Lesson of the Fire (38 page)

“Where. Is. Your. Father!” Sven said,
punctuating each word by breaking a bone — a rib, a wrist, a shin,
an arm.

Tears streamed down Ketil’s face as he
clutched at his injuries. The fire was creeping along the floor
toward him. Already, the hem of his red cloak had turned black.

“Please! Please don’t kill him,” Ketil
cried.

Sven smirked at that, his blind eye a
reflection of the flames flickering around them. “And why not? He
would have killed me without hesitation, if I had given him an
opportunity. Might I remind you that he killed Brand and Askr and
Geir and Nirta.” With each name Sven spoke, Energy vaporized one of
Ketil’s hands or feet, leaving a cauterized stump in its place.

Ketil wailed in pain, and blood trickled
from the corner of his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.

“There is nothing you can say in his defense
that will convince me to spare him.”

Ketil squinted against the pain, tried to
call Vitality that would not come. He managed a hoarse whisper. “He
was right about you in Tortz.” Ketil spat blood, and his voice
gained strength. “You are nothing but a murderer! Anyone who angers
you dies.”

Sven flinched. He recalled
Brand’s words, his words before Tortz.
“I
am not in the habit of killing every magocrat who angers
me.”

Ketil looked up at him from where he lay,
crawling forward on his stomach like a worm, his cloak burning
merrily in the blaze. “You murdered my brother first, Takraf!”

Sven saw the rage, there, the hate. It would
never die, just like his own anger at Volund for enslaving Tortz
would never die. Like Katla’s hatred of Flasten for taking away her
mother would never die. Like Robert’s rage at Sven’s betrayal would
force a final confrontation one day.

“This is not about revenge.” Sven pointed
down at Ketil, pinned him down with Power. “This is about
justice.”

Ketil choked out a laugh. “Dinah must have a
special fate in mind for you, Weard Takraf.”

“Well, I have something special in mind for
her, too,” Sven snarled, and then he left Ketil where he lay and
stormed out of the council room.

All are fuel for the fire I have brought to
Marrishland — even my enemies!

But the thought rang hollow. He steeled
himself against the uncertainty prickling the back of his mind.

I will find and kill Volund, and then three
others must die. After that, it does not matter what happens to me.
Marrishland will be free of the magocrats’ tyranny.

All around him, Flasten’s keep burned. Sven
slammed the marsord into its shin sheath. He changed gloves and
reconned, seeking reds. He found only one. He scanned for other
wizards, and the result surprised him.

Volund is alone. Have all his allies
abandoned him?

A black portal opened, and Sven stepped
through the brief darkness of the Tempest and into the presence of
his enemy. He appeared at the back of one of Flasten Palus’s open
air temples. Volund knelt on a reed mat within a circle of bronze
statues, praying at the feet of the statue of a bald woman with a
finger pointed down to execute the vengeance written on her
face.

Oh, this is
perfect,
Sven thought with a small smile,
and he immediately hated himself for thinking it. He looked at the
statue of Seruvus, who looked back at him sternly, the cold eyes
seeming to follow Sven as he crept closer to the dux.

Even from the back, Sven could see how he
had worn down the dux. Sweat drenched his back and face, and he
shivered. A grey beard had overtaken his face, while the curls on
his head looked greasy and wild. His marsord lay nearby, still in
its shin sheath.

You know this is not about
vengeance,
Sven thought at the statues as
he entered the circle. Seruvus looked unconvinced.

Sven could hear Volund’s prayers, now.

“Mother of Miseries, I know I have brought
your wrath upon me. I ask no mercy for myself, but spare my sons.
Spare my city. Spare my duxy. Do not look upon them as you look
upon me.”

Sven called the myst, readying himself for
the long-awaited confrontation. To Dinah’s right, Domin’s alligator
head seemed to smile at him.

Long-awaited because he
has escaped punishment for too long already,
he told himself firmly.

“Dux Fieglin,” Sven said in the haughtiest,
most accusatory tone he could manage.

Volund scrambled, turning his body even as
he fell backward. He stared into Sven’s eyes. “You! You have
brought the Bald Goddess’s wrath upon Marrishland!”

Sven took a step forward raising the Blosin
gloves, fingers splayed. “Dinah is not the one whose wrath you
should have feared to provoke.”

Volund scrambled backward until he sat at
the feet of the Bald Goddess. He did not call the myst, but wrapped
his body around her naked shins in supplication.

“Still taking refuge in her shadow? The lies
you told in her name about the Mass will not protect you from the
rage of Marrish. I am the Guardian. I am the hand of the gods. No
longer will you deny the dream of Weard Darflaem!”

“It wasn’t a lie!” Volund shrieked even as
Sven stepped forward and called the myst to activate the gloves.
“The Dead Swamps are at the gates. The Dead Swamps are at the
gates!”

Black rivers of killing energy flowed out of
Sven’s hands and lanced into the Dux of Flasten. Volund looked up
at Dinah once more, and then he turned to ash.

Sven forced aside the disquieting feeling of
intense personal satisfaction and stooped to take Volund’s marsord.
The hair on the back of his neck pricked, and he looked up to find
himself staring directly at the downward pointing hand of the Bald
Goddess. Next to her, Domin grinned at him, seeming to laugh.

Forgetting the dux’s marsord, Sven stood up
and whirled. His patrons and patronesses stood in a near circle
around him.

“Who I am is unimportant, now,” he told
them. “What I do I do for the good of the Mar and for your
glory.”

Domin still grinned. Seruvus remained
unconvinced. Marrish seemed on the point of hurling lightning at
him.

Three more to kill,
Sven thought, and then he stepped into the
Tempest.

Chapter 32

“
Mysdyn (myst dynamics) is the study of
what Mar magic can do and how it works. Less experienced wizards
may wield magic ‘by the book’ (Veks) or ‘by the cup’ (Xil) —
relying either on known magical applications or on informal
experimentation. Wizards who understand mysdyn can design spells
using nothing but their knowledge of the underlying principles of
magic. This is wielding magic ‘by the chair’ (Es), because the
wizard designed and built it to his exact specifications instead of
simply sitting on whatever the gods or another wizard happened to
make convenient.”

— Weard Oda Kalidus,

The Origin of Nothing

Ari approached Einar cautiously, a flask of
morutsen in hand. He squinted at his stepfather in the darkness,
trying to determine if he was asleep or merely pretending to be.
Einar gave no sign. Carefully, Ari approached him.

“You are weak to follow this farl,” Einar
said from the hood of his cloak.

Ari jumped in surprise.

“You were always afraid to stand on your
own.”

Blood rose to Ari’s cheeks. Einar raised his
head a little. Shadowed eyes met Ari’s fearful ones.

“Why do you wear my marsord, Ari?”

Ari touched the marsord on his waist
subconsciously. He had, indeed, taken Einar’s marsord with only a
raised eyebrow from Robert.

“I fear you no longer, old man,” Ari said,
uncorking the flask.

“You wear my sword out of bravery?” A low
chuckle escaped Einar’s lips. “Who taught you bravery?”

“I hate you.”

“I never wanted you to fear me.”

Ari’s voice came out in a hiss. “You burned
the skin off my body! How could I love you for that?”

“You were failing your classes. I only
wanted you to succeed.”

“The way my brothers succeeded?” Ari
demanded bitterly.

Einar winced. “I merely wished to expand the
Mar civilization, Ari.”

“By forcing your wife’s children to guard
villages across the river from the Fens of Reur?”

“The Fens have always been the frontier of
the Duxy of Domus, but you must believe me when I say they were not
so dangerous when I was your age. A few tribes of guer, a handful
of gobbels, maybe the occasional insero. I defended those towns
from Drakes for twenty years before I put your brothers in charge
of them. Not once had the Drakes attacked me in such numbers
...”

Ari suppressed his anger. “It is time for
the morutsen, Weard Schwert.”

Einar laid a hand on Ari’s arm. “Why do you
serve him? You are afraid of him.”

Ari snorted. “Certainly not. He does not
torture or threaten me.”

Einar turned his head as though struck.
Softly, from within the hood of his cloak, he spoke. “I understand,
son. I am at your mercy and at his. But should you ever wish to
part his company, I will offer you whatever protection I am
able.”

“I wear this sword, Weard Schwert.”

“Will your stolen sword protect you better
than I when the Mardux comes to pass judgment on you?” Einar
snapped.

“I do not need your protection.” Ari thrust
the flask of morutsen into Einar’s hands. “Drink before I drive you
into the darkness where my mother dwells!”

His stepfather obeyed. “I have been a poor
guide, Ari, but even into death my shade shall guard you.”

Ari received the empty flask and turned
away, returning to Robert’s campfire. He shuddered, remembering
what had happened to Vigfus.

Weard Vielfrae had wanted Robert to bring
Einar back to Flasten Palus right away, but Robert had insisted on
capturing the Protectorates first. Vigfus had argued and then
pulled rank, and Robert had simply … ended him — a powerful
illusion had destroyed the mind and paralyzed his body. The
enchanter hadn’t even bothered to land a killing blow, simply
leaving Weard Vielfrae curled up in a puddle, whimpering
softly.

Since they had captured Einar, they had
conquered more than half of the Protectorates. Only towns in the
northern half of the moors were left untouched, and the most
heavily fortified of them were guarded only by a magocrat and a
small militia each.

“I have been thinking, Ari,” Robert said
without turning to look at him. “Perhaps my Will-Breaker will
succeed where Valgird’s torments did not.”

Ari sat down numbly and said nothing. At the
edges of the firelight, the captured mundanes stirred at the sound
of the enchanter’s voice, as if they feared he would be moved to
rage, again.

“Do you have any objections?” Robert asked,
turning to stare intently into Ari’s eyes.

Ari shook his head, remembering Vigfus.

* * *

Einar looked into the darkness, considering.
He remembered childhood stories of the afterlife. Dead Mar were
burned to release their souls, which took on the shadowy form of
smoke. The smoke became a part of the air, dwelling forever among
the living. They were the darkness that guarded the sleeping Mar
from the Drakes when Her, the goddess of light, abandoned them.

Superstition,
he thought.

He lay on his back and looked up at the sky.
None of the moons was up tonight, making the stars the only natural
light in all of Marrishland. Einar’s mind floated away, dulled by
the morutsen coursing through his veins.

The mundanes believed the stars were the
spirits of the fallen heroes whose deeds were lauded by the gods as
exemplary and worthy of emulation. In this way, those Mar who led
justly in life were also guides in death. There were thousands of
stars, tens of thousands. Each one, from the dim Larena Ynvenea to
the dazzling Kaliher, had a name and a story.

“Help me face my fate with dignity as you
did,” Einar whispered to them all.

Folk tales. There are as many stars in the
sky now as there were at the beginning of the world.

The calm air grew suddenly agitated as a
cool wind swept across the moors. To the west, the stars that made
up the Guardian began to disappear behind the approaching
clouds.

* * *Ari lay on his back, and he, too,
watched the stars, uncomfortable beneath their gaze. In the eastern
sky, the clump of stars known as the Mass began to rise. The
component stars were not villains, though. Villains never became
stars. The stars who formed the Mass and the other constellations
named for the servants of Dinah and Domin were the souls of those
heroes who had once been villains.

One of those had been Tryggvi Fochs. He had
been a common brigand who preyed on merchants leaving and entering
Marrishland from the east, but when the Gien Empire launched its
first invasion of Marrishland, Tryggvi swore to defend his country
from the attackers. He led countless raids on the Gien encampments,
luring the enemy deeper into the Dead Swamps while other Mar cut
supply lines.

When the remaining ten thousand Giens were
hopelessly lost in the swamps, the Mar left them at the mercy of
the quicksand and suckmud. Tryggvi, however, wished to seal the
invaders’ fates. He allowed himself to be captured. The Giens
recognized him as a hero among the Mar and took steps to force him
to lead them to safety. Tryggvi feigned obedience and then led them
into the territory of a pack of damnens.

The Gien army was never heard from again,
but according to the tale, Tryggvi managed to elude the damnens.
His star was Vetrator Ducor, a prominent member of the Mass.

Ari gazed at the wideness of the sky. There
were so many stars, but there was more darkness than lights. In the
western sky, the approaching storm cast its first bolt of
lightning, illuminating the sky for just a moment before giving the
swamp back to the embrace of the shades.