The
Consuls
of the
Vicariate
A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #2
Brian Kittrell
Persons, places, and other entities represented in this book are creations of the author and do no represent any real place or entity currently or formerly in existence or any person living or dead. The work is derived solely from the author's imagination. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without explicit permission granted by the publisher in writing. Any and all inquiries to the publisher of this work or the author of this work should be dispatched to the address listed below with Attn: Publisher or Attn: Mr. Kittrell, respectively.
The Consuls of the Vicariate is registered with the
United States ISBN Agency (in print) using the following designations:
Paperback, ISBN-13: 978-0-9829495-3-5
Hardcover, ISBN-13: 978-0-9829495-5-9
Electronic Edition
The work is published by:
Late Nite Books
P.O. Box 321
Brandon, MS 39042
email: [email protected]
The Consuls of the Vicariate © 2011 Brian Kittrell
Cover design by Brian Kittrell with some artwork/art elements (commonly known as “brushes”) used from Obsidian Dawn (http://www.obsidiandawn.com). It is with great appreciation and admiration that I was allowed to use these assets for creating part of this cover. Rights for reuse granted specifically by Obsidian Dawn (or their representative) in the form of licensing terms found on DeviantArt at http://www.redheadstock.deviantart.com/journal/12379986.
eBook formatting, coding, and design by Brian Kittrell.
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Preceded by: The Circle of Sorcerers
Next in the series: The Immortals of Myrdwyer
Table of Contents
—Prologue
—Chapter One, Resolving to Act
—Chapter Two, A Day of Remembrance
—Chapter Three, Seeking Out Secrets
—Chapter Four, Returning to the Consulship
—Chapter Five, Militia Matters
—Chapter Six, Dealing with the Enemy
—Chapter Seven, An Army in the Holy Land
—Chapter Eight, The Lost Militia
—Chapter Nine, Trouble in the Ancient Quarter
—Chapter Ten, Crossing Wands
—Chapter Eleven, Serving Justice
—Chapter Twelve, Storming the Palace
—Chapter Thirteen, Toying with the Fates
—Chapter Fourteen, An Exchange of Blood
—Chapter Fifteen, Keeping Watch
—Chapter Sixteen, A Palace Fit for Soldiers
—Chapter Seventeen, The Wrath of the Father
—Chapter Eighteen, Revelry and Reverie
—Chapter Nineteen, Old Stories
—Chapter Twenty, The Next Leg of the Journey
—Chapter Twenty-One, The Lives We Lead
—Chapter Twenty-Two, Order Restored
—Chapter Twenty-Three, Honor and Glory
—Chapter Twenty-Four, Upon the Sea of Pillars
—Chapter Twenty-Five, Nessadene at Nightfall
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Chapter One →
P R O L O G U E
War rages across the Bloodmyr Isles after a sneak attack by Heraldan forces against the Morcaine Mage Academy of Sorbia. Duke Hadrian Fenric, a skilled Sorbian general and the king’s brother, makes preparations to invade the Heraldan Theocracy. On opposite ends of the archipelago, Falacoran and Sorbian ships blockade enemy ports, trade routes, and supply lines. Meanwhile, Grand Vicar Tristan IV, willing to do anything to bring the faithful nations under one banner, draws the reigns taut and vies for more power over the Heraldan world.
Sorbia stands alone against a coalition constituted by the Heraldan Theocracy and the kingdoms of Falacore, Lasoron, and Albiad, but one would be a fool to doubt the Sorbians’ pride, strength, or resolve. Reeling like a beast against the slash of a sword, King Xavier II of Sorbia orders his armies and ships to show his enemies that his orange and black colors will fly forever over the Midlands.
The rest of the world can only wait for the outcome of the conflict, a fight that is sure to change the course of history. If the Sorbians succeed, the Heraldan church and the Holy Land would face complete destruction, but if the Heraldans win, Tristan IV would see to it that both the Sorbians and their precious sorcerers are wiped out of existence. Magic, freedom, and sacred traditions hang in the balance, and to the victor go the spoils.
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Chapter Two →
Resolving to Act
A simple five-candle chandelier dangled from the ceiling. With the sunlight and the candle flames, the room was illuminated just enough for Laedron to see without straining. The Shimmering Dawn crest hung above the door, and Laedron remembered the first time he’d seen it at the Westmarch keep. Westmarch, he mused. That was once the biggest city I’d ever visited, and now I find myself deep in the enemy’s homeland, far away from my old oak and gentle shores.
Marac and Brice, his old friends, sat gathered with Jurgen, Piers, and Caleb, his new allies, all of them prepared to discuss their next move. He glanced at Valyrie at his side, then he turned to Piers when he heard the scraping of wood against stone.
“Let us determine our next course of action. What, pray tell, is your plan, Sorcerer?” Piers asked.
Though the title instilled an awkward feeling, Laedron felt a measure of validation in being addressed in such a way. “We’ve been on the road for quite some time now. I would first like to hear of the situation at present.”
“Situation?” Piers asked.
“Yes, the war and its participants. New happenings.”
Piers nodded. “Falacore has naturally sided with the church, for their ties run long and deep. We’ve heard troubling news from our agents in Albiad and Lasoron. Their inability to join in the war is good for us, but the fact they cannot is interesting.”
“Lasoron and Albiad? Remind me of where those are.”
“The Lasoronians inhabit the lands northeast of here, just beyond the Sea of Pillars. The nation isn’t much unlike Cael’Bril—vast grasslands and forests, gentle rivers, and the occasional fortress citadel. Albiad, on the other hand, is a hilly country with mountains throughout its interior. Both of them share the same problem, though—the Almatheren.”
“The swamplands, right?”
“Indeed. Even strong and able adventurers go there never to return. The Almatheren Swamp is a place where the dead walk.”
Laedron’s jaw dropped. “The dead walk?”
“Surely you’ve heard the stories of Vrolosh and the Great War. Well, I can say to you that it didn’t end with him. The taint of Necromancy remains on the swamplands and devours those who wander there.”
“I don’t understand. The Lasoronians and Albiadines are sending their armies into the swamps?” Laedron asked.
Piers took a swig from his cup. “No, not quite. From what our agents tell us, they have been keeping their armies in Darkwatch and Southwatch. The dead are emerging from the wetlands.”
“But why?”
“It happens every on
ce in a while, when too many fools have lost their lives in that dreadful place. Overpopulation, that sort of thing. But Lasoron and Albiad must be more than a little concerned to hold their armies back at a time like this. Even the Grand Vicar, who happens to be a Lasoronian, cannot convince them to send aid.” Piers paused. “Enough of that, though. There are more pressing matters at hand. What did you have in mind for us?”
“We intend to replace Tristan IV with the priest Jurgen.”
“Difficult, to say the least.” Piers scratched the long scar besmirching his forehead. “Have you any thoughts as to making that a reality?”
Jurgen leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I still have connections in the consulship, and as I’ve paid my penance, I am allowed to return to the chamber.”
“What do you mean by that?” Laedron asked. “For what did you owe penance?”
Jurgen grinned. “When the Drakars came, I questioned their legitimacy to sit on the council, for they had no proper proof of their identity. The day after I levied my concerns to the other consuls, they produced the evidence, but I had my doubts as to its integrity.”
“You thought they fabricated the proof?” Marac asked.
“In a way, yes. The other consuls would hear nothing of it, and when the Drakars came to power, I was punished. They exiled me to Balfan and gave me charge of the tiny church where you found me.”
Laedron stared at him with curiosity. “What I don’t understand is how you came in contact with the Shimmering Dawn, much less became an ally in this war.”
“The complexities of a life well-lived, I should say.” Jurgen sipped from his cup, then returned it to the table. “I first met Meklan Draive during a mission trip to Sorbia. I was tasked with uplifting the people following an unfortunate series of famines throughout the region, and the Shimmering Dawn was an important Heraldan order in those days.
“We struck up a friendship of sorts right away, and even though the Dawn Knights eventually broke from the church, we continued to exchange correspondence. When I informed Meklan of my being sent away from the consulship, he was quite concerned, and my last letter to him indicated how unhappy I was with the Drakars and how I longed to be free of their persecution. It had become clear to me that I was an obstacle to Andolis and his want for destroying the Circle, but thankfully, my friendship with the Shimmering Dawn was never revealed.”
“Did he respond to your last message?” Laedron asked.
“Not in a letter. He sent a young mage and some of his knights.” His lips curled into a smile.
“Why did the knights break from the church?”
“The consulship has made many decrees regarding their dislike of spellcraft, and since its inception, the Shimmering Dawn has been known to be supportive of mages. It was not until recently, with the consecration of Tristan IV, that the church finally acted upon its feelings. No, this war has been in the making for quite some time, and the Drakars were the spark that ignited the flame.”
“The order is more than just supportive of mages,” Marac said. “We have a number within the order itself.”
“Forgive me if my meaning wasn’t clear.” Jurgen turned to Marac. “I meant to infer that fact, but merely returning to this city seems to have brought back my propensity for guarding my tongue.”
“Why would you need to be guarded about it? Isn’t it common knowledge?” Laedron asked.
“In Sorbia, perhaps, but not this far from your homeland. Regardless, few would care about the distinction in these times. The theocracy is at war with your country in its entirety. I only meant to say that matters of politics require a certain measure of tact.”
“Agreed.” Laedron nodded. “Have you considered what you will do? Of course, you must return to the consulship, but how?”
“Simple,” Jurgen said, taking another swig from his mug. “I walk in and take my seat.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Yes, but I do require a clerk to accompany me.”
Laedron shifted in his seat. “A clerk? Why?”
“To scribe notations and aid me with my duties, of course.” Jurgen gestured as if holding a quill to a piece of paper. “Consuls need the services of an assistant whilst in the chamber.”
“Where are we to find such a person? We have little money left to hire one.”
“Surely one of you can write.”
Shaking his head, Laedron glanced at his knights. “We can write, but it’s far too dangerous for us. I killed Gustav Drakar, if you have forgotten, and few left the cathedral without seeing my face. Also, any number of people could have witnessed Marac and Brice running from the guard the previous night.”
“Then we would require someone the church couldn’t possibly recognize.” Jurgen fixed his stare on Valyrie. “Or a person they wouldn’t deem to be a threat.”
During the conversation, Valyrie had done little beyond staring at the table, but she glanced up when the room grew quiet, seeming to feel the eyes falling upon her. “Who? Me? No, I can’t.”
“Can’t you?” Jurgen leaned toward her. “I’ve known you and your father for quite some time, and I find it hard to believe that you would be unable.”
“I can’t,” she repeated.
“We cannot ask this of her, not at a time like this. She just lost her father,” Laedron said, patting her arm. “There must be another way.”
“That’s not the reason.” She rubbed her eyes. “I must send word to my uncle; the inn will need a caretaker. I’ll have to watch over it until he can send someone.”
“If you prepare a letter, one of my men will carry it to him directly,” Piers offered. “I swear it.”
“That still leaves the inn empty. It could be a week before my uncle receives notice, then another before he could arrive.”
“If you want, my men can secure the inn and post guard until he comes.”
Nodding, she crossed her arms. “I’ll need to make funeral arrangements, too. He always said he wanted to be placed in the Sea of Pillars so he could rest near Azura’s heart.”
Jurgen removed his spectacles and rubbed his nose. “Out of the question. The Arcanists wouldn’t allow it.”
“What do they have to do it with?” Laedron asked.
“They keep the secret knowledge of navigating the Sea of Pillars, but they are also responsible for the sea itself, keeping the water sacred and holy. No common man’s remains may be spread there. Such an act would be likened to throwing paint on a temple.”
“Perhaps we can come to a compromise.” Laedron tapped his chin. “If I reduced his remains to dust, we could spread them along the banks of the sea. Would that be in keeping with his wishes, Val?”
“Azura teaches that our bodies return to the cycle after the soul has departed.” She paused. “Yes, I think he would have liked that.”
“You’ll serve in the capacity of a clerk, then?” Jurgen asked.
“Yes, I’ll do it. For the memory of my father. In exchange, you will serve him one last time by committing him to the sea with Azura’s blessing.”
“Of course. It’s settled, then. I’ll make arrangements for housing somewhere near the Vicariate. Valyrie and I shall need a separate place to reside for our task.”
Laedron raised an eyebrow. “You won’t stay here?”
“It wouldn’t be wise to remain here. If anyone followed me, they would locate the order’s secret headquarters, and our mission would be jeopardized.”
“Very well,” Laedron said, despite wanting to be near Valyrie. “You’re right.”
Valyrie stood. “I want to see my father one last time. Where is he being kept?”
“Downstairs in the private chapel.” Piers gestured toward the hall. “Caleb will show you there.”
Laedron watched Caleb close the door behind them. “She’s lost so much.”
“It is unfortunate, and if I could do anything to change the past, I would.” Piers folded his hands in his lap. “All I can do now is offer to help her i
n any way I can.”
Brice nodded. “What is this place? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Laedron turned to him. “We haven’t heard a peep out of you until now.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he replied. “I didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t talk, then,” Marac said.
Brice smirked. “Really, what is this place?”
“An abandoned church. Our order once occupied a place of honor in the city, but when the schism happened, we were cast out from our fortress,” Piers explained. “To remain in the city, we needed an unassuming base of operations, and we found one in this church.”
“Schism?” Brice asked.
“When the order separated itself from the church, the situation degraded quickly, and the militia confronted us openly in the streets. That’s where I got this scar.” Piers pointed at his face. “We took what money we had and bought this building under an alias.”
Caleb returned, and Laedron glanced his way before looking at Piers again. “No one knows you’re here?”
“No one outside the order, for our own safety. If the church were to find out, especially now, they would imprison us—or worse. As a result, we’ve become experts at keeping ourselves hidden over the years.”
“You’ve never been tempted to leave?” Laedron took a drink from a tray Caleb offered. “I would hate having to hide all the time.”
“It’s crossed our minds, especially when the war began. We came to a decision to remain here, though. What better place to be than under the enemy’s nose?” Piers let out a chuckle. “Any work we do for the order here is more important than any we could do elsewhere.”
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