“Perhaps Da was right about the whole thing. Had I become a seneschal, I’d be far removed from any of this plight.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Jurgen said. “But what sort of life would you have as a bookkeeper for some noble? Living is something not done from writing desks and with your nose deep in ledgers. Not at all.”
“What do you suppose, then? After all of this is said and done, what is to become of me? I have no trade and no money, and I won’t go to my uncle. I can’t.”
“I know not, but if I survive this, I wouldn’t see you cast out in the streets. Your choice will become clear to you in time.”
“Thank you.” She went over to the goose, carved a few pieces, and gathered them on a dish. “Just right. The outside is crispy while the inside is tender and juicy.”
“Wonderful, thank you,” Jurgen said when she returned to the table. “Shall we pray?”
Pray? She remembered the practice, but prayers had rarely been said in her home. “Yes, that would be fine.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes.
“Azura, protect us in this dire time and show us the way. Give peace to Valyrie, for she suffers greatly outside of your grace. Pass your blessings unto her that she might have satisfaction in your name. Bless our meal that it might provide sustenance and resolve against those who would not do your will in all things. Be it so.”
Valyrie repeated, “Be it so,” and opened her eyes. She took a portion of meat and a bit of salad.
After a while, Jurgen broke the silence. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“The goose. Perfectly cooked. I applaud your efforts.”
She smiled. “It was rare that we’d have a goose, but I managed. Cooked it about the same as I used to prepare roast duck.”
“Quite fine.” Jurgen turned his head. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Yelling, perhaps?” He stood and approached the window. Valyrie got up to stand at his side.
On the street below stood four men, three militiamen and a fourth man opposite them, some twenty paces away. The guard in the front was pointing at the fourth, a man clad in black from head to foot. Valyrie spied red markings along the back of the man’s cloak, but she couldn’t derive their meaning or purpose. All she knew for certain was that she had never seen such markings.
The guard leader stepped closer to the man, and the unknown man held up his hand. Valyrie was left breathless when she recognized what he held in that hand—a wand. “Mages? Here?”
Jurgen took a deep breath, his eyes widening. “They’ve come for us, Valyrie.”
“Who? Who are they?”
“I do not know. Go to my room and retrieve the weapons.”
“Weapons? What weapons?” she asked, trying to control her panicked breathing.
“I procured two swords.” Jurgen pointed. “Get them. It seems we shall need them in due course.”
Bursting through the door, she searched the room and found the swords leaning against the bed. I wonder if Jurgen’s ever used these. No matter. Fighting gives us a better chance than doing nothing.
She crept to the window when she heard a loud noise outside, and she caught a glimpse of a bolt of lightning before it fizzled out of existence. One of the militiamen lay dead, smoke rising from his chest. Trembling, she watched the two remaining guards rush the man in black. One of the militiamen blew hard on his whistle. The chirp echoed off the buildings and into the night air.
Please, take him down . She eyed the swords in her arms. If left to us, we’ll fare no better than the dead man. A blast of swirling flames took one of the militiamen to the ground. The other grappled with the man in black, trying to wrest control of the wand. In the chaos of the struggle, a stream of fire shot from the wand, igniting the roof of a house across the street. The flames quickly swept across the roof, and people ran out screaming.
With apparently all of the strength he could muster, the militia man pulled the mage’s hand to his right. Valyrie saw the tip of the wand pointing her way, and she took a few steps backward. An explosion deafened her and incinerated half of the room in a flash of light. She felt the floor give way, and she reached out through the smoke and debris flying through the air, catching a plank before she fell through to the first floor.
A haze came over her, and she felt the prickles of wood splinters lodged in her skin. If you can feel that, you’re still alive. Pull yourself up before the next spell! With all her might, she tried to lift her body onto the landing, but it was no use. She looked below, and though she thought she would survive the fall, landing in a pile of broken wood, nails, and bricks made her think twice about letting go. Glancing up, she saw a hand close to her face, and she grabbed it.
Jurgen pulled her up, then brought her into the common room. “The swords, where are they?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking with fear and pain. “They might’ve fallen.”
“No matter. We have to get out of here.” Jurgen helped her to the stairs. When they had made it halfway down, the top of the house exploded in a firestorm. He ran, almost lifting her off the ground as he pulled her behind him, and burst through the door into the street.
She stared at the man in black, his eyes seemingly full of rage upon seeing them emerge from the burning structure. Losing no time, Valyrie grabbed Jurgen’s hand and ran toward the closest portcullis leading out of the Ancient Quarter.
She spotted two militia guards running up a narrow lane, and she didn’t stop running until she reached them. “Mage…” Leaning over, she rested her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath. “A man in black attacking—”
“Val,” one of the guards said.
She squinted. “Lae?”
Laedron took her hand. “Attacked you? Creator! You look like you’ve been through the hells.”
“I’ll be fine, but one of the militia fights with him still. You’ve got to stop him.”
Laedron turned to Jurgen. “Return to headquarters with Valyrie. We’ll take care of this one. Tell Piers what has passed here and have him send help.”
She took Laedron in an embrace. “Be careful. We’ll see you back at the chapel.”
The hug seemed to last an eternity, the safety of Laedron’s arms filling her with a warmth she hadn’t felt for a long time. Clearing his throat, Laedron returned her to Jurgen’s side, then took off with Marac toward the west gate.
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Crossing Wands
Laedron peered through the entry into the Ancient Quarter with a heavy heart. He recalled how powerful Gustav had been, and he only hoped that he had a chance at fighting the mage who was somewhere beyond. Then, he caught sight of a man in black rushing toward them, probably in pursuit of Jurgen and Valyrie.
The man stopped a hundred paces away and stared at Laedron and Marac, seeming to study them as they approached. Laedron paused after passing the portcullis and reached into his boot.
“No,” Marac said, readying his shield. “You can’t.”
“We stand no chance otherwise.” Laedron drew Ismerelda’s scepter.
“Houses ablaze ahead,” the man yelled, starting toward them again. “Several men dead, and a madman slashing about. I must leave this crazed place.”
“Not so fast.” Laedron held up his rod. “The houses may be on fire, but we’ll handle that in due time. The madman of whom you speak is you, Sorcerer, and we shall deal with you now!”
“Deal with me?” The man chuckled, then raised his wand. “Since you’ve made it clear that you know what I am, why don’t you simply let me pass? We’ll forget the matter, and you’ll live.”
The man must not have noticed what Laedron held, and Laedron decided to use that to his advantage. If he doesn’t know I’m a mage, he might not notice a ward spell on Marac’s shield. Laedron whispered an incantation under his breath, concentrating on the ruby set in the scepter. Marac’s shield glowe
d dimly with a silver vibrancy not unlike the color of its paint, and Laedron moved to stand behind him. Pushing Marac forward, he maintained the spell, and Marac continued at a steady pace and drew his sword.
The man in black sighed. “Another group of militia who don’t know a good deal when they hear one, it would seem. Very well. Only a bit of time wasted.”
The sorcerer flicked his wand while speaking a spell, and a lightning bolt flashed across the open ground, squarely striking Marac’s shield. Marac faltered for a moment, but pushed forward again once he had recovered.
“Wooden shield? That’s fine. How about a little fire?” the man shouted, raising his wand once more. With the utterance of some words, a ray of flames shot from the end of the man’s wand and crashed into Marac’s shield. Though Laedron could feel the heat warming his flesh, he kept his concentration strong. A loss of focus will mean my death and Marac’s. I won’t let my friends down again!
“What’s this?” The man sounded nervous. “Unaffected? Impossible!”
His head aching, Laedron released the spell and stepped out from behind Marac. “No, not impossible, not when magic is involved.”
“You… what do you know of magic?”
“Enough.” Laedron flicked his wrist and shouted an incantation before the man in black could react. A swirling black and red stream of energy struck the man’s hand, causing him to drop his wand.
“Another sorcerer? How can this be?” The man grasped his wand hand and winced. “How can this be?”
“You shall have plenty of time to think about the answer to that question in jail.”
The man laughed and reached for his fallen wand, but Laedron quickly cast again, shattering it.
“No, no more spells,” Laedron said. “You’re coming with us.”
“What is the meaning of this?” a voice shouted from Laedron’s right. “What are you doing?”
Laedron glanced in the direction of the voice, then closed his eyes, regretting that he had displayed the rod in public. He had become the focus of a squad of militia who had happened upon his flank. He was unable to keep the cold chills from racing up and down his spine, the fear of being half a world away from his home and fully exposed before those who would see his kind dead.
On his knees, the man in black raised his face to the sky and cackled. Even though the man surely knew he was condemned to death, he seemed to take pleasure in the fact that he wouldn’t be alone on the gallows. Hatred and anger welled up inside Laedron, and he counted the guards, considering for a moment if he could defeat them all.
“Drop it,” Marac said, tapping Laedron on the hand with the flat of his blade. “Put the thing down and come peacefully with us.”
Good, Marac . At least one of us stands a chance of getting out of here alive. Laedron put his scepter on the ground and held his hands outstretched at his sides.
“They’re in it together,” the other sorcerer started before taking Marac’s boot to the face.
“Enough out of you, fiend.” Marac picked up the rod, and the guards approached. “We’ll take them to the headquarters. Master Greathis will surely want to question them.”
An older militia man, a sergeant, if Laedron remembered the insignia correctly, stepped out in front of the others. “What has happened here?”
“I came upon these two quibbling in the street, then this one…” Marac pointed at Laedron. “… shot a spell at that one. I’m glad you showed up when you did, for I might have been killed.”
“What’s this business about you two being ‘in it together?’” the sergeant asked.
Marac shook his head. “I knew this one when I joined, but I didn’t know he meddled in the dark arts. Had I known that, I would’ve gone to Greathis much sooner.”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “I see. We’ll let Master Greathis sort this out.” He turned to the squad and pointed at the other sorcerer. “Pick that up and bring it along.”
* * *
His hands bound in chains, Laedron fell to his knees in Greathis’s office. The guards threw the man in black down beside him, and Marac stood to Laedron’s left. I might as well get used to living in chains if I survive this. It would seem the only thing I can do well is get captured. Greathis sat quietly behind his desk.
“We caught these two sorcerers in the Ancient Quarter,” the sergeant said.
“Leave us,” Greathis replied with a harsh tone. Laedron figured the tone was directed more at him because Master Greathis hadn’t looked at anyone else.
The sergeant left and closed the heavy oak door behind him. The room remained silent for what seemed an eternity.
Greathis studied the man in black. “What’s your name?”
The man laughed.
“Tell me your name.”
“Why should I?”
“Because,” Greathis said, standing and walking around the desk, “if you do not, you’ll rot in prison until you do.”
“If you even knew the people I work for, you’d know how empty your words are. Put me in your prison, but I’ll be out before dawn.”
Greathis turned to the door. “Wilkans!”
Sergeant Wilkans opened the door. “Commander?”
“Lock him up, and go under heavy guard. Search him well before leaving him alone, then bring all of his possessions—clothes, wands, everything—to me.”
“Yes, Master.” Wilkans dragged the man from the room.
“Perhaps some time in the stockade will loosen his tongue.” Greathis sat on the edge of his desk. “I already know your name, so we can skip the introductions and move straight into the matter at hand.”
Laedron nodded.
“What in the hells is going on?” Greathis asked. His tone was kinder than the one he’d used with the man in black.
“We heard the whistle coming from the Ancient Quarter, and we made haste. Jurgen is a friend of ours, and we wanted to make sure no harm had come to him.”
Greathis’s right eye twitched. “Go on.”
“Just before the west gate, we ran into Jurgen and his clerk, and they told us of the chaos. We went forward and met that man—the sorcerer—inside the Ancient Quarter. He tried to lie, but we saw through it. We engaged him and stopped him then and there.”
“Engaged him. You mean with magic, right?”
Laedron closed his eyes and slowly bobbed his head. “We had no other choice but to—”
“No other choice?” Greathis slammed his fist on the desk. “As if everyone goes around playing with wands and magic? As if it’s something innate and natural to do? Do you realize where you are, boy?”
“I know how it must look, Master, but—”
“How it must look? A recruit wearing my colors and throwing spells into the night? ‘Ole Greathis has lost it,’ they’ll say. ‘He let a mage into his little regiment. Jeopardized the whole of the theocracy, he has.’ You’ve made me into a laughing stock!”
Marac stepped forward. “Few saw us, Master Greathis, and those who did were mostly running away and screaming.”
“And you! Don’t think you’re out of trouble in the least. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as guilty as this one.” Greathis took a deep breath. “To think, my militia has been infiltrated by a mage. Azura! You’re not Sorbian. Tell me you’re not.”
Laedron dipped his head.
Greathis let out an angry growl. “I can’t believe it.” Greathis gave Laedron a puzzled look. “Why would Jurgen send you to me or even help you? You’re blackmailing him, aren’t you? Turned our dear priest into a spy for your dastardly cause? No, no… a forgery. You forged the letter to gain my trust, didn’t you?”
“He came willingly,” Laedron said, frustrated at the accusations. “And he aided us without threats or bribery.”
“Why, Sorcerer? If I may call you that, or would you prefer Sorbian dog? Why would Jurgen assist you against us?”
“We share the same goal.”
“And that is?”
“To end t
he war.”
“Why would a Sorbian be interested in ending a war that the Sorbians started in the first place?”
Laedron stared into Greathis’s eyes. The man exhibited disbelief and wonder, not what Laedron would expect to see from someone helping the Drakars. “We didn’t start the war. This war began with an attack on the Morcaine Mage Academy, a sneak attack perpetrated by Gustav Drakar and a band of your militia.”
“You lie,” Greathis said in a dismissing manner. “All of my men have been here with me this entire time. They couldn’t be in two places at once.”
Laedron shrugged. “Perhaps they only wore the uniforms of your men, then. Either way, the war was started by the Drakars, not by the Sorbians.”
“This makes no sense to me. What you claim cannot be true.”
“Can it not? Since we’ve joined your ranks, have we done anything other than help you? We found one of your men slain, caught his killer, and reported the incident to you. We stopped the one in the Ancient Quarter, too. Why would we do those things if we meant you harm?”
“To get on my good side?”
“Is that what you would expect of a sorcerer sent to infiltrate you? You can’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” Greathis said, folding his arms. “Where is Jurgen? I would hear this from his lips before drawing any conclusions.”
“I can take you to him, but only you. No one else.”
“Ah, yes, so you can lead me into a trap?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I could have done that already,” Laedron said. “You won’t be harmed. I swear it.”
“Well, if Jurgen trusts you, perhaps I can. You haven’t killed him yet, at any rate.” Greathis took a cloak from his chair and affixed it about his neck. “Lead on, Sorcerer, but no tricks. And the shackles stay on.”
* * *
Laedron led Greathis to the abandoned chapel. He took a deep breath, then opened the door and entered with Greathis following close behind. Once inside the common room, Laedron saw Jurgen and Valyrie seated at the large table, and Piers was treating Valyrie’s numerous cuts and scrapes.
The Consuls of the Vicariate Page 10
