Lesson of the Fire (7 page)

They had walked and canoed for five days
across rivers and muck. She dulled her marsord daily clearing a
path for them, and Brack spoke only in the evenings. She asked him
when they would arrive at their destination. His lips only
twitched, and he wouldn’t answer. She was about to refuse to do any
more work for him when he pressed past her purposefully. She saw
the smoke, then, over a rise near the horizon. She heard the
humming of raucous conversation long before they found the source
of the smoke.

It sounds like a city. But
there should be nothing here.
And that hum
sounds like conversation, but those are not words, I
think.

They topped the rise, and Brack stopped so
she could see the town. A hundred paces away, rotting boards and
thatch created some kind of road on top of the muddy ground. It
looked like some kind of market community, with hundreds of
thatched-roof stalls selling all sorts of things, and a dozen great
buildings near the center. Giant, stinking bonfires kept bugs away
from the marketplace. But the most astonishing thing was what
populated the place.

Stocky, tusked gobbels.
Scrawny, long-limbed ravits. She saw an ochre, a sickening pile of
muck that somehow had life. A giant winged insero, towering over
the stalls, eyes the size of her entire body dominating its
triangle face. And dozens of species of guer, the reptilian species
that came in a scary variety of sizes and strengths.
Drakes! A whole army of Drakes!
She nearly dropped her marsord as she prepared to
defend herself, but her companion gripped her arm tightly, his
fingers like ropey tendons.

“Civilization comes from all directions,” he
said. “The Mar never understood that.”

“These are the creatures of Domin,” she
hissed at him, afraid they would hear her. She quelled it, pulling
her arm away from his.

This is why I followed Brack here — the path
of my patroness, Dinah.

“Why is Domin any worse than Seruvus?
Seruvus makes slaves. What does Domin do that is any worse than
that? The gods do not show up unless you call on them, Weard
Duxpite.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

His hand encompassed the whole bazaar. “This
is Tue Yee — the most important spiny-tailed guer city in the Tue
territory. It is a major hub for trade between the other
territories.” He stroked the deep lines on his face. “What do you
know of the Mass?”

“Nothing,” she lied,
knowing that Brack was said to believe in such nonsense.
He had to, though.
His
brown eyes bored into her green ones, and she wavered.

“Nothing, she says.” His cough sounded like
a laugh. “Not even the lies taught you as a child?”

“They are lies,” she said, steeling herself
for what he would say. “They must be, if they never told of this
True Tee.” Her hand swept the bazaar.

“Tue Yee.” He snorted and turned away,
leading her into the market. “The Mar have the Mass to thank for
their freedom. In the dark days when the Gien Empire ruled
Marrishland, even the mightiest Mar wizards were ground beneath
imperial heels.”

A couple of short, scaly guer looked up at
them as they passed and bared their teeth at the two wizards,
hissing. Katla flinched, but Brack hissed back. An apparent
stand-off continued for several seconds before Katla recognized it
as a conversation in a language she had never heard.

“Through it all,” Brack continued once the
lizard-like guer had returned to their own business, “the Drakes
retained their independence by fiercely defending their swamps.
Rural Mar had their freedoms, too, but the Gien Empire never laid
claim to these lands, nor to the dead swamps of the lost Duxy of
Despar. It is a pity, really, that the damnens still refuse to send
emissaries here even after all these centuries.”

“The Giens regarded the Drakes as monsters,”
Katla said. “They were unworthy of conquest and only fit to die.
Sending armies into uninhabitable swamps was a waste of their time.
This history is written. The Drakes damn themselves whenever they
attack a town.”

Brack’s eyes burned, but he kept quiet,
feigning disinterest. Katla wanted to scream at his fake
complacency, but she kept her patience.

They passed a spiny-tailed — a short guer
with two well-muscled lower legs and two long arms, its most
prominent feature was its long, thick tail covered in small,
stinging spines — Katla cringed at the grotesque proportions of the
creature. It seemed to be engaged in a fierce discussion with a
pair of ravits in the same hissing, spitting manner that Brack had
used earlier.

Brack strode by, acknowledging Katla’s
surprise. “The Drakes have a common language, as the Mar do. They
are not monsters, and neither am I for dealing with them.”

“You seem as much at ease killing Mar as
they are,” she observed.

He only acknowledged the barb with a small
smile. “You may suffer more surprises while you are here. Many
Drakes speak Mar more fluently than many of your rural mundane do.”
He spoke louder as she opened her mouth. “Not many Mar have ever
considered the possibility of negotiating with Drakes. In the days
before the Giens arrived, most of the Mar who knew anything of the
Drake language were considered mapmakers. Some mapmakers had even
mastered different dialects.”

“I am no mapmaker, but I will learn their
languages,” Katla said firmly, making the quick decision. She was,
after all, here to learn what she could from this wizard.

“You will first learn their history with the
Mar. The fall of the Gien Empire marked a revolution in these
relations.”

“Tryggvi Fochs.”

“Yes. Those who spoke Drake tongues were
often those who lived on the fringe of Mar society, but not always.
A few scholars collected knowledge of that sort, as you have
learned. Nightfire has never had a reputation for discarding
knowledge, however forbidden it might be. The Brack who preceded me
was an avid scholar of the Drake languages when he was a young
wizard.”

“You are Brack the way
Nightfire is Nightfire, then.”
Over
hundreds of years, a name becomes a title — are not all of us
weards named for the first wizard, Weard Darflaem? Nightfire is the
title of the person who is the arbiter of law among
weards.

“Yes.” He touched the braided gold and
silver ring on his finger. “Domin’s Favor marks me as his
successor. Brack learned to despise the Giens after he witnessed
the Flasten Massacre.”

“The what?”

He ignored the question. “It changed Brack,
made him a hard, ruthless man who would stop at nothing to destroy
those who opposed him. He organized a rebellion among his fellow
wizards, which failed, before fleeing into the swamps. When he
returned, it was with an army of Drakes at his back.”

Brack’s Rebellion.

They entered a low building separated from
the others. A fire already crackled in the hearth, a tall stack of
peat to one side. Two chairs and a table were the only
furnishings.

“Brack wanted to liberate Marrishland at any
price,” she said.

“He learned the Drakes’ common tongue. He
befriended the leaders of many of their tribes. It would be
presumptuous to say he is the reason the Drakes united peacefully,
but he was there the first time the Delegates met to discuss how to
deal with the Gien problem. The Mass was the result of that first
debate.”

“A treaty.”

Brack nodded. “A delicate one forged in fear
of the Gien invaders. Brack fanned that fear daily. He painted them
as barbarians with powerful magic who would not rest until they had
slain every Drake on the subcontinent. The Delegates’ power grew as
more tribes joined them out of fear of the Giens.”

And then Domin came to
him,
Katla thought bitterly.
Brack, a brilliant strategist, led what to the
Gien mentality would be a sizable force to attack a northern town
far from the capital. When the Giens committed a majority of their
forces, Brack led the rest of the Drakes along the coast from the
east, leveling every city in his path.

“His rebellion succeeded at an incredible
cost to the Mass. The Drakes defeated the Giens and liberated the
Mar. That is when matters got out of control. The Mar turned on
their saviors, and Brack convinced his allies to leave Mar lands
alone.”

The Mar turned on the Drakes, monsters of
the northern swamps. That was not surprising. But, then Brack would
have had to convince them that the Mar were not Giens, despite what
the Drakes must have seen as mass murder and betrayal.

“Many Mar and Drakes branded Brack a
traitor, and someone surely would have killed him if the Delegates
had not sheltered him. Many Drake tribes withdrew their support for
the Delegates and went to war with the Mar. They caused a lot of
unnecessary bloodshed that drove a wedge between Mar and Drakes,
and even mapmakers stopped talking to the Drakes.”

Katla stared at Brack’s
aged, wrinkled face.
Everything he has
just told me conforms with the histories as I know them.
Out loud, she said, “That was centuries ago. What
have you and your predecessors been doing since then?”

“Keeping it from happening again. We spread
and reinforce the legend of the Mass to discourage expansion beyond
the Fens of Reur. We seek out magocrats who are sympathetic, or who
can be bought, to tell us when a threat to the Drakes is beginning
to grow. When possible, we eliminate the threat before the
Delegates ever hear of it. Our magocrat allies serve that function,
too.”

“Dux Feiglin is one of them.”

A short nod. “Nightfire, too. Many more
magocrats than you’d likely believe.”

“A conspiracy.” The word was bitter in her
mouth.

Brack sat in a rocking chair and gave her a
wry smile. “More like a delicate treaty forged in fear to prevent
the Mass from eradicating the Mar.” He waved at a chair on the
other side of the fireplace.

They could invade. History tells of such
incursions. The Mar had never stood a chance during these battles,
yet the Drakes only rarely take a city. But widespread belief is
that they are too stupid, little more than livestock, to take a
city. If the Mass is real …

Katla sat. “If the Mass could wipe out the
Mar whenever they wished, why haven’t they?”

“The tribes are no more united under the
Delegates than the duxies are under the Mardux. The Delegates are a
real political force, but they have limited control over the tribes
who make up the Mass.” Brack gave her a conspiratorial wink. “And
that is my other duty — to keep them that way.”

Katla lowered her voice. “You serve the
Drakes among the Mar and the Mar among the Drakes.”

“Both sides hate me for it, yes.” Brack
leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “As long as the Mar are
weak, and the Drakes are not united, the uneasy peace persists. In
the absence of a threat as powerful and aggressive as the Gien
Empire, the Delegates cannot send the full power of the Mass
against the Mar.”

“And if one were to emerge?”

“Then we may have to choose between breaking
the Unwritten Laws and the extinction of our entire
civilization.”

* * *

“If Tue Yee cannot prepare me for the
Delegates, then take me to the Delegates. How else can I learn
their ways?”

Brack shook his head. “This is not the time
to introduce new faces to the Delegates. Besides, I could be gone
for some time, and I need you to be my representative among the Mar
in my absence. Dux Feiglin is our most cooperative ally. Convince
him of the wisdom of overthrowing Mardux Takraf before the
Delegates grow … restless.”

Katla chewed her lower lip thoughtfully for
a moment. “It likely will not be as simple as duels for the
Chair.”

Brack smiled, but his eyes held deep
sadness. “I am all too aware of that. The fire must find a way to
keep burning.”

“The fire will find a way,” Katla
promised.

Brack picked up his cane and took a few
experimental steps, not even aiding himself with magic. “I will
return here when I can.”

Even though he could teleport with ease, he
walked out of the library like a mundane Mar, leaning heavily on a
cane.

Chapter 7

“
I maintain a series of journals because
I am driven to express my feelings and tell my stories, but often
am in want of an audience. I read my journals to remember those
lessons I once learned, but might have forgotten. I share my
journals in the hopes my mistakes and failures will help others
avoid repeating them.”

— Pondr,

Collected Journals,
edited by Weard Asa Sehtah

Weard Einar Schwert fingered the hilt of his
marsord as he strolled through the citadel, the storyteller Pondr
at his heels.

Once a place of functional beauty — the seat
of power of an empire — the citadel now went mostly unused. Three
whole wings had been left to the ravages of nature. When a ceiling
had caved in, one wing had completely separated from the building.
Many resident wizards would fight for that space, as close to the
citadel as they could be without being Mardux.

Einar owned a marsord out of duty. It was
expected of a frontier magocrat to carry one, and Einar had no
illusions about that. It was duty, too, that had led him to pursue
the Chair. He had known Ozur Betrun from schooling, and Marrishland
would have been less for him. The man had been Flasten’s creature
and would have dismantled everything Einar and Rorik had fought for
their whole lives.

Mardux Sven Takraf’s methods, questions and
proclamations spoke loudly of the weard’s dedication to his
ambitions. He certainly had no intention of surrendering the
northern frontier to the Drakes. If the tale the mapmaker Finn
Ochregut had brought to Domus Palus of Weard Takraf’s early days
held any truth at all, Sven and Einar shared many political
interests. Einar was certain the Mardux was readying Domus and its
allies for war, and that could only mean an expansion into Drake
territory.