Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

After a tumble across the roof, Laedron stood several feet away, his clothes steaming from the superheated perspiration all over his body. Andolis had missed, but just barely. Through the whirlwind of spells which followed, Laedron and Andolis shouted phrases and waved their weapons, while bobbing and weaving to dodge the other’s attacks. Laedron felt as locked in an improvised dance, and the final measure of the music would draw silent with one of their deaths. The fear he felt in his heart weighed greater than any he had come to know prior to that day, and he knew that one misstep, one false move, would finish him.

He felt the sting of Andolis’s icebolt from the center of his body to the tips of his extremities, and the feelings of anguish and defeat that followed were no easier to accept. Glancing down, Laedron saw that a solid shard of ice had pierced him just above his sternum, and judging by the fact that he was still alive, he figured the spell had missed anything vital. He could still feel his heart beating in his chest, but with every pulse of blood, a chill surged through his body. Laedron saw doubled, blurry outlines of Andolis, then his face hit the ground as hard as Andolis’s spell had struck him in the chest.

He had been bested by the enemy, and the world as he knew it would cease to be, instead becoming a place shrouded in darkness, pain, and torment for all who inhabited it. Lying on the ground, Laedron let his thoughts drift, flashes of visions of his life and the lives of his friends. Then, he saw people huddled in misery in distant, foreign places, people he had never met, but who shared in his defeat.

Tears welled in his eyes for Ismerelda, who had died by the hands of another Drakar, for Master Greathis, who had been killed on the steps of the palace, and for Marac and Brice, who had followed him only to lose their lives so close to victory. Laedron cried for Valyrie, who would never see her father again, and for her father, whose death would go unavenged. Then, his emotions changed into anger, an insurmountable, insatiable hate for the man who approached to gloat over him while he lay dying.

The pain lessened as the ice bolt faded from existence, Andolis having obviously released the spell. A perfect hole-an inch or two in width-remained in his chest, but it didn’t hurt; the freezing cold had numbed the area, though it wouldn’t be long until the effect wore off.

“Are you crying? For what do you shed tears? For my men whom you killed? No. For your own shortcomings and lack of training? For the defeat itself? Why do you weep?” Andolis asked, inching closer with each word.

Laedron’s entire body trembled, a cocktail of fear, anger, and adrenaline coursing through his veins. “You… mustn’t…”

“Mustn’t I? What? I mustn’t finish you off? After all the trouble you’ve caused?” Andolis glanced at the scepter sitting a few feet from Laedron’s hand, then he smiled. “No, I think I shall be done with you, boy. Then I shall continue my plan to rid the world of your kind, your impure and reckless brethren who should never have been taught the secrets of magic in the first place.”

Laedron considered Andolis’s words, feeling as though he was only a pawn in a much greater, far older game about which he knew nothing. A war between the Zyvdredi and Uxidi over control of magic? They used the church to hasten the demise of all mages except those born in Zyvdred? Laedron had only a passing thought of the possibility. Given that he had seen neither the Creator, nor Syril as of yet, he considered his options.

Laedron lifted himself an inch or two off the ground. “You’ve done well-”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Andolis asked, kicking Laedron in the face.

The popping noise and the flow of blood from his nostrils let him know his nose had been broken. Doing his best to set his nose straight despite the insufferable pain, Laedron said, “You’ve done well thus far, Andolis. Turned the church on its head, even using it as a tool to rid the world of us. You’ve made one mistake, though, don’t you see?”

Andolis put his left hand on his hip, the other tightly grasping the staff. “What mistake is that, whelp?”

“You’ve taught others, priests, the secrets of magic. You have yourself done that which you hate.”

“You think I don’t have a plan for that? With the rest of you gone, it would be easy to do away with the priests I’ve taught. A necessary evil, my little friend, much like the one I shall serve you with now. Once I’m done with you, I’ll finish my spell and be away from this place. Imagine it, boy, a firestorm, a torrent of fire to last at least the next hundred years.”

Laedron was confused for a moment, then he realized how Andolis planned to accomplish the feat-the soulstones. Laedron saw the full use-the terrible use-of the soulstones to their maximal effect: making magic permanent by the use of a proxy, a fresh soul depleted in the casting of a spell.

Andolis raised his staff high.

Laedron braced himself for the finality of his death. The time had come for the Zyvdredi to claim his prize. Andolis spoke his chant slowly, as if savoring each dark word as it crossed his lips. In his other hand, Andolis presented a black stone, and his plan quickly became apparent.

Laedron writhed in agony at the thought of being trapped forever inside an onyx gem, his soul used to power the spells that would lay waste to men and nations. Laedron reached for the dagger at his belt, but then remembered that Brice had taken it. Not even a chance to end my own life before he can draw out my soul .

Laedron closed his eyes, unwilling to look at the dark violet light swirling around his body. Much to his surprise, the chanting stopped with a grunt from Andolis. Opening his eyes, Laedron saw a sword protruding through the mage’s chest with blood squirting around the edges of the blade. Andolis’s face told of his shock and dismay, apparently aware of his impending death, reminding Laedron of the time he had practiced captivation magic with Ismerelda. Laedron almost pitied Andolis and would have given in to the emotion had he not known Andolis’s true personality.

He should have felt relief at watching Andolis’s limp body fall and Marac standing-alive-a few feet away, blood-drenched and wearing a look of deep satisfaction, but he didn’t. The mage’s words riddled his mind, and all the miles traveled thus far notwithstanding, Laedron felt as if they had only begun the journey.

Laedron’s arms and legs grew numb, and his breathing became shallow. His vision cloudy, he lay still on the ground until he could see only darkness. The last thing he heard was Marac’s voice shouting his name, and then he heard nothing.

Marac reached down, grabbing Laedron’s hand tight in his own. “Stay with me, Lae! Can you hear me?”

Laedron didn’t respond, but Marac noticed movement across the roof. Won’t you stay dead, bastard? He took a firm grip on his sword and rose to his feet. Then, he realized Andolis lay dead and still where he had fallen. The movement came from further away.

“Oh, my head,” Brice said, sitting up.

Crouching at Laedron’s side again, Marac shouted to Brice, “Laedron’s hurt badly. We have to get him out of here.”

Brice took the staff from Andolis’s dead hands and the ring from the corpse’s finger, then returned to Laedron’s side. “You get that arm, and I’ll take this one.” He pulled Laedron’s limp body forward.

Marac eyed the staff and the ring. “What, we’re looters now, Brice?”

“No, no. The ring glimmers like the stones in the staff. It could be important.”