Paragon of Destruction

If the Hunter’s words had caused the voices in the inn to drop to a whisper, the mage’s response left only a stunned silence.

There were a dozen people in the common room, and all of them understood the dire situation they were in. They might not know who would prevail in a battle between the mages and the Hunter, but there could be little doubt that regardless of the victor, any hapless bystanders were in mortal peril.

Arran had different worries, however. He might not be in any real danger, but escaping such a battle unharmed would certainly draw attention. And attention was something he definitely did not need.

Yet the mage seemed resolved to stand his ground. Even if there was fear in his eyes, his jaw was firm, and he showed no signs of backing down despite his obvious terror.

Had his cause been a better one, Arran might have been impressed with his bravery. But as it was, he was merely astonished by the man’s stupidity.

"You refuse?" The Hunter’s deep voice sounded through the room once more, and in the corner of his eye, Arran saw the man rise from his seat in a confident movement, hand already reaching for the sword at his side.

Arran closed his eyes and sighed. He did not want to get involved in the situation, but he could not let this continue. He opened his eyes, and before the young mage could respond to the Hunter’s challenge, he rose to his feet.

"Friends," he said in a loud voice. "Surely you don’t mean to battle over who gets to stay at this inn? There’s another right down the street, and the food there can’t be worse than whatever it is they’re serving here. I’ve had better stew in whorehouses!"

Those last words drew nervous laughs from some of the inn’s other guests — the ones who’d tried the stew, Arran guessed — and a flash of confusion crossed the mage’s face as his heroic stand was interrupted so crassly.

It was enough. One of the mage’s companions stepped in and took his friend by the shoulder, then guided him out of the inn without delay. And while the stubborn young man briefly looked like he might object, he ultimately held his tongue.

Perhaps he’d realized that a bowl of bad stew wasn’t worth his life, after all.

Arran breathed a sigh of relief. After sacrificing his beard to hide his identity, he would have been more than a little annoyed to have his efforts ruined by a single foolish mage.

Yet as he turned to sit back down, he found the Hunter facing him, a suspicious look in his dark eyes.

"You saved them," the brown-haired man said. "Why?"

"Saved them?" Arran gave a cheerless laugh. "Saved myself, more like. You might not fear those mage bastards, but they can burn the rest of us to cinders with a flick of their wrist." He gestured at the others in the common room. "You damn near got the rest of us here killed."

The Hunter frowned, taken aback by Arran’s reaction. "They wouldn’t have had the chance to—" he began, his voice uncertain.

"That’s all well and good," Arran interrupted, "but I’d rather not chance it. If you want to kill mages, there’s miles of empty land outside town. No need to bother the rest of us with it."

With that, he turned away and sat back down, not giving the Hunter a chance to respond.

It was a gamble, but a calculated one. He did not want the man to question him any further, and he did not expect a Hunter would lower himself to attack a random mercenary so easily.

And if he was wrong... well, then he’d just have to find a new disguise after killing the Hunter.

But the brown-haired man returned to his table a moment later, then remained there for another half-hour before finally retiring to his room. He might face mages eagerly, but disapproving looks from commoners were another matter. With those, there was no glory to be won.

After the Hunter had gone, the innkeeper approached Arran and put down a bottle of brandy and a silver coin on the table before him.

"I reckon you saved my inn just then," the man said. "Though the stew isn’t that bad, is it?"

Arran wisely ignored the question, and instead asked, "Do things like that happen often around here? Hunters and mages at odds with each other?"

The innkeeper shook his head in response. "It’s a rare thing to see either mages or Hunters in town. To get both at the same time is just bad luck — especially these days."

"These days?" Arran gave the man a questioning look.

"Aye," the man responded. "Word is that the peace between them is breaking down. There’s been stories of fights in several other towns. Didn’t believe them myself, but..." He cast a look at the staircase where the Hunter had gone, then shrugged. "Maybe there’s some truth to the stories, after all. Bad business, if it’s true."

Arran spent the rest of the night in the common room, with the bottle of brandy winning him several new friends. Some careful questions confirmed what the innkeeper had told him — that the peace between the mages and the Hunters had grown unsteady over the past year, and that there had been several fights already.

The news was unwelcome, but Arran could do little except hope that the tension would not turn to open conflict just yet. He could not afford to waste time on the situation, and even if he had the time, there was nothing he could do to make a difference.

He left the inn at dawn the next morning, eager to be away from both the mages and the Hunter. He did not know whether the Hunter would go after the mages, but that was no business of his — he’d given them a chance to escape, and whether they took it was up to them.

In the weeks that followed, Arran kept a close watch for any pursuers. While he did not believe he’d drawn enough attention to warrant either the Hunter or the mages coming after him, it would not hurt to be cautious.

And if anyone was following him, an ambush would make quick word of them. In the vast stretches of land between towns, there were few witnesses.

Yet after several weeks without any sign of followers, Arran knew his disguise had held. And while this didn’t cause him to drop his guard, it did make his travels a lot more comfortable.

As he traveled, his progress was slow but steady. Walking like a commoner meant he could only cover a few dozen miles a day, but with each day he came closer to his destination, and he found that the sluggish pace did not bother him in the slightest.

The Ninth Valley’s borderlands were full of wide plains and dense forests, and without the pressure of training or the threat of enemies, Arran thoroughly enjoyed his carefree journey past the beautiful landscapes.

For once, he felt truly free, able to do whatever he wished. And although he had a destination to reach, he did not hurry in getting there. Instead, he took care to enjoy every step along the way, because he knew that at the end of this journey, years of hard training awaited him.

On some days he would hunt, using the bow he’d bought at the beginning of the journey. This was much less effective than using either magic or his real strength, but even on those days when his hunts were fruitless, his self-imposed limitations did not frustrate him.

If anything, he found the challenge of hunting without relying on overwhelming power refreshing. And if that meant the occasional deer escaped his arrows, then his prey had simply earned the right to live another day.

He occasionally met people along the way, too — farmers, merchants, mercenaries, and other travelers. Many of them confirmed that tensions between the Hunters and the mages were growing, with more than a few expressing the hope that the Hunters would drive out the mages once and for all.

That most commoners favored the Hunters did not come as a surprise. Mages’ powers were often distrusted by those without the ability to use magic, and while the Hunters’ strength was suspicious as well, at least it was something commoners could understand.

Yet although Arran understood their preference, it caused him some concern as well. If war came to the borderlands, the commoners’ favor would certainly help the Hunters in gathering information. And with the Valley already blind to the goings-on in the Hunters’ own land, that would put Arran’s allies at a significant disadvantage.

Weeks of travel soon turned to months, and Arran was almost disappointed when, after just over three months of travel, he reached the last town before his final destination. According to Brightblade’s map, the town was named Amydon, and it was located in the foothills of the mountains where he was to spend the next few years training.

As he approached the town, Arran immediately saw that it was unlike the other towns he’d encountered on his travels. Most of those were overgrown villages, steadily expanded in the half-century of peace the borderlands had enjoyed.

Amydon, however, was different. Surrounded by rocks and ruins, it was clear that it had once been far larger, a proper city rather than a small town. And even from a distance, the buildings that still stood were obviously ancient.

Arran had originally intended to travel straight past the town, but the unusual sight sparked his curiosity. Only a great disaster could have caused a city to fall to such a state, and he found himself wondering just what unfortunate fate had befallen the place.

After a moment’s hesitation, he headed in the direction of the town. After all, with years of training still ahead, a few days spent satisfying his curiosity would hardly make a difference.

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