Even from the back, Sven could see how he had worn down the dux. Sweat drenched his back and face, and he shivered. A grey beard had overtaken his face, while the curls on his head looked greasy and wild. His marsord lay nearby, still in its shin sheath.
You know this is not about vengeance, Sven thought at the statues as he entered the circle. Seruvus looked unconvinced.
Sven could hear Volund’s prayers, now.
“Mother of Miseries, I know I have brought your wrath upon me. I ask no mercy for myself, but spare my sons. Spare my city. Spare my duxy. Do not look upon them as you look upon me.”
Sven called the myst, readying himself for the long-awaited confrontation. To Dinah’s right, Domin’s alligator head seemed to smile at him.
Long-awaited because he has escaped punishment for too long already, he told himself firmly.
“Dux Fieglin,” Sven said in the haughtiest, most accusatory tone he could manage.
Volund scrambled, turning his body even as he fell backward. He stared into Sven’s eyes. “You! You have brought the Bald Goddess’s wrath upon Marrishland!”
Sven took a step forward raising the Blosin gloves, fingers splayed. “Dinah is not the one whose wrath you should have feared to provoke.”
Volund scrambled backward until he sat at the feet of the Bald Goddess. He did not call the myst, but wrapped his body around her naked shins in supplication.
“Still taking refuge in her shadow? The lies you told in her name about the Mass will not protect you from the rage of Marrish. I am the Guardian. I am the hand of the gods. No longer will you deny the dream of Weard Darflaem!”
“It wasn’t a lie!” Volund shrieked even as Sven stepped forward and called the myst to activate the gloves. “The Dead Swamps are at the gates. The Dead Swamps are at the gates!”
Black rivers of killing energy flowed out of Sven’s hands and lanced into the Dux of Flasten. Volund looked up at Dinah once more, and then he turned to ash.
Sven forced aside the disquieting feeling of intense personal satisfaction and stooped to take Volund’s marsord. The hair on the back of his neck pricked, and he looked up to find himself staring directly at the downward pointing hand of the Bald Goddess. Next to her, Domin grinned at him, seeming to laugh.
Forgetting the dux’s marsord, Sven stood up and whirled. His patrons and patronesses stood in a near circle around him.
“Who I am is unimportant, now,” he told them. “What I do I do for the good of the Mar and for your glory.”
Domin still grinned. Seruvus remained unconvinced. Marrish seemed on the point of hurling lightning at him.
Three more to kill, Sven thought, and then he stepped into the Tempest.
Chapter 32
“Mysdyn (myst dynamics) is the study of what Mar magic can do and how it works. Less experienced wizards may wield magic ‘by the book’ (Veks) or ‘by the cup’ (Xil) — relying either on known magical applications or on informal experimentation. Wizards who understand mysdyn can design spells using nothing but their knowledge of the underlying principles of magic. This is wielding magic ‘by the chair’ (Es), because the wizard designed and built it to his exact specifications instead of simply sitting on whatever the gods or another wizard happened to make convenient.”
— Weard Oda Kalidus,
The Origin of Nothing
Ari approached Einar cautiously, a flask of morutsen in hand. He squinted at his stepfather in the darkness, trying to determine if he was asleep or merely pretending to be. Einar gave no sign. Carefully, Ari approached him.
“You are weak to follow this farl,” Einar said from the hood of his cloak.
Ari jumped in surprise.
“You were always afraid to stand on your own.”
Blood rose to Ari’s cheeks. Einar raised his head a little. Shadowed eyes met Ari’s fearful ones.
“Why do you wear my marsord, Ari?”
Ari touched the marsord on his waist subconsciously. He had, indeed, taken Einar’s marsord with only a raised eyebrow from Robert.
“I fear you no longer, old man,” Ari said, uncorking the flask.
“You wear my sword out of bravery?” A low chuckle escaped Einar’s lips. “Who taught you bravery?”
“I hate you.”
“I never wanted you to fear me.”
Ari’s voice came out in a hiss. “You burned the skin off my body! How could I love you for that?”
“You were failing your classes. I only wanted you to succeed.”
“The way my brothers succeeded?” Ari demanded bitterly.
Einar winced. “I merely wished to expand the Mar civilization, Ari.”
“By forcing your wife’s children to guard villages across the river from the Fens of Reur?”
“The Fens have always been the frontier of the Duxy of Domus, but you must believe me when I say they were not so dangerous when I was your age. A few tribes of guer, a handful of gobbels, maybe the occasional insero. I defended those towns from Drakes for twenty years before I put your brothers in charge of them. Not once had the Drakes attacked me in such numbers ...”
Ari suppressed his anger. “It is time for the morutsen, Weard Schwert.”
Einar laid a hand on Ari’s arm. “Why do you serve him? You are afraid of him.”
Ari snorted. “Certainly not. He does not torture or threaten me.”
Einar turned his head as though struck. Softly, from within the hood of his cloak, he spoke. “I understand, son. I am at your mercy and at his. But should you ever wish to part his company, I will offer you whatever protection I am able.”
“I wear this sword, Weard Schwert.”
“Will your stolen sword protect you better than I when the Mardux comes to pass judgment on you?” Einar snapped.
“I do not need your protection.” Ari thrust the flask of morutsen into Einar’s hands. “Drink before I drive you into the darkness where my mother dwells!”
His stepfather obeyed. “I have been a poor guide, Ari, but even into death my shade shall guard you.”
Ari received the empty flask and turned away, returning to Robert’s campfire. He shuddered, remembering what had happened to Vigfus.
Weard Vielfrae had wanted Robert to bring Einar back to Flasten Palus right away, but Robert had insisted on capturing the Protectorates first. Vigfus had argued and then pulled rank, and Robert had simply … ended him — a powerful illusion had destroyed the mind and paralyzed his body. The enchanter hadn’t even bothered to land a killing blow, simply leaving Weard Vielfrae curled up in a puddle, whimpering softly.
Since they had captured Einar, they had conquered more than half of the Protectorates. Only towns in the northern half of the moors were left untouched, and the most heavily fortified of them were guarded only by a magocrat and a small militia each.
“I have been thinking, Ari,” Robert said without turning to look at him. “Perhaps my Will-Breaker will succeed where Valgird’s torments did not.”
Ari sat down numbly and said nothing. At the edges of the firelight, the captured mundanes stirred at the sound of the enchanter’s voice, as if they feared he would be moved to rage, again.
“Do you have any objections?” Robert asked, turning to stare intently into Ari’s eyes.
Ari shook his head, remembering Vigfus.
* * *
Einar looked into the darkness, considering. He remembered childhood stories of the afterlife. Dead Mar were burned to release their souls, which took on the shadowy form of smoke. The smoke became a part of the air, dwelling forever among the living. They were the darkness that guarded the sleeping Mar from the Drakes when Her, the goddess of light, abandoned them.
Superstition, he thought.
He lay on his back and looked up at the sky. None of the moons was up tonight, making the stars the only natural light in all of Marrishland. Einar’s mind floated away, dulled by the morutsen coursing through his veins.
The mundanes believed the stars were the spirits of
the fallen heroes whose deeds were lauded by the gods as exemplary and worthy of emulation. In this way, those Mar who led justly in life were also guides in death. There were thousands of stars, tens of thousands. Each one, from the dim Larena Ynvenea to the dazzling Kaliher, had a name and a story.
“Help me face my fate with dignity as you did,” Einar whispered to them all.
Folk tales. There are as many stars in the sky now as there were at the beginning of the world.
The calm air grew suddenly agitated as a cool wind swept across the moors. To the west, the stars that made up the Guardian began to disappear behind the approaching clouds.
* * *Ari lay on his back, and he, too, watched the stars, uncomfortable beneath their gaze. In the eastern sky, the clump of stars known as the Mass began to rise. The component stars were not villains, though. Villains never became stars. The stars who formed the Mass and the other constellations named for the servants of Dinah and Domin were the souls of those heroes who had once been villains.
One of those had been Tryggvi Fochs. He had been a common brigand who preyed on merchants leaving and entering Marrishland from the east, but when the Gien Empire launched its first invasion of Marrishland, Tryggvi swore to defend his country from the attackers. He led countless raids on the Gien encampments, luring the enemy deeper into the Dead Swamps while other Mar cut supply lines.
When the remaining ten thousand Giens were hopelessly lost in the swamps, the Mar left them at the mercy of the quicksand and suckmud. Tryggvi, however, wished to seal the invaders’ fates. He allowed himself to be captured. The Giens recognized him as a hero among the Mar and took steps to force him to lead them to safety. Tryggvi feigned obedience and then led them into the territory of a pack of damnens.
The Gien army was never heard from again, but according to the tale, Tryggvi managed to elude the damnens. His star was Vetrator Ducor, a prominent member of the Mass.
Ari gazed at the wideness of the sky. There were so many stars, but there was more darkness than lights. In the western sky, the approaching storm cast its first bolt of lightning, illuminating the sky for just a moment before giving the swamp back to the embrace of the shades.
* * *
Eda came to a sudden stop in her exercises, panting. Something was different in the room.
The bed was splintered. The mattress was so many thousands of incinerated bits across the floor. A chair could just be recognized in the mess, and the splatters from the candles. The only thing intact in the room was the door — which hung open now.
The cyan-garbed weard lowered her sword and stepped quietly toward the door so she could see through it, watching the myst for any sign of attack.
Here in Domus? Who would dare?
Katla stood in the room, her red hood thrown back, with her hands clasped in front of her.
“Weard Katla Duxpite,” Eda said, lowering her marsord but not her guard. The woman had teleported here.
“Weard Eda Stormgul.”
The greetings were strained and formal — childhood friends who had sworn allegiance to very different masters. They stared at each other for several minutes, and then Katla seemed to break. She sighed.
“Peace in the swamp, Eda,” Katla said. “I have not come to harm you.”
Eda relaxed a bit more, but not entirely. “Why have you come then?”
“I cannot find my brother, but I am certain he is unaware the Mass will soon be upon us,” Katla said, finding a chair and sitting, adjusting her cloak as she did so.
Eda sat down heavily. “The Mass?”
“Have I ever deceived you — you who know the oaths I have sworn and the name of my patroness?
Eda smiled wryly. “Brand would owe you a pair of boots if he was still alive. He never was one to make good on old wagers.”
Katla managed a wan smile. “I am afraid the Mass is every bit as real as Nightfire teaches, and the Drakes are more numerous than any Mar can imagine without having seen them. It is at the edge of the Fens of Ruer, and prepared to descend on Domus Palus.”
Eda felt the familiar eagerness for action. She had never intended to sit in the citadel waiting for Sven to give her something to do. That was Erbark’s gift, not hers. The decision was surprisingly easy.
“What would you have me do?”
“Find the Flasten and Domus generals, and pass the word to them. They must get to Domus to protect the city.”
“Weard Verifien, I think I can find,” Eda said. “But why bring the Flasten army?”
“The Mass is beyond comprehension,” Katla said, her hands expanding. “The first wave will be as big as all the weards in one of those armies. And there will be a score of waves after that. Domus must be protected, and the Mass ground up against it.” She leaned forward. “Sven once told me that Vitharr Taffer offered to go with Nightfire, but you fed him some bad soup a few days before, and he was too sick to go — so you had to. Stormgul, they called you even then. ‘The fortress that stands against the darkness, the storm that bows the trees by night.’ ”
Eda flushed. And what of your name, Katla — “one who thwarts the duxes?” How have the duxes not seen the threat you have hidden there, or has Nightfire convinced them you no longer pursue your namesake?
“What about here, now?” Eda asked. “I could be helping out here. You could go to Flasten.”
“You would not be taken seriously. The Council knew me as Brack’s apprentice. They will know me as Brack.”
Eda opened her mouth to object. She wasn’t strong enough to hop around hunting for Horsa. And to assume peace could be made! At the hands of a cyan! She stared at her own small hands. Katla seemed to sense her hesitation.
“A tongue of flame tastes every piece of fuel to find the most flammable,” she said, her voice low and sincere. “The Mass seldom attacks cities, and the armies should have enough time to occupy it before it arrives, so the capital will hopefully survive the siege. If Pidel joins Domus and its allies in a battle against the Mass, they might inflict enough casualties to discourage the Drakes. It is even possible the Mass can be turned against itself, making it far less of a threat. If all these other blocks of peat are drenched in water and coated in clay, though, I must keep the Mass focused on sacking Domus Palus long enough for Sven to solve this unique military problem.”
“There is not a lot of time,” Eda murmured.
“You are correct. I would be asking the help of reds if there was time to argue. But I trust a fellow student of Nightfire’s, someone I grew up with. Horsa will listen to you for the same reason, and there may be others. Anyone else would be suspect.”
Eda nodded, blushing slightly. That had ended years ago, when Horsa was still a cyan himself. But they were still friends. Horsa would trust her.
Katla was right. Yver Verlren ran Domus now that Sven was away, and he wouldn’t listen to anyone who was not eighth-degree.
“Bui,” she said. “Katla, find Bui Beglin the guerilla.” She rushed over Katla’s dismissal. “If anyone can defeat Drakes if they attack before the army gets here, it is him. He will know how to train people.”
Katla nodded slowly. “You and he stopped the Flasten army.”
“Yes. He will be useful.”
“I will find him. Now, Eda, you must go.”
She hesitated again. “Does Sven know?”
Katla shook her head. “He will find out soon, though. About everything.”
“He will be angry.”
“He will be victorious together with all of Marrishland, or he will be dead. Pray my patroness is humbled this time.”
Eda met Katla’s green eyes, hard as agates. She summoned the myst and slipped into the Tempest, but couldn’t help but think Katla had manipulated her for some other purpose. How does she know so much about the Mass, and what did she mean when she said she is Brack now?
“Lead me through the fearful times ahead,” she prayed softly. “Lend me the strength and wisdom that set you forever in the heavens. Help me be wor
thy of your patronage.”
* * *
Katla made her way through the enormous camp of Drakes. All around her, twenty thousand Drakes — mostly man-sized, humanoid jabber and stinger guer with a sprinkling of the larger striped and snatching guer — rested in advance of the next morning’s march south. It would be a matter of days before they reached the Lapis Amnis, which marked the boundary between Mar and Drake lands.
Calling this the First Wave was an apt title. A few hundred scouts flowed up to the doorstep of Domus already, racing back along what would be the front. The swell was the twenty thousand she purposefully walked through now, which would break over the Lapis Amnis, reform and smash itself against Domus Palus. And this was the first of more than three hundred waves that would pile their dead against the defense of the Mar.
Brack, Nightfire and centuries of Mar were right to fear this enemy.
This part of the camp was primarily stinger guer, and their lizard-like eyes regarded her as they raised their arms away from her, intentionally showing her how careful they were being with the bony, poison-secreting stingers under each forearm. She kept her eyes on them warily in any case, but did not hurry.
She had lied to Eda in one respect. She had not spoken to the people in charge in Domus Palus. She did not want someone to usurp Sven’s place by becoming more of a hero. Domus would fall, despite their adepts. Their training was simple, minimal. They would collapse quickly. Piljerka had always been a chauvinistic simpleton, perfect for following orders from men he deemed more powerful.
Sven will have to return to save the Mar. He will have to show them he is the torch they must follow.
They thought so differently sometimes. The loss of their mother had ignited Katla, but she had controlled the fire, had nursed it and fed it just enough fuel to keep from going out before the proper time. It would burn exactly what needed to burn, and not a stick more.
Sven had always had a fiery way about him — an enthusiasm that could exhaust those around him. Tortz had changed him, had redirected his passion along a path he never would have taken on his own. He had slipped out of the hearth and was burning the floorboards. Soon he would take the house, and then the whole town. He was blazing out of control without realizing he was consuming himself.
Lesson of the Fire Page 28