Fires of Memory

by Washburn, Scott;

  “No, of course not.”

  “No, the person’s life is more important than some trivial meeting. And yet you break a promise to save the life, and no one thinks less of you for it. Quite the contrary, you become a hero.”

  “These circumstances are not quite the same.”

  “No, I suppose not. They are worse. Frankly, I cannot see why these wizards fear being killed or enslaved, but even if the threat was a valid one, I wouldn’t hesitate in tracking them down. You say there are a few hundred people on that island. I’ve seen a hundred times that number slain in a single hour, Master Carabello. Enough blood spilled to float this squadron! And there have been far more than a few hundred reduced to the cruelest slavery—including my own sister.”

  “Gods!” exclaimed Carabello. “I had no idea. I’m sorry, Colonel!”

  “She’s just one,” said Matt sadly. “But in my way of thinking, any sacrifice is worth making in order to stop the Kaifeng. The safety of the wizards matters no more than your word, sir. There’s a child in a burning building, and I have no intention of ignoring it.”

  “I…I never thought about it in such a fashion. My personal honor seems like a trivial thing in comparison, doesn’t it?”

  “Yours, mine, anyone’s. I hope we can secure the cooperation of your wizards peacefully. But be warned, sir, I will have their cooperation! And if I have to make their fears come true by killing some and enslaving the rest, I will do so.” Carabello looked very pale again, and Matt did not think the tossing seas were the cause.

  “I will do whatever I can to secure their cooperation, Colonel.”

  “Good. That would certainly be best—for everyone’s sake.”

  * * * * *

  Jarren swallowed nervously and was relieved when Colonel Krasner moved away to another part of the rail and paid him no more attention. The soldier made him nervous, especially when he was in a mood like this. He took a deep breath and tried to settle himself down. Surprisingly, his seasickness was gone for the moment. They were supposed to reach Erebrus today, and he was not looking forward to it. He kept hoping that something—some minor mishap with the ships—would happen to spare him the shame of returning under these circumstances; but in spite of some very nasty weather, the ships had gone on, day after day.

  He heard the cabin door slam shut behind him and he turned to see Brother Thaddius coming out on deck. He smiled; against all expectation, the young priest was the most agreeable traveling companion he could have asked for. The man was bright and courteous and interested in seemingly everything. They had had several very enjoyable conversations. There was a darker side to the man, too, of course. He had gone through some of the same trials as Colonel Krasner and seen the same horrors. That could not be entirely hidden, and there were moments when he would suddenly stop in the middle of a conversation and seem to be staring at something he did not want to see.

  “Good morning, Thad,” said Jarren.

  “Good morning, Jarren. The weather seems a bit calmer today.”

  “Yes, a bit. We should reach the island today.”

  “So I understand. How long do you think it will take to contact the wizards?”

  “I don’t know. They certainly found out I was there quickly enough on my first trip, but I have no idea how they will respond to the arrival of this armada.”

  “I suppose they have some reason to be wary of us. It is true that magic-users have been badly treated at some times and places in the past. The church, in particular, has not been their friend. I’m wondering if, perhaps, I should put off my priestly robes and pretend to be something other than what I am.”

  Jarren stared at the man he was starting to consider a friend and was not sure what to say. “Y-you are not really going to accuse the wizards of heresy are you, Thad?”

  “I’m not here to pass judgment on anyone. My instructions are simply to observe and report back to my superiors.”

  “And what will they do?”

  “I don’t know. I am far too junior to be privy to their counsel.”

  Jarren was silent for a few minutes, digesting that. “I have been doing some reading on church doctrine,” he said at last. “I got a few books from the university library and brought them along. I can understand how the Keridian Revelation came about with the disasters that took place with the magic after the Battle of Soor, but surely it is time for that to be reevaluated, don’t you think?”

  Thaddius frowned and shook his head. “It’s not my place to try and tell the church what its policies should be.”

  “But I’ve explained to you what happened after Soor. How the lake of magic was stirred to a tempest. It wasn’t Divine Wrath that caused all of those mishaps afterward. With care, that sort of mistake can be avoided in the future. Magic could be a huge benefit to mankind.”

  “You are a very learned man, Jarren, far more learned than I. And you are a man of science. Perhaps you don’t see how…disturbing some of the things you have said would be to a man of faith.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The ship took a sudden heel to the left and they both had to cling to the rail until it righted itself. Thaddius regained his footing and stared hard at Jarren. “If I were to accept your version of things, Jarren, then the gods have no place in this universe. Magic is just a ‘natural phenomena’ governed by physical laws—as are the winds and the tides and lightning and earthquakes. I can’t deny the truth of some of what you and your colleagues have discovered, but I cannot accept a world with no room for the gods.”

  “I never…!” blurted out Jarren and then stopped himself. Had he? Had he suggested the gods did not exist? He thought back to a long conversation he had had with Thaddius two nights before. He had theorized that in ancient times men had accidentally learned how to use magic in various ways, and this had been taken as a sign from the gods by the simple folk who lived then. This had led to the magickers being seen as the chosen of the gods. They had become priests and priestesses, and religions had grown up around them. Men who could work fire magic had become priests of the fire god, healers the healing god, and so on. It had all seemed very logical to Jarren, and there were fragmentary records from those times that even supported that view. But what did that say about the gods? With a shock, Jarren realized that he had consigned the gods to the realm of myth. Stories and legends made up to explain the phenomena of magic—and wind and weather. No wonder Thad was upset!

  “I’m sorry, Thad, I never meant to insult your beliefs.”

  “I know you didn’t, Jarren. But there are those in the church who would not be quite so charitable as I. A century ago, you would have been burned for that pleasant chat we had the other night. Even now there are those who would object very strongly to your views. Very strongly.”

  “But what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Doctrine says that long ago the gods granted special powers to their priests and priestesses. When the first wizards appeared, they were heretics who had tried to steal the blessed power of the gods by making league with demons. After Soor, the gods decided that magic was too dreadful a power for any mortal to wield, and what you describe as ‘the storm on the lake’, was their way of taking away the power from priest and heretic alike. Now, since the gods no longer bless mortals with their power, anyone using magic must be consorting with demons, and hence, a heretic. Now you tell me that the power is there for anyone with the talent to use. That neither god nor demon is involved. What am I supposed to think?”

  Jarren looked out on the gray sea and realized he had been a fool. He had thought that a nicely reasoned and logical argument would be enough to convince anyone of his position. Now he saw that simply wasn’t so. Beliefs had little to do with facts or logic. Thaddius seemed a reasonable man and not prone to fanaticism. But there were others who would be. Like that Brother Dominak in the council… A new thought struck him.

  “Thad, I can’t claim to have all the answers. But my belief is that the world is here for
us to make of it what we can. If the gods created it as you believe, then they created all of it—including magic. We breathe the air they made and drink the water. We eat the plants and animals they have put here. We mine metal and forge it into tools. We even take their chemicals and make fearsome things like gunpowder which can kill thousands. If magic is a part of the world, why should it be forbidden to us when nothing else is?”

  Thaddius was silent now and his brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps the magic is too powerful. Too powerful for mortals. If a man misuses gunpowder, he can cause some small measure of harm, but I have seen what magic can do in the wrong hands, Jarren!”

  “If that’s the case, why haven’t the gods put a stop to it?”

  “I don’t know. The gods don’t tell me their plans.”

  “Perhaps the wizards we seek will be the tool the gods use to stop the Kaifeng. Perhaps we are supposed to find them and bring back their aid.”

  Thaddius laughed sourly. “That argument could be used by anyone to justify nearly anything, Jarren. Stick to science. I don’t think philosophy is your strong point!”

  “Perhaps not. But I believe that much good can come from magic, too. You serve Clarabra, the goddess of healing, Thaddius. You will be amazed at the things Lady Idira can do! No one can call healing the sick or curing the injured evil!”

  Thaddius slowly nodded his head. “Yes, that is the hardest part of your argument to refute, Jarren. I and my brothers and sisters work so hard to save people from illness and injury. And so often we fail. If there was another way to help…”

  “There is! Just wait and see!”

  “Very well, I shall.”

  * * * * *

  Atark pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and tried not to shiver. The wind was biting and there were even a few flakes of snow swirling around in it. The season was not that late and it might well get warm again, but clearly real winter was not that far off. He was frustrated. They had accomplished a great deal, but it was becoming clear that the task would remain undone until spring. They had seized three towns to the east of Berssenberg with little trouble. Most of the enemy had fled before they even arrived. It had only been a matter of securing booty and rounding up slaves who had not run fast enough.

  Sadly, the campaign against the Varags was not going so well. Not only had the Varags shown more spirit, but there had been far more of them than Atark had realized. The vermin infested the whole region between the Pedeff River and the Sea of Latouz. Atark and Ka Oliark’s helar had burned a hundred villages and towns, but there seemed to be no end to them. Still, the Varags had only tried one pitched battle and they had been crushed. The Varags were good horsemen, but they had adopted the Easterners’ gunpowder weapons completely, and Atarks’s magic had stripped them of those. Then, against the Kaifeng bows, they had had no chance. Since then, they had tried to flee.

  But while the Varags may have been distant kin to the Kaifeng, they had given up the nomadic ways of the plains and now built houses and planted crops—neither of which could be packed up and moved. With the coming of winter, most of the Varags had tried to defend their towns and villages—with disastrous results. The Kaifeng had descended on each in turn—sometimes three or four in a single day—and each had been destroyed. Atark robbed them of their gunpowder and the warriors had done the rest. The males—all of the males—had been slaughtered, their heads set in neat stacks, and all the women had been herded north. The lands for a hundred leagues behind them were utterly deserted except for the miserable columns of slaves heading for Berssenburg—and the corpses of those who could not stand the pace.

  But as much as he might desire otherwise, there were going to be Varags who survived to see the spring. And perhaps for far longer than that. Rumors had it that some of the enemy was fleeing south, all the way to the land of Omak, and asking to take service with the ruler there. Zarruk would not permit a pursuit across the border—at least not yet—and Atark had to reluctantly agree. The day might come when Omak would fall to the Kaifeng, but for now their business was to the east.

  Or it would be after today. Just ahead was a sizable Varag town. It was packed with refugees who had fled here before the Kaifeng. Oliark’s warriors were massing for the attack, and Atark would smooth the way for them.

  “All is ready,” said Oliark.

  “How many do you think oppose us?”

  “Perhaps a score of scores of fighters. Maybe four or five times as many others. They have barricaded the streets with their wagons. Turned the town into a little fortress.”

  “We have dealt with fortresses before.”

  “Yes, and we’ll deal with this one now.”

  Atark nodded. Only about half of Oliark’s helar was here. The rest were out scouting or escorting the slaves and herds. But even half would be more than enough. Atark glanced behind him and saw that the sacrifices were ready. He had grown strong enough that only a half-dozen would be needed for this. As he was about to turn away, he noticed that one of the doomed men was not a man at all. A boy of perhaps twelve summers stared at him with wide, terror-filled eyes. Ardan would have been nearly his age now. The thought filled him with both guilt and anger. Guilt that he and the warriors were slaughtering this boy—and thousands of others, many even younger than this one—and anger at the memory of what sent him out upon this quest in the first place. So far, he had carried out his promise to Hetman Reganar. No male of any age had been spared. Killing even the infants had bothered him, but there was something driving him on. He could scarcely understand it, but he knew that this was something he had to do. He shook himself from these dark thoughts; there was work to be done.

  At his signal, the magic began. The sacrifices died and the spell was cast. The explosions from the town were rather feeble things compared to the battles against the Berssians. The Varags had no artillery and no great magazines to explode. Puffs of smoke, faint poppings, and some shouts came from the doomed town, but that was all. Then Oliark sent forward some of his warriors. Only a single score of scores for this first attack. The rest were kept hidden in nearby gullies and behind patches of woods.

  The horsemen rode to within a hundred paces of the barricades and loosed their arrows. No return fire came from the town. Without gunpowder, the Varags had no way of striking back. But the fire of the Kaifeng seemed to have little effect, either. The enemy huddled in their houses or behind the barricade. A few men fell now and again, but only a few. The warriors circled around the town, looking for targets or weak spots, but found none.

  “Perhaps we shall need a bit more of your help, Mighty Shaman,” said Oliark.

  “Very well, tell your men to turn their arrows against the buildings and the barricades.” The order was passed along and the warriors regrouped. Atark prepared a new spell.

  The horsemen advanced again and raised their bows. Atark reached for the Power and fashioned his spell. As the arrows were loosed, they flashed into flames. They traced fiery arcs against the gray skies and then plunged back down again. They struck log houses and thatched roofs and wooden wagons. The magical fires grew and spread instantly. Cries of alarm came from the defenders as smoke poured up from hundreds of places. Another shower of flaming arrows came down, and another, and another. Soon most of the houses on the edge of the town were burning briskly, and the wagons of the barricade were also on fire. Some people tried to fight the blazes, but when they showed themselves, the warriors shot them down.

  The flames continued to spread, but then there was a great deal of shouting, and Atark could see movement inside the town. A part of the barricade was being removed and then Varag horsemen came charging out. There were ten or fifteen score of them, and they galloped out and charged the Kaifeng bowmen. The warriors did not try to stand and fight. Instead, they retreated, yelling in apparent panic. The Varags gave chase.

  Atark watched impassively at the apparent rout. He had seen this done many times before, and it almost always worked. The Varags were led on and o
n until they were in the trap. The concealed Kaifeng then came galloping out from their hiding places. They outnumbered the Varags by more than ten times. The enemy tried to turn and ride away, but a shower of arrows rained down on them and over half went down in a few heartbeats. The survivors fled back toward the town with the Kaifeng in close pursuit. Less than a score of the Varags reached the barricades, and the Kaifeng were right on their heels. As the Kaifeng had hoped, the Varags were unable to close the barricade before the first of the Kaifeng forced their way through. In moments, the defense collapsed as ten scores of scores burst into the town.

  Atark listened to the sounds of fighting, but they did not last long. In less than a quarter hour, a rider came back to tell them that the town was theirs. Not that there was much left of the town, itself. Almost every building was afire by now. Atark and Oliark rode forward to look at their victory.

  All of the prisoners had been herded into an open area on the edge of town, but even as he rode up, Atark could sense that something wasn’t quite right. There was all the usual screaming and wailing going on, but the Kaifeng warriors were just sitting their horses around the perimeter. The Varags huddled in the center, old men, young boys, a few wounded fighters, and women of all ages.

  The orders had been very clear: all men—of any age—were to die. But the Kaifeng were just sitting there. Several glanced his way and then dropped their eyes.

  “What is the matter?” he asked Oliark. The ka looked around and then back at Atark.

  “Too much blood will rust even the finest sword in time. Sometimes even the best warrior can have enough of victory.” Oliark was a veteran warrior, and Atark had come to respect him highly. But now the man just sat his horse, chewing on his lower lip and frowning.

  Atark sat and thought about this for a long time. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. We shall go. Let the gods decide if these shall survive the winter.”

  Oliark looked at him with an expression of relief. Then he turned to the men. “We are finished here. Form up! We ride north!”