Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  Erbark studied with all the best warriors in the Protectorates, and he worked with them to develop a training program for all the members of the various militias. Officially, no town’s militia answered to anyone outside the community, but in practice all of them acted on Erbark’s suggestions and recommendations as though they were orders from a commanding general.

  But warriors were easier to train than wizards and took far less time. Sven didn’t even have time to instruct Erbark anymore, much less the masses of rural Mar in his protection. He was busy renewing magic, maintaining health and expanding the Protectorates. Occasionally, Sven would consider inviting a few younger wizards into the Protectorates to renew spells and cure disease so he could concentrate on these issues. But he was afraid they would try to take control. He remembered what Erbark had told him of how Tosti and Brand had fought over Rustiford. He couldn’t afford that conflict. There had to be another way, another source of help.

  A year later, less than a month before his wedding, Sven had a breakthrough. He turned a spell he had learned at the Academy as a sort of curiosity into the foundation for a system of defenses any duxy would envy. Not only did the fifteen towns already under his protection receive considerable infrastructure improvements, but the new spell allowed Sven to expand the reach of his Protectorates to thirty-nine towns.

  Even so, he knew he couldn’t expand indefinitely. Five more towns, maybe ten, and he would need another wizard — whether that was one of his apprentices or some outsider he could trust. But he kept adding new communities to the Protectorates in his ever-widening spiral.

  Summer was in full flower when Sven at last stumbled upon Tortz, far south of Zerst. Even before he reached its walls, he knew it had a magocrat. The force of militiamen who met him before he was within sight of their village provided the first hint, but others followed closely thereafter.

  Chapter 18

  “It is easy to tell whether a Mar is using magic by merely viewing the myst by drinking torutsen or using Knowledge, since a wizard must move and use up the motes to shape his effects. It is possible to conceal magic by exercising the strictest control over the handling of the myst, drawing motes only from the ground in such a way that it is nearly undetectable. This was first perfected in Flecterra, but the number of Mar with the strength and desire to regularly employ it can be counted on the fingers of one hand.”

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Nightfire’s Magical Primer

  Horsa Verifien, another man from Rustiford who had endured Nightfire’s tests, came into the room where Erika was reading. His yellow cloak was emblazoned with a flame proclaiming him a priest of Marrish.

  “The Mardux wishes to speak to his wife,” he said, smiling gently at Erika. “If you’ll excuse us, Pondr?”

  But she was already through the door and into Sven’s chambers. When she reached him, she took his hand and looked deep into those green eyes she had fallen in love with so long ago.

  “Erika,” he said slowly. “They said I have been sick for three spans now, delirious.”

  She nodded. “You’re still alive, right? That’s important.”

  He coughed. “The army ... where is it?”

  Nothing about me, she thought, but said, “It’s just over the Flasten border.”

  “Where is Flasten?”

  Her eyes were wet. “Don’t worry about it, Sven. Just get better. The Council knows how to handle war.”

  He shook his head, tried to sit up, but she was able to push him back down.

  “Council doesn’t know what war means,” he said emphatically.

  Suddenly his eyes blazed, at the ease she could push him down maybe, and all the candles in the room caught fire. The drapes blazed.

  Erika screamed, threw herself away from the bed instinctively, and then rushed it as the sheets caught fire. The heat pushed her back. She scrabbled at the ground as heat began to pulse through the very stones.

  “The Council thinks of battles!” Sven screamed, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “The Council doesn’t know war!”

  Horsa fumbled with a spell, lost concentration as heat licked out at him, turning the bed into a pyre.

  “Do something!” Erika screamed at him.

  With a great inhalation, Horsa made a pulling motion with both hands, and Erika felt the heat draw past her, extinguishing the flames. A large section on the wall turned black and cracked loudly as Horsa pushed the heat into it. Erika fumbled through a medical kit, sought the morutsen. Finding the flask, she uncorked it, gestured to Horsa.

  “Hold him down,” she said, but Sven was unconscious.

  His body was a mass of burns, except for his face. Only half of his face was blackened with soot, burned through to the bone. It frightened her, his eyelid a soft patch of red, seeming to glow from the white of the eyeball. The other side was a rictus of pain and dismay, but this side was just a blasted smirk. She dumped some morutsen down his throat anyway.

  “Heal him.”

  Horsa laid his hand on the good side of Sven’s face, and Erika watched as Vitality rebuilt the tissue on Sven’s body. There were few burns Energy could inflict that Vitality could not heal, but she would never forget the blackened, bloody, bone-showing side of his face. The damaged eye did not heal, though, leaving a blank white orb that reflected the flickering light of the fading tapestry fires.

  “Oh, Sven,” she started to cry. “Oh, Sven, what have you done?”

  * * *

  Erika!

  Sven felt the pain, felt it on his body and face as he felt it in his heart.

  My love, did I hurt you?

  And as he slipped out of consciousness, battling whatever diseases ate him on the inside, he wished he had told her about the army, and Bui, and the Protectorates, and inside, he cried out to his patrons.

  Why have you struck me down when the Mar need me most?

  * * *

  “Stop where you are, wizard, or you face death!” called the eldest warrior of the group.

  Surprised by this reaction, Sven obeyed, smiling and raising his hand in a gesture of peace that he had used to win over more than forty villages and family homesteads.

  “Peace in the swamp. I am Sven Takraf. I come without malice.”

  In response, the warriors advanced upon him. Sven was certain he could protect himself from the four militiamen.

  “Who sent you?” demanded a clean-shaven, middle-aged man whose hood hung low on his face.

  Sven took a step backward, confused by this question, perturbed by the man’s lack of facial hair. He scratched his own bare chin nervously. “No one sent me. I am the guardian of several villages north of here.”

  “A magocrat!” the clean-shaven man spat.

  “No!” He did not want these people to hate him. “They make their own laws. I merely protect them from Drakes and disease as best I can.” Why did that voice seem familiar?

  Sven reached for Mobility in case he had to flee.

  “Take him,” the clean-shaven man shouted.

  The warriors didn’t move, and, for a moment, Sven thought they were afraid of him. Then an invisible force struck him in the gut, doubling him over. His spell tumbled away half-formed, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl. The militiamen stood stock still, and more attacks landed. Cheek, shin, knees, kidneys. Sven recognized Power attacks when he felt them.

  He gathered Knowledge hastily. If he knew which of these men was the wizard, he could fight him. The colored fog of the myst materialized. Blue motes of Power shimmered around all four of them! They’re all wizards!

  Sven realized his mistake too late. His body was now a mass of welts and bruises. The barrage halted briefly before a wave of force knocked him to his knees. Then one of the militiamen was holding back his head while a second poured the contents of a leather flask down his throat. Sven spat out the sweet liquid violently. He tried to summon more myst, but none would answer his call.

  He remembered a lecture from his days as
a student.

  Morutsen. I’ve already been pacified.

  “I submit to your scrutiny,” he shouted before the rough hands again pulled back his head, this time holding his nose.

  The clean-shaven man bowed over him, pouring another vial into Sven’s mouth. “And scrutinized shall you be, Sven Takraf.”

  Brand Halfin!

  A sharp pain on his temple sent him into oblivion before he could greet the fellow student of Nightfire, the first slave taken from Rustiford and taught magic.

  * * *

  Tortz?

  Sven woke again as someone moved him. A sickeningly sweet liquid was dripped in his mouth, and he tried to spit it out.

  “Hold still, Mardux. This is for your own safety.”

  “Horsa?”

  “The very same, Sven. Don’t bother opening your eyes. There’s no light in here anyway.”

  The words hung in the air.

  What happened to the light?

  And as he was laid back down, he fell asleep, the taste of morutsen in his throat.

  Why Tortz?

  It is where I learned the lesson of the fuel.

  Chapter 19

  “Bera’s Unwritten Laws is that body of law dealing with the teaching of magic to apprentices. The original laws predate the invention of writing in Marrishland and were passed by word of mouth from master to student for generations before being committed to paper. For this reason, they are still called the Unwritten Laws.”

  — Weard Oda Kalidus,

  Introduction to Bera’s Unwritten Laws

  When Sven woke, it was in near darkness. Only a small hole in the ceiling let in a dim light. Sitting up to look around, his head spun and pounded in fury. Sven squinted and rubbed his throbbing temples. He was in an adobe hut with no windows or doors. Even the floor had been covered in stone tiles sealed with clay.

  This is a prison, built long before my arrival. What is Brand doing here?

  They had left him only his clothes and cloak. He considered summoning the myst to see if the morutsen had worn off, yet, but decided against it. He didn’t doubt Brand’s people were watching him. It would only arouse suspicion if he used magic, and it would earn him another dose of morutsen, at best.

  Torutsen helps us use magic and tastes bitter. Morutsen prevents us from using it and is sickly sweet. Both come from the kalysut tree. The gods love their mysteries.

  The walls of the prison looked thick enough to withstand the hammering of Power, and Sven certainly lacked the skill to teleport to freedom. If Brand wished to keep him helpless, his wizards would give Sven more morutsen. If Brand thought he could trust Sven, his wizards might not. In any case, Sven would not have any opportunity to escape unless they let him out of this prison.

  He found a chamber pot and made use of it.

  There seemed little point in resisting his imprisonment. Brand had recognized him, at least. There was a good chance he would eventually talk to the prisoner. Sven stretched out on the grass-stuffed pallet and tried to get comfortable in spite of his bruises and other injuries.

  My safety is in your hands now, he prayed silently.

  At last, he slept.

  “Welcome to Tortz, Weard Takraf,” a gruff voice called down from the hole above, and a small flask tumbled to the floor. Sven recognized the voice as one of the militiamen from outside the town.

  He sat up. It was morning outside his prison. “Peace in the swamp, sir.”

  “Peace i’the swamp an’ good mornin’. The mayor’ll talk to you. Drink that, an’ I’ll lower the ladder.”

  Sven obeyed, eager to get away from this prison cell. The flask contained morutsen, of course. Even if Brand was willing to talk, he wouldn’t be careless with a wizard prisoner. Sven considered what he would do if their roles were reversed and discovered no clear answer.

  And if this town was run by a magocrat I did not know? That was a dangerous path to consider. He climbed the damp rope ladder.

  “Bran’ Halfin was the first. We’ll remember always his wisdom.” The words were spoken every Weardfest in Rustiford, naming all nine residents whom Nightfire had taken. And now Brand, a first-degree wizard, leads this town, Tortz.

  And he had taught at least four others here. He had been gone nine years from Nightfire’s Academy, which meant he could have trained apprentices by now, following Bera’s Unwritten Laws. But they all speak with a mundane dialect.

  What about the disguises when I first came upon them? They wish to keep their knowledge a secret, which could also explain the rural accent.

  What patterns do my observations suggest?

  The warrior led him to another adobe building. Brand was waiting for them outside the door. He saluted Sven with his right hand.

  “Thank you, Bui.” Brand smiled warmly at Sven. “I have some soup, old friend.”

  Sven’s eyes went wide as he realized what he had been missing. “The Unwritten Laws! Brand, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  Brand sighed heavily. He held the door open and beckoned. “I’m sorry for your rough treatment yesterday. As you have already surmised, we have good cause not to welcome wizards with open arms. Come inside, and I will explain.”

  Sven obeyed grudgingly, not at all happy with the circumstances of this meal.

  If Nightfire even knew I was here, he might not judge in my favor.

  The soup was too hot to eat comfortably. He ate it anyway, eager to get the formality of the meal out of the way. “You offered an explanation,” Sven prompted when his bowl was empty.

  “You must have left the Academy quite recently.” Brand’s eyes watched the fire lick the blocks of peat in his hearth as he spoke. “Have you been to Rustiford?”

  “Yes. They wouldn’t let me stay because of what you and Tosti did when you came back.”

  “Tosti was abusing his power,” Brand said without evident emotion. “I only did what I had to do to keep him from setting himself up as a petty magocrat. I only regret that others were hurt as a consequence.”

  “And the ravit war?”

  Brand winced. “I can’t make that right for you. I’m sorry. I had hoped to drive the ravits farther east, and we did that. Not everyone thought it was worth the price Rustiford paid.”

  “It wasn’t,” Sven snapped.

  “What would you have done in my place, Weard … Takraf you’re calling yourself, now?”

  “You kept your name at the end of your apprenticeship?”

  “Shed your old name with your old cloak and choose a new one when you don the green?” He shrugged. “It seemed pretentious, so yes, I kept my name.”

  “In your place, I would have done as Nightfire advised and taught the ones who wanted to be taught, rather than making myself an educator magocrat.”

  Brand smirked. “I tried that, at first. My students got bored of learning math and reading when they had hoped I would teach them to use magic. They ran out of patience, and soon I had no pupils at all.

  “I started going on hunting expeditions to prove my magic was useful enough to be worth years spent studying history and Middling Gien. I sold my magic to people in exchange for time spent in my classroom. Some people grumbled, but your father supported me. I think he knew it would be good for Rustiford to have its own wizards.”

  “He did,” Sven said. “The town we came from had a magocrat. She treated us well, and it was only the war that forced her to leave us at the mercy of Flasten’s slavers.”

  “Yes. Exactly. Anyway, everything was going pretty well until one of the hunting parties was ambushed by ravits. They killed Yrsa Lutig, Sven.” Brand flushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment that spoke of the strength of that relationship. “I didn’t think of the consequences. I went out alone and used magic to kill the first group of ravits I found. Their tribe retaliated, and soon Rustiford had a war. A lot of people died, and most of Rustiford blamed me. They chose not to give Nightfire a slave the next year.”

  “That was when Tosti came back, an
d he made Rustiford dislike wizards even more. You fought. People died. Brita decided enough was enough.” Sven spoke quickly, impatiently. “I asked for an explanation, not a saga.”

  Brand’s eyes blazed a little at Sven’s tone. “If you’d have a little patience, I’m getting to it.”

  Sven waved him on.

  “After Rustiford, I gave up on doing it Nightfire’s way. I picked a town beyond the duxies and offered to teach them magic. Instead of teaching them to read, I taught them to make torutsen. Instead of teaching them history, I showed them how to wield Energy and Power.”

  “You broke the Law,” Sven said flatly.

  “I broke the Law,” Brand said, “because it makes no sense.”

  “It makes plenty of sense,” Sven countered. “As with the ravits, you didn’t think of the consequences of giving magic to the people of Tortz.”

  “The Mass?” Brand asked with an incredulous laugh. “That’s a lie told by wizards to ensure they stay in power. Weard Darflaem taught magic to anyone who wanted to learn, and some of his own students killed him for it.”

  “The Mass wasn’t the first thing that came to mind,” Sven said airily. He spoke in earnest. “Even if the Mass isn’t real, Nightfire certainly is. Whether you agree with the Law or not, the wizards will punish you if they catch you breaking it.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “Of course. That’s why you have your prison. How many wizards have you killed so far to protect your secret?”

  Brand hesitated.

  Sven continued before the other wizard could reply. “Wizards usually serve another wizard, and those wizards ultimately serve a dux. One day someone will send a search party.”

  “There are many dangers on the Morden Moors,” Brand said carefully. “It is not always possible to recover a body.”

  “But multiple disappearances in the same part of the moors? Eventually, someone will take notice. They’ll send a dozen wizards to investigate. And if you kill them, it will bring even more.”

  “Enough!” Brand growled. “Few wizards come to Tortz. We’ve only had to kill three, and two of them were slavers, so pardon me if I don’t weep over them.”