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

by Brian Kittrell

  * * *

  Jurgen helped Laedron dress in the friar's robes once again, pulling the cowl over his hair and straightening the bottom. Before Jurgen made the finishing touches, Laedron remembered when Ismerelda had done the same so long ago. You will be avenged this day, he thought.

  He tucked his wand into his boot so it could be hidden while also being easily found when needed. Once Laedron was dressed, Jurgen opened his case and removed his ceremonial garments, rich and decadent clothes with embroideries and embellishments Laedron hadn’t seen before.

  “You must be important in the church,” Laedron said.

  Jurgen grinned. “You must be of some importance or a venerable status to hold dominion inside the theocratic lands. Even though my church and holdings are small, they are regarded higher than any great cathedral outside these lands. The Drakars couldn’t simply cast me out since I was well-connected, but they found the next best thing in Balfan.”

  “Seems it would be difficult to leave such a position,” Laedron said. “Yet, you do it so readily.”

  “I tire of the corruption. Like I said before, I seek a church of purity and reverence, not of intrigue and genocide.”

  “I hope you see a church like that someday,” Laedron said.

  Jurgen smiled. “I thought you didn't believe in things like that.”

  “You're a good man. I can see that now,” Laedron said. “You deserve to live in peace.”

  “Thank you, Laedron. I appreciate that.”

  “You think me a bad person, don't you?”

  “A bad person?”

  “Yes, for wanting to kill the coachman, for all of the evil things I've done,” Laedron said. “Do you think I'm a bad person?”

  “No.” Jurgen sighed. “I do not believe you're a bad person. On the contrary, I think you did a good thing by letting the driver go. If you continue on your present path, I think you may become evil, and quickly, but you still have the possibility of redemption.”

  “How can one redeem himself?”

  “I’m afraid that is beyond my expertise, for you're not a follower of faith. If I were faithless, I would say that the path to goodness would be to help my fellow man. To do no wrongs or as few as I could. To live a good life.”

  “But how?”

  “You know the way,” Jurgen said. “Surely your parents taught you the difference between right and wrong. You feel it in your heart, do you not?”

  Laedron shrugged. “Well, yes, I suppose.”

  “Then you know the right way, but you choose not to follow it at times. It is when our values are the least helpful that we hold to them. Through those trials, we find goodness.”

  “You're a wise man, Jurgen. Thank you.”

  “Wisdom is what you make of it. It can easily serve two sides of the same coin—the merciful, forgiving face or the one of hate and avarice.”

  “I will try to do better,” Laedron said, opening the door.

  “That's good.” Jurgen walked into the hall. “I'm glad for that.”

  Laedron followed with his head hung low the way he had been told was customary. With the daylight, he could see that the cracks in the stonework were much worse than he'd originally thought, and he felt a measure of regret for damaging the building.

  Passing the innkeeper's desk, Velan asked, “Did you have an easy night?”

  “Yes, it was easy,” Jurgen said. “Why do you ask it in such a manner?”

  “The quake. It didn't wake you?”

  Jurgen eyed Laedron before turning to Velan again. “We must've slept through it.”

  “I'm amazed,” Velan said. “It woke everyone else in the place.”

  “We were quite tired from the journey here,” Jurgen said. “The road wears on these old bones worse than most.”

  Velan nodded with a smile, and Laedron exited behind Jurgen into the street. Tiny cracks traced the nearby road and walls of the neighboring shops, too.

  “What have I done?” Laedron whispered.

  Jurgen led him to the left. “At least no one was hurt. No need to worry over it now.”

  All manner of people from the town were in the streets, each dressed in their finest garments for the ceremony. The conversations he overheard consisted mostly of thanking Azura for protecting their lives during the earthquake the night before.

  Mixing with the stream of people, Laedron and Jurgen continued along the winding road leading to the cathedral grounds. The first thing Laedron noticed were the gigantic pillars of marble, thicker than any oak in Sorbia and easily taller than the academy in Morcaine. A beautiful fresco across its massive face depicted the battle in which Azura destroyed Vrolosh. In the painting, hundreds, or even thousands, of intricate carvings of defilers surrounded the mound on which she stood, her staff raised to the heavens.

  The parishioners funneled through a narrow entry, beautiful as it was, and Laedron followed Jurgen through the door also. Being at least triple the height of a man, the massive wooden doors on either side remained open by their weight alone. They eventually reached the foyer where Laedron heard a mighty organ piping out a tune.

  Keeping his head down, Laedron was able to catch a glimpse of the people and activities nearby, but he relied on Jurgen's steady pace and the voices of others to guide him. When the music grew silent, the crowd lowered their voices, and Laedron glimpsed the opulent altar at the other end to see a priest raising his hands beneath an impressive crystal chandelier.

  “Brothers and sisters in Azura, I welcome you to the festival of the Southern Lights. For so long as our blessed church has graced these shores, we have attended in awe of the splendors of our mistress. Though our trials have been difficult of late and war looms on our horizon, we stay vigilant to the teachings lest we lose the light and the world falls into darkness.”

  After they turned a corner, he could no longer hear the priest's voice, for it had become nothing more than a hollow echo. Jurgen opened a side door, and Laedron followed him.

  Closing the door behind them, Jurgen removed his cowl, so Laedron did the same. The hallway was dim, having only torches and candles to illuminate the way.

  “I'll do all the talking,” Jurgen said, looking down the tunnel. “First, your friends, right?”

  “Yes,” Laedron said

  Jurgen produced the map and held it close to a nearby torch. “Let's get moving. Oh, and put your hood back up. Monks must be cowled at all times unless in their own cell.”

  With a nod, Laedron covered his head before reaching in and scratching his scalp. I really wish they’d made it out of something other than burlap, he mused.

  They walked down the hall, then came to an open room on the right. Several men dressed in signature brown robes occupied the tables placed about the room, each scrawling endlessly in the thick tomes opened before them. Beyond them sat huge shelves of books with movable ladders leaning against them.

  “What is this place?” Laedron asked, stopping.

  “Copymakers.”

  “They sit and copy books their entire lives?” Laedron raised an eyebrow.

  “No, only until they serve out their punishment. It is our way of showing penance for misdeeds.”

  “They're criminals?”

  “Not exactly. To you, it would be considered a misbehavior, failing to bow to a senior priest on more than one occasion, for instance.”

  Laedron smirked. “That's all?”

  “The church maintains a perfect order,” Jurgen said, continuing down the passage. “Deviation from that would result in mayhem, both for the church and for the populace we guide in these lands.”

  While he was led through the labyrinth of tunnels and halls, Laedron felt a sinking feeling with each step they took. Deeper into the ground, he thought. Every inch we go means it will be harder to escape this place. With a deep breath, he forged ahead, keeping Jurgen within arm's reach.

  “We're in the residences now,” Jurgen said as they entered a wider hallway. “It won't be much longer.” />
  “Good.” Laedron tugged at his robes. “It's getting cooler.”

  “We're deep in the ground. The earth insulates the lower parts of the church.”

  Laedron noticed the walls were more decorative the farther they went. “We're getting close, aren't we?”

  “Yes.” Glancing to the left, Jurgen pointed at an opening into another hall. “Down there is the antechamber where Gustav will likely be. Your friends should be straight ahead, down these stairs.”

  They descended a set of steps carved from the rock and beset by metal girders. Once at the bottom, a long tunnel darker than any of the others lay before them. About halfway down, Laedron heard a faint scream.

  “Marac,” Laedron whispered, his fists tightening.

  “Perhaps not. It was indistinct.”

  “I've known him my whole life, priest. It was him,” Laedron said with a full measure of confidence in the fact.

  Continuing through the tunnel, Laedron tried to walk lightly, but the sound of his shoes upon stone grated his teeth. They heard that for sure, he thought, the sound echoing.

  Passing the next curve, Jurgen stopped in his tracks. With a hand motion, he summoned Laedron to his side, and Laedron slowly crept forward and peeked around the wall just enough to see beyond. A mere thirty feet away stood a guard in front of a single doorway, his halberd resting against the wall and a sword hanging at his hip.

  “What shall we do?” Jurgen asked, easing back down the passage. “We're not armed.”

  “You're mistaken.” Laedron drew his wand. “I came prepared.”

  “Remember what we talked about, young man. Kill only when you must.”

  Laedron nodded, then waved the wand and whispered the spell. A shroud of fluttering waves of energy enveloped him, turning him invisible. He approached the guard slowly, careful with every step until he was close enough to smell the man’s perspiration. At that point, Laedron held his breath so he wouldn't give himself away. Laedron gave the halberd a gentle push, and it slid across the wall and fell to the ground.

  “What in the hells?” Bending down, the guard reached for the polearm.

  Laedron became visible behind him and waved his wand. As he whispered the words of the conjuration, the guard turned his head, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Laedron flicked his wrist, and a wave of energy struck the guard in the forehead. He began snoring, and Jurgen approached with an approving nod.

  Opening the door, Laedron and Jurgen dragged the unconscious guard into the room. The stone walls were dark and grimy, and implements of torture were arranged in a semicircle around the places where men would be tied to pray for death.

  “Tie him with those bits of rope over there,” Laedron whispered. “Quick now!”

  Jurgen closed the door and began tying up the guard, and Laedron spotted Marac bound by ropes on his wrists and ankles, hanging helplessly near the center of the room. He rushed to his friend. Marac's shirt had been removed, and the dirt and grime on his skin had mixed with his sweat and blood.

  “Lae,” Marac said, whimpering with anguish. “I'm sorry, Lae. So sorry.”

  “Is there anyone else here?” Laedron asked in a whisper, glancing to every corner of the room.

  The simple act of shaking his head seemed to cause Marac more pain. “No, but they'll be back to finish me off. Just like they did Mikal.”

  “Mikal? Where's he?”

  Tears flooded Marac's eyes, his voice carrying as much anger as his weak body would allow. “He's dead. They killed him, Lae!”

  Laedron eyed a pair of ropes cut and frayed beside his friend. “How?”

  “Lashed to death. I lasted longer, but they'll be back to finish me for sure. We wouldn't tell them anything, Lae.”

  While Marac writhed against his bonds, Laedron looked at his back. The cuts inflicted by his tormentors were deep and long. Inspecting the wounds made Laedron's skin sting with sympathy and his stomach turn with unease.

  “Lock that door,” Laedron told Jurgen. “We don't want anyone coming in behind us.”

  The priest slid the latch, and Laedron retrieved the strips of Marac's shirt from the floor. Coiling them into a ball, he pushed it toward Marac’s mouth. “Bite down on this. It's going to hurt, but only for a moment.”

  The wounds sealed before his eyes as he cast the spell, the skin weaving together like stitchwork. Marac let out muffled screams, and Laedron saw his friend’s jaw clench tight on the gag.

  Laedron flicked the wand and muttered a phrase at Marac's wrists and then his feet. The ropes snapped with a wisp of smoke, and Jurgen stepped forward to catch Marac's limp body in his arms.

  “One more thing left to do.” Laedron cast another spell. Pale green light flooded the room, and Marac was engulfed by the energy. When Laedron finished, Marac stood under his own power.

  “Can you walk?” Laedron asked, placing his hand on Marac's shoulder.

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Jurgen, return to the inn with him and get Brice ready for travel. I shall meet you there.”

  “You can't do this alone,” Marac said with desperation in his voice. “Get me a sword, and I shall accompany you. We'll take him on together.”

  “We can't risk it.” Laedron removed his robe and put it over Marac's head. “No one else is going to die here. I'll make sure of that.”

  “No, Lae,” Marac said. “You can't do this by yourself. You can't!”

  “Take him,” Laedron said, ignoring Marac's pleas. “Gather horses and a coach, and we shall leave when I'm done with Gustav. We'll make haste back to Sorbia.” Jurgen bowed his head, and Laedron added, “Be ready for my return. We may not have much time to escape.”

  Jurgen led the way out the door and through the hallway. At the passage to the antechamber, Laedron stood and watched them leave before turning to his right. His pulse racing, he crept toward the door at the end of the tunnel, then reached for the handle and took deep breaths to steel himself for what lay beyond.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Melange of Magic