Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

“Then bring her back from the darkness, Lae. Give her hope. Won’t you at least try?”

Laedron stopped.

“Well, won’t you?” Marac took him by the shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sorry if I offended, but it’s-”

“Look. Just there,” Laedron said, pointing down an alley. In a wider part of the alleyway, a pair of shoes-clearly still worn by a body-lay exposed, and the person to whom they were attached wasn’t moving. Laedron could gather little detail since the body was mostly concealed behind a few barrels.

“Oh, probably a vagabond. We’re militia, right? Let’s check him out.” Marac approached, looked over the tops of the barrels, then turned back to Laedron. “It’s a militia guard, Lae. He’s not moving.”

Laedron walked around the barrels and crouched beside the man. Searching for wounds, he said, “There’s no blood. Nothing. He isn’t breathing.”

“Roll him over.” Marac walked to the other side of the man and hunched over him. “Check his back.”

“Nothing there, either. No blood, nothing.” Laedron scanned the distance when something made a noise in the next alley, a sound much like a pan hitting the ground. “What was that?”

Across from them, a man cowled in black robes took off down the opposite street. Laedron caught a glimpse of red symbols on the back of the man’s cloak, small, indistinguishable characters written in two vertical rows from his shoulders to the hem.

“A killer? Marac!” Laedron sprang to his feet. With Marac’s heavy footsteps on his heels, Laedron pursued the shadowy figure through the alley. Laedron turned the next corner and heard the sound of a sword being drawn behind him-Marac readying himself for a fight. He drew his dagger. Better this than nothing, I guess .

Rounding the next corner, Laedron felt a sting on his throat and recoiled out of reflex. He remembered that same feeling when Heidrik, Gustav’s minion who had tortured Marac and Mikal, had lashed him in the face. The feeling was unmistakable and familiar, the warmth of blood flowing across his skin. He turned and plunged the dagger into the cloaked man as hard as he could. Laedron’s breathing hastened while his target’s slowed and became shallow. From the amount of blood on his hands, Laedron knew that he had hit his mark and hit it well.

The man’s dagger dropped from his left hand, and a bit of wood from his right, as he collapsed. A pool of blood spread slowly and soaked his garments.

Laedron took a step back to keep his boots from getting drenched. Laedron’s eyes widened when he realized that the length of wood was, in fact, a wand. “It’s a mage, Marac! Have I killed one of our countrymen?”

“Keep your voice down, Lae.” Marac leaned down and removed the cloth covering the man’s face. “Doesn’t look like any Sorbian I’ve ever seen.”

“We haven’t seen them all. What if he’s like us? What if he was on a mission, too?”

“If he was on a mission, I doubt it came from the same people we serve. Look, a tattoo on his neck. Unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Laedron turned the man’s head to the side, and the tattoo on his neck was illuminated by the lantern light. “It’s a word.”

“A word? What does it say?”

“ Kivesh .”

“Kivesh?” Marac asked. “Well, what does that mean?”

“Nothing. It’s a name.”

“How can you read it?”

“It’s written in an old language. Zyvdredi.”

Marac’s face twisted with apparent shock and fear. “Zyvdredi? Here?”

“It would seem so.” Laedron rummaged through the man’s pockets. In the belt, he found a black cloth pouch.

“What’s that?” Marac asked.

Without responding, Laedron opened the purse and pulled out a handful of black stones, each etched with a runic symbol that he couldn’t place, symbols similar to the ones along the back of the man’s cloak. A few of the stones sparkled with an artificial glow as if reverberating with energy. The others only reflected the light of the lantern posts.

“What are those, Lae? What does all this mean?”

“I don’t know.” Laedron returned the stones to the bag and put it in his pocket. “I’m going to hold on to them until we know for sure.”

“What do we do now?”

Laedron retrieved the man’s wand and tucked it into his other boot. “Back to the dead guard. I need to see what I can discover about the body. It may lend a clue.”

Marac led the way back to the militiaman’s body, and Laedron searched the area for any sign of onyx stones.

“Nothing here. Nothing more than we already know, which isn’t much.”

Laedron reached for his wand, but Marac grabbed his hand before he could draw it.

“If we’re to do this, we’d better try the old-fashioned way-find witnesses and look around. If you’re discovered, we’d be in deep water.”

Laedron stood with a sigh, then turned when he heard a door close behind him. “Where was that?”

“Couldn’t tell,” Marac said.

Believing the source of the sound to be close, Laedron knocked on the door opposite the dead guard, then listened intently. He heard the shuffling of feet against a wooden floor on the other side, but no one answered. He knocked again.

A muffled, “Go away!” came from beyond the door.

“I won’t go away. Open, in the name of the militia,” Laedron said, trying to sound serious and authoritative.

The door creaked open only an inch or two. “What ye want?” The voice was that of an elderly male, probably crotchety and set in his ways, but little else.

“Did you see what passed here not long ago?” Laedron asked, pointing over his shoulder.

“No, and we don’t want any trouble. Go away.”

Before the man could slam the door, Laedron forced it open just enough to lodge his boot in the crack. “We’re not done here. If you’ve seen anything, you need to tell us.”

“What are you doing there?” a voice shouted from up the alley. The jingle of metal armor matched pace with footsteps, and Laedron recognized the newcomer as one of the younger militia guards.

“Investigating a crime,” Laedron replied. “Go get more guards. The killer is up this street. Take the next right, then turn right again. There you shall find him in a puddle of his own blood. Go!”

“You caught the one who did this?” the elderly man behind the door whispered, opening the door. “Is it true?”

The man wore a long, white beard identical to his hair, both unkempt and dirty. He gave off a horrible odor reminiscent of sweat and spoiled milk, and his clothes were those of a beggar.

“Yes,” Laedron said, trying to hide a grimace. “Now, will you tell me what you saw? Or do you insist on playing this game even still?”

“Lower your voice, young man. There are ears that might overhear us. Come in, and I shall tell you what I saw.”

Entering the cramped domicile, Laedron was thankful he hadn’t eaten anything recently because the smell and conditions within the pitiful house would have surely made him lose his stomach on the floor.

“What in the hells is that smell?” Laedron asked, unable to contain his disgust. “Are you harboring the dead beneath your floors?”

“My soup, young man. Sounds like you wouldn’t care for any.”

“If it’s putting off a scent like that, I think I’ll pass,” Laedron said, and Marac waved his hand in agreement.

“Well, have a seat, then.” The man gestured at a pair of rickety wooden chairs set around a matching table, then took a seat across from them. “Name’s Clarence.”

Laedron sat and folded his arms. “Laedron, and this is Marac. What did you see?”

“That young fellow there, the dead one, he was walking along and tapped another fellow on the back when he reached the barrels. They exchanged words too quiet for me to hear, then I saw a glimmer of light.”