Paragon Of Destruction

Arran traveled to Esran at a steady but relaxed pace, practicing the Forms while he made his way toward the border.

He would continue his training in the Hunters' lands, but it might be a long time before he got several weeks of uninterrupted practice. So while he still had the chance, he made good use of the drudgery of travel.

The training went much as he'd expected.

His real goal was not just to learn the Forms, but to gain the insights that were buried deep within them. And from the insight he had discovered within Master Zhao's sword style, he knew that would be no simple matter.

And so, instead of trying to rush things, he spent the weeks it took to reach the border merely familiarizing himself with the Forms he'd chosen to learn. There were just over a hundred of those, and as he traveled, he repeated them until he could perform each without even the slightest effort.

That was only a first step on the path to the insights they contained, but it was enough that he would be able to practice wherever and whenever he wanted. Just as long as he used Shadow Essence and there were no Darian Knights around.

But while Arran's training was like he'd expected it to be, that was not the case for the road to Esran.

The journey from the forest was quiet, but when Arran reached the road that led to Esran, he found it filled with travelers. There were far more than he'd expected to find, and all but a few were heading in the same direction as Arran.

That alone would have caused him some wonder, but even stranger was that there were entire families of what looked to be farmers and villagers on the road.

He'd expected the people traveling to the Hunters' lands to be young men and women, seeking adventure and opportunity. But instead, what he saw were complete households, many of them traveling with small children and elders.

That these people had uprooted their entire lives and left their towns and villages behind could not mean anything good. It could well mean that war had already broken out, years earlier than expected.

Anxious to find out what happened, Arran approached one of the families — a middle-aged couple with two children just a few years shy of a.d.u.l.thood, traveling with a mule-drawn cart.

The man — a farmer, from the look of him — eyed Arran warily as he approached, and Arran could see his hand inching toward the knife at his belt. It seemed he was already expecting trouble.

But Arran had no intention of robbing a few poor farmers, nor did he have anything to fear from the man's knife. He ignored the farmer's weapon and made a friendly gesture in greeting, then asked, "You heading to Esran?"

The farmed looked at Arran suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

"I'm heading that way myself," Arran said. "But I was wondering why there are so many people on the road."

A puzzled look flashed across the farmer's face. "You don't know?"

Arran shook his head. "I only just returned to the area. Spent the last few months guarding a caravan down south."

"You're a caravan guard, then?" The farmer's tone grew friendlier, though not by much. "If that's the case, there should be good business for you here, with the bandits and all."

"Bandits?" Arran looked at the man in confusion. He'd expected to hear about war or disaster, not something as common as bandits.

The farmer nodded in response. "They're the reason we're leaving. Ever since the mages pulled out of the borderlands, it's been nothing but chaos. After the second time our village was attacked, I decided not to wait for a third time." He glanced at his family, then added in a softer voice, "Not with a family to protect."

Arran creased his brow in thought. "You said the mages pulled out of the borderlands? When did that happen?"

"It started about a year ago," the man replied. "Didn't think too much of it at first. Truth be told, I was glad to see them leave. But once they left, there was no one to keep the bandits in check." He shook his head in disgust. "Never thought I'd miss the bastards."

"If you miss the mages' protection, why are you traveling to the Hunters' lands?" Arran asked, giving the farmer a curious look.

The man shrugged. "Word is they'll go to war again, and I remember my grandfather's stories well enough to know who'll win."

"You don't want to go there." Arran glanced at the farmer's daughter, a red-cheeked girl who'd only barely left childhood behind. "Not with her by your side."

Immediately, the farmer's eyes filled with suspicion once more. "What are you talking about?"

"Unless I'm mistaken," Arran said, "she's got a touch of magic to her."

The man paled at his words. "How did you… Are you a mage?"

"Do I look like a mage?" Arran laughed, then shook his head. "But I've seen enough to recognize them. And she's got the look to her, as sure as grass is green."

It was nonsense, of course, but what wasn't nonsense was that the girl had some magical talent. It was too weak for Arran himself to Sense, but from his sword, he knew she had a Fire Realm — and one that was already partly open.

He had no idea how she'd managed to open a Realm without any guidance, but in the Hunters' lands, that good fortune might as well be a death sentence.

The farmer exchanged a short look with his wife. "We always knew she was different, but…" He hesitated before continuing, "Do you think they can tell? The Hunters?"

Arran shrugged. "I'm just a mercenary. But if I noticed it…"

There was no need for him to finish the sentence. And as he spoke the words, the farmer looked almost sick with worry.

"But where will we go?" His earlier suspicion completely forgotten, the man looked at Arran with desperate eyes.

Arran gave it a moment of thought, then said, "Go south. A few months of travel, and your family should be safe."

He did not suggest that they travel to the Ninth Valley. The farmer and his wife had almost certainly known about their daughter's magical talent, and they clearly wanted to keep her as far away from magic as they could.

Perhaps it was a waste of the girl's talent, but that was no business of Arran's. He'd given them the warning they needed. Beyond that, what happened was their own responsibility.

Yet it looked like the farmer had taken the warning to heart. He exchanged a few whispered words with his wife, then turned back to Arran.

"Thank you," he said in a soft voice. "I'll heed your advice."

Arran gave the man a friendly nod, then continued on his way. He had neither the time nor the desire to get involved in the farmer's problems.

Over the week that followed, he steadily made his way past the endless masses of slow-moving travelers, drawing closer to Esran with every step.

Yet even now that he knew what was happening, he still found himself astonished by the sheer scale of it. There were thousands of people traveling along the road, as if the entire population of a large city had decided to move all at once.

Arran — or rather, his sword — also spotted several more people with opened Realms among the masses. But although he had warned the farmer and his family, he told none of the others about what lay ahead.

Even warning the farmer had been a risk, and he could not endanger his life and his mission to save a few foolish mages from their own decisions. If the path they had chosen would lead to their deaths, then they could only blame themselves.

Still, even if Arran knew it was the right choice, he had some difficulty actually making it.

He had been much like these nascent mages not too long ago, taking risks he barely understood and nearly losing his life many times over.

But his knowledge of the world had grown since then, and the task ahead would require that he hid his strength as best he could. This close to the Hunters' lands, he could not afford any mistakes.

After a full week of trudging past the travelers who filled the road, Arran finally reached the town of Esran.

Or rather, the city of Esran. Because despite what Brightblade's map might claim, it was obvious that this was no mere town.

While Esran had none of the splendor of the great cities Arran had seen in the past, it made up for that in sheer size. The houses might be cramped, ugly, and shoddily built, but there were endless thousands of them.

From a distance, it looked as if the city's population had exploded to the point where its builders had given up on building anything worthwhile and had instead chosen to simply erect as many bare shelters as they could.

Yet it seemed not even that had been enough. Because as Arran approached the city, he saw that several large tent camps stood around it, making the already vast city appear even larger.

Most of these tents were constructed from little more than rags and sticks, and as he drew closer, Arran saw that the spaces between the tents were filled with large numbers of travelers, a.d.u.l.ts and children both.

The sight was one of poverty and desperation, and the smell was even worse.

But Arran knew he had to visit the city. It was his last chance to gain information before he entered the Hunters' lands, and if it was filled with desperate travelers, learning a thing or two should be a simple matter.

With a small sigh, he began to head toward the city. Perhaps the situation inside wouldn't be as bad as he thought.