The Consuls of the Vicariate

by Brian Kittrell

  Greathis shrugged. “Perhaps, but likely not. A lesser known part of the tale tells of how Vrolosh disobeyed Syril, instead choosing to use the power of the stones for his own ends. That, as some would believe, is what made it possible for Azura to defeat Vrolosh at the end of the Great War. Vrolosh’s arrogance and thirst for new heights of power made Syril turn his back on the Necromancer.”

  “What are they used for now?” Laedron brought his hand close to Forane’s face. “Some kind of dark ritual?”

  Forane licked her lips and eyed the soulstones as if the mere sight of them instilled a feeling of want. “They’re meaningless to you. You could give them to me…”

  Greathis crouched beside her and shouted, “What are they for?”

  “Many things,” Forane said, lowering her eyes. “If I tell you, will you give them to me?”

  “I might consider it. Go on.” Greathis stood and leaned on the front of his desk, folding his arms.

  “Augmentation.”

  Laedron considered her simple response. He thought the effects he had suffered when he had returned Brice to life—his hair graying, the sudden appearance of wrinkles on his face. The purpose of the stones became clear to him.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Greathis asked.

  “I think I know,” Laedron said. “The harvested souls can be used for powerful spells that would normally be fueled by the essence of the conjurer.”

  “Yes, young sorcerer,” Forane said, smiling as if filled with accomplishment and satisfaction. “Now, give them to me.”

  “What would you use them for, Vicar?” Laedron asked.

  “They have promised me immortality, and by these stones do I acquire it.”

  “Witch!” Greathis slapped her across the face. “You would sate your appetite upon the souls of men—my men and any others that you can find? Why would you do such a thing?”

  She spat a bit of blood onto the floor. “Andolis and Gustav told me that the teachings were a lie. They showed me the truth, and they promised that I could live forever, as they do.”

  Greathis raised an eyebrow. “Live forever?”

  “They’re Zyvdredi, you fool. The immortal enemies of the Uxidi, the truth seekers… the great ones.”

  “I had my suspicions, and this confirms them,” Laedron said. “When I fought Gustav in Pilgrim’s Rest, he spoke the ancient language of Zyvdred.”

  Marac gave Laedron a look of astonishment. “You knew, but you told no one?”

  “I didn’t know at the time. I knew he was a mage by his use of the old spells, but I had no idea that he was actually Zyvdredi.”

  “Do many people go around reciting ancient tongues in your presence?” Greathis asked.

  “No, but it’s common amongst elder mages, and I’ll leave it at that.”

  Greathis turned to Forane. “Why did the Drakars need your help?”

  “They needed someone familiar with the consulship and the Grand Vicar, someone with influence. Someone who could get them close to His Holiness.”

  “You mean to tell me that they killed Daris the Second?” Greathis asked. “They murdered the former Grand Vicar?”

  “Of course they did. How else could they take power?”

  “And Andolis and Gustav being from Darkwatch? All a farce?”

  “A cover story to validate their claims. We knew no one from Darkwatch would come this far to prove otherwise. They can’t keep the undead off them long enough to do anything else but fight.”

  Greathis rubbed his forehead. “How did they kill Daris?”

  Forane didn’t speak, but glanced at the stones.

  “They took his soul, didn’t they?” Greathis asked.

  She stared at the floor.

  “Why do you look away as if you’re ashamed to reveal it? You took stones like these in trade for your loyalty with full knowledge, did you not?”

  “The process isn’t pleasant,” she said. “I’ve seen it performed before. Andolis has a staff, and it has soulstones throughout.”

  Greathis shook his head. “Have you any idea the amount of people you’ve killed or put in harm for your avarice? No, don’t answer that. I can’t hear any more from you, traitor.”

  Forane slinked across the floor toward Laedron, her chains rattling. “Can I have them now?”

  “You’ll be fortunate if you live another night,” Greathis said, taking her by the throat. “Wilkans!”

  The sergeant came through the door so quickly that Laedron suspected he had been eavesdropping. “Yes, Master Greathis?”

  “Take this witch to the dungeon, to the depths where sunlight will never shine upon her.” Greathis looked her in the eyes, anger and hate twisting his features. “However many years you’ve gained from stealing souls will only keep you in that hole longer.”

  “You promised to give them to me,” Forane pleaded as she was dragged from the room. “Give them to me!”

  Greathis closed the door. “Things are much worse than I thought.”

  “What can be done? Have Jurgen go to the consulship in the morning?” Laedron asked.

  “No,” Greathis said, rubbing his chin. “It cannot wait that long. Every minute a Zyvdredi sits upon the throne of Azura, our people are in grave danger.”

  Brice said, “But I thought you couldn’t arrest a Grand Vicar.”

  “That is true, but the circumstances have changed. No, Andolis Drakar has seen his last sunrise as Tristan the Fourth. I will assemble my men, and we will go to the palace and capture him.” Greathis gave Laedron a grin. “I would appreciate your help if you would give it.”

  “You have it,” Laedron said, and Marac and Brice nodded in affirmation.

  “And you have my sincerest apologies.”

  “What for, Master Greathis?”

  “For the fact that you’ve come here despite all odds and in the face of great danger, that you’ve been falsely condemned by the church, and that you’ve proven to be my best ally even though you have every reason to be my worst enemy.”

  “We only mean to end this war and return things to the way they were. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing will be the same after this. It cannot be.”

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  ← Chapter Eleven | Chapter Thirteen →

  Storming the Palace

  Greathis, at the front of fifty militiamen, led the way toward the Vicariate Palace at the heart of the Ancient Quarter. The column passed the consulship building first, then marched parallel to the platform connecting the palace to the consul chamber.

  “That walkway was designed to give the Grand Vicar greater security when going between the palace and the consulship,” Greathis said, seeming to notice Laedron’s awe of the massive structure. “Early in the morning, you could catch a glimpse of His Holiness on his way to the assembly.”

  At the end of the platform stood a tower, which Laedron estimated to be ten stories or more above the walkway. Probably another five stories below that. Andolis could be anywhere in there or the palace beyond, and he may have any number of mages guarding him.

  Close to the steps fronting the complex, Greathis increased his pace, and the militia matched him. They stopped halfway up when the huge double doors at the top opened and Andolis emerged.

  “What draws you to my door at this late hour, Dalton Greathis?” Andolis asked. Laedron thought it was strange for him to still be wearing ceremonial robes around the palace that late at night. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Genevieve Forane, and you shall meet her soon enough. You are under arrest for conspiring against the peace.” Greathis unsheathed his weapon, and the militiamen readied theirs.

  “Do you forget the law, Guardsman? A reigning Grand Vicar cannot be removed by the likes of you, regardless of your charges. I can only be dethroned by the will of the consuls.”

  “I shall not suffer you to remain in that office, Charlatan. Your lies and plots have brought nothing but misery and sorrow, and we
shall abide you no longer.” Greathis inched up the stone steps, his men following.

  “Then, you leave me no choice,” Andolis said as black-cloaked men joined him on either side. Even from a distance, Laedron recognized the garments and the runic symbols embroidered on the men’s garments.

  Andolis retreated into the palace, and Greathis raised his sword. “For Azura!”

  The militia guards rushed up the stairs amidst a storm of spells from the black mages. The night sky was illuminated by a deluge of colorful light, with the red of flame and the white of frost joining the light blue sparkles of electricity. Laedron focused on the nearest mage, trying to keep his mind and eyes off the guards falling at either side.

  Almost there , Laedron thought, then a blast of energy sent him to the ground, dust and fragments of stone flying through the air. His ears rang and his vision blurred from the sudden explosion at his feet, and his legs burned like hellfire. It can’t end this way. He ran his fingers past his knees to see if the rest of his legs were still attached to his body.

  He felt holes in his pants and the wetness of blood, but surmised his body was still intact. Then he saw Master Greathis lying beside him. The mangled guard captain was gasping his last breaths. A hand came through the haze to wave in front of his face, and Laedron grabbed it.

  “Are you all right?” Marac shouted over the roar of the battle.

  “I’ll make it,” Laedron said with a grunt, struggling to stand. “We must get to Andolis.”

  “Brice!” Marac shouted. “You help Lae up the steps, and I’ll lead. Stay behind me.”

  With his arm wrapped around Brice’s shoulders, Laedron limped up the stairs. Marac held his shield at the ready. Fragments of wood and iron splintered off the hauberk as they went, and Marac dropped the bent, broken remains of the shield on the ground once they had reached the top.

  A mage turned toward them, his wand outstretched, and Marac rushed him before a spell could be cast. Marac plunged his sword into the belly of the man, the dark crimson of the blood indicating a deep, vital strike. Withdrawing the blade, Marac spun around with a slash, severing the mage’s head. He moved on to cleave another sorcerer in the chest and kicked the dying man down the steps.

  “Inside,” Marac said, pointing at the door. “They can handle the rest. Andolis is ours.”

  Brice helped Laedron through the door and pointed to the left. “There he is!”

  Marac turned and ran down the corridor, but Andolis escaped into a passage behind a thick oaken door. Twisting the knob, Marac said, “Hells, it’s locked!”

  Laedron staggered down the hall, then produced his scepter. “Stand back. I’ll burn it down.”

  Brice shook his head. “No, we have no idea what may be behind the door. Something flammable? Andolis waiting for us? Let me. I’ll do it nice and quiet.”

  Nodding, Laedron leaned against a table, while Brice knelt at the keyhole. The circular room had three exits—the one Laedron had entered through, the locked door, and an open arch leading to a raised walkway, presumably the one normally traversed by the Grand Vicar on his way to the consulship. We must be at the base of the tower, Laedron mused.

  Brice inspected the lock for a few seconds, then reached into his belt to retrieve a thin bit of metal. Laedron took the opportunity to mend his wounds with a healing spell, and though he couldn’t close them completely, he was able to stop the bleeding and ease the pain into a dull ache.

  Laedron heard a click, and Brice turned around with a proud smile.

  “Let’s get him,” Laedron said.

  “Wait.” Marac approached the open archway.

  Laedron moved to Marac’s side, and before he could ask, he saw what had captivated Marac. The night sky had a sheen of yellow which brightened to an orange glow, and the clouds were moving. Observing the heavens, Laedron noticed that the clouds were swirling around a focal point—the tower itself. He took a step backward when a stream of red lightning struck the platform beyond the arch, cracking the stone and sending bricks flying through the air.

  “We must hurry.” Laedron pulled Marac back inside and opened the door.

  Immediately inside the door, a stone staircase spiraled upward, and Laedron began a hasty ascent. He became winded the farther they climbed and was out of breath by the time they reached a ladder leading up to a wooden trap door. “Only a bit more now.”

  Marac climbed the rungs of the shoddy ladder, then pushed open the trap door. Past him, Laedron could see that the sky seemed to be burning. Flames swirled about the heavens, and thicker bands of searing red lightning mixed with them. He could hear faint chanting beneath the thunderous roar of magic, and he rushed up the ladder behind Marac.

  Once on the roof, Laedron took in his surroundings. The city of Azura was aglow from the blinding light of Andolis’s spell. What in the hells is he doing? Trying to burn the entire city? Like the finger of Syril, red flashes of lightning indiscriminately struck straw roofs, setting them aflame. At that height and with all the commotion, Laedron couldn’t tell for certain if people were escaping the burning buildings.

  Andolis stood on the opposite end of the tower’s roof, his left hand raised to the sky and his right holding a long staff. The wooden staff was carved into a wicked shape with thorns and spines fashioned into the shaft. The pole had a bend throughout its length, suggesting a subtle crescent or the look of a longbow. Along its exterior, soulstones were set into the wood, and each of them glowed and sparkled with red light. Laedron likened their appearance to a flame burning behind glass, but rays of energy seemed to be emitted from the sigils carved in the onyx.

  “Andolis Drakar, we come for you,” Marac said, his sword high as he neared the mage. “Put down the staff and end this madness.”

  “End this madness? What a wonderful thought.” Andolis lowered the staff, his eyes meeting Marac’s. “Perhaps I shall end the three of you. Yes, I think that would be more fitting.”

  Marac lunged at Andolis. The mage knocked Marac’s sword away with the end of the staff, then smacked Marac across the face with it. Brice let out a growl, rolled beneath the staff as it swung overhead, and slashed at the mage’s arm.

  Andolis hissed, a cut beneath his elbow dripping blood. Brice’s proud smile transformed to a look of fear when the mage flicked his staff and shouted a phrase. The spell sent Brice flying across the roof with a blast of white energy. Laedron glanced over at his friend’s body, then yelled his spell and aimed his rod at Andolis.

  A shockwave pulsed from the tip of Laedron’s scepter, and Andolis was thrown toward the edge of the roof, his momentum only stopped by one of the merlons at the edge of the battlement. Marac raised his sword high and ran toward the sorcerer. Andolis twirled his staff, blocking Marac’s attacks. The clang of steel against the hardened wood of the staff echoed louder than the storm of flames churning above their heads.

  Unable to get a clear aim for a spell, Laedron watched in horror as Marac slashed at Andolis, his sword deflected after each swing. Andolis struck hard enough to spin Marac around, creating time to cast a spell, an incantation which sent Marac flying backward and over the side of the tower.

  “No!” Laedron shouted. “You’ve killed countless innocents, and you’ve killed my friends.” Laedron raised his scepter and leveled it at Andolis. “Now, you die.”

  “I think not,” Andolis said. “I shall be the only one leaving this place alive.” Andolis waved his staff and uttered an incantation.

  Laedron was quick to cast a spell to counter the lightning bolt flying at him. Striking Laedron’s magic shield, the lightning splintered, arcing like the bolts he’d seen shooting across the sky. Once it dissipated, Laedron flicked his rod and shouted the words, sending a stream of flames at Andolis.

  Countering, Andolis cast a spell, and the air swirled violently around him, the flames joining the air like a tornado. Then, Andolis shifted and hurled the column of air and fire back toward Laedron.

  After a tumble across the roof, Laedr
on stood several feet away, his clothes steaming from the superheated perspiration all over his body. Andolis had missed, but just barely. Through the whirlwind of spells which followed, Laedron and Andolis shouted phrases and waved their weapons, while bobbing and weaving to dodge the other’s attacks. Laedron felt as locked in an improvised dance, and the final measure of the music would draw silent with one of their deaths. The fear he felt in his heart weighed greater than any he had come to know prior to that day, and he knew that one misstep, one false move, would finish him.

  He felt the sting of Andolis’s icebolt from the center of his body to the tips of his extremities, and the feelings of anguish and defeat that followed were no easier to accept. Glancing down, Laedron saw that a solid shard of ice had pierced him just above his sternum, and judging by the fact that he was still alive, he figured the spell had missed anything vital. He could still feel his heart beating in his chest, but with every pulse of blood, a chill surged through his body. Laedron saw doubled, blurry outlines of Andolis, then his face hit the ground as hard as Andolis’s spell had struck him in the chest.

  He had been bested by the enemy, and the world as he knew it would cease to be, instead becoming a place shrouded in darkness, pain, and torment for all who inhabited it. Lying on the ground, Laedron let his thoughts drift, flashes of visions of his life and the lives of his friends. Then, he saw people huddled in misery in distant, foreign places, people he had never met, but who shared in his defeat.

  Tears welled in his eyes for Ismerelda, who had died by the hands of another Drakar, for Master Greathis, who had been killed on the steps of the palace, and for Marac and Brice, who had followed him only to lose their lives so close to victory. Laedron cried for Valyrie, who would never see her father again, and for her father, whose death would go unavenged. Then, his emotions changed into anger, an insurmountable, insatiable hate for the man who approached to gloat over him while he lay dying.