The Circle of Sorcerers: A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #1

by Brian Kittrell

Laedron turned the knob and gave the door a sturdy shove, causing it to swing wide. He stepped through, glimpsing the master craftsmanship of the stonework and the perfection of the artwork which adorned it. The vaulted ceiling rose higher than Laedron would have thought the mountain could contain. Proceeding farther into the room, his heart beat even faster.

  “Ah, you're here,” an all-too-familiar voice said when he reached an enclave. The priest sat in a decadent throne before an oversized desk inscribing a scroll. “Let me take a look at you, then.”

  When Laedron saw the man’s face, he held his wand at the ready.

  Without an altered expression, the priest said, “This is all Meklan Draive could find to pit against me? What a shame.”

  Laedron's thoughts transformed from vengeance upon this priest to confusion.

  His expression must have betrayed his thoughts because Gustav asked, “Surprised? Like your Shimmering Dawn, we have informants of our own. What, you didn't think we'd find out about you?”

  “Enough of your petty talk.” Raising his wand, Laedron took a defensive stance. “It would appear that I have you at a disadvantage; your staff is twenty feet away.”

  “What, that old stick?” Gustav laughed. “I am more resourceful than that. Heidrik? Care to deal with this irritation?”

  From behind a nearby column, a man stepped out wearing black leather armor and carrying a coiled whip at this side. When the man had come closer, Laedron thought he could see the stains of blood at the tip.

  “Yes, my lord,” Heidrik said, a sinister smile creeping across his face. “My whip has a taste for Sorbian blood of late.”

  In a flash, Heidrik drew the whip and cast it. Laedron felt a stinging on his face when he heard the whip crack, and blood ran down his left cheek. Thinking of Mikal being lashed to death and the torture Marac had endured, Laedron thrust out his wand and shouted his spell. Across the room shot a ray of red and orange flames, enveloping Heidrik in an inferno. Laedron maintained the spell until the man's skin turned to ash, and a charred, black corpse crumpled to the floor. He kept his expression serious even though the sight disgusted him.

  “Fine, have it your way,” Gustav said, unbuttoning his sleeves. “If you want a mage's duel, you shall have one.”

  As Laedron shouted another incantation and thrust his wand, Gustav produced a scepter and did the same. Laedron’s bolt erupted across the space between them with a flash of light but was absorbed by an invisible barrier in front of the priest. Casting another spell, Laedron watched it deflect into a nearby tapestry, setting it aflame.

  Gustav laughed and approached, seemingly undaunted by Laedron's magic. Laedron flung spell after spell, a spectacle of energy and light, but nothing penetrated Gustav's shield. Over the course of his casting, Laedron had backed up to a stairwell on the opposite side of the room.

  “My turn?” Gustav asked, his arrogance dripping from the words. With a swish of his rod and the utterance of a phrase, a sparkling blast of energy erupted from the tip and struck Laedron in the shoulder.

  Zyvdredi! Laedron thought, but the pain took his mind off everything except his burning flesh. With a shriek, he ascended the stairs. Halfway to the top, he turned and cast again, a fibrous spider web appearing in the passage. He continued up as flames from Gustav's rod burned through the tangles.

  Once on the landing, he turned to back to see Gustav approaching at a steady pace, his proud smile remaining on his face. “Can we hasten this? I have a ceremony to perform.”

  The ceremony, of course! Laedron thought, turning to his left. Running down the passage, Laedron ducked the lightning strikes above his head. At the end of the hall, he pulled on the heavy door, but it was locked. Spinning around, he saw Gustav coming through the tunnel. Focus! he told himself when Gustav manifested his next spell. He considered conjuring a dispelling field, but he didn’t want to take the chance at being wrong; Gustav was clearly a studied mage, superior in his skill of magic to Laedron in every way. Just as he released the lightning bolt, Laedron jumped to the side, leaving it to slam into the door.

  The door splintered into the room beyond. Laedron ran through the opening to see the congregation screaming and fleeing for their lives. He stared at the ceiling, where the massive chandelier hung above the altar, focusing upon it until Gustav came through the door.

  “Now, you've gone and done it,” Gustav sneered. “This will take some time to fix, boy!”

  Not wanting to give Gustav a chance to cast another spell, Laedron flicked his wand above his head and chanted. Both of them grew silent, then Gustav smiled, seeming to recognize the spell Laedron had cast. He shook his head. “This is no time for rope tricks, fool!”

  Gustav took several steps toward Laedron and extended the rod. “Nowhere left to run, you pathetic little whelp. If you should see Ismerelda in the hells, tell her I sent you there to meet her!”

  Laedron’s breathing hastened, and he shied away when Gustav chanted his spell. Flames encircled the priest, and a fireball manifested at the tip of his rod. Just as the fire leapt through the air, the massive fixture crashed down upon him, and crystal shards and scraps of metal exploded through the air. Laedron watched Gustav’s body fall, crushed beneath the twisted wreck of iron and glass.

  Across the floor skipped Gustav's rod, coming to rest at Laedron's feet, the swirling flames dissipating. Laedron breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the frayed ends of the rope at the top of the chandelier. Thank the Creator they finally broke, he thought. He reached to pick up the scepter and recognized the gold and silver twisted together into a spiral, the prongs at the top retaining a ruby.

  “Ismerelda's scepter,” he whispered in awe, taking it in his hands.

  Laedron didn't know how to feel. His heart was filled with gladness that Gustav was dead, but it wasn't enough to ease the grievous emotions of Ismerelda's death. It wasn't enough that her killer lay dead before him, and it didn't give him any peace from Mikal's slaying. Happiness intermingled with sadness, and a sense of achievement was overshadowed with a feeling of loss.

  “Halt, mage!” a man shouted from below the altar. Laedron turned to see the man’s spear held a few feet away. “He's killed the deacon!”

  “And I shall take care of you, also.” Laedron whipped his wand about. When he finished the spell, the guard's spear split in two, from the point to the butt. Dropping the two halves, the man gasped and took flight.

  Laedron proceeded down the center aisle of the room while the parishioners fought with one another to escape. After he exited the cathedral, he spied a row of soldiers marching in unison along the road toward him, their spears outstretched.

  Laedron took his stance, and raising the rod to the sky, he shouted a spell in Zyvdredi, careless of anyone hearing his dark words. Lightning struck the cobblestones in the street, and a gust of wind swept through his clothes. The torrent of air grew stronger, and the loose stones from the road took flight and pelted the oncoming soldiers.

  At first, the pelting of stones seemed only enough to irritate the spearmen, but the air current strengthened until the stones flew hard enough to break bones and crack skulls. The storm was then in full swing, the sky dark and thunder roaring all around them.

  The remaining spearmen retreated as their numbers quickly diminished. Laedron had killed ten of them without so much as a drop of blood upon their weapons. Averting his eyes from the carnage, he walked through the strewn bodies, some missing limbs or even the head.

  Before he reached the curve in the road, he looked back at the cathedral. His magic had broken one of the great columns, and a large crack ran the entire length of another. Turning to continue to the inn, he sprang back when an arrow struck the ground near his feet. Watching it skip harmlessly to the side, he locked his gaze upon the city wall, which had a lone turret with arrow slits carved into its perimeter.

  With an utterance and a wave of the scepter, Laedron manifested a ball of fire in his hands. He thrust his rod forward, and the tower was s
wallowed in fire. When the flames broke through the wood and shingles of the roof, the structure exploded, raining stone and burning fragments of timbers on the nearby buildings. The silhouettes of archers ablaze fell to the ground below the wall.

  Unopposed, he continued through the streets, the rest of the defenders and citizens he encountered apparently unwilling to confront him. When he turned the corner in front of the inn, he saw Jurgen and Marac seated on the bench atop a covered wagon.

  “Come on!” Marac said, reaching down to him. “We must flee before the army is summoned!”

  Climbing onto the wagon, Laedron said, “Too late,” when he spotted a column of troops approaching from the easterly road. “Drive!” he shouted, preparing a spell.

  The troops stopped and raised their shields, and from behind the soldiers a hail of arrows flew toward the wagon. Just as Laedron finished the incantation, the arrows struck the barrier of energy his spell had created around them and bounced off. He twitched as the arrows beat down upon them, his skin itching as if from a pinprick each time a missile landed.

  Jurgen slapped the reins, and they took off to the north. Once he could no longer see the troops, Laedron released the spell and perched on the bench. “Drive them harder!”

  Around the northern gatehouse and the wall, troops patrolled in a leisurely fashion. “They must not know yet,” Laedron said, bringing his rod to the ready. “The gate's still open. Faster!”

  Jurgen drove the horses along the edge of the cliff, which narrowed to mere feet when it reached the gatehouse. The guards raised their hands and shouted, “Slow! Halt!”

  Laedron nudged Jurgen. “Go, before they have a chance to close the gates!”

  The guard nearest them yelled toward the gatehouse, and the portcullis started to close. Laedron gauged the distance and compared their speed against that of the closing barrier. “No matter what happens, keep going!”

  He waved his rod through the air, and through the squares of the portcullis, a spell shot, slowing the gate’s descent. A hail of arrows whizzed past them. He continued to concentrate, and the portcullis froze in midair. Laedron was filled with anguish, the burden of the steel bars weighing on his raw will. When the coach passed the threshold, he relaxed and released the spell, allowing the gate to crash down behind them.

  With arrows raining down upon them, Laedron flicked the rod back and forth, uttering minor spells to deflect as many as he could. The road curved between a jutting rock and the cliff face, and one of the lead horses could go no farther, having taken at least five direct hits during the escape.

  The horse’s barding broke when it ran to the right. The wagon sprang through the air as if it had run over the body, but Laedron could see the horse had survived and gotten free. With the force of the break, the wagon steered left toward the cliff’s edge. The remaining horses kicked their hooves in an effort to stop, but the weight of the coach and the gathered momentum made it impossible with the sudden change of direction. Thinking fast, Laedron cast a spell at the bolt holding the horses to the wagon, releasing them before they plunged over the ridge. He smiled with relief before turning to stare at the sea below as their coach fell.

  “Hold on to me!” Laedron shouted to Marac and Jurgen as he reached for Brice. He waved the scepter and chanted with Jurgen holding onto his right leg, Marac on his left, and Brice grasping his free hand.

  “Kick the coach away from us!” Laedron shouted, his injured arm cracking and bleeding under Brice's weight.

  Marac counted to three, and he and Jurgen pushed against the carriage with deep, anguished groans. The coach slowly separated from them, falling faster than their bodies. The wagon fell into the sea, and the echoes from the crash resounded on the rock faces.

  Laedron concentrated, his face burning and the veins in his neck and head tensing. They landed in the sea with a splash, scattering in the waves. Sinking, Laedron maintained a death grip on Brice's hand and Ismerelda's rod, and he felt the hands release from his legs.

  Popping his head above the water, he saw Brice come up next to him. “Are you well?”

  Brice nodded as he gasped for air. “Yeah!”

  “Marac?” Laedron spun in the water. “Jurgen! Marac!”

  A few moments later, Marac appeared on the surface, followed shortly thereafter by Jurgen. They each sucked in air and opened their eyes. “What do we do now?” Marac asked, swimming and pulling Jurgen behind him.

  Just as he finished speaking, a wave crashed over them, slamming their bodies into the rock. Laedron watched while his friends tried in vain to hold themselves away from the jagged cliff face, but the crushing power of the sea was too great.

  “We can't stay here!” Laedron searched across the water for an escape. “There! That sandbank!”

  “It's too far,” Brice said, obviously in pain, and blood poured from a cut on his head.

  “We won't last much longer here!” Marac swam away from the base of the cliff. “Get a move on, thimble!”

  Laedron helped Brice along, but the going was slow. Each wave that crashed into them seemed to put them back half the distance they had struggled to swim up to that point, but they kept fighting.

  “Almost there!” Laedron shouted, the beach inching closer. “We can make it!”

  “I can go no further.” Jurgen struggled to keep his head above the waves. “Just let me rest a while.”

  “The tide will take you,” Marac said, pulling Jurgen beside him. “Keep pushing, only a bit further to go! Swim!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the Bottom of the World