Regrets bubbled out of a past best forgotten even as Einar raised his marsord to strike.
Ari’s eyes went wide.
You leave me no choice.
A thick hand grabbed the back of Einar’s cloak and pulled him backward. Before he could recover enough to change targets, the long blade of a marsord plunged into his back. His back arched, and a booted foot kicked him toward Ari, pulling the blade free.
Einar knew immediately he would bleed out in seconds unless he healed himself. He dismissed the Elements shell, and clutched at Vitality. The wound closed even as a bolt of Power struck him in the elbow, breaking it and sending his marsord tumbling to the ground.
Ari struck him with Power then, knocking him back. Einar rolled to the ground, ducking the second thrust of the marsord. He glanced up briefly and saw not Robert, but Vigfus Vielfrae.
Robert is still out there.
At that moment, Einar saw the cyan motes closing in around him, blocking his control of the myst. Mind racing for solutions, tor grappling for any myst that would answer, he bit down the urge to panic.
Ari was close now, but his hands were shaking. Einar kicked the flask out of his hands, using a tiny flow of Mobility to enhance his own momentum so he landed on his feet.
He lashed out with simple spells, hoping to wear down the wizard commanding the Elements barrier while gradually mending bones with Vitality. Ari picked up the fallen flask of morutsen. Biting back the urge to call out to him, Einar kicked him in the groin. Ari fell over, clutching himself in pain.
Even reds have mundane weaknesses, my son, Einar thought with a grim smile.
A pillar of flame engulfed him. He gathered Energy to counter the effect. Elements ripped the myst away from him.
Einar struggled to gather myst through the barrier, but the suppression was too strong in his exhausted condition.
“Please, Ari!” he rasped, breath rattling through scorched lips.
His frail stepson gave no sign beyond a slight widening of the eyes.
Then the fire was gone, and Ari poured morutsen into Einar’s mouth. The myst slipped beyond his control as the sweet liquid soaked into his body. He closed his eyes against the pain. He felt the life ebbing from his body, knew that he had been bested.
I made the enhanced warrior’s mistake of fighting when outnumbered. I should have fled as soon as I saw the light.
Robert Wost’s voice broke his musings. “How embarrassing that must have been for you, Weard Schwert — tricked not by farl trickery but by mundanes dressed in red.”
Vitality surged through Einar. Broken bones knitted together. New flesh crept over exposed bones. Fresh skin replaced the charred remains of the old. Ari took a few steps back, and an enormous red replaced his spot in Einar’s vision.
“Will you tell us how to make Mardux Takraf’s gloves?” asked Vigfus, still breathless from the exertion, his marsord dripping with Einar’s blood.
“No, Weard Geir.”
“Yes, you will,” Valgird said. “Ari. Burn him.”
Einar saw his son, whom he had just kicked, beaten and bruised, turn pale at Vigfus’ words.
“No,” Ari rasped.
“But this is what you wanted, was it not?” Robert asked.
“Not like this. Not trussed and weak ...”
“Fine.” Vigfus raised one thick hand theatrically.
The flames returned. The spell holding Einar rigid kept him from squirming in agony. Then Vigfus healed him and turned his attention to Einar’s intestines, stringing them out like vines in front of him.
Vigfus looked at Robert meaningfully, who feigned a yawn at the display. Behind them, Ari turned away and vomited.
Einar gritted his teeth in defiance. He had endured more pain for lesser causes.
I will hold out, Weard Takraf. I will fulfill my oath to you.
And deep inside, Einar prayed he could.
Chapter 30
“Like the Tobruson who laid the foundation for the magocracy, the Kaliheron shared their magical knowledge freely with each other to maximize the effectiveness of their research. Before being allowed to join Kaliheron, students and scholars swore to take no personal credit for their discoveries while there, for no Mar could claim to have discovered what Marrish designed and Seruvus already understood. This would later evolve into the Nightfire Tradition, which does not credit individual wizards who make discoveries while in residence at Nightfire’s Academy.”
— Weard Gilda Kronas,
The Rise of Magocracy
“Let us take a few days and go somewhere.”
Sven and his family sat in his office. Erika sat by the fire and mended Asa’s clothes. Their daughter practiced her alphabet on the stones of the floor with a piece of charcoal. Sven, at his desk, quietly read reports out loud to himself. They came in fast and furious these days: supplies, training regimes, desertions, materials requests — the endless barrels of torutsen, for instance. Sometimes he thought half the slaves in the city were pressed into making the drink for the adepts.
He had checked the reconnaissance stone less than fifteen minutes ago. Weard Salt could not find the Mass — the fake one Sven had discontinued — despite creating a new stone, but was certain the problems would be fixed soon. Sven came back to find Erika settled in as though this were her sitting room.
This is my private place to conduct this war, he thought, not looking up. Out loud he said, “Where would you like to go?” He turned a page. Boots? Where will I find the people to make boots?
“Let us go visit my parents in Leiben.”
Boots! Cloaks! Belts! People should wear pants that fit! Sven put the report down in exasperation and met his wife’s eyes.
“There is the war, love,” he said casually, leaning forward. The fire made shadows across half his face. “I really cannot leave for an extended period.”
“Just two days. You can teleport us there.”
“Dear, the Mass is less than two spans from reaching us. I cannot take a break.” His voice was a little colder than he would have liked. And Valgird and Robert are there, seeing to Einar’s test. He could see the set of her jaw. She will not accept this excuse.
“There is nothing more you can do,” she said, putting down her own work and placing both hands on the arms of the chair. “The war is happening well enough without you. I have not seen my family in months.”
“Nor have I.” Which was certainly true. Katla was the only one left alive, and no one had heard anything in months.
She misunderstood. “Of course not. You have been here the whole time, being a dutiful father and husband.” She rose, took a tentative step toward the desk. “My family is your family, Sven. They are in the Protectorates, and we should go to them.”
“No,” he said, straightening in his chair. Then, more emphatically, “No. I cannot leave for that long.”
She turned away. “If you don’t want to go, then I’ll find someone else to take me.”
Sven went to stand next to her. When she looked back at him, he stared down at her, half his face glowing from the light, the blind orb of his left eye reflecting the dance of the flames. He saw something in her expression, some fear or confusion.
And she should be confused. She should listen to me. I am trying to protect her. She needs so much help. He thought of when he had saved Erika, when they first met. How stupid was anyone to go out by themselves in such dangerous territory? But it was her bravery that made him notice her — she chased him, not the other way around.
Maybe the only thing she will understand is an ultimatum. He knew it would not work, but he said it anyway, softly, from lips dry from the truth.
“You will not go to the Protectorates.”
Her eyes opened wide. “What? Why? The war is in the south. The Protectorates are perfectly safe. You made them so.”
He shook his head. “Einar has not returned yet.”
“What?” The realization set in. “Flasten attacked the Protectorates?” Strai
n showed in her face as she tried to remain calm.
Sven tried to keep his voice normal. She asked, and I cannot lie to her, no matter it will hurt her. “Einar is there ...”
“Without an army.” She stood, stalked to the fire and prodded it viciously with the poker. “Alone. When there are more than enough wizards in the army to spare some for the north. And your adepts, what are they doing? They could be guarding my home!”
So it was never our home like she suggested? He wanted to be reasonable. This had started out as a calm conversation. But she insisted on not understanding what was going on. She cannot see I was trying to protect her from what I was doing. He felt his back tense.
“Einar knows what he is doing. I promise ...”
“But you never told me there was war up there!” She hung the poker up with a clang, turned and faced him, arms crossing her chest.
Asa had stopped writing and was watching them, now. Sven spared her a brief flicker of a glance before returning to the argument.
“I did not tell you because I wanted to protect you.” He felt better for saying it, but the wild look didn’t leave her eyes.
“Well? What if your hometown was attacked?” she said angrily. “If Rustiford was a part of this, would you be leaving it to be conquered?”
Sven felt his temper flare. She has not even heard me! I come right out with it and she ignored me! She should be mad at that now, instead of questioning the way the war is going.
“What do you know about handling the war?” he snapped back at her. “Who made you a general? Would you like me to explain why to you? Why even if Rustiford was attacked I would still be here? Flasten has practically played into my hands — this huge step toward peace we can take, and you are trying to stop the river with a mud wall. You do not understand!” He felt the heat on his cheeks, felt his muscles tense in a sneer, the skin taut and wrinkled like an ancient monster’s. He could barely think for Erika’s stupidity. “Sometimes I think I am talking to a book, you are so dense.”
“What did you just say?” she said quietly, her eyes spears.
“I am doing this to save Marrishland,” he said slowly, deliberately. Spittle flecked through the air toward her. “I cannot explain why I do it. I have to.”
“You have to?” Her voice was small and lost. She looked like a little mouse in front of him. And just as confused. “You can give me this one thing,” she said, tears in her eyes.
“You will not go to Leiben.”
“I can. I will take adepts and free the Takraf Protectorates.” The words were clipped, harsh.
His hand moved, and she fell.
“You will not go to Leiben,” he growled. “If I have to put you in a cell.”
Sven towered over his wife, his body rigid as the building in which he stood. She lay on the floor, her hand lightly touching the red imprint where his hand had landed, her mouth a round O. And in her eyes, he saw understanding. He saw every detail, right now, as the rage turned away from her and into him. He looked away from her.
All of Marrishland will be lost if I sit here and let the generals run the war. They will not learn fast enough! They will destroy us, but I can stop it.
Everything was a failure. This was not Tortz. It was too large, but Sven should be out there helping. He looked back down at Erika, whose mouth was just closing in a snarl of hatred. He felt the burns on his face, the glistening bulb where his eye had been. He felt the tear roll down his healed cheek.
He could not take this anymore.
“I am the light that guides the Mar, Erika.” He choked back a sob. “I am the fire that burns in their souls. Without fuel, though, they cannot burn. And I have given them that fuel.” He stepped back, bent over, wracked with sobs. “I ... will ... burn all the sickness away. If I must amputate the hand to save the Mar, that is what will happen.”
He stepped backward into the Tempest, leaving his stunned wife forming some word to try to stop him. He reappeared in almost no time in the swamp near Rustiford and roared. Fire lanced from all of his fingers at a hapless tree, engulfing it and making it vanish as though it never was.
Chapter 31
“The Kaliheron developed a vocabulary for discussing magical theory, and many of their concepts survived, symbolized in the Mar alphabet. The letters Myst, Tor and Ues are next to each other because they refer to related fields of magic study — mysdyn (myst dynamics), tordyn (tor dynamics), and uesdyn (mysterious magic dynamics). Dih, Sen, Ud and Krah literally translate as earth, water, wind and fire, but they also relate to the study of Power, Vitality, Mobility and Energy — the only four magicks known to the Kaliheron.”
— Weard Oda Kalidus,
The Origin of Nothing
Sven Takraf arrived at Volund’s keep even as ochres and gobbels besieged Flasten Palus. He strolled through the halls as though the dux had invited him in for soup, though the marsord and the trail of fire he left in his wake spoiled the illusion. He paused at every doorway to fling a wall of fire into the room — empty, occupied, he no longer cared.
I never wanted this to be about revenge for Tortz! he raged.
A trio of ambers challenged him, demanding his surrender. Green fire consumed them, and they writhed and screamed as they turned to ash. Sven did not even wait until they stopped screaming before turning his attention elsewhere.
I stand with the mundanes, and the gods stand with me. I will execute their will upon Dinah’s back until I am ashes in the hearth.
The Mardux neared the double doors of the dux’s council chamber. He hurled them open with Power, the violence of the spell reducing them to kindling, which caught fire immediately. Inside the council room stood a lone red with a naked marsord held in his shaking hand. All around him, fire burned the tapestries and rugs of the keep, filling the air with choking smoke.
“Weard Wenigar,” Sven called to him without slowing his pace. “Stand down. My business is not with you.”
“I should have listened to my father,” Ketil said with confidence, but his eyes betrayed the terror. “I should have killed you while you were still exhausted from the duels.”
Sven stopped then and tilted his head back to laugh. “Do you think you could stand against the hand of the gods? Do you think you could have defeated the Guardian of Marrishland?”
Ketil’s fist of Power never landed. Sven had already anticipated the attack, was countering the spells faster than the dux’s son could cast them. Ketil charged forward with a scream of rage.
Sven swatted him aside like an insect. The younger red flew into the table with a grunt and collapsed to the floor.
“Where is your father?” Sven asked him.
“Domin take you!” Ketil shouted, lifting up his marsord.
Sven moved a single finger, and the other red’s sword shattered. Drops of blood welled up from a dozen tiny cuts on Ketil’s hands and face.
“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 murd
erer! 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.