Chapter 3

"Tryggvi Fuchs drew his sword calmly as the eight damnens moved forward, the claws on their hands unsheathed. Tryggvi spoke to them in their native tongue. ‘My magic cannot harm you, and my skill is no match for your numbers, but the first three who come within my marsord's reach are dead.' He ran a thumb along the blade. ‘So, which three want to die?' The Drakes hesitated. Tryggvi took a step forward, face calm. The damnens fled."

– Herald, The Tryggvi Fuchs Saga

Sven faced the unofficial holder of the Chair on the walkway.

Einar, wearing a new red cloak, regarded him coolly. His marsord hung at his right knee, the smaller of the two blades peeking out through the gap in the front of the cloak.

The six reds and Robert stood between Sven and the temple. The Duxess of Pidel and the Duxes of Skrem, Gunne, Piljerka and Wasfal, as well as Dux Feiglin and his son – the entire Council – blocked the way to the Citadel. Nightfire and Katla stood off to the right.

"Weard Takraf," Einar said, drawing his weapon slowly and examining the saw-toothed blade. "I warn you again, step down. My apprentices' apprentices study your texts with great interest. You are a fine scholar, but the Mardux needs more than knowledge to rule."

Sven's gaze never left Einar, though he adjusted the leather gloves he wore. "Weard Schwert, I respect your skills as a wizard. To have survived so long in the presence of these carrion eaters proclaims your power. But a Mardux ought to rule with more than mere power. I regret that I could not meet you under better circumstances."

Einar returned the blade to its sheath. "Then let the duel begin."
Einar's approach to duels, Sven had found out at dinner the previous night, was an enhanced warrior gambit. Power to strengthen the sword, plus his own bodily strength, and increased speed to get to his opponent before a spell was cast. Sven had devised a defense – a triggered spell was already in place when Einar moved.

Einar rushed him, raw force surrounding the blade, speed a trail of lightning on the ground. Sven built a shield of force and braced himself. The two crashed into each other in a blaze of blue motes, but the force of Einar's rush threw Sven backward.

He rolled to his feet even as his opponent brought the short blade down on Sven's back, below his ribs.

Sven gasped, fell down and rolled onto his back. A healing spell began as flames crackled in the air, aimed at his opponent's midsection, right above him, but Einar had moved.

Sven's triggered spell struck Einar blind. Confused for a minute, he froze. Sven used that moment to heal himself fully.

Einar began the counterspell, but Sven, anticipating it, twisted and rearranged it delicately. Einar regained his sight, but now he saw six Svens standing before him, none of them real.

Einar abandoned the enhanced warrior gambit and launched spheres of fire at the illusions Sven had placed in his mind, forcing the wizards at the edge of the walk to counter the attacks before they hit the audience. Using this moment of uncertainty, Sven added more subtle components, though he felt the strain of working with illusions in spite of his preparations. The Mar were weakest with such magicks, and using them quickly tired a wizard.

To all appearances, Einar stood in one place, mind completely immobilized by the phantasms of his corrupted spell. Sven locked a shell of countermagic around his uninjured opponent. A murmur drifted through the crowd as Sven casually took off his gloves and plucked Einar's marsord from clutching fingers. Even the other eighth-degrees seemed ill at ease.

They are uncertain of what I have done.

Sven ceased gathering the myst, turned the marsord over in his hands absently. He knew he possessed the power to kill this man. A single thrust, and Sven would be Mardux. It was the way of duels. No one was foolish enough to leave a rival alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ari lean forward in anticipation of the inevitable.

What interest do you have in this man?

Sven looked at Einar carefully, the aged face, the brown eyes, the grey hair. The red cloak was still clean and free of wrinkles.

Why did you pursue the Chair?

He checked his magic. The illusion would fade soon – half a minute, at most. He would have to choose quickly.

Data. Click. Click. Conclusion.

Einar might yet be of use to me.

Sven placed the tip of the marsord against Einar's chest, prepared to summon magic if the man resisted, and waited. The crowd held its breath, watching him and looking for the killing blow. Einar came to his senses with a jolt, eyes wide in shock.

"How did you ...?"
"Einar Schwert, you are defeated. Yield."

Einar attempted to cast a spell, but the shell held his magic at bay. He stared hard at Sven.

What are you thinking, old man? Sven thought. Are you thinking, why would Sven Takraf want the Chair? Or why tell me to yield if you are going to kill me anyway?

Finally Einar nodded. "You have indeed bested me, Weard Takraf. The Chair is yours." He swallowed hard. "Do what you will."

Sven did not stir. "Swear your loyalty to me."

The crowd gasped. The other eighth-degree wizards murmured among themselves. Sven thought he heard one of them slap another.

"You see some value in preserving my life. I am thankful for your mercy." Einar raised his right hand solemnly. "By the Oathbinder, and Marrish, my patron, I swear my fealty to you, Mardux Sven Takraf."

Sven removed the blade and returned it to the wizard. "I will remember your oath, and put you to good use, Weard Schwert."

Einar stepped back, toward the citadel and out of Sven's way. Sven stuffed the gloves behind his utility vest and drew out another pair from the pouch at his side.

As he put them on, the young wizard met Nightfire's eyes, skimmed past the Duxess of Pidel and the duxes of the southern duxies and rested on Dux Feiglin. Feiglin glared back in undisguised fury and prodded his son, Ketil, forward.

Sven deliberately turned his back on Ketil and spoke to the remaining six reds.

"Are there any among you who dispute my ascent? Step forward and speak."

Solvi looked past his shoulder at the spurned dux's son and stepped forward with a confident smile. Vigfus' smile had finally reached his ears. Sven sized up his opponent, considered this man's value to his plan.

Data. Click. Click. Conclusion.

You will make a valuable lesson for your friends, who will certainly be my enemies.

"I warn you, Weard Zorn," Sven said coldly, stretching his fingers out in front of him. "Yours will not be the fate of Weard Schwert if you oppose me. Step down, and swear fealty to me, and I will spare you."

Solvi sneered. "You may have survived Tortz, but you will not survive me, now that you have exhausted yourself with farl tricks."

Sven nodded at the confirmation of his hypothesis. He mentally prepared himself for the first of his attacks. "Then let the duel begin."

If Mar humor allowed for it, the battle would have been a joke.

Solvi was still readying his first attack when a green beam of fire connected Sven's fist to the challenger's throat, melting it closed. Solvi clutched at his throat, all thought of attack forgotten. He mended his windpipe and prepared to throw up a hasty defense. Sven didn't wait for him.

Slices of fire slapped off his hands and cauterized his wrists. Tiny beams of light burned out his eyes. Invisible hammers snapped his shinbones and kneecaps. Knives filleted his skin.

Bolt after bolt of intensely focused energy struck the wizard, hacking him limb from limb. The smell of burnt flesh made Sven gag. Ari whimpered. Someone at the edge of the square vomited.

They have seen my mercy. Now I must show them my ruthlessness.

Numbly, Sven continued. After the eighth or ninth bolt of fire, the man had surely been dead. But the would-be Mardux continued until there was little more than a steaming pile of burnt flesh bubbling on the walkway.

Sven stripped off his gloves and stuffed them behind his vest as he retrieved a fresh pair from a pouch at his side. He turned to the other five reds. He could see the uncertainty on those faces and knew the reason why. Wizards never put on such displays when fighting for the Chair, since it was imperative they save their strength for the large number of challengers they might face. The use of illusions to subdue an opponent would have worn out all but the most powerful wizards. To win the second duel so flamboyantly and easily might be possible for the strongest magic-wielders, but afterward, a green could defeat them.

And they are right. The duel with Einar should have left me too weak to set dry tinder alight.

"Are there any others who would challenge my authority?" he demanded in a cold voice.

Prodded by his comrades, Horik stepped forward hesitantly.

They test me, Sven thought.

He wasn't even facing Sven when his head disappeared in a small ball of fire whose sparks licked the other wizards' robes. A headless Horik Neid slumped at their feet.

"A challenge must be issued!" Volund exclaimed. "That was cold-blooded murder, and the weard should be tried for it."

Sven turned around slowly. "Would you care to challenge me, Dux Feiglin? Or your son, Ketil Wenigar?"

Nightfire spoke up. "Sven issued the challenge. Weard Neid took the step forward. The Law says nothing about waiting for your opponent to be ready. That is a convention developed from centuries of challenges." He glared at Sven.

Sven made every effort to ignore his master.

Conventions are well and good, but the Law is the part you must follow.

He considered if they would change the Law for this.

It will do them no good, for I will change the Law more dramatically.

"We have our twenty-four hour period," Volund said. "We will be back tomorrow."

"Are you sure you want to challenge me when I am well-rested? I do not believe I slept well last night. These beds are softer than I am used to."

Ketil gaped, turned to his father and whispered hurriedly in his ear. Volund slapped his son away.

"We will be back tomorrow," he repeated.

"If Dux Feiglin's son, Ketil Wenigar, comes here tomorrow, I will kill him as I have Weards Neid and Zorn." He glanced at Ketil. "Will you challenge me now or wait until tomorrow?"

"We wait until tomorrow," Volund said. He grabbed his son by the arm and stalked away. Sven waited as the carrion eaters passed him to follow the dux. Vigfus offered him a shaky grin while sweat poured off his brow; Arnora's nose was high in the air; Ari's head was bent in almost supplication while the yellow, Robert, met Sven's eyes with a measuring glance that sent a chill down his spine.

Yellow-garbed priests took to the bodies of Solvi and Horik, gathering up the latter's head. Sven started toward the citadel, but Katla approached him in the middle of the walkway. The audience remained hushed, and even Nightfire seemed on his heels, ready to stop what appeared to be a challenge.

"You walk a fine line between Law and convention," she told him, stepping in very close as though congratulating him.

Sven leaned back and met her stony green eyes. He looked away, annoyed. "I do what I must."

"We all do, Sven, but must you always have the boldness of a mapmaker? Even a mapmaker will leave the path to avoid a pool of quicksand."

He grimaced. "If I cannot succeed in my lifetime, will I get another chance?"

"You must find another way. What you are going to do will certainly destroy you and will not achieve what you say you want. You already make enemies of many by challenging our laws in front of the magocrats and Council." She gestured to the crowd, as well, dispersing now no challenge was issued.

Sven nodded his head slowly. "I must be the Mardux, and the Mardux must have power to do what he needs to. Otherwise we will never be united, and the Mass will never be defeated."

She shook her head. "A fire does not survive by refusing to bend in the wind. Do not tread a path that prevents you from taking other roads."
He smiled grimly. "You have my permission to seek better ways, Katla, but do not stand in my way."

"I just might," she said. She stood for a moment, reflecting. "Mother would have said ..."

Sven felt his composure bend. This was an old argument. "Mother left us before I was one," he said coldly. "Tyra Gematsud raised you, not me."

She closed her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears, and then hurried to where Nightfire just now began to relax.

Sven gave them a head start toward the citadel, then marched onward himself, Einar at his heels.

"Old lover?"

Sven opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. He is a magocrat. I cannot trust him.

"I am in no mood, Weard Schwert."

Sven knew he should be horrified by the day's activities, sick to his stomach for his behavior on the square. Two men dead by his hands, and he felt nothing.

It was the only way to win three consecutive duels. My display of superhuman power today will keep other wizards from challenging me each year. My enemies will have to find other ways of fighting me, ways that don't force me to give away my weaknesses.

Sven removed the gloves from his utility vest and returned them to the pouch at his side. He had killed before, protecting innocent people from the wrath of a magocrat, and those men had done nothing wrong, either. Horik and Solvi had deserved their fates.

For Marrishland, I must beat those who would be her enemies. I must learn their strengths and weaknesses and use that knowledge against them. Now I am the most powerful wizard in Marrishland. I must use this position to my advantage.

Slaves and mundanes of the citadel stepped forward until they surrounded him, asking his command. Sven flinched slightly at this servility in fellow Mar.

This, too, will I change.

He gave them instructions patiently, asking for food and a room. The soup they brought was delicious and thick with meat. He ate it in silence, noting with some sadness that it was the best he had ever tasted.

While many mundanes risk their lives daily in the swamps to feed themselves, the most powerful weards do not even have to boil their own soup.

He vowed he would not allow such meals to become a habit. Wild rice and laurita soup with a little meat had sustained him all his life. There was no reason he should eat better food than that.

If I did, I would be no better than Vigfus.

When he had finished his meal, he withdrew into his quarters to rest. He stayed awake just long enough to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to his patrons for his success in battle that day and the gifts they had given him.

 

SYNOPSIS  |  CHAPTER 1  |  CHAPTER 2  |  CHAPTER 3

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