Kingmaker

by Eric Zawadzki

CHAPTER 1

  “First-degree wizards wear bright green cloaks. As he rises from first-degree to seventh, the color of his cloak changes to reflect his rank — green, auburn, blue, amber, cyan, lavender and yellow. A wizard who reaches the highest rank, eighth-degree, wears red.”

  — Nightfire Tradition, The Magical Tradition of Marrishland

  Eda Stormgul walked the broken stone streets of Domus Palus, the capital and largest city in Marrishland. Swamp grass grew from cracks in the street, and to one side, a tree had managed to split the foundation of a building.

  Even in the midst of high civilization, the swamp encroaches, she mused.

  The wizard wore thigh-high leather boots over her thick pants. Her shirt clung to her body in the early summer heat, not made any cooler by the leather utility vest covering it nor by the thick cyan-colored cloak she wore. Heavy leather gloves hung from her belt, and the hilt and shorter blade of a marsord peeked through a slot in her cloak just above the knee.

  Centuries old, crumbling stone buildings leaned in around her. Eight lesser wizards followed her in loose formation, two cloaked in auburn and six in bright green. None of them carried a marsord, the rare, two-bladed weapon of the rich and powerful and of their trusted servants. Eda knew she wore hers at the pleasure of her eighth-degree patron. She had no delusions about her wealth or power.

  The patrol walked the night-shrouded streets with no torches, and Eda glanced up, feeling watched. Overhead, stars littered the moonless sky. They were the souls of the greatest heroes, so her father used to tell her, guiding the Mar in death as they had in life. Most of the wizards living in Domus Palus regarded it as superstitious nonsense only taken seriously by rural mundanes, but Eda believed it anyway.

  Just as I believe Mar do not kill Mar?

  The gaze of the stars felt accusing, now. Her boot caught on a crooked cobblestone, and she stumbled. One of the green-cloaked wizards caught her before she fell. She thanked him and turned her attention from the stars to the path ahead.

  A flash of white light, like a sudden flower opening, filled the square. Shielding their eyes, the wizards scattered.

  This is what we have waited for, Eda thought, drawing her marsord as a form materialized. Keeping her hands from shaking took all her control.

  A man crouched on the ground in the center of the square, his red cloak tight around him and the light still shining on him. His head was lowered as he recovered from teleportation sickness.

  Eda nodded to her wizards, who each quickly drew a bottle and took a sip. She poured a few drops of the bitter brown liquid on her tongue and blinked her eyes a few times as the torutsen took effect.

  All around, a sea of colored motes appeared — green, blue, auburn, amber, cyan, lavender, yellow and red — drifting lazily across the square like motes of dust caught in the sun. Near the wizards, it whirled as they gathered it with silent will. This was the myst, the source of magic, and though Eda knew it was always there, only torutsen allowed them to see it like this.

  The man rose to his feet before she was ready, but some of the quicker greens sent sparks of fire to singe his clothing. As the auburns hollered for a direct attack, Eda shook her head.

  He recovered too quickly, she thought, raising her marsord.

  The first real flame erupted from the stone near the man and immediately went out. Other torches exploded against a shield thrown up absently even as he expanded the circle of white light surrounding him.

  Eda joined the attack, tearing at his defenses with counterspells.

  The explosions and steam drew six more auburns and two more greens. They were seventeen against one as the new wizards created a cocoon to entrap the man. He disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame.

  They pressed him until the first greens tired and broke off. Eda stepped away from the cocoon. The reinforcements would take care of the rest. She ordered her patrol to fall back.

  “He must have suffocated by now,” someone said.

  She nodded grimly.

  At least his blood is not on my head.

  “Where is that light coming from?” a green whispered.

  The white light had not faltered.

  “Back!” she shouted to the auburns.

  Too late. A circle of green flame exploded from the cocoon, engulfing the six in a wall of fire that stopped just short of Eda and her patrol.

  When her vision cleared, the man was already moving toward her with incredible speed.

  He parried her first strike with his arm as the greens in the square picked at his back with sparks and rashes — all the attacks they could manage, right now. Eda didn’t get to see what happened next because an invisible hand threw her backward onto the uneven stones.

  By the time she lifted her head, he had already turned, her marsord in his hand — one red-garbed wizard against ten greens, now howling as they charged with knives. He lowered the marsord and raised his left hand as though such an act would halt them.

  She shouted at them to stop, but they didn’t hear her.

  The wall of flame they ran through was white hot and feet thick. Their screams turned from rage to agony, and they writhed on the ground.

  She reached for the myst through a wall of cyan motes that appeared before her. The motes of green and blue passed through the barrier in an insignificant trickle. The red pressed her marsord against her throat.

  “Surrender!” he demanded, his clean-shaven face vaguely familiar. His head whipped up as someone groaned in the square.

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  He glanced at her two auburns, who were healing the wounded. In a few more minutes, someone might be able to fight.

  “Tell the others to do the same.”

  “Obey him,” Eda called to them.

  The auburns nodded and continued their healing.

  He helped her to her feet and handed her back her marsord as though giving a bowl of soup to a guest. Then he helped the auburns heal the injured. She followed him. Fire seldom burned deep, and Mar magic was best at healing surface wounds. Two of the greens had died, their faces seared to the bone below. She turned away from the spectacle.

  “What is your name?” he asked her when they had finished. “And why did you attack me?”

  She cleared her throat and met his green eyes. Could it be him?

  “Eda Stormgul,” she said. “Our master has ordered us to kill all eighth-degree wizards entering Domus Palus until the Chair is secured by his allies.”

  Rage flashed across his face, but it wasn’t directed at her. He glanced at the dead greens. “Who sends greens and auburns to fight reds?”

  Eda had been asking herself that question all day. “We receive many strange orders, lately. Rumor has it one of Nightfire’s apprentices intends to try for the Chair — the one man the Dux of Flasten fears.”

  The red smiled at the flattery. “He does not fear me, yet, but he will.”

  “You’re Weard Sven Takraf, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Inform your peers and master that the one they hoped would not come to Domus Palus has arrived. There is no further need to attack arriving wizards.”

  She raised her right hand to the level of her cheek. “By the Oathbinder and with the heroes as my witnesses, we will do just that.”

  Sven weighed her with a glance.

  She met those hard green eyes. “I, too, studied at Nightfire’s Academy.”

  He lowered his gaze. “I remember you from Rustiford,” he said softly.

  “Horsa and Katla are also in Domus Palus.”

  He glanced up, eyes wide, although Eda couldn’t tell which name had surprised him. He recovered quickly, seeming to digest this news. “You always liked to be on the winning side, Eda. If you would stand with the victor, stand with me after I take the Chair.”

  “If you seize the Chair, I will follow you into the Fens of Reur. Remember me, when you are finished.”

  “I will.”