Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  “A pest to the last, our Rorik Beurtlin,” a man adorned in gold rings and necklaces said. “Like a konig worm infestation.”

  “Dux Feiglin’s gambit has failed like his son,” the obese man said. “Weard Schwert will hold the Chair tomorrow.”

  The only woman in the bunch frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but the gaunt man cut her off.

  “We will be in the Fens of Reur before snow flies, am I right, Weard Faul?”

  A slight young Mar balled his hands into fists and opened his mouth to speak. He closed it when the yellow — a pale-skinned man with straight, black hair — touched his arm.

  The one with the jewelry sneered. “I did not see you step forward, Vigfus Vielfrae. Why did you bother traveling to Domus from Flasten if you had no intention of making yourself useful to your dux? Surely it caused you some ... strain.”

  The rotund man’s face purpled in rage. “And what of you, Solvi Zorn? If you had challenged Einar in his weakened condition ...”

  The gaunt Mar cut him off. “And make an enemy of Flasten? I may take the Chair tomorrow, but not without consulting my allies first.”

  He noticed Sven then, and all eyes turned to the newcomer. Sven kept his face expressionless.

  “Solvi Zorn of Domus?” he asked quietly. “Perhaps you can tell me how many challengers Einar Schwert has defeated.”

  The gaunt Mar’s grey eyes narrowed, and Sven did not need Fraemauna’s eyes to guess the man’s next move. “Do you think you can topple the old man?”

  “It was a simple question,” Sven said.

  “We do not even know who you are,” said the yellow smoothly, head and body swiveling to catch all the glaring eyes. “Young wizard, tell us your name.”

  Sven felt the slightest brush of a spell against his cheek and instantly snapped at the myst. The yellow is trying to calm me with his magic. Sven took an involuntary step back.

  “I am Sven Takraf.”

  Vigfus gave a dismissive snort, but Solvi leaned forward a little, intrigued. The woman leaned over to whisper something to the gold-encrusted man, and the yellow stepped behind the frail, young wizard as though attempting to vanish.

  I remember you, too, Robert Wost.

  “Sven Takraf?” Solvi asked. “Of Tortz?”

  “Ask your friend Dux Feiglin about me, Weard Zorn.”

  “Your ears are sharp, Weard Takraf,” Solvi said. “I suppose you heard my name and Vigfus Vielfrae’s. The thin one is Weard Ari Faul, and his man there is Weard Robert Wost. The woman is Weard Arnora Stolz, and her friend with the rings is Weard Valgird Geir. The silent one with the vacant expression is Weard Horik Neid.”

  “He is drunk on narcotics,” Vigfus said. “He is a worthless piece of Domin’s own dung, is that not so, Horik?”

  Horik opened his mouth, but only drool came out.

  “Weard Takraf, we hear the renegade Brand Halfin imprisoned you four years ago at Tortz.”

  “Volund Feiglin was there,” Sven said. “I am sure that you can learn the story from him. If you cannot answer my question, I can go ask Nightfire or some other member of the Council.”

  “Einar Schwert defeated Ozur Betrun this afternoon, and two opponents tonight.”

  Sven nodded. A fourth opponent surely would have finished him, yet none of them stepped forward. These are the ones who will challenge me, and they do not trust each other. It is a wonder anyone ever wins the Chair.

  “Do you intend to challenge Weard Schwert, Weard Takraf?” Solvi asked, voice too smooth for Sven’s liking.

  They want more power, and they do not even know how to use what they already have. Yet, they live for power. They would do anything to acquire more for themselves.

  Memories of Tortz pressed in on him. He forced them away, gritting his teeth.

  Or to keep others from having any.

  Sven clenched his hands into fists at his side. “I will be Mardux because you cannot defeat me.” They all started talking at once, but Sven spoke over them. “Weard Vielfrae would have to break a sweat, so he will not fight. Weard Geir is too weighted down with gold to step forward tomorrow. Weard Stolz would require many nine-day spans to plan a way to eliminate the danger of her defeat. Weard Faul cannot think for himself. Weard Neid does not even know what the Chair is. Weard Zorn, you fear my reputation too much to step forward. A mundane has more courage than any of you, and a mapmaker possesses more wisdom.”

  He started walking away.

  Solvi hollered after him, “We had an agreement with the dux! His sons would go first!”

  This is why I have come here, Sven thought. This is why the gods chose me for this path. This is why the Mar need me.

  He walked into the citadel.

  Nightfire must have noticed me while I watched the end of the battle.

  Sven sent a slave to find him. The boy couldn’t have been older than twelve, with dark eyes and calloused hands.

  What crime could he have committed? What oath could someone so young break?

  Sven waited in a room that might once have been a meeting hall. Several centuries of ivy had eaten through the ceiling. The flagstone floor was a mass of cracks, and bare earth peeked through in places. A second-story hallway opened to the room across the back, resulting in a crumbling balcony large enough for the entire population of Rustiford to stand on.

  He imagined it whole once again.

  I will commission a tapestry of the gods giving the Guardian his tasks, and the Guardian will have my face. No one will forget Mardux Sven Takraf.

  “You will challenge Einar Schwert.”

  Sven did not turn to welcome Nightfire. “Of course, master. Marrish said I would be Mardux. Fraemauna convinced me. Seruvus stood there, and even the gods must fulfill promises brought before the Oathbinder.”

  Nightfire stood next to Sven, followed his eyes to the gaps in the ceiling through which the stars shone. He was a much older man. His hair was streaked gray and black, his skin much paler than Sven’s for lack of sun. Under his cloak, he wore an outfit similar to Sven’s, and he had not brought his marsord with him, either.

  There are no Drakes in Domus Palus, Sven thought, and Nightfire is a scholar, not a magocrat.

  He noticed that his master’s companion had joined them. Katla Duxpite was Sven’s green-eyed sister and four years his senior. She had worn the red a year longer than Sven. Education had transformed her as it had him, but in different ways, and they had barely spoken since Tortz.

  “Weard Schwert is not your enemy. What will you do when you are Mardux that he would not do?” Nightfire asked softly.

  “Unite Marrishland. Defeat the Mass. As the gods said I should.” Sven couldn’t keep the hesitation from his voice.

  “And?”

  Sven met his master’s piercing green eyes. “And they said I will succeed you.”

  “You cannot be the arbiter if you are the Mardux.”

  “I will change the Law. I will remove the distinction between magocrat and mundane.”

  “Did the gods truly ask for that?”

  “It is necessary.” They implied it. They want it.

  Nightfire frowned deeply. He took several steps away from Sven and turned around.

  “You asked to see me. What is it you want?”

  “I need your support when I take the Chair tomorrow. No one must doubt I am the Guardian.”

  “You speak as though you have already crushed your enemies!” Katla snapped.

  Sven ignored her. Her master is no threat without Volund. “I have told you this day would come, master.”

  Nightfire shook his head. “As many times as I have supported you, Sven, you know I cannot take a side in this.”

  “Then tell me about Einar Schwert. You say he is not my enemy. Why does he seek the Chair?”

  Nightfire glanced at Katla, and they sighed almost in unison.

  “Please join us, Sven,” Katla said finally with a weak smile. “We have some soup.”

  Chapter 3


  “Auburn is for Wisdom. Few Mar can use Wisdom well, but its power is that of illusion and deception. Though it may not seem as practical as Energy, Power or Vitality, do not underestimate Wisdom’s power. Farl enchanters ruled kingdoms in Flecterra on the strength of their command of Wisdom.”

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Nightfire’s Magical Primer

  Einar, wearing a new red cloak, regarded Sven coolly from the other end of the walkway. His marsord hung at his right knee, the gouger and hilt peeking out through the gap in the front of his cloak.

  An overcast sky hid the noon sun. The six reds and Robert stood between Sven and the temple. The Duxess of Pidel and the Duxes of Skrem, Gunne, Piljerka and Wasfal, as well as Dux Feiglin and his son — the entire Council — blocked the way to the Citadel. Nightfire and Katla stood to the right of the Council.

  “Weard Takraf,” Einar said, drawing his weapon slowly and examining the saw-toothed hacker. “I warn you to step down. You are a legend whose blood I do not want on my hands.”

  Sven’s gaze never left Einar, though he adjusted the leather gloves on his hands. “Weard Schwert, I admire your devotion to principles so much like mine, but I must be Mardux.”

  Einar nodded and extended the marsord toward Sven in challenge. “Then let the duel begin.”

  Einar’s approach to duels, Sven had found out at dinner the previous night, was an enhanced warrior gambit. Power to strengthen the sword and his body, and increased speed to get to his opponent before a spell was cast. Sven had devised a defense. Before Einar even moved, he set a spell his opponent would trigger. Einar rushed him, raw force surrounding the blade, feet leaving a trail of lightning on the ground. Sven built a shield of force and braced himself. The two crashed into each other in a blaze of blue motes, but the force of Einar’s rush threw Sven backward.

  He rolled to his feet even as Einar brought the gouger down on his back, below his ribs.

  Sven gasped, fell down and rolled over. A healing spell began as flames crackled in the air, aimed at his opponent’s midsection, but Einar had moved in a flicker.

  Sven’s triggered spell struck Einar blind. Momentarily confused, he froze, and Sven used that moment to heal himself fully.

  Einar began the counterspell, but Sven, anticipating it, twisted and corrupted it delicately. Einar regained his sight, but now he saw six Svens standing before him, none of them real.

  Abandoning his enhanced warrior gambit, Einar launched spheres of fire at the illusions Sven had placed in his mind, forcing Nightfire and the other reds to counter the attacks before they hit the audience of greens and blues below. Using this moment of uncertainty, Sven added more subtle components, though he felt the strain of working with illusions in spite of his preparations. The Mar were weakest with those parts of the myst, and using them quickly tired a wizard.

  To all appearances, Einar stood in one place, completely immobilized by the phantasms of his corrupted spell. Sven locked a shell of countermagic around his uninjured opponent. A murmur drifted through the crowd as Sven casually took off his gloves and plucked Einar’s marsord from clutching fingers. Even the other eighth-degrees seemed ill at ease.

  They are uncertain of what I have done.

  Sven ceased gathering the myst, turning the marsord over in his hands absently. The sword had a blade on either side of the hilt. The longer blade, known as the hacker, was serrated on one side and finely honed on the other. The shorter blade, or gouger, was thicker with grooves on it to let blood drain. It was a weapon for use against Mar, Drake or swamp. Sven wiped his blood off the gouger.

  He knew he possessed the power to kill this man. It was the way of duels. No one was foolish enough to leave a rival alive.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ari lean forward in anticipation of the inevitable.

  What interest do you have in this man?

  Sven looked at Einar carefully — the aged face, the brown eyes, the grey hair. The red cloak was still clean and free of wrinkles. He checked his magic. The illusion would fade soon — half a minute, at most. He would have to choose quickly. Last night, in talking with Nightfire and Katla, he had learned much more about Einar than his fighting style, and even then, knew what he would do if his gambit worked today.

  You guarded our frontier once before. I will give you a chance to do so again.

  Sven placed the tip of the marsord against Einar’s chest, prepared to summon magic if the man resisted, and waited. The crowd held its breath, watching him and looking for the killing blow. Einar came to his senses with a jolt, eyes wide in shock.

  “How did you ...?”

  “Einar Schwert, you are defeated. Yield.”

  Einar attempted to cast a spell, but the shell held his magic at bay. He stared hard at Sven.

  What are you thinking, old man? Sven kept his face passive. Are you thinking, why would Sven Takraf want the Chair? Or why tell me to yield if you are going to kill me anyway?

  Finally Einar nodded. “You have indeed bested me, Weard Takraf. The Chair is yours if you can hold it against them.”

  Sven did not stir. “Swear your loyalty to me.”

  The crowd murmured. Robert whispered something furiously to the other eighth-degree wizards.

  “I understand.” Einar raised his right hand solemnly. “By the Oathbinder, and Marrish, my patron, I swear my fealty to you, Sven Takraf, Guardian of Marrishland.”

  The signs are everywhere! How many others have noted them as he has?

  Sven removed the blade and returned it. “You serve your patron loyally, Weard Schwert.”

  Einar stepped back and out of Sven’s way. Sven stuffed the gloves behind his utility vest and drew out another pair from the pouch at his side.

  As he put them on, he met Nightfire’s eyes, skimmed past the Duxess of Pidel and the duxes of the southern duxies and rested on Dux Volund Feiglin. Volund glared back in undisguised fury and prodded his son, Ketil, forward.

  Sven deliberately turned his back on Ketil and spoke to the remaining six reds.

  “Who disputes my ascent? Step forward and speak.”

  Solvi looked past his shoulder at the spurned dux’s son and stepped forward with a confident smile. Vigfus’ smile had finally reached his eyes. Sven sized up his opponent, considering this man’s value to his plan. Alive, Solvi would turn against him someday. Dead, then. But … Sven steeled himself.

  You will make a valuable lesson for my enemies.

  “I warn you, Weard Zorn,” Sven said coldly, stretching his fingers out in front of him. “Yours will not be the fate of Weard Schwert if you oppose me. Step down and swear fealty to me, and I will spare you.”

  Solvi sneered. “You may have survived Tortz, but you will not survive me, now that you have exhausted yourself with farl tricks.”

  Sven kept his left hand up, stretching the fingers wider. “Then let the duel begin.”

  Solvi was still readying his first attack as Sven closed his hand into a fist and a green beam of fire burned into his challenger’s throat, melting it closed. Solvi clutched at his neck, all thought of attack forgotten. He mended his windpipe and prepared to throw up a hasty defense. Sven didn’t wait for him.

  Slices of fire slapped off Solvi’s hands and cauterized his wrists. Tiny beams of light burned out his eyes. Invisible hammers snapped his shinbones and kneecaps. Knives of force filleted his skin. Bolt after bolt of intensely focused energy struck the wizard, hacking him limb from limb. The smell of burnt flesh made Sven gag. Ari whimpered. Someone at the edge of the square vomited.

  They have seen my mercy. Now I will live up to my reputation for ruthlessness.

  Numbly, Sven continued. After the eighth or ninth bolt of fire, the man was surely dead. But he continued until there was little more than a steaming pile of burnt flesh bubbling on the walkway.

  Sven stripped off his gloves to dead silence and stuffed them behind his vest, retrieving a fresh pair from a pouch at his side. He turned to the other five reds. He co
uld see the uncertainty on their faces and knew the reason why. Wizards never put on such displays when fighting for the Chair, because it was imperative they save their strength for the large number of challengers they might face. The use of illusions to subdue an opponent would have worn out all but the most powerful wizards. To win the second duel so flamboyantly might be possible for the strongest magic-wielders, but afterward, a green could defeat them.

  And they are right. The duel with Einar should have left me too weak to set dry tinder alight.

  “Are there any others who would challenge my authority?” he demanded. His voice could have frozen the swamp.

  Prodded by his comrades, Horik stepped forward hesitantly.

  They test me, Sven thought.

  He allowed Horik two nervous steps, and the challenger was looking back at his companions when Sven struck. The melon-sized fireball made barely a noise as it struck, leaving sparks licking the other wizards’ robes. A headless Horik Neid slumped at their feet. Ari turned and vomited.

  “A challenge must be issued!” Volund exclaimed. “That was cold-blooded murder, and the weard should be tried for it.”

  From his place at the back of the pack of reds, Robert granted Sven a small smile.

  I learned your lessons, but I was never your pupil.

  Sven turned away from Robert to face Volund.

  Nightfire spoke. “Weard Takraf issued the challenge. Weard Neid took the step forward. The Law says nothing about waiting for your opponent to be ready. That is a courtesy developed from centuries of challenges.” He glared at Sven.

  Courtesies are well and good, but the Law is the part you must follow, Sven thought. He considered if they would change the Law for this.

  It will do them no good, for I will change the Law more dramatically.

  “We will be back tomorrow,” Volund said.

  “Then you will lose another of your sons to me, Dux Feiglin,” Sven replied disinterestedly.

  Ketil shivered, turned to his father and whispered hurriedly in his ear. Volund slapped his son away. He made no effort to mask his hatred. “We will be back tomorrow.”

  Volund grabbed Ketil by the arm and stalked away. Sven waited as the carrion eaters passed him to follow the dux. Vigfus offered him a shaky grin while sweat poured off his brow. Arnora nodded respectfully, and Valgird ignored him. Ari’s head was bent in almost supplication, but Robert met Sven’s eyes with a knowing smile that sent a chill down his spine.