Lesson of the Fire (51 page)

The wand-wielding gobbels were a bigger
threat than this.

Sven estimated the Drake losses at nearly
five hundred when the striped guer made a low, groaning sound that
must have been some kind of signal, for the jabbers and stingers
gave up on the western flanking maneuver and withdrew to join the
main body of their force. Sven considered what would have happened
if he had thought to cut off the flanking force but quickly
recognized it would have been a waste of resources.

A cheer rose from the adepts as the Drakes
retreated. They showed enough discipline to not chase their
enemies. Sven felt a surge of pride.

Today’s first battle had only cost the Mar a
handful of adepts and probably as many Blosin wands as the adepts
could make in a day. That didn’t even cover the priests’ daily
production of Blosin gloves, a mere span’s production of which was
represented by all the traps around the city. There was still
enough torutsen in Domus Palus to replace wands like this one for
ten days before they would have to dip into their stockpile of
Blosin wands and Blosin gloves. Eight thousand Drakes was a small
threat, at best, against so many magic-wielders, but how many
Drakes did the Mass command?

Sven thought of Domus Palus’ outer wall. A
single layer of stones would have provided no protection at all,
but with enough layers, it presented an impossible obstacle for an
enemy. Eight thousand Drakes was nothing to the defenses in place
at Domus Palus, but could they endure a hundred thousand?

“Weard Sigwyrd.”

“Yes, Mardux.” That Ing Sigwyrd had been a
magocrat in a village near the Dead Swamps for two decades was
betrayed by his enormous muscles and numerous scars. Only an
enhanced warrior had any hope of defending himself in the event he
faced a damnen in combat, for those terrible Drakes were immune to
the touch of magic. Ing reminded Sven of Erbark, sometimes, but
mostly he reminded the Mardux of Niminth — the god of hunters and
warriors and, above all things, maleness.

“I want you to gather together some of the
greener adepts — two legions should be more than adequate. Have
them sort all our Blosin wands and gloves by application and load
them into barrels, crates and any other easily portable containers.
Make sure they are labeled, complete with the number of wands or
gloves they contain. I also want an account of all the wands and
gloves before dawn.”

“Yes, Mardux Takraf.” Ing slipped into the
Tempest.

“Weard Marspar.”

“Yes, Mardux.” Rig Marspar had a constantly
stormy complexion, and his grey eyes betrayed his mood to any
onlookers. Sven thought the priest very much resembled the god he
served, both in appearance and temperament.

“Send the rest of the west gate legions to
refresh Swind Legion. I would have the priests ensure victory, if
necessary. I will lead the eastern legions myself.”

“Yes, Mardux.” Rig vanished into the
Tempest.

“Weard Eisaug.”

Surd Eisaug made no sign, but Sven knew he
had heard him. The tall priest’s hearing was sharp, and his memory
was as good as the Mardux’s. “Seruvus’s memory,” the Mar called
such gifts as Surd’s.

“Prepare a mobile recon stone and meet me
north of the city.”

Surd slid into the Tempest without
comment.

“The rest of us will go to the east
gate.”

Guthrun was already waiting there when they
arrived. Adepts stood in lines to take a spear and eight wands each
— four with a single green band, two with a pair of blue bands, one
with a trio of braided amber lines, and one with four red dots that
looked like drops of blood.

Furos to shoot flame. Murus to create a wall
of force. Repud to move quickly. Medis to heal injuries. A dozen or
so uses in each. After that, the adepts will have to wield their
own magic, however weak it might be.

“Adepts, assemble!” Sven shouted.

They didn’t leap to obey his command, but
neither were their movements as leisurely as those of a typical
army of wizards. He kept talking while they formed in ragged ranks
in front of him.

“West of Domus Palus, the Swind Legion alone
has given the Mass its first defeat in its long history. It will
not be the last!”

Many of the adepts cheered.

“The Mass came from the Fens of Reur
thinking to storm Domus Palus and kill every Mar who lives here,
but now that they realize we are numerous, well-fortified in
defense and deadly in our attacks, they are less eager to meet us
in battle. The five thousand adepts of the Seruvus, Cedar,
Fraemauna, Marrish and Swind Legions intend to force these cowardly
Drakes to fight. Today, the Mar will hand the Mass the first rout
in its history!”

The cheers were even louder, this time.

“And what will we do? We will come upon the
Drakes from the rear as they are routed and give them yet another
first — the complete annihilation of their invading force. Too many
times has the Mass invaded Marrishland. They showed our ancestors
no mercy. They spared no one — not even elders and children —
slaughtering whole cities in a vain effort to slake their
unquenchable thirst for blood.”

A sudden hush fell over the adepts, and Sven
could not be sure if they were afraid or enraged. He paused for
several seconds before shouting.

“Let us return the favor!”

The adepts roared their approval, waving
spears in the air.

Sven drew his marsord and held it aloft,
calling Mobility to him. “Repudon out and follow me!”

The landscape blurred around the eastern
legions as they ran around the north side of the city, their
movement aided by magic. The Mardux stopped them a few hundred
yards north of the Drake army, which was still engaged in a bitter
struggle against the slow advance of the western legions of
adepts.

“Repudon away. Form up staggered ranks.”

While the adepts formed four long lines that
stretched from the edge of the city’s magical defenses all the way
to the shore a quarter of a mile to the west, Sven watched the
battle to the south unfold. The Drakes were pressed against the
adepts’ walls of Power, daring magical fire and hurled javelins to
force their way through the lines. Concentrated magical strikes
toppled two of the striped guer, and three others lost their riders
to force and fire and now withdrew.

A hundred stinger archers supported by
jabber infantry stayed out of range of the wands as they picked
their way around the left flank. With a nod from Sven, the priests
reminded the Drakes that wizards still ran the army. A wall of fire
roasted scores of these flankers and forced the rest to return to
the main body of their army with howls of outrage.

“Niminth’s crescent!” Sven shouted to his
eastern legions.

Those adepts at either end of the lines
moved forward first, followed by those a little closer to the
center until the army formed a crescent that was wider than the
enemy force.

The Mardux stood at the midpoint of the
adepts’ formation when the crescent was complete. He waved his
marsord and shouted. “Heliotosis! Her! Niminth! Sendala!”

The adepts of the eastern legions answered
him, shouting the names of their legions. Beyond the army of
Drakes, the western legions answered them with cries to Marrish,
Seruvus, Fraemauna, Cedar and Swind. As if the gods themselves had
answered, the priests among the western legion unleashed
morutmanon. Thousands of tendrils of black and white fire snaked
through the ranks of adepts and swept a hundred yards into the
ranks of the Drakes, reducing jabber, stinger and striped guer
alike to ash in an instant while leaving the Mar untouched.

There were no screams of pain — for
morutmanon killed before its victims felt its touch — but there
were many shrill cries of terror as the surviving Drakes realized
that the front two-thirds of their army had vanished. They broke
and fled in every direction, dropping anything they were
carrying.

Those that fled north or south met their end
against the adepts. Those that ran east burned in the perimeter
traps like insects in one of the Mosquito Shields of the Takraf
Protectorates. Those that fled west found themselves pinned against
ocean, and those that did not throw themselves into the sea stood
their ground and fought the advancing adepts. Some Drakes had not
moved from their place at the center of the circle of adepts, where
they gestured and chattered what might have been pleas for mercy.
They received none.

Sven singled out one spiny-tailed guer and
let the adepts slaughter the rest. He wanted to send the Mass a
message — to demand they break off the attack or suffer horrible
consequences. Unfortunately, he did not speak the Drake’s language,
and none of those begging for mercy had spoken Mar, so he settled
for teleporting this sole survivor north of the Fens of Reur.

His tale might be message enough.

Surd Eisaug arrived with the mobile recon
stone. Sven sent him with the adepts of the Seruvus Legion. They
would hunt down and kill any Drake that had not come to the battle
or that had somehow hidden itself during the confusion. The Marrish
Legion had the task of ensuring that any wounded Drakes never
recovered from their injuries.

If not all the stragglers received a swift
death at the hands of the Mar, it was only because the adepts chose
to exact a thousand years of vengeance upon them. Mar of all nine
legions stripped Drake corpses of weapons and jewelry, and many
took more grisly trophies, as well.

Enjoy your easy victory
today,
Sven thought as he watched
them.
Tomorrow, we all become
draxi.

Chapter 42

“
Some mapmakers tell tales of Drakes that
live beyond the Fens of Reur — so far from civilization that
certain tribes don’t even recognize Mar as an enemy or threat. The
most common creature they describe is a wholly remarkable guer
race, which they call fire-breathing guer or, more commonly, draxi.
These remarkable guer are almost certainly fictitious.”

— Nightfire Tradition,

Catalogue of Drakes

Bui counted the ranks and columns of Drakes.
His adepts — draxi, they were calling themselves now — were much
more organized now than they had been when they faced the first
wave of Drakes. They had replenished their supply of torutsen,
filled quivers with arrows and javelins, and increased their output
of Blosin gloves. Had they been this well-prepared a month ago, Bui
was confident the first army of Drakes never would have made it
across the Lapis Amnis.

We harried twenty thousand before with
minimal casualties, but can we repeat our success against the same
number again?

And suppose they learn, and increase the
size of their waves? What is next — thirty thousand and then forty
thousand? How long before we break?

The draxi had spent nearly every waking hour
for the last three days preparing for the second assault. This
time, the traps did not wait for the Drakes to cross the river.
Rather, they started a hundred yards into the Fens of Reur.

“Arn Besen says th’adepts on th’east
flank’re ready,” one of the relays said.

Bui nodded. Arn Besen had swept the
corridors of the citadel before becoming an adept. He was no hero,
Bui knew, but he knew the Drakes would kill him if they defeated
the draxi, and so Arn fought valiantly to ensure victory.

Surround me with men who
want to live,
Bui prayed silently.
For they won’t throw away their lives on a
mapmaker’s folly.

Bui meant to live, too, but he knew that
would not happen unless he fought.

For now, though, there is little more I can
do except watch.

Bui watched the Mass halt. Drake scouts came
out, methodically and precisely seeking the edge of the Mar’s
magical traps. They made little sound as they burned — a finger
sacrificed for the sake of the body.

The war wasn’t fast. Bui preferred it that
way. He was tremendously outnumbered. He needed time to build these
complicated traps. The first wave of Drakes had given him a feel
for how much time he would have.

The field of traps ended two miles to the
east of the adepts’ fortifications. Eventually, the scouting
jabbers reached the edge of the magical defenses and picked their
way closer to the river.

“They mean to leave our traps unsprung,”
said a member of Bui’s escort, his accent as stilted as a
magocrat’s. “Either they mean to ignore us or flank us.”

Brok Gelasen had once stoically endured a
thousand outrageous demands from his wizardly clients as a
cloakmaker. He was one of the best of his trade, but no matter how
fine the cloth, how small the stitches, and how well-placed the
pockets, some magocrats would never be happy. He had weathered a
thousand dire threats and countless insults in the course of his
trade while still managing to turn a profit on his wares. The
cloakmaker had brought the same patient endurance to his duties as
one of the draxi.

“We’ll outrun them, still,”
Bui assured him.
I hope the Mardux has
beaten the first army. It would be really bad if the draxi were
pinned between the first army and the second.

The Drakes systematically checked the path
to the Lapis Amnis on the eastern front, jabber guer weaving back
and forth along a swath almost a mile wide until they reached the
river’s bank. Bui hoped they hadn’t noticed that the part of the
river they were scouting was now more of a lake.

If even the Mar mapmakers can’t keep the
maps of rivers up to date, why would the Drakes notice a
difference?

The striped guer at the rear made low
trumpeting noises, and the Drake army entered the Lapis, jabber in
the fore and spiny-tailed flanking them. The striped guer waded in
soon after. Bui encouraged his men to taunt the enemy, enrage them.
Make them commit. He eyed the place where the lake narrowed, a few
yards within the range of the Mar traps.