“I’ve got this sis.”

“Do you really?” Randa furrows her brow at me.

“This is what I’ve been training for!”

“To fight a rumor?”

“It’s not a rumor,” I protest.

“Do you really believe that an Imperial has returned after all this time? Come on, Roline. That’s ridiculous. This is nothing more than a glorified scouting mission. The lords are sending our armies on a wild goose chase to distract from the gold shortage here at home.”

“You’ll see when I come back wearing commendations,” I give her a hug. “This is the real deal.”

“If you say so,” she sighs. “Just don’t get yourself killed, ok? I only have one little sister.”

“I know. I know. I’ll be careful. Don’t forget that I have Remu. He’ll keep me safe.”

“I know he will,” sis leans down and scratches my fluffy little familiar’s chin. He bounces up and down in approval.

I close the front door to my house and wave goodbye to sis through the window. Our cute little farm cottage is simple and homey, just like all the buildings in Meroni. It’s a great place to grow up if you know how to keep yourself busy. For me, that involved joining the local provincial militia. For my sister, it meant becoming a seamstress. I think we both found our calling.

Meroni is a settlement that few people have ever heard of. Its not on any major trade routes. It doesn’t house any guilds or military outposts. It doesn’t even have a temple. Our residents are farmers, craftsmen, and soldiers. Most of us are at least.

Remu rubs against my side.

“I know little buddy,” I cup him in the palm of my hand, “its finally our chance to do something big.”

I didn’t know I was a mage until my fourteenth birthday. Nobody in my village knew. Unlike the Northerners and the long-dead Imperials, we Westerners have never divided our people based on magic aptitude. In our society everyone is equal and everyone is free – at least in theory. Mages are still given more opportunities than most. When I summoned my magic red sugar glider, my life became far more interesting.

It was on a day not much unlike this one when I first met Remu: the skies were gray, the air was humid, and the pollen was thick. Its common knowledge in these parts that the dead love this kind of weather.

“Are you Roline qa Meroni?” A grizzled old soldier gives me a funny look.

“Sir,” I salute him, “battlemage Roline qa Meroni, reporting for my commission.”

He scowls at me and motions me into a open carriage. There, I see other battlemages like me. They are dressed in yellow and white, the colors of the Human Lordship. Meroni is also a bit of an aberration in one other way, it is an elven settlement. At least on paper, it is. Most of us have significant human ancestry; my own father was a soldier from Golden Eye City before he settled down with my mom. Even though I don’t have knife-ears or golden locks, I am still classified as an elf.

“A green carapace, huh? That’s different.” A human girl with tanned skin and curly brown-blonde hair sneers at me. “Why would you join a human company?”

“For fame and glory, no doubt.” A young man motions me to sit next to him, “our company is going to front lines. If we fight well, the lords will reward us.”

He’s a typical Western Human, tall and tanned, with wiry brown hair. I can tell that he’s a provincial mage like me. His equipment is standard issue, and the insignia on his cuff is that of a well-known militia company.

“It’s true. I joined this war to make a name for myself.” I agree with his assessment, “and for a little adventure too.”

“I can appreciate that,” the young man removes his standard-issue leather battle glove and sticks his hand towards me. “The name is Bunson qi Golden Eye,” he smiles. “My counterpart is an academy mage, Meree qi Tetrine.”

“Don’t introduce me without asking my permission first,” she groans.

Ah, now it makes sense. Of course, she’s an academy mage. She practically reeks of wealth and privilege.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I shake his hand. “I’m a specialist in summoning and familiar magic. I know a pretty powerful healing spell as well.”

“My specialty is building creation magic, but I also have a few mind manipulation spells up my sleeve.”

“Oh cool! Are you the logistics officer by any chance?”

“I sure am. I’m in charge of setting up camp. The captain told me that you are going to be my lieutenant. I appreciate the help.”

“Hmph,” Meree curls her lips, “you provincial battlemages are all the same. Trite and simplistic. At the academy, we learn the nuances of every type of magic. We are specialists in all five of the major magical arts. There’s a reason that I have been granted a role as a warrior, and there's also a reason that you two got stuck pitching tents and doing dishes.”

“Okay miss perfect,” I roll my eyes at her, “how many Accursed Ones have you defeated?”

“Accursed Ones?” She guffaws. “Those weak beasts? They are beneath me. The army can handle those. I’m here to fight one-on-one against other talented mages and best them in combat. I could care less about mindless zombies.”

“Unfortunately, where we’re going, I doubt we are going to see many mages for awhile,” Bunson interjects himself in our conversation.

Bunson couldn’t have timed his comment any better. Our wagon train hits a bump in the road. The brick surface instantly turns to muck under our studded wheels.

“All soldiers be on guard,” a human sentry gallops against the flow of the wagon train, “we’ve just crossed into the Deadlands.”

The Deadlands is what we call the former territory of the Imperium. Nothing but briars, thorns, and reeds grow here. There are no living creatures in this place, but there are plenty of dead ones.

“Your village is quite close to the Deadlands,” Bunson turns toward me, “have you had many encounters with the Accursed Ones?”

“Quite a few,” I nod, “but what’s even worse than those mindless zombies is all the pollen these stupid thorns put off.” I point to a prickly vine snaking up the trunk of a dead tree, “it’s as thick and snow, and completely poisonous to livestock. For farmers like my parents, this stuff is extremely costly.”

“Fascinating. In Golden Eye City we never get any pollen from the Deadlands, I guess we are too far inland.”

“By the lords,” Meree yawns, “you’re putting me to sleep. Forget this. I’m going to go check on my men.”

She stands up and fortifies her legs with defense magic. With a kick, she propels herself onto the wagon behind us. Like a yellow dart frog, she jumps her way towards the back of the convoy. It's so much more peaceful with her out of the way. I hope that she doesn't come back.

Now alone, Bunson and I sit back and watch the dreary scenery go by. This particular road feeds into a larger trading route about a day’s ride away. Only a few brave traders ever venture down these paths. There is little economic reason to visit the Deadlands. The villages and cities of the former Imperium were looted eons ago, and the Accursed Ones can be quite problematic, especially near the Imperial City. There are Accursed Thralls who nest there. Now, the only reason to traverse these trails is to visit the Northern Kingdoms or the barbarians – but nobody goes out of their way to visit the latter. Except for us.

“Do you think the rumors are true?” Bunson asks me, “do you think that the Gray One is real?”

“The Gray Imperial?” I scratch at my chin, “I mean, it does sound pretty crazy, but the lords wouldn’t have mobilized us without good reason.”

I look around at our wagon train. Ours is the third convoy to leave the Western Lordship in the past week, and there are two others that are still coming up in our rear. Each convoy carries over two hundred soldiers, and at least a half-dozen battlemages. The lords fear the Imperials, and rightfully so, they once controlled almost the entire continent. If it weren’t for the Northerners and their powerful magic, both of our nations would have fallen. As an elf, I would have become a thrall, which is basically a glorified slave. Chances are, I wouldn’t have been born to begin with. Imperials were known for their cruel eugenics.

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“The dead are walking!” A battle horn erupts at the front of our caravan, and a messenger flies past us on a horse. He repeats the same warning over and over putting the whole convoy on guard.

We grind to a halt and stand ready for battle. What is this that I am feeling? Excitement? Nerves? It’s finally time. My first skirmish as an officially commissioned battlemage. This is what I have been training for.

“I’ve got left,” Bunson tells me.

“Right,” I yell back.

Nemu rests on my shoulder. Together, we survey the desiccated forest for signs of movement. Sounds of magic and iron can already be heard in the distance. The fight has started somewhere else along the wagon train. This is the Black Forest. It’s a few hours ride from my home. The monsters are weak here, but they are many. This has the potential to be a rough fight.

In a knotted tangle of purple and gray thorns, Nemu spots something. His bulbous eyes are black with focus.

“An Accursed Peasant. No, a dozen of them!”

The soldiers on each side of our wagon are frozen with fear. Most of these men and women are from Golden Eye and its surroundings. Very few have ever faced the walking dead.

“Remain calm,” I yell down to them, “these ones are weak. Just don’t let them run upon you and you’ll be fine.”

A young woman wearing brown armor gulps heavily and sends me a thankful nod. She’s a huntress. They are expert trackers and ambushers, but I doubt she has ever seen prey like this before. Her human head looks as normal as any other, but the thick fur on her exposed neck looks stiff with anticipation.

The accursed zombies spot us. Or, perhaps they smell us. Not even the academy mages understand how these beasts think.

They weave between thorn-choked trees, rapidly approaching our position. I unsheathe my short sword, just in case this becomes a close-quarters fight. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that.

“Okay Nemu, let's do this.”

Nemu chirps at me. He’s ready to go. This is the perfect battlefield for a gliding squirrel.

“[Familiar Attack: Leaping Slash]”!

Nemu responds to my command by leaping from my shoulder and soaring ahead of me. He glides from tree to tree. Then, when he has a clear angle of attack, he slashes with pure energy that radiates from the tips of his claws.

Four accursed zombies fall in one swoop. Gunk and grime explode from their necks.

“[Fortified Wall].” Bunson joins me at my side. A hard-packed earthwork emerges from the ground, blocking the Accursed Ones from charging at our troops. They look relieved to be out of harm's way.

Nemu swings down and takes out five more accursed. Only three are left.

“Watch and learn,” Meree hops onto Bunson’s earthwork out of nowhere. “[Mental Overload],” she says.

Heads explode and cerebrospinal fluid splatters everywhere. The academy mage’s attack isn’t as graceful as mine, but I can’t argue with its effectiveness.

“I could have handled that,” I growl.

“As I said,” she grins at me, “any soldier could handle these pests. You’re nothing special.”

“Neither are you.”

Bunson places himself between us. The tension in the air is electric.

“Ladies, ladies,” he says, “let’s try to get along. We still have four more weeks before we even make it close to the barbarian lands. It’s going to be miserable if we’re fighting each other the whole time.”

“Hmph,” she sneers.

“Whatever.”

Bunson is right. We have a long road ahead of us before we make it to the barbarian lands. For the next few weeks, the only company we will have is each other and the Accursed Ones. The latter is only going to grow in numbers as we press deeper into old Imperial territory.

For now, the battle is over, and we quickly resume our pace. I lean back in the wagon and dream of the glory that may lie ahead of us. If the Gray Imperial is real, and he really has rallied the barbarians to his cause, then it is going to be a historical feat to be part of the army that takes him down. Nemu and I may even be able to face real elemental magic. Its been centuries since anyone has seen elemental magic used, and there isn’t a mage alive today who isn’t fascinated by the idea of controlling the fire, earth, wind, or water.

“If you want to take a nap, that’s fine,” Bunson looks down at me and smiles, “we can alternate watch duty. As the camp logistics team, we are going to have a restless evening ahead of us anyways.”

I sit up for a moment and look around. The dead trees of the Black Forest tower around us on all sides. This is prime ambush territory, but the monsters here are weak. It makes sense to grab a little shut-eye in an area like this.

“Okay, wake me up in a few hours and I’ll take over for you.”

“Sounds good,” he says.

I lie back down and stare up at the sky. It's always overcast in the Deadlands. Normally the muted atmosphere makes this place pretty depressing, but combined with the pitter-patter of the wagon train, it is quite tranquil. I allow my eyes to shut. A nap does sound pretty good right now.

Nemu curls his fluffy little body into the crook of my elbow. He’s such a cute little guy. I might be 18-years-old, and too old for stuffed animals, but Nemu is an exception to that rule. He’s like my own living, breathing, toy doll.

“Let’s get some rest,” I sigh. This is going to be a long trip.

“Wake up,” Bunson’s hand pushes against my shoulder.

“Has it been a few hours already?”

“No, there’s trouble.”

I sit up and turn my attention to where he is looking. We are deep in the Black Forest now, hours from our nearest outpost. Yet, I can’t help but notice that there are yellow and gray banners of the human lordship strung haphazardly from the branches of the decaying trees.

“Is that an elven-made halberd?” I hear some of the soldiers ask.

I hop down from the wagon to see what they are talking about. Sure enough, one of the weapons of my people is lying beside the road. It looks brand new, freshly forged from the armories of Clifden.

Our commanding officer strolls back towards me, the wagon train is stopped at this point, and everyone is confused by the scene that we are seeing.

“Elf girl,” he says to me, “can you identify this weapon?”

“As you know,” I pick up the weapon and inspect it more closely, “my village is in the lands of the Human Lordship, but from what I know about the weapons of my people, this must have belonged to an elven officer. Only elven battlemages who specialize in defensive arts carry these.”

“General Raibeart of the Elven Lordship was on the wagon train ahead of ours. They left two days ago.”

General Raibert. His name is very famous among my people. He was instrumental in defending Killin against the dragon riders of the Foggy Sea. It is said that his unconventional tactics and cunning nature allowed him to outwit his opponents at every turn. Those vandals lost dozens of full-grown dragons in their assault, and all we lost was a single horse.

“There’s no way that General Raibeart would have abandoned his weapon in a place like this.” I shake my head. It is inconceivable.

“These banners,” Bunson approaches one of the trees, “I recognize this material.”

“Go on,” the commander raises his eyebrow.

“This is canvas hide. The same material as our tents.”

“Our tents?”

“Come to think of it,” Bunson looks around, “there is a small clearing here. This would have been a decent spot to set up camp for the night.”

My shoulders tense at Bunson’s words. All the soldiers and officers know what the implications of his speculations mean for us and our mission.

I approach one of the tarps and examine it closely. It is faint, but I can just barely smell a metallic odor coming from the canvas. My heart takes an extra beat as I turn the tarp over. There, caked against the dense fabric, is dried blood.

“An ambush. The caravan ahead of us was ambushed.” These are not banners.

I say what everyone is thinking. But who? Who could have done this? They cleaned up after themselves too. There are no obvious signs of battle besides the dangling pieces of tent that line the thorny trees.

“There is no way that the Accursed Ones could have done this.” The commander wears a sunken expression. “Did the barbarians attack us this far to the south and west of their territory?”

There is one other possibility. It seems even more outlandish than the barbarians marching to the south to face us. I hesitate to even bring it up.

“Roline,” Bunson looks at me, “do you have something that you want to add?”

Ok, seriously? Come on Bunson, I don’t want everyone’s attention on me. Poor Nemu doesn't do well under the spotlight.

“My people have heard dark stories about the Deadlands,” I take a deep breath. I expect the commander to shut me down, but he looks at me intently. “Among the scant few trade caravans that pass through my village, it is widely whispered that the Accursed Acolytes and Thralls exhibit basic intelligence.”

“Are you suggesting that they are responsible for this attack? This far from the Imperial City? That’s insane."

“No,” I shake my head. A cold shiver runs down my spine. I sure hope I am being insane. If I’m not, then we may very well be screwed. “While Accursed Thralls and Acolytes have some wits about them, it is said that Accursed Imperials retain their full intellectual capacity. They may even be able to control and manipulate other Accursed Ones. It’s just a rumor. Nobody has ever seen an Accursed Imperial, but among the villages closest to the Deadlands, speculation runs rife on this topic.”

“Ludicrous.” The commander shoots me down. It seems like typical human bigotry, but he may be right. My idea does sound pretty crazy. I mean, an Accursed Imperial? If someone like that existed, we would know about it.

“I hear something.” The young huntresses' fir stands on end. Her nose twitches as she sniffs the air. Once again, we are all on guard.

“What is it?” Bunson asks.

“Someone approaches,” I see her throat contract with a heavy gulp, “and they smell of death.”

“How many enemies are we dealing with?” The commander asks. A bead of sweat runs from his balding hair down to his cheek. None of us are prepared to fight against a high-level Accursed One. Not even the military academies teach tactics for dealing with situations like this one.

“There is just one,” she says. “I can smell male pheromones. He is ahead of us and moving on our location.”

“What should we do?” Bunson looks at the commander.

“Bring all of the battlemages to our fore. We cannot be too careful. Where is Meree qi Tetrine?”

“Here,” she seems to metastasize out of thin air once more. Perhaps this is one of her abilities.

“Good. You will be in charge of the battlemage unit. Defend this convoy at all costs.”

“Commander,” she crooks her neck, “I do not need a whole unit. I am more than capable of handling a lone man on my own.”

“Do not second guess my orders. This mission is vital to our alliance with the Northerners. We will take no chances.”

“Very well,” the frustration in her voice is audible. “Battlemages with me.”

We rush after her in two columns. Bunson and I follow her on the right of the wagon train, while three other older male battlemages follow her on the left. This is it. This is what I have trained my whole life for. If this is a barbarian, then they must be incredibly powerful to have made it this far south. If they are an Accursed One, then they may well be invincible.

Meree comes to a sudden halt as we reach the front of the caravan, and we fall in place behind her. In front of the lead wagon, the ancient trade road stretches on in a straight line for as far as the eye can see. At first, we see nothing on the horizon, but after a tense minute, a shadowy silhouette walks into view.

We await orders that never come. Meree is too fixated on our potential foe to move us into formation. Bunson and I steal worried glances at each other. All we can do now is charge our magic gloves with mana and wait. With each passing second, I can feel my body getting stiffer and more apprehensive.

His shape is becoming much clearer now. He’s dressed in purple and black and carries an antique book in his hands. A tattered cape billows behind him. There is no seamstress in the whole of the Western Lordship who has the talent or funds to make such trappings.

“Is he a Westerner?” Bunson’s voice waivers.

Indeed he does look like a Western Human. He has the same tan skin as our people, and hair that is not much different than Bunsons’. There is one key difference though – no, two.

Westerners don’t have glowing purple eyes, and they also don’t know how to control fire.