The Archmage examination took place in a massive amphitheater, where the spectator stands were shielded by such powerful magic that it could withstand anything—whether it was a stray spell accidentally aimed at the crowd by a participant, a localized breach of demonic hordes, or even the shower-singing of the head of the Department of Curses and Hexes, His Grace Baron Louis Peacock. In short, the audience was completely safe.
“He’s taking his sweet time tearing that thing apart. Couldn’t he speed it up a bit? How long are we supposed to stand around here?!” Gregor heard an annoyed grumble in his mind. Then, the inner chest pocket near his heart gave a distinct twitch.
“Patience, Hiss. You know the rules. We show just enough. No more, no less.”
“For the love of Earth, when is this ridiculous performance of yours gonna end, Gregor?! Sometimes I really wanna knock some sense into you with a good smack!”
“Your arms are too short for that,” the soon-to-be Archmage snorted mentally.
We don’t condone such jokes. After all, Hiss was a snake. Or at least, for the past few years, he’d been very keen on seeming like one.
“Congratulations to Gregor of Nyuluz on successfully passing the Archmage examination!” The booming voice of the rector of Fridan’s Magical University, Archmage of Water (and Blood, though that’s off the record), His High Magicness Count Venician Mudini, echoed over the amphitheater stands.
“Gregor, aren’t you even a little ashamed to accept the highest honor for such a performance? Come on, it’s pure sloppiness, absolute sloppiness!”
“Hiss, this ‘sloppiness,’ as you call it, is the pinnacle of magical ingenuity from the dwarves of the Vental Mountains. Just owning the spell for the Obsidian Golem would fetch an unheard-of price from other clans of the under-mountain folk.”
“Yeah, or get you killed…”
“Well, that’s just a matter of luck…”
This tedious banter between two stubborn personalities continued while the newly minted Archmage accepted congratulations, lasted through the entire ceremonial ritual of receiving the Staff of the High Mage, and didn’t even let up as Gregor delivered his words of gratitude from the podium, standing beside the rector. What can you expect? High mages are like that. Multitaskers.
“…Such words are dear to my heart, Mr. Nyuluzian,” Venician Mudini said with a radiant smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “But the title of Archmage and the staff are, of course, not all. Our great king, may the gods prolong his reign, His Royal Majesty Riordan the First, unfortunately could not attend this solemn occasion due to state matters of utmost importance…”
“Yeah, matters of utmost importance, like deciding what color breeches his sixteen concubines are wearing today…” Hiss’s snarky whisper echoed in Gregor’s mind.
“Oh yeah, and if they’ve all picked different colors and didn’t forget to bring a couple of jugs of wine to the bedroom…”
“Ooooh, then state affairs of THAT magnitude won’t be resolved in a single day.”
They went on discussing the finer details of the incredibly busy ruler of Fridan’s schedule while the rector read aloud the royal decree announcing the reward befitting every Archmage.
“…five hundred and twenty-three thousand acres, and hereby names him Gregor, Baron of Greatkills!”
“Just a baron, huh?” Gregor drawled mentally, a hint of disappointment in his tone.
“Bite my tail! Did you hear nothing besides the title? They’ve practically sent us to hell!” Hiss exploded with emotion.
“Oh, come on now. Five hundred and twenty-three thousand acres is practically a county. So what if it’s Greatkills? At least the neighbors are quiet.”
“Because they’re dead!” the snake-like creature spat mentally, rustling angrily in the Archmage’s pocket.
To be fair, he had his reasons. In the province of Greatkills in the Kingdom of Fridan, a rather unpleasant event—or rather, a series of unpleasant events—had taken place long ago. It all started, as they say, about a thousand years back when a very disgruntled dark Archmage cursed the entire province because the local lord had crossed him. Or maybe under-seasoned his stew… Anyway, the details, recipes, and other culinary tidbits haven’t survived, but the result sure did—across the whole province. The curse took hold, crops withered, livestock died, and people fell ill. Plague and famine drove crime rates through the roof. The locals started fortifying their homes with anything they could find, digging deep basements to hide from bandits. Thanks to the curse and the ensuing lawlessness, the province became rich in a certain kind of magical resource. A very specific resource. To put it bluntly, there were a whole lot of corpses.
Of course, every dog in the kingdom knew about this. So when the neighboring Shaul Caliphate declared war on Fridan, the Council of Mages didn’t hesitate long. They sent three high necromancers to the already suffering province to… recruit additional fighters to repel the Caliphate’s attack.
Need I say that when three high mages of Death arrived in a territory brimming with free material, they got a little carried away with the possibilities? Long story short, that trio caused such havoc that they went down in history as the Cursed Triad. The undead they raised in countless numbers didn’t just devour the kingdom’s enemies—they also, so to speak, made a mess where they lived, further reducing Greatkills’ already diminished population after the curse and plague. The locals, or at least those who survived, sighed in despair once again. They tightened their belts even further. They dug their basements even deeper.
When, ten years after that bloody and horrifying war, a portal to the infernal realms opened in the eastern part of the province—due to the land being saturated with emanations of Darkness and Death—and demons and other filth poured out in hordes, the locals weren’t particularly surprised. Their already tightened belts were starting to squeeze their spines. And by then, their basements resembled an intricate network of catacombs.
Perhaps such extreme safety measures were for the best. At least for the people. Because at that time, only one person proved capable of effectively fighting demons in such numbers: Paladin of the Order of Holy Flame, Archmage of Light, Gideon the Fierce. His “compelling argument” was a spell called the Great Purification. In essence, it was a hundred-meter-wide meteor of pure Light that slammed into the demonic hotspot with full force. It turned the infernal gate in Greatkills to ash, along with the demons, plants, trees, and nearly all above-ground structures. The Archmage himself, overexerted by such a powerful spell, couldn’t withstand the strain and suddenly died. For this, the remaining residents of the province—who were left without even their rundown barns, let alone homes, fields, or livestock—were endlessly grateful to him.
As you can see, the fact that Greatkills still has any residents at all, after years of countless disasters, is more of a phenomenon than a given. People from other provinces in the kingdom call the locals either great martyrs or total losers (that’s the polite version). And the residents of these cursed lands still can’t explain how their ancestors managed to survive—or why they themselves continue to live on this four-times-destroyed, ash-covered land. And it’s precisely there, to this geographically cursed cesspool that seems to attract disaster, that Archmage Gregor’s path now led. To become the lord of this land.
“Your High Magicness, allow me to congratulate you on such remarkable achievements in the arcane arts.”
“What’s she even seen?” Hiss snorted mentally at the young woman who curtsied lightly before Gregor. She was either a cousin of one of the many countesses or the younger daughter of one of the equally numerous barons.
“Well, judging by appearances, the girl at least has the beginnings of magical talent. With proper training, it might one day become a full-fledged gift…” Gregor replied to his invisible conversational partner, though aloud he said something else.
“Thank you for your congratulations, charming stranger. I’m afraid no one has thought to introduce us…”
“Master Greatkills, before you stands Viscountess D’Albion, Her Ladyship Maria D’Albion… And now, if you’ll excuse us, we must be going. Come along, child…”
“But, Mother, I was just…”
“Maria.” The word was spoken quietly, almost calmly. But the young viscountess visibly flinched and, after wishing the newly minted Archmage a pleasant evening, disappeared with her mother among the other guests at the gala.
Yes, every time a past graduate of the University became an Archmage, the rector inevitably threw a ball in the main building of the institution. Not only students were invited, but also their friends, family, noble dignitaries, and, of course, the guest of honor himself. Who, in our case, stood by the buffet table with a glass of fine whiskey, occasionally chatting with the right guests and flashing a thoroughly fake smile.
“Same old story at these pointless balls. Every halfway significant feudal lord rushes to offer their completely insincere respects, just to secure the conditional support of a wizard who’s suddenly gotten a ‘ticket to the big leagues.’”
“Don’t forget, you’re a feudal lord now too,” came a smirk from somewhere in his pocket.
“Yeah, but their hypocrisy makes my jaw ache. Someone becomes an Archmage? Let’s kiss their behind! As if any other rank in magic is completely useless. Sure, you can pucker up to the Archmage of Earth all you want, but it only takes one pissed-off Water Magister to make sure, say, the fishermen of some barony never catch another fish. Utter nonsense.”
“Tell me about it. By the way… doesn’t the name D’Albion sound familiar to you? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“Maybe because at one of last year’s duels, I sent one of her relatives to meet their maker?”
“Oh…,” came a stunned thought from the pocket. “That Air Magister with a knack for Lightning?”
“Yup. And judging by this viscountess’s looks, I’d wager I killed someone pretty close to her.”
“Oh…”
The orchestra played the latest hits (you know them all, so feel free to imagine), nimble and ever-present waiters carried around strong drinks, gentlemen invited ladies to dance, and students and young magical Specialists showed off simple tricks to their friends. The ball carried on as usual. Everything was so mundane and pleasant that the youngest Archmage of the Kingdom of Fridan, after finishing his glass, decided to make a hasty exit. Before things got started.
“Master Greatkills, are you leaving already?” The rector of the University, Lord Mudini, called out to the geomancer near the massive double doors leading from the ballroom of the main building to the University courtyard—and from there, to the longed-for carriage stands.
“Duty calls, my lord. I apologize, but there’s a lot of work waiting for me at home. Besides, I need to set out to claim my newly granted lands.”
“May the Ever-Present Mother have mercy on you, my boy. Not at night, surely! And on the day of your triumph, no less. Such a thing happens only once in a lifetime, Gregor!” The rector allowed himself a touch of familiarity, as he and Gregor of Nyuluz—now Baron Greatkills—had always been on fairly good terms.
“I’d like to get started as soon as possible, Your High Magicness.”
“Enough of that, Gregor,” Venician waved dismissively. “We’re both Archmages now. I propose we make our interactions less formal. Members of the same league should stick together.”
“As you wish, Venician,” Gregor acknowledged with a slight nod, then mentally addressed the occupant of his pocket. “And here we go again. Everyone’s obsessed with dividing things into leagues, castes, sects, and other tools of inequality.”
“Pfft. That’s life, Gregor. And there are very few oddballs fighting for justice like you.”
“I’m not a fighter for justice. I believe everyone should earn their own fairness. But this artificial creation of exclusive cliques irritates me.”
“I think you’re still a fighter.”
“And I think it’s a bit strange to get lectures on the fickleness of existence from someone whose personality I created myself.”
“…she categorically told me it couldn’t be true because you don’t look like a half-dwarf at all. So, perhaps you could satisfy the curiosity of myself and the lady vice-rector?”
Yes, the chatty rector kept talking while Gregor and Hiss mentally debated matters of justice and beyond.
“Well, I suppose the victory in this debate goes to the lady vice-rector, esteemed Venician. There’s not a drop of mountain folk blood in me. I acquired the Obsidian Golem spell during a rather unpleasant skirmish. And now, I truly must apologize, but it’s time for me to go. Before it starts.”
“Well, I guess I owe the vice-rector a debt,” Master Mudini sighed heavily. “And what, in your opinion, is supposed to start, dear Gregor?”
“Where’s that bastard?!”
“Leon, don’t you dare!”
“I’ll scatter his ashes over the University spire! Where is he?!”
“I suppose it’s nothing now, Lord Mudini,” Gregor sighed even more heavily than the rector had. “It’s already started.”
“Bite my tail…” came a weary mutter from somewhere inside the pocket. “I’m so tired of attending funerals!”
Of course, the furious shouter was none other than the cousin of the Air Magister who died last year, Francois D’Albion—Viscount Leon. He was already twenty paces away from Gregor, who was conversing with the rector. Spotting his target, Leon charged forward, completely ignoring his sister, who was practically hanging off his arm.
“Leon, I’m begging you!”
“Marie, you’re in the way!” The Air Master shrugged slightly—and it was as if invisible ropes wrapped around the girl, lifting her off her brother and gently carrying her through the air somewhere deeper into the hall.
“A bit rough with your only sister, don’t you think? Not very—” the rector began, but he was promptly interrupted.
“Forgive me, Lord Mudini, but our family disputes are strictly our business. And you… you… I challenge you, you scoundrel! A duel, right here, right now!”
“My respects, Master D’Albion. But why the insult? Your brother didn’t die in some dark alley. I didn’t poison him, didn’t set him up, didn’t provoke him in any way. He died in a fair duel. Though he hardly deserved a noble death after what he did and how he behaved.”
“You… you… What nonsense are you spouting?!” It seemed as though Viscount Leon’s face turned whiter than snow. His features, which many women found charming, were now contorted with rage. “What noble death are you talking about?! I’m sure you set him up and killed him, planning it all in advance! My brother couldn’t have lost to some filthy dirt-digger!”
Experts say that different kinds of dead silence have distinct smells. There’s the dead silence that reeks of awkwardness, familiar to inexperienced folks mustering courage before a pivotal moment. Then there’s the dead silence that smells of revelation, something a peasant might experience after spending their savings on a fortune teller who tells them the grass is green and the sky is blue. That kind of silence is short-lived, usually broken by something loud and unprintable. In our case, the dead silence was standard. In the University hall, it smelled like someone’s coffin.
“I’d choose my words more carefully if I were you, Master D’Albion, when addressing an Archmage!” The rector instantly lost his good-natured tone.
“Dirt-digger?! Let me at him, Gregor, I’ll tear him to pieces!” Hiss raged in the geomancer’s pocket.
“Calm down, friend. First, I’m not so easily rattled. Second, your prayers for today have been answered. Because, at the very least, this Leon is awfully close to seeing more than he bargained for.”
Out loud, Gregor said nothing, continuing to silently lock eyes with his opponent.
“What, cat got your tongue?!” The High Magister flared up again, this time not holding back the power surging within him.
The mage was enveloped by the energy of Air. The ballroom smelled of ozone. The circle of onlookers widened dramatically—and soon, not a soul remained within a couple dozen meters of the two Archmages and the enraged High Magister (though you and I know about Hiss, of course, but that’s our little secret!).
“Very well, Master D’Albion, I accept your challenge. I believe the venue of my examination hasn’t even had time to cool down yet. It’s quite cozy there after the presence of the Fire Giant. As the challenged party, I’ll name the terms of the duel directly at the location. But for now, allow me to ask you one question.”
“Ask away, Nyuluzian!”
Leon D’Albion, breathing heavily and flaring his nostrils in anger, calmed down slightly. He realized his opponent had no intention of running from the fight, that satisfaction would be granted. So he allowed himself to relax and even, as he thought, insult his adversary by deliberately omitting the title Gregor had earned just today, addressing him as if he were still a mere peasant with no lineage. A grave mistake.
“Tell me, has it ever crossed your mind to… shorten your hairstyle a bit?”
Twenty meters away from the conversing mages, behind one of the ballroom columns, someone let out a nervous giggle. From the same spot came the faint sobs of young ladies fainting like dominoes. And then, somewhere nearby, an outright rude guffaw erupted.
“What?!”
“You know, trim your hair a little?”
And while the ballroom shook with the now-unrestrained laughter of the guests, and the rector nervously bit his lips to avoid joining in, Gregor Greatkills stood with the true face of a geomancer. Meanwhile, D’Albion looked ready to burst from shame and outrage. Allow me to explain the situation in two words.
Static electricity. Few things in this world generate it in such quantities as Air Masters who’ve delved into the study of Lightning. And as it so happened, the ladies’ favorite, His Lordship Leon, was the proud owner of a thick, luxurious chestnut mane that reached just below his back. When he charged himself with the power of Lightning in preparation for the duel, all that hair shot upward and outward in every direction. And it’s awfully hard to take even a deadly dangerous mage seriously when there’s a faintly trembling sphere of hair with a one-meter radius hovering over his head.
“How dare you… I’ll… My… My hairstyle won’t stop me from grinding you into dust!” the viscount finally shouted. “I’ll be waiting for you and your second at the amphitheater arena!”
With his nose held high—and that bush of hair sprouting atop his head—the Magister strode off toward the aforementioned amphitheater.
“Just look at this arrogant punk… If there weren’t so many witnesses, I’d scatter that damned upstart across the hall in a bloody mist!” Venician Mudini hissed, still standing beside the geomancer. “But as it is, I’m afraid we might be misunderstood. Besides, every wizard must defend their own name against the encroachments of any ignoramus.”
“Of course, how else could it be? Scatter him, my foot…” Once again, the voice of the Archmage of Earth’s pocket companion echoed in his mind. “The old schemer is just dying of curiosity. How will his talented, cocky protégé wiggle out of this mess? A representative of the least fearsome of the Elements has to face off against an enraged High Magister of Lightning, who’s just one step away from becoming a High Mage of Air!”
“Stop stating the obvious as if it’s your personal revelation, Hiss,” Gregor mentally scoffed back at the snake. “It’s all clear as day. But this game can be played by both sides. I’m afraid Lord Mudini will chew his own elbow in frustration—or at the very least, lose another bet to his deputy—because I intend to make this fight a bit more interesting than a simple death match.”
“Ooooh, intrigue? I love intrigue…” Hiss drawled with anticipation, and Gregor could swear the snake stretched its scaly face into a creepy grin.
***
When all the key players arrived at the arena, the amphitheater was packed to the brim. And no wonder! Two battles involving an Archmage and a High Magister in a single day. What’s more, this time the Archmage himself had been a High Magister just a few hours ago. And, as far as Gregor’s hearing could tell (and it could tell a lot), many were placing bets on a historic event unfolding today. Never before had an Archmage died without lasting even a day in the title.
A lion’s share of those bets came from the fairer sex. Women of various ages, titles, and levels of decadence, all unanimously smitten by the charm of His Lordship Leon D’Albion. A significant financial contribution to the predicted downfall of the new Baron Greatkills also came from students of all years at the University. Sure, most of them had been present at the first battle of the day and knew about Gregor’s spell triumphing over the Fire Giant of his examiner, Archmage of Fire, His Lordship Alric Wagner. But that’s exactly why they’re students of Fridan University—to understand the nuances! Or so they think.
The thing is, every student at this institution knows that for a rank advancement exam, the candidate is allowed a sort of “home preparation.” Since the candidate is only aspiring to achieve the desired rank, while the examiner, more often than not, has long been at that level and holds a clear advantage. So, almost unanimously, the students believed that after the pre-prepared, incredibly complex, and energy-draining Obsidian Golem spell, Master Greatkills simply had no strength or trump cards left to face a fresh, unexhausted, and righteously furious High Magister of Air. In fact, Lord Mudini, who accompanied Gregor to the arena, tried to suggest something along those lines.
“Master Greatkills, my dear boy, why, oh why did you provoke him?! Of course, I’ve agreed to be your second, but one loss today is enough for me. I don’t want to foot the bill for your funeral as well!”
“The faith of my undoubtedly favorite mentor and teacher is truly inspiring, my lord. Thank you,” the geomancer replied with a distracted smile.
“Damn it, Gregor, with that sarcasm of yours! You were a reckless little snot at twenty, and nothing’s changed in two centuries!”
“Well, if not Earth, then what should be the symbol of stability, my lord?”
“True enough… True enough…” the rector muttered vaguely, nervously biting his lip as if frantically mulling something over.
“And who better than you to know about gambling, Master Mudini?” Gregor smiled at his companion before adding unexpectedly, “Five hundred gold.”
“What, five hundred gold?” The head of the University flinched, looking at Gregor with crystal-clear, honest eyes.
“I believe five hundred gold is a fair share for me to contribute to the betting pool you’re planning to organize around our duel, my lord,” the Archmage of Earth said politely with a smile. “Let’s say, place a bet that I’ll win without so much as a scratch.”
“The lightning of House D’Albion doesn’t leave scratches, my friend. Only piles of ash that stink of char,” came an unexpectedly harsh reply, though it failed to wipe the courteous smile off Gregor’s face.
“Well, you’re right about that. Then let it be this: bet that I’ll win without a single burn. Not one of Lord Leon’s lightning bolts will touch me. How’s that for you?”
“You’re that confident in yourself and… your Element?” A slightly raised eyebrow, in the language of grimaces of the experienced rector and Great Mage, expressed the utmost degree of astonishment.
“As if you’d allow this circus to happen if you weren’t one hundred percent sure of your protégé’s victory.”
“Nothing can be guaranteed one hundred percent, Gregor, my boy. Except maybe the fact that you’re an insufferably cocky son of a gun,” the rector finally returned a polite smile to his companion. “You know what happens to guys I don’t like, don’t you?”
“Yeah, that stain by the north wall of the men’s dormitory still hasn’t been scrubbed off, has it?”
“Exactly. And to think, he was once such a confident fellow…”
“No kidding. A whole duke…”
Exchanging glances, both Archmages burst into laughter.