Look forward, for what follows you is often worse.

Wisdom of the Ancients, Book 2

Harold Wexler, Executive of the State of Independence, owed his position to his sharp insights, or so it was claimed by many a newssheet. There was a middling truth to it, as you didn’t win the succession election by being dumb. Unlike so many other states across the Union with hereditary leadership positions, Independence still practiced electoral selection – you rose to prominence in the state’s Assembly, and the Assembly deemed you good enough to apply the policies it favored when the previous Executive finally retired. Harold had wooed the Assembly for three decades, and it paid off in the end.

What truly mattered was that he had the right team of underlings, ministers, and special agents, to do the job while trying to ignore as much as he could the fussing of the Assembly, or the appendix of Nashville and the Senate of the Union.

“So, what do we know about the war in the north?” he asked his Intelligence Special Agent, Robert Henley.

“They almost won the war last fall,” he replied.

“Really? Because most of the newssheets are about how they are on the defensive and repelling attack after attack.”

“That’s because they lost their advantage too quickly. It took me some time to get enough sources to correlate and confirm the whole thing. I have three sources well placed in the Montana Marches, but it wasn’t until I got some intel from Nashville that I could get a real near-complete picture.”

“What’s got Nashville to do with the Montana? Is the Senate involved somehow?” Wexler asked, curious.

Not that he’d gainsay his best intelligence network manager – spymaster in old parlance – but…

“It’s the Society of Sorcerers’ headquarters, sir. And you’ll see why quickly.”

Wexler leaned back in his chair, waiting for more.

“All sources match, including public admission by the military. They had three major Talented joining their army during the fall.”

“Mercenaries?”

“No. Locals, apparently swept in during the draft the Warden instituted last summer. All three from the city of Valetta.”

Seeing the look of incomprehension by the Executive, Henley elaborated.

“A mid-sized minor city in the west part of the Marches. About six thousand citizens, maybe just under seven. It serves as a hub of metal forging and commerce on the east-west Montanan road to the coast, and the north-south road up to the Bering peninsula.”

“Three Talented in such a city sounds a bit overmuch? Propaganda?”

“No, genuine. Except it wasn’t three Talented, it was four.”

Wexler frowned.

“I assume you have corroboration.”

“They issued bounties because they lost those four. They deserted soon after the first major battle of fall.”

“Facing the enemy in battle can be daunting. Even for someone with a Talent,” the Executive noted.

“They single-handedly turned a major surprise attack by northern forces on those of the Montana. I have no intel on why they walked away, but basically, the evaluation by the Warden’s generals after that battle was that the war was in the bag. A year, maybe two.”

“Sounds a bit overoptimistic.”

“I didn’t get enough details on them from New Benton, but the Society of Sorcerers and Sorceresses had some reports straight from Elena Worchester, the high-tier Sorceress of the Mists.”

“She’s the one that helps Maistry? I think?”

“Correct. And that’s where it goes weird. Because those Talented? She entered on record two as archmages, Mind and Fire. And way above anything anyone has ever seen before. The only archmage currently known on the continent has three Talents, and no one in history ever surpassed her, except maybe Erlangs, because who knows when it comes to Erlangs. Their Fire archmage had four. At least four, because one piece of intel I had refers to ‘perfectly aimed fire projectiles’, which does not fit the preliminary reports from Worchester to her Society before she clammed up.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Wexler commented.

Coming from anyone, he’d have cast doubt on the whole thing. It was way out of the domain of the possible. But Henley was nothing if not capable and thorough. Two decades of service to the Executive, both Wexler and his predecessor, attested to his abilities.

“No, it doesn’t. But that’s what all those intel pieces I got were about. Four immensely powerful Talents popping up at the same time, at age 19 – yes, that young – from the same place isn’t normal, of course. What happened is that those four were members of the same salvagers’ team… and they found an Artifact in the ruins near Valetta.”

“Artifacts may be powerful, but what could be…”

“All attested Artifacts are objects from the Ancient era, imbued with mana energies, supposedly by the largest Changestorms after the Fall. But they found something more.”

“What?”

“An Ancient.”

Harold Wexler was already mentally redacting secret memorandums to the Army, and most importantly, more orders for Henley and his department. The man had probably anticipated them, but it needed to be stated, so he’d get more funds to allocate to intelligence gathering.

“So, the Warden is convinced that this Ancient skeleton… what, can somehow make someone into a Talented individual?”

“That is what happened to the four people that found it, apparently. It’s potentially that powerful. And highly dangerous as well. They lost men when they found it. They still can’t move it, although they learned to run fast before it kills anyone when they trigger its built-in defenses. But Artifacts usually allow you to experience and use what looks like Talents without actually having them. It makes sense – as much as post-Fall magic ever does – that an actual Ancient corpse turned into an Artifact would be way more than a simple Artifact. Or at least, if you figure out how to use it.”

“I’m not going to base my strategy or bet the safety of Independence on the basis that Maistry doesn’t puzzle it out. Talents are powerful, but they’re rare, and often too quirky to be that useful. Even Maistry’s pet sorceress, for all she can do, is mostly defensive. If someone can create multi-Talented at will… I can’t think of anything more destabilizing to the order of things.”

Henley raised his hands in apology. No one liked the messenger of bad news.

“Not your fault,” Wexler sighed. “What of those four?”

“No sign of them after they fled. I got an unconfirmed report from Yellowstone State that they linked up with some other deserters and were offered sanctuary there, but no hard intel. For all we know, they might even have taken refuge North, although the tribals would probably have used them.”

“At least they didn’t tell the Warden how they did it. That gives us some leeway. And I can’t even try to work through the Senate. For once, they would have been useful… but Maistry is within his rights as Warden of the Montana to pursue things like that,” Wexler sighed.

I don’t need a return of the Wars of Unification.

Edgard Maistry, Warden of the Montana, crumbled the letter. These things came late, and the report from that captain east was… disappointing. Another frontier town rejected the mobilization orders. The countess of those two towns was probably betting that he couldn’t spare the manpower to deal with her. She might even be right.

Even if the northerners don’t come for them, don’t they all realize that once the war is over, I am?

He’d made the area his headquarters. There were now many tents, including elaborate ones, at the edge of the ruins. A pathway had been cleared through the nameless displaced ruin, and lots of people had been mobilized at the main research location. There were dozens of horses for faster couriers, and communication with both New Benton and the now twin fronts of the War against the Northern Aggression, as it was now called.

A few scholars had tried to dissuade him from using that, but he’d insisted. It conveyed all the right impressions across the Marches. Who cared about a handful of old foggies who obsessed about history that had been ancient before the Fall?

He walked slowly toward the original ruin. A team was now working carefully. It had taken time and experimentation. You had to be very, very careful, but after multiple incidents, the teams were adept at gauging when you went a bit too far, disturbed the Skeleton on its weird Ancient Chair ruin a bit too much, and triggered the massive mana blowups that could kill anyone who didn’t run fast enough. Yet, today was a big day, and he would not miss it, even if he stayed far away.

His gaze rose up, and up until he was looking straight above, at the heavy cloud cover that promised rain without quite delivering.

And the hole in the cover, as clouds swirled above, leaving a circular opening to the heavens above. Even if the sun didn’t shine in that direction, you knew the opening was exactly above the Skeleton on its Chair.

But soon, the Ancient Skeleton and the Chair would be on a carriage, to be transported back to New Benton. Straps were out of the question. Even if no one died putting them, they rotted as if decades had passed in minutes. Weirdly, pine tools and supports worked. Any other wood turned into black ash – without even burning – in under an hour, but pine kept working. As long as it was raw, untreated. Dried, and it “burned” like any other wood.

Maistry would be happy to be back in the capital. The communications were better there. And the Skeleton would be safer. He’d bet big on unlocking that riddle.