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

by Brian Kittrell

Laedron awoke with his mouth filled partly with sand and a dryness he'd never experienced. He spit out the sand and dusted his face. Opening his eyes, he saw Marac sitting by the smoldering ashes of the campfire, holding Ismerelda's scepter.

  “A lovely thing, is it not?” Marac asked, his eyes finding Laedron's.

  Laedron was filled with uneasiness; he wanted to snatch the rod away from Marac. He doesn't know what to do with it, anyway, he reasoned. Watching Marac's fingers trace the shiny metals from the pommel to the gem, Laedron thought for a moment it might help Marac relate somewhat to magic.

  Marac tossed the rod to Laedron, then covered the cinders of the fire with sand and water while saying, “The cliff awaits us, gentlemen.”

  “Looks like I slept late,” Laedron said.

  “Not by much,” Brice said, rubbing his back. “The ground's hardly a suitable replacement for a bed.”

  “I'll fix it,” Laedron said, raising the rod.

  “No, that's quite all right.” Brice waved his hand. “Motion is the salve of stiff muscles; it'll come out on its own.”

  “Then at least let me cleanse our garbs as best I can. We can't travel with sand in our britches.”

  “You can do that? Clean clothes?” Marac raised an eyebrow.

  Laedron smiled and cast a spell. The specks of dirt and sand on their clothes floated away on the breeze. Once he was finished, he walked along the beach, leading the way to the east. Several hours after they had begun, their feet left the sandbank in favor of rock as the crevice narrowed. Black cliffs of jagged rock extended high above them in every direction, a foreboding presence that seemed to taunt them at their approach.

  “A treacherous climb,” Laedron said, looking ahead to the erose stone of the cliff's face. “Be careful not to slip.”

  They climbed for what seemed like hours, each handhold coming at the cost of minutes in some cases. Laedron quickly realized the only thing to their benefit was the series of clean breaks in the rock he found along the way.

  “It's almost as if someone shaped these rocks,” Laedron said.

  “What do you mean?” Marac asked with a grunt.

  Laedron stared up at the remainder of the cliff and spotted an easier path zigzagging its way to the top. “There’s a pattern to these rocks. The route up is deliberately simpler.”

  “Simpler?” Brice asked. “I'd hardly call this easy!”

  “We're almost to the top,” Laedron said. “Keep it going, slow and steady.”

  Cresting the ridge, Laedron dragged himself over the top, then leaned over and reached for Marac. Once he'd pulled Marac up, they both grabbed Brice's hands and then Jurgen's to help them. Afterward, each of them collapsed in the dirt and patches of vegetation.

  “It took us almost a full day to get back to the top?” Marac asked, glimpsing the setting sun.

  “It was hardly a pleasure walk,” Laedron said with a nod. “Would've taken longer if we hadn't had the handholds.”

  “You can say that again.” Brice moved to a seated position and rested his arms on his knees. “My mouth is dry as the desert.”

  “You mean you didn't get a drink from the tavern at the bottom before we left?” Marac asked.

  “Very funny,” Brice said with a scornful glare.

  “We can't linger out here on the plains all day.” Laedron looked at Jurgen. “Where can we go from here?”

  “Not anywhere nearby,” he said, shaking his head. “Any place close to Pilgrim's Rest will have heard the news of your attack by now.”

  Laedron shrugged. “Then where?”

  “Perhaps we should contact your order. Maybe they will shelter us.”

  “No,” Laedron said, rolling his eyes. “We're not returning to Westmarch right now. It's thousands of miles away from here, and we're headed east, not west.”

  “Then they never told you? Perhaps I was right; you must be expendable after all.”

  “Told us what?” Marac asked.

  Jurgen smiled. “The Shimmering Dawn isn't confined to Sorbia. They exist in other parts of the world, though they're quite secretive in some places.”

  “The Dawn Knights have a stronghold in the theocracy?” Laedron asked. “No, we were never told of these things.”

  “I wouldn't call it a stronghold, really,” Jurgen said. “More of a safe house than anything else. In the theocracy, they're akin to outcasts and miscreants, foreigners in our midst who try to disrupt our teachings and the peace of society.”

  “Do you know where they hide themselves?” Laedron asked.

  Jurgen shook his head. “I know the city, but not the place itself. I was never privy to that information.”

  “What city, then?” Marac asked.

  “The capital, of course. Azura.”

  “Wait, I think I may have an idea.” Laedron rubbed his temple. “Victor mentioned something to me the day we left. Something about a golden chalice. He said it overflows.”

  Scratching his chin, Jurgen said, “He may be referring to the golden chalice on the south side. It's a fountain that was constructed there prior to the area becoming a slum of sorts.”

  “A fountain made of gold?” Brice asked, his eyes widening.

  “Hardly,” Jurgen said. “If it had been crafted of gold, the locals would have chipped and cut it to pieces by now. No, it's painted that way, and quite convincingly.”

  “That must be it,” Laedron said. “Can you take us there?”

  “Yes, but it will take some time. We won't be able to travel the open roads; that's for sure.”

  “How far is it?” Brice asked.

  “We could be there by midday tomorrow through the wilderness,” Jurgen said. “It lies about thirty miles from this spot.”

  “Let's get moving, then,” Laedron urged. “No wasting time.”

  “Oh, can't we camp for the night?” Brice asked. “I'm hurting all over.”

  “I'll use a rejuvenation spell to refresh us. You'll feel right as rain.”