The Consuls of the Vicariate (23 page)

Marac scoffed. “Only two roads lead out from Azura—the one we’re on and the one that goes south. He couldn’t have gotten lost.”

“What do you think he has in mind?”

“No way of telling. I just hope he reveals it soon.”

The battle had nearly drawn to a close, and it became clear that there were no winners on that field. Both armies had apparently been of equal skill since hardly any of the troops on either side remained without injury of some kind. He couldn’t even see an unscathed horse in the mix, and men and beasts both lay strewn across the field like discarded grain on a mill floor.

Marac glanced over his shoulder when he heard the sound of horses galloping toward them from the south, and saw Jurgen leading the entire assembly of the consulship, minor priests, and a veritable army of carts and wagons.

“Have you brought them to see the disaster caused by their blind following?” Marac asked when Jurgen came close.

“That, and to do what we can for those who have survived.”

“What will you do?”

“A miracle, I hope.” Jurgen gestured to the priests, and they all took off down the hill toward the injured soldiers. “Save as many as you can, and load anyone who cannot walk into the wagons.”

Marac turned to Brice. “We’d better help however we can.”

With a nod, Brice rode down behind the priests, and Marac followed him. Nearing the battlefield, Marac could clearly see blood flying up with the clumps of dirt and grass as the horses ran.
Saturated
.
Soaked in blood
.

He reached the closest of the battle’s victims and climbed off his horse. The boy’s panicked breathing sent chills up Marac’s spine. Blood was smeared across the young man’s face, and his belly had been slashed open, probably by the sword in the hand of the dead Sorbian lying next to him. Marac felt pity for the Falacoran soldier, that he might die so far away from his home, friends, and family.

Then, Marac’s heart filled with sadness when he saw nothing but peace in the boy’s eyes. Where Marac had seen hope in his eyes, the boy’s features relaxed, the look in his eyes replaced with an emptiness, a void. Marac turned his gaze upward slowly, looking at each of the men who lay dead before him. From that distance, he couldn’t discern the number of soldiers by the groaning, but he could tell there were many.

The wailing was soon drowned out by chanting from hundreds of priests doling out healing miracles.
Miracles. Spells. What’s the difference?
Marac mused, watching the priests. Their postures and gestures differed little from what he’d seen of Laedron.
Instead of wands, they have rings. Their words are spoken in Heraldict, and Laedron says his spells in Zyvdredi. Both concentrate in the same fashion
.

Marac heard the shrieking of a man nearby and saw the body of a horse rising with each howl. He ran to see who was trapped beneath the warhorse.

Marac couldn’t believe his eyes. “Fenric?” He recognized the man as the king’s brother, Duke Hadrian Fenric of Westmarch.

Fenric drew a dagger. “You’ve come to finish me? It shan’t be that easy.”

“No, my lord.” Marac crouched and put his shoulder under the horn of the saddle. “We’ll push together. On three.”

Marac gave the count, then heaved upward, feeling the strain from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Seeing Fenric pull his leg free, Marac lowered the horse’s body to the ground.

Fenric gritted his teeth and grabbed his leg. From the unnatural twist, Marac surmised that the man’s ankle was broken.

“Here!” Marac shouted at a nearby priest.

The priest joined them and inspected the injury. “You’ll have to hold him down.”

“Keep your hands off me, devil!”

Marac pressed against Fenric’s shoulders, fighting the man while the priest inspected and healed the ankle. Fenric’s body went limp for a moment, then the duke let out a scream to rival any Marac had heard on the field that day. By the time the young priest finished, Fenric had lost consciousness, probably from the excruciating pain.

“Get him on a wagon. He
must
survive this day,” Marac said.

* * *

His hands and arms covered with the blood of other men, Marac returned to Jurgen when it seemed like all of the survivors had been located and loaded into the wagons. “What will you do now, Jurgen?” Marac asked.

Jurgen climbed atop his horse with a heavy sigh. “We take them all back, the Falacorans and Sorbians alike. Our task is to save as many as we can.”

“You may consider speaking with Duke Fenric. He’s the Sorbian general.”

“Ah, I see. They’ve sent their best against us,” Jurgen said, nodding and wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief.

Marac glanced across the field of fallen soldiers. “It would seem the Falacorans sent their elites, as well.”

“Indeed. The Falacorans have won the day, but only by a margin. They had but a handful more than the Sorbians still standing after the battle.”

“Have you located their general?”

“Yes,” Jurgen said. “He was killed in the fray.”

“Then the Falacorans will likely want to pursue the war, right? Generals are most often high-born.”

“No, they will do as we say. My plan still calls for ending the war.”

“Will they?”

“Yes. Falacore is the one nation left that obeys the church. Years ago, all nations bowed to the Heraldan church, but not anymore.”

Marac raised an eyebrow. “Just like that? No questions asked?”

“I think you’ll find the Sorbians harder to deal with, my young friend. They will prove the most difficult to convince, even with this most recent devastation.”

“I leave it to you. Far be it from me to question you on matters of politics.”

“Good. We should return to the city with these men. I’ll arrange for more to come for the bodies and bury them in a fitting manner or prepare them for the trip home if that is Fenric’s will.”

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Chapter Sixteen →

Keeping Watch

V
alyrie heard Jurgen, Marac, and Brice leave, and snatched her Farrah Harridan book from the shelf before entering the hall.
Maybe I can finish reading this while I wait
. She eyed Laedron’s door with apprehension, then sighed. Her thoughts ran rampant with all that had passed—the end of the Drakars, Laedron nearly dying, and her father’s demise.

She was glad her father’s body had been transformed to ash and spread along the coast. Though she missed him, she took some measure of joy from the fact that she couldn’t ask Jurgen to return him to life. The knowledge of the possibility combined with the lack of the option gave her a kind of relief, an acceptance of her situation. Hearing Jurgen’s argument and seeing Marac’s rage, she could only imagine how strange and unnatural they both must have felt when Laedron was saved from death—a feeling she was glad not to have experienced.

She shook off her thoughts, then perused the larder.
A tomato… some parsley… ah, rabbit meat?
These’ll make quite a nice stew. Maybe, if we have time, I might teach these men how to cook something other than gruel
. She hastily assembled the ingredients into a clean pot—which wasn’t easy to find—and hung the pan above the fire. Then, she went to Laedron’s bedroom door.
No more putting it off
.

Laedron lay on the bed, his breathing slow and rhythmic and his eyes still closed. Confusion set in her mind as she neared, and she was unable to take her eyes off him. His hair showed no signs of gray at the ends, and his face and hands were smooth, showing none of the callouses from when she had first met him.

He still seemed to be in his late teens, yet all signs of aging had disappeared.
Jurgen’s spell
.
It did more than simply return keep him from death
.
In fact, it’s made him pristine in every way
.

Seeing him in such a way sent chills up Valyrie’s spine. He was beautiful, truly handsome and perfect in complexion, and the awkward feelings she had felt when she first met him returned. Her father’s death had done much to mask her attraction for him, but his being near death and being brought back from the brink drove her emotions to the forefront. She was glad Laedron lived, happy that he would wake.

She opened her book, an untitled, nearly forgotten work written by Farrah Harridan, and read the story, an alternate tale contrary to the church’s doctrine. The tale depicted strange lands with mystical forests, and told of the wizard Azura, her staff held high and magic spewing from her fingertips.

* * *

Nearing the end of the book, Valyrie looked up when she heard rustling. Laedron’s face was wrought with pain, then he seemed to relax. Moments later, his eyes opened, narrowly at first, then wide. Valyrie was filled with astonishment. His irises were almost gray, instead of their former deep blue shade.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

He grunted, cleared his throat, and swallowed before replying. “My body aches. What happened?”

She looked everywhere but at Laedron’s eyes. “Your friend Marac returned you here. Andolis is dead.”