Book 8: Chapter 1: Deadlands
South of Tyria, north of Khiva, and east of Aster lay the deadlands once known as Archen. Despite the unflattering moniker, the lands were not barren or bereft of life. Lush grasslands provided a home for critters and birds, and a river flowed, teeming with fish. Even so, no people dwelt here. The Tyrians did not come to hunt, the Asterians did not settle despite their thirst for new territory, and the Khivans only looked north to utter curses.
The reason lay on a hilltop with the Archean mountains beyond; a ruined city where no living person had dwelt for three centuries. Its reputation sufficed to discourage people from journeying into these lands; should any have braved to enter all the same, tempted by rumours of fabled magic and artefacts, none had returned.
Nonetheless, a trio moved through the deadlands, disturbing mice in the grass and their progress watched by birds of prey; with determined steps, three mages travelled towards Archen.
Taking the first night watch, Martel sat on a log, watching his companions. He used his sense of magic to check the surroundings for heat intermittently, and both he and Eleanor had placed runes of warnings around their small campsite. It was deep in summer, making for a pleasant night; while Martel could enchant a heating stone that did not attract attention unlike a campfire, it was not necessary.
Years had passed since Martel and Eleanor had left their duties behind, exploring the continents, until they met the Archean mage in Morcaster. He had asked for their help, and together, they had set out for what promised to be the most intriguing – and dangerous – journey yet.
“You didn’t wake me.” Atreus’s voice reached him as the spellbreaker rolled over to look at him.
“I’m not tired. I thought I’d let you have a bit more shuteye.”
“No particular need. I don’t sleep much myself.” The Archean got up and sat down next to Martel on the log. “Habit of the life, I suppose. Or maybe once you’re a centenarian for the third time, you just don’t need much sleep.”
A mirthless chuckle followed the jest concerning his lifespan, far exceeding what it should. After spending some fivedays travelling with Atreus, Martel had gotten the sense that the Archean used humour in this fashion, allowing him to speak light-heartedly about matters that weighed on him.
Another time, Martel might have followed the conversational thread to let the spellbreaker unburden himself, but he felt the weight on his own soul tonight. Sleep had never come easily to him on the best of nights, not since his time spent at war, whether against Khivans or Asterians. And now, he travelled towards the most fateful place on the continent, endangering the only person he could not live without. At least she slept peacefully. “What do you expect to find in Archen?” They had never truly discussed this, despite all the time that had passed since Atreus first requested their help, or the fivedays since they left Morcaster. Martel knew the Archean felt an obligation to cleanse the place of any foul magic or restless undead – a final tribute to his home and his duty as a spellbreaker. But specifics might help ease Martel’s concerns.
“I hope we find nothing but windswept ruins and old bones. That the cataclysm granted a swift and merciful death to everyone, and nothing further happened.” Atreus paused. “I suspect that we’ll find all manner of undead creatures,” he continued. “And I fear that we might encounter terrors beyond our powers to defeat.”
“Such as?”
“I have faced just about every creature this world can conjure up,” the spellbreaker explained. “I understand their abilities, and my spells can match them. But only once have I stood against a monster from beyond here.”
Martel suppressed a shiver as he spoke. “The fiends of Nether.”
“When Archen fell, Elena and her conspirators were trying to create a portal. Whether they sought to unleash the Nether upon us or they had some other purpose, I can’t say. Either way, I’ve no doubt that the fiends would have poured through.” Atreus turned his head, glancing into the dark horizon where Archen lay, hidden from view.
“Surely if any had come through, we would have heard of it in the past three centuries.”
“Assuming they were not somehow trapped in Archen.” The spellbreaker turned to look at Martel with a sardonic smile. “That’s what I fear the most. That we unleash something we can’t stop.”
“And yet we journey hence.”
Atreus blew out his breath. “Nothing lies undisturbed for eternity. If not us, someone else will one day stumble upon those ruins and release whatever there may be to release. Better it is I. At least I stand a chance.”
“You’ve defeated such a fiend before.”
“I did.” Atreus looked at him again, this time with his jester’s smile that could mean anything. “With help.”
Martel knew he should not ask, but he did so anyway. “And what happened to your companions in that fight?”
“They died.”
“If you are not going to sleep,” a woman’s voice interjected, “does that mean you will take my watch as well? Assuming you can do so without waking me up.”
“Sorry,” Martel mumbled while Atreus simply repeated his half-smiling expression.
“The fault is mine,” the spellbreaker admitted. “As is the watch. Both of you, sleep. I’ll keep both eyes out until morning comes.”
Eleanor pulled her blanket around herself and rolled around again. With a nod at Atreus, Martel lay down and made himself as comfortable as he could. He tried to focus on the sound of Eleanor’s breathing, ignoring the presence of their companion to fool himself into thinking it was simply him and her, like on their previous travels. After a while, he eventually found sleep.