4
The morning after a festival always felt empty, and the streets of Allan that morning were much quieter than usual. Woodchuck wandered the city, avoiding the main avenue—after all, staying to dark, quiet places was habit for a thief.
He wore a dark brown shirt and pants, black matte leather armor, and black leather boots with fur-lined soles for maximum stealth. His only worldly possessions were the clothes on his back, the dagger and three knives at his hip, and a few coins in his pocket.
“So much for the mercy of the Guild,” he grumbled, watching the streets of Allan for the first time in years. He hadn’t been away, though—he’d spent the last twenty-odd years within the city walls.
Those years, however, had been spent entirely in the dungeons of Stone Web. His only view for all that time had been the cell across from him, the tired old man within, and the grumpy prison guard who delivered his meals twice a day.
Woodchuck took a deep breath of fresh morning air and wondered how he’d managed to not suffocate in that stifling dungeon. He’d been pardoned after the birth of the prince, allowed to walk right out of prison—but he’d lost twenty-two years of his life, and his youth.
It was just breaking and entering, he thought, fury rising up. He’d broken into a mansion twenty-two years previous, but had messed up and gotten caught. He’d been put on trial by the young Kadomos VII, who took one glance at him and handed down a thirty year sentence without even giving Woodchuck a chance to explain.
With just a few words, Kadomos had doomed him to live the best years of his life behind bars.
Despite the recent pardon, he still held a grudge. During the festival, he’d been tempted to spit on the celebrating people—he quieted the urge by stealing their wallets instead. He didn’t make any mistakes but quickly learned that his pickpocket skills weren’t what they used to be. He’d been able to exercise his body during his years in the dark, but there’d been no way to practice his thieving skills. His advancing age was slowing him down, too.
The only other option he’d been able to come up with was going to the Thieves’ Guild to ask for a seat on their board. But the Guild’s leadership had changed in the last twenty-two years—and the new, unfamiliar leader had brushed him off, saying he’d need to pay 10,000 gold for the privilege. If he hadn’t wasted those years locked up, Woodchuck could’ve been a top executive in the Guild by now, rather than having to beg for a place on the board.
Woodchuck was angry, but he knew he couldn’t afford to burn his last bridge. He’d swept aside the slight with a smirk. The Guild leader had taken pity on Woodchuck, giving him a lead on a good money-making job.
Problem was, the job was much too difficult for one thief to pull off alone.
“I need companions,” he muttered to himself, “and a skilled warrior, too. But first, I need some grub,” he said, glancing up at the sign of the Crystal Forest.
Parn groaned and drank more water, hoping he could keep down the bite of bread he’d managed to eat. Etoh meditated beside him, absorbed in morning prayers that could easily stretch into the afternoon if they weren’t interrupted. Ghim, meanwhile, was still working on breakfast—he was on his second slice of cornbread and his third glass of ale. Deedlit was sipping sweet wine and nibbling on fruit while trying to avoid looking at Ghim. She ended up staring blankly in Parn’s direction. Slayn sipped a cup of milk and reflected on his conversation with Deedlit the night before.
The elvish girl was endlessly exasperated at the elves for doing nothing to stop their race’s slow decline, which had spurred her to leave home. Slayn was impressed at Deedlit’s mindset—that kind of impulsiveness was rare for an elf, but Slayn respected it.
After her momentary outburst at all elves everywhere, she’d lowered her eyes bashfully, arranged a room for herself, and hurriedly retired upstairs.
The door to the bar opened. Slayn looked up at the sound and bristled. The man who had entered was clearly a bandit, and of course must belong to the Guild. Slayn watched him carefully until he settled into a seat at the counter.
“Something light, please,” he said to the barkeep.
The tension subsided. Slayn went back to reading his ancient tome. Parn rubbed at his head to relieve his nasty hangover headache.
“Pathetic,” Deedlit laughed.
“Oh yeah, Slayn,” Ghim said, piling up his empty plates. “I meant to ask—how was the Wizard Academy? Was it worth skipping the festival for?”
“It was terrible,” Slayn replied sadly. Closing his book, he leaned on the table and told them what he’d found.
He had quickly discovered that all the Academy’s normal activity had stopped. In despair, he searched the empty buildings to investigate. After a short search, he managed to find Juggle, the old Sage, looking after the collapsed Academy all by himself.
Juggle told him that the troubles had begun several years previous. One of the school’s most accomplished students at the time was a wizard named Wagnard—his reputation was so great that even Slayn had heard of him, and he’d earned the title of wizard extremely quickly. But after a while, he desired an ultimate mastery of his magic, leading him to dabble in dark magic powered by evil gods. This went against the cardinal rule of the Academy—that magic should only be used for good, and dark magic was strictly forbidden.