For all intents and purposes, coming to these towns was a waste of my time. I was arriving at the region where the sacred towns of Phaladine were located, with their dreary poverty and cultural level of horse manure, when I observed an entire regiment of paladins—hard warriors who in other times would be called zealots but nowadays represented the justice of a short-sighted god. Iron armor, shields larger than a man, greatswords or maces, bearers of eyes that believed they were doing good for society by fulfilling their sacred mission. Before coming, I decided to learn about the mages of the region. What a disappointment.
A town's magic cannot be annihilated simply because the inhabitants feel uncomfortable with its use. The mages who died before they could learn enough were the fewest. Most did not inform their families and simply departed for the forests, thus becoming part of the statistics of those attacked by some magical-demonic entity. Their settlements were within the Dark Forest zone. The forest version in this region was smaller; the savage deforestation for slash-and-burn agriculture had destroyed entire hectares of forest around the settlements—very similar to what the elves had done, with the difference that here it was done for food, there to monopolize the area's resources. The mages of the region who lived in the forests had adopted a state of personal neglect in a crude attempt to conceive their union with nature.
I found them in a camp. I traveled on the back of one of the wolves that had begun to populate the Dark Elves' forest. Being a magical environment meant that many animals intrinsically attuned to magic began to seek it out as a refuge from a world that hunted them for trophies and for the alchemists and pharmacists who paid exorbitant sums for materials that restored virility to the rich of the coastal cities. Several brought gifts—magical items that, with some adaptations, could use the forest's magical field. So when the wolves came, I asked for their help to get here. The eldest of the pack broke away: a giant wolf even by the standards of enchanted animals, gray fur that smelled of the blood of many of its meals, but strong and large enough to travel upon its back. It grunted a little but allowed me to mount.
We ran quite fast. In his condition as leader, he hated having a human on his back, but the prospect of security in a world where knotted wolf hide was highly valued for making hunter armor provided him a refuge. They hunted outside, they would sleep inside, under the protection of the Dark Elves, who gladly welcomed all animals seeking refuge. Perhaps it was their Forest Elf blood. I would ask them when I had time.
When I began to see the towns in the distance, I asked him to leave me at the forest's edge. When I dismounted, he moved away without saying goodbye—typical of animals who live day to day. I expanded my aura a little and discovered with some astonishment that there were hundreds of magical auras within less than twenty kilometers of the place. I even found about thirty within the town itself. But they were not magical auras—almost solidified upon their bodies, useless for most spells, conditioned to a trigger that would release their use. Those were not mages, and their imagination was nonexistent. Those were priests.
I left them for a moment. Those beings sicken me. One does not need to be a priest to heal, but those who focus on doing so expend their own vitality—a double drain on healing. Most of them were thin; few reached advanced ages. That, plus the stupid tendency to believe that cloth robes were ideal for practicing their activities, made them easy prey for an arrow, which would always be faster than a shielding incantation. They were useful in battle, but they could not heal forever, and even if they tried, they would die from exhaustion. Those people were of no use to me. They were merely people who believed with unhealthy devotion in someone who expected them to suffer to be happy. Instead, I sought other fields. I found them about twenty kilometers to the south, toward the plains, and headed there.
I could perceive the scents approaching a cave exactly eighteen kilometers south of the puritan settlements. The smell of compost, rancid food, and bodies that urgently needed bathing invaded my senses. But they were not the only ones. Weak fields, no more than twenty-five meters in diameter, were drawn around the place. Cautiously, I approached a moss-covered cave. At the entrance were mud floors and a couple of torches. Seated around them were about fifteen figures, eating fruits, drinking something with a high alcohol content, and smoking herbs.
Herbs were not bad, the sorcerers who depended on them for concentration used to say. Some drank coffee, others smoked or chewed tobacco. But those who employed imagination more often distorted their minds with five-point herb. Seeing their state of attention, I advanced without precautions. When I was two meters from touching their auras, one of them let out a soft burp and made a gesture. The inert lianas of the forest moved. A second later, they attacked me from all directions, seizing my body in hardened vines. These wretches laughed as if it were incredibly amusing. A few minutes later, one of them stood up, tied his bearskin cloak, and walked toward me. Staggering was the correct expression, as he was unwell, and as he approached, I realized he was more drugged than someone seeking concentration. He did not have an air of malice, which was unusual in these places. He took a drink from his bamboo cup and then asked, "Who are you?"
"I am Greenclaw, and I demand answers."
"Is Greenclaw someone important?" he asked mockingly, as my field began to concentrate in case a battle was necessary.
"Of course," he replied, with eyes too hard to be a simple drug addict.
"Mage who bears the miseries, you will find no peace in these lands. Your duty already lies at the keep. A great danger approaches. I, Greenclaw, chief of the druids, guarantee you this."