The Circle of Sorcerers: A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #1

by Brian Kittrell

What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, polishing a mug.

  “Do you carry honeysuckle cider?” Laedron asked.

  “No, sorry. Anything else you want? Ale, or perhaps a stout whiskey to ease your mind?”

  Laedron tried to think of a drink that would suit him, and he wasn't in the mood to drink hard alcohol. “Wildertea and a sprig of Meriwether?”

  “Coming right up.” After dropping in the Meriwether, the barkeep poured the tea in a mug and placed the cup before Laedron.

  “Thank you.” Laedron took the tea and found a quiet spot in a corner of the tavern. He contemplated the situation while he sipped the tea, stirring it with a spoon to release the sweetness from the Meriwether. Though he dreaded the taste, it reminded him of kinder days back home. At any rate, the flavor was easier to take than the smell of the alleyway in the east end.

  He weighed the possibilities in his mind: return home and avoid the conflict while enjoying the leisurely life of a country mage or join the conflict and avenge Ismerelda's memory, along with the rest of the slain sorcerers from the academy. Finishing the tea, he watched the other patrons of the tavern enjoying their food and drink. Seeing their merriment and pleasure only made the decision harder; he had never been the type to march blindly in the face of danger, and he longed for simpler and easier days. On the contrary, he knew he was of a mature age, ripe for the battlefield and fully capable of wielding a sword.

  “Where are they mustering men?” Laedron asked a passing barmaid.

  “The bazaar, on the west end of it. Care for anything else, lad?”

  “No, thank you,” he replied, standing. He exited the tavern and found the road to the city's center.

  Following a brisk walk, he spied the recruiters donned in armor, each bearing the colors of Sorbia—the familiar black and orange filigrees. He stood in the rather short line until it was his turn, and a scribe scrawled in a book at the table he approached.

  “Name?” the scribe asked, his pen never leaving the paper.

  “Laedron Telpist,” he replied, taking care to spell it.

  The scribe wrote his name below the last entry. “Trade?”

  “Sorcerer,” Laedron whispered, looking around to see if anyone else was listening.

  The scribe leaned across his table, cocking his head to the side and presenting his ear. “Sorry? I didn't get that.”

  “Sorcerer,” Laedron said, only a bit louder than before.

  “Sorcerer?” The scribe said over his shoulder, “Says he's a sorcerer, Sire.”

  An armored figure turned his head. A comb of silver and black was affixed to his helm, and he wore a sash embroidered with the marks of a captain, and through the slots in the helmet peered two emerald eyes. “A mage?”

  “Yes,” Laedron replied. “Studied briefly under Ismerelda of Westmarch and recently detached from her care.”

  The captain took Laedron by the arm and escorted him to the campaign tent behind the recruiter's table. “We'd thought all the mages in Morcaine were killed or left the city.”

  “No, my lord.” Laedron shook his head. “Ismerelda led me away from the grounds when the attack came. She and I escaped, but she was slain afterward.”

  “And you want to be a soldier?” the captain asked.

  “Yes. I have to avenge her and the others.”

  “Then there is a place for you, and this isn't it.”

  “Where then?”

  “The Knights of Westmarch,” the captain said. “They would have a more fitting place for you.”

  “The Shimmering Dawn? I can't remember the last time I've ridden a horse, Captain. I think you're mistaken.”

  Laughing, the captain said, “’Tis well, young mage. Not all knights ride valiantly into battle on horseback. You may stay in our camp, and we'll arrange for your transport to Westmarch.”

  Laedron nodded. “Thank you. By what name will I know you?”

  “I am Count Millaird, captain of the Homeguard. And you?”

  “Laedron Telpist.”

  “My aide shall see you to the encampment outside the city,” Millaird said. “It may take some time to arrange for your transport, but it will be done.”

  Laedron bowed as the count departed, then the aide led him outside the city to the east. A meandering road carried them to a hilltop and then to the next, where vast rows of tents sat atop it. From the earth into the heavens glowed an orange luminescence of campfires, and piles of weapons stretched out into the distance. Between the tents scurried soldiers to accomplish their various tasks.

  “You can stay here,” the aide said. “This location should afford you some privacy.”

  “Is there anything I should do while I'm waiting?”

  “I assume you'll be going with the dispatches next week. You can do whatever you like, but know this: meals and gatherings are announced by bellmen, which we call 'ringers.' Three bells means mealtime. Everything else you can ignore since you won't be going to drills or training with us.”

  Laedron bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  When the aide left, Laedron made himself at home as best he could and began studying the tome Mathias had given him. The Zyvdredi letters weren't much unlike his common Sorbian tongue, but the words were different enough in spelling and pronunciation to require some scrutiny.

  Over the next several days, Laedron sat in wonderment over the spells in Ismerelda's books, each one greater than any he had studied thus far. He practiced what he could, given the fact that he was surrounded by soldiers; he didn't think they would appreciate a mistake that sent flames crawling through the encampment.

  “Nothing over the top,” he told himself. “And nothing that'll make me pass out again.” He remembered the pain he felt before everything went black when trying to revive Harris Belmay, and it was not something he wanted to experience again anytime soon.

  Each toll of the bells reminded him to take a break and eat. Before he began his training, he had always been the first to mention breakfast, lunch, or supper, but his concentration held him to learning the magic and kept his attention away from such trivial pursuits. On the sixth day in the army camp, Count Millaird's aide returned.

  “It's time for you to go,” the aide said, entering the campaign tent. “The dispatches are prepared, and the count has sent me to fetch you.”

  “Thank you for your kindness. Will you thank the count for me?”

  “You shall have a chance to thank him yourself. He's said he'll be seeing you off.”

  Gathering all of his belongings, Laedron bowed and followed the aide. He was led to a line of stagecoaches on the northerly side of the camp, where Count Millaird sat atop a horse watching Laedron as he approached.

  “I hope my men have shown you hospitality,” Millaird said.

  “Yes, my lord. I've been comfortable here. I thank you.”

  Pointing, Millaird dipped his head. “This first coach shall be yours. The rest carry dispatches and troops for protection of the convoy. Best of luck.”

  “When I get to Westmarch, where do I go?”

  The count smiled. “To the castle at the center of the city, I should think. The headquarters of the knights, young mage.”

  Laedron bowed his head once more and opened the side door. Before closing it, he looked back at Millaird. “Thank you again. It's meant a great deal to me.”

  “Make haste,” Millaird said to the driver, then rode away.

  The stagecoaches stopped only to camp and freshen the horses. The entire trip was conducted with military precision; each stop was made on a schedule, and the troops adhered to it as they might a moral code of conduct.

  Halfway through the journey, Laedron caught a glimpse of the roadside inn where he and Ismerelda had stayed the night that seemed so long ago. Due to a risk of thieves or the men losing themselves to drink or merriment with the women, the convoy wasn't permitted to stop at a tavern, but Laedron yearned to revisit it. “Maybe someday,” he told himself.

  When the journey r
eached its end, Laedron saw the city of Westmarch on the horizon. He didn't feel the same as he once had; the city seemed to be almost inviting, instead of filling him with foreboding and gloom. The visit to Morcaine had made him realize there were far darker things in the world than a city of his own countrymen, no matter how high the walls or how dark the shadows.

  Through the gates, the convoy passed without inspection, and he soon found himself departing the coach into the street. While the soldiers unloaded the dispatches, Laedron thanked his driver for the hospitality and his conveyance to the city.

  Finding the castle with ease, he stopped before the great double doors and looked at the huge towers on the corners and the spires beyond which stretched like fingers into the heavens. After taking a deep breath and swallowing with a gulp, he knocked.

  “What business have you here, young man?” a voice asked from the top of the wall.

  Between two merlons stood a man clad in light armor and holding a longbow, and Laedron had to raise his voice to be heard. “I'm here to see the knights.”

  “And what for?”

  “To join them,” Laedron said.

  “A little lanky to be joining the knights, don't you think? And the pay for a horse washer isn't that great these days.”

  Laedron spoke with a disdain for such a menial task, “I'm no horse washer.”

  “Then answer the question,” the man replied with his own measure of hostility. “What do you want with the knights?”

  Shaking his head, Laedron drew his wand and cast a spell. Before the archer could react, Laedron stood next to him, having levitated from the ground to the top of the wall.

  “Is it clear to you now why I've come, guardian?” Laedron asked.

  Having dropped his bow, the man stood in awe and pointed down a stone staircase.

  “Thank you,” Laedron said, a smile creeping across his face once he could no longer be seen.

  “Impressive,” a voice said when Laedron entered a hall across the courtyard. “Impressive, indeed.”

  “What?” Laedron spun around but saw only darkness. “Who are you?”

  “Meklan Draive,” the voice said. “I am First Knight of the Shimmering Dawn.”

  “Then you are the one I seek. I wish to join your order.”

  “Indeed,” Meklan said, appearing from behind a great stone column. Over a silver breastplate draped his long, peppered hair, and fine clothes of black and tan covered the rest of his body. Laedron saw the hilt of a greatsword strapped to his back. “But first, you shall tell me of your exploits. From where do you hail?”

  “Reven’s Landing,” Laedron replied.

  Meklan rested his hand on the hilt of another sword at his hip. “Ah, yes. We have others recruited recently from there. How does a farm boy learn the ways of magic?”

  “My mother taught me at first.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Filadrena Telpist.”

  “You are the Bann Telpist's son? Can it be?” The man’s eyes brightened hopefully.

  “You knew my mother?”

  “Your father, Wardrick. Many years ago, but I knew him.” Meklan tugged at his earlobe. “You went to study at the academy in Morcaine, then?”

  “No, but I've come from there nonetheless. The academy was destroyed.”

  “We know all about it.”

  Laedron dipped his head. “My teacher was killed there, along with others.”

  “Many were lost. One of our members was present just before the attack. He witnessed it before escaping.”

  “Who? I thought everyone died in the fire.”

  “Victor,” Meklan said. “Victor Altruis. He's a mage.”

  “The one who insulted the archmage?”

  Meklan laughed. “Though I wasn’t present at those proceedings, I would imagine so. Victor does have a fire within him that isn't easily extinguished.”

  “Though I don't know him personally, I thought he may have had something to do with the attack at the academy,” Laedron said.

  “Blasphemy.” Meklan’s expression grew stern. “Victor would never do such a thing. Who told you this lie?”

  “No one, sire. I assumed—”

  “The first thing you shall learn of the Dawn Knights is that we assume nothing.” Meklan raised a finger in the air. “Assumption is the key to our own destruction. Assume nothing, and only the truth remains.”

  “I'm sorry. I meant nothing by it other than mentioning that there was a severe argument just before the fire.”

  “I know what you meant, but such words could easily be passed into blame by others,” Meklan said. “Come, I shall take you to Victor, if you still mean to join us.”

  “Sorcerers train at the Shimmering Dawn?”

  “Yes,” Meklan replied. “We keep a contingency of mages at all times, but we've kept more of both knights and mages in the recent days, a sign of the war to follow.”

  With a nod, Laedron followed Meklan through the maze of the castle until they arrived in the west wing.

  “This side of the castle's been quieter of late, I'm afraid. Many were lost in the academy attack,” Meklan said.

  Laedron caught glimpses of sorcerers training in other rooms of the wing, though the rooms seemed to be much larger than the need. They each held one teacher and a handful of students, whereas the room seemed to have been designed for dozens or more.

  Meklan rapped on a door bearing an ornate sign that read Grandmaster of Westmarch.

  Laedron heard a muffled “Come in” from the other side, and Meklan entered the room with Laedron close behind. He was awestruck by the bizarre artworks and sculptures scattered about the room, and he could have spent days pondering the methods behind making each one.

  “We have a new one for you, Victor,” Meklan said. “A Laedron Telpist of the Reven’s Landing Telpists.”

  Looking up from a great tome, Victor removed his spectacles. “Wardrick's boy?”

  “I'll leave you to it.” Meklan bowed his head and closed the door behind him as he left.

  “You've come to join the order?” Victor asked, folding his hands at his chin.

  Laedron met his gaze. “Yes, I'd like to.”

  “Have you had any formal training?”

  Laedron nodded. “Until recently, I studied beneath Ismerelda of Westmarch. My training only lasted a matter of days, though.”

  “Never heard of her,” Victor said. “And in this city, no less? If you've had no training, it's best to let me know about it now.”

  “Never heard of her? She was the regnant magister of Westmarch!”

  “I don't know all the mages, but I know everyone in Westmarch. I don't know any Ismerelda, and I've never heard of a 'regnant magister' before. If there was such a thing, I would be it.”

  Laedron considered Victor’s words and how they conflicted with those of his mother. “It’s not important right now. Regardless, I was in the academy, and I saw your exchange of words with the archmage.”

  Victor took a deep breath. “I see. Then, you likely have a bad opinion of me already.”

  “No,” Laedron said, shaking his head. “I did at first, but I then saw what the church was capable of doing. I agree with you now; I know you're right about them.”

  “Good. You should do well here.”

  Laedron bowed. “Thank you, Grandmaster. Do I continue my studies here?”

  Standing, Victor joined Laedron on the other side of the desk. “Take a walk with me, will you?”

  While they walked through the castle and into the courtyard, Victor carried on the conversation. “It is not our purpose to train a mage. The only ones undergoing tutelage here are those too inexperienced to learn on their own. It is through reflection and self-awareness that sorcerers rise to true greatness.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Laedron said, remembering Ismerelda's words in Westmarch. “I've been told that before.”

  “Then your former teacher knew what she was talking about,” Victor said. “Magic isn't le
arned in hidden studies and secret back rooms, at least not after the basics are taught; it is discovered through practice, through perspiration.”

  Turning a corner, Victor continued, “The mages who join the order are those who have enough motivation to better themselves without a teacher. Use your books and build upon the knowledge of those who came before, but do not limit yourself to simple spells cast in the classroom. Our true instruction lies in nature, in the forests, and on the battlefields of the world.”

  “My learning had only just begun, though,” Laedron said with little confidence. “I've only filled but twenty pages of my own spellbook so far.”

  “Nonsense. True mages need not rely on spellbooks and memorization. The Uxidin didn’t depend on spellbooks, yet they were the greatest mages in the world. The same goes for the Zyvdredi—practitioners of the dark arts, yes, but magnificent sorcerers.”

  Having read much of the Zyvdredi spellbooks in his possession, Laedron didn't agree about them only practicing dark magic; however, he thought it best not to mention his opinion or the books until he understood the order better. They entered the courtyard and stood watching the new recruits battle one another with wooden swords.

  “The other arm of the order,” Victor said. “The more widely-known arm.”

  “Is the sorcerer half kept secret for some reason?”

  “Not necessarily kept secret, just not mentioned often. Our place in the order isn't for glory or recognition; that's for the cavaliers.”

  When Victor looked at the floor, Laedron asked, “Does that disappoint you?”

  “It affords me what every mage needs—a quiet place to study and protection from interference. Lately, it has put us in a good position to be safe from the church.”

  “Have they attacked anywhere other than the academy?”

  “You haven't heard? Sorbia is preparing for war upon the church after its brazen attacks at the academy and elsewhere. It's rumored the Falacorans, the Albiadines, and the Lasoronians will side with them.”

  “I saw a poster in Morcaine, but it didn't say all that,” Laedron said, taking a seat on the stone wall. “Count Millaird sent me here after I tried to join the army.”

  “A wise decision,” Victor said. “The war is coming, and the church will be forced to pay for its crimes. They underestimated how much Sorbians, especially the royal family, hold their mages close to their hearts.”

  “I saw Prince Zorin at the academy,” Laedron said with a heavy heart. “He must have perished within when the building burned.”

  “Many perished within,” Victor said. “Too many perished there. Despite my disagreements with many of them, I miss them dearly. We shall not have an easy time fighting the church with so few mages, but we have a plan for that.”

  “What plan?”

  “The Shimmering Dawn has always had a style of combat which marries the best qualities of the Dawn Knights with sorcerers. Whereas a sorcerer is weak in combat, the knights compensate, and where the knights are weak in magic, the sorcerer protects and guides them.”

  “It sounds like it wouldn't work very well,” Laedron said. “It's difficult to cast spells from the back of a horse.”

  Victor laughed. “No, my boy. Not all knights ride upon horses with lances held high. The warriors joined with a sorcerer are foot soldiers with a particular style of battle. You'll come to learn it in time.”

  “I hope it's effective,” Laedron said, rubbing his hands together. “I've seen the way the church fights, and it bested the greatest of our kind.”

  “It's quite similar. Our styles were developed around the same time in much the same manner.” Victor turned, then watched the knights in the courtyard.

  Laedron balled his fist, his mind returning to the scene in the streets of Morcaine. “They need to pay. They killed my teacher.”

  “They shall, and you shall help, too.” Victor put a hand on Laedron's shoulder.

  Laedron bowed his head. “I'll do what I can. How can I help?”

  Victor's lips curled into a friendly smile. “You're a mage, aren't you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “This fight won't be settled on the battlefields alone. Sorbia will carry the fight to the seas, to the land, and even to the shadows. Our kind may never hold a shield or wield a sword, but we are needed for victory.”

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “In a world of magic, sorcerers are needed to counter the enemy's magic. The Shimmering Dawn is specifically trained for this purpose, Laedron. We carry magic against our enemies, and we face the enemy's magic with our own.”

  “I want revenge. I can't clear my mind of how much I hate them.”

  “You have to find a way,” Victor said, clasping his hands. “Channel that anger and frustration into your studies and practice. Come, I'll show you to your quarters, and then I'll show you where to meet your instructor.”

  “Instructor? I thought we are to teach ourselves here.”

  “We teach tactics and strategy and how to use your powers with the knights to benefit both of you. A mage and a knight can have a symbiotic relationship, and we'll show you how.”

  Laedron remembered how the priest had been able to protect his spearmen in the fight with Ismerelda. “Interesting. I think I have an idea of what you mean.”

  Victor spent the remainder of the evening with Laedron, helping him become acquainted with instructors and the layout of the castle. Laedron especially noted the location of the castle's library, a quiet place where he could study his Zyvdredi spellbooks with little interruption between sessions of learning the knights' way of battle. His assigned bedroom was little more than a cell, smaller than the room given to him at Ismerelda's house, and he would need somewhere with a table and more space to tutor himself. He had only a little time to become acquainted with the knowledge and spells he would need for the days to come.

  The passing days turned to weeks. Laedron continued his studies and was instructed in the order's combat style. He learned methods of organizing knights into formations and using his spells to their mutual benefit. With no small amount of difficulty, he forged through the memories of Ismerelda's vicious death at the hands of the Heraldan priest each time he envisioned himself standing behind a row of soldiers.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Knights of the Shimmering Dawn