Prologue

Prologue

The sound of tea being slowly poured completed the peaceful picture of the small, cosy tavern.

The sloping and sometimes dirty floorboards barely made room for the many crooked tables and chairs. Countless stains on the wood told of plenty evenings of fun, the odd brawl and where the more hard-drinking regulars had their seats.

The chairs were so close together that if the tavern was full, every man and woman would be surrounded by friends in front of them, behind them and around them. And the almost empty bar at the end of the room showed that friends liked to drink here.

The walls of the tavern also promised nothing more than home and honest labour. There hung the heavy axes of the woodcutters, the tried and tested bows of the hunters and the sturdy washboards of the maidens. Some of the tools were just decorations on the wall, visibly covered in dust, while others were used almost daily. They hung as close to the brown wooden wall as the guests in this tavern could possibly sit together.

Above all the chairs and tables was a thatched roof that had seen better days. Although there was no hole in the ceiling, there were one or two places where the thatch had come loose and preferred to find its place on the floor.

In the midst of these old and well-used things stood a man who completely disrupted this picture, almost challenged it. His tight and form-fitting blue robe had not a piece of fabric too many and fell perfectly on him. His sturdy leather boots and smooth gloves gleamed with a freshly polished shine, a sharp lustre reflected in them. And his hair lay so uniformly on his head, you would have thought he had ordered it that way under threat of punishment.

The man was holding a small porcelain teapot in his hand and pouring into a similar-looking cup. These two objects also seemed to have strayed here. The tavern bore witness to cosiness and simple country life, everything about him screamed precision.

Not so his drinking. He lifted the cup with his fingertips and gulped the warm tea down his throat, just like the well-earned schnapps after a hard day's work. Smacking his lips, he licked them and examined his hands.

"Better now, before my fingers start shaking too much."

With these words, he lashed out and hit the farmer tied up in front of him so hard in the face that a tooth in his mouth splintered.

The farmer groaned in pain, spit and blood collecting in his scruffy beard. His right eye was already swollen shut, his left was pleadingly looking upwards. "I beg ya, please dont kill ma. I beg ya, sir."

The man in blue put his head to one side and shook his hand. "Inspector. Not sir. Inspector. And you needn't worry, dear wildling. I am not sending you to the next being." The inspector struck out again and his fist dug deep into the stomach of the farmer. "Only how long we share the audience in this ... let's say primitive hall of your people depends on you."

The inspector calmly walked around the bound farmer, placed his hands oh-so-gently on his shoulders and brought his pointed lips close to his ear. "Where is she?"

The farmer barely recovered from the blow to his stomach, choking dryly and gasping desperately for air at the same time. "I don't know, I don't know any, please Mr ... Inspector! Please inspector! Nobody knows nothing here. It's only a small place here."

The inspector purposefully raised his hands in the air and traced a line. "And right on one of the most important roads on the continent. Anyone travelling from one side of Auervam to the other will probably pass by your village, dear wildling." In a flash, he slapped his prisoner on the ear with the flat of his hand. "So you'd better talk!"

The farmer sniffled, tears streaming from his eyes, a small trickle of blood from his mouth. "I don't know, I don't know."

"It seems to me that you are ... used to the simple way of obtaining information. Or it doesn't reach you." The inspector slowly removed a glove, the gesture reminiscent of sharpening a dagger. "But we have better ways of getting something out of your head. Much nicer ones." He stepped in front of the farmer and held his bare, thin fingers in front of his face. "Magic, my dear savage, but such simple magic. I can simply flick through your head like a colourfull book. If you resist, well, imagine the pages of your book are stuck together. I can tear them open, no question about it, but it remains to be seen how much of the book I ... break. Do you understand, dear wildling?"

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The farmer stared at the sweaty fingers like the worst instrument of torture from bad dreams. "Magic? Such a gift and you use it like this? Magic demands honour, responsibility..."

The inspector quickly grinned. "And it creates opportunity, power. Do you want to feel that?"

"You do it, you do your dirty work, I can take it, you'll all pay for it anyway." The farmer raised his eyes with a newfound vigour. "This village, this road, do you know who's protecting it? Do you know whose wrath you're incurring right now?"

As if his words had conjured it up, a deep, thunderous female voice boomed through the alleyways of the village outside the tavern. "Who dares to treat my subjects like this, to dishonour them? Any dishonouring of them is an affront to my respect, my dignity!"

At these words, the farmer beamed, all the beatings seemed to be forgotten. "You're in for a beatin´, now you're going to be picked apart. This is no simple woman, there's a child of ideas, a demigoddess. And she's in charge here, now you're finished."

But the inspector strolled calmly to the front door of the tavern and peered outside through its small, central window . Then, annoyed, he rummaged around in his robe and pulled out a small notebook. "Where were we again ... ah yes ... that corner of the continent. You have to find your way around this barbaric wilderness first. Like this." He crossed off a list with his finger. "Ah yes, the lady in question. Very nice. We thought she'd come earlier, didn't expect her so late, but well."

The farmer instantly lost his grin and looked wide-eyed at the man in blue. "So late ... expected?"

The inspector lifted his teapot again and slowly began to pour himself another cup.

Then the deep voice sounded again from outside, this time apparently directly in front of the small tavern. "Simple mortals trying my patience like this? Standing in my way? Do you know who you are talking to, do you know what mistake you are making? You stand by the third-born daughter of the idea of ..."

Almost simultaneously, countless lights flickered outside the tavern, and there was a deafening hum in the air, as if endless lightning bolts had struck outside the door.

Suddenly the silence returned, but only for a moment, before a heavy, lifeless body crashed to the cold muddy ground in front of the tavern.

"Idea child neutralised. Begin recovery of remains for further investigation and resource extraction." A multitude of strangely empty voices spoke up in unison, their tone as if their tongues were speaking in a tin can instead of a mouth of flesh and blood. "Body successfully recovered, note to the appropriate authority, this idea child has also been successfully neutralised with no casualties."

With this sentence from outside, the inspector finished pouring his tea in the tavern. Again, he lifted the drink so delicately and tipped it roughly down his throat. His fingers did not tremble a bit. "I take it, dear savage, you don't know of another one of these idea children? Information about any demigod would be more than welcome. It might even be rewarded."

The life slipped from the farmer's face and his head snapped up. His lips trembled mutely, as if trying to remember a prayer. "That was ... was."

"Was, right. Not the first. And by no means the last." The inspector crossed out a name in his little notebook with a happy face. His silent counting showed that he had been very diligent on this page.

Slowly, the farmer regained his words. "Please. Don't kill anyone here, not ... not anyone, Mr Inspector."

The man in blue raised his hands and waved them around. "Where. Is. She?"

The farmer's gaze stumbled around the small tavern, then his heavy eyes closed. "She was travelling through. Wanted to get away from her home. Lost her faith and her bed."

The inspector slowly bowed his head. "Where. Is. She?"

Suddenly the farmer shot him a fiery look. "There, where all evildoers and blasphemers of ideas land, where such pak gathers and multiplies! From the hole that spat you out there!"

With ever-growing understanding, the inspector blinked, the realisation now clear before his eyes. "She's ... with us. At home in the city. What a twist! How do you know that? How do you know about our beautiful home?"

The bound man was beaten and bleeding and yet he held his gaze. "He who calls himself the new gods ... catches many eyes and ears."

A smile of satisfaction appeared on the inspector's lips. "Beautiful, simply beautiful." He straightened up and smoothed his robe neatly again, hardly bothered by the splashes of blood on it. "Then we've had the pleasure, I must thank you, dear savage." The man in blue raised his teapot and cup in the air. "Think of these as guest gifts." He simply dropped the two fine objects, countless white splinters whizzing across the sloping floor. "They say outside our city they still trade by barter and similar simple methods. The scraps here should be worth a lot to lesser folks like yours."

He kicked the farmer in the face with speed and precision.

He flew backwards along with the chair tied to him, hit the ground hard and coughed painfully.

The inspector leant over and untied him. "She's just with us, no how exciting. That makes the search much easier and much more difficult." When the farmer was free, the man in blue walked towards the exit door.

A large number of other people seemed to have already gathered in front of the tavern, also ready to set off.

The farmer lying on the ground gasped blood and slowly crawled onto all four. "You are sent by the evil, the evil in the world, indeed Defala himself sends you!"

The inspector stopped in the frame of the tavern door and grinned at the farmer. "Oh no, dear savage." He raised his bare hand towards the straw ceiling and concentrated.

Instantly, the room lit up brightly and a ravenous fire spread across the roof, the first sparks already falling from the ceiling and seeking new victims on the wooden floor.

The farmer's eyes filled with pure sadness as he watched his life's work burn down in front of him.

"We are sent by the free and beautiful city of Badazan."