That evening, under the light of the brightest star in the sky, the Rusty Cleaver was noisier than usual. There were toasts, drunken giggles, joyful shouts, laughter, and merry conversations. The festive mood was, luckily, uninterrupted by the tavern’s guard, the famous fist-fighter called Cleaver.

But in the midst of all the fun and joy, at one of the tables on the first floor, the cheapest of the three that served as a dining area (the top two were reserved for lodging), was a strange group. One of them was a very young man of either seventeen or eighteen years. Such young patrons weren’t an uncommon sight as the terna was usually discovered in a person at the age of twelve.

One of the members of the group, a tall and broad-shouldered man, hung his heavy musket and longbow on his chair. The bow was so big that it’d take three strong men to pull its string.

His friend next to him was of the same height, but his narrow shoulders made him look shorter and slimmer. This, however, didn’t prevent him from carrying two swords, which was a rather rare sight.

The last man was stocky and short, but so wide that he almost looked like a square. He held a heavy shield and a mace, but he had packed his armor into the big bag next to his chair.

As for the ladies of the group, they were a sight to behold. The older of the two had hung her sheathed saber on the back of her chair. Her wavy hair was gathered in a tight bun, and her arms and shoulders were adorned with scars. Her dark eyes, although smiling, looked tenaciously at anyone who came too close to their table.

In comparison to all of them, the other girl looked like a gentle flower hidden in a thorn bush. She kept her gaze on the table, awkwardly tugging at her lush, chestnut curls. Thin fingers gripped the handle of her staff, which looked so small and dainty that one could easily mistake it for a wand.

The company was barely noticeable in the dimly lit and packed corner of the tavern. Had anyone said that they were a famous group of adventurers about whom more than one song had been written, no one would’ve believed them. Known as the Wandering Stumps, the group was known for having completed several particularly dangerous missions issued by the king himself. This was a great honor and an even greater responsibility.

“Agh!” The swordsman snarled and slammed his mug down on the table. “We’ve been campin’ here for a month now! The others have probably reached the forest, hell, perhaps even the marshes! And we’re just sittin’ here and pickin’ our noses.”

“Calm down,” said the stocky man. “Mary knows what she’s doing. Don’t you, Mary?”

“And what if I don’t?” Mary smiled, eyes glimmering.

“Well, then we’re f―”

The archer stuffed his friend’s face with a bun of bread, shutting him up. He had moved with such speed that it looked like the bun had flown into the swordsman’s mouth on its own.

“Not in front of the children,” he said, glancing at the young girl. “She shouldn’t know about those things.”

Several unwritten laws existed in Mystria, one of them being that you never talked about life before the discovery of the terna. It was like admitting that you were once an Ernite.

“I’m talking about the School of the Arts.”

“Well, well,” Mary sneered. “You remember school?”

All the Ternites, by the order of the king, had to go to the School of the Arts, where they were taught their skills and made to choose a profession, from that of an assassin to that of a paladin. The training didn’t last long as the students were taught only the basics, but many still found it too difficult. Of course, not everyone went to school. Some joined artisan or merchant guilds, some became traveling merchants, others entered the sovereign’s service, worked on farms, or simply lived in cities and traveled throughout the word like hermits. The latter was the rarest kind of Ternite, as fledglings didn’t know how to defend themselves even against a sick fox. Because of this, schools soon gained popularity.

The swordsman spat out the bun and waved his hand. “Let’s not... Look, another one.”

The group simultaneously turned toward the mage that had approached them. Their kind was easy to spot as they all had a staff and a robe. But figuring out which type of a mage one was, for example, a priest or a druid, was a bit trickier. For that, one needed to be familiar with their distinctive features. The man in front of them, for example, had nothing but the robe and the staff, as basic mages needed nothing other than those. Besides, in the note that they had hung on the bulletin board, it said that they were looking for a mage.

“Are you the Wandering Stumps?” he asked, coming closer.

Mary snorted and almost choked on her ale. The others desperately tried to hide their giggles by coughing and clearing their throats. Even the little Alice was smiling to herself.

“We are.” Mary nodded. As the leader of the group, it was her duty to deal with the new members. “And you are...?”

“Hvurd Thunderous,” the mage said and blushed in both anger and embarrassment when the giggling started again.

“How did you get that name?” Mary asked, poking fun.

“I... chose it myself,” Hvord replied.

The swordsman, pretending to have dropped a coin, crawled under the table to calm down and muffle his giggling, but ended up only laughing louder. Oh, the newborn Ternites who were in a hurry to choose a powerful sounding nickname for themselves. Little did they know that such a name held no power. The best names were given by people who spread rumors about you and your deeds. Only that these sorts of names were very harsh and unflattering.

“A schoolboy?”

“No, I’m a graduate. By the way, here’s my recommendation from a Mr. Fetch,” Hvord said and handed a rolled-up piece of parchment sealed with wax.

Mary handed the scroll to the swordsman, who was still laughing into his thick, black beard. “So, Mr. Hvurd, you’re saying that you can make it through the Fiery Mountains?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, miss...?”

“Birch,” Mary said. “Don’t ever ask me how I got that name... The last person who dared joke about it was turned to minced meat. Now,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “how many Words do you know?”

“Twelve.”

“That means no more than seven...” Mary, who was famous for single-handedly defeating a group of demons, chuckled to herself.

“And your specialization is...?” she asked despite it being obvious.

“Lightning.”

Mary nodded. Lightning was a powerful weapon in the hands of a skilled mage, and getting such a weapon is very tricky. This element was difficult to tame, and it more often than not resulted in the death of those who tried to acquire it.

“Then let’s do a couple of tests.”

“Like?”

Mary smiled. “Sorry, you failed.”

“How―?”

Mary glanced behind Hvord’s shoulder. The mage turned and saw the swordsman holding a fork to his neck. Hvord couldn’t believe his eyes. Just a moment ago, the man was sitting under the table and laughing at him!

“That’s the speed with which the toads in the swamps of Lurk move,” Mary continued in a mentoring tone. “A slow mage is a dead mage. I’m sorry, but you’re not what we’re looking for.”

Hvord turned red and spat.

“To hell with you then! Let me see you find a mage who’ll want to go with you who knows seven Words and can tame lightning!”

“Ah, you said you know twelve,” Mary smirked.

The group burst out laughing again. Pulling up his hood, as if he were a vampire count from the old ballads, Hvord turned on his heels and marched out, mumbling curses under his breath. Mary and the others continued laughing and even Alice joined in, causing the others to smile gently. They had always thought of her as their little sister.

Calming down, Mary shook her head. She ought to submit a complaint to the Magic Guild to let them know that Mr. Fetch should no longer issue any recommendations. The old mage seemed to have decided to earn some extra coin by selling documents that he had no right selling. She admired his business acumen but thought that he could’ve been more careful.

“Which one was he?” asked the swordsman, calming down.

“Sixteenth this month,” Mary said and reached for her mug.

“Sixteen...”

“And we can’t go without a mage?” the archer asked.

Mary shook her head. “Too dangerous. I talked with Moro, he looked through the scrolls... All in all, going there without a mage is suicidal... We might lose someone along the way.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Maybe we could take a couple of Ernites with us? You know, use ‘em as bait?” the swordsman asked and immediately rose his hands in a defensive manner. His proposal was equal to standing in the middle of the square and shouting obscenities. It wasn’t a crime, but it was also not something anyone sane should be doing. But the group tolerated his vile outbursts as no one was more effective than Lari Krivolap when it came to beating someone to a pulp.

“I wish we had Zack the Dumb,” Lari said. “He participated in a campaign against a dragon in the city...”

“Or Millet the Smug... That guy knows more than a hundred words... He’s not like these kids... They learn ten words in two weeks and immediately think that they’re worthy of the archmage’s hat!”

“Or Ash,” Alice added quietly, making everyone fall silent and clutch their weapons. There was a rumor that claimed that the “demon” would come for you if you say his name aloud. No one believed it, of course, but... better safe than sorry.

Alice shrugged. “What? You said we need words. According to rumors, he knows thousands of Words. They say that there’s no one who can tame elements as well as he can.”

“Is there ale in that mug of yours? You drunk, Alice?” Mary asked, examining the girl’s mug. “I think you’ve had enough for one night.”

“And he’s also rumored to have developed a sixth form of elemental control... They also say that he is very handsome...”

The guys rolled their eyes and sighed heavily. Mary facepalmed.

“That’s all nice and dandy... But you forgot one little detail... He’s a fucking maniac!” she shouted.

“And no one has seen him for almost six months,” Lari added. “We can only hope that he’s lying dead in some ditch somewhere...”

Mary cleared her throat. “When I went to Meron, I took a look at the bulletin board and, well... How do I put this...?”

“What?”

“He burned a village not far from here about two weeks ago.”

Lari jammed another bun into the archer’s mouth as he saw him getting ready to comment.

“Also, a week ago Vane robbed a caravan that was on its way here...”

The archer took the bun out of his mouth and frowned. “An ex-pirate with a bounty of one hundred and fifty-three gold on his head is nothing compared to a maniac with a bounty of forty-five thousand coins!”

“Bah!” Lari waved his hand. “Boss is right, first Ash and now Vane... Something’s going on...”

“That’s why we need to complete the king’s assignment as soon as possible,” Alice said, making them fall silent again. “What?” she asked in confusion.

“A bit louder so that the rest of the tavern can hear you, you silly girl,” Mary hissed.

Alice stared at her for a moment, then put her hands to her lips. “Sorry,” she whispered.

The guys shook their heads and sighed tiredly. Alice was new to the business so they were willing to look through her fingers. Also, she was quite powerful despite her naïve appearance.

“I’ll probably have to hire a mercenary,” Mary grunted.

Mercenaries were the worst scum one could think of. These lovers of riches and danger usually ran away the moment things took a turn for the worst. They preferred not to cover their employers’ backs as their own skin was more expensive. There were, of course, reliable ones, but the group’s budget was never meant for such luxuries.

“You won’t have to.”

At first, Mary thought that it was one of her own that spoke, but then she realized that the voice had come from behind her. A little shocked that someone had managed to get behind her, she turned around and saw a guy of about twenty-three. He was a little above average height, but very handsome. His simple clothes and cheap staff looked homemade, as did the black scarf that hid his hair.

But to have some mage, even an experienced one, sneak up behind her? She must’ve had too much ale...

“And you are?”

The guy smiled and moved his lips, but no one could make a word of what he was saying. But he spoke not in their language, but in that of magic. Everyone looked at Alice, but she just shook her head. She didn’t know the word the man was using.

Someone suddenly shouted in surprise. The group turned their heads and saw one of the patrons of the tavern flop on his ass. Confused, the man looked around in search of his stool, but it was already hidden under the robe of the newcomer.

Without a pardon, the young man took the mug that Mary had snatched from Alice and poured himself some ale. The group stared at him in bewilderment as he helped himself to one of the buns.

“Who are you?” Mary repeated.

The young man swallowed noisily and coughed. Raising his finger as if to tell them to give him a minute, he drank his ale in one go, tapped his chest, and belched loudly.

“I apologize,” he said and cleared his throat. “I heard you’re heading to the Fire Mountains.”

“We are... We need a mage,” Mary said, staring at him.

“Well, this is your lucky day then, miss Birch!” The young man’s face lit up with childish glee. “I just so happen to be a mage! A real one! I’d show you a trick, but those are for charlatans.”

“How many Words do you know?”

Chewing another bun, the guy pondered. “Around fifty, give or take a few...”

Mary nodded. Fifty Words was a good amount. However, nothing about the guy showed that he was a good mage. They usually dressed better as enchanted clothes helped them increase their skill. This guy’s clothes only said that he wanted them to take pity upon him and take him into their ranks.

“Element?”

“Fire... Two types: Incarnation and Cover.”

“That’s good,” Mary nodded. “Very good. It’s far from what we’re looking for, but you’re the best candidate so far... However, we have a test which will help us see just how good you are.”

Ash saw Lari grab the butter knife and throw it. For most, his movements would’ve been so fast that they’d appear as nothing more than a blur, but the mage saw them as if Lari was moving in slow motion.

The mage knew that he could evade if he wanted to, deflect the knife with the wave of his staff and send it back toward the swordsman. If he wanted to, he could’ve made the swordsman stab himself with the knife in his thigh. He could’ve burned him along with the tavern and everyone in it. He could’ve done anything he wanted.

But what he did was blunt the knife with a Word and let it hit him.

Mary watched as the mage fell off the stool. Lying on the floor, he rubbed his pained chest where a dark bruise was already spreading. Lari grunted in respect, noticing that the blade had been dulled.

“You’re not fast enough,” Mary said. “A good mage would’ve deflected the knife with their staff. However, you’re better than anyone we’ve seen so far and speed is something that can be fixed. Congratulations welcome to the squad! Tomorrow you’ll get the official emblem of the Stray Stumps clan. But since you know my name, I’m sure you know who we are.”

The young man grimaced, looking displeased. Alice rose and touched his chest with her wand, healing the bruise and removing the pain. Although she was young, Alice was a great healer.

“I think we should get some rest. We’ll set off at ten in the morning. Any questions?”

“No!” the rest of the squad said, pleased that they’d finally be leaving this place. However, they’ll have to try their best to be the first to complete the mission, since the king had sent several other squads to deal with the problem.

The mage, still sitting on the floor, laughed to himself. “What else will I have to go through in order to get to you, lieutenant?”

But in order to understand the present, you need to look into the past...

310. A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, 26th day of Tamir, somewhere on the border of the Middle Kingdom

A group of seven horsemen raced through the forest. One of them was seriously injured ― the expensive black doublet was stained scarlet, and his coat clung to his thigh, sticky with a thick coat of blood that dripped onto the emerald grass. The others, equally well-dressed, were as pale as the first snow. They were clearly terrified of falling into the clutches of their pursuer.

“Will he live?” asked the man with a colorful plume on his hat.

“I doubt it.” His neighbor shook his head. “The wound is too deep. The nearest temple is only a dozen miles away... I fear for his life...”

At that moment, the horses neighed in fear. Some came to a halt, while the others started to back away. The riders tried to calm down their frightened mounts, but all their attempts were in vain. They were scared of something... or someone. But the Monsky Forest was calm, free of any predators more dangerous than bears or wolves. Even the Ternites rarely went there, sure that there was nothing of use to them in the forest.

“Who are you?” a calm voice asked.

To the riders, it seemed as if the voice belonged to the grass swaying under the hooves of their horses. Or from the creaking trees and their luscious crowns. Or perhaps it was the wind itself that was whispering into their ears? Whatever it was, it made the horses neigh even louder and the riders to draw their blades.

“Show yourself!” the one with the plume shouted.

“Hold on, sir!” His neighbor grabbed him by the hand. “I heard that a spirit appeared in the forest and that it is willing to aid those in need. Let me talk to it.”

The man with the plume glanced at his friend and nodded.

“Sir... Erm... Spirit!”

A faint laugh echoed through the forest. “I’m listening.”

“Um, sir Spirit... I, Baron Halsham, humbly ask you to help us. Our friend is seriously injured and dying. I fear that we won’t be able to reach the temple in time.”

For some time, there was nothing but silence, occasionally interrupted by the wounded man’s groans.

“And why should I help you?”

“Because―” the man with the plume started, but didn’t finish.

“Can you really stand to watch an innocent man suffer?” Halsham asked.

“I don’t care about other people’s suffering!” the spirit snapped. The trees creaked threateningly and the wind picked up, tossing small stones and dirt into the air. The horses whinnied in alarm. The riders prepared for battle, but nothing happened.

“However,” the spirit said, calming down, “if you give me something, I might heal your wounded friend.”

“What would you like?”

“The flower that’s sticking out of your bag. I’ve never seen one like it... Give it to me and I’ll help you.”

Halsham looked in confusion at the ordinary buttercup peeking out of his leather bag, wondering if the spirit was trying to joke with them. However, he had no other option.

Taking the flower, Halsham dismounted, took a few steps, and then carefully lowered the flower to the ground. He then went back to his group and waited.

After some time, something unusual happened. The air in front of the riders began to shimmer and a small house appeared among the trees, so small that it’d be better described as a shed than a house. The buttercup lay on the doorstep of the house.

The doors creaked open and a head popped out. A young man with multicolored eyes and ashen hair stared at the tiny yellow flower. By his youthful looks, he couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

“Carry him inside,” he said to the riders and picked up the flower.

The men looked at each other, but no one dared speak a word. Nobody dared argue with the hermit. There were too many legends and tails about such people, and just because the man in front of them was still a youth it didn’t mean that he wasn’t a powerful mage.

The riders carefully lowered their friend onto a makeshift stretcher made out of their cloaks and carried him into the house where they put him on the kitchen table. As much as they all wanted to stay and help, there wasn’t enough room in the house for all of them, so a few of the riders had to wait outside.

The mage took a couple of jars from the cupboards. He’d sniff their contents and throw away the ones he didn’t need. While he searched for the necessary ingredients, the knives, controlled by magic, sharpened themselves.

“This will hurt,” he said and walked over. With a quick move, he tore the bandages off the patient, revealing the wound.

The man with the plume, unable to stand this kind of barbaric behavior, put his blade to the mage’s throat. “You little―”

“He’ll die if I don’t apply pressure to the wound,” the man replied calmly, ignoring the cold steel pressed against his skin.

Clenching his teeth, the man sheathed his sword. The young man nodded and immediately covered the wound with a rag. He began uncorking the jars when the man intervened again.

“What’s in those jars?” he asked sharply.

“Don’t worry,” the young man smiled. “It’s for me, not him. You see, I’m no healer, so my Words won’t have enough power. I need special herbs to fix that.”

The man nodded and observed the mage eat several bunches of dried berries and crushed roots and wash the whole thing with water. He then removed the rag, letting the blood flow again, and started whispering inaudibly. As his lips moved, the wound began to close and the blood seemed to flow back into the body. The man’s skin gained some color and his breathing stabilized. After a couple of moments, all that was left from the rider’s near-death experience was a barely visible scar.

Pale in the face and bleeding from his nose, the young man staggered and almost fell, but the man with the plume caught him.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve no idea how much you helped us.”

“I think I do,” the young man replied as he was carefully placed on the floor. “I saved your friend from certain death and all... I’ve done the impossible.”

“You’ve done more than that,” whispered the wounded man. “I’m King Gazrangan, and I owe my life to you.”