Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

Turning the corner, Laedron spotted the golden dome of the consul chamber in the distance and thought of Valyrie. I hope Jurgen keeps her safe .

A cart caught his attention, and he approached the vendor.

“Might I help you, young man?” the seller asked.

Laedron’s stomach churned with delight at the smell of the hot rolls, and he reached in his pocket. “How much?”

“A pence apiece. How many?”

“Four should do.” He offered the copper coins to the merchant and received a thin cloth full of buns in exchange.

As they took to the road once more, Marac said, “You won’t be eating them all on your own, will you?”

“Of course not.” Laedron gave him two.

Honey bread? How fine . Laedron savored the roll after he popped it into his mouth. Then, he ate the second, trying not to look like a hungry beast. Marac didn’t fare well in hiding his pleasure, either.

They arrived at the militia headquarters, and Laedron found the building peculiar. It was the only structure in that end of town built entirely from red bricks-a rich, bright red, as if the color itself had a significance.

Upon entering the main hall, Laedron stopped one of the guards. “Might you tell me where I can find Master Greathis?”

“Master Greathis? What business have you with him?” the guard asked, impatience in his tone. He wore a gold and silver tunic with the coat of arms of the theocracy on his chest-a gold and silver shield beset by Azura’s Star.

I’m beginning to get sick of that symbol , Laedron thought, studying the man’s tunic. It’s displayed on everything here-shops and houses, the flags, the coins, and even the people themselves.

Marac stepped forward. “We mean to join up, of course.”

“You can do that without seeing Greathis.” The soldier pointed down the hall. “Go to-”

“We must see Greathis himself. We were sent here by Vicar Jurgen,” Laedron said, producing the scroll.

The man glanced at the scroll. “Very well. Third floor, all the way back.”

“The stairs?”

The guard sighed and gestured toward the nearby door.

“Thank you.”

On the third floor, they walked toward the rear of the structure, stopping when Laedron spotted a sign reading, “Master and Commander of the Militia Dalton Greathis.” Laedron hoped the long, stuffy title didn’t accurately reflect the man to whom it referred. He took a deep breath before knocking on the heavy door.

Receiving a muffled response from inside, Laedron opened the door. “Master Greathis, I presume?”

“Yes, yes, come in.”

The office was resplendent, but the decor was markedly different from any other place Laedron had seen in the city. The room contained an Azuran banner at the center of the rear wall, but he couldn’t place the furniture or any of the other decorations. Looking past the desk, he also noticed the man wore dark armor with studs and spikes all over it.

“And who, pray tell, are you?” The man’s words were sharp and crisp, and his voice carried a throaty accent.

“Um… Laedron, and this is Marac. We’ve come to join the militia at Vicar Jurgen’s request.”

Greathis’s eyes widened. “Vicar Jurgen? Has our friend returned from the city of Balfan?”

Laedron handed him the scroll. “Yes, Master Greathis. I-”

“Dalton.” He read over the parchment, then stamped a small piece of paper with his signet ring and handed it to Laedron.

“Sire?”

“Any friend of Vicar Jurgen may call me Dalton, for we are friends by association. Just Dalton.”

“Very well.” Laedron glanced around the room again, taking in the strangeness of the place. “You’re not from the theocracy, are you? I feel as if I’ve journeyed to a new land just by passing through your door.”

Greathis laughed. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. I hail from Falacore, and these are my possessions.”

Falacore. The icy north, the land of the fabled warriors . “What is a Falacoran doing so far from home?”

“His duty, of course,” Greathis said. “We have a close relationship with the church, and it is not as uncommon as you might think. Many of my predecessors have also been Falacoran. Our skill in battle makes us apt at training men for patrolling streets or for service on the battlefield.”

“We won’t need any training,” Marac said.

“Won’t you? A wise man once told me that he who knows everything knows nothing. I’ve found it to be true.”

“He means no disrespect.” Laedron glanced at Marac before returning his eyes to Greathis. “To say it better, we are prepared for duty now and require no further instruction.”

Greathis dipped his head. “Very well. Jurgen wouldn’t have sent you unless he had faith in your abilities. What are your specialties?”

Laedron’s gaze fell to the floor. “My friend here is skilled with a sword.”

“And you?”

An array of weapons flooded his mind. Which one? What’s easiest to use? I carry none of them!

“No need to be bashful, friend,” Marac said, stepping past Laedron. “He fights with a dagger.”

“A dagger? Interesting…”

Though Laedron had only handled a knife for carving fish, he figured he could use it better than anything else. “Yes, daggers. I’m sorry. I know it’s an unusual weapon to master.”

“No, it’s quite all right.” Greathis clasped his hands. “I’ve seen wonders performed with the shorter blades.”

Laedron exhaled lightly so as not to appear nervous, then grinned at Marac.

“The armory is on the first floor,” Greathis said. “There you may acquire your tunics and arms from the quartermaster. Give that order to him once you find him.”

“Thank you… Dalton.” Laedron bowed, and Marac followed him to the first floor. Hearing shouting from down the hall, Laedron rushed forward and located the source of the racket, a man with a longsword at his hip and sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve.

“On the left! Damned fools! No, the other left!” the sergeant yelled. “All the way against the wall and two high.”

Not wanting to draw the man’s ire, Laedron waited for the sergeant to finish his diatribe. “Are you the quartermaster?”

“Aye, Sergeant Wilkans. And who are you, boy?”

“New recruits, come for our tunics and weapons.” Laedron showed Wilkans the missive that Master Greathis had given him.

Wilkans put his hands on his hips. “Well, you’ll have to wait. We’re reorganizing the stockroom right now.”

“Perhaps we can help,” Laedron suggested.

“Maybe. Do you know left from right?”

“Sire?”

“It’s a simple question, boy,” Wilkans said with a sigh. “Do you know your left hand from your right?”

Laedron nodded.

“Good.” He turned to yell at the men inside the stockroom, “Maybe somebody with some sense about them can get this done!”

Laedron gestured for Marac to come with him, and they both grunted at feeling the weight when they lifted the crates. Per Wilkans’s detailed instructions, Laedron and Marac moved the heavy boxes across the storeroom and stacked them. Finishing, both of them heaved sighs and did their best to wipe the sweat from their brows.

Entering the room and inspecting the work, Wilkans said, “Good, many thanks. Let’s see about getting you some supplies.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this . Laedron eyed the symbol on his new tunic. Everything I’ve come to despise is embodied in this emblem, a symbol I will have emblazoned across my chest . He shook his head, then donned the garment over his shirt and pants.

“Need any arms?” Wilkans asked.

Laedron pointed at the daggers across the top of the weapons rack. “I could use one of those and a sheath.”