The Consuls of the Vicariate

by Brian Kittrell

  “We’ll be going into the city today, Caleb and me,” Piers said, taking his cloak. “To check a few things out and make sure no more of those mages show up unexpectedly.”

  “Good, yes,” Jurgen said, watching them leave.

  “You think they’ll agree to peace?” Brice asked, eagerly helping himself to heaping portions of food.

  Jurgen had barely touched his meal, but he drank plenty of the juice. “Who can say? The only thing we can do is ask.”

  “I doubt they have much of a choice in the matter,” Marac said. “We have quite a story to tell, and the Drakars—the whole reason for the fighting—have been done away with.”

  “No guarantee they’ll agree to our terms, though.” Jurgen leaned forward. “After their successes at Balfan, they may yet yearn to devour the entire country.”

  Jurgen stood and walked toward the door. “Coming?”

  Marac joined him, and Brice was still shoveling handfuls of meat and eggs into his mouth even after they had passed the golden chalice in the square. Jurgen confidently led the way to the consulship chamber, and they were among the first to appear—behind only the chamberlains and the militia. Garnering a few odd glances from the arriving consuls, Marac took a seat at Jurgen’s side and tried to keep a low profile.

  Jurgen stood once the chamber had filled. “Vicars, we have been victimized. We have been tricked, and we have been defrauded. We were led to believe that a Lasoronian had ascended to our highest office, but in fact, a Zyvdredi plotted his way to the Vicariate Palace, assuming the title and rank of Grand Vicar.”

  Amidst the roars from the gallery, Jurgen continued, “We must undo what the Zyvdredi have done. We must go to the Sorbians and make peace.”

  “What proof have you, Jurgen? Where is Tristan?” one of the vicars asked.

  “Tristan is dead, along with Dalton Greathis and a number of our militia.”

  Sergeant Wilkans stood. “It’s true, all of it. I was there, and I didn’t want to believe it myself. When men in black emerged from the palace and flung spells at us, I saw nothing other than the truth of it.”

  “Vicars, we must send an emissary to sue for peace, and I shall volunteer to go.”

  Vicar Griffinwold stood and joined Jurgen. “Surely, Vicar Jurgen, we can select someone other than you to send forth. Such a task is very dangerous, and I couldn’t bear anything unfortunate befalling you.”

  “You are kind, but the responsibility sits upon my shoulders. I should have been stronger. I failed to serve this body once by indifference and lack of action, but I won’t fail again. Begging the vicar’s pardon, I remain a choice for this mission.”

  “As you see fit.” Griffinwold bowed and withdrew to the gallery.

  “Then, the question shall be, shall we send Vicar Jurgen to meet with the Sorbians to negotiate peace? If it pleases the chamberlain, I would ask for a vote by live voice.” Receiving a nod from the chamberlain, Jurgen asked, “All in favor?”

  In unison, seemingly everyone said, ‘Yes.’

  “And in opposition?”

  His question met with silence. “Good. We will take some horses from the Vicariate Palace stables.”

  “We, Jurgen?” Carrenhold asked.

  “Yes, my friends here. I will not be taking a complement of militia on this journey. Should we fail, every man will be needed to guard the capital. I suggest, in my absence, that you continue the initiatives we have put forth. I would also advise we appoint a new militia commander.”

  “I offer up Sergeant Wilkans for the position,” Griffinwold said, standing. “He has always been at Greathis’s right hand, and he knows the responsibilities well.”

  Jurgen nodded. “All in favor?”

  A resounding echo of ‘yes’ confirmed Wilkans as the new commander of the guard.

  “I only promise that I’ll do my best. Many thanks.” Wilkans bowed before the consuls, then exited the room.

  Jurgen turned to Marac and Brice. “Are you prepared to leave now?”

  Although Marac was concerned for Laedron and wanted to stay, he knew his friend was in good hands. “We are.”

  Jurgen led them out the smaller rear exit, then to the side of the Vicariate Palace. Marac considered the stables to be like most others he’d seen until Jurgen called for the horses. Catching a glimpse of the snow-white geldings, Marac remained still until the horses were in full view. The horses, probably bred carefully for the solitary purpose of conveying a Grand Vicar, were groomed with an exquisite attention to detail. Beads of gold and silver were braided through their manes, their tails had likely been brushed every day, and the hooves seemed perfect—no chips, cracks, or marks of wear. He then beheld a coach near the stable’s entrance, a white carriage adorned with gold filigrees and engravings.

  Taking a quick peek through the window, Marac saw that the sitting benches were upholstered with velvet and dyed a shiny gold, and he imagined that any who rode within would take great comfort from the seats.

  Jurgen tapped him on the shoulder. “You can see the sights later. For now, we must endeavor to locate the Sorbian army.”

  * * *

  As they rode, Marac recounted what had happened during the fight with Andolis Drakar. They kept a moderate gait so they could talk over the beating of hooves. The day waned into afternoon, the heat from the sun reaching its apex.

  Brice slowed to a halt when he crested a hill, and Jurgen asked, “Why are we stopping?”

  Hearing no reply, Marac came alongside his friend to see what was going on ahead. Brice’s face appeared to be stuck in an expression of awe or fear. Marac couldn’t quite tell which, but Brice’s eyes were fixed on a single point in the distance. Marac turned and squinted, then he simply stared.

  Soldiers stood on the side of the highway. Adorned in vibrant orange and subdued black, they carried all manner of weaponry. Marac immediately recognized the men as Sorbian troops, but his concern heightened when he peered to the east. Along another ridge of hilltops, men in darkened armor bearing the banners of Falacore were gathered, their spears and blades at the ready.

  Battle lines . The Falacorans finally made it to the war. And numbered in the thousands.

  “What is it? What do you see?” Jurgen asked.

  Marac pointed. “Two armies. The Sorbians and the Falacorans, I think.”

  Jurgen joined Marac and Brice at the ridge. “They are just staring at each other?”

  Brice nodded. “The calm before the battle. Sizing up their enemies, preparing the last bit of strategy before they loose the men upon each other.”

  A thunderous roar echoed through the air, the sound of thousands of men yelling to steel their resolve. Pouring like water down both sides of the hill, the footmen smashed into one other, and the indistinguishable voices mixed with the clanging of blades and armor. With the first clash of arms, men fell by the wayside, trampled underfoot by the advancing waves or slain outright.

  “Azura! We’re too late,” Jurgen said, his eyes wide with shock.

  Marac glanced at the nearby hilltops where the generals on horseback were separated by a sea of men. “No priests, no sorcerers—a battle of steel and mettle.”

  Countless men along the front line fell quickly after the opening moments of the battle, but the lines thinned after a few minutes. That could have been us. Brice, Mikal, and me—even Laedron, had they taken him into the ranks—could have simply died here on this field, forgotten by history and remembered only by the weeping hearts of family and close friends.

  The troops paired off—Sorbian soldiers against their Falacoran counterparts—and fought with impressive skill. Both sides had clearly sacrificed their weakest troops first, treating them as fodder to the mouth of war, the armies going forward from that point only with those strong enough to survive.

  A cloud of arrows from the Falacoran archers who had topped the eastern hills darkened the sky. Marac could tell the missiles found their targets because he heard screams erupt above the dull rumble of the th
ousands of men in the throes of battle.

  The Sorbian cavalry quickly flooded into flanking positions. When they neared the archers, the cavaliers lowered their spears, then crashed into the line. In response to that move, the Falacoran horsemen rushed the exposed flank of the Sorbian mounted knights.

  Chaos ensued, and Jurgen said, “Remain here.”

  Before Jurgen could take off down the road, Marac stopped him. “Where are you going?”

  “To get help. This battle is the church’s doing, and we have a role to play yet!”

  * * *

  Jurgen had been gone for a few hours when the fighting slowed. The loud roar of vigorous men engaged in martial warfare dulled and slowly became replaced with the moans of the wounded and dying.

  “Where is he?” Marac asked Brice.

  Brice shrugged. “Maybe he had trouble getting back.”

  Marac scoffed. “Only two roads lead out from Azura—the one we’re on and the one that goes south. He couldn’t have gotten lost.”

  “What do you think he has in mind?”

  “No way of telling. I just hope he reveals it soon.”

  The battle had nearly drawn to a close, and it became clear that there were no winners on that field. Both armies had apparently been of equal skill since hardly any of the troops on either side remained without injury of some kind. He couldn’t even see an unscathed horse in the mix, and men and beasts both lay strewn across the field like discarded grain on a mill floor.

  Marac glanced over his shoulder when he heard the sound of horses galloping toward them from the south, and saw Jurgen leading the entire assembly of the consulship, minor priests, and a veritable army of carts and wagons.

  “Have you brought them to see the disaster caused by their blind following?” Marac asked when Jurgen came close.

  “That, and to do what we can for those who have survived.”

  “What will you do?”

  “A miracle, I hope.” Jurgen gestured to the priests, and they all took off down the hill toward the injured soldiers. “Save as many as you can, and load anyone who cannot walk into the wagons.”

  Marac turned to Brice. “We’d better help however we can.”

  With a nod, Brice rode down behind the priests, and Marac followed him. Nearing the battlefield, Marac could clearly see blood flying up with the clumps of dirt and grass as the horses ran. Saturated. Soaked in blood.

  He reached the closest of the battle’s victims and climbed off his horse. The boy’s panicked breathing sent chills up Marac’s spine. Blood was smeared across the young man’s face, and his belly had been slashed open, probably by the sword in the hand of the dead Sorbian lying next to him. Marac felt pity for the Falacoran soldier, that he might die so far away from his home, friends, and family.

  Then, Marac’s heart filled with sadness when he saw nothing but peace in the boy’s eyes. Where Marac had seen hope in his eyes, the boy’s features relaxed, the look in his eyes replaced with an emptiness, a void. Marac turned his gaze upward slowly, looking at each of the men who lay dead before him. From that distance, he couldn’t discern the number of soldiers by the groaning, but he could tell there were many.

  The wailing was soon drowned out by chanting from hundreds of priests doling out healing miracles. Miracles. Spells. What’s the difference? Marac mused, watching the priests. Their postures and gestures differed little from what he’d seen of Laedron. Instead of wands, they have rings. Their words are spoken in Heraldict, and Laedron says his spells in Zyvdredi. Both concentrate in the same fashion.

  Marac heard the shrieking of a man nearby and saw the body of a horse rising with each howl. He ran to see who was trapped beneath the warhorse.

  Marac couldn’t believe his eyes. “Fenric?” He recognized the man as the king’s brother, Duke Hadrian Fenric of Westmarch.

  Fenric drew a dagger. “You’ve come to finish me? It shan’t be that easy.”

  “No, my lord.” Marac crouched and put his shoulder under the horn of the saddle. “We’ll push together. On three.”

  Marac gave the count, then heaved upward, feeling the strain from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Seeing Fenric pull his leg free, Marac lowered the horse’s body to the ground.

  Fenric gritted his teeth and grabbed his leg. From the unnatural twist, Marac surmised that the man’s ankle was broken.

  “Here!” Marac shouted at a nearby priest.

  The priest joined them and inspected the injury. “You’ll have to hold him down.”

  “Keep your hands off me, devil!”

  Marac pressed against Fenric’s shoulders, fighting the man while the priest inspected and healed the ankle. Fenric’s body went limp for a moment, then the duke let out a scream to rival any Marac had heard on the field that day. By the time the young priest finished, Fenric had lost consciousness, probably from the excruciating pain.

  “Get him on a wagon. He must survive this day,” Marac said.

  * * *

  His hands and arms covered with the blood of other men, Marac returned to Jurgen when it seemed like all of the survivors had been located and loaded into the wagons. “What will you do now, Jurgen?” Marac asked.

  Jurgen climbed atop his horse with a heavy sigh. “We take them all back, the Falacorans and Sorbians alike. Our task is to save as many as we can.”

  “You may consider speaking with Duke Fenric. He’s the Sorbian general.”

  “Ah, I see. They’ve sent their best against us,” Jurgen said, nodding and wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief.

  Marac glanced across the field of fallen soldiers. “It would seem the Falacorans sent their elites, as well.”

  “Indeed. The Falacorans have won the day, but only by a margin. They had but a handful more than the Sorbians still standing after the battle.”

  “Have you located their general?”

  “Yes,” Jurgen said. “He was killed in the fray.”

  “Then the Falacorans will likely want to pursue the war, right? Generals are most often high-born.”

  “No, they will do as we say. My plan still calls for ending the war.”

  “Will they?”

  “Yes. Falacore is the one nation left that obeys the church. Years ago, all nations bowed to the Heraldan church, but not anymore.”

  Marac raised an eyebrow. “Just like that? No questions asked?”

  “I think you’ll find the Sorbians harder to deal with, my young friend. They will prove the most difficult to convince, even with this most recent devastation.”

  “I leave it to you. Far be it from me to question you on matters of politics.”

  “Good. We should return to the city with these men. I’ll arrange for more to come for the bodies and bury them in a fitting manner or prepare them for the trip home if that is Fenric’s will.”

  « Table of Contents

  ← Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Sixteen →

  Keeping Watch

  Valyrie heard Jurgen, Marac, and Brice leave, and snatched her Farrah Harridan book from the shelf before entering the hall. Maybe I can finish reading this while I wait. She eyed Laedron’s door with apprehension, then sighed. Her thoughts ran rampant with all that had passed—the end of the Drakars, Laedron nearly dying, and her father’s demise.

  She was glad her father’s body had been transformed to ash and spread along the coast. Though she missed him, she took some measure of joy from the fact that she couldn’t ask Jurgen to return him to life. The knowledge of the possibility combined with the lack of the option gave her a kind of relief, an acceptance of her situation. Hearing Jurgen’s argument and seeing Marac’s rage, she could only imagine how strange and unnatural they both must have felt when Laedron was saved from death—a feeling she was glad not to have experienced.

  She shook off her thoughts, then perused the larder. A tomato… some parsley… ah, rabbit meat? These’ll make quite a nice stew. Maybe, if we have time, I might teach these men how to cook something other tha
n gruel. She hastily assembled the ingredients into a clean pot—which wasn’t easy to find—and hung the pan above the fire. Then, she went to Laedron’s bedroom door. No more putting it off.

  Laedron lay on the bed, his breathing slow and rhythmic and his eyes still closed. Confusion set in her mind as she neared, and she was unable to take her eyes off him. His hair showed no signs of gray at the ends, and his face and hands were smooth, showing none of the callouses from when she had first met him.

  He still seemed to be in his late teens, yet all signs of aging had disappeared. Jurgen’s spell. It did more than simply return keep him from death. In fact, it’s made him pristine in every way.

  Seeing him in such a way sent chills up Valyrie’s spine. He was beautiful, truly handsome and perfect in complexion, and the awkward feelings she had felt when she first met him returned. Her father’s death had done much to mask her attraction for him, but his being near death and being brought back from the brink drove her emotions to the forefront. She was glad Laedron lived, happy that he would wake.

  She opened her book, an untitled, nearly forgotten work written by Farrah Harridan, and read the story, an alternate tale contrary to the church’s doctrine. The tale depicted strange lands with mystical forests, and told of the wizard Azura, her staff held high and magic spewing from her fingertips.

  * * *

  Nearing the end of the book, Valyrie looked up when she heard rustling. Laedron’s face was wrought with pain, then he seemed to relax. Moments later, his eyes opened, narrowly at first, then wide. Valyrie was filled with astonishment. His irises were almost gray, instead of their former deep blue shade.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  He grunted, cleared his throat, and swallowed before replying. “My body aches. What happened?”