“Maybe it’ll recede by morning,” Sven suggested, not really believing it.
He was not in the least bit surprised when they discovered the water had not soaked into the saturated ground by sunrise. The pair gathered up their wet possessions and prepared to delve into the shallow pond at the foot of the hill when Erbark pointed excitedly.
“Look. Smoke.”
Sven followed Erbark’s eyes until he saw the pillar of smoke rising out of the moors to the west.
“A town?” Erbark guessed.
“Possibly. This is what we’ve been looking for.” Sven squinted. Something was moving through the moors, heading for the pillar of smoke. Several somethings. “Looks like we didn’t find them first.”
Erbark gasped. “Gobbels. We’ve got to help them.” He scrambled down the hill.
“We’ve got to be careful, Erbark. We’re still on the moors. And now all the quicksand and sinkholes are hidden underwater. They must be a good league away.”
Erbark gestured to the canoe. “Now it’s easier, Sven. Let’s get movin’. There’re people who need our help quickly.”
Sven struggled to keep up with Erbark’s paddling. Waves of water splashed before them as their canoe crossed the submerged moorlands. As they approached the town, the ground grew firmer, and they leapt from the canoe. Sven could see the town walls clearly as they jogged forward.
Dozens of grey-skinned, mud-crusted gobbels with crude stone picks and shovels hacked at the earth wall surrounding the town. The townspeople within answered them with hurled stones and blowgun darts. But the Mar were too few and poorly armed. The rain had turned the wall to soft mud, and the gobbels were making short work of it. The militia began to abandon the wall, snatching up axes and javelins and racing to the widening breach.
Even with magic, what can two of us do against so many gobbels? Sven thought, but he hurried after his friend, taking a sip of torutsen as he went.
Erbark drew one of the javelins off his back and took off as though there was no water ahead of him.
Sven called the myst. Green motes of Energy whirled around him like thick smoke. The town was a few hundred feet away now. A dozen gobbels turned as Erbark yelled, howling in surprise. He paused to hurl the javelin at one of them, which hit it in the thigh and dragged it to the ground. He shouted again and threw a second javelin. Sven winced as it sunk into a gobbel’s white eye. Half the gobbels charged Sven and Erbark. The rest seemed to have not noticed them yet.
Sven focused the motes around a single hand and released his spell. A ball of flame leapt from his fingers and exploded amid the charging humanoids. Screams, like wailing winter winds, ripped across the moors. A cry of hope rose from the wall as the remaining gobbels realized they were being attacked from behind. The fighting grew more furious, but Sven had to return his attention to the three gobbels charging him.
Sven stood behind Erbark and gathered more Energy. His first attack had fatigued him, though, and the myst moved more slowly. He drew his hunting knife, but he knew it wouldn’t be much good against axes. Erbark set his spear for the charge.
The oily grey bodies were twisted. They had wide, flat noses and lips that curled up in a permanent snarl. Sven shuddered, and then Mar survival instincts consumed all fear.
The lead gobbel fell upon Erbark’s spear without hesitation. The Mar dropped the spear that held his impaled opponent and dove out of the way of a second gobbel.
Sven prepared to thrust his knife at the third but dove to the ground to avoid a thrown axe. He flinched as he hit the water, knowing the things that probably lived in there.
Deal with Dinah’s Curse later, he thought absently.
The gobbel loomed over him, a second axe already in its hand. Sven lifted a hand, and flame leapt from it to consume the gobbel, which fell screaming to the wet ground. Sven bit down the urge to maintain the spell. He only had three or four of these left in him before fatigue rendered him powerless, and he needed to make them count. He crawled over to the still-writhing gobbel. It looked at him with terrified eyes a moment before he slit its throat with his knife. Blood pumped over Sven’s hands.
Erbark had felled the last gobbel and was pressuring the gobbels attacking the wall already, spear jabbing and blocking. Sven could see the four warriors holding the breach, one with a broken spear.
It was a clear choice for the gobbels, and the leader shouted an order. The remaining gobbels retreated from the breach, one falling to Erbark’s spear, and regrouped to one side. The town’s warriors formed up behind Erbark, and Sven came closer to them.
He could count them now, lined up. Twenty-six to six. But they listen to their leader. Which one is he?
Sven was ready when the leader raised his weapon — a Mar knife. The wizard’s hand rose just as fast and a javelin of pure, green fire silenced the gobbel.
Erbark gave a piercing battle cry and ran at the suddenly demoralized Drakes. The town’s warriors followed almost on his heels. Sven collapsed to his hands and knees.
When it was over the gobbels were either dead or fleeing, Erbark took Sven’s hand and helped him up. Sven glanced over his friend looking for wounds, then nodded. They burst out laughing, and cheers could be heard from the wall. The four warriors shared Erbark and Sven’s exhausted grins, and a balding man dressed in a gray cloak stepped through the breach.
“Peace i’the swamp. May Fraemauna show you the path,” the man said.
“Peace in the swamp. The blessings of the gods upon your village,” Sven responded.
“I’m Valgard Ottarsud, Elder of Zerst.”
“I am Weard Sven Takraf. My companion is Erbark Lasik.”
“Peace i’the swamp, Sven, Erbark. I’ve some soup.”
“Thank you, Elder,” Sven responded with a salute. “But I wish to aid your wounded, first. I have some skill as a healer. Erbark, also, may be of some use. We are both at your disposal.”
While Erbark joined a team of militiamen who were attempting to seal the breach made by the gobbel attack, Sven quickly set to work looking after the many injured of Zerst. He used what he knew of Vitality to close wounds and set bones, saving the lives of three men and erasing the wounds of a dozen others.
In all, only three warriors died. The villagers seemed to regard the town’s survival as a miracle sent by one of the gods. Zerst’s population numbered less than a hundred. Sven and Erbark had arrived just in time.
The town’s squalor was evident. Children showed signs of malnutrition, and most of the adults were thin with hunger. The buildings were constructed of hardened mud. Fires burned piles of peat, the only readily available fuel on the moors. No system to dispose of waste seemed in operation. Erbark’s breath caught in horror and pity. Sven could not help but feel relieved. Here, at last, his skills would be of use.
Valgard turned out to be a most gracious and grateful host, bringing the village’s finest food before the two strangers. It seemed as though half the village watched the pair as they ate, stealing glimpses through the doorway of the adobe building.
“Life on the moors must be difficult,” Sven said gently. “Your people are hungry.”
The Elder, who could not have been older than fifty, sighed. “The gobbels often cut our huntin’ expeditions short, an’ Seruvus’ Breath plagues us from time to time. We’d’ve died out a lon’ time ago if we didn’t know enough to purge Dinah’s Curse from our food an’ water. Even now, we lose some of the children to it — bare-footedness an’ eatin’ cursed thin’s, mostly.” Valgard held out his hands. “There’s little more we can do. Our tools’re limited to stone an’ bone, an’ food’s often hard to fin’ with all the gobbels about.”
Sven sipped at the thin soup delicately, testing it to see if the boiling water was yet cool enough for drinking. It was not.
“I want to thank you both for your help. We might’ve been overwhelmed except for Erbark’s spear an’ your magic.”
Sven looked up at the Elder, searching for some sign of hatred or t
error, and seeing only curiosity. “Have you a magocrat?” Sven asked delicately.
The Elder shook his head. “I’ve been told of such thin’s by my father, Weard Takraf, enough to know you as a wizard. Your cloak betrays you as surely as your displays on the moors.”
Sven swallowed his fear. “I’m a wizard from Nightfire’s Academy. I’ve come to the Morden Moors to help other Mar with my magic.” Sven paused to allow the Elder to voice objections. When he did not, Sven plowed on. “I don’t want to rule Zerst. I just want to practice magic to help your people. I can make it safer and healthier.”
“We’re very poor, Weard Takraf,” Valgard apologized. “We can’t hope to provide for you when our own children often go hungry.”
Sven held up his left hand and shook his head. “I demand no tribute, Elder. I ask only your permission to use magic and your patience in dealing with such an inexperienced wizard as myself. We will provide for ourselves. Do we have your permission?”
Here it comes. If he has heard stories of wizards who treat mundanes as animals, if he suspects us of any subterfuge, the citizens of Zerst will refuse me. To my advantage, Zerst has us to thank for its victory a few hours ago.
Valgard’s face was thoughtful. At last, he spoke. “You may stay in Zerst for as lon’ as it doesn’t endanger my people. I’ll fin’ you a place to stay until you can build a home for yourselves.”
“May Fraemauna reward you,” Sven saluted him with an open palm. Erbark mimicked him silently.
This had been everything Sven had been hoping to find on the moors.
* * *
“Erbark, you know I have not forgotten the Protectorates.”
Erbark nodded and tossed another log on the fire while Sven fought back a coughing fit.
“I wonder if a war with Flasten is really necessary,” Erbark said.
“The only way to stop it would be to place myself at Volund’s feet and beg for mercy. He’d chop my head off. And then where would my dream be?”
“A problem you created.”
“No!” Sven almost shouted. “Volund’s attitude is nothing of my doing! I was just ... learning ... at Tortz. I had people to protect. If they had been Volund’s own wizards, I would have protected them. You know that.”
“And Brand?”
“Erbark, enough. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“I am your servant,” he said, and there was no sarcasm in his voice.
Sven paused. Erbark is utterly loyal. Had I questioned his loyalty? Erbark is my friend. He is trying to tell me my mistakes and at the same time obey me. I wish I did not have to send you away, my friend, but what I do next may offend you more than what I have already done.
“I need Pidel’s support. The duxess will not listen to me or any of the priests who swore loyalty to me. You are the only one who can convince her to side with me against Flasten — both in this war and on the amendment.”
Erbark nodded and rose. “I will leave immediately.”
“Go then, my friend.”
It will work, and it will do so quickly. I must act now while the first fires burn.
Erbark saluted Sven. Sven returned the salute, marred only by a cough.
“By the Oathbinder and Niminth, my patron ...”
“No, Erbark. Swear no oaths to me. Oaths are for men who cannot be trusted, and I trust you completely. Your word alone is enough for me. Go in peace with my approval, friend, and may the gods guide you safely to your destination’s end.”
Erbark lowered his hand and departed, green cloak fluttering.
“He disagrees with you, so you send him away?” Erika asked softly from another doorway.
Sven turned to face her. She stood very still in the shadow of the arch, grey eyes sparkling in the firelight. She seemed taller than usual. With an effort, he straightened his back. It cracked twice, and he hunched over again to cough.
Worriedly, she took a step toward him, but he waved her off.
“You heard our conversation?”
She nodded. “You haven’t answered my question, Sven.”
He pursed his lips in thought. “Give me a moment.”
She frowned. “You didn’t plan to tell me about it, did you?”
He shrugged and shook his head.
The woman spoke slowly, reflectively. “I remember a Sven Takraf who told Erbark and me everything he had planned. Where has he gone?”
Sven winced and immediately wished he had the power to forget what his wife had just said. The words Marrish uttered in his vision so long ago echoed from the libraries of his mind.
We have determined what you will become, but only you can decide who you will become. What am I becoming? He shook his head to clear it. The plans are already moving forward. If I stay my hand now, the tiny window of opportunity will be sealed forever. Wasfal, Flasten, Pidel, the Protectorates, Domus, Erbark, Einar, Drakes and gods — all will play a role in my plan. Some will be unwitting victims, others active participants, but all will help me create a new Marrishland.
“Excuse me, my love. I have business that requires my immediate attention.”
Sven departed. He went first to Weard Schwert, instructed him to check the Protectorates’ defenses for weaknesses.
Even though it might not matter soon how well they are defended.
He pressed the thought aside. No, there was no other way.
He sent orders to his magocrats to abandon most of the lands north of Domus Palus and evacuate the mundanes who lived there. He couldn’t afford to have any witnesses on that front.
For this, Domus Palus might come under siege by my enemies. The loss of civilian life would be catastrophic.
Again, he pressed the thought out of his head.
He sent a priest to Flasten Palus with a message that would probably enrage Volund.
Perhaps he will accept these terms.
He placed the thought low on his list of likely outcomes. Volund would sooner die.
There, it is finished.
Sven slumped into the Chair of the Mardux, exhausted. The foundation for change had been laid. There was no turning back now.
He stared at his hands, opened and closed them. They looked no bigger than they had years ago, but Sven knew they were now poised to tear down traditional Marrishland duxy by duxy, village by village, family by family, Mar by Mar.
He leaned forward to cough. Abruptly, the front two legs of the Chair broke, pitching him forward. He fell to his knees and only barely managed to keep from falling down the steps of the dais.
A priestess arrived.
“Mardux, a messenger has arrived from the Piljerka army. He begs to speak to you immediately.”
Sven nodded silently and stood, jaw set firmly to receive the expected news.
Too late to change my path, now. It no longer matters who I become, only that I accomplish the purpose for which I was chosen.
Chapter 13
“Yellow is for Mobility. Mobility is employed to increase or decrease speed and perceptions. It is essential to travel in Marrishland, and it is also a prime component of all forms of teleportation.”
— Nightfire Tradition,
Nightfire’s Magical Primer
Marrishland is a huge country, almost a continent in itself. At its widest, it is more than fifteen hundred miles across. It is attached to the main continent by a three-hundred-mile long, steeply sloping mile-high cliff. It is climbable, but like any travel in Marrishland, it takes a day to traverse, and a traveler has to carry plenty of fresh water with him.
Water itself is not the issue in Marrishland. There is water everywhere. Water rises from Seruvus-knows-where all along the northeast cliffs and generally flows southwest to the Huinsian Bay and the ocean to the west. Occasionally, it twists back on itself and empties off the northwest coast. But, as a rule, the rivers flow southwest.
Calling them “rivers” is a misnomer, too, and the word has bred a whole subculture among the Mar: mapmakers. The average lifespan of a mapma
ker is a little more than two days after his first attempt to chart the rivers of Marrishland. There is a lot of danger associated with traveling the known swamps to begin with, let alone heading by oneself out into the unknown swamps.
The muddy water of Marrishland is filled with every imaginable aspect of Dinah’s Curse, which in simple terms is a hundred horrible strains of sickness, easily preventable by boiling the water. As well, the water is rife with leeches, mosquitoes, stinging spiders, poisonous snakes, suckmud willow creepers and, of course, konig worms, which are tiny worms that burrow into flesh and reproduce. If they lay their eggs in a Mar’s bloodstream, death is not far behind. Not even a wizard can save someone whose blood is infested with konig worm eggs. It is no safer on drier land, because Drakes roam everywhere. They come in all shapes and sizes, and are all intelligent enough to band together, to follow a leader or to attack at the best possible moment.
It has been said of Mar rivers that they merely travel overland, sometimes settling in a long puddle, other times seeping through the clay of a grassy hill. The Mar themselves note this only insofar as the stream’s cross-country trek might evict them from their town because the community has been built upon a rise of land that the water is slowly sucking into the soft mud of the swamp.
Enter mapmakers — every year, the rivers change course, and every mapmaker goes out to remake the maps that exist. Every year, mapmakers die by the score because of some foolishness. A Mar joke goes: After the mapmaker got married, he couldn’t stay inside any longer, so he ran into the swamp without his boots.
Outside of Marrishland, people laugh at the concept of a Mar joke.
With the lack of accurate maps, the sheer size of Marrishland and the dangers associated with travel, moving an army the almost one hundred miles from Piljerka Palus to the chosen site of battle took more than six spans.
* * *
Cyan-garbed Hallgerd Steln had been put in charge of the Piljerka army when it had left the city. Her orders had been direct: “Destroy the invading Drake force.” Now she and her two ranking commanders — the other cyans in the army — stood in a tent and watched the reconnaissance stone with fixed smiles on their faces as rain poured outside on twelve hundred greens and auburns.
She pointed to a patch south and west on the stone, a magical map of the area devised by Mardux Takraf.