Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  The wall had once been taller, for even the relatively solid ground upon which Domus Palus was built was soft by the standards of other nations, and layers of rock had to be periodically added to the top of the wall to compensate for the layers that had sunk into the ground. “Fifteen feet high and a hundred feet deep,” the residents of Domus Palus joked, and there were plenty of stories about invaders who had tried to tunnel under the wall only to find themselves foiled by the impenetrable barrier of centuries of slowly sinking stone.

  Tens of thousands of mundanes had been evacuated from the outlying villages that lay beyond the city walls — mostly harvesters who tended the wild rice fields that helped feed the vast population of Domus Palus. Only food levies exacted by the duxy’s magocrats normally prevented the city from starving.

  No mundane had stayed behind in those villages. Sven’s recon stone had made sure of that. It wasn’t entirely out of concern for their safety. Drakes were perfectly willing to eat any Mar they caught. Unsavory though it might seem to the Mar, even an army of Drakes needed to eat something, and a sufficiently large army of Drakes could not live off the land for long.

  The Drake army came to a halt, and a company of jabber guer charged into the outermost northern village.

  My, but they learn quickly, Sven mused.

  The air burst into flames around the scouting force, which quickly switched from a charge to a withdrawal. A quarter of an hour later, companies of jabbers tested the perimeter a little to the east and west. The Drakes knew ravit tactics, so they would probe every point in the Mar defenses in hopes of finding some weakness. Sven almost pitied them for having to rely on such crude methods of reconnaissance.

  Their siege equipment will not be up to the task, either.

  Bui’s draxi had been surprised to learn that the Mass had not wantonly burned down captured Mar villages in their path the way Drakes usually did. Instead, they collected every stick and scrap of metal they could find to build scaling ladders and battering rams for the siege that inevitably awaited them.

  Armed with this knowledge, Sven had ordered all the buildings of the outlying villages burned in advance of the Drakes’ arrival. There would be no siege towers to bring attackers into the city — only the tough striped guer.

  But not until the jabbers and stingers clear the magic traps around the city the hard way.

  Sven ate his lunch of wild rice, venison and mushroom soup on the wall. The most opulent of the priests — the Mardux named him Cedar in his mind but never addressed him as such — brought it to him. It was saltier than Sven preferred, but they had already run out of fresh meat and would have to subsist on cured meat from here on. While he ate, he watched the Drakes snake farther around the western edge of the defenses, aiming for the gap between the city and the docks along Domus Palus Bay.

  As I expected, they seek to cut off our supply lines quickly so our foraging parties won’t be able to bring us the food, fuel or kalysut leaves we need.

  “Weard Snelfus,” he said to the priestess he thought of as Fraemauna.

  “Yes, Mardux?” Guthrun Snelfus was remarkably young for a yellow — barely twenty-five — but her small size and girlish voice made her seem even younger.

  “Send out the adepts of the Swind Legion at the west gate. Put the priests and the other eight legions on alert.”

  If the Drakes throw their full weight at the legion we field, none of them will live long enough to regret the mistake. I’d rather save the morutdyjiton for a larger assault, but it is more important for the adepts to win their first battle against the Mass.

  There were now more than thirty different kinds of Blosin gloves and Blosin wands in use in Domus Palus, and each variety produced a different magical application. Sven had therefore been forced to distinguish them from one another. Names helped in conversations. Morutdyjiton were the most powerful offensive Blosin gloves at his disposal, for they allowed any magic-wielder to use morutmanon. Painted bands on wands and the shapes and color of the metal studs on the gloves allowed even illiterate adepts to recognize which wand would heal an ally rather than roasting him alive.

  With a nod, Fraemauna — Guthrun — vanished into the Tempest to deliver his orders.

  “What is the word on the search for my wife?” Erika … forgive me. Sven knew she was in the Protectorates, with Asa. The recon stones did not stretch that far, so he had sent someone to find out what was going on.

  “No word,” someone said.

  He felt a tear sting his eye. He wished he could go, but look at what happened when he left last! Thousands of adepts running away, taking over the city as if they knew how to run it. His own wife and a mapmaker had duped Verlren, and who knew where that coward dux had gone? No one had had his patience. Now they would learn from his example, though it chafed to not seek his own wife.

  Eight years ago you would have done it and been back before anyone knew you were gone.

  Eight years ago it was just the Protectorates.

  He took a deep breath and turned to give more orders.

  Erika, forgive me.

  An hour later, Sven and the Chair sat on the western wall with his escort of nine priests.

  The Swind Legion — a force of about a thousand adepts armed with spears and Blosin wands — marched through the west gate. The Drakes began their charge before the four wide ranks came to a halt.

  They were jabber guer, known for being able to leap dozens of feet in the air and rain down on their foe with pinpoint accuracy. Sven smirked as they did such now, jumping his traps. Against their normal foes, the jabber ability was deadly.

  Against his adepts, it was fatal.

  Fire rose from the ranks of the adepts, and the guer rained down over the traps, springing a few of them.

  Spiny-tailed guer sent companies of archers and slingers to support the struggling jabber guer. Missiles frayed the adepts’ left flank, killing some and wounding many others. The adepts lacked the range to return fire, but those on the left flank soon erected walls of magic that rendered arrows and stones harmless. True, arrows could penetrate walls of Power as surely as a mundane shield, but not at long ranges, and if the spiny-tailed archers moved closer, they would be within range of the adepts’ attack wands.

  The wand-wielding gobbels were a bigger threat than this.

  Sven estimated the Drake losses at nearly five hundred when the striped guer made a low, groaning sound that must have been some kind of signal, for the jabbers and stingers gave up on the western flanking maneuver and withdrew to join the main body of their force. Sven considered what would have happened if he had thought to cut off the flanking force but quickly recognized it would have been a waste of resources.

  A cheer rose from the adepts as the Drakes retreated. They showed enough discipline to not chase their enemies. Sven felt a surge of pride.

  Today’s first battle had only cost the Mar a handful of adepts and probably as many Blosin wands as the adepts could make in a day. That didn’t even cover the priests’ daily production of Blosin gloves, a mere span’s production of which was represented by all the traps around the city. There was still enough torutsen in Domus Palus to replace wands like this one for ten days before they would have to dip into their stockpile of Blosin wands and Blosin gloves. Eight thousand Drakes was a small threat, at best, against so many magic-wielders, but how many Drakes did the Mass command?

  Sven thought of Domus Palus’ outer wall. A single layer of stones would have provided no protection at all, but with enough layers, it presented an impossible obstacle for an enemy. Eight thousand Drakes was nothing to the defenses in place at Domus Palus, but could they endure a hundred thousand?

  “Weard Sigwyrd.”

  “Yes, Mardux.” That Ing Sigwyrd had been a magocrat in a village near the Dead Swamps for two decades was betrayed by his enormous muscles and numerous scars. Only an enhanced warrior had any hope of defending himself in the event he faced a damnen in combat, for those terrible Drakes were immune to
the touch of magic. Ing reminded Sven of Erbark, sometimes, but mostly he reminded the Mardux of Niminth — the god of hunters and warriors and, above all things, maleness.

  “I want you to gather together some of the greener adepts — two legions should be more than adequate. Have them sort all our Blosin wands and gloves by application and load them into barrels, crates and any other easily portable containers. Make sure they are labeled, complete with the number of wands or gloves they contain. I also want an account of all the wands and gloves before dawn.”

  “Yes, Mardux Takraf.” Ing slipped into the Tempest.

  “Weard Marspar.”

  “Yes, Mardux.” Rig Marspar had a constantly stormy complexion, and his grey eyes betrayed his mood to any onlookers. Sven thought the priest very much resembled the god he served, both in appearance and temperament.

  “Send the rest of the west gate legions to refresh Swind Legion. I would have the priests ensure victory, if necessary. I will lead the eastern legions myself.”

  “Yes, Mardux.” Rig vanished into the Tempest.

  “Weard Eisaug.”

  Surd Eisaug made no sign, but Sven knew he had heard him. The tall priest’s hearing was sharp, and his memory was as good as the Mardux’s. “Seruvus’s memory,” the Mar called such gifts as Surd’s.

  “Prepare a mobile recon stone and meet me north of the city.”

  Surd slid into the Tempest without comment.

  “The rest of us will go to the east gate.”

  Guthrun was already waiting there when they arrived. Adepts stood in lines to take a spear and eight wands each — four with a single green band, two with a pair of blue bands, one with a trio of braided amber lines, and one with four red dots that looked like drops of blood.

  Furos to shoot flame. Murus to create a wall of force. Repud to move quickly. Medis to heal injuries. A dozen or so uses in each. After that, the adepts will have to wield their own magic, however weak it might be.

  “Adepts, assemble!” Sven shouted.

  They didn’t leap to obey his command, but neither were their movements as leisurely as those of a typical army of wizards. He kept talking while they formed in ragged ranks in front of him.

  “West of Domus Palus, the Swind Legion alone has given the Mass its first defeat in its long history. It will not be the last!”

  Many of the adepts cheered.

  “The Mass came from the Fens of Reur thinking to storm Domus Palus and kill every Mar who lives here, but now that they realize we are numerous, well-fortified in defense and deadly in our attacks, they are less eager to meet us in battle. The five thousand adepts of the Seruvus, Cedar, Fraemauna, Marrish and Swind Legions intend to force these cowardly Drakes to fight. Today, the Mar will hand the Mass the first rout in its history!”

  The cheers were even louder, this time.

  “And what will we do? We will come upon the Drakes from the rear as they are routed and give them yet another first — the complete annihilation of their invading force. Too many times has the Mass invaded Marrishland. They showed our ancestors no mercy. They spared no one — not even elders and children — slaughtering whole cities in a vain effort to slake their unquenchable thirst for blood.”

  A sudden hush fell over the adepts, and Sven could not be sure if they were afraid or enraged. He paused for several seconds before shouting.

  “Let us return the favor!”

  The adepts roared their approval, waving spears in the air.

  Sven drew his marsord and held it aloft, calling Mobility to him. “Repudon out and follow me!”

  The landscape blurred around the eastern legions as they ran around the north side of the city, their movement aided by magic. The Mardux stopped them a few hundred yards north of the Drake army, which was still engaged in a bitter struggle against the slow advance of the western legions of adepts.

  “Repudon away. Form up staggered ranks.”

  While the adepts formed four long lines that stretched from the edge of the city’s magical defenses all the way to the shore a quarter of a mile to the west, Sven watched the battle to the south unfold. The Drakes were pressed against the adepts’ walls of Power, daring magical fire and hurled javelins to force their way through the lines. Concentrated magical strikes toppled two of the striped guer, and three others lost their riders to force and fire and now withdrew.

  A hundred stinger archers supported by jabber infantry stayed out of range of the wands as they picked their way around the left flank. With a nod from Sven, the priests reminded the Drakes that wizards still ran the army. A wall of fire roasted scores of these flankers and forced the rest to return to the main body of their army with howls of outrage.

  “Niminth’s crescent!” Sven shouted to his eastern legions.

  Those adepts at either end of the lines moved forward first, followed by those a little closer to the center until the army formed a crescent that was wider than the enemy force.

  The Mardux stood at the midpoint of the adepts’ formation when the crescent was complete. He waved his marsord and shouted. “Heliotosis! Her! Niminth! Sendala!”

  The adepts of the eastern legions answered him, shouting the names of their legions. Beyond the army of Drakes, the western legions answered them with cries to Marrish, Seruvus, Fraemauna, Cedar and Swind. As if the gods themselves had answered, the priests among the western legion unleashed morutmanon. Thousands of tendrils of black and white fire snaked through the ranks of adepts and swept a hundred yards into the ranks of the Drakes, reducing jabber, stinger and striped guer alike to ash in an instant while leaving the Mar untouched.

  There were no screams of pain — for morutmanon killed before its victims felt its touch — but there were many shrill cries of terror as the surviving Drakes realized that the front two-thirds of their army had vanished. They broke and fled in every direction, dropping anything they were carrying.

  Those that fled north or south met their end against the adepts. Those that ran east burned in the perimeter traps like insects in one of the Mosquito Shields of the Takraf Protectorates. Those that fled west found themselves pinned against ocean, and those that did not throw themselves into the sea stood their ground and fought the advancing adepts. Some Drakes had not moved from their place at the center of the circle of adepts, where they gestured and chattered what might have been pleas for mercy. They received none.

  Sven singled out one spiny-tailed guer and let the adepts slaughter the rest. He wanted to send the Mass a message — to demand they break off the attack or suffer horrible consequences. Unfortunately, he did not speak the Drake’s language, and none of those begging for mercy had spoken Mar, so he settled for teleporting this sole survivor north of the Fens of Reur.

  His tale might be message enough.

  Surd Eisaug arrived with the mobile recon stone. Sven sent him with the adepts of the Seruvus Legion. They would hunt down and kill any Drake that had not come to the battle or that had somehow hidden itself during the confusion. The Marrish Legion had the task of ensuring that any wounded Drakes never recovered from their injuries.

  If not all the stragglers received a swift death at the hands of the Mar, it was only because the adepts chose to exact a thousand years of vengeance upon them. Mar of all nine legions stripped Drake corpses of weapons and jewelry, and many took more grisly trophies, as well.

  Enjoy your easy victory today, Sven thought as he watched them. Tomorrow, we all become draxi.

  Chapter 42

  “Some mapmakers tell tales of Drakes that live beyond the Fens of Reur — so far from civilization that certain tribes don’t even recognize Mar as an enemy or threat. The most common creature they describe is a wholly remarkable guer race, which they call fire-breathing guer or, more commonly, draxi. These remarkable guer are almost certainly fictitious.”

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Catalogue of Drakes

  Bui counted the ranks and columns of Drakes. His adepts — draxi, they were calling themsel
ves now — were much more organized now than they had been when they faced the first wave of Drakes. They had replenished their supply of torutsen, filled quivers with arrows and javelins, and increased their output of Blosin gloves. Had they been this well-prepared a month ago, Bui was confident the first army of Drakes never would have made it across the Lapis Amnis.

  We harried twenty thousand before with minimal casualties, but can we repeat our success against the same number again?

  And suppose they learn, and increase the size of their waves? What is next — thirty thousand and then forty thousand? How long before we break?

  The draxi had spent nearly every waking hour for the last three days preparing for the second assault. This time, the traps did not wait for the Drakes to cross the river. Rather, they started a hundred yards into the Fens of Reur.

  “Arn Besen says th’adepts on th’east flank’re ready,” one of the relays said.

  Bui nodded. Arn Besen had swept the corridors of the citadel before becoming an adept. He was no hero, Bui knew, but he knew the Drakes would kill him if they defeated the draxi, and so Arn fought valiantly to ensure victory.

  Surround me with men who want to live, Bui prayed silently. For they won’t throw away their lives on a mapmaker’s folly.

  Bui meant to live, too, but he knew that would not happen unless he fought.

  For now, though, there is little more I can do except watch.

  Bui watched the Mass halt. Drake scouts came out, methodically and precisely seeking the edge of the Mar’s magical traps. They made little sound as they burned — a finger sacrificed for the sake of the body.

  The war wasn’t fast. Bui preferred it that way. He was tremendously outnumbered. He needed time to build these complicated traps. The first wave of Drakes had given him a feel for how much time he would have.

  The field of traps ended two miles to the east of the adepts’ fortifications. Eventually, the scouting jabbers reached the edge of the magical defenses and picked their way closer to the river.

  “They mean to leave our traps unsprung,” said a member of Bui’s escort, his accent as stilted as a magocrat’s. “Either they mean to ignore us or flank us.”