The Consuls of the Vicariate

by Brian Kittrell

  The pain lessened as the ice bolt faded from existence, Andolis having obviously released the spell. A perfect hole—an inch or two in width—remained in his chest, but it didn’t hurt; the freezing cold had numbed the area, though it wouldn’t be long until the effect wore off.

  “Are you crying? For what do you shed tears? For my men whom you killed? No. For your own shortcomings and lack of training? For the defeat itself? Why do you weep?” Andolis asked, inching closer with each word.

  Laedron’s entire body trembled, a cocktail of fear, anger, and adrenaline coursing through his veins. “You… mustn’t…”

  “Mustn’t I? What? I mustn’t finish you off? After all the trouble you’ve caused?” Andolis glanced at the scepter sitting a few feet from Laedron’s hand, then he smiled. “No, I think I shall be done with you, boy. Then I shall continue my plan to rid the world of your kind, your impure and reckless brethren who should never have been taught the secrets of magic in the first place.”

  Laedron considered Andolis’s words, feeling as though he was only a pawn in a much greater, far older game about which he knew nothing. A war between the Zyvdredi and Uxidi over control of magic? They used the church to hasten the demise of all mages except those born in Zyvdred? Laedron had only a passing thought of the possibility. Given that he had seen neither the Creator, nor Syril as of yet, he considered his options.

  Laedron lifted himself an inch or two off the ground. “You’ve done well—”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Andolis asked, kicking Laedron in the face.

  The popping noise and the flow of blood from his nostrils let him know his nose had been broken. Doing his best to set his nose straight despite the insufferable pain, Laedron said, “You’ve done well thus far, Andolis. Turned the church on its head, even using it as a tool to rid the world of us. You’ve made one mistake, though, don’t you see?”

  Andolis put his left hand on his hip, the other tightly grasping the staff. “What mistake is that, whelp?”

  “You’ve taught others, priests, the secrets of magic. You have yourself done that which you hate.”

  “You think I don’t have a plan for that? With the rest of you gone, it would be easy to do away with the priests I’ve taught. A necessary evil, my little friend, much like the one I shall serve you with now. Once I’m done with you, I’ll finish my spell and be away from this place. Imagine it, boy, a firestorm, a torrent of fire to last at least the next hundred years.”

  Laedron was confused for a moment, then he realized how Andolis planned to accomplish the feat—the soulstones. Laedron saw the full use—the terrible use—of the soulstones to their maximal effect: making magic permanent by the use of a proxy, a fresh soul depleted in the casting of a spell.

  Andolis raised his staff high.

  Laedron braced himself for the finality of his death. The time had come for the Zyvdredi to claim his prize. Andolis spoke his chant slowly, as if savoring each dark word as it crossed his lips. In his other hand, Andolis presented a black stone, and his plan quickly became apparent.

  Laedron writhed in agony at the thought of being trapped forever inside an onyx gem, his soul used to power the spells that would lay waste to men and nations. Laedron reached for the dagger at his belt, but then remembered that Brice had taken it. Not even a chance to end my own life before he can draw out my soul.

  Laedron closed his eyes, unwilling to look at the dark violet light swirling around his body. Much to his surprise, the chanting stopped with a grunt from Andolis. Opening his eyes, Laedron saw a sword protruding through the mage’s chest with blood squirting around the edges of the blade. Andolis’s face told of his shock and dismay, apparently aware of his impending death, reminding Laedron of the time he had practiced captivation magic with Ismerelda. Laedron almost pitied Andolis and would have given in to the emotion had he not known Andolis’s true personality.

  He should have felt relief at watching Andolis’s limp body fall and Marac standing—alive—a few feet away, blood-drenched and wearing a look of deep satisfaction, but he didn’t. The mage’s words riddled his mind, and all the miles traveled thus far notwithstanding, Laedron felt as if they had only begun the journey.

  Laedron’s arms and legs grew numb, and his breathing became shallow. His vision cloudy, he lay still on the ground until he could see only darkness. The last thing he heard was Marac’s voice shouting his name, and then he heard nothing.

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  ← Chapter Twelve | Chapter Fourteen →

  Toying with the Fates

  Marac reached down, grabbing Laedron’s hand tight in his own. “Stay with me, Lae! Can you hear me?”

  Laedron didn’t respond, but Marac noticed movement across the roof. Won’t you stay dead, bastard? He took a firm grip on his sword and rose to his feet. Then, he realized Andolis lay dead and still where he had fallen. The movement came from further away.

  “Oh, my head,” Brice said, sitting up.

  Crouching at Laedron’s side again, Marac shouted to Brice, “Laedron’s hurt badly. We have to get him out of here.”

  Brice took the staff from Andolis’s dead hands and the ring from the corpse’s finger, then returned to Laedron’s side. “You get that arm, and I’ll take this one.” He pulled Laedron’s limp body forward.

  Marac eyed the staff and the ring. “What, we’re looters now, Brice?”

  “No, no. The ring glimmers like the stones in the staff. It could be important.”

  Please, don’t die. Azura… Creator… whoever is listening, please, save my friend, Marac prayed, lifting Laedron by his other arm. “Be careful with him, but we must hurry. To the headquarters. Jurgen will know what to do.”

  They lugged Laedron’s seemingly lifeless body through the streets with little more than surprised looks from passersby. Buildings burned, illuminating the night sky, and the total chaos gave no one time to ask questions or share concerns. Marac and Brice ended the race across town at the door of the Shimmering Dawn headquarters.

  Marac burst through the door and yelled, “Jurgen! Help!”

  Without delay, Jurgen and Valyrie joined them at the door and helped carry Laedron the rest of the way into the room.

  “What happened?” Valyrie asked.

  “Greathis decided we would take Andolis and the palace tonight,” Marac said.

  Jurgen’s face twisted with confusion. “What? He told us—”

  “I know what he said. After Forane’s confession, he decided we had to act quickly. He’s dead, Jurgen, Greathis and many of his men, and Laedron’s not far behind. Help him!”

  Jurgen led them to Laedron’s room, and they laid him on the bed. The priest examined his body. “A great deal of damage has been done. If you value your friend’s life, you’ll leave me to my work.”

  “I can’t leave him,” Marac said. “Not in a time such as this.”

  Jurgen pressed his hand firmly against Marac’s chest. “You must give me time and space to work. Now go!”

  He breathes still. Marac glanced at Laedron one last time, then begrudgingly walked out, and Brice and Valyrie joined him at the long dining table.

  “After all we’ve done for him, Jurgen had better fix this.”

  “What if he can’t?” Brice asked.

  “He better find a way. I’m not losing Laedron now. No, not now. We finally accomplish what we’ve come here to do, and he dies? No, I won’t have it.”

  “He’s hurt pretty—”

  “Not another word,” Marac snarled. “That is a possibility I will not accept. Do you not understand? He will survive.”

  Every crackle of the fire grated on Marac’s nerves, his temper rising with each second that passed without news. Staring at the closed door to Laedron’s room, he pondered what might be happening on the other side. Does a longer wait mean they’re getting good results? Or does the delay mean my friend has taken a turn for the worst? The uncertainty had a dual effect on his mind. Until someone came ou
t and told him, he didn’t know whether Laedron was alive or dead, and although he preferred the former, the passage of time kept him from finding out the latter, leaving him with hope.

  Few more precious, abrasive moments went by before the door slowly creaked open. Standing, Marac studied Jurgen’s worried face.

  Jurgen continued to wipe his hands on a scrap of cloth, and his head turned downward when he seemed to notice Marac watching him.

  “I—” Jurgen began, then paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Marac asked, wanting a better explanation. “What do you mean, ‘sorry?’”

  “I’ve done what I can. I don’t see him lasting the night.” Jurgen reached out to take Marac in an embrace, but Marac pushed away his hands.

  “Sorry?” Marac shot past Jurgen and into the room, then looked at his friend lying on the mattress, his life draining away with every tick of the clock. Lae. It cannot be. It can’t end this way. No! He fell to his knees next to the bed, gripping Laedron’s cool hand. He could tell little life remained in the body. Tears rained from his eyes like a torrent of floodwater, and he wailed with desperation. Brice turned away, and Valyrie gasped.

  He wondered how he could continue forward without his friend at his side. They had come so far together, yet Laedron lay dying. He fell further into the depths of despair when he tried to imagine telling Laedron’s mother what had passed, that her only son had died trying to save a people who hated his kind. Laren. Creator! How can I explain to his sister, my love, what has happened? How can I tell her that her brother will never come back?

  Putting his head on Laedron’s belly, Marac felt the brush of a velvet cloth on his forehead. He sat up and noticed the black cloth bag still tied to Laedron’s belt. Marac remembered what had happened in Pilgrim’s Rest—Brice’s resurrection. If Laedron could bring Brice back, Jurgen can stop Laedron’s death, for priests are gifted with healing magic. The stones. Augmentation, as Forane put it. There is a way!

  He snatched the sack, stepped out of the room, and forcefully took hold of Jurgen’s arm.

  Jurgen’s eyes were full of heartache and regret. “I’m sorry, Mar—”

  “No, it cannot end this way.” Marac emptied the pouch into Jurgen’s hand, then held up a stone with an unnatural glimmer. “Take this. You shall undo this, Priest.”

  “What?” Jurgen stared at the stone. “What do you mean? What is this?”

  Marac tried to decide if he would lie or tell the truth. I can’t ask him to do this unless he knows full well what is involved. He must know the truth, but he will do what I ask just the same. “A soulstone, Jurgen. To instill full healing and restoration in his body, to bring him back from death’s door.”

  “No. No, you cannot ask this of me.” Jurgen pushed Marac’s hand away. “Not even Azura would do as you ask. What you speak of is Necromancy, preventing a death that cannot be stopped.”

  “I shall miss him as much as any of you,” Valyrie said. “But this isn’t right. No matter how much I want him to stay with us, what you ask is against everything Jurgen believes—what we all believe.”

  “What I speak of is fairness!” Marac punched the nearby wall. “We’ve come hundreds—no, thousands—of miles because of a war your people started, and we stopped the murders of your militia, took care of the Drakars, and soon, we’ll end the war. Now, Vicar, it is time to repay your debt.”

  “He was wrong to resurrect Brice,” Jurgen said, backing away. “Do you know what you ask? Meddling in the affairs of the Fates? Performing acts reserved for gods? He’s too far gone for me to prevent his passing, Marac Reven.”

  “I care not. You owe everything to him, Jurgen. Take this stone.” Marac raised the onyx gem close to Jurgen’s face. “Keep him alive. Cast the spell, perform the miracle, whatever in the hells you want to call it, and repay him for everything he’s done for you.”

  “And what soul might be contained within this gem?” Jurgen stared into it. “If there is a way to return that person to life, you would sacrifice this man or woman’s soul?”

  “Do you suggest we find some empty vessels to house these souls? I know no other way to house a soul other than to find a body in which to place it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then, use this essence and return our friend. He doesn’t deserve to die here.”

  “No, it cannot be—”

  “Then, you shall receive no more help from us, Priest.” The sadness, the anger at Laedron’s impending death, and his newly formed contempt for Jurgen clouded his thoughts and heightened his anxiety. “You’ll be left to deal with the rest of this on your own.”

  “We won’t help him?” Brice asked. “You can’t leave him to finish this on his own. None of this is his fault; he’s done nothing.”

  “That’s precisely the point, Thimble,” Marac said. “His idleness is the problem. He can save Laedron here and now, but he refuses.”

  “We still need your help,” Jurgen said. “We require the knowledge of your countrymen to secure a lasting peace.”

  “Then, do what’s right. Make him better or see your country laid to waste. Those are your only choices.”

  I can’t believe I’m threatening a priest. Marac kept his expression harsh, and in the condition and circumstance he was, he didn’t find it difficult to maintain his demeanor.

  Valyrie ran to Jurgen’s side. “You can’t abandon Jurgen, not now. Laedron wouldn’t have wanted you to give up and leave. Please, stop this.”

  Marac shook his head. “If he dies, Lae shall no longer be bothered with affairs such as these.” He looked at Jurgen. “Will you do as I ask?”

  “I can’t do it,” Jurgen replied. “It could condemn my spirit for eternity.”

  “Then let the act be of my will. I am the one who demands it be done, so the responsibility—for better or worse—is mine to bear. Do it, Jurgen.”

  Jurgen seemed to contemplate the proposition for quite a while, then he said, “Very well. Give me the stone, but know this: I do this on your behalf, and when I have finished, never ask this of me again. None of you may speak of this to anyone else, not ever.”

  Marac handed the soulstone to the priest, and Jurgen gave Marac a gaze that he would never forget, the priest’s eyes piercing and penetrating him to his very core.

  Once inside the room, Jurgen examined Laedron, then he peered at the window. “We need to take him somewhere secluded.”

  “The chapel downstairs should suffice,” Valyrie said.

  Without another word, Brice and Marac took Laedron’s body down the stairwell at the end of the hall. They lay him on the shoddy stone altar, then backed away.

  “Leave us,” Jurgen said solemnly, clasping his hands together. “I need privacy for this.”

  Marac followed Valyrie to the door, then he nudged Brice because he seemed enraptured by the sight of Laedron upon the altar. “Come along. We’ve done all we can.”

  On the stairs, Brice said, “I just never could have imagined Laedron like that. He’s not much older than we are, Marac.”

  “I know. Worry not, though.” Marac took a seat at the long table once again, and he could only guess how long it might take. Minutes? Hours? Until morning? Whatever it may be, it shall be worth the price to see my friend once more. To hear his voice, his encouragements. I’d settle for a tongue-lashing if only it meant he were here with me.

  After an hour had passed, he heard the sound of footsteps against stone, then Jurgen entered from the hall. After a long pause, Marac said, “Well?”

  “It is done.” Jurgen folded his arms. “Your friend will live, but he has not awakened.”

  Marac stood. “What can we expect?”

  “I cannot say how long Laedron will be asleep, but we mustn’t wait for him. We must find and speak to the Sorbian commander posthaste, as early as we can go in the morning.”

  “I understand,” Marac said, nodding. “We shall aid you in that task.”

  “So long as you don’t threaten
me again.”

  Marac gazed at the floor, unwilling to look Jurgen in the eyes. “I can only offer my deepest apologies for my… outburst. Please, forgive me, Vicar. I only—”

  “You don’t have to offer up excuses. I’ve become tired of seeing so much death of late. I must remind you, however, that I will not perform a miracle with a soulstone again. To do so would be against what little of my principles I have left. I shall go to the consuls tomorrow and raise the question of negotiating, and hopefully, we will be able to leave the city by noon.”

  “I won’t ask it of you again.” Marac paused. “Thank you for what you’ve done, and I will go with you to meet my countrymen and negotiate for peace.”

  Jurgen went into his quarters and closed the door.

  “Will this insanity ever cease?” Valyrie asked.

  Marac bobbed his head. “For a time, it shall, but not forever.”

  “Goodnight.” Valyrie glanced at him. “I suppose we will go and meet the Sorbians tomorrow.”

  “No,” Marac said, stopping her. “You must stay here.”

  “For what? To protect me from the ravages of war?”

  “To watch over my friend while I’m away. To care for Laedron. I don’t trust his welfare to just anyone.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Goodnight.” She disappeared into her room and closed the door.

  “What would you have me do, Marac?” Brice asked.

  Marac smiled and wrapped his arm around Brice’s shoulders. “You’ll be at my side for this. We’ll need our best people for the time ahead.”

  Brice grinned. “I’d better get some sleep, then. Morning’ll come faster than we know it.”

  “Yes, get some rest. We’ll talk over breakfast.”

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  ← Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fifteen →

  An Exchange of Blood

  Early the next morning, Marac met Brice and Jurgen in the common room. Caleb and Piers had prepared a great feast—sausages, eggs, flat cakes, and fresh juice. While they ate, Marac eyed Jurgen, receiving only a dead stare in response.