Chapter 43
“Less often celebrated but ultimately more important, Mardux Sven Takraf used takstuf mystalton exclusively. Unlike ordinary mystalton, which eventually expired and needed to be rebuilt each time, takstuf mystalton could be renewed simply by adding Energy to their existing reservoirs — like adding fuel to a fire while it still burns instead of letting it go out and rekindling it anew. Without takstuf mystalton, the Protectorates would not have been possible, because Weard Takraf would have spent all his time replenishing his supply of Blosin gloves. Later, it allowed him to send allied wizards and even apprentices on rounds of spell renewal — all without revealing the secret of his Blosin gloves to them.”
— Weard Oda Kalidus,
The Origin of Nothing
When Horsa finished describing the events in Flasten Palus, Eda shrugged.
“We should leave this duxy to the damnens. It certainly seems like divine retribution to me. The Mass is the real enemy, and Sven needs us.”
Horsa was glad none of the Flasten magocrats were close enough to hear them.
“It is not that easy, Eda. If we march north, the Flasten wizards will not follow us. In fact, they might attack us outright if we try to leave. They still outnumber us, remember?”
“Yes, but besieging a city occupied by damnens sounds like a mapmaker’s adventure, and chasing an unknown number of damnens into the Dead Swamps seems even more suicidal, if that’s possible. You said yourself that our recon can’t see them.”
“It cannot, but we can find the Mar they are herding.” The last word came out as a snarl. After a brief pause, he spoke more softly. “You are right to be afraid.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Most of these magocrats do not even have weapons, and forces and fire wizards are useless against damnens. Our chances would be better if they were all mundane warriors like your guerillas.”
“They are not mine. I’m just their magic support.”
“But we both know why we must stop the damnens from taking slaves among the mundane Mar. We were both born in Grun and lived in Rustiford. We both swore to stop slave-taking among the mundanes, if we could.”
Eda bowed her head and said nothing.
“I have saved many lives since the Academy, but I caused many more deaths in the Teleport War than ever I prevented as a priest.”
“Sven needs us, Horsa,” she said softly without raising her brown eyes.
“Yes, but the magocrats of the Duxy of Flasten need us more. Their mundanes need us more. If we ignore that, the entire Duxy will hate us.”
“They already do, and I don’t think we can end that enmity. Sven just killed their dux in advance of a Drake invasion. And you just left Ragnar to die in their capital city.”
“He was already dead. Magic cannot get within three feet of a damnen, so I could not even have teleported him with me.”
“You are right to invoke Grun and Rustiford, though. Leading the Flasten magocrats against the damnens is not prudent, but it is the right thing to do. I’ll lead half the wizards south to deal with the damnens. The guerillas might prove their usefulness yet again before this is done. Lead the other half in a siege of Flasten Palus. Both groups will need to have a mix of Domus and Flasten wizards. We’d better make some kind of announcement soon, though.”
“Yes. I do have one concern. How will the Domus wizards take this? We are ordering them to assist an enemy army instead of returning to their home duxy.”
“I never said it wouldn’t be messy. In the end, the damnens might be the least likely to kill us.” She kissed him on the cheek without warning. “Watch yourself out there, Horsa.”
Great gods, please grant me the power to keep peace between these wizards, Horsa prayed.
* * *
Finn Ochregut sat on a stool at the foot of the dais leading to the Chair, listening to the reports of Domus Palus events. He no longer had any illusions about his importance or power. He knew Sven had left him in charge of the administration of Domus Palus because Sven was leading the adepts at the Lapis Amnis, his closest advisors were scattered across Marrishland and the city magocrats had gone with Horsa to make war with the Duxy of Flasten — in short, because Finn was the only one left for the job whom the Mardux could actually spare. Sven, of course, had not explained it that way — citing instead Finn’s rapport with the adepts and his proven loyalty to the Mardux.
Day in and day out, the reports were the same, from the same people. Supply figures — weapons growing, food shrinking. Desertions and new recruits — plenty of the former and few of the latter. A group of former slaves stealing a handful of wands and threatening their old masters. Complaints from the imprisoned, drugged magocrats.
Finn invoked Sven’s name in everything he decreed. He didn’t want anyone to look back at this time and remember his mistakes.
Today there were two unlikely faces, though.
Rig Polchef approached first. He had been the chief cook in the kitchens of the citadel, and for his role in Erika’s conspiracy, Finn had put him in charge of city security. The job had proved too big for him, and his assistants did most of the real work now, but he occasionally learned something useful.
“We’ve foun’ two mun’anes i’the square near the citadel — the one where wizards appear. They’re sayin’ they’re kin of Sven’s an’ have a message for him.”
“What’re their names?” Finn asked.
“Brita somethin’ and Erlend Littlehart. Mardux ever talk about such?”
Finn shook his head. “The Mardux has lots of frien’s an’ lots of enemies. What’s their message?”
Rig flushed. “I didn’t ask.”
“Well, fin’ out. Sven’ll want to know, but he doesn’t like his time wasted. If it soun’s important, sen’ them with the next legion of adepts that goes to the Lapis Amnis.”
“I’ll do as you’ve said.”
The other was a very impatient Weard Salt, the keeper of the recon stone.
“Tell me it’s still workin’.”
“It is working, adept,” she said, always unsure how to address him. At least she had no problems with who was in charge. “But a new army has appeared, to the south.”
“The south,” Finn muttered. “Not the Domus army returned?”
“We are not sure. It is about the correct size.”
“Sen’ someone to fin’ out. Give them morutdyjiton just in case, but make sure they don’t start a fight if they don’t have to.”
Finn went to bed that night comfortable with his position and decision-making. He woke to a nightmare of battle and smoke. He dressed in the dark and strapped the marsord to his shin. Taking a sip of torutsen from a flask, he opened the door to face the horrors outside. The sea of myst danced before his eyes, allowing the mapmaker to make his way through the darkened corridors of the citadel. It gave him no sense of texture or color, but he could at least see solid objects as silhouettes among the colored specks of magic flowing through the air.
Dead and dying Mar lay in the hallway not far from his room. Finn caught a glimpse of two Mar wrestling on the floor in a side room, weapons drawn and seeking blood. Neither was using magic.
One of Bui’s tactics for fighting wizards. Get close enough, and your tor buffer makes it a little harder for your enemy to wield magic. If he tries to do it anyway, he’s almost as likely to do himself harm.
Finn approached them as quietly as he could, though they were obviously too locked in their own struggle to notice him. He summoned Energy to create a small light that lasted long enough for him to identify the adept and stab the wizard in the neck with the short blade of his marsord. Blood pooled rapidly on the ground as the green crumpled and clutched his neck, calling Vitality to heal himself. Finn and the adept never gave him the opportunity to recover, stabbing the wizard repeatedly with knife and marsord. When it was done, the mapmaker let his light fade, fearful that it might attract the attention of more wizards.
“What’s happenin?
???”
“I don’t know. There’re wizards i’the citadel — hun’reds of them. I don’t know how they got in, but they’re killin’ everyone.”
“You’ve torutsen?”
“Yes. He’d’ve killed me, otherwise.”
“We need to rally th’adepts an’ make formations like Sven told us.”
Finn wiped off the blade of the marsord and slid it back through the hole in his cloak and into the shin sheath. The adept said nothing, following Finn out of the room and closer to the source of the commotion. They turned a corner into a corridor leading into the Mardux’s audience chamber and found at least three dozen wizards waiting for them.
Never mind then, Finn thought, ducking back around the bend.
The adept reacted differently, summoning myst and hurling fire at the wizards. There was a brief cry as the magic scorched one, but the retaliation from the others reduced the adept to a smoking corpse.
Fool! These aren’t Drakes. A few burns don’t kill them.
A woman’s voice called from the audience chamber. “Surrender or die, adept.”
Finn knew he could flee. Those adepts who had once been slaves knew of hiding places in the citadel that were beyond the knowledge of the wizards.
In the swamps, swift movement kills more surely than caution.
Finn raised his hand in a gesture of helplessness and stepped over the adept. The woman who had spoken wore a red cloak.
“Peace i’the swamp. I’m Finn Ochregut — actin’ leader of th’adepts in Domus Palus. You’ve bested me, an’ I submit.”
The red opened her mouth, but Yver Verlren stepped out of the crowd beside her and spoke first.
“I know this mapmaker, duxess. He led the adepts’ rebellion.” Yver sneered and turned his attention to Finn. “Return what is mine to me.”
Duxess? Why is Glyda Zaun involved in this?
Finn drew the marsord and walked toward the duxes. A pair of auburns intercepted him.
“That’s close enough,” one growled.
Finn shrugged and slid the marsord closer to the Dux of Piljerka. “We don’t want to fight wizards. You’re not our enemies.”
Yver seized the marsord and inspected it as if expecting it to vanish.
“Then why do you unlawfully hold wizards prisoner and teach mundanes to use magic beyond their understanding?” the duxess asked with false sweetness.
“We saw the Mass comin’ on the recon stone, but the dux wasn’t doin’ anythin’, so th’adepts the Mardux made to fight the Mass had to do somethin’.”
“Three duxes have sworn to me that the Mardux deceived Dux Ratsell to change the law so he could turn Domus Palus into a new Tortz. The Mass was not invading until Weard Takraf made his adepts.”
“They’re lyin’, then, or they’re wron’,” Finn said.
“That is a very serious accusation, Finn. What proof do you have?”
“Take a look aroun’ the city, duxess. The Mass sent twenty thousan’ guer against it about a month ago, but they never even got to the wall before th’adepts an’ the priests killed them all. Th’other Drakes were takin’ too long to get here, so Sven’s taken fifty thousan’ adepts to the Lapis Amnis to fight the Mass, an’ he’s winnin’. They’ve killed two hun’red thousan’, last I knew.”
“That is impossible!” Borya Zaghaf cried from where he sat on Finn’s stool at the foot of the dais.
“They have Blosin wands,” Yver reminded him. “Weariness is less of a factor.”
“Even so, I cannot believe this mundane’s lies!” Borya raged.
Finn shrugged again. “It must be a miracle, then. They say the Mardux has nine patrons who help him succeed at everythin’. After seein’ Drakes kneel on the groun’ an’ beg Mar for mercy, nothin’ seems impossible anymore.”
“Tell your adepts to surrender, if you are their leader,” Glyda said. “We are taking control of the capital.”
“I’d welcome your counsel, duxess, but I can’t make you anythin’ but an advisor.”
“It was not a request, mundane. You will yield the capital to us.”
Finn risked a small smile. “Do you know how to tell an adept from a mun’ane, duxess?” He pointed at the strips of red cloth sewn onto the sleeves of his cloak. “Just these. Without them, I still have magic, an’ I know how to make wan’s an’ torutsen. Take Domus Palus away from me, an’ all the adepts’ll stop wearin’ bright colors. Your magocrats’ll be livin’ in a city filled with Mar who want to kill them, but they won’t know which’re loyal an’ which’re traitors waitin’ for a good time to strike.”
“They would kill Mar even though the Mass is the greater threat?” Glyda asked coolly.
“We want all the help we can get, duxess. If you’ve come to help the Mardux fight the Mass, you’re allies to th’adepts, not enemies. An’ if you’ve come to help the Mass beat the Mardux, then you’re listenin’ to the wron’ gods, same as Flasten.”
The duxess laughed without mirth. There was an uneasy silence as everyone waited to see the true nature of her reaction to the adept. The duxess sobered, and her eyes were like unseeing gemstones when she stared into Finn’s.
“I see the Mardux’s henchmen are blocks of peat cut from the same bog. Weard Lasik said the same things you just did, though he argued the points more diplomatically and eloquently than you could dream of expressing them. I should admit that Weard Takraf is the Guardian chosen by the gods and ignore all signs to the contrary.”
“The outrage of the people’s the surest sign of the gods’ will they’ll ever give you.”
“I have heard enough. Finn Ochregut, I accuse you of violating Bera Branehilde’s Unwritten Laws for wielding power beyond your understanding and for teaching magic to those who are not properly educated.”
“I deman’ Nightfire judge me,” he said, thinking of the story of Sven and Tortz.
She smiled faintly. “You are mistaken. That is the right of wizards, not mundanes. Do not worry, though. You will have plenty of company in the execution chamber.” Then to the auburns in front of her. “Take him to the prisons and give him morutsen until his trial.”
“No!” Finn cried. “You’re makin’ a mistake! You have to help the Mardux, or the Mass’ll win, an’ all the Mar’ll die!”
“If that is the will of the gods,” she said softly. “Then so be it.”
* * *
“Weard Staute,” a voice called, and Asfrid jerked awake.
“Yes, Sigrun?”
“They’ve breached the perimeter defenses.”
Asfrid’s heart leapt into her throat. Without speaking, she pulled on her boots, threw her cloak over her shoulders and followed Sigrun to the recon hut at the center of the town. What she saw did not present any immediate solution.
A mile-wide column of red icons representing at least eight thousand stinger guer, gobbels and jabber guer stretched fifty miles from beyond the range of the Protectorates’ reconnaissance to within a league of the northernmost town. Each community had its own defenses, but they had never been intended to stop an entire army of Drakes, much less one of this scale.
“What is the estimated body count?”
“Ten thousand Drakes, Weard Staute, and all the gloves are used up.”
Asfrid shook her head. “We are too few to stop that many with our magic. Ten thousand casualties without meeting an enemy in the field, and the Drakes march on. This can only be the Mass.”
Sigrun laid a hand on her shoulder. “It is up to the mundane army now.”
Asfrid looked at the swarm of green dots gathered within the walls of Amboth — the small, walled community the Drake army was rapidly approaching. They had worked hard and without magic to fortify the town as well as they could. The wall was now too high for jabber guer to leap onto it, much less over it. The last of the civilian population had fled spans earlier, and almost all the warriors in the Takraf Protectorates waited there with stockpiles of food and water in preparation for what they hoped would be
a swift victory — or at least a long siege.
If I were a Drake with access to our reconnaissance, I would avoid Amboth entirely and strike our other towns — damnen tactics. Right now, the warriors believe they fight to prevent the Drakes from killing their families and destroying their homes. If they could be convinced that staying in Amboth only increased the danger to what they care about, they will either despair and give weak battle or act rashly and march against an army larger and better-situated than their own.
“What can we do?” Sigrun asked.
“Weard Schwert is captured or dead. The Mardux is no doubt fighting the Mass elsewhere — probably at Domus Palus. The Domus wizards fight the Flasten wizards far to the southwest. The other duxies are both neutral and far away, so we can expect no help from them. There is only one army close enough to influence the outcome.”
“They are the cause of our current predicament. Otherwise, we might have withdrawn even farther into the Protectorates and let our standing defenses wear away at these invaders.”
“Who knows what fate we will suffer at the hands of the Mardux’s enemies? Will they even honor a truce or accept a surrender? Even if they come to our aid, what price will they exact, and will we ever be citizens of the Takraf Protectorates again?”
Sigrun didn’t respond immediately. The recon stone updated, and the line of Drakes pushed a little farther south. There was still no sign of an end to the approaching column.
“You don’t know what will happen, but you’re willing to take that risk.”
Asfrid nodded grimly.
“If the farl is going to make us all his slaves and use his magic to prevent us from ever disobeying him, many Mar would rather die — myself among them — and you would have chosen that fate for us. Do you really think this is the right thing to do?”
“I don’t know, but if the Mardux wins this war, I have faith that he will not let us remain slaves to Flasten. And if he loses, either Flasten will annex the Protectorates, or the Mass will destroy them. Three possible outcomes of surrender — one that will preserve us, one that will destroy us and one that will do much worse than destroy us.”
“And if we accept no enemy’s aid and meet the Mass in the field?”
Asfrid gestured to recon stone. “Do you see more than one outcome? Because I certainly don’t. Given the choice between death and a chance to stay alive, I will take my chances that the gods will smile upon me.”