Fervorous crowds rampaged through the ancient city of Lothar, ad hoc popular tribunals being formed, and promptly ordering the execution of mages, or people slightly suspected of possessing any magical capacity. Lord Favre, the ruler of the city in upheaval, looked on with no mercy on his eyes from the high walls of his manor. Favre had ordered the conscription of every magical user and the arrest and execution of all wizards in the city. He had been defied, mages avoiding his conscripters, and wizards fighting back against his men.

Wrathful, Lord Favre had declared them all treasonous and subversives, and he’d personally whipped his people into a frenzy, extolling them to free their noble Lothar of this filth with the most ancient of traditions - the burnings. Lothar’s Lord was an avid historian, and he’d read much of the times past. Times before the Elfey reached the Realm, and where their real enemies were something different. The Witching Order had been the power behind the Throne, its members having enthralled the nobility with their guiles and magic.

The king was occupied, his treasury nearly emptied with misguided imperial endeavors in foreign lands, and the northern nobles were seizing the opportunity to push for independence, challenging royal authority. The king had called upon the Wizards, but the traitorous bastards had refused to take part in the brooding civil war that was surely coming. Thus, the Wizardly Order had overplayed its hand, as the Witches had before them, and lost favor. Lord Favre held no great love for the King, but he accepted the man’s authority to a point. He had sent levies up north, and he would send more as requested, but his personal troops were his own. And they would purge the land out of Wizards while everyone else was busy fighting among themselves.

“Write that one’s name,” said the lord to one of his aides when he spotted a particularly zealous man advocating for the burning of the suspects on one of the popular trials.

“In which list, milord?” inquired the aide. There were, after all, insane zealots that mixed the hate of Wizards with the hate for nobility, accusing Favre of being a Tyrant and of committing a host of crimes, like burning villages down unjustly. They were wrong, of course, it wasn’t a crime since he was the Lord, and the burning had been only due punishment for avoiding taxes - how else could such a warning be given? One of the lists would be sent to his agents spread through the city that would make sure the people on it suffered unfortunate accidents or were the victims of common criminals. The other list was for recruitment purposes - zealots made impressive first-line troopers if you happened not to mind the occasional excess.

Though Lothar was far from being one of the economical power-houses of the Realm, its slave-powered iron mines cheapened the cost of local weaponry and armors, and Favre could boast of one of the biggest personal armies among the most important lords of the land. He’d already sent half of his red-caped soldiers westwards to start the Purge, under the command of his second-born and heir, Agor, battle-proven and a competent leader.

Besides the expensive support of the Fidajin and Kalidor Orders’ operatives he’d hired, he would send freshly raised companies of soldiers to reinforce his son. The Wizard-Burners the new units were calling themselves, and the fanatics on the second list would form the cadre of non-commissioned officers of this unit, hopefully improving their moral when fighting against the Wizards.

“Keep watching for promising people, and warn me immediately if the crowds’ mood starts changing,” Favre ordered as turned and headed back into his fortress. It was time to visit his wife, the damned murderer, and tell her of how his soldiers were purging the lands he could reach of wizard’s corruption. Vengeance was what bound him. His son, Agor, would be his instrument.

***

Lord Agor ordered a tent erected just behind arrow-range from Arburgh’s keep, his personal mage squad raising Barriers in order to avoid any surprise attempt of the beleaguered city’s Lord to assassinate him despite the clear proposal of parley. Not that Agor believed his opponent would do such a thing - the man was honorable to a fault, and his lack of guile had cost him the city’s walls.

The Purge was not a plan stirred up in a hurry by his father, but a long engineered plan that was held back until the perfect opportunity arose. As such, the man had planted a web of spies and collaborators throughout the area. The western Lord hadn’t been prepared for treachery, and his guard had been back-stabbed and the gates opened. Agor’s soldiers had taken Uthren and Westville already, the two other significant cities in the region besides Arburgh.

Under the tent’s shade, Agor had launch served, and ate calmly as he waited for Lord Arburgh to accept his proposal to hold negotiations. The man took two hours to leave his keep, riding out with a dozen outriders after the gate had been lowered down so he could cross the moat. Lord Arburgh was fat, far from the fit and dangerous knight he’d been when he was younger. The man was known for his daring - one of his valiant acts had earned him his lordship - but now he just looked tired to Agor.

They dismounted, and the local lord entered the shaded area of the tent while his escorts held position exactly like Agor’s - close enough to intervene, not close enough to hear what was being discussed.

“Greetings, Lord Manwell,” Agor courteously said.

“Lotharian. What do you want?” the lord of Arburgh said, completely ignoring the usual pleasantries. He’d never been known for his subtlety, after all.

Agor actually preferred to skip all that meaningless talk too. “I want your people neutralized while we do our duty, Lord Manwell.

The man smiled dangerously, “Feel free to take a crack at the keep. My men are spoiling for a fight after the trick you pulled.”

The treachery with the gate, and the sudden entrance of Lotharian troops in the walled city had caused considerably less bloodshed than Agor had feared. Arburgh’s soldiers were brave, but they had seen reason when they were completely cut off from their Lord and many had surrendered after a promise of fair treatment had been mande. I can only wish their Lord is as reasonable.

“I apologize, that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then, Wizard Hunter?”

Agor didn’t appreciate the title too much - he bore no particular ill against the Wizardly Order, but he owed his undying loyalty to his father and sire, and that was why he followed his orders, trying his best to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. He knew the crime his mother had committed, but he wasn’t going to personally blame all wizards for that.

“What I meant, lord, was that your soldiers cease to interfere with any activity in the area while I’m here.”

“A parole, you mean? And what about the prisoners you took?”

“We will give them back, unharmed,” He promised.

“You do know that I won’t give up any of the practitioners under my command or protection, don’t you?”

“I imagined. We’re only hunting for wizards.”

“That’s not what it seems like to me. You’ve been killing a lot of people, and there are very few wizards among them.”

Agor grimaced, and replied, “That’s true, lord. Mistakes happen from time to time, but I’m doing my best to stop excesses. I’m trying to have suspect wizards arrest, so we can grant them a fair trial at a later date. Do we have a deal?”

“My wish, Lotharian, was to give you a bloody nose. To slaughter your zealot soldiers and stop your atrocities,” Lord Manwell said, with fire in his eyes for a moment, before shaking his head sadly, “but I can’t, maybe before, but certainly not after the treachery. So yes, Lord Agor, you have my word we won’t interfere any longer after you leave Arburgh and give me back my people.”

“We will leave your city in two days, Lord Manwell. My people will comb the streets for hidden wizards, and I will punish anyone that causes your people undue harm.”

“You’re not so bad for a Lotharian, it’s a shame you’re Favre’s son. I never did like you father. I await your leaving of my city anxiously, but I wish for your defeat at the Wizards’ hands even more so. Goodbye, Lord Agor,” said the man, getting away from the tent and mounting his horse.

“Goodbye, Lord Manwell - you made the right choice,” he called to the man’s back.

With this matter resolved, Agor could start sending soldiers after the wizards and mages who flew the coup. His reports all seemed to indicate that the majority of those were heading west, to the very border of the Realm. Unless there was something there that had been hidden for nearly twenty five years, they could only be heading to one place: the Third Spire.

“Captain,” Agor called one of his aides, “send all the riders we can spare to apprehend or eliminate practitioners running west. We can’t let them get too many reinforcements, the Spire itself will be a very had nut to crack.” As the man left running, he turned to another one, “Lieutenant, make sure that word is sent to the leaders of the Kalidor and Fidajin, I’ll need as many siege engines as they can spare, magical or not.”

He wouldn’t let his father and ruler down - Agor would rid the West of wizards for Lord Favre’s sake, even if he didn’t agree. It was duty, duty and love that bound him.

***

Meanwhile, at the Westernwoods…

The soldier saluted Captain Lamart, that was busy inspecting the hooves of his white riding mule, a wedding gift from his wife’s wandering tribe, the Flumen. A Flumen and an Elfey, two kinds of outcasts together, what a blast it had been announcing the wedding to his superiors. The beast was ornery and aggressive, but the captain didn’t seemed to mind, and looked after it carefully, doing everything personally in regards to the animal.

“Captain, it has began. Our lookouts have reported sighting lots of outriders. The Lotharians are starting to enter the Westernwood. Should we try to warn the Commune?”

“The damned Druids probably know better than we do about the incursions, sergeant. I would appreciate if they don’t get too much in our way,” replied the distracted man, letting go of the mule’s leg, and patting its head. “We have to protect the fleeing wizards and mages the best we can. Dispatch the soldiers to shadow the most vulnerable ones. I’ll be joining one of the ambushing groups.”

“There are many of them, Captain. Are you sure we should be getting mixed into this?” asked the soldier, shaking his head.

“Orders were clear - well, as clear as I interpret them to be. We’ll fight. Send our non-combatants to the Retreat in the mountains with our pack-mules as soon as they are done organizing.”

“Understood, captain,” the soldier answered, taking a fist to his breastplate in salute. Lamart thought the sergeant a whiner, but the man usually got everyone moving after he had given his piece of mind.

When the captain had been sent to this border some three years ago, a few months after his conspicuous marriage, he’d been told his command would have four dozen soldiers. That had been a gross overestimation, and calling the state and readiness of the soldiers sorry would have been a gross understatement. Gross was something he thought a lot when he’d arrived at the run-down little fort in the middle of the woods of nowhere. Lamart had brought with him the sergeant and a handful of soldiers he knew he could count on, and he had to build from there.

They began instilling a sense of discipline, punishing the rabble Lamart had inherited command over when the previous captain had a falling out with the local druids, and had mysteriously disappeared. The worse of them, Lamart had gotten rid of with a simple expedient, sending them patrolling to the most dangerous areas of the forest, the kind frequently visited by magical beasts. The ones who hadn’t died, had deserted or gotten with the program quickly. That ruthlessness was the reason that Lamart had advanced in the Army despite his heritage, and the reason few officers, superior or not, cared to insult him to his face.

The captain left his mule to its own devices, and went to gather his equipment for the upcoming operations. Donned out in his worn but well cared-for armor, spear at hand and magical fuel at his belt, he exited his tent. Coming his way, he saw the read-headed woman he’d come to love. He smiled slightly at her, and said “Jeanne, you’re with the supply train this time.”

“Fuck you, Lamart D’elfey.”

“I love you too, lieutenant” He said, laughing as she pushed him aside to get to their tent.

“Come back safe, you oaf,” She said, giving him a parting slap to the backside.

“Always do.”

Jeanne would badger him when they got back together, but it would be a weight taken off his conscience if she wasn’t involved in the fighting, selfish as it was of his part. If something were to happen to him, at least she would take care of their young daughter. His people wouldn’t begrudge him that, he was sure, specially because he would be at the forefront of the heaviest fighting they could find. The Lotharians would probably discount his small force as a minor nuisance to crush at their leisure, but the captain was hoping to give them a disappointment, one bloody and horrific disappointment.

The official numbers of soldiers under his command was four dozen and some auxiliaries, but reality was quite a bit different to the numbers in the paper. Lamart received only the money to cover the wages of the registered soldiers, but he had discovered something quite interesting after sending the troublemakers after magical beasts. He had ordered the damned patrols to bring back to the fort or to the camps any of the creatures they fell, in case they lived, so he could sate Jeanne’s curiosity. They had discovered that the magical beasts’ parts were damned lucrative, wizards and mages fell over themselves to buy the things.

The orders to keep everybody away from the woods started looking a lot better by then - it meant they would have the monopoly in these parts. These regions were far away from the Realm, and the king’s tax collectors never bothered inspecting the closed-of frontier, so he could get away without paying taxes. Lamart started recruiting and training people off the books, paying them with the money of his smuggling scheme. However, despite his ‘extralegal’ activities, Lamart considered himself and his people to be soldiers above all - only wealthy and business-minded soldiers. So, they would fight. Him, and his one hundred and twenty strong soldiers.

The forest has huge, and provided richly for them, after all. They had had some conflicts with the druids over it, but Lamart had reached an agreement of a sustainable hunting quota with the elderly Giojen so the tree-huggers stop harassing his hunters. The captain had forgotten the misfortune of his predecessor, and kept always wary of the supposedly peaceful Commune, the closest neighboring village, if you could call them that. All of his soldiers partook in the hunts, and all of them partook in the coins. The fort nowadays looked more like a little village than anything else, with lots of dependents living in it.

Walking through the camp, and nodding to his gearing up people, Lamart found the one he was looking for, sharpening his axe.

“Ramogal, you’re with me,” He said, patting the veteran’s shoulder.

“Sure, Lamart. Let’s give them hell.”