Summer passed in storms and heat with little break in the routine of teaching, maintaining Tortz’s defenses, and discussing the news from the Protectorates with Brand whenever the other wizard came back from a round of spell renewal.
Wainat, the first month of fall, brought visitors to Tortz less welcome than the icy breath of Heliotosis on the air would be — a wizard dressed in amber, traveling with a pair of greens. In Brand’s absence, Sven threw the gates of Tortz open to them.
“Peace in the swamp, good weards. I am Sven Takraf. I have some soup.”
The amber regarded him with suspicion. “Peace in the swamp, Weard Takraf. I am Arnlaug Saugen. What is the name of this village?”
“Tortz.”
Arnlaug looked around casually, sizing up the people coming out of their homes to take his measure in return. After a moment, he turned his attention back to Sven. “Your village lies within the Duxy of Flasten. I have come to collect the dux’s tribute.”
Sven felt the tension rise all around him as eyes narrowed and muttered threats emanated from doorways. “I’m afraid you are mistaken,” he said with more force than he should have used. “Tortz lies on the Morden Moors, which is not a part of any duxy.”
“The dux’s maps disagree, Weard Takraf.” Arnlaug made an apologetic gesture. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to collect his levy — twelve pounds of common metals or a single slave.”
Is this a slaver like the one Brand warned me about?
As if in answer, Tortz’s militia arrived in a mob that formed around the wizards. Three wizards stood little chance against a few dozen mundanes.
Sven frowned at the amber. “Weard Saugen, we both know you owe no more loyalty to the Duxy of Flasten than I do,” he said in a level tone. “I suggest you take your bowl of soup and then leave before there is blood spilt. Slavers and thieves are not welcome in Tortz.”
Arnlaug took a step forward but stopped as the people of Tortz moved closer. He sneered at Sven in undisguised fury. “You are making a mistake. There will be consequences!”
Sven didn’t raise his voice. “If you do not leave, those consequences will involve your corpse floating facedown in a river.”
One of the greens gasped, but the amber actually smiled slightly. “You haven’t been in Tortz very long, have you, Weard Takraf?”
Sven said nothing.
“Tortz’s magocrat owed fealty to the Duxy of Flasten, but he stopped sending the tribute a few years ago. I think you murdered him.”
“I really don’t care what a slaver thinks,” Sven said as nonchalantly as he could manage. Is this wizard lying, or is Brand holding something back?
“We will leave,” Arnlaug announced to his two companions.
Sven watched the trio of wizards depart, monitoring their progress on the recon stone until they were out of range. He tried to push the incident out of his mind and focus on teaching.
He had turned his attention to history. Brand possessed only a handful of books, but Sven had memorized several texts while at Nightfire’s Academy, and he recited them to his students. To his great relief, even the least attentive students absorbed these lessons with the ease of Mar children learning the legends of gods and heroes.
Thank Seruvus for our oral tradition.
Spring became summer again.
“Peace in the swamp. What news in my absence?”
“Brand, welcome back. How are the Protectorates?” Sven said in turn.
They shared information. The Protectorates had been forced to evacuate one of their towns — not because of gobbel attacks but simply because it had been built on land that had become unstable, and it was no longer safe to live there. Sven cursed the loss, but it was no catastrophe. None of the villagers had been injured, and they had already been safely assimilated into other communities.
“In all, it could be worse,” Sven admitted. Then he reviewed the progress he and the teachers had made in the last season. It wasn’t until the end that he remembered the incident with the slavers. He told the story to Brand almost in afterthought, but the other wizard’s mouth was a tight line by the time he finished.
“What’s wrong?” Sven asked.
“You just let them leave?” Brand sounded angry.
“I’m not in the habit of killing every magocrat who annoys me. I made a few threats, and they left without a fight. If they come back, maybe I’ll be more forceful.”
“If they come back?” Brand demanded. “They’re Flasten slavers. When they come back, the dux will send a dozen magocrats with them.”
“Why would he? Tortz is so small, and it isn’t even … ” Sven stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning. He stared at Brand with fire in his green eyes. “We’re on the other side of the border, aren’t we? You killed the magocrat who was sworn to the Dux of Flasten.”
Brand laughed mirthlessly. “Actually, no. I just never sent the tribute.”
“You broke your oath of fealty,” Sven said with barely controlled rage. Oathbreaker. For all I know, he’s been passing out torutsen all over the Protectorates.
“Which I gave under duress,” Brand amended, a little defensively.
Sven collapsed into a chair near the fireplace. “Which is why you broke the Unwritten Laws. You were already a dead man. Why not make it harder for Flasten to arrest you?”
“The Law is an unjust relic of the past.” Brand sounded like he sincerely believed it.
Sven had no response to that. He watched the fire devour the blocks of peat.
Brand sighed heavily. “If you want to leave, Sven, I’ll understand. This is not your war.”
Sven rubbed his temples with one hand, contemplating his options. After a moment, he reached a decision. “I’m not abandoning Tortz.”
“Thank … ”
Sven stood up and whirled on Brand in a flurry of green cloth. “I’m not doing this for you! You’re an oathbreaker, a murderer, and you’ve broken Bera’s Unwritten Laws. There is nothing anyone can do to keep you from the executioner’s fire, least of all me.” Sven pointed at the front door, toward the rest of the town. “But they’ve done nothing to deserve your fate. I’m staying in Tortz for the people of Tortz.”
“The dux’s magocrats won’t spare them. Any they don’t kill will go to Flasten Palus as slaves.”
“I will hold Tortz against them until Nightfire comes to judge you and your apprentices,” Sven said slowly, through clenched teeth.
Already, plans began to form in his mind. New spells emerged from pure necessity. Old spells found new meaning. Sven felt a smile creep across his face. This would certainly be the greatest danger he had faced since his graduation.
“How can you possibly … ”
“I can do it,” Sven snapped, cutting him off. “I need you to do exactly as I say from now on.”
“Of course,” Brand said, but Sven could see doubt in his eyes.
“First, you need to identify every person in Tortz who can pass an inquisition.”
“None of them can … ”
“You’d be surprised. Those who can pass stay. The rest evacuate. No one who stays can know where the evacuees are going.” Brand would not do it himself. “Put Bui Beglin in charge of it. He has a veteran mapmaker’s tenacity, but if his life ever depended on writing his name, well, he’d be a dead man.”
“But you’ll need him for … ”
“No, I won’t.” Sven paced briskly. “We’ll keep teaching the ones who stay — get them ready for the inquisition. Based on the Law, I have some idea what questions Nightfire will ask.”
“How do you intend to … ”
“Stop interrupting!” Sven shouted over him. “If you feel any loyalty at all to the people of Tortz, you will obey me without question.” More pacing. “I’ll handle the recon and defenses. We know how ravits fight, but maybe Flasten’s magocrats don’t.”
Brand said nothing.
“Yes?”
Brand pursed his lips briefly. “What role will I play i
n this?”
The most unreliable and unpredictable of my allies? What indeed?
“Keep the fire burning,” Sven said simply, and Brand winced as if struck. “Renew the defenses of the Protectorates and send Erbark here. I have an errand for him.”
“Do you want me to take Erika to Leiben?”
Sven struggled fiercely with that for a long moment. She was one of the best teachers in Tortz, and he knew she could pass an inquisition.
I’m fighting wizards. If they’re cleverer or luckier than me, I won’t be able to protect her. This is the wrong choice.
“No,” he said at last, suddenly more exhausted than he could ever remember being.
Brand left him, and Sven settled in for a long night spent redesigning the town’s recon stone.
Chapter 21
“Any Mar who has observed the behavior of the Drakes can tell they are not the mindless monsters they seem in tales. Damnens are clever enough to capture Mar for use as herd animals. Gobbels with access to iron manufacture weapons. Ochres employ scouts and systematically test enemy defenses. There is not even enough space in this introduction to do ravits justice. Suffice to say ravits are the reason no duxy established between Flasten and Wasfal has ever lasted more than twenty years.”
— Nightfire Tradition,
Catalogue of Drakes
Half a season later, in the autumn month of Heldnat, a force of twelve magocrats approached Tortz boldly, even recklessly. Sven monitored their advance from the recon stone in his home as he sipped his soup. The amber and green specks reached the outermost defenses, and two of the greens winked out immediately.
Walls of fire activated by the bright colors wizards wear, Sven thought, spitting out a sliver of bone.
Two other green specks vanished mere seconds later, and the remaining wizards withdrew several dozen yards. By the time Sven finished the last of his soup, the Flasten magocrats had retreated beyond the range of his reconnaissance.
They will drink some torutsen and return with counterspells, Sven thought, but they didn’t. They will circle around looking for a gap in the defenses and discover there are only traps on the southern perimeter, he knew, but they never did.
Sven watched the recon stone until his eyes ached and the sun was low in the sky. He fingered a pair of gloves at his belt, felt the tiny lumps of iron inside. Before Tortz, he had only used them to set up the defenses that kept the Protectorates safe from Drakes — a way to compensate for his lack of experience wielding many magicks at once.
I just drove away eight wizards, including a fourth-degree! I did it without any help. From six miles away. While eating soup.
A chill crept up Sven’s spine even as he fidgeted excitedly. He had won this first battle, not just decisively, but utterly. He had killed four wizards without getting up from his rocking chair, and that was horrifying. It was marvelous! It was …
Too much. This is open rebellion. The dux can’t ignore this. He’ll send an army next time. How can I fight an army?
* * *
Autumn had turned to winter by the time Arnlaug Saugen, Flasten’s amber, returned with an army of forty wizards and three hundred mundane warriors at his back. Geir Tragget reported their arrival to Sven as the wizard finished renewing the few defenses on the eastern perimeter of Tortz’s reconnaissance.
Heliotosis moaned softly, whistling through the frozen branches of briars and dead sedge grasses. The cold was bitter enough without the wind. By night, the rivers froze solid. At the peak of the day’s warmth, ice merely lulled a person into a false sense of security before giving way — plunging a Mar into the cold water. Winter was deepening. Snow clouds gathered in the sky to a size and color as threatening as a summer storm.
As soon as Sven saw the recon stone, he dismissed the three villagers watching it, urging them to silence. He saw the panic on their faces as they left, their unasked question the same as his.
How can we fight an army of wizards? We can’t. I can’t.
It was all Sven could do not to slump in defeat before he even closed the door.
What is taking Erbark so long? He should have reached Nightfire’s Academy and come back by now.
He collapsed into the rocking chair and watched the recon stone. The army had pulled back beyond the range of Tortz’s reconnaissance, which meant the wizards were using torutsen to determine the limits of its range.
They’ll skirt the perimeter in search of gaps. Most of the traps on the eastern and western sides are diversionary, and none of them will work on mundanes. If I could find some way to draw them into …
Sven had an idea. He sorted through his supply of gloves and took a sip of torutsen before heading outside. Snow fell, and the wind quickly sucked at his body heat in spite of his thick winter cloak.
When he came within two miles of the edge of the enemy camp, he removed a stone as wide as his hand from a pocket and poured myst into it with one gloved hand. He dropped the stone into the snow and moved to another spot a hundred yards away, doing the same.
Each stone was a distillation of a principle of his reconnaissance stones. Instead of tracking enemy wizards, they actually ignited Energy in the air around them. Anyone who approached might get a light surface burn — no worse than touching a metal spoon left in boiling soup too long.
He was nearly frozen stiff by the time he finished the last of the stones.
Sven retreated to within a couple miles of Tortz and put on a final pair of gloves. They wouldn’t do the job by themselves, so he had to call some of the myst himself this time. The snow was coming down more heavily now, and he had difficulty picking out the colors of myst between the flakes of white. He hurled four balls of fire to the heart of the Flasten camp, crackling infernos muffled and hidden quickly by the snow. He had no idea if they hit, but it would have to be enough.
Not many will die, but no one will get any sleep tonight, Sven thought as he made his way back to Tortz.
What he saw on the recon stone in his house shocked him. The bombardment of fire had done more than force the army to fall back or waste magic locating and shutting down the fire stones, which were no more than a lure anyway. The army was on the move in the dark and blinding snow, clearly convinced they were under attack.
You wake to fire coming down on you, then you see more explosions among the trees and think that people are out there fighting. But someone gathers you after the first few moments of confusion. And now they have bit on the lure.
The Flasten army tromped into the midst of Tortz’s traps. Snares of Power and Energy grabbed those who blundered into them and burned them where they stood. Explosions of Energy with Vitality burned deep beneath the skin, making the wounds harder to heal.
Half a dozen wizards had winked off the reconnaissance stone in just a few short minutes, and the mundanes had suffered even more casualties. Sven stared at his pile of discarded gloves in shock, horror and renewed pride.
But surely they’ll eventually notice each attack is on a regular time interval. Someone will figure out the attacks are coming from fixed points. At the least, they’ll recon and realize there are no wizards out there in the snow — just another kind of trap.
After two hours of setting off traps on the southern perimeter, the attackers showed no sign of discovering the ruse. By the end of the night, a sizeable percentage of the army had fallen to the traps. The survivors were out of range of the recon stone and, no doubt, the fire stones, as well.
“What’s happening, Sven?” Erika asked from the entrance to their bedroom. She sounded as exhausted as he felt.
Sven looked up at her and grinned in spite of himself. “It worked, Erika! A hundred mundanes and twenty wizards killed in one night by nothing but our perimeter traps. This should not be possible.”
She recoiled slightly, but he couldn’t understand the shock on her face.
“I think the heavy snow helped. They could not see the myst. Maybe now they will give up and go back to Flasten!”
/> At last, she found her voice, but it was faint, pained. “You killed … non-wizards?”
Horror abruptly overtook Sven’s glowing delight. He gave the gloves a look as if it had all been their fault, and then scrubbed a hand over his chin. He looked at his hands.
What am I doing? Protecting mundanes by killing mundanes? Buying the lives of Tortz’s people with the lives of Flasten’s mundanes? I should be ashamed.
He wasn’t. He couldn’t remove all the traps guarding Tortz’s perimeter. There were too many wizards for him to fight alone, and if he didn’t defeat this invasion, those magocrats wouldn’t hesitate to enslave the people of Tortz. All but two hundred had evacuated, but Sven knew the Dux of Flasten would not stop here. If the dux’s magocrats won too easily in Tortz, they would know the Protectorates were vulnerable — ripe for conquest.
“I cannot undo it,” Sven said softly, head bowed.
“Come to bed,” she said, and he heard a note of pity. “Leave the defense of Tortz in the hands of the gods for a little while.”
The gods? There are still plenty of traps left, if they don’t counter them all with Elements.
But he said nothing, merely obeying her. Outside, the snow whirled, and Heliotosis’ icy breath bit even harder.
* * *
A whiter morning Sven could not have imagined. The snow had piled up fully sixteen inches and showed no sign of melting anytime soon, though the clouds had thinned out such that only a few flakes still descended from the realms above. The watch on the hills reported that the magocrats’ army was now visible on the moors below, the drab clothing of the mundanes standing out no less than the green, auburn and amber of the wizards on the white blanket. Sven bundled up in two green cloaks and went to the top of one hill to wait.
It was obvious that the fifteen surviving wizards had completely run out of torutsen. A hundred mundanes marched toward the hills nervously, only slightly more afraid of the magocrats’ wrath than they were of the renegade town’s defenses. Many of the attackers looked on the point of dropping from exhaustion and the cold, as if the blizzard and the bitter wind had battered them even more than the traps had.
The amber stepped forward, and Sven immediately recognized Arnlaug Saugen. “Defenders of Tortz, we demand your surrender!”
Sven took a sip of torutsen, slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and stepped forward so they could see him on the wall. He tried to match the amber’s haughtiness. “Weard Saugen, I warned you what would happen if I saw you in Tortz again. Do you remember?”