Path of Glory: Book One of Boundary's Fall

When he questioned the Elves, they placed their faith in the Boundary. Trust in the Boundary. The Boundary will hold. Because of the Boundary, we have nothing to fear. More to the point, the Mage knew they feared the Boundary. They feared what the Boundary was and what it symbolized.

The Mage smiled sadly, finding it difficult to be angry with the Elves. For creatures as intertwined with magic as they, the Boundary must be a terrifying thing. A barrier against magic. A wall no creature of magic could pass.

Ael Maulle, the Aelvin Magi, would be in the vanguard of that retreating host if not for their promise to Aemon. The Mage's smile broadened as he mused that, given the option, most Human Magi would willingly have left with the Elves.

In many of them, being this close to the Boundary caused great dread. Like Ael Maulle, they remained only at Aemon's request. Only at his command. The Mage wondered how long this makeshift alliance would last without the support of High Wizard Aemon.

The Mage turned around, his gaze roaming over the fields to the south and west, his eyes focusing on the last battlefield of a long and bloody war. A battlefield he had disregarded since that fateful day an eternity ago. He had other things, more important things, to do than grieve.

Thankfully, they had removed the bodies, their gear reclaimed, their remains given a decent burial. The unexpected spring rains washed away the blood, dampened the smells, hid the scars. Eagles and hawks spiraled in lazy circles over lands that, not too long ago, were black with carrion birds. Time had already washed away the physical reminders of that grisly battle. Time could never remove the memories.

How many people were lost in this war? wondered the Mage. How many friends dead? A single tear filled the Mage's eye, threatening to fall. I will never understand how they stand the pain. The BattleMagi . . . the Healers . . . even the MageSmiths. Despite their Gifts, I'm thankful I do not suffer their weaknesses.

The Mage returned his gaze to the north. He could not spare any more time on the past. The present had more immediate concerns, the future more dire ones. From horizon to horizon stretched a vast range of mountains where forty days ago none had existed. Mountains, stark and black, ran like a razor's scar across the lush, rolling plains of northern Alrendria. The groaning was only a fraction of what it had been, the tremors had virtually stopped.

The Mage's tear, which before only threatened to fall, now did so.

He could forgive himself for his crimes against man-for all the death, destruction, and suffering his pride caused-but he could not forgive his crime against nature. What he did was terrible. I did not do it alone, he said to himself, hoping to find some solace in the thought. In the end his guilt was too strong. I may not have acted alone, he admitted, but it was my idea . . . my plan . . . my orders the others followed!

Raising the Boundary went against everything he had been taught, everything he loved. To desecrate nature with this abomination-this Boundary-was so unnatural, so alien to his beliefs, that, for an infinitesimal period, he wished he had let the Darklord win. Anything would be better than this betrayal of nature. Of himself.

This thought lasted only an instant. It was the only time in the Mage's long life he entertained such a thought. A single tear. It surprised the Mage to discover he had one left to shed. Slowly, he stood, not remembering falling to his knees. He brushed the dirt from his grey robes and wiped the tear from his cheek.

The air shimmered in front him, silver speckles appearing in a vertical line. Slowly, the line widened, the sparkles swirling outward as the Gate opened. With one last shuddering breath, one violent exhale of emotion and self doubt, the Mage turned and stepped through the Gate.

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