Chapter 3

Before walking into Vale, I tore a strip from the blanket in my pack and tied it around my midsection. The sweat rag had already grown sodden and heavy with blood.

If only I could use a spell to drain the blood of its matter and put it back in my body — but mages couldn’t use blood like other matter, and patching up a wound wasn’t my training or expertise anyway.

I drew my long black duster from my pack and put the coat on, even in the oppressive heat, standing as tall as I dared. Despite the pain I felt, I took time to move quickly away from the scene of the fight, circling around toward the city from the south. I moved from dune to dune, from a stand of dead bushes to a couple of dead, fallen trees, covering my approach as best I could manage.

On my long walk here, I’d walked through numerous villages and towns, all of which had been emptied out and deserted. I assumed most of the citizens who used to populate these lands were either dead or now living in Vale.

Decades ago, I traveled extensively with other mages from town to village to hamlet, offering help and guidance to those we met. This was part of our service to The Way. I traveled most often with a talented healer called Shaan. Shaan and I became close in our attempts to create a network of help for the farmers and fisherman and hunters living in these small villages. I still missed him and he’d already been gone for a decade. After years of losing similar friends, I suspected I might be the last mage alive.

I found my way toward the city slowly, hobbling and leaning heavily on my walking stick. In time, as I neared the outskirts, other citizens walking outside the walls helped camouflaged my approach. Still, every breath pained my side as I crested a ridge, and the city appeared amid the rippling desert heat.

Vale itself sat in a low area between two high foothills of the Broken Mountains. As the city walls came into view, I was impressed despite my hazy condition. Vale looked to be the best-protected city I’d seen in all my years. Its stone walls rose to the height of two men and spanned many miles, surrounding the majority of the city in a semi-circle that backed up toward the mountains. The city sat in a naturally defensible position, and a dozen imposing stone towers stood along the inner walls.

Outside the tall wooden gates, a ragtag village had sprung up along the city walls. Small wooden huts housed a poorer population, and most of these shacks seemed to serve as homes and places of business. Perhaps the people from the deserted villages I’d seen in my travels years before had relocated here.

As luck would have it, a number of shepherds walked outside the city, herding small flocks of scrawny sheep. Other workers trudged back and forth, hauling warped pieces of wood or brick, while some worked with mud, straw, or animals far enough from the city itself that my approach was partially concealed. I passed a tanner worked a graying animal hide over a crude wooden triangle. In front of the next house, a crude blacksmith hammered a blunt piece of iron. Both halted their work as I walked by, glaring at me without hiding their distrust.

As I got closer, I saw that most of the small dusty wooden buildings had been stripped of paint, or perhaps they’d never been painted at all. Sand and dust piled in the corners and on the roofs.

Others moved through the streets, dragging along bone-skinny animals or dusty wagons with some semblance of purpose, which was better than some places I’d seen over the past few years.

I moved down a small dirt road into the hardscrabble outer village, trying to walk without limping. Every person I saw gave me an extended fearful look.

I need to focus, I thought. My head felt light, but my heart still thumped in my chest.

Deep inside, I felt the reasons for my coming to Vale flickering. That spark had to keep me going now, or it could be over in a moment. The rest of the world was a desert, its population dwindling every day. So, of course, I had nowhere else to go. Most importantly, I needed to pass on all I’d learned of The Way of the Mark. The culture and craft of magekind thrived by passing along knowledge. However, the true mages had steadily been dying off without replacement for decades. I hadn’t met another mage in how long? Was it years? I couldn’t hope to find anyone of The Way in this city, could I? Vale was the center of everything that opposed my way of life. I felt it again. A mere whisper of hope fluttered inside me — despite what I knew — this could be the place. There could be someone here I could train and pass on my knowledge.

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Men, women, and children walked the streets all around me, the latter a ragged bunch of starved feral animals crouching in alleyways or perched on rooftops with desperate, hungry eyes. These were the survivors of this brutal world.

Something else burned within me, even more so now that I’d arrived. The Motorized — these users of steam-powered weapons and machines like those I’d met in the desert — had been fighting mages of The Way for decades. They persecuted and killed friends of mine like Shaan, mages I considered my only kin. When I first studied The Way as a young man, mages lived and worked in every city and village in the known world. They helped regular people solve everyday problems, advised leaders and governments, and stood for freedom against oppression. So, when I truly looked within myself, I realized I burned with cold, angry revenge.

I winced as the pain in my side spiked for a moment, especially as I tried to ignore it. Looking down at myself, the blanket wrapped around my midsection was mostly hidden under my long black coat. I didn’t look wounded, but still, I badly needed a drink to dull the edge of pain.

I saw a building bearing a sign on its rough wooden awning showing an image of a cup etched into the wood. I walked toward the building, keeping my eyes on the ground. As I got close, I noticed more leathered lackeys patrolling and watching from the city walls. I’d gotten lucky slipping into the outer city from the south. A few of the leathered thugs looked my way, but I kept my head down, and they moved on.

I stepped into the old tavern, moving through a curtain of burlap, which served as a door. Inside, it was dark and cool, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust in the dim light. Half the tables were full, as other men sat nursing mugs of something or other. The low chatter quieted as soon as I stepped inside. A single man stood behind the narrow counter, leaning on it with his head down.

I stepped toward him, my walking stick plonking onto the wooden floor, loud in the sudden silence. The bartender looked up and stared.

“Can a man get a drink?” I grumbled.

The man stared at me, his mouth open slightly. I realized that I probably looked menacing with my black hat, knee-length jacket, a blanket wrapped around my midsection, a large pack on my back, and my weapon-like walking stick.

I took off my hat, revealing my long, wispy, aged gray hair, half-smiling. “Whatever you got. I ain’t picky,” I added.

The man finally moved, drawing an unmarked bottle and a wooden cup from under the bar. He poured the drink. I dropped a coin on the narrow counter, picked up the cup, and drank it down in a single gulp. It tasted slightly of whiskey but then came on stronger like moonshine.

I flipped a second coin on the counter and asked for another. The bartender poured me a second drink, and I took my cup and walked to an empty table in an alcove in the back wall, sitting down slowly and carefully. My side screamed in pain as I bent over. I grew dizzy for a moment, and my vision darkened at the edges as I sat down.

I took a deep, slow breath to regain my focus.

Sitting there, I found every eye in the room on me. The bartender stared openly. They know what you are. The voice came into my head with force. I wouldn’t find a mage here. Not in this forsaken place. After all, magic of The Way was outlawed here and had been since its founding.

I allowed anger to grow inside me. I had to fight back, and to do that, I needed allies.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, ridding my body of valuable moisture. The pain continued to spread through my body. Heat crept into my arms. I gritted my teeth and drank some more. The whiskey-shine tasted smooth at first, with a harsh after taste.

Breathe, I told myself.

To find any friends in this place, I needed to demonstrate what I was. Right then and there, I decided. I’d been seriously wounded, and if I was going to die, Vale would be the place to do it.

I finished the drink, emptying the wooden cup again. A slight buzz began to play in the back of my mind, and the pain dulled slightly. This alcohol worked fast.

Carefully, I pulled a simple piece of granite from my pouch and placed it on the table with a “thud.” I looked around the room; a couple of men stared at me openly, while others had gone back to their conversations — after all, I was just a harmless, old man.

I raised my hands into the air theatrically, waving them as I’d been taught so many years ago. I drained the rock of its matter, and it winked into nothing.

One man jumped to his feet, staring at me, his chair falling to the ground, his mouth wide open.

Every eye in the room flicked back to me.

I finished the transformation, flicked my wrist, and suddenly my cup overflowed with alcohol, but this time it was the smooth, rich wheat ale I’d learned to conjure years before. I needed to dull the pain as much as possible, so I took the drink in my hand and lifted it to every man in the room. Cheers.

They stared at me as I downed the drink in one long gulp.

The man who had jumped to his feet, turned and ran from the tavern. He’d be off to alert whatever authorities existed here, and before long, someone would discover the six men I’d left out in the desert. But I was past caring.

I couldn’t help the grin that creased my face as the alcohol took effect.