From the Desk of Soren Marlowe

Friday, October 15, 2123

Here are the confessions of Soren Marlowe, the Magpie Wizard. I think many will be surprised that a so-called hero such as myself has anything to confess. I have often been celebrated by the media, and I still receive messages from admirers to this day, though the flow has slowed in my old age. There are days where I wish that I was what they think I am. However, I hope you will see in my writings that people never really change. They simply find new masks to wear.

A few people might not know the official version of my life. I know how far the schools have fallen, so I will try to be brief and hold your stunted attention spans. The world reeled after the Grim Horde, devils made flesh and their enslaved thralls from other worlds, invaded the Earth in 2030. Those growing up now can’t imagine the terror of those first few decades, when humanity’s major victories against the superhuman armies of the Horde could be counted on one hand. All seemed hopeless, and many had resigned themselves to eventual extinction.

Then, I came onto the scene. After the fall of England to the devils in 2049, I arrived as a refugee in Iceland, and from there transferred to a Japanese school of magic. I was a poor student at first, but by sheer effort and force of will, I became one of the leading wizards of my generation. I led the charge in the reconquest of England, thus avenging my fallen homeland. I cannot, and have not, ever claimed to have singlehandedly won that war, but I did more than my share, and the propaganda made good use of my history to inspire others to greatness with me.

When my tours of duty in the Wizard Corps were up, I became the headmaster of the same school where I’d been taught so many years before. Again, I almost wish it were true. It all sounds so neat and tidy, and certainly easier to keep straight.

Others who knew me in my younger days will think I am trying to come clean about my transgressions against them. I’ve broken hearts, violated good taste and even committed the odd crime against the Anti-Demonic League. They might even wonder what the use is at this point. Many, though not all of them, forgave me. I mended my ways and accomplished great things. Why tarnish my legacy with the unvarnished truth? Why deny the children a shining hero they can strive to match?

Why? Because none of you idiots ever knew me. If you had, I wouldn’t have been given my medals for service and lifetime achievement awards for advancing the cause of humanity against the Grim Horde with such vigor. I’d have been tortured for information and buried in a shallow grave if I’d ever been found out. You lot don’t treat devils much better than they treat you.

That’s right. I’m not Soren Marlowe. He died in late 2049, either by my hand or the hand of one of my demonic fellows. My true name is Malthus, a devil. More precisely, I’m a half devil. You can settle that tedious academic debate right there; humans and devils can interbreed. We made our bodies to be facsimile humans, though we added a few interesting customizations. I took after my mother’s side, save for a pair of blunted nubs where a proper devil’s horns would be. I even show up as human in medical exams, thankfully. It’s made my time among you easier.

Yet, deep in my twisted soul, I know what I am. I know why I have stuck around, and it was not any tender feelings. It was always what was most expedient. Humanity was simply lucky that they were the easier path. That is why I have written these confessions. I have grown weary of being misunderstood. There are no heroes, and any history that purports to show them to you has left the truth out. Besides, I have played at being a human for all of these years and almost none of you ever figured it out. I am the greatest charlatan of my generation, and not exposing my act would be like burying an undiscovered Picasso.

So, I hope you enjoy what is to follow more than I did. I kept journals all these years, which I have brought together to form these volumes. I always meant to give them as a gift to the Dark Lord’s forces at the end of my spy mission, though I’ll admit there isn’t much of military importance to them. I can look back on it with a certain amount of nostalgia, but the terror and confusion practically drips off the page for me.

I could begin the story with my campaign in England, but truthfully, it was a rather one-sided war. The Anti-Demonic League barely put up a fight once we crossed the English Channel from conquered France. That was still when I was Captain Malthus, Aide de Camp of the greatest general the Grim Horde ever produced, Girdan the Fair. My life was on a clear trajectory towards glory. If I’d played my cards right, I could have skated on my reputation as the devil who destroyed Big Ben and won the Battle of London without ever lifting a sword again.

Then, like many a ruined man, I tried to bed the wrong girl. My story begins in the aftermath of that bad decision. None of us at the Grim Horde’s Court Martial could have imagined what we were setting into motion that day. Many of those in the courtroom can trace their deaths to what we did that day. Serves them right, for getting so bent out of shape because a young man dared to have a little fun.