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

by Brian Kittrell

Calendport is a city of islands,” Mikal said when they crested the last hill, and Laedron could see the city in the distance. “Each one is connected to the others by a series of bridges, and each bridge is a fortress unto itself.”

  “Makes sense,” Brice responded. “No one would dare invade an island if they'd have to lay siege before moving on to the next.”

  “It hasn't always been that way,” Mikal said. “The War of the Eagles and the Falacoran invasion changed their thinking.”

  “It’s tightly controlled?” Laedron asked. “I hope not to spend much time passing through guard posts on the way to the docks.”

  “I'd think it'd be similar to Pendlebridge,” Mikal said. “We're hardly an invading army, after all.”

  Laedron and his knights rode through the gatehouse with little resistance from the guard. “Just traveling to the dock” was a phrase commonly repeated on their way through the sprawling metropolis. The city reminded Laedron of Morcaine more than any other place he'd visited thus far. Calendport had luxurious palaces and tall towers to complement its skyline, but unlike Morcaine, it was centered solely on trade and harbored huge ships. Sail rigs of various sizes towered above the buildings of each island they crossed.

  After a brief stop at a stable to sell their horses, they walked the rest of the way. “Easier to buy more when we get there than have them transported with us,” Laedron said. “Cheaper, too.”

  “We shouldn't have trouble finding a ship in this place,” Marac said, eying each vessel's tall masts and banners flapping with the breeze.

  The magnificent structures suddenly stopped before a wide street as if to keep a safe distance from the vast ocean beyond. The occasional blast of wind thick with seawater struck them in the face, and through that end of town wafted the stench of dead fish. On the other side of the road lay the docks, with great ships and armies of seamen boarding and disembarking, loading and unloading in an endless procession.

  “It'll have to be at the right price.” Laedron called to a boy near the docks, “You there. Know where we can find a ship traveling east?”

  “The harbormaster keeps the schedules,” the boy said, pointing across the street. “That small office there.”

  Laedron nodded before turning to cross the avenue. Behind a window on the side of a paltry building sat an aged man with an unkempt beard.

  “Know of any ships journeying eastward?” Laedron asked when the man opened the window.

  “Aye, lad,” the harbormaster said. “But what's yer destination?” His voice carried the features of a weathered, salty sailor and reminded Laedron of Harris Belmay, the pirate captain he’d rescued from death in Morcaine.

  “We're going to Balfan or the closest port near it,” he replied.

  “As fast as can be accommodated, too,” Marac said.

  “Kashaman's Star's going that way just this day,” the harbormaster said, his finger tracing a page in a thick logbook.

  “Is it fast?” Laedron asked.

  “The fastest,” the harbormaster said, sliding his spectacles up his stubby nose.

  “Where can it be found?”

  The man leaned out the window, then pointed along the dock. “The pier numbers are written upon the planks. Follow them that way until you find the sixteenth pier.”

  “Sixteenth, got it.” Laedron led the others down the line of vessels. Arriving at the transport, they eyed the ship with distrust and uneasiness.

  The vessel roped to the pier was none other than an Al'Qaran merchantman xebec, a markedly exotic ship. High above the water rose the bow and stern, and the middle sank deep into the sea much like a crescent moon flattened at the ends. Its triangular sails, which hung high on one end and draped near the ocean on the other, were also unlike the other ships in the harbor.

  The crew walking the deck and the nearby dock were also strange and foreign in appearance. They were considerably darker in complexion than anyone else Laedron had ever seen.

  “I suppose we should get to it,” Marac said with a nervous gulp. “Do you speak... Qarish?”

  “No such thing,” Laedron said. “Al'Qarans and Qal'Phametines both speak Myrric.”

  Marac sighed. “Myrric? Whatever you call it, can you speak it?”

  “No. Only two or three words Ma told me, and I doubt I could pronounce them right.”

  “Is it enough to tell them we need to go to Balfan?” Marac asked.

  “Not unless you can say all that with 'people,' 'hello,' and 'friendship.'”

  “Well, we'll try 'friendship' first,” Marac said. “Maybe they won't do anything awful to us.”

  Walking toward the ship, Laedron shook his head at Marac. When he reached the loading plank, a man on the deck called down to them. Each syllable was spat forth with a disdain and anger faster than Laedron thought he could have translated had he even been able to understand Myrric. He pointed and waved his hands, but Laedron had no idea what he wanted.

  Laedron struggled with the word for 'friendship,' but then just shouted it as the man seemed to become even angrier. The man drew a scimitar from his side, and Laedron's knights drew their longswords. He raced down the plank, but before he reached the end, he stopped, interrupted by a voice, a calm voice speaking in a composed, noble tone, and each word spoken uttered with a sharp precision to every syllable. “No need to fear my men.” From the top deck approached a tall, slender figure, a squared hat topping his head and wearing fine clothing of dyed silks. He had a trimmed beard and mustache, and his fingers were adorned with jewelry. He spoke with a decidedly Al’Qaran accent, but his words were crisp even when spoken in the Midlander language. “And no need to slaughter my native tongue any further.”

  “My apologies,” Laedron said, closely watching the sailor with the scimitar drawn. “I still fear them when swords are presented.”

  “You will have to forgive Abad, for he does not know the mannerisms of these foreign lands. I am called Rafik, and I would be considered captain of this ship. What can I help you with?”

  “We seek passage to the east,” Laedron said. “Do you take on passengers?”

  “After all that, you must be mad,” Marac said to Laedron, his sword still in hand. “We can't go with these barbarians.”

  “Barbarians?” Rafik asked. “It is your kind who fight wars over the Creator, but you call me barbaric?”

  “Don't offend him,” Laedron whispered to Marac. “Al'Qarans are gifted sailors through and through.”

  “I'm just saying,” Marac said. “They'll slit our throats if they get the chance.”

  “It is well,” Rafik said before he strode down the plank. “I forgive your ignorant nature. You are of the west, after all.”

  Marac lifted his sword. “Ignorant! Why I ought to—”

  “No!” Laedron put himself between Rafik and Marac. “We won't be doing anyone a service by dying here.”

  “Your friend is wise for his years, Sorbian,” Rafik said, peering over Laedron's shoulder. “He quickly sees the consequences of doing something foolish and acts to stop the mistake.”

  Laedron asked, “How can you tell we're Sorbian?”

  “Your accent, how you carry yourself, your appearance. Even the words you use tell a story. It is my business to observe men, both in the market and on the ship.”

  “Do you ferry passengers across the Middle Sea?” Laedron asked.

  “What, pray tell, is across the sea that a Midlander would want? Looking to get your Sorbian skin removed by an expert in the art?”

  “We have business there, and it is our own to know,” Laedron replied.

  Rafik laughed, folding his arms across his chest. “Take my ship into danger without knowing the reason? I think not, young man.”

  “Then I'll tell you,” Laedron said, looking at the sailors listening from the deck, “but in private. Will you take us?”

  “I'll hear your business, and I'll decide after.” Rafik offered an open hand to him. “Come. We can discuss this business of yours in my
quarters.”

  Laedron took his hand and ascended the plank, his knights following close behind. Entering the captain's stateroom, he was immediately in awe of his surroundings. Rich rugs lined the floors from one wall to another, and he was careful in his tread in fear of damaging them, and he glanced at the trophy heads of strange and wondrous animals from lands far away, each posed with a natural, aggressive expression. Smoke puffed from the spouts of burners and gave off a pleasing but unfamiliar scent.

  “What is that smell, Captain?”

  “Bakhour. Of the sandalwood trees of my homeland. Countless hours spent making something so pleasant, yet so fleeting. Much like the soldiers of your country, I would say.”

  “Perhaps,” Laedron said. “And those of other nations, as well.”

  Rafik took a long pipe from an end table and lit it from a candle. “Care to tell me of your business, then?”

  Laedron waited until Marac closed the door behind them. “We must spy upon a priest.”

  “A priest? Not any priest, I would say. No, not just any priest resides in the theocracy lands. Who is it?”

  “Gustav Drakar,” Laedron said, his voice sinking. “He is the Grand Vicar's brother.”

  “Then you are deemed expendable by your masters.”

  Marac shook his head. “We're knights of the Shimmering Dawn.”

  “My apologies, Your High Majesty.” Rafik bowed mockingly. “I had no idea from your appearance that you were nobility.”

  “Cut it out.” Laedron nudged Marac. “He's right. We are easily replaced.”

  “That being said, I was taught early in life that it is easy to part a fool from his money,” Rafik said. “How about one hundred of your Sorbian sovereigns for safe passage to Balfan?”

  “Crazy!” Marac said, crossing his arms.

  Smiling, Rafik relit his pipe. “I've never been called crazy by a madman before. I am not the one going after one protected so well.”

  “Fifty?” Laedron suggested.

  “Even fifty is too much.” Marac took Laedron by the arm. “They're already going to Balfan. What're a few extra passengers?”

  “What would a dead man do with gold? You won't need it soon enough,” Rafik said, scratching his beard. “Very well, fifty.”

  Laedron produced the coins, then handed them over; Marac rolled his eyes with disdain. “We have to, Marac. We can't get there otherwise.”

  “It's a fair price,” Rafik said. “A little less and you could take another ship, but you would arrive days later. Kashaman's Star is a fast ship—no, the fastest in these waters.”

  “It's fine. When do we depart?”

  “As soon as my men finish loading the wares,” Rafik said, counting the coins with his finger. “You'll sleep on the second deck with the guns.”

  “Guns?” Marac asked. “What's a gun?”

  “Surely you've seen a gun before,” Rafik said.

  “No, I can't say I have. What is it?”

  “Almarian inventions. They fire a ball at great speed. Your Sorbian army has them atop seaside fortresses.”

  “Cannons?” Brice asked. “I've heard of those. Never seen one, though.”

  “Then you've clearly not lived in the large cities,” Rafik said. “The soldiers use them to keep pirates away from the coast or enemy ships at bay.”

  “I was in an army camp, but I never saw one,” Laedron said. “Perhaps you are mistaken.”

  Rafik chuckled. “No, they are far too heavy and cumbersome to bring along the land. Ships, however, that's a different story.”

  “Why's it any different?”

  “Ships don't depend on horses or men, young Midlander. So long as your hull is sturdy and the sails tall, there are no problems. Quite an effective weapon, and a necessity.”

  “In these waters?” Marac asked.

  Rafik nodded. “Especially in these waters. We are in different times, but I need not tell you that.”

  “Thank you,” Laedron said with a bow. “We'll not bother you anymore.”

  “Bother me anytime you feel the need, young Sorbian. I stay either here or on the top deck.”

  The stomach of the ship moaned as the waves rocked against the hull, and the ropes creaked when they became taut. Arriving on the gun deck, Marac's eyes grew wide with wonder. “Look at this!”

  Mikal walked past them and sat on a large cargo bag while Laedron and the others gathered around the cannon, admiring its ornate decorations of gold and silver cast into a metal he couldn't identify. A series of cranks were placed oddly about the contraption, and the barrel extended up to a mere inch from a wooden door on the hull, and four wheels at the bottom of the frame allowed the gun to roll back and forth. The entire assembly rested upon a set of wheels along steel rails anchored to the oak beneath.

  “This is a cannon, then?” Marac tapped his knuckle on the barrel. “Thick and dense.”

  “I hear it's loud,” Brice said. “Louder than the thunder.”

  “Hopefully we won't see them in action,” Laedron said. “No matter how curious I am to see how it works, we'll only see that if the ship engages another.”

  With the cargo loaded and Laedron and his knights tucked below deck, the ship rocked with a noticeable shift. Through the open port in the ceiling, Laedron saw the sails unfurl and fill with wind, and the view changed from a skyline of buildings to a cloudless, blue sky. He joined Marac and Mikal on the far side of the deck, and Brice followed.

  “You've been quiet,” Marac said, taking a seat on the burlap sack next to Mikal.

  “He's right, isn't he?” Mikal asked with a disconcerted expression.

  “Right? Who?” Marac asked.

  “Rafik, the captain. He's right about us, you know?” Mikal said. “We're parading around as knights, but we're just a joke.”

  “We're not a joke,” Brice said, maintaining his usual jovial nature. “We're knights.”

  “Knights? Draive's sending us on a suicide mission. If we succeed, their purpose is served, and if we fail, it's no skin off their hide. We'll be dead, though. That doesn't bother you at all?”

  “He can believe whatever he wants, but we're knights.” Brice lifted his shirt sleeve to reveal a tattoo. “We went through all the training, and we have the mark.”

  “The mark means nothing,” Mikal said. “A mark is still just a mark when found on a corpse.”

  “We have to keep up hope,” Laedron said. “We can't believe we'll do anything but succeed, or we have no chance.”

  Mikal shook his head. “Can we, though? Do we even stand half a chance?”

  “Less than that.” Marac slapped him on the knee. “Do you remember years ago in Reven’s Landing by the sea? The time Brice fell into the mill?”

  Brice's cheeks flushed. “Let's not bring up the old times, eh?”

  “We had to save him,” Mikal said. “I'm surprised he can still walk after falling that far.”

  “We got him out, didn't we?” Marac asked. “We didn't think; we didn't hesitate. We got our friend out before he was crushed by the gears.”

  “That's a little different,” Mikal said.

  Marac turned up his palms. “It's not any different in my eyes. That's how we'll be getting through it, by keeping our friends alive. We can make it together, Mikal.” He offered his open hand, and Mikal took it.

  “All right,” Mikal said. “You watch my back, and I'll watch yours.”

  “Silly Sorbian boy!” one of the crewmen shouted from the porthole in a thick accent much unlike Rafik's. He climbed the stairs with haste, almost falling as he landed. “Get away from there!”

  Laedron glanced about to see if something unspeakable stood behind him. The man ran to them, tossing each away from the sack upon which they had previously been sitting.

  “What's wrong?” Laedron asked, his pulse racing.

  The man pointed at the sack. “You could have killed us all!”

  “What's in there?” Marac asked.

  “Cannon charge, dumb b
oy! Don't ever sit there again.” The man pointed to a red diamond with a black circle stamped on the bag. “Better still, never go around anything marked with this symbol.”

  “We're sorry. We didn't know,” Laedron said.

  “Could have destroyed the whole ship, meddling fools,” the man said, sweat pouring from his forehead despite the breeze.

  “Please, accept our apologies,” Laedron said, trying to console the man once more. “If we'd been told of it, we wouldn't have sat upon them. I swear it.”

  Taking a deep breath, the man bobbed his head. “At least we're still present in this life, for the moment.”

  “Who are you?” Marac asked. “More importantly, how can you speak our tongue?”

  “Uller. I'm the gunmaster of this ship. Rafik told me you were aboard, and Sorbia is not far from where I was born.”

  “Gunmaster?” Laedron rubbed his chin. “What manner of work is that?”

  “I run the gun crews. It takes great skill and patience to keep cannons and men working together.”

  Laedron observed Uller’s features, noting his blue eyes, pale complexion, and sandy hair. “You're not Al'Qaran, are you?”

  “Gotlander by origin, but I've spent most of my life with the Almarians.”

  “A Gotlander this far south?” Marac asked.

  “Rafik pays well. Quite well indeed.”

  Nodding, Laedron smiled. “Are you any good with these things?”

  “Silly boy!” Uller said. “Any good? Why, I should put you a thousand paces out for you to see for yourself.”

  “That good, eh?” Brice asked.

  Uller shook his head, his voice seething with irritation. “Boy, I was fighting battles 'fore you was a glimmer in your father's eyes. I could knock a seagull from the sky with stormy seas and dark of night.”

  “Can you tell us how these work?” Laedron asked, trying to break the tension.

  “Why would a bunch of miscreants want to know the fineries of these?” Uller asked. “Looks like you'd be worried more to get into a set of panties than learn the majesty of naval warfare.”

  “Oh, would I!” Marac said.

  Laedron gave him a good poke. “Continue, sir.”

  Uller glared at Marac, then pointed at the trigger. “These are some of the best, for a start. Cannons with a trigger are more accurate than those lit by a fuse. It's a solid piece, too. Load from the front, shoot, reload, and recover.”

  While speaking, he demonstrated how the cranks could be used to quickly adjust the angle and position of the gun. “This one elevates, and this one returns the gun to the firing position. After it fires a shot, it rolls back along these tracks.”

  “What does it shoot?” Brice asked, his childlike curiosity reflected by his excitement. “Can we see one?”

  Leaning over, Uller produced a ball from a wooden box affixed to the deck and offered it for their inspection.

  “Heavy, is it?” Marac asked.

  Uller nodded while stroking the dense cannonball. “Aye. Pure wolframite. Just like the barrel.”

  “Wolframite?” Brice asked. “What's that?”

  “A metal found in few places, my boy.” Uller returned the ball to its enclosure. “Prized by weaponmakers the world over.”

  “What's so special about it?” Mikal asked.

  “It's one of the few metals which can withstand a cannon charge blast at any reasonable thickness.” Uller rubbed the cannon with the same care he might have used to touch a lover.

  “Reasonable thickness?” Laedron asked. “The barrel's four inches thick.”

  “Of course it is, young man. Cannon charge breaks through iron and steel; neither are strong enough to contain the explosion. Likewise, the ball must be made of wolframite lest it turn to shards and lose its precision.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Laedron said.

  “Aye,” Uller said. “Beneath the city of Dragonsbreath flows a river of molten wolframite, and there the cannons are cast in the foundries. ‘Tis easier to make them while the metal is molten instead of remelting ingots later.”

  Laedron tilted his head. “They're made nowhere else?”

  “It's the richest supply of the metal, and the most available. Almarians are the most experienced, as well, and they teach their secrets to no one.”

  “Then how do you know all this?” Marac asked. “If it's such a secret, why did they tell you?”

  “I worked in those foundries, boy,” Uller said, a hatred carrying into his voice. “Rafik purchased me some years ago.”

  “You're a slave?” Laedron asked. “And a discontent one, at that?”

  “Not toward Rafik, no. They work their slaves to death in the foundries if they remain long enough. It was a favor to free me from that place.”

  “Why work your laborers to death?” Laedron asked. “It doesn't make any sense.”

  “To protect the secret. To keep you from escaping, if you even could with the constant guard. This cannon here costs thousands of your sovereigns, much more than the price of a new slave to replace a dead one.”

  “Monstrous,” Mikal said.

  “There are greater things to be feared in the world than slave masters,” Uller said. “I hear we've taken on some fools who mean to do battle with the Heraldan church.”

  “We're not fools,” Mikal protested. “We're knights, and we serve the Shimmering Dawn.”

  “Of course, young fellow. Too bad you didn't bring an army to aid you.”

  “We don't need one,” Laedron said. “Don't worry about us, gunmaster.”

  Uller bowed. “Very well, sorcerer.”

  “How'd you know?” Laedron asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Uller's eyes glanced at the narrow sheath at Laedron’s side. “I know a wand when I see one. At first, I thought it strange you weren't wearing a sword, but then I realized what you are.”

  “Does it bother you?” Laedron asked.

  He shook his head. “No, not at all. Never met a mage, but I've seen them. You're not an Almarian, so I don't figure you'd try to torture me for your own entertainment.”

  “A Circle mage would never do that. Only a twisted, dark sorcerer would put someone in pain for his own amusement.”

  “I hope you keep to that ideal. I'll be retiring now. Keep off the cannon charge, will you?”

  “Yeah,” Laedron said, nodding. “Thank you for the conversation.”

  “Anytime,” Uller said, ascending the stairs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An Unlikely Ally