Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  From many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,

  Awing the Jarls. From across the whale-road,

  The sun-touched water, his greatest foe,

  Demons, with dark magic, stole his kin

  Hakon grunted. He saw the white wolf again.

  Alfred nudged him. “Typical. Are we ever going to be able to raid the Fospars without summoning the ghost of Fravan Ironhand? Just because his tribe fell to them doesn’t mean he’s the only Altani worth talking about.”

  Came Fravan Ironhand to the Ring-Givers,

  Jarls and Kings of their folk, and by his hand

  Did he bind the people, smelt and join them,

  Into a sword of power that drove the Slavers back

  The giant warrior snarled, screwing his eyes shut. His hands gripped the table, digging and splintering the wood. He saw the man who was not a man; filled with something dark, his soul left on an altar.

  “Hakon?” Alfred called for his friend. He turned to one of the servers. “Get him some water, he’s in pain.”

  Sinrun, the grim monsters were called,

  Traveling on tall ships along the sun-touched water,

  Stealing away the folk to their city

  Of ancient riches and terrible power

  Fravan Ironhand met the Sinrun in battle

  And stained the sky red with their blood

  Hakon shook his head. In his mind, a woman screamed, and he saw the great house of his vision burning. The warrior fell to a fit of madness, the images swirling around his head. He roared, gripping the high table and shoving it with all his might, slamming it to the stone floor with the clattering of shattered flagons and the remains of the feast scattered. To the shocked silence of the hall, Hakon leaped from his place and shoved warriors out of his way as he lumbered to the chest. The crazed warrior looked down at the metal trap, and pulled it from the floor.

  At first, he attempted to unravel the knot of metal, but he quickly lost patience; even as his fellow warriors tried pulling him back, he would not be moved. Wrapping his fingers around the metal, he growled like a wild beast, snapping his teeth as he threw all his strength into prying the puzzle apart. His thickly-roped limbs and torso tensed, ripping his tunic at the sleeves until the metal, at last, yielded. He gripped the sword as he turned his wild gaze on Esben and charged, looking ready to tear the Skald apart. It took five of his tribesmen to hold him back, and only with a sixth smacking him on the head with a tankard to slow him down.

  “Hakon! Hakon Bybicson!” Gunnar called, supported to his feet by two attendants. “Peace, Bybicson, peace! You stand amongst your brothers!”

  Hakon’s visions faded like the morning mist, and he shook his head. His arms were held behind him as he was led to the middle of the hall, where Gunnar, Alfred, and Osbren stared at him with wide and questioning eyes.

  The great warrior sighed, and fell to his knees, bowing his head. “My lord, forgive me, I don’t know what came over me. Esben speaking of Fravan Ironhand, it…” he trailed off, realizing Gunnar was clapping.

  “Rise, Hakon Bybicson, my champion!” the Jarl laughed, waving away the warriors restraining him. The old man leered at a stunned Osbren. “Look at my warrior, Jarl Osbren. He’s a beast fit for war if ever there was one. Tell me he is not fit to lead a raid! The other tribes will shake in their boots when he arrives at the Great Moot in spring.”

  Osbren looked from Gunnar to Hakon, and back again. “But he- he almost spilled blood in a mead hall!”

  Gunnar laughed. “I never said he was a tame beast, Osbren. Dare you challenge his right of arms?

  Osbren sized Hakon up, and grimaced, sinking back to his seat. “I am a man of my word.”

  Gunnar snatched a drinking horn from one of his attendants, and raised it high. “To Hakon Bybicson! Scourge of the Fospars, greatest warrior of the Altani!”

  The warriors around the hall hesitated at first, but soon roared their approval. “Hakon Bybicson! Hakon! Hakon!” Centuries later, they would say the warriors’ chanting shook the citadel to its ancient foundations, and carried all the way to the court of the Fosporian King.

  Chapter 3

  King of the Faithful

  Perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, Faircliff Castle was a sight to behold for a nation as young as Fosporia. The seat of King Cyril was rougher and less refined than the opulent palaces in the old world they had left behind, but still grand. Its ramparts and tall towers flew the King’s personal banner, white pennants stamped with a black sun. Within the great hall, pointed arches of wood, adorned with griffins and wolves, held up stone walls and tall windows.

  At the end of the hall, on a grand oaken throne bedecked with the five virtuous beasts, sat the King of the Faithful. Well into his middle years, he had a long, dignified face, with a full black beard groomed to a point and curly black hair only beginning to show streaks of silver. He dressed in robes adorned with holy symbols and a pure white cloak pinned with a golden brooch. On his head sat a great crown of gold, fashioned like eagle’s wings.

  At the foot of the king’s throne, a diplomat received a cold reception. He was tall, slender, and held himself with a graceful air many Fosporians considered haughty. His skin was as white as porcelain, like any other of his race, the Jaoren, with diamond-studded earrings in his long, pointed ears. He was dressed in black silk and his long, flaxen hair was tied in a topknot with golden clasps, rivalling his host’s finery.

  “Hail to Cyril, Lord of Stefanurbem, King of the Fosporians, and Defender of the Virtuous Faith,” the ambassador intoned formally in a crisp, clipped voice, clasping his hands and bowing his head. He was feeling guarded; Bai Feng of Qingren was keenly aware of the oceans of bad blood between his people and Cyril’s.

  The king nodded. “We are always glad to entreat the envoy from our peer, the Hegemon of Qingren.”

  Bai Feng’s face flickered with annoyance for the briefest moment, his pointed ears twitching imperceptibly. It had been twenty-five years since humanity had broken free of the bonds of slavery in Qingren. The people of that great nation were slow to change and even slower to see a former stonemason as a “peer” of their leader. Bai Feng considered himself patient and forward-thinking, but he was aware that the king enjoyed lording over Qingrenese envoys. His predecessor had left in an indignant huff after only a month of dealing with Cyril.

  “Gracious King, I carry with me sad news. The Heavens have split, and the Heavenly Lovers have called His Serene Highness, Hegemon Taizong to rest at their side.”

  “So, the old slave driver is dead at last, is he?” Cyril said brusquely, gesturing to Bai Feng’s black robe before adjusting his crown. “I wondered why you were dressed so.”

  Bai Feng took a deep breath to compose himself; Taizong had been a relative of his. “With all due respect, great King, I will remind you that Taizong was also the Hegemon who agreed to free your people.”

  “The Creator freed humanity, Ambassador. Taizong was an obstacle to divine Providence that yielded in the end.” Cyril glared down at the Jaoren. “I will not disrespect the dead, but I will also not give a man who whipped his slaves in the streets of Mei-Xian the credit of liberator.”

  There was a tense pause. Bai Feng bit his tongue until Cyril relented. “I understand if you must attend to rituals according to your faith, Ambassador. I assure you, any business we have can wait until this period of mourning has passed.”

  Bai Feng rose, brushing back his long golden hair. “There is a matter we must speak on soon, Your Highness.” He gestured around the grand throne room. “You have built a home for you and your people. But many humans remain back in Qingren. They grow restless, for they have their freedom, but no proper home. They do not wish to remain in Qingren, but you have closed your ports to any ships bearing freed slaves. This must end. In only a matter of decades, Fosporia has become a kingdom, and you, great King, have prospered.” The Ambassador gestured to Cyril’s fine clothes and gold. “Do you not wish for all your kind to share in
your good fortune?”

  “As I have explained, Ambassador, Fosporia is in no fit state to take on more people. Our towns are barely a generation old, and already, they are as crowded as any back in Qingren. We face Altani raids on our borders, and find ourselves closed in. We have run out of room,” he explained.

  “Did not your Prophet promise a home for all humanity, King Cyril? Do you not hold to his words and vows?” Bai Feng shot back, his patience wearing thin. “If the former slaves are not settled soon, they will sow dissent and unrest in Qingren, and then what will happen? The new Hegemon will not appreciate Fosporia going back on its word.”

  “Then that is your burden to bear, isn’t it, Bai Feng?” Cyril shouted, jumping from his throne. “You do not dictate the words of Prophet Stefan to me, who knew him better than any man! I was his favored disciple, his most trusted counsel!” Breathing deeply, Cyril recovered from his indignation and settled back into his throne. “The matter is settled for now. We cannot take more people in. Perhaps the people would be less prone to unrest if you had proven kinder masters.” He waved Bai Feng away. “You are dismissed, Ambassador.”

  The Jaoren stared at Cyril with his violet eyes before quietly bowing and turning to leave.

  The king was left in silence for a few minutes, until he heard the curtain behind him flutter, and soon, a pair of hands wrapped around his eyes.

  “Guess who?” a familiar voice teased.

  Cyril’s hard look melted and he chuckled, pulling down the hands and looking up at his only child, the princess Floriana. “I heard you come in,” he kissed her cheek. “You’re not as stealthy as you imagine yourself to be.”

  “I’ll endeavor to walk with cat-like tread, Father,” Floriana smirked. Cyril marveled at how she was the spitting image of her late mother. She was tall and fair, with sharp features and blue eyes as cool as water, matched with fiery red hair. He had, at least, given her his talent for magic; a wand was always at her side, hidden in the folds of her flowing blue gown.

  “And what brings you to me this day, dearest one? I still have to meet with other diplomats.”

  “Yes, I know.” Floriana held her hands behind her back, bouncing on her feet and flashing her eyes at her father. Cyril braced for it; she was about to ask for something. “It’s Ambassador Derogynes, from Theragos. You’re trying to tie the Andrathi into an alliance.”

  “We need the backing of a powerful nation to push back the Altani savages. And to fend off a jealous Qingren.”

  “Well, I have a thought, Father dear, about how we can win Theragos’ respect. Ambassador Derogynes is to travel with our mages and warriors to see how they fight, no?”

  Cyril arched his brow. “I know you, Floriana. What do you want?”

  Floriana feigned innocence. “Father, I’m wounded you’d suspect me of anything. I merely wanted to suggest the ambassador would be impressed if, say, a member of the royal family rode with him, showing our own ability to defend the people.”

  The king smirked. “A fair idea, but I will not be able to travel there myself. Matters of court leave me tied here.”

  “Well, how fortunate, dear father, because you’re not the only royal—”

  The king’s guards at the end of the throne room rapped their spears against the stone floor. “Ambassador Derogynes of Theragos approaches!

  Derogynes was the type who enjoyed being the center of attention, and often commanded it by his mere presence. His planned grand entrance was marred by the fact that the passage into the throne room was not built for someone his size; he towered over everyone in the room and was twice as wide in the shoulder than anyone present. That same thickness carried its way down his noticeably prosperous torso.

  Like all members of his race, Derogynes was somewhere between a lion and a bull, with the mane and face of the former and the horns and cloven hooves of the latter. His body was covered in umber fur, while two curved horns curled out from a fiery mane that framed his face. He had a clear love of finery; streaks in his mane were dyed blonde and braided with gold lace, while his polished horns were capped in gold. A pendulous amulet hung from his thick neck, and his tunic was a vibrant red, matched with the long, purple and gold shawl draped over his shoulder and across his broad chest.

  Cyril stood, his arms outreached as he met the ambassador halfway. “My friend, it’s been too long,” the king declared, embracing Derogynes. “You must forgive us; our home was not built to accommodate an Andrathi.”

  Derogynes chuckled good-naturedly, the timbre of his voice rich and golden. “Cyril, you little field mouse, you’re getting far too meek in your middle years. No King I’ve ever met has begged forgiveness.”

  “I would rather become meek than grow fat in my middle age, my friend,” Cyril said with a pointed glance to Derogynes’ round middle, straining his tunic.

  The Andrathi gripped his thick middle and chuckled. “A mark of money well spent,” the ambassador quipped before turning to Floriana. “And look at you, dear child. Last I saw, you were no taller than my knee, but here you are, a woman ready to be queen.”

  The princess smiled and bowed her head. “Ambassador, it’s good to see you.”

  “When I heard you had been made the first ambassador to Fosporia, I felt relief at first,” Cyril smirked. “Then I realized I’d be dealing with your silver tongue.”

  Derogynes feigned offense. “Your Highness, you wound me. Was it not I that provided my family’s entire fleet to ferry Stefan and his followers to your new home? Surely, if you can trust any diplomat, you can trust me.”

  “Prophet Stefan,” Cyril corrected.

  The ambassador sighed. “I mean no offense. He was, and always will be, just Stefan to me. May we step outside, Your Highness? I want to see this fabled view from your castle you’ve been boasting about.”

  Cyril nodded and left the throne room with Floriana and Derogynes in tow. They passed guards and priests, dressed in black robes with white stoles, who bowed as Cyril passed. Some stood out, dressed in a far more military fashion, swords girded at their waists.

  The large Andrathi arched a brow. “Is your entire government made up of priests, my friend?”

  “We are a nation of the faithful, Derogynes,” Cyril said stiffly. “Who better to lead the people than men of God? These are the Hierophants, the governors of the outlying villages and towns, and the Inquisitors, who ensure the faithful remain so. I rule Stefanurbem directly.”

  “Stefanurbem?”

  Cyril led them out to the ramparts of the castle, and gestured to the north. There, huddled on three islands at the edge of a waterfall that stormed into the bay below, was a small city, slowly spreading out to either bank of the river. The houses were small, humble, and tightly bound together, but well built. A stone temple rose above the rest of the city at the edge of the easternmost island. Workers scrambled at the edges of the city, building a stout stone wall to connect with Faircliff Castle. “I intend to name our new capital in memory of our Prophet. It will be a monument to our faith.”

  “In memory?” Derogynes frowned. “You’ve given up looking for him, then?”

  The king thinned his lips as he turned to the Andrathi. “Stefan has been gone for twenty years, now. It is… the Creator’s will. He has been called back to his father’s side.

  Derogynes huffed. “Your god is more abrupt than any of mine. He did not need to call him back so soon.”

  “What do you know about it?” Cyril snapped. “You are not his Prophet or a disciple dedicated to the Creator! Who are you to question his ways? You saw his wonders, and you don’t even have the courage to kneel before the one true God!”

  “Father!”

  Floriana and Derogynes stared at Cyril in shock. The Andrathi looked from daughter to father, and then raised his hand, speaking softly. “I only meant to say I miss him, Cyril. I’ve never seen a man like Stefan. He was a good friend to me.”

  “Yes,” Cyril said through clenched teeth, as he turned away from the two
. “The world will never see his kind again.”

  Floriana glanced back at Derogynes before moving closer, resting a hand on Cyril’s shoulder. “Father? Missing the Prophet is alright. I am certain he is watching over us now.

  Cyril scoffed, shrugging off his daughter. “I rejoice, for it is the Creator’s will. Ul voriea Aedanus, uleo verit.”

  The Ambassador tapped his hoof against the flagstones. “Cyril, we are still friends, yes? Let us speak as friends and move past this. The new Ardri in Theragos, Gordias, is willing to not only form an alliance, but bestow upon Fosporia the highest honor we Andrathi know of. If I can send back a glowing report to him, Fosporia will be more than an ally to Theragos. We will be Phas Fratan, blood brothers.”

  The King took a deep breath and nodded. “We will have plenty of opportunities to prove ourselves. As the leaves change, the Altani savages come out of the woods to raid our farms. I am sending our mages to the south. The harvest has been fair down there, and the Altani will know.”

  “Do you have a man in mind to lead them?”

  Floriana looked over to her father, her cat-like smile widening. “No, I don’t think you do have a man in mind, do you, Father?”

  Cyril gave her a withering look, but Derogynes was able to decipher Floriana’s meaning, and laughed, slapping Cyril on the back. “You want your daughter to lead the mages?”

  The king and princess were silent, looking at Derogynes and trying to read his meaning.

  “Gordias will love that. You’ve boasted of your daughter’s prowess with magic, and if she proves herself, the Ardri will absorb that like a sponge,” Derogynes tapped his nose. “You’ve a keener political sense than I thought.”

  Cyril recovered quickly. “It was Floriana’s idea, in truth. Almost entirely.”

  “I’m glad you agree with it, though.” Derogynes arched his brow, stroking his mane as he looked at the two humans with a careful gaze. “You do agree, do you not?”