The Consuls of the Vicariate (22 page)

An Exchange of Blood

E
arly the next morning, Marac met Brice and Jurgen in the common room. Caleb and Piers had prepared a great feast—sausages, eggs, flat cakes, and fresh juice. While they ate, Marac eyed Jurgen, receiving only a dead stare in response.

“We’ll be going into the city today, Caleb and me,” Piers said, taking his cloak. “To check a few things out and make sure no more of those mages show up unexpectedly.”

“Good, yes,” Jurgen said, watching them leave.

“You think they’ll agree to peace?” Brice asked, eagerly helping himself to heaping portions of food.

Jurgen had barely touched his meal, but he drank plenty of the juice. “Who can say? The only thing we can do is ask.”

“I doubt they have much of a choice in the matter,” Marac said. “We have quite a story to tell, and the Drakars—the whole reason for the fighting—have been done away with.”

“No guarantee they’ll agree to our terms, though.” Jurgen leaned forward. “After their successes at Balfan, they may yet yearn to devour the entire country.”

Jurgen stood and walked toward the door. “Coming?”

Marac joined him, and Brice was still shoveling handfuls of meat and eggs into his mouth even after they had passed the golden chalice in the square. Jurgen confidently led the way to the consulship chamber, and they were among the first to appear—behind only the chamberlains and the militia. Garnering a few odd glances from the arriving consuls, Marac took a seat at Jurgen’s side and tried to keep a low profile.

Jurgen stood once the chamber had filled. “Vicars, we have been victimized. We have been tricked, and we have been defrauded. We were led to believe that a Lasoronian had ascended to our highest office, but in fact, a Zyvdredi plotted his way to the Vicariate Palace, assuming the title and rank of Grand Vicar.”

Amidst the roars from the gallery, Jurgen continued, “We must undo what the Zyvdredi have done. We must go to the Sorbians and make peace.”

“What proof have you, Jurgen? Where is Tristan?” one of the vicars asked.

“Tristan is dead, along with Dalton Greathis and a number of our militia.”

Sergeant Wilkans stood. “It’s true, all of it. I was there, and I didn’t want to believe it myself. When men in black emerged from the palace and flung spells at us, I saw nothing other than the truth of it.”

“Vicars, we must send an emissary to sue for peace, and I shall volunteer to go.”

Vicar Griffinwold stood and joined Jurgen. “Surely, Vicar Jurgen, we can select someone other than you to send forth. Such a task is very dangerous, and I couldn’t bear anything unfortunate befalling you.”

“You are kind, but the responsibility sits upon my shoulders. I should have been stronger. I failed to serve this body once by indifference and lack of action, but I won’t fail again. Begging the vicar’s pardon, I remain a choice for this mission.”

“As you see fit.” Griffinwold bowed and withdrew to the gallery.

“Then, the question shall be, shall we send Vicar Jurgen to meet with the Sorbians to negotiate peace? If it pleases the chamberlain, I would ask for a vote by live voice.” Receiving a nod from the chamberlain, Jurgen asked, “All in favor?”

In unison, seemingly everyone said, ‘Yes.’

“And in opposition?”

His question met with silence. “Good. We will take some horses from the Vicariate Palace stables.”

“
We
, Jurgen?” Carrenhold asked.

“Yes, my friends here. I will not be taking a complement of militia on this journey. Should we fail, every man will be needed to guard the capital. I suggest, in my absence, that you continue the initiatives we have put forth. I would also advise we appoint a new militia commander.”

“I offer up Sergeant Wilkans for the position,” Griffinwold said, standing. “He has always been at Greathis’s right hand, and he knows the responsibilities well.”

Jurgen nodded. “All in favor?”

A resounding echo of ‘yes’ confirmed Wilkans as the new commander of the guard.

“I only promise that I’ll do my best. Many thanks.” Wilkans bowed before the consuls, then exited the room.

Jurgen turned to Marac and Brice. “Are you prepared to leave now?”

Although Marac was concerned for Laedron and wanted to stay, he knew his friend was in good hands. “We are.”

Jurgen led them out the smaller rear exit, then to the side of the Vicariate Palace. Marac considered the stables to be like most others he’d seen until Jurgen called for the horses. Catching a glimpse of the snow-white geldings, Marac remained still until the horses were in full view. The horses, probably bred carefully for the solitary purpose of conveying a Grand Vicar, were groomed with an exquisite attention to detail. Beads of gold and silver were braided through their manes, their tails had likely been brushed every day, and the hooves seemed perfect—no chips, cracks, or marks of wear. He then beheld a coach near the stable’s entrance, a white carriage adorned with gold filigrees and engravings.

Taking a quick peek through the window, Marac saw that the sitting benches were upholstered with velvet and dyed a shiny gold, and he imagined that any who rode within would take great comfort from the seats.

Jurgen tapped him on the shoulder. “You can see the sights later. For now, we must endeavor to locate the Sorbian army.”

* * *

As they rode, Marac recounted what had happened during the fight with Andolis Drakar. They kept a moderate gait so they could talk over the beating of hooves. The day waned into afternoon, the heat from the sun reaching its apex.

Brice slowed to a halt when he crested a hill, and Jurgen asked, “Why are we stopping?”

Hearing no reply, Marac came alongside his friend to see what was going on ahead. Brice’s face appeared to be stuck in an expression of awe or fear. Marac couldn’t quite tell which, but Brice’s eyes were fixed on a single point in the distance. Marac turned and squinted, then he simply stared.

Soldiers stood on the side of the highway. Adorned in vibrant orange and subdued black, they carried all manner of weaponry. Marac immediately recognized the men as Sorbian troops, but his concern heightened when he peered to the east. Along another ridge of hilltops, men in darkened armor bearing the banners of Falacore were gathered, their spears and blades at the ready.

Battle lines
.
The Falacorans finally made it to the war
.
And numbered in the thousands.

“What is it? What do you see?” Jurgen asked.

Marac pointed. “Two armies. The Sorbians and the Falacorans, I think.”

Jurgen joined Marac and Brice at the ridge. “They are just staring at each other?”

Brice nodded. “The calm before the battle. Sizing up their enemies, preparing the last bit of strategy before they loose the men upon each other.”

A thunderous roar echoed through the air, the sound of thousands of men yelling to steel their resolve. Pouring like water down both sides of the hill, the footmen smashed into one other, and the indistinguishable voices mixed with the clanging of blades and armor. With the first clash of arms, men fell by the wayside, trampled underfoot by the advancing waves or slain outright.

“Azura! We’re too late,” Jurgen said, his eyes wide with shock.

Marac glanced at the nearby hilltops where the generals on horseback were separated by a sea of men. “No priests, no sorcerers—a battle of steel and mettle.”

Countless men along the front line fell quickly after the opening moments of the battle, but the lines thinned after a few minutes.
That could have been us
.
Brice, Mikal, and me—even Laedron, had they taken him into the ranks—could have simply died here on this field, forgotten by history and remembered only by the weeping hearts of family and close friends
.

The troops paired off—Sorbian soldiers against their Falacoran counterparts—and fought with impressive skill. Both sides had clearly sacrificed their weakest troops first, treating them as fodder to the mouth of war, the armies going forward from that point only with those strong enough to survive.

A cloud of arrows from the Falacoran archers who had topped the eastern hills darkened the sky. Marac could tell the missiles found their targets because he heard screams erupt above the dull rumble of the thousands of men in the throes of battle.

The Sorbian cavalry quickly flooded into flanking positions. When they neared the archers, the cavaliers lowered their spears, then crashed into the line. In response to that move, the Falacoran horsemen rushed the exposed flank of the Sorbian mounted knights.

Chaos ensued, and Jurgen said, “Remain here.”

Before Jurgen could take off down the road, Marac stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“To get help. This battle is the church’s doing, and we have a role to play yet!”

* * *

Jurgen had been gone for a few hours when the fighting slowed. The loud roar of vigorous men engaged in martial warfare dulled and slowly became replaced with the moans of the wounded and dying.

“Where is he?” Marac asked Brice.

Brice shrugged. “Maybe he had trouble getting back.”