Paragon of Destruction

The journey to the battlefield took Arran two months, and he found himself enjoying every step along the way.

After suffering the oppressive darkness of the caverns and the Shadow Realm for years, seeing the open sky and wide lands around him filled him with a sense of freedom and possibility.

Under the bright sun, the challenges ahead no longer seemed as daunting as before. Whatever dangers this world held, it also held life that the Shadow Realm had lacked.

And where there was life, there was opportunity.

Arran’s spirits were further raised by the steady recovery of his strength. The borderlands were rich in food to nourish his body, and with the help of his sword, finding it was a simple matter.

Recovering completely would still be a lengthy process, but he had already regained much of what he had lost in the Shadow Realm.

His weapon was in good spirits, too. Arran had decided to leave his Realms unsealed until he reached the battlefield, using the relative safety of the borderlands to strengthen his bond with the sword while he still had the opportunity.

He would have to seal all his Realms but Shadow once he neared the Hunters’ lands, and that would slow his efforts dramatically. And with the dangers that might await him, Arran wanted as strong a connection to his weapon as he could get.

The connection strengthened only slightly, but if nothing else, at least the weapon appreciated the constant stream of Essence.

Yet that would be valuable too, Arran thought. He was still a long way off from truly controlling the weapon, and winning its loyalty might prevent any unpleasant surprises.

He spent most of his journey traveling through the wilderness, avoiding the towns and villages that were scattered across the borderlands.

This reduced the chance of unwanted encounters with Hunters or mages, and in the wilderness, the wildlife was far richer in Natural Essence. There were plenty of animals that had gathered strength for centuries, and Arran happily reaped the fruits of their efforts.

Still, he visited some towns as well. And while enjoying a few — or perhaps slightly more than a few — mugs of strong ale, he asked the locals subtle questions about the state of the borderlands.

Most of them were happy to answer questions in exchange for a drink or two, and what they told him confirmed what Kimon had already told him back in Amydon.

The overt tensions between the Ninth Valley and the Hunters had lasted barely a year, with a few unlucky mages dying to Hunters’ blades. But after that, both the mages and the Hunters had reduced their numbers in the borderlands, and with that, the rumors of impending war had soon died down.

Of course, Arran knew better than to believe this was any sort of true peace.

More likely, both sides had withdrawn their strength to prepare for the war to come. And although that might take a few years yet — or so he hoped — he had little doubt that the wheels of war had already been set in motion.

And that meant time was running short.

About two weeks’ travel from where Brightblade had marked the battlefield on the map she’d given Arran, he noticed a sudden change in his sword. It was as if the blade Sensed something unfamiliar — something it didn’t quite recognize.

He had some thoughts as to what the sword could be Sensing, and a week later his suspicions were confirmed when he Sensed it himself.

There was a low buzz of Essence in the air, chaotic and diffuse, as if some vast mass of unbound magic lay ahead.

Arran immediately recognized what it was — the unbound Essence of the battlefield, released in the devastating battle that had taken place over half a century earlier.

It was similar to what he had experienced years earlier in Uvar, except here, no one had created a formation to seal off the battlefield from the rest of the world.

Had Arran not already been familiar with unbound Essence, the chaotic buzz of it might have bothered him — all the more so now that his Sense had grown stronger. But he’d spent months learning to tune it out, and now, it was barely even a distraction.

Yet it was a sign that he was getting close to his destination, and he knew it was time to conceal his Shadow Realm and seal off the others.

The battlefield bordered the Hunters’ lands, after all, and he could afford no mistakes so close to his enemies’ territory.

The sword reacted with disappointment when the sources of its food disappeared, though its reaction wasn’t as strong as Arran had expected — the distant murmur of Essence seemed to distract it, as if it felt a deep curiosity about the strange phenomenon.

After a moment of hesitation, Arran also stored the bracelet that held the Living Shadow armor in his void ring. While others wouldn’t be able to detect it in its dormant state, he had no idea how it would react to the unbound Essence that flooded the battlefield.

Finally, he concealed his Shadow Essence and his void ring using the wards that Brightblade had given him. With the help of his weapon, he had improved the wards enough that he thought they’d stand up to even a thorough examination from an Archmage.

There might still be some people who could pierce the concealments, but if so, they’d need a Sense as sharp as Arran’s sword.

Then, confident in his disguise, he took out Brightblade’s map and briefly examined it.

While finding the battlefield was a simple matter — the hum of Essence was like a beacon that indicated its location — he was reluctant to charge in blindly. Even with a perfect disguise, it would be better to know what sort of dangers he might face on the old battlefield.

Instead, he would find the town nearest to the battlefield, and see if he could learn anything useful from the locals.

A short glance at the map revealed that there was a town called Redhill just half a week’s travel from the battlefield. Reaching it would cost him a few days of extra travel, but if he could gain any information, the small detour would be well worth it.

Another week passed as he made his way to the town, and along the way, the distant hum of unbound Essence gradually grew into a low rumble.

The droning murmur had little effect on Arran, but he knew that other mages would not be able to ignore it so easily. At a guess, he thought few mages would visit this place, and fewer still would risk visiting the battlefield itself.

This gave him some hope for his mission — the fewer mages who had visited and plundered the battlefield, the better.

When he reached the town, he saw at once how it had gained its name. While the town itself was small and unremarkable, just a quarter-mile away from it stood a large hill, its sides covered in red heath so bright it almost looked as if the entire hill had been set aflame.

Arran cast an appreciative glance at the spectacular view, then made his way into the town. It was just large enough that outsiders drew no suspicious glances, and he headed straight for the town center, where the inns would be.

He entered the first inn he encountered, and found it mostly empty. A few merchants and travelers sat at wooden tables in the corners of the common room, but none of them so much as spared him a glance when he entered.

The innkeeper, however, approached him at once — likely eager to see some business. He was a large man with a round, red face, and as he walked toward Arran, he gave a wide smile that revealed two missing teeth.

"Welcome," he said in a friendly tone. "If you’re looking for a room, we have several to spare. Just half a silver for the night, and meals are included. You’ll have to pay extra for drinks, though."

"I’ll take a room," Arran said. He produced two small silver coins and handed them to the innkeeper. "But I had some questions about the region, which I hoped you might answer."

The large man glanced at the silver in his head, and instead of looking pleased, his smile faded in an instant. "Best you abandon those plans right now," he said, the cheer gone from his voice. "You’ll only find trouble down that path."

"Trouble?" Arran gave the man a puzzled look. "Just what do you think I’m planning?"

"You’re here for the battlefield," the innkeeper said. "Probably hoping to find some treasure."

Arran frowned, surprised at the ease with which the man had read his intentions. "If that were true, would it be a problem?"

"Just so," the innkeeper replied. "The battle that happened there, legend says thousands of Hunters died in it. I don’t know if there’s any truth to that, but..."

He cast a wary glance around the room, then continued in a lower voice, "Those bastards will hang anyone they find trying to enter. Caught my nephew a few years back. The boy was only fourteen..." He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.

"They’re guarding the battlefield?" Arran asked, the surprise in his voice genuine. "Even this long after the battle?"

"Always have," the large man replied. "Word is they consider it a graveyard, and they don’t take kindly to grave robbers. So you’d best forget about finding treasure there. Whatever lies buried in that place, it isn’t worth your life."

Arran gave the innkeeper a slow nod, taking care to look suitably disappointed.

Yet even as he forced himself to frown, he felt excitement rising within him. If the Hunters had spent the past half-century protecting the battlefield from looters, his chances of finding Elder Nikias’s writings might be better than he had thought.

Still, he managed to feign a convincing sigh. "Wish I’d known about that earlier," he said. "It took me three months to get here."

The innkeeper gave him a sympathetic look. "I’ll fetch you a bowl of stew," the man said. "When you’ve tasted my wife’s cooking, you might yet think the journey was worth it."