Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  At last, the united army was ready to march on his command. Ragnar stood before the highest-ranking wizards in the command tent. Horsa and the most powerful Domus wizards were among those assembled.

  “I bring grave news from Flasten Palus. Dux Volund Feiglin and Weard Ketil Wenigar are dead — assassinated by Mardux Takraf or one of his close allies,” Ragnar said.

  It was all he could do not to sneer at Horsa’s shocked expression.

  You see now the kind of master you serve?

  “The ochres of the Dead Swamps, sensing the weakness of our duxy, have invaded the Duxy of Flasten and have laid siege to Flasten Palus. As my father’s sole heir, I lay claim to his lands and title — Dux of Flasten. My first loyalty is to my people.” Ragnar paused, watching his allies’ faces. Only Horsa’s eyes grew wide in rage.

  “We will return to the Duxy of Flasten to drive out these Drakes that threaten our homes and families. We will hasten our march east using the applications that served us so well in the Teleport War.”

  Horsa could contain himself no longer. “The Mass marches on Domus Palus, Weard Groth. This was not a part of our agreement!”

  “Our agreement, as you call it, was your oath before the Oathbinder and your patron that you would obey me as an apprentice does his master until the Mass’s invasion comes to an end. You surrendered to me, Weard Verifien, not the other way around, so unless you wish to add ‘oathbreaker’ to your long list of titles, as well as ‘slave’ and possibly ‘shade,’ I suggest you get used to obeying my orders.”

  Horsa glared but kept his silence.

  I may yet come to your duxy’s rescue, Weard Verifien, but not at the expense of my own, Ragnar thought.

  “Are you still a priest of Marrish?” Ragnar asked.

  Horsa’s teeth were clenched as he spoke. “Until I die in his service, yes. I respectfully disagree with your strategy and ask that you at least let me lead the wizards of Domus to defend their own homeland.”

  “A surrender, once accepted, is not simply withdrawn by the loser. I will need your wizards to deal with this threat. I leave it to you to see that they obey the oaths that bind them as they bind you.”

  “As you command, Weard Groth.”

  “Not Weard Groth. I am Dux Groth now.”

  * * *

  Erbark waited restlessly in the tiny bedroom provided for him in the Bastion. He had waited for Nightfire to agree to initiate an inquisition of Tortz, and that had proven worthwhile. But the duxess had refused him an audience for a year and had refused to let him leave. Actually, strictly speaking she hadn’t told him he couldn’t go, but she hadn’t offered to have anyone teleport him out of the Bastion, either, and Erbark didn’t have the mastery of mysdyn and tordyn that would have required.

  They hold me prisoner unofficially, because their code will not allow them to do it officially. Like their ancestors invented the marsord to let their assassins get around duxy rules against killing Mar with magic.

  The wizards of Pidel were polite hosts, but none of them seemed to have any knowledge or interest in the world beyond the windowless walls of the Bastion. Having spent several years living in the Takraf Protectorates, Erbark was not used to information vacuums. While he waited on the pleasure of the duxess, the Duxy of Flasten could have invaded Domus, for all he knew. There was a timid knock on the door.

  At last!

  “Enter.”

  A yellow with a shaved head and a small grey beard peeked in as though expecting Erbark to cut his head off.

  “The duxess has agreed to an audience at your convenience.”

  Erbark was on his feet before the words were out of the man’s mouth. He followed the priest through the labyrinthine corridors of the Bastion. Even after nearly a year, he still got lost. All the doors and hallways looked the same, and the entire fortress was largely unornamented, leaving him with no way to get his bearings. A mapmaker would have preferred the Fens of Reur on a foggy night to this. The priest opened a door into a room Erbark remembered from his first day at the Bastion. The duxess was waiting for him.

  “Good afternoon, Weard Lasik.”

  “Good afternoon, Duxess Zaun. Have you come to a decision?”

  “Yes. I am sorry for making you wait so long. I received a report hours ago that Domin himself could not fail to recognize as a clear sign from the gods.”

  Erbark felt a chill pass through his body. He froze rigid for several seconds before speaking. “What sign is that, duxess, and how do you interpret it?”

  “The last wizards of Domus Palus have sought refuge here in the Duxy of Pidel.”

  Erbark shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “The Mardux’s adepts broke their oaths and rebelled against their rightful rulers. Mar have spilled the blood of Mar, and Domus Palus is a place of anarchy and barbarism where once it was a center of law and order. Dux Verlren only barely escaped the city to tell us of Mardux Takraf’s terrible deception.”

  Erbark clenched his fists. “Adepts? Rebellion? Deception? What has been happening while I have been here?”

  The duxess smiled slightly. “I see your master has not told you all his plans, Weard Lasik. Dux Verlren told me everything. The Mardux took advantage of Flasten’s invasion to create an elaborate ruse to convince the duxes the Mass was invading. Under this false pretense, they stripped the Duxies of Flasten and Pidel of their seats on the Council. This allowed the Mardux to pass an amendment to Bera’s Unwritten Laws that permits mundanes to learn the rudiments of magic. He has raised an army of these magic-wielding mundanes — which he calls adepts — and now they have driven all the wizards out of Domus Palus.”

  Erbark spoke slowly, hoping his voice was not shaking. “And how do you interpret this turn of events, duxess?”

  “The Mardux’s claim that he is the Guardian is a false one, and he will be punished justly for his crimes. His adepts are apprentices who wield magic beyond their knowledge and station — a crime whose penalty is death by fire. Weard Takraf and his closest conspirators will suffer the same fate. Though a staunch supporter of your master in the past, Dux Verlren has asked me to help him raise an army to crush the adepts’ rebellion and oust the Mardux by force, if necessary.”

  The first time Pidel takes a side in any war in centuries, and she sides with Sven’s enemies. What does that say about the duxess, and what does it say about Sven?

  “Clearly the Mardux was not completely frank with me on certain details of his plan, and I do not agree with all his methods of accomplishing his objectives. Nevertheless, if he claims the Mass is invading, I would believe him. March to Domus Palus with all your legions of wizards, Duxess Zaun. You will provide welcome reinforcements as the Mardux’s adepts face the Mass.”

  “If indeed the Mass besieges Domus Palus, it is because the increased number of magic-wielding Mar drew the Mass down from the north. If the Mass has come to punish the Mardux for his pride and recklessness, Pidel will not interfere with the will of the gods.”

  I see faith and cowardice go hand in hand! Erbark fumed silently, but he didn’t dare speak his mind.

  “We are wizards, and it is difficult enough to convince two weards to agree on anything, much less an entire nation of us. You are clearly already decided on this matter, so there is nothing I can do to change your mind. I will fight the Mass until my body is spent, and then I will fight it until my soul is used up, too. Send me to Domus Palus so I can resume my service to my liege.”

  “And let the Mardux know we march against him? I do not think so, Weard Lasik.”

  “I will march with your wizards, duxess. I go to fight the Drakes, not to warn the Mardux.”

  “I insist you remain an honored guest in the Bastion.”

  “And there is no condition under which you will release me? I am not without my uses or resources.”

  “There is one condition under which I will gladly teleport you back to Domus Palus.”

  “Name it.”

  She did, and it wa
s all Erbark could do not to bear steel against her, duxess or not.

  “You would have me make an oath to violate yet another of my oaths. Domin take you, then, and may the dark dead rebel against you!”

  She shrugged. “Then do not tell me I did not give you a choice, Weard Lasik.”

  Sven, I’ve failed you!

  He stormed out and headed toward his cell of a room. A familiar wizard in red sat in a chair near his bed. This time, Erbark really did draw his marsord. His limbs froze before he could attack, though.

  “Peace in the swamp, Weard Lasik,” Arnora said, smirking. The door slammed and locked behind him. “It would be best if no one knew you had a visitor.”

  “How dare you!” he snarled, wrestling for Elements to counter the magic holding him.

  “I mean you no harm, Weard Lasik,” she assured him. “I cannot imagine how, shall we say, creatively the Mardux will deal with me if I kill his most trusted friend. If I release you, will you put up your weapon and negotiate with me? You will find me more malleable than the duxess.”

  “Very well,” Erbark said, and the pressure on his limbs instantly vanished. True to his word, he slid the marsord back into its shin sheath.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Straight to the point. I can see why Weard Takraf likes having you around. Very well, I ask for nothing more than a full pardon.”

  “For aiding Volund’s rebellion? You do not seem the type to be troubled by conscience, Weard Stoltz.”

  “Volund is dead and his rebellion with him. The Mardux has killed most of the reds who were loyal to Flasten, and it is only a matter of time before the others suffer the same fates. Perhaps you have noticed how he treats those whom he considers enemies? I would rather not die for a cause I know to be lost.”

  “And in return, you will send me to Domus Palus to fight the Mass?”

  Arnora sighed. “If you think it is the best course of action, yes, I will.”

  “You do not believe it is.”

  “Do not misunderstand me, Weard Lasik. It is a good course of action, but why bring just a warning to the Mardux when you can bring a warning to the Mardux and his enemies at once?”

  “I am no assassin.”

  “I know that. Weard Takraf sent you as an envoy, and his envoy you will be — just to a different duxy.”

  “Why would they help Sven?”

  “Why? For the same reason as I would — self-interest. The Dux of Wasfal borrows as much as he lends, and if the Mass wipes out his debtors, his foreign creditors will quickly lose patience with him. So, have I earned that pardon?”

  Chapter 41

  “Recognizing the shape of a story is not the same as knowing the future, for every story heard or told changes the lived story. Sven Takraf lived a stubborn story, but I thought that with the right stories, I could save him from his fate. His tale has ensnared me, and I fear I may have absorbed some of his hubris. Can I still see the shape of his story well enough to change it, or has his pride become mine, blinding me to the damage I am doing to him with every tale we share?”

  — Pondr,

  Collected Journals, edited by Weard Asa Sehtah

  “Weard Staute, come to the recon hut quickly!”

  Asfrid Staute, the cyan who had been coordinating the Protectorates’ defenses since Weard Schwert had gone to deal with the Flasten invaders, put the finishing touches on the Blosin gloves she had been enchanting and stood up.

  “What is it, Sigrun?”

  “Drakes from the north. Stinger guer, from the looks of it, but it’s hard to tell at this range.”

  Asfrid broke into a run. The town leaders were waiting for her, staring worriedly at the stone at the center of the hut that served as Heliowache’s recon chamber.

  Drakes here in the Protectorates?

  She knew the Mardux had fought hard to drive the gobbel tribes and other Drakes out of the Protectorates when they were just as often called the Morden Moors — a region long thought indefensible and unworthy of contest, as well as technically neutral. But for as long as Asfrid had lived there, she had never seen so much as a mote on a recon stone that represented a Drake — at least not one that hadn’t vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

  Now, though, a swarm of red characters swam within the reach of the Protectorates’ outermost defenses and were not diminished by the spells set to ward the Morden Moors against them. The swarm extended north across the river and off the map. As Asfrid examined the characters more closely, she saw mostly stinger guer, but accompanied by jabber guer and gobbels.

  “Is it … ?” Sigrun Zwei asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Weard Zwei. The gobbels have made an alliance with some guer. The Mass is a story told by magocrats to maintain their monopoly on power.”

  Sigrun did not seem completely convinced, but she didn’t argue.

  “Send messages to the other wizards. We will need to be ready to shore up the Protectorates’ defenses quickly in case the Drakes wear down the defenses by pure body weight. They do not have reconnaissance like we do, and a guer fears an enemy it cannot see no less than a Mar. The Mardux designed the Protectorates to repel Drake assaults, but we must not let them find any of the towns. A march of a few miles is but a journey, but razing an enemy town feels like a victory, and we must give them none of those.”

  “Yes, Weard Staute.”

  Asfrid watched the recon stone as the Drakes pressed against the Protectorates’ defensive perimeter, idly enchanting more Blosin gloves as she did so. The red characters touched the boundary and vanished by the dozen, but more Drakes pushed forward, goaded by whatever dark power commanded them. She imagined the stinger guer with their tails of poisonous spines, jabber guer with their strong legs and bony hand spikes, and gobbels with spears and shields — all marching on and dying in fire as they hurled themselves against the wall of force that barred their paths. Mobility sapped their speed, making their attacks too weak and sluggish to penetrate the walls that stood in their way.

  She knew they would never see a Mar or even the smoke of a town. A dozen Drakes died and then a hundred, until those that followed had to press through a wall of their allies’ charred corpses before even reaching the magical wall that halted their advance. But at last, the Protectorates’ defenses weakened, and the red dots spilled beyond the outermost wall.

  Asfrid put on a pair of studded gloves and touched Elements. The spell of the Blosin gloves flowed into the recon stone, and from there, to the buckling northern perimeter defenses. She shed them and put on another. And another. And scores more, until she had used up nearly sixty pairs — a tenth of her stockpile.

  The Drakes north of the wall found their path barred once more, and those south of it discovered the second line of defenses — a mere hundred yards south of the outer perimeter — and died swiftly.

  Asfrid estimated the Drakes’s casualties at a thousand when the wave shattered against the Protectorates’ defenses and rolled back from the walls.

  One thousand Drakes slain. And no Mar wounded or slain. No towns burned. No wild rice fields disturbed.

  Asfrid stripped off the Blosin gloves and restarted the process of enchanting them. It would take spans to replace the exhausted gloves, which meant fewer remained to deal with the Flasten army that was almost certainly still absorbing the southern towns of the Protectorates.

  If I didn’t know any better, I might think the timing of this attack was orchestrated by Flasten to weaken us.

  “Gobbels and guer fighting together in formations,” Sigrun remarked. “This is unheard of except ...”

  “If it had been the Mass, we would not have driven them away with a few traps.”

  “Unless it was a scouting force testing the strength of the Protectorates’ defenses, Weard Staute. This might have been a mere test. If so, the next attack will be far worse.”

  Asfrid digested this for a long minute without comment.

  “If you are right, what can we do about
it? We’ve had no word from Weard Schwert, so it is likely Flasten’s invasion continues unabated. The Mardux faces Dux Feiglin’s army in the field, so he cannot spare reinforcements. Even if we were to violate the Unwritten Laws, we hardly have enough torutsen to train our apprentices, much less the mundanes at large.”

  “There is no hope, then?”

  Asfrid shrugged. “Only the hope of the fallen. We can die like Mar on the fringes of civilization always have when the Mass invaded — outnumbered and under-equipped but fearless. If we inflict enough casualties, we might discourage future incursions. But that is all we can do, Sigrun.”

  * * *

  Sven sat on the Chair, but he did not sit in the citadel. Rather, he sat at the top of a stone tower on the northern side of Domus Palus. Nine priests of Marrish dressed in yellow attended him — one for each of his patrons. He had chosen them for the task from the nearly four hundred priests in Domus Palus for his own reasons — three women and six men of varying ages and appearances.

  The cries and howls of the Mass rushed through the surrounding swamps ahead of the terrible forms of the Drakes as they appeared north of Domus Palus. No one raised an alarm, for they were not as numerous as Sven had expected. According to the recon stone in the citadel, slightly more than eight thousand had survived the journey from the Lapis Amnis. Such a small force was no threat to the 75,000 adepts in Domus Palus.

  Even if only one in five has actually had tactical training and we can’t train the rest without endangering our torutsen supply.

  Bui’s guerilla-adepts had launched dozens of raids in a few short days — striking swiftly with magic attacks and retreating just as quickly. After this battle, Sven intended to send him reinforcements. He knew he would have no trouble finding volunteers for the force the adepts had started calling Bui’s draxi — named for a mythical race of guer that could fly and breathe fire. Given the origin of Bui’s signature tactics, it seemed a fitting moniker.

  Sven surveyed the gathering army from the northern wall of Domus Palus. Whatever ruin the rest of the capital’s buildings might have fallen into, the Mar had carefully maintained its outer wall.

  If they overwhelm that, though, the citadel is in no condition to weather an assault.