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

by Brian Kittrell

Over the passing days, Laedron watched the activities of the various crew members and the happenings on the ship. He had never been on a ship before, and the few vessels he had seen in Reven’s Landing were too far out at sea to learn anything of seafaring. In the mornings, an Al’Qaran named Pashim brought their meals before he continued his rounds of checking the ship for leaks and repairs. Laedron was nagged to be out of the way when Uller came to inspect the guns at midday or when the crew was called to swab the decks. When the sun set each evening, the Al'Qarans played a stringed instrument called a masharam that looked like a lute, but its tone was far more bass. With the crew’s passionate voices singing in Myrric, the songs had a calming influence on Laedron’s troubled mind though he couldn't understand the words.

  To avoid tongue-lashings from the crew, Laedron and his knights locked themselves away in the bowels of the ship. While Marac and Brice practiced swordplay, Mikal watched Laedron practice magic until it was his turn to fight. Laedron noticed Marac and Brice stopping to watch him when he cast a particularly flashy spell, but he was quick to tell them to get back to practice. They must learn to concentrate on what they’re doing instead of me if we’re to succeed, Laedron thought.

  Following a week of mostly favorable winds, he heard a noise he hadn't before, the ringing of a dense bell from the upper deck. Whoever rang the bell did it quickly, seeming panicked in their attempt to issue warning. Laedron and the others clamored to their feet and knocked one another around in the stampede to the top of the stairs.

  Just as they reached the top deck, men rushed past them and down to the guns. Rafik stood toward the bow, a spyglass in hand, scanning the sea ahead.

  “What's going on?” Laedron asked, trying to catch his breath from the sudden excitement.

  “Warships. They approach from the east.”

  “Warships?” Marac asked, his breathing panicked. “More than one?”

  “Yes.”

  Shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, Laedron caught a glimpse of sails in the distance. With an echo of thunder, a splash rose from the water near the front of the vessel.

  “What was that?” Brice asked, leaning over the side.

  “Shot from a cannon. And you’d be good to keep yourself out of the way.” Rafik turned to the first officer. “Make ready the guns.”

  “We're to fight them?” Marac asked. “Pirates?”

  “No, not pirates. Ships of your Sorbian fleet. Far from their home waters.”

  “What? Here?” Laedron asked.

  Collapsing the spyglass, Rafik crossed his arms. “Your nation is at war with the theocracy, yes? This would be a blockade of their ports.”

  “Surrender,” Laedron said. “We'll explain to them what we're doing here.”

  “Surrender? And lose our cargo?” the first officer asked from behind them. “Nonsense.”

  Rafik scratched his beard before looking back at the Sorbian ships inching closer. “Raise the white flag.”

  “Captain? You can't be serious!” the first officer said.

  “And what would you have me do, Nashir? Fight two warships and sink our own? Better to leave with our vessel intact. Besides, at this range, they could have landed the shot. It must not be their intention to attack us.”

  “Perhaps they don't have a gunmaster like ours, Captain,” Nashir said, then another ball struck the nearby water. “You know as well as I do how the navies lack skill.”

  “Raise the white banner,” Rafik ordered, “or you shall be swimming before the hour is out.”

  Nashir raised his nose and tightened his stance. “Yes, Captain.” He ran to the aft, lowered their merchant flag, and raised a white strip of cloth in its place.

  “Furl the sails and drop anchor,” Rafik called, and the crew rushed to obey.

  The ship moaned to a halt, and the Sorbian ships came alongside. A man walked to the edge of the warship, propped his foot on the railing, and looked down at them. Laedron peered from behind Rafik, and he noticed the man’s only armor was a gorget about his neck and a breastplate with orange and black tufts of cloth skirting out from each opening.

  “To whom do we owe the pleasure?” Rafik asked the Sorbian sailor.

  “Tristan IV.” The man’s hate of the name seethed through his teeth. “I am Captain Adan Ross, commander of this squadron, and by order of his majesty King Xavier, we are required to search this ship for contraband.”

  “Contraband? But what is your purpose, Sorbian? Why must you search my xebec?”

  Adan raised an eyebrow. “Specifically, to ensure you aren't supplying the theocracy with arms or war supplies of any kind, of course.”

  “We can assure it,” Laedron said, stepping out from behind Rafik. “There are no war supplies on this ship.”

  A look of shock crossed Adan's face. “What are you doing over there, boy? Have these savages captured you?”

  “For one, they're not savages. We paid them for passage, and they're taking us to Balfan; we have a mission there.”

  “We? And how many of you are there aboard that Al’Qaran merchantman?”

  “Four of us, sir.”

  “And a mission? What sort of mission is that?”

  “I cannot say for now. All I can tell you is we work for the Shimmering Dawn and King Xavier, and we must make haste.”

  “What proof have you?” Adan asked.

  Stepping forward, Marac raised his sleeve to display the Dawn Knights mark on his flesh. “There's our proof, Captain. Please, let us go.”

  Adan nodded. “Get on your way, trader.”

  The Sorbian ships’ sails unrolled in unison, and the vessels drifted away. Once his ship was free to maneuver, Rafik gave the order to make full speed into Balfan harbor, a command which the crew met with readiness and an eagerness to oblige.

  “Lower the white flag from the mast,” he commanded before turning to Laedron. “It would seem my impression of you and your knights was made hastily and with error.”

  “No, you weren't completely wrong in your appraisal. We are young and inexperienced, but we are steadfast to our cause and our mission.”

  “Then, I thank you. Without your presence we would likely not have been allowed to pass. Come to my quarters.”

  In his quarters, Rafik closed the door behind them. He produced a strongbox from the side of his desk, opened it, and gave a handful of coins to Laedron.

  “Your fifty sovereigns,” Rafik said.

  Laedron shook his head and tried to return them. “No, Captain. You've upheld your end of the bargain. They're yours.”

  “They are yours.” Rafik pushed Laedron's hand away. “Our fee for passing your fleet unscathed and unmolested. Keep the gold.”

  Laedron bowed his head and returned the coins to his purse. “Thank you, then, for the safe voyage and the hospitality.”

  “May the Creator bless you in your mission. Best of luck to you.”

  Leaving Rafik's cabin, Laedron disembarked, giving Uller a goodbye nod. He led the way along the dock, then traversed the village streets. Each of the buildings had ornate carvings of religious significance, from the temples in the distance down to the businesses, shops, and homes which lined the road.

  “We need to locate Jurgen,” Laedron said, tucking his wand into his boot and uncoiling the scroll with their instructions. “We need not be obvious about our origins, either.”

  He guided them across the town according to the directions Victor and Meklan had given him in Westmarch. “This place isn't much different from Reven’s Landing. Of course, the symbols of Azura aren't cast into every building back home, but these are quite similar in size.”

  Marac said, “Yes, it does have that small town feel to it, but I feel danger in this place for us. We'd better find this Jurgen fellow fast.”

  Taking a few turns and keeping a steady pace, Laedron arrived in front of a church.

  “Where to next?” Mikal asked, glancing at each nearby street.

  “This is it,” Laedron fixed his eye
s on the steeple.

  Brice turned to face the church. “You kid, right? There must be more.”

  “No, this is the end.” Laedron searched the scroll for any further instructions. “It says to come to the end of the street and enter.”

  A short man wearing the long brown tunic of a friar exited from the massive doors, and Laedron felt a sudden burst of fear shoot down his spine.

  “Excuse me, sire,” Marac said. “Pray tell us where we might find a man named Jurgen?”

  When the friar looked up, they could see his look of surprise. “Midlanders?”

  Thinking of a lie, Laedron tried to keep his expression plain. “Yes, we're Midlanders, out of Cael'bril we are. We've come on pilgrimage to pay our respects, and we seek Jurgen to give us shelter until we can move on.”

  “I see…” the monk said, and Laedron held his breath through the long pause. “Come in, I shall take you to the vicar.”

  Through the doors, past the pews and sanctuary, and into the abbey toward the rear of the structure, they followed him, finally reaching a sturdy oaken door upon which the friar rapped. A muffled voice spoke from within, and the friar opened the door wide.

  “Vicar,” the friar said, “these young men have come to find you all the way from the midlands. Cael'bril, they said.”

  “Thank you,” the man seated behind the desk replied. “Please, make yourselves at home.”

  Closing the door behind him, the friar left, then Laedron sat and leaned toward the man. “Jurgen?”

  “I am,” he replied, his face and voice weathered by many long years. “What might I do for you, my son?”

  Placing a hand on his wand, Laedron stared across the table. “We've been sent by our order, the Shimmering Dawn, to find you, to seek your help.”

  The man blinked slowly, clasping his hands together at his chin, a large ruby ring prominently displayed on his wrinkled left hand. “Did they now?”

  Everything about the man told of his regal and wise nature, from the white of his hair to his upright, proud posture as he sat on the mahogany chair. He spoke every word with care and eloquence. Had Laedron not known better, he could easily have seen the man as being the Grand Vicar himself.

  “Yes,” Laedron said. “Will you help us?”

  The vicar adjusted himself in the chair. “You must understand my position before I respond directly to your question. I have been a Heraldan for my entire life, and I entered the church at a very young age. If I help you, I turn my back on all of those things I hold dear.”

  “If you weren't considering it already, you wouldn't have even told us that,” Laedron said.

  “Smart boy,” Jurgen said, smiling. “What I mean to say is that I would like to return to your Sorbia with you.”

  “The church is banished from our kingdom. I don't think that would be possible, I'm afraid.”

  “Then, I'm afraid I cannot help you in your task. You help me, and I shall do everything in my power to help you.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” Marac whispered to Laedron. “We can't disobey the king's order.”

  “What would you do, Jurgen?” Laedron asked. “What would you do if you came with us to Sorbia?”

  “What would I do? I would do much the same as what I do now. Guide my flock, tend to my church, and do the things I was born to do.”

  “That's all well and good,” Laedron said. “But what do we tell the authorities when asked what you're doing in our company?”

  “Tell them nothing. I would travel in secret, and so long as I don't display my regalia, no one would know the difference. I'd be an old man traveling with a guard.”

  “And why should we care for a new Heraldan church in the lands of Sorbia? What do you have to offer that the sinister hands of the theocracy have yet to bring?” Laedron asked with a sneer.

  Jurgen grinned despite the obvious insult. “I wouldn't bring a Heraldan church, young man.”

  Laedron's anger turned to curiosity. “What do you mean by that, priest?”

  Jurgen stood and paced as he spoke. “A new church, refined and reformed. Unlike the theocracy in every way. A church to do away with the corruption and secret dealings—a place of worship and nothing more. The people of Sorbia need spiritual guidance, but they can do without the flawed ways of the theocracy.”

  “Who's to say you would fare any better?”

  Jurgen nodded. “My plans wouldn't involve a Grand Vicar. Each church would be a parish unto itself, separate and independent of any higher authority. My brothers in Azura have lost their way, and I fear they shall not readily find the path to redemption.”

  “He has a point,” Mikal said, “and it could be of benefit.”

  “I would rather not be forced to pressure you, but I suffer misery the longer I remain here,” Jurgen said. “I want to be free of this hypocrisy, and you need me for your mission, whatever it is. I can make that happen, but you must swear to take me with you.”

  Laedron thought on his words. His mind drifted between his own values and the words of Ismerelda, especially the parts about how the entire Heraldan church and all of its doctrines were, in essence, a fabrication.

  “Fine,” Laedron said. “We will bring you to Sorbia with us, but know this, if you do any harm, I shall become an instrument of vengeance upon you.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” the vicar said with a dip of his head. “You are loyal to your people, and I respect that. Unfortunately, I can no longer be.”

  Laedron lowered his eyes. “Now, you shall help us.”

  “What are the details of your task?”

  “We have come to kill Gustav Drakar. The brother of the Grand Vicar.”

  Fright riddled Jurgen’s face. “Then you are either very powerful compared to your appearance, or you have been sent on a fool's errand.”

  “You won't help? You won't be making the trip to Sorbia if you don't.”

  “I'm simply concerned,” Jurgen replied. “If I help you with this task, there are no guarantees that any of us will return alive.”

  “That is the price of betrayal,” Laedron said. “It is our mission, and we must accomplish it before leaving these shores—with or without your help.”

  “You'll need every ounce of help you can muster. I can get you close, close enough to make the kill, but it will be yours and yours alone. My oath forbids me from taking another life.”

  “Then get us close,” Laedron said, crossing his arms. “Take us to him.”

  “Gustav has recently returned from abroad, and he is recovering in Pilgrim's Rest to the south. If we are to have any success in getting to him and making it out alive, we must go there. We must reach him before he leaves for Azura. Once he is returned to the palace, there’s no chance.”

  Standing, Laedron extended his hand. “It's a deal, then. Make yourself ready, and we'll acquire a coach for travel. Does the road take us the entire way?”

  Jurgen took Laedron's hand. “Yes, except for a bridge over the channel. Barring that, we can avoid the capital completely.”

  “Good. We shall return shortly with a coach.” Laedron turned to the door.

  “I would know your name,” Jurgen said.

  He looked back to the priest and said, “Laedron Telpist,” before leading his knights from the room.

  Once out of the church and on the street, Marac stopped Laedron. “Can we trust him? He's a priest. What if we return with the coach, and he has people waiting for us?”

  “I didn't get that impression,” Mikal said. “He's an old man, and I genuinely believe he wants to escape this country.”

  “What choice do we have either way?” Laedron asked. “We can help him and serve both of our ends, or we can go it alone at much greater risk.”

  “Do you trust his words?” Marac asked.

  “Yes, and more than that, Meklan and Victor trust him, though we may not know the reason,” Laedron said.

  “Very well,” Marac said with a sigh. “I'll trust you. I always have
.”

  “I know,” Laedron said with a grin. “Let's find a coach.”

  “I saw some lining a road near the docks,” Brice said. “That’d be a good place to hire one, I’d wager.”

  When they returned with a carriage, horses, and a driver, Jurgen, clad in silver and gold cloth embroidered with symbols of Azura, waited on the steps of the church. “My traveling robes,” he said, seeming to notice how they gawked at its grandiosity.

  Laedron walked to the front of the coach to talk to the driver. “Not a word of this to anyone if you want to keep your life.” Raising his wand to the horses, he cast his spell, and a burst of dull violet light encompassed them from the hooves to the tops of their heads. The carriage driver's jaw dropped, but he said nothing.

  “No stopping, and drive the horses as you never have before,” Laedron said before climbing into the back with the others.

  “Your ma would've been proud to see that,” Marac said. “Looked just like the time back in Reven’s Landing.”

  “I had some time to practice on the ship.” He paused, remembering his mother’s face. “I hope she would be proud of what I've accomplished.”

  The coach rattled through the streets until it passed the gatehouse, and they were soon on the coastal road above the cliffs to the south. Balfan, like Pilgrim's Rest, occupied the two flat areas on either side of a vast range of seaside ridges, and a road connected them. Only when they reached the Heraldan Channel did they see another low-lying area, but a bridge over the canyon allowed them to maintain speed. Some fifty feet below, warships emerged from the mouth of the channel and drifted into the ocean, the flags of the theocracy raised high on their masts. They were undoubtedly on the way to do battle with the Sorbian navy in the Azuran Sea.

  “May the Creator bless our friends upon the waters.” Laedron stared at the ships. “And may He sink those with intrigue in their hearts.”

  “Amen,” Marac said. “May He see fit to bless us in our task, too.”

  Laughing, Jurgen shook his head. “Only a fool would call upon the Creator to destroy his enemies.”

  Laedron glared at Jurgen. “And do I need to remind you of your own scriptures, priest?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “According to your own holy texts, Azura called down the power of the Creator to defeat Vrolosh, yes?” Laedron asked, his anger growing.

  “Yes, but that is different. The Netheren are evil incarnate.”

  “A point of view,” Laedron said. “That's all good and evil truly is, and you'd be wise to remember that fact.”

  “Point taken.” Jurgen’s smile wiped away, and grins appeared on the faces of each of the knights.

  The remainder of the trip went without conversation until they spied the city of Pilgrim's Rest. Laedron leaned toward the window to take in the spectacle.

  “An entire city built into the face of a cliff?” he asked.

  Jurgen glanced through the window, then returned to his book. “Ah, yes. A harbor lies at the base, but much of the city is built into a terrace on the flat parts of the ridge.”

  “A fortress unto itself,” Mikal said. “It will be difficult to keep our privacy in that place.”

  “Yeah,” Brice said, doing his best to peek around the others. “We'd better be careful. Better still, we'd be best to do our task and leave as quickly as we can.”

  “I second that,” Marac said. “No need to linger about.”

  “These shall help you blend in.” Jurgen pulled brown raiments from his case. “You'll find things easier in the guise of friars.”

  They slipped the robes over their other clothes. While fitting well enough not to draw suspicion, the garments afforded plenty of movement and concealment.

  “Good idea,” Laedron said. “Thank you.”

  “I told you I would help. Simply getting you into the city isn't enough.”

  “Thank you, anyway,” Laedron said. “And sorry about before.”

  “No need to be sorry.” Jurgen grinned. “Sometimes we must be reminded of things which aren't obvious to us. For that, I should thank you.”

  When the coach ground to a halt, they departed the cabin to a light rain rolling over the top of the cliffs above. Jurgen led them through the narrow streets and into an inn. The structure was interesting in design, having paver stones throughout except where the stone of the cliff had been smoothed for the floor. The same was true for the walls; wood and cut stone were fitted precisely to the face of the ridge.

  “Welcome to the Overlook,” the innkeeper said, a quill in his hand. “Ah, Jurgen, good to see you again.”

  “A pleasure as always, Velan.” Jurgen reached for the innkeeper's open hand, embracing it.

  “Uncommon to see you around these parts this time of year,” Velan said. “Especially with the threat of war close to our shores.”

  “The friars and I are here on a special purpose, for we've come to witness the Southern Lights. No better time to see them than before the conflict.”

  “Just in time, I'd say,” Velan replied. “I've heard the Vicar Forane has made a special trip, also.”

  “Yes, I've heard the same. It warms my heart to know that she and Deacon Gustav are present in this place.”

  “Mine, as well.” Velan held out a rough iron key. “Here is the key to your usual boardroom.”

  “Fine, thank you,” Jurgen said with a kind smile, then led the others upstairs.

  “I can't help but feel sick being in these robes,” Laedron said. “It betrays everything I stand for.”

  “Don't complain,” Brice said. “You can burn them later, but we must get close to Gustav.”

  “Don't complain? You're one to say that,” Marac said.

  Laedron shook his head. “No bickering. Now's not the time.”

  When Jurgen opened the door, Laedron was quick to enter and shed the shroud. Marac, Mikal, and Brice followed suit, and Jurgen carefully removed his garb and placed it in the closet with great care.

  “How long until these Southern Lights you spoke of?” Laedron asked, scratching his arms, which itched from their contact with the burlap.

  “Tomorrow night.” Jurgen took a seat on a tufted chair.

  “So, we wait here?” Marac asked. “Cooped up in this room the whole time?”

  “Yes, but not without cause,” Jurgen said. “There are matters of etiquette to go over before I can take you to such an event.”

  “I say we just go in, swords and wand waving without caution,” Brice said. “Get rid of as many as we can.”

  Pointing at Brice, Jurgen frowned. “You'd soon be put down. Do you think someone as important as Gustav would travel without his guard?”

  “He's right,” Laedron said, waving his hand at Brice. “This mission requires a certain degree of finesse and stealth if we're to succeed and escape with our lives.”

  “The question is, can these saps be taught to be civil?” Marac asked, looking at Brice and Mikal.

  “Hey!” the two said in unison, each striking Marac on an arm.

  Laedron covered his face with his palm. “I hope so. Go ahead, Jurgen. Let's begin.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  An Old Enemy