Chapter 2

"The first day of summer in Marrishland is known as Duxfest, and it is the only time when the Mardux's power can be challenged. Any eighth-degree wizard not on the Council may win the Chair by defeating the current Mardux in a magical duel. If a wizard wins the Chair and holds it against all challengers for one full day, he becomes the new Mardux."

— Nightfire, The Magical Traditions of Marrishland

Weard Sven Takraf, eighth-degree wizard and graduate of Nightfire's Academy, had a marsord because of his power, but he had not brought it to Domus Palus. He knew he could beat anyone who would be Mardux without it, and the challenge of retaining that position would not trouble him. He had no intention of allowing it to trouble him.

Three would-be Marduxes since yesterday morning, he thought as he jogged through Domus' streets. Nightfire would have returned to the Academy if one had been able to hold the Chair.

He wore knee-high boots, turned down at the tops all the way to his calves. His loose pants were dark green, tucked in and bunched up above the boots. A leather strap served as a belt, and thick, studded leather gloves hung from the strap. His brown shirt had a collar — turned down, now — and long sleeves with drawstrings at the end to tighten them. His leather utility vest showed years of wear and the marks of recent cleaning.

Close-cropped brown hair and dark, almost mud-colored, skin surrounded his green eyes, hawkish nose and sharp mouth. One Mar in a million had green eyes, but Sven had known five Mar who had them, and two had been his parents.

Domus Palus was the seat of the Mardux, the not-quite-king of Marrishland and ruling magocrat. Home to thousands of wizards, six times their number in mundanes and the largest slave population in the country, the city on the coast was the center of Mar civilization.

And like our civilization, it stagnates around us, Sven thought, his eyes going to a square reclaimed by the swamp. There was even a suckmud willow in it.

The slaves — mostly convicts whose primary crime had been reneging on an oral agreement — lived outside the ancient city. The mundanes, non-magic users, lived throughout the city. The wizards lived in the direction Sven was headed, toward the citadel.

The "palace" of Domus Palus.

In front of the citadel, a wide walkway crossed to the temple of Marrish, with eight tall steps leading down to the ground. On that walkway, the highest levels of magocrats fought to the death for the position of ruler of Marrishland.

Sven heard the sounds of battle before he saw anything.

The citadel came into view, its stone and iron bulk sprawling through the center of the city. Crowds of wizards, mostly garbed in bright green and auburn, but occasionally brilliantly clad clusters of blue, amber and cyan, appeared, a milling mass of city officials on a holiday. (*) This late in the night, slaves kept torches lit, filling much of the air with oily smoke.

What a waste of energy, he thought, shaking his head sadly.

He picked out and counted the lavender and yellow wizards, those one or two ranks below eighth-degree. As he reached a hundred, he stopped. Then he sought the bright cloaks of eighth-degree wizards and found them on the runway. Two squared off at the end of a battle.

There were fourteen besides the two fighting — a group of five on the citadel side, one in orange, one in white and three in red; two standing near them but separate, both in white; and eight standing in front of the temple, all in red. Sven could feel the tension from the third group.

They looked remarkably like a bunch of greedy, terrified scavengers waiting for the damnen to finish its meal.

Sven pressed his way through the crowd, the color of his cloak making it bend around him like water around a bubble of marsh gas. As he reached the foot of the steps, one of the red-cloaked men on the walkway drove his marsord through the other.

The victor — hands bloody, face blackened by burns — cut off his opponent's head and kicked it to the feet of the eight scavengers, a dark scowl on his face. Sven searched his eyes and saw the tiredness there. The foremost, the Dux of Flasten, Volund Feiglin, glared murder at the man and nudged the young man by his side.

Ketil Wenigar, Volund's son. Sven wondered who the challenger had been.

"So," called the victorious wizard in a hoarse voice. "Would anyone else like to die before sunrise?"

Volund glared at his son before speaking. "There will be a challenge tomorrow, you can be sure."

Nightfire stepped forward. "Is there any weard of appropriate rank who wishes to challenge Einar Schwert before he takes his rest?" (*)

Einar wiped his marsord on the corpse of his opponent and sheathed it. None of the reds at the edge of the square stirred.

"Very well, good weards. Einar Schwert will return here shortly before noon. If no challenger defeats him then, he will be Mardux."

The bloodied wizard turned on his heel and marched to the citadel. The rustle of his dirty, red cloak betrayed a limp he had not yet healed. The group of five parted and let him by, followed by Nightfire and his companion, then trailed after them. Sven crept up the stairs as Volund, cursing loudly at his son, stormed after them into the citadel. Ketil followed meekly.

Ignoring the six bickering reds and their seventh-degree companion, Sven joined the priests of Marrish as they began disposing of the body.

Ketil hesitated because Einar just defeated his brother, Sven noted as they moved the head. Volund cannot take the Chair while he is on the Council, but he would have a son there. Why not the middle son, Ragnar, who would at least be competent in a position of power?

Sven glanced backward at the six reds.

A tall one with burning grey eyes was glaring at him as though all the Mar's troubles could be laid at Sven's feet. He turned back to shout something hotly into the discussion.

They want the Chair as well, but they let Volund's sons fight first. Why?

For a second, as Sven eyed them, he felt he had gauged their strength. Surely any eighth-degree could defeat a tired eighth-degree. He shook his head. Goblins will eat their own if it is the least dangerous source of food.

The crowd began to disperse, though the eighth-degrees who still disputed Einar's claim to the Chair, as well as several dozen attendants, did not stir from their place by the temple.

Sven thanked the priests for letting him see the casualty. Then he straightened and walked over to the vultures as the crowd began to disperse. They did not notice him immediately.

"... Can get one of you out of here by giving you Flasten," the angry, gaunt man was saying.

"Any of us could beat one of Dux Feiglin's sons," a gold-encrusted man said.

"Dux Feiglin will run out of sons," the obese man said. "And Einar Schwert will have the Chair. He would besmirch the name of all Mar."

The only woman in the bunch frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but the fat man cut her off.

"Schwert would probably strip everyone down and beat them senseless. What do you think, Ari Faul?"

A slight young Mar coughed, his face growing red. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when the yellow, a black-haired, pale-skinned man, grabbed his arm.

The tall one sneered. "I did not see you step forward, Vigfus Vielfrae. Why did you bother traveling to Domus from Flasten if you had no intention of challenging the new Mardux? Surely it caused you some ... strain."

The rotund man's face purpled in rage. "And what of you, Solvi Zorn? If you had challenged Einar in his weakened condition ..."

The gaunt Mar cut him off. "Then I would have been too exhausted to fight the rest of you ravens!" He stared at each of the other wizards, face set in a snarl. His eyes traveled up and down Sven's cloak. "Another student of Nightfire's."

The rest of them noticed Sven, who kept his face flat.

"Solvi Zorn of Domus?" he asked quietly. "Perhaps you can tell me how many challengers Einar Schwert has defeated."

The gaunt Mar's grey eyes narrowed.

The fat one, Vigfus Vielfrae, chuckled. "Think you can take the old man? Oh, they do grow them pretentious out there! Go find your master, boy, and ask him what it means to fight an eighth-degree."

"It was a simple question, Weard Vielfrae," Sven said. (*)

"We do not even know who you are," said the yellow smoothly, head and body swiveling to catch all the glaring eyes. "Young wizard, tell us your name."

Sven felt the slightest brush of a spell against his cheek and instantly snapped at the myst. The yellow is trying to calm me with his magic. Sven took an involuntary step back.

"I am Sven Takraf."

Vigfus began chuckling again, but Solvi leaned forward a little, intrigued. The woman leaned over to whisper something to the gold-encrusted man, and the yellow stepped behind the frail, young wizard as though attempting to vanish.

"Sven Takraf?" Solvi asked. "Of Tortz?"

"Ask your friend Dux Feiglin about me, Weard Zorn."

"Your ears are sharp, Weard Takraf," Solvi said. "I suppose you heard my name and Vigfus Vielfrae's. The thin one is Weard Ari Faul, and his man there is Weard Robert Wost. The pretty woman is Weard Arnora Stolz, and her friend with the rings is Weard Valgird Geir. The silent one with the vacant expression is Weard Horik Neid."

"He is drunk on narcotics," Vigfus said. "He is a worthless piece of Domin's own dung, is that not so, Horik?"

Horik opened his mouth, but only drool came out.

"Weard Takraf, we hear the renegade Brand Halfin imprisoned you four years ago at Tortz."

"Volund Feiglin was there," Sven said. "I am sure that you can learn the story from him. If you cannot answer my question, I can go ask Nightfire or some other member of the Council."

"Einar Schwert defeated Ozur Betrun this afternoon, and two opponents tonight."

Sven nodded. A third opponent surely would have finished him, yet none of them stepped forward. These are the ones who will challenge me, and they do not trust each other. It is a wonder anyone ever wins the Chair.

"Do you intend to challenge Weard Schwert, Weard Takraf?" Solvi asked, voice too smooth for Sven's liking.

They want more power, and they do not even know how to use the power they already have. Yet, they live for power. They would do anything to acquire more power for themselves.

Memories of Tortz pressed in on him. He forced them away, gritting his teeth.

Or to keep others from having any.

Sven clenched his hands into fists at his side. "I will be Mardux because you cannot defeat me." They all started talking at once, but Sven spoke over them. "Weard Vielfrae would have to break a sweat, so he will not fight. Weard Geir is too weighted down with gold to step forward tomorrow. Weard Stolz would require weeks to plan a way to eliminate the danger of her defeat. Weard Faul cannot think for himself. Weard Neid does not even know what the Chair is. Weard Zorn, you will not let me weaken you enough that your friends can betray you to your death. A mundane has more courage than any of you, and a mapmaker possesses more wisdom."

He started walking away.

Solvi hollered after him, "We had an agreement with the Dux! His sons would go first!"

This is why I have come here, Sven thought. This is why they chose me for this path. This is why the Mar need me.

He walked into the citadel.

Nightfire must have noticed me while I watched the end of the battle.

Sven sent a slave to find him. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve, with dark eyes and calloused hands.

What crime could he have committed? What oath could someone so young break?

Sven waited in a room that might once have been a meeting hall. Several centuries of ivy had eaten through the ceiling. The flagstone floor was a mass of cracks, and bare earth peeked through in places. A second-story hallway opened to the room across the back, resulting in a crumbling balcony large enough for the entire population of Rustiford to stand in it.

He imagined it whole once again.

I will commission a tapestry of the gods giving the Savior his tasks, and the Savior will have my face. No one will forget Mardux Sven Takraf.

"You will challenge the Mardux."

Sven did not turn to welcome Nightfire. "Of course, master. Marrish said I would be Mardux. Fraemauna convinced me. Seruvus stood there, and even the gods must fulfill promises brought before the Oathbinder."

Nightfire stood next to Sven, followed his eyes to the gaps in the ceiling, through which the stars shone. He was a much older man. His hair was streaked gray and black, his skin much paler than Sven's for lack of sun. Under his cloak, he wore an outfit similar to Sven's, and he had not brought his marsord with him, either.

There are no Drakes in Domus Palus, and Nightfire is a scholar, not a magocrat.
The young wizard noticed that his master's white-cloaked companion had joined them. Katla Duxpite was Sven's green-eyed sister and four years his senior. Education had changed her as it had him, but in different ways, and they seldom spoke anymore. She had hardly left Nightfire's Academy since becoming a wizard and had worn the white a year longer than Sven.

"What will you do when you are Mardux?" Nightfire asked softly.
"Unite Marrishland. Defeat the Mass. As the gods said I should." Sven couldn't keep the hesitation from his voice.

"And?"

The young wizard met his master's piercing green eyes. "And they said I will succeed you."

"You cannot be the arbiter if you are the Mardux."

"I will change the Law. I will remove the distinction between magocrat and mundane."

"Did the gods truly ask for that?"

"It is necessary." They implied it. They want it. "I will be their servant, which is something other wizards may have forgotten."

Nightfire frowned deeply. He took several steps away from Sven and turned around.

"You asked to see me. What is it you want from me?"

"I need your support tomorrow. No one must doubt I am the Mardux."

"The Law promises the one-day window."

"I am worried about next year."

"You speak as though you have already crushed your enemies!" Katla snapped. "You are trying to boil soup in a wooden bowl, but where will you be when you burn a hole through the bottom?"

Sven ignored her. "I will be too busy to waste time being challenged every year."

"Maybe you will not be challenged again," Nightfire said. "Solvi and his brood are liable to throw themselves at you tomorrow. It will take time for you to make new enemies."

Sven considered this, fingering the gloves at his belt thoughtfully. "Master, you are right. There will be no challenges next year. If you will excuse me, I must find some soup."

Nightfire raised his hand. "Allow us to join you in your meal."

 

SYNOPSIS  |  CHAPTER 1  |  CHAPTER 2  |  CHAPTER 3

Copyright 2005-2007 Eric Zawadzki and Matthew Schick. All Rights Reserved.
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