Lesson of the Fire

  Nightfire stopped rocking and leaned forward. “As punishment for your crimes, we levy a weregild of three hundred ounces of silver, three of gold, or one ton of common metals.”

  “Or three hundred mundane slaves,” Brack added almost absently.

  Sven tensed at the word.

  “Or three hundred mundane slaves,” Nightfire conceded. “Can you pay the weregild you owe Dux Volund Feiglin, Weard Takraf?”

  Sven shook his head.

  Volund threw back his head and laughed. “Your Brand Halfin made the same mistake. Do not think I will let you guard a border town as I did him.”

  Sven looked to Brack and Nightfire for explanation. Brack was nodding gently, as if he saw justice being done. Nightfire looked thoughtful.

  “You now owe fealty to me as surely as if you had sworn it — until your debt is paid, and a green will never pay off a debt that large.”

  “I am not convinced he is a green,” Brack mused aloud, and Volund looked at him. The ancient red’s attention stayed on Sven. “Weard Takraf faced an army of wizards and won. He has earned the right to wear the auburn, at the very least, and probably the blue. But even a blue will serve you for decades, Dux Feiglin.”

  Volund sneered. “If he lives that long, of course. A magocrat’s life is a dangerous one.”

  “Master Nightfire, is this true?” Sven asked, voice flat even though he dreaded the answer. If I swear an oath to Flasten, he will never stop finding ways to avenge his son upon me.

  “Dux Feiglin is correct,” Nightfire said, leaning back in the rocking chair, arms folded into his red cloak. “However … ” He looked thoughtful, and his hands shifted in the cloak. His eyes weighed Sven carefully. “My offer from before you graduated still stands.”

  “Offer?” Volund repeated.

  Nightfire’s hands moved, and a small pouch fell to the floor at the dux’s feet. Silver and gold coins rolled out. “That should be adequate compensation for your loss, Dux Feiglin.”

  Volund let out a choking sob. “No! This is not justice! My son … ”

  Nightfire looked at him with cold fury. “Your son took tribute where none was owed. Weard Takraf demanded no tribute even though he more than earned it. Take your weregild and leave Tortz.”

  Sven favored Volund with a smug smile. You cannot defeat me over the objections of the gods.

  The dux snatched the pouch without bothering to scoop up the fallen coins. He stuck a finger in Sven’s face as he passed. “This is not over, Takraf. By the Oathbinder and the Bald Goddess, I swear it!”

  With a groan, Brack pushed himself up with his cane, limbs creaking. “Nightfire, we will talk about this more later, but if I sit on that stool for much longer, I will never be able to stand again. Peace in the swamp.”

  “Am I to be your slave?” Sven asked when the ancient red was gone.

  Nightfire resumed his gentle rocking and didn’t speak for a long minute. “No,” he said at last. “You were too young to remember your birthplace.”

  “I remember some,” Sven told him.

  “Of course. Seruvus’ memory.”

  Sven remained silent.

  “Your magocrat was a student of mine. She was a cyan sworn to the Dux of Gunne, but she also considered many of the mundanes in her care her friends, including your parents. That is why, when she asked me to evacuate the border towns to somewhere out of Flasten’s reach, I agreed.” Nightfire heaved a sigh. “I am not supposed to take sides or play favorites. What I did today was dangerous, but I am not like Volund. No, you will not be my slave — not now, not ever again — but I want you to come back to the Academy.”

  “I have obligations, now, master.”

  “Yes, you do,” Nightfire said distantly. “The wizards I send to investigate your Protectorates will renew your defenses. I will let you choose ones you feel you can trust.”

  “The Protectorates will stagnate at forty towns, including Tortz,” Sven said with a frown. “Also, I won’t be around to teach the mundanes.”

  Nightfire leaned forward in the chair and spoke in a rush. “You cannot do this alone, Sven, and you cannot do it as a green. While you teach, you will be learning the higher laws of magic. You will master skills you cannot even imagine yet. You have done much with very little knowledge. Imagine what you can achieve as a lavender or yellow!”

  Sven chewed his lip thoughtfully. He knew Nightfire tended to regard each student as a possible contributor to his Academy’s famous library — worker bees who gathered pollen from far off flowers to make honey in his paper hive.

  “Your apprentices would come with you. Erbark will wear green within two years, Erika a year or two after that, if she is diligent. If you want to spread your ideals, teach apprentices and young wizards. Some will loathe you, but others will flock to you. And a brighter colored cloak will win you more respect even from your enemies.”

  Sven knew he needed to go back to school. He needed to steal some of the honey for himself before he could ever defeat the likes of Volund.

  “Very well. I will teach at the Academy.”

  * * *

  “You killed Dux Feiglin’s son and made him look the fool,” Pondr said. “No wonder he hates you.”

  Sven balled his hands into fists. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “As soon as he found out I had returned to the Academy, Volund returned to Tortz. Well, I cannot actually prove it was him, but when Weard Staute returned to renew its defenses, she found it empty and destroyed by fire.”

  “He killed them?”

  Sven shook his head. “He took them all as slaves. I discovered that when three of them returned to the Academy with Weard Robert Wost a year later.”

  “The farl.”

  “Yes. The enchanter. He claimed they were tribute slaves, of course, and none of them contradicted him. I thought they were just afraid of him, so I found ways to talk to them where he could not find out about it, but they did not even recognize me. He … he did something to them. I do not regret what happened to him, but we did not exactly part on the best of terms.”

  Chapter 27

  “The heroes of stories the Mar love most dearly are often those who are nearly as vice-ridden as their enemies, but possessed of an impossible number of balancing virtues.”

  — Weard Eira Helderza,

  Unavoidable Problems in Literature

  Horsa steadied himself in the Tempest, the motes of Knowledge warning him his trip was nearly finished. He gripped the hilt of his marsord, silently praying the Domus army would recognize him and not kill him.

  The Tempest exploded into the swamp, and Horsa crouched down in the mud to steady himself from vertigo.

  The first thing he became aware of was the sloshing of feet around him. Then there were shouts, and green- and auburn-colored arms were hauling on his bright yellow shoulders to help him to his feet.

  Horsa was questioned, and only the Mardux’s symbol on his cloak convinced them he was from Domus. He was brought before the four lavenders who led the army.

  “The Mardux sends his respects to the commanders of the Domus army, and thanks them for their obedience so far. Here is the writ that places the army under my command. We are to turn around and intercept the Flasten army before it leaves the Duxy of Gunne and enters the Duxy of Domus.”

  One of the leaders stuttered. “We are on Flasten Palus’ doorstep, Weard Verifien. We will crush the dux as the Mardux ordered.”

  Horsa prayed they would understand when he ignored the protest.

  “Turn the army around now, good weard, and tell me what you have been doing.”

  Another lavender took the protester aside. One left to get the army moving. The fourth told Horsa about their formations, their divisions and organization.

  Horsa nodded. “The Mardux said we must catch the Flasten army. Can we do that?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. There are too many of us, and we cannot move fast enough.”

  “We could try the Mobility trick.” Th
e other two had returned, and it was the protester who made the suggestion. “Groups of four weards, or just pairs. Two of them use Power and Mobility in tandem to generate short line teleportation hops on the group. After a mile, switch. Nothing fancy, but it would quadruple our speed.”

  “Why have you chosen now to tell this?” Horsa’s informer said.

  He shrugged. “You told me to develop a quick scouting force. This is what we came up with. Groups of three can go slightly faster, but we think the safest is groups of four. The ones using magic will not be much good if they meet an enemy force along the way.”

  Horsa took a deep breath. Marrish, let us not be walking into a greater danger than we face from the Mass.

  “Groups of eight will be safer,” he said, and the lavenders listened. “Just as groups of four, only double for protection.” He cast the reconnaissance spell. Flasten was still out of range. “Get the weards moving, but after two hours I want to stop and gather everyone. Let us use that to gauge our speed.”

  “Yes, Weard Verifien,” they said, and the army turned around.

  In two hours, they had traveled close to nine miles. In a day, they could travel about seventy miles.

  Six more days, then, Horsa thought. We can catch Flasten’s army before it reaches the Duxy of Domus.

  He still couldn’t believe their pace, even with himself teleporting to catch up.

  Fraemauna, help me deal wisely with this situation. Let us have good soup and healthy Mar when this is all over.

  * * *

  The reconnaissance stone in Domus refreshed, showing the Flasten army slightly closer to the city. The Domus army had just appeared on the stone, and in a few hours, Sven would be able to gauge its speed.

  Will Horsa catch up with Vigfus and Ragnar? Will the Domus army trust him? Sven could have no doubts the priest would be able to take charge. The weards lived by the system of degrees, and no one in that army was equal to Horsa’s rank.

  The Mardux stood patiently by the stone, well lit by the white sphere of Energy above it. Weard Devla Salt and two greens stood silently in a corner, conferring over notes under their own, muted light. Weard Salt was in charge of the stone. She had a very precise mind and could make minute adjustments as necessary to the stone. Sven felt lucky to have found her.

  His right hand, fingers resting on the edge of the stone, lifted for a minute, casting a shadow over Domus and the Flasten army. It cupped the red, vibrating Mass on the north edge that represented the coming danger.

  It is good that it is not real, he thought, glancing at the three weards. A green looked away as he looked up, and Weard Salt said something sharp to him. I wonder what Katla is doing. He had his suspicions, but no proof, and no time. There were too many people to watch.

  The three other weards occupied, Sven closed his fist over the Mass on the stone. When he moved his hand, it had disappeared.

  “Weard Salt,” he said with some satisfaction. “There seems to be a malfunction.” He left them to work it out.

  In the hall outside, a runner met him with news that washed his contentment away. He hurried to his sitting room, poured himself a cup of water and stood by the fire. The door opened, and boots stopped two paces inside. Sven waited until the door was shut again, and then turned, his face half-lit by the flames.

  “Weard Stormgul. Your arrival is as unexpected as your departure was.”

  She has changed, Sven noticed as she lifted her chin. Though freshly scrubbed, her face still looked dirty from the shadows under her eyes and cheeks — she had lost weight and stood in a manner that suggested she might run at any minute, in any direction, including right at him.

  You look dangerous now, Eda Stormgul. You are like Erbark, only you were a wizard first.

  “Report,” he said, when she did not respond.

  “Mardux,” she said. “Bui Beglin, his men and I stalled the army of Flasten, led by Weard Ragnar Groth and Weard Vigfus Vielfrae. ...” She gave a full report, from when they arrived to what they did to how many supplies they stole.

  Nothing I can use now, though, because it’s moving. It will be harder for Horsa to catch up. His test just became more difficult. Sven felt his patience melting like iron in a forge. He tried to keep an edge off his voice.

  “You swore to obey me. I did not order you to delay Flasten with a handful of mundanes.”

  “You were in no condition to give me any orders,” she said with no apology in her voice or liquid brown eyes. “Flasten’s invasion demanded action, and I took action.”

  “You took useless action — like firewood that gives off neither light nor heat, only smoke. If you had stayed in Domus Palus, I would have sent you with an army of wizards to delay Flasten. I would not have needed to send Horsa to turn the Domus army around, and he could have organized the adept training program.”

  “If I had stayed in Domus Palus, Flasten would already be at the gates!” she snapped back. “I immobilized an army of twenty thousand wizards for an entire season with twenty mundanes, and I kept all of Bui’s guerillas alive throughout.”

  “Why return here now?” Sven asked with a snort of derision.

  “The Flasten army is on the move, again. I knew you would need me in Domus Palus.” She held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness, but her anger never wavered. “If you do not want me to act on my own initiative, Mardux, give me orders to obey. Send me to … ”

  His look silenced her. Does she not realize how much this has disrupted my plan? My army won’t take Flasten Palus. Horsa isn’t here to organize the adepts. There isn’t enough time to raise a diversionary army for Eda to lead. I only have one option left, and it has consequences she cannot even begin to comprehend! His voice rose a little as he spoke to her.

  “Because of your failure, a great wizard will die, and I will lose the only advantage I have in this war.” Even with the amendment, the Law will condemn me for what I must do.

  “Mardux,” she said, her face closed, wooden. “I did not fail.”

  “You did,” he said hoarsely. “Get out of my sight. I will call on you if I find any use for you after this.”

  She turned and left, radiating fury at his treatment of her. He sat down heavily and launched into a coughing fit, but it passed more quickly this time. Did he need to intervene on the other fronts? Erbark was missing. Einar had not reported in some time.

  Not yet, he thought. Give Horsa a chance. Maybe I should check on Einar. And no one has heard from Erbark in months. He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet what?”

  He wheeled. Erika had led Asa in by the hand. “Your daughter wants you to tell her a story about Affe’s adventures.”

  “Or Tryggvi Fochs,” Asa chimed in, smiling easily. “How he beat the Gien army by himself.”

  Sven rubbed a finger against one of the leather gloves at his belt. “I am very busy, Erika,” he said, stepping toward them, though he did kiss Asa’s forehead. Not now. I have to convince the priests the amendment also legalizes wand-wielding mundanes, and then I have to teach them how to make them.

  Erika’s eyes hardened as she looked up at him. “I worry about you,” she said. “You might be healthy again, but you will get sick if you push yourself too soon. You need to wait, my dear.”

  “I am so tired of waiting,” he said, voicing what he couldn’t think in his head. “I need to act.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Please,” she started, but he threw her hand away and stalked out of the room, her shocked stare following him.

  The only applications I have kept a secret will no longer be secret.

  Sven knew Robert at least suspected. The farl had taught him the principles behind the Blosin wands when Sven had been an apprentice, after all. And after Tortz, Sven had gone to the enchanter again for more instruction.

  He knows how carefully I studied the dynamics of Knowledge and Elements. He knows I can design applications for both. It is only a matter of time before he discovers the truth behind all m
y victories, and then he will use it against me.

  A portal leading through the Tempest and into the temple of Marrish opened before him.

  I must do this. I must tilt the odds back in my favor.

  Sven pulled his cloak tighter around him and stepped into the darkness.

  * * *

  Ragnar listened to the messenger’s report with a frown, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. A force of ochres from the Dead Swamps had broken through the southern defenses of the Duxy of Flasten.

  “Does my father know how they got past our defenses in such large numbers, Weard Spitz?”

  The middle-aged cyan shook his head. “He just received news from two magocrats that their towns have been captured. He intends to send Weard Wenigar to investigate.”

  Ragnar frowned. “This is ill-timed. Suspiciously timed, in fact.”

  Odveig Spitz could say nothing to that.

  “Weard Vielfrae?”

  The enormous red looked up from where he was devouring a duck leg, grease dripping down his chin. He stood with effort. “Yes, Weard Groth?”

  “Return to Flasten Palus.”

  “Ochres are slow-moving,” Vigfus noted. “It will be months before they reach Flasten, if they even get that far.”

  “The ochres are not my worry. The Mardux is. I would not have my father face Weard Takraf alone.”

  “You think Sven Takraf has allied himself with the ochres just so he can assassinate the dux?” Vigfus asked, incredulous.

  The cyan’s eyes went wide at that.

  “The Mardux is a clever opponent. He deliberately defies expectations just to keep us off-balance, wondering what he will do. He murdered my brother in cold blood without hesitation or remorse. He spared Einar, swatted Horik like a mosquito and dismembered Solvi in full view of all of us. I put nothing past him.”

  “Even so, Nightfire would bring the full weight of the Law against the Mardux for assassinating a dux.”

  “Not until after he had done the deed. Even then, Nightfire has already spared Weard Takraf once. The sage is every bit as unpredictable as his student, where the Mardux is concerned.” Ragnar saluted Vigfus. “Go to Flasten. I can handle the siege of Domus Palus.”

  “Yes, Weard Groth.” Vigfus called the myst and vanished into the Tempest.

  “Shall I return, as well, Weard Groth?” Odveig Spitz asked softly.