Firebrand 8: The Sage, page 26
A variety of emotions battled to control Atreus’s expression before it became blank. “So be it. But I’ve long ago placed wards against the undead on the gates of our city. He won’t be able to enter regardless. Let him find a shelter far from the living, and he must be kept under strict watch. I’ll not forget nor forgive should someone become a victim due to our carelessness or naivety.”
Martel bowed his head. “Agreed.”
SIXTY-FIVE
MAGIC AND MAIL
Every ship from Morcaster was highly anticipated, bringing all sorts of goods and luxuries otherwise not available to the people of Archen. Yet excitement rose to even greater heights hearing the last merchantman of the year had made dock by the small harbour where Archen’s tributary river met the Savena. Besides carrying the usual, the ship brought traders and their wares for the announced harvest festival, taking place next fiveday. Barrels of wine and ingredients such as honey along with sugar and cinnamon from Sindhu and more, allowing for sweet and spiced cakes to be made.
The ship was long awaited for another reason, as it carried enough letters to rival the Imperial courier service. Everyone had left relatives or friends behind in Morcaster, many of them worried about the settlers braving the frontier, and so every vessel carried hundreds if not thousands of letters.
More than a few were addressed to Martel, who had correspondence with his former teachers. As soon as one of the city’s small runners came by to let Martel know the ship had docked, he abandoned his workshop to make his way south.
It took the better part of an hour to walk to the new harbour, which so far consisted simply of a pier and a simple warehouse, as that sufficed to cover the needs. Martel was not alone in making the journey; many others, likewise too impatient to wait for their deliveries and mail to be transported to the city, joined him. Whenever they became aware of his presence, they bowed their heads and greeted him respectfully, but beyond that, they kept their distance, and none engaged him in conversation.
Martel did not notice, his mind already elsewhere as he tried to imagine the replies awaiting him. Only the sight of the ship’s masts brought him back to his surroundings, and he increased his pace.
As could be expected, the small docks were a hive of activity. Absent a formal harbourmaster and dockworkers, the city drafted a handful of people for this work each time a ship arrived, rotating the responsibility. Valerius usually helped, putting his supernatural strength to good use. All along the route from the pier to the warehouse next to it, the townspeople clamoured in anticipation, though they quickly parted when seeing the master of the city arrive.
Valerius likewise noticed him, letting a heavy crate fall from his back. “I figured you would be here soon,” he called out. He pulled out a stack of parchment from his tunic. “I saw fit to grab your letters.”
“A true friend,” Martel replied, grabbing the correspondence. “You should come by tonight, join us for our meal. It’s been a few days.”
“It would be my pleasure. Until then, this cargo will not haul itself.” The mageknight grabbed the crate once more with ease, practically slinging it onto his back. Martel nodded in farewell and turned back towards Archen.
Too eager to wait, Martel opened the first letter still on the road. Grabbing one at random, he began to read, recognising Fenrick’s script.
Martel,
Stars confound me, but I have no clue how you can ignore the effect of gold. All my attempts to replicate your ability have failed. I understand your hesitation in sharing the method by which you discovered this – not all knowledge is harmless – but I do fear I might not be able to advance further on my own.
I did consider what you admitted, that it was meditations upon the sun that unlocked this for you, which certainly makes sense; gold is caused by the light of the sun striking the earth, so naturally the two are connected. And if your belief is correct that the sun possesses its own kind of magic, the question is how it can be harnessed. As said, my attempts have gone nowhere.
However, you may succeed where I failed, given your intuitive understanding of this topic. Enclosed, I have written a list of exercises you should try, to see whether you can draw upon the sun itself as a source of magic. Alas that the time of the year is wrong; I imagine you will not have much luck, the closer we draw to winter solstice. But in any case, write back your results.
Fenrick
Martel ran his eyes over the other piece of parchment containing the list, enclosed as promised, before packing the letter away and opening the next from the Master of Fire.
My dear boy,
Always a pleasure to hear from you. Most intriguing, how your settlement fares, and do give my regards to Eleanor. But important matters first. Your idea is not unprecedented. Most lighthouses carry stones of such enchanted light that you propose. If the enchantment is done right, the absence of heat prevents any danger of causing a fire. There are limits, however.
Perhaps most importantly, this light is only clearly visible at night. I’m not sure it’s possible to enchant with such strength that the light can cross long distances during the day and be relayed onwards. This is obviously a big limitation. The whole point of your system is to transport urgent messages across long distances in a matter of moments. That becomes far less viable if only possible during the night. But it might still be better than no system at all.
Regardless, I told my students of your idea, and they are excited to attempt enchanting lightstones for such a purpose, which will be a good exercise for them. If any of their work is worthwhile, I will send it to you, that you might experiment with them. I also made my own attempt at creating the strongest enchantment I could. I have added it to your ship’s cargo…
The letter continued with news of Morcaster and personal titbits, which Martel saved for later, packing the letter away to instead unfold the third one.
Master Martel,
My thanks for the shipment of herbs. As you surmised and intimated in your last letter, they have strange properties and react unpredictably compared to their normal variety. Your theory that exposure to the after-effects of uncontrolled magic lingering for centuries is the cause for this alteration seems sound, lacking any other obvious explanation. Still, I should ask you to forage for herbs further and further away from your city, and clearly mark the distance on each sample that you send to me.
As for those you dispatched with your last correspondence, I made a few familiar concoctions, whose effects I know intimately well, and fed them to different animals. The mouse died, which was unexpected. The horse lived, but as it lacks the capacity to speak, I could not interrogate it as to its wellbeing. I will keep it under observation and let you know of any change in its demeanour or constitution.
I have sent the supplies you requested, as much as I could spare. Since some of them are sparse, I would ask you to be strict with them. I cannot guarantee replacements, should you require more in large quantities. I have also added a fortifying elixir for your personal use.
Mistress Rana,
Mistress of Elixirs at the Lyceum, Imperial school of Morcaster
Martel smiled and packed the letter away with the others. His mind immediately ran through a myriad of thoughts, jumping from one topic to another. Exercises, enchantment, alchemy, and more. Around him, on his approach to Archen, he passed by the workers preparing for the harvest festival.
SIXTY-SIX
SEASONAL CELEBRATIONS
Over the next fiveday, people began arriving. Although travelling the furthest distance, the Asterians came as the first group, since they had journeyed aboard the last ship arriving from Morcaster, still anchored by the dock, awaiting their return. Most of them were traders from the guilds, ready to buy the goods promised to be on offer.
Fewer in number, more furtive in their arrival, some Khivans also appeared in the last days before the festival. A handful were merchants, lured by the same promise as the Asterians; the remainder of the Khivans, a couple of scores, were the young and the curious, attracted by the prospect of festivities held in lands forbidden to them.
As the last, arriving the day before the market was to officially open, the Tyrian delegation appeared. Thirty in number, they came to the gates of Archen and waited to be properly greeted. Once runners had carried the message around, the lords of the city assembled to meet them.
Every mage was gathered in the procession, showing the prominent citizens and magical might of restored Archen. The Triumvirate in front, naturally, walking side by side. Eleanor had her armour and weapons, while Martel was dressed in the robes of a battlemage and carried his black staff; Atreus had, for once, changed into a new set of clothes rather than the ragged, travelworn garb he always wore.
Behind came Valerius and Maximilian, clad the same as Eleanor for battle. The rear was brought up by Henry and Cornelia, each dressed according to their element, with Sparrow by the former’s side, also wearing dark green.
Seeing them march out of the city, the band of Tyrians murmured in their own language; they had been milling about, but now they straightened their backs and assembled behind their jarl, a woman with a weathered face and a stern expression. While the Tyrians all wore the same style of clothing, her tunic was dyed blue, her belt had a silver clasp, and her cloak was lined with ermine fur.
Martel reached out to sense their thoughts, but nothing came to him at all; just as on their initial visit, they had some manner of shielding from mental magic.
“I am Herdis Jarl,” she declared. “Your names are known to us.” She gestured at Martel’s weapon. “You are the Blackstaff. And you are the fylgja,” she added, looking at Eleanor.
A Tyrian word Martel did not recognise, but he guessed its meaning. As for Eleanor, she bowed her head. “We welcome you to our lands, Jarl Herdis. You and your people. A day of celebration awaits us, and you are our honoured guest.”
“Thanks,” came the gruff reply.
Martel wondered if it was due to lacking command of the Asterian language or simply the jarl’s nature to be laconic; either seemed plausible. Regardless, he was happy to let Eleanor handle the diplomatic niceties.
“A gift to welcome you.” Eleanor extended her hand, holding a spyglass.
Frowning, the jarl took the metal tube, squinting at it. As she looked down one end, a start went through her. “What strange magic is this?”
“There is nothing magical about it, only craftsmanship. It will let your eyes see what lies far away. Try pointing it at the forest and look through it.”
Still looking sceptical, the jarl did so, and suddenly, her weatherworn face cracked into a smile. She exclaimed something in Tyrian and handed over the spyglass to a companion. “We have this for you,” the jarl said, turning back towards her hosts. She spoke a name in Tyrian, and another of her followers unwrapped an ivory tusk carved with figurines. “A memory of your reputation in Tyria.”
Taking a closer look, Martel realised it showed a scene from a battle, and unless he was mistaken, one figure was a battlemage spewing fire at an axe-wielding warrior.
“It shall have a place of honour in our home, by the wyrm tooth that hangs by our hearth. A fitting place, fang next to fang.”
Martel appreciated the deft way Eleanor reminded the Tyrians of their other great deed done in northern lands, the slaying of a lindworm. Judging by their expressions, the reminder was not lost on their guests.
“We have prepared a hearty meal for you,” Eleanor continued. “After days on the road, we imagine you would welcome hot food and cold drink.”
Several of the Tyrians gave mutterings in their own language, suggesting their approval. Together, the Archeans led their guests south towards the meadow where festivities had already begun.
Many long tables stood arranged at the edge of the field; the locals had already begun. For this number of people, the most sensible food to prepare was stew, and countless cauldrons boiled on Martel’s heating stones, turning a variety of meat and freshly harvested vegetables into a sumptuous meal. In addition, each bowl came with freshly baked bread, and though the fare was simple, it did not seem to offend the northerners; they dug in with a healthy appetite, crowding several tables while attracting stares.
The jarl sat with Martel and Eleanor; Atreus had disappeared somewhere, as was his wont in crowds. In addition, the Tyrian was flanked by two that Martel could sense possessed magic. Judging by their appearance, he guessed one to be a skáld, and the other to be a berserker.
Unlike her people, Herdis ate with less eagerness, watching her hosts instead. “I didn’t go that summer,” she suddenly spoke. “To the moot.”
“Forgive me, which summer?” Eleanor asked politely.
“When you went holmganga. At solstice. What my man carved on the ivory.”
“It is a wondrous gift.”
“Few of my people saw. The sacred holm is far from our tribe, and seldom is the journey worth making,” Herdis continued. “But we heard. The tale spread like flames.”
Martel refrained from any jests concerning his affinity for fire.
“I should like to see. Your strength.” The jarl looked across the table at Eleanor. “Ketill is my greatest warrior. Could you defeat him?” Next to Herdis, the broad-shouldered man grinned.
“Is there need? Are we not all friends in this place?” Eleanor asked.
On Herdis’s other side, the skáld laughed. “My jarl does not ask for a fight to the death!” she exclaimed. “But it is fitting for a day of celebrations to include contests of strength, isn’t it?”
Eleanor glanced at Martel, and even without magic, he could sense her questioning thoughts. He made a barely perceptible shrug, indicating that he would follow her lead.
“Very well. If you have come to witness our power, you shall have the opportunity.” The mageknight looked from jarl to berserker. “And a fight you shall have as well.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES
Excitement boiled as word spread of the contest. Tyrian strength against Archean might; northern ferocity against southern discipline. Moving away from the market, the combatants, their retinue, and the many curious onlookers made their way to where the land sloped gently upwards, allowing the crowd a better vantage point.
The Tyrians stood to one side, laughing and speaking coarse words to each other and their champion. Ketill wielded the preferred weapon of most berserkers, a two-handed axe strengthened by runes. The edge had a wooden covering, protecting its sharpness – and the fingers of anyone who happened to come too close. With a grin, Ketill removed the cover and swung his weapon around, stretching his neck as he entered the circle of empty space.
Opposite stood Eleanor and her attendants. Valerius gave her quick advice based on his impression of her opponent, and Henry fidgeted nervously with his hands while examining the prospective battleground, making sure it was even and smooth; nobody wanted to see a fight determined by someone tripping.
Martel saw no need to offer his own advice; he knew Eleanor was more than a match for any berserker, especially someone from a minor tribe with no renown to his name. He assumed the jarl had suggested this bout to ensure that he and Eleanor lived up to their reputation; it would also make for a memorable harvest festival, so Martel did not mind.
A runner appeared with a shield and a sword for Eleanor; the poor child, Badger, could barely hold it while running at the same time. Seeing Eleanor accept the weapons, the berserker frowned. “You bring another blade? What’s the matter with the one you got?” He nodded at Pyr, hanging by Eleanor’s waist.
She pulled out the sword a few inches and activated its magic, causing an eruption of fire. “This is not a weapon for sport. A blunt blade will suffice.”
“One man should not hold a sharp weapon if the other does not.” Ketill grinned as he put the covering back on his axe. “Or woman, in this case.”
Ready at arms, Eleanor walked into the centre of the circle. “What are the rules?”
“Make the other yield.” Ketill smiled and swung his axe.
If uncovered, the axe wielded by his magical strength could have cut clean through a limb; even blunted, it would leave a bruise underneath the mail and padding. But matching it with her own speed and force, Eleanor raised her shield and denied the attack. At the same time, her sword came sweeping to retaliate, though the long reach afforded by the axe kept Ketill safe, and he retreated with a grin, hefting his weapon as the two adversaries eyed each other.
Martel slowly moved along the edge of the circle, approaching the Tyrian band. Watching the fight had reminded him of the first time he had seen a berserker, in the fighting pits of The Broken Crown. The Tyrian warrior had once worked together with Regnar, the hedge mage, providing magical support from within the crowd to ensure victory. And after his own duel at solstice, Martel knew how well the powers of berserkers and skálds worked together. And so, the battlemage made his way inconspicuously towards the only skáld present.
Reaching her, Martel used his sixth sense. He felt what could best be described as a glow from the skáld, proving she possessed magic. But nothing else came to him. No runes cast on the ground or tendrils of power from the bard that might strengthen the berserker.
“Strange,” Martel remarked. He sensed no runes had been cast at all, not by Ketill either. “Your man isn’t using his powers, other than swinging his axe.”
Watching the berserker do just that, missing Eleanor who deftly side-stepped the blow and struck back, the skáld shrugged. “Ketill is a simple man.”
“I thought all berserkers learned runes.”
“They do, but Ketill wouldn’t know one if you carved it on his forehead.” Suddenly, the skáld grinned. “There’s a reason he’s never done anything worth for me to put into song.”
