Lesson of the Fire (15 page)

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 terror, 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.