The Domus army tramped through the Duxy of Flasten, following their Mardux’s last orders to them. When they came across Drakes, they killed them, exterminating a problem Dux Feiglin had fought for many years. During that time, they learned.
Before war, there had been battles. Battles had been individual confrontations or paid-for events for most of the army’s wizards. Battle magic was limited to blasts of Power and Energy — hardly anyone spent time on defensive magic. The wizards were better healers than warriors, but they weren’t skilled enough to cure disease.
Now, they were learning to work together. They had heard of Hallgerd and Flosi and their disastrous battle because of lack of knowledge. They had seen how Sven had wielded a thousand wizards like a razor to an infected leg, dividing and defeating chunks of Drakes. They practiced that.
Flasten’s army pulsated. On a reconnaissance stone, the brilliant blob representing the army birthed a hundred little scouts — groups of eighty, a hundred or more wizards sent to “retrieve deserters” or “hunt ravits.” And interspersed with them, between them, among them, entirely invisible, were the guerrillas, abiding by their remorse.
In Domus Palus a new army formed. The priests were appointed to gather mundanes and teach them magic. There came to be three types of rotes passed on. Attack adepts learned Power or Energy. Defense adepts learned to create walls of force and the basics of countering magic. Healer adepts used Vitality to cure burns and broken bodies. All were given bright green armbands to wear over their cloaks, patches torn from a dead green, a reminder of what power could bring you.
The Duxy of Pidel heard of the war and did nothing.
The Takraf Protectorates fought a different war, a war against itself. It was quiet, it was insidious, and it didn’t show up on Sven’s reconnaissance stones. What alarm would sound if groups of Mar wandered from town to town in the Protectorates where Sven had worked for years to encourage inter-village cooperation? Einar explained the one red the stones showed. Anti-divination spells surrounded Robert, Valgird and Ari as they plunged into the Protectorates like a boot into mud — with little or no resistance and perfectly protected by Sven’s defenses from the dangerous things they might otherwise have encountered.
Chapter 23
“While Mar scholars are best known for their devotion to logic and empiricism, mundane Mar have always placed great trust in the interpretation of natural phenomena. It is not so surprising, then, that Sven Takraf so often sees omens and portents scattered throughout his life, guiding him on the path set for him by the gods. The thinkers of the Duxy of Pidel prize and practice both modes of thinking — one for its practicality and the other as necessary to living a good and moral life.”
— Pondr,
Collected Journals, edited by Weard Asa Sehtah
The Bastion of Pidel Palus was the most bizarre structure Erbark had ever seen. Four roads led to the rise of land upon which Pidel had built the Bastion. One led to Domus Palus, another led out of the country, a third to the docks along the southern coast. The last led north into the Dead Swamps, once the road to Despar Palus. Eight spires marked the points of the octagonal fortress. Every wall was identical — perfectly level, precisely forty blocks of stone high. Amazingly, the Bastion lacked a gate. Each road led to a blank stone wall, and there were no windows — just tiny air holes.
“How am I to get in?” Erbark said out loud.
Teleportation, he realized.
The Duxy of Pidel was reputed to be the only region in Marrishland able to produce wizards as skilled as the graduates of Nightfire’s Academy. Only the duxess and her closest councilors lived within the walls of the Bastion. The duxess’s advisors were all powerful wizards. They did not need guards on the towers, and they did not need gates. Their magic was enough to provide both defense and accessibility.
No green’s Mobility trick can get me inside, nor would a stairway of Power. Linetel requires a clear path to travel. Formtel cannot travel uphill. Memtel cannot access a place never visited.
Erbark could use none. Even ambers seldom learned these lesser types of teleportation.
That leaves hightel — true teleportation.
That was the teleportation of reds and some yellows. It was as much out of his reach as morutmanon. The statement the Bastion’s design made was clear.
“Peace in the swamp,” a woman’s voice said in Middling Gien behind him.
Erbark whirled and found himself facing a middle-aged woman dressed in red. “Peace in the swamp,” he responded, the language sounding unnatural in his mouth. “I am Erbark Lasik.”
She spoke quickly, easily. There was a poetry there. “I am Duxess Glyda Zaun. You have come not in peace but in war. I see the Mardux’s marks upon you.”
Erbark struggled to translate the words as she spoke them. He raised his right hand in salute and prayed she would not force him to argue rhetoric in Middling Gien. Sven should have sent someone else.
“I beg your aid,” he managed, his pronunciation clumsy. “Side with us and you will end this war. Flasten knows he cannot defeat all the duxies.”
“The Duxy of Pidel will not involve itself in the conflict between Domus and Flasten.” She spoke firmly and without room for argument.
Erbark gave up, switching to Mar. “The Mardux didn’t want a war between Mar. His enemy is Dinah, but Dux Feiglin has sided with the Bald Goddess against Marrishland. Mardux Takraf only wishes an end to this bloodshed.”
The red continued in Middling Gien, but she spoke more slowly. “No Mardux has won a battle against Dinah. She is a fearsome goddess when moved to revenge.”
Erbark could tell this would be difficult. He began unlacing his boots, every childhood teaching screaming against it. “The Bald Goddess is not omnipresent as is Seruvus. We Mar have feared Dinah and her curse too much for too long. The Mardux can tame her, but he cannot do that if Flasten continues to betray Marrishland.”
She stretched out a hand to touch his shoulder. Her grey eyes brimmed with wonder and curiosity. She spoke Mar with a thick Middling Gien accent, evidence of the Gien Empire’s influence even after centuries of freedom. “Keep your boots, weard. I have some soup. I will hear your cause in the Bastion.”
Erbark obeyed. A black portal opened in front of him, and he suddenly realized Pidel Palus’ stronghold could also serve as an effective prison. With a silent prayer to Fraemauna for guidance, Erbark stepped through the darkness and into the Bastion.
He passed mere minutes in the silent sense deprivation of the Tempest before arriving in a narrow hallway. The duxess stood a pace away, and it was a mark of the duxess’ skill with teleportation that neither of them suffered a twinge of teleportation sickness.
To say nothing of the accuracy necessary to arrive in such tight quarters.
“If you’ll follow,” the duxess said in Middling Gien, beckoning.
Erbark walked with her through unornamented corridors. From the outside it had appeared as large as the citadel of Domus Palus, but the closely spaced wooden doors spoke of small cell-like rooms, not the vast, vaulted gathering chambers of the citadel.
What it lacked in physical detail, the Bastion made up in magical artistry. Energy spells lit the windowless corridors. A Power-driven draft circulated fresh air through the narrow area. They walked past many wizards going about their business, none of them below the lavender of sixth-degree. The few open doors they passed gave Erbark glimpses of vast libraries, impossible fountains that flowed backwards or sideways, a room filled with marsords and similar spectacles. Every one of them spoke of the duxy’s wealth, knowledge and magical power.
She’s trying to impress me, Erbark knew, but he couldn’t help being a little impressed in spite of himself. She could have brought me directly to the audience chamber or sitting room or wherever we’re heading.
The duxess stepped toward a door at the end of the hall. It opened silently without so much as a gesture from her, revealing a well-lit room occupied by three stuffed couches i
n a circle around a small table.
“Have a seat, Weard Lasik,” she said, still speaking Middling Gien. “The soup will arrive shortly.”
Erbark nodded and entered the room. She followed him. The door swung gently shut behind her and locked with a soft click. Ignoring the sensation of having walked into a trap, he sat on one of the couches. The duxess sat on a second, and it wasn’t until her knee bent that Erbark noticed the shorter gouger blade of a marsord peeking out of a slot in her cloak.
Her eyes followed his, and she smiled slightly. “Does this surprise you?”
He shook his head.
“It surprises me to see a green wearing a marsord.”
He shrugged. “It’s a useful tool — a saw, a machete, a utility knife, a serviceable hunting device.”
“A weapon,” she added.
“When necessary, yes.”
“Yours has killed.”
“Many times, duxess. There were once many gobbels on the Morden Moors.”
“It has killed Mar?”
Erbark struggled with the structure of his reply. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.
“Is it so difficult to answer yes or no?”
He lowered his eyes and bowed his head. “Yes, but never without need. It is a great sadness for Mar to kill Mar, even to protect my master and his family.”
She said nothing for a long time, and Erbark could feel her weighing his words. When the duxess spoke, it was in Mar, which Erbark interpreted to mean he had passed her first test. “Do you know why the Duxy of Pidel has always remained politically neutral?”
He left his head bowed deferentially and spoke in a near whisper. “I cannot know, Duxess Zaun. I can only interpret.”
“Do you mock me?” she demanded.
“No,” Erbark said without raising his voice, though he looked up slightly. He had intended for her to assume he was referring to omen reading, and she had risen to the bait. “Pidel’s actions in times of civil war are predictable, but no one understands its motives.”
After a pause, she spoke calmly, and her voice took a lecturer’s tone. “Nightfire teaches that the myst is nothing more than energy — coming from somewhere ill-defined and going somewhere just as mysterious. We believe the souls of Mar become myst at the moment of death — lingering in our world to protect the Mar from Dinah and Domin.”
“Watch over us, my fellow Mar,” Erbark murmured, reciting the prayer for the dead. “Shelter us with your darkness and guide us with your light. By your sacrifice, we are warmed. By your sacrifice, we can see. By your sacrifice, we live on.”
“Yes.” She sounded pleased. “The power of the shades is limited, but Marrish grants wizards the power to guide the spirits in a concerted effort and to use their strength to aid their descendants.”
“The myst and stars on the same side. The dark dead guard. The bright dead guide,” Erbark recited. He looked directly into her grey eyes even as the startled look grew accusatory. “Like Pidel, the Mardux’s motives are less obvious than his actions.”
“His amendment is reckless. It will bring Dinah’s Curse down on Marrishland.”
“He wishes to fulfill the dream of Weard Darflaem — the first Guardian of the Mar.”
“Or he hopes to raise an army of adepts to consolidate his power,” she countered crisply.
“Weard gave Marrish’s gift to anyone who came to him for instruction. Sven wishes to do the same.”
“Weard did not use his power to kill those who made themselves his enemies.”
“Sven’s only enemies are those who serve Dinah’s children.”
“But they are Mar nonetheless, and he would turn the shades of the dead against the living.”
“He did not begin this war. Flasten has invaded. He has broken the Law, while the Mardux wishes to obey it. Why side with Dux Feiglin?”
“Both sides are in the wrong, Weard Lasik,” the duxess said with cold fury in her eyes. “Pidel will side with neither. Flasten received the same answer.”
Erbark stiffened. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Volund would try to win allies. Flasten had convinced no one on the Council to side with him against Sven, not even Wasfal. Erbark knew he had reached an impasse in the negotiations, so he changed tactics. “What sign would you demand of the gods before you changed your mind, Duxess Zaun?”
She frowned. “Why is the magic of deception called Wisdom?” Glyda asked without explanation for the sudden change in subject. “Why is the magic of altering magic called Elements?”
Where is this coming from? “Both are translated from farl words, so perhaps the translation is imprecise.”
The duxess gave him a mysterious smile and shook her head. “Ancient histories tell of wizards commanding the weather — summoning storms, calling down lightning, guiding the winds. No wizard can do that anymore — not with Elements or any other myst. Do you know why, Weard Lasik?”
“I’d guess either the stories were exaggerated, or the knowledge was lost,” Erbark said hesitantly. He had heard only a few such stories.
“The scholars of Pidel Palus disagree.”
“What other explanation is there?” Erbark asked, baffled more at this sudden transition than at the statement itself.
“Magic changed. We changed it. Oh, not deliberately. Marrish gave us control over the elements, but the gods later took it from us. Maybe we used it to make war with each other, and that was our punishment. Or maybe we needed to counter the magic of enemy invaders more than we needed to control the weather, and the cyan souls changed to serve that need.”
“I suppose it is … possible,” Erbark conceded without enthusiasm.
She looked at him with deadly seriousness, her fingers flicking in irritation as she returned to Middling Gien. “You think wizards of Pidel are Fulemon sitting on the library, believing they can hear the voices of the torvekson within.” The duxess spoke several complex sentences so quickly Erbark could only pick out the words for “magic” and “empire” among them.
He spoke in Mar deliberately. “Please, duxess. I am less fluent in Middling Gien than you.”
“I am sorry, Weard Lasik. The influence of the Gien Empire still runs strong in my duxy.” She paused, as though trying to find a way to speak eloquently in a foreign language. “Changes in the myst tell us where the gods are leading Mar civilization. Dinah and Domin did not topple the Gien Empire by merely sending the Mass. They changed the rules of the magic the Giens relied on to expand and control their empire. The Giens had not imagined magic could change, so they were not prepared. The Duxy of Pidel will be.” A brief pause. “You look like you have doubts.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with the Mardux.”
The duxess set her empty bowl on the table and stood up. “It has everything to do with the Mardux.” She gave him a weak smile. “If it makes you more comfortable, you can continue to believe I am waiting for a sign from the gods to tell me whether or not I should side with Weard Takraf, or whether he is simply tempting Dinah’s wrath. Let us see how he deals with Flasten’s invasion, first. You will be my guest until then, Weard Lasik.”
Chapter 24
“Reconnaissance is essential to any general, but it does not always come without risk. A scout who is spotted tells an enemy much about the nearness of your force. A captured scout subjected to sufficient pressure might actually yield more information about your movements than thirty of your scouts might learn of your enemy’s.”
— Weard Gilda Kronas,
Magic and War
When Einar arrived in Todsfal, the southernmost of the Protectorate towns, to renew the defenses, a bone-deep chill seized him. According to the recon stone in Leiben, everything here was normal, but a casual glance told him otherwise. Several buildings had been damaged, and the village square was little more than a scorched patch of bare earth littered with blackened corpses.
My worst fears have come true. Flasten has invaded.
Not a soul still br
eathed in Todsfal, though it appeared that many had fled or been taken slaves. Steeling himself for an escape from an army of wizards, Einar teleported north.
Verfal’s condition was a little better, though there was still no sign of its inhabitants. Einar frowned and swatted a mosquito as it brushed his cheek. He glanced up to confirm what he already knew. A few scans with Knowledge told him the rest.
Robert is leading this attack. A Mar could not alter a recon spell on such a massive scale. This is worse than blindness. How many villages have they seized already?
He did not know and, short of a systematic check of every town in the area, could not.
Robert’s army is out there somewhere. Even if he can send misinformation through the network of recon stones, it cannot be easy to conceal an entire army from the village recon spell.
He risked a recon north. An unusually large number of unmoving mundanes occupied the village of Zerst nine miles away, but there was no sign of wizards there.
Robert might be hiding the wizards, though.
He reconned east and west. He found six more empty communities whose recon stones sent local information to the hub here in Verfal. Verfal was one of the three towns that sent local recon information to the regional recon stone in Zerst.
He teleported to one of the towns on the eastern edge of the Verfal region and stretched out with a recon spell into another region of the Protectorates. The defenses there still held, supporting his hypothesis.
Einar teleported to Leiben’s observation room, the center of all the Mardux’s recon spells. A large, raised circle of clay flickered with specks of color in a detailed map of every yard of the Protectorates.
“You’re back early,” Asfrid Staute, the cyan, commented, her lips twitching in a half-smile.
“You are,” Einar corrected her. He frowned and stared at the recon stone. Everything looked normal in the abandoned villages.
Definitely Robert.
“What is it, Weard Schwert?”
“Bring the other weards here. We have a serious problem.”
By the time the recon stone had gathered information about all the other villages in the Protectorates, the sixteen wizards who taught at the new academy in Leiben stood in a circle around the recon stone. Einar looked at each in turn.