Kingmaker

by Eric Zawadzki

CHAPTER 3

  “Cyan 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 smaller of the two blades peeking out through the gap in the front of the cloak.

  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 off to the right.

  “Weard Takraf,” Einar said, drawing his weapon slowly and examining the saw-toothed blade. “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 returned the blade to its sheath. “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, plus his own bodily strength, and increased speed to get to his opponent before a spell was cast. Sven had devised a defense — a triggered spell was already in place when Einar moved.

  Einar rushed him, raw force surrounding the blade, speed 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 short blade down on his back, below his ribs.

  Sven gasped, fell down and rolled onto his back. A healing spell began as flames crackled in the air, aimed at his opponent’s midsection, right above him, 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 rearranged it delicately. Einar regained his sight, but now he saw six Svens standing before him, none of them real.

  Einar abandoned the enhanced warrior gambit and launched spheres of fire at the illusions Sven had placed in his mind, forcing the wizards at the edge of the walk to counter the attacks before they hit the audience. 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 such magicks, and using them quickly tired a wizard.

  To all appearances, Einar stood in one place, mind 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, turned the marsord over in his hands absently. 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.

  Data. Click. Click. Conclusion.

  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 thought. 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, toward the citadel 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 Feiglin. Feiglin 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 ears. Sven sized up his opponent, considered this man’s value to his plan.

  Data. Click. Click. Conclusion.

  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 nodded at the confirmation of his hypothesis. He mentally prepared himself for the first of his attacks. “Then let the duel begin.”

  If Mar humor allowed for it, the battle would have been a joke.

  Solvi was still readying his first attack when a green beam of fire connected Sven’s fist to 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 his 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 had surely been 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 from the crowd and stuffed them behind his vest. He retrieved a fresh pair from a pouch at his side. He turned to the other five reds. He could see the uncertainty on those 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 due
l so flamboyantly and easily 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 gave 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. “Sven issued the challenge. Weard Neid took the step forward. The Law says nothing about waiting for your opponent to be ready. That is a convention developed from centuries of challenges.” He glared at Sven.

  Conventions are well and good, but the Law is the part you must follow.

  Sven 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 warm smile that sent a chill down his spine.

  Yellow-garbed priests took the bodies of Solvi and Horik, gathering up the latter’s head. Sven started toward the citadel, but Katla approached him in the middle of the walkway. The audience remained hushed, and even Nightfire seemed on his heels, ready to stop what appeared to be a challenge.

  “You are trying to boil soup in a wooden bowl,” she said quietly, stepping in very close as though congratulating him. “When it burns through, you will have neither bowl nor soup.”

  Sven leaned back and met her stony green eyes. He looked away, annoyed. “I refuse to show mercy to Marrishland’s enemies.”

  “Volund and his reds are not Marrishland’s enemies — only yours.”

  “Nor are they Marrishland’s allies — only your master’s.”

  She frowned. “The path you are taking prevents you from taking any other roads.”

  “Are you now my enemy, too?”

  “A fire does not refuse to bend in the wind. It bows that it might spread more quickly.”

  “A friend of mine tried that, once. The wind snuffed him out.”

  “Mother would have said ...”

  Sven’s patience slipped. This was an old argument. “Mother was enslaved by your precious dux before I was eight,” he said coldly. “Tyra Gematsud raised you, not me.”

  She closed her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears, and teleported away.

  Sven marched toward the citadel, Einar at his heels.

  “Old lover?”

  Sven opened his mouth to answer but changed his mind. If he knew who she is and who she serves, he might yet turn against me.

  “I am in no mood, Weard Schwert.”

  Sven knew he should be horrified by the day’s activities, sick to his stomach for his behavior on the square. Two men dead by his hands, and he felt nothing.

  It was the only way to win three consecutive duels. My display of superhuman power today will keep other wizards from challenging me each year. My enemies will have to find other ways of fighting me, ways that don’t force me to give away my weaknesses.

  Sven removed the gloves from his utility vest and returned them to the pouch at his side. He had killed before, protecting innocent people from the wrath of a magocrat, and those men had done nothing wrong, either. Horik and Solvi had deserved their fates.

  For Marrishland, I must beat those who would be her enemies. I must learn their strengths and weaknesses and use that knowledge against them. Now I am the most powerful wizard in Marrishland. I must use this position to my advantage.

  Slaves and mundanes of the citadel stepped forward until they surrounded him, asking his command. Sven flinched slightly at this servility in fellow Mar.

  This, too, will I change.

  He gave them instructions patiently, asking for food and a room. The soup they brought was delicious and thick with meat. He ate it in silence, noting with some sadness that it was the best he had ever tasted.

  While many mundanes risk their lives daily in the swamps to feed themselves, the most powerful weards do not even have to boil their own soup.

  He vowed he would not allow such meals to become a habit. Wild rice and laurita soup with a little meat had sustained him all his life. There was no reason he should eat better food than that.

  If I did, I would be no better than Vigfus.

  When he had finished his meal, he withdrew into his quarters to rest. He stayed awake just long enough to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to his patrons for his success in battle that day and the gifts they had given him.

  COMING IN SPRING 2012

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  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Eric Zawadzki

  Eric spent his Midwestern childhood reading fantasy, so it probably isn’t surprising that he came to idealize stories of going to a far-off land. When no wizard showed up to tell him he was the heir to some otherworldly throne or the only one who could defeat the nefarious designs of a dark god, Eric took this whole questing hero thing into his own hands.

  While backpacking alone in Poland without so much as a phrasebook, he met many strangers who gave him advice and directions. One family even took him in for the night, feeding him and asking him about his travels. No bandits or wolves, but that’s probably for the best. He still has nightmares about that wolfman from The Neverending Story.

  He lived for a time among the majestic mountains of Colorado before seeking his one true love, Beth, on the frozen wastelands of Minnesota. They married on a beautiful spring day and are in the process of living happily ever after.

  Matthew Schick

  Indiana had a slogan in Matt's childhood: “There’s more than corn in Indiana.” Driving around the state, he agreed — there were also soybeans and vast, flat skies. He found inspiration because there was so much room for it, inspiration to explore, to fill himself with variety, and to write with them in mind.

  He now lives in Charlottesville, Va., with his lady, whom he met while working as a journalist in Hawaii. He ended up in Hawaii after doing similar work in Colorado and Virginia, and going to college in Wisconsin. In his explorations, he has found people, food and experiences that made each place an inspiration for the worlds in which he writes.

  * * *

  The words of a prophecy brought Matthew and Eric together for the first time when they were only fourteen. Not ones to fight destiny, they quickly began a collaboration that has endured for nearly twenty years — flourishing even after they discovered girls, went to different colleges, and lived half an ocean apart. Now, fate has brought them both to Minneapolis, which can only mean one thing — some dark god is rising, and only they can defeat him before he destroys the world.

 
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