,” the Youth agreed willingly.
Grampy thoroughly looked around and gave a warning meant exclusively for the Youth, “Just keep your mouth shut, lad…”
“Oh, come on, already!”
Anyway, it was only after a lengthy pause and several hesitant sighs that Grampy shared his plan.
“I was told confidentially that artifacts were uncovered in the Last City catacombs. There will be plenty of explorers there soon. Only a fool will transport artifacts along a relatively safe regular trade route. This is where extortionate dues and taxes come into play, and paying them is effectively the same as being robbed by thugs, but what’s even worse, property declarations rarely stay confidential, so you’re bound to attract close attention of thieves in no time… That’s why smart adventurers will look for persons like us. Those who can lead them safely past the Grey Mountains to the west, or the Rocky Mountains to the east.”
“Sounds like utter nonsense,” the Youth did not seem overly enthusiastic about the idea.
Grampy was exasperated by his reaction, “How come?”
“I doubt that smart ones would take anyone’s word for it, especially someone like you. You’re not even close to a gentleman.”
“I’m not offering words, lad! I’m offering maps, routes, and protection from the wildlife!”
“And what ‘bout villains?”
“That’s where you come in, offering this kind of protection,” the Bass chuckled. “Villains can’t be everywhere at once. The key is moving quickly. At worst, we can run into their patrol, nothing we can’t handle. As for Springdale, it is simply destined to become a major hub in this part of the Northwestern Trade Zone. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were already plenty of clients there eager for our services.”
Still unimpressed and weary, his companion moved on to more pressing issues. “How far are we from Springdale?”
“Probably a few hours to the stone bridge, and a few miles after.”
The Youth continued with another question, “And what about the money?”
Apparently, this touched a sore spot, which caused a rather aggressive response from Grampy, “No advance, boy! Read the damn contract!”
“I mean, are we short of money? Can we rent a room or are we gonna sleep in the open air again?”
“There’ll be a room,” barked out the Bass.
“Heaven be thanked!” the Youth growled quietly. “Growing tired of your mumbling during your watch…”
Grampy pretended it fell on deaf ears, but it sparked the Baritone’s interest. “What was that, boy?”
“Our terse and thrifty leader prefers talking to badgers while feeding them at night.”
“That’s odd…”
“What is?”
“I mean, I guess I’ve seen that badger. He has come several times already. Dwarf, did you tame an animal?”
“Mind your own business, Chaplain” the irritated Bass replied harshly, obviously intending to put an end to the conversation that way, but that did not happen.
Though the remark had meant to diminish him, the Baritone merely chuckled. The Youth, however, could not contain his excitement at this revelation.
“Wait, what? Chaplain? Are you freakin’ serious?”
“And what’s wrong with chaplains?” the Baritone inquired with a smile, seizing the unexpected chance to outtalk the dwarf through small talk with the Youth.
The Youth shrugged, “They’re just dorks. We cracked up on chaplains back at the boot camp like ‘twas going out of fashion.”
Grampy grunted with satisfaction at this last remark.
“And what made you do that?” the Baritone asked tranquilly.
“Well, they have bigger bellies than dwarves, are dumber than orcs, and squeal louder than busted gremlins.”
“And how much do I resemble these chaplains of yours?” the Baritone smiled again. The Youth took a moment before emotionally restating his view of the Church.
“Aw, come on! All that chaplain preaching is just phony baloney!”
The dwarf grunted with satisfaction again, considering the Baritone defeated, but the latter showed no remorse for his life choice and smoothly redirected the conversation.
“Well, that was not a waste of time, after all. My decade of chaplain service taught me that religion isn’t about truth — it’s about power.”
“Wasn’t that as obvious as daylight?” Grampy grumbled.
“Moreover, in kingdoms where secular authority lost the battle for minds, a religious title opens far too many doors. It would be a sin not to grab opportunities for advancement. I gained access to royal libraries and archives, and…”
“… and achieved absolutely nothing!” the dwarf interjected with a caustic chuckle.
“… and didn’t progress the way I had aspired,” the Baritone agreed. “Though that’s hardly my fault. The remnants of ancient knowledge leak away from this middle world, and I am too weak to pursue it elsewhere…”
“What could that mean?” the Youth asked, clearly puzzled.
“If you give it a thought, there aren’t many possibilities,” the Baritone smiled sadly. “You have to either ascend to the Divines or descend to the Fallen God.”
“You need to focus on getting to Springdale, so shut the hell up and keep watch!” Grampy blurted out viciously, finally putting an end to the conversation.
It was getting dark and in a while, only random clops gave out the presence of the three travelers in the shadows amidst chirping cicadas. The warriors changed their formation and continued riding in a line.
“It’s as dark as pitch,” the Youth was unable to bear the silence. “I wish there was a bit of moonlight. I can see nothing.”
“How about Peggy’s ass?” even the dwarf’s jokes were devoid of joy.
“Ha-ha, Grampy, ha-ha.”
“Just don’t get lost, boy,” the dwarf warned. “I paid the guild a lot. This ain’t a joke — a week has passed and you haven’t brought in any value yet. Stop complaining. If you see nothing, then you are hidden from others as well. Feel safe and sound — you are wearing your armor after all.”
“No, I insist. God, please, send us some light.”
“Our God is dead, boy,” Grampy declared categorically.
The party was silent until the moon emerged from the clouds. The explorers saw a stone bridge and faraway lights way beyond it. Under the full moon the team became visible: a dwarf in heavy armor was leading the formation as the strongest and toughest one. An elf in the middle wearing chain mail was listening intently for any threats in the surroundings. A human in heavy armor closed the formation.
Cheered with the moonlight, the boy, who was riding last, reopened the conversation about villains a bit too loudly to make sure the dwarf could hear him, “I still don’t get it how we can protect anyone even against as little as just a villain patrol. They use poisons, and we’re no good without a healer.”
“But we have antidotes.”
“They say villains have been searching dungeons for stronger poisons and more lethal items.”
Being the party leader, the dwarf was supposed to reply to any questions related to the mission, but he took a pause hoping for the elf’s assistance, which was never offered, though. Thus, Grampy, forced to speak, sighed disappointedly, “I would strongly recommend against going to a dungeon nowadays. And don’t worry about villains now. We haven’t noticed any so far, not even a thief over the past week. My saddle bag’s been left open for a few days with some coins inside — and no one seemed interested.”
“Your bag smells like a dead skunk!” the youth noted irritably. “Anyone with a nose would run immediately. Even I can barely stand it, and I’m used to all varieties of stench.”
“He is right, dwarf,” the elf confirmed. “What do you have in there?”
“A dead skunk,” Grampy grumbled, and his companions burst out laughing, forgetting about safety.
“It fends off insects, scorpions, and rats. But you better think of villains,” the displeased dwarf sought to change the topic. “So, boy, if you wanna meet them, there might be a few in the trees around the bridge.”
“You are kidding me, right? How about we cut down the trees and count the villains?”
“Trees hidden in in the dark are their notorious observation posts. They see quite well in twilight, unlike you. Take your great ax and show them what a cool lumberjack you are, just make sure you are ready to test their new underground poisons.”
“Ha-ha! I’d rather test Springdale’s beer,” the boy cackled and started looking heedfully into the trees around the bridges under the full moon.
“Hey, what’s that?” the young soldier shouted in a while, and both the dwarf and the elf immediately drew their swords, filling the environment with ringing metal sounds.
“What’s up?” the dwarf quickly looked around.
“Did you see it or not?” the boy was really excited. “I definitely saw a rainbow over there!”
“Damn, kid, I must have scared you. You are tired and start at every sudden noise.”
“Boy, you can’t see a rainbow at night,” the elf sounded dissatisfied as well.
“I swear I saw it!” the young soldier insisted.
“Yeah, and a flying unicorn on top of it,” the dwarf sheathed his sword and spurred his horse, disgruntled.
In a minute, the party crossed the bridge and continued riding in silence. A minute or two before the travelers entered Springdale, the elf informed his companions that a few villains had been following them for a while. The dwarf cheered up and claimed that was the best news of the week. He was certain that the team would find a good job once the news about the group spread over the neighborhood.
***
The village welcomed the travelers with chilling indifference. Every light that had beckoned from a distance had been extinguished, leaving only darkness. Not a single lantern burned. Had it not been for the moon occasionally emerging from behind clouds — as if to inspect the weary soldiers — and the strange, intermittent glow outlining a distant barrack, they might have wandered a lot longer before finally securing lodging at the inn.
Upon closer inspection, they discovered that the mysterious, almost blazing barrack was, in fact, the inn itself. The dwarf shook his head in disbelief before dispatching the elf to handle their check-in formalities. Meanwhile, he and the boy led their horses toward the stables.
While the lad hauled armfuls of hay from a nearby stack to fill the feeders, Grampy conducted a methodical inspection of the perimeter. He counted twenty-four stalls in total, half of them already occupied. His experienced eye immediately recognized the distinctive braided ornamentation adorning the bridles — unmistakably Orcish craftsmanship. This was not merely an unpleasant coincidence of neighbors, but an alarming revelation.
Sighing, the dwarf decided to check on the glow, but halfway through he was intercepted by the elf, who laconically remarked, “Orcs are saving money…”
The dwarf shook his head once more. Apparently, they should have stayed on the ground floor, in a room facing south, where they had come from. If something happened, they could always escape through the window.
However, as soon as the dwarf entered the inn, he had an opportunity to change his mind. A fat rat was lazily dragging a sausage in the corner, not at all embarrassed by the visitors or the dozen cats who were peacefully snoozing with the old lady on the rocking chair.
“Do something,” the dwarf hissed angrily to the elf, triumphant in advance. Despite the chaplain’s personal vendetta against rats — oh, how many priceless scrolls they had destroyed in the archives — this time he restrained his impeccable dagger throwing technique. There were limits to decency, even in such a questionable establishment. Instead, the elf insistently stomped his foot, simultaneously attempting to rouse the cats to their natural duties, wake the slumbering hostess, or at minimum, persuade the rodent to remove itself from sight.
All three intended audiences completely ignored the elf’s efforts. The boy, growing indignant at this complete disregard for proper order, suddenly ducked low and released a furious, feline hiss. This unexpected intervention produced immediate results: dozens of rats — ranging from tiny to disturbingly large — erupted from all corners and crevices, scurrying down the stairs toward the cellar.
“First floor!” the dwarf barked with such unbridled fury that both the old woman and her feline companions jolted awake. The cats scattered in all directions, mirroring the earlier exodus of rats.
The old bat, her face as intricately wrinkled as a shriveled apple left too long in the sun — rose with considerable difficulty from her rocking chair. She squinted at the source of the commotion, her eyes gradually focusing on the loud visitor.
Before her stood a dwarf of imposing stature. Huge, bristling, his beard and hair resembling an untamed wilderness. His bushy eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, he sniffed the air with obvious disdain. Yet the old lady’s spirits lifted at the sight. Experience had taught her well: the more demanding the dwarf, the savvier he is. A dwarf could prove quite valuable. The inn, only marginally more pleasant than its hostess, desperately required extensive repairs. Several of the lower support beams had rotted away, necessitating the lifting of an entire corner — if not the whole building — to replace them. Such work was impossible without a dwarf’s expertise, and they were not frequent guests in these parts.
“Breakfasts included...” the old woman mumbled quietly, going behind the counter, “Discounts apply for a week’s stay…” and then, leaning over some log, the hostess suddenly fell asleep.
“Do something,” the dwarf repeated his indignant hiss, and the elf diplomatically but demandingly coughed, waking up the old woman, who once again smiled welcomingly.
The elf was watching her. His gaze was insistent yet gentle, filled with profound, innate respect. The guest was seemingly in his prime, though silver strands already threaded through his hair. These were braided into separate plaits stretching to his waist, framing his mane and lending him a distinctive charm. His large, weary eyes studied the inn owner carefully, silently requesting she move. The decrepit woman merely thought aloud, no longer distinguishing between dream and reality, “Oh, son, life’s tossed you around a bit, hasn’t it?”
The boy, exhausted beyond measure and unable to tolerate the prolonged piety of this exchange, darted uninvited behind the counter.
“Let me help you, ma’am,” he offered, fumbling among the keys. Their jingling roused the old woman once more from her drifting consciousness. She gazed with perplexity at the stately young man rummaging behind her counter. But when he turned and bowed before her, presenting the selected key and announcing they would rent a room, the hostess’s confusion melted into a smile. She took in his clean, open face, clear eyes, and confident manner — undeniably handsome.
“Eh,” the landlady sighed dreamily, her thoughts drifting back to her youth.
“Elf, deal with it,” the dwarf muttered dismissively, as he and the boy departed for the first floor.
The elf handled the situation perfectly. As the old woman began to sway dangerously toward collapse, he caught her and carefully resettled her in the rocking chair. He then covered her with a worn plaid blanket. The cats immediately returned to their mistress, curling around her in protective fur.
The chaplain then turned his attention to the register. He leafed through it methodically, studying the previous entries. With care, he waved the quill in the air, practicing invisible strokes as he adjusted to the appropriate handwriting style. Finally, he dipped the nib into the inkwell and inscribed their reservation, mimicking the aged, feeble script. The money the dwarf had left would cover only two nights’ lodging — a problem the group leader would need to address himself.
The elf briefly surveyed the ground floor with keen eyes. To the left of the entrance sprawled the eating room dominated by a single massive table flanked by benches that could accommodate at least twenty patrons. Several intimate tables for two stood beneath the windows. A little to the right, a darkened stairwell descended to the basement. From this pit, a dozens of angry rat eyes gleamed unblinkingly upon the elf. Straight ahead rose the stairs to the first floor. To the right stretched the living quarters.
The same daring rat that had failed to secure the sausage earlier made a second, bolder attempt, risking a dash past the elf. He allowed himself just a couple of seconds to dispatch the creature — a neat, precise movement of his foot strangled it instantly. With a casual flick, he kicked the still-twitching corpse toward the cluster of cats. The felines erupted into hysterics, and two appeared to actually lose consciousness. The arrival of uninvited travelers had apparently disrupted some stagnant balance.
The tattered map hanging on the wall deserved closer attention. From above, the village hill appeared divided perfectly by roads running north, south, east, and west. Surrounding streams wove an intricate pattern resembling either a spider’s web or a dream catcher. The village itself contained between fifty and seventy houses, with the tavern prominently positioned at the hill’s summit. A blacksmith’s forge and grocery store served the community, while a mill stood several miles away on another hill in the lowlands, positioned to catch the winds. A substantial settlement indeed…
Having studied the map, the wayworn elf finally climbed to the first floor and entered their room only to find his companions already fast asleep.
***
As the travelers were checking in at the inn, the gang leader debriefed the Springdale stone bridge outpost, “Three warriors: a dwarf and a human, both heavily armored, accompanied by a regular elf in chain mail armed with a bow. All wielding swords. The dwarf carries a two-handed hammer and the human has a great ax as secondary weapons. Looks like they are looking for a job here. The group definitely has no officer. They are talking trash and are apparently dumb as hell.”
“Still keep an eye on them at the tavern.”
“Got it.”