Floriana grinned slightly, but it soon fell away. “Braya said her mission would continue…what is she doing? And what was father thinking, letting her loose like that?” She sighed, then looked Derogynes in the eye. “May I ask you a question?”
“I will endeavor to answer as best I can.”
Floriana inched closer, with a nervous glance to Lord Daveth, who was tending the fire not too far away and almost certainly within earshot. “What…” she cleared her throat. “What was the Prophet Stefan like? Father talks about him all the time, of course, but would he have condoned what we saw today?”
Derogynes sighed sadly. “He was like no other man I ever met. Nearly thirty years ago, I had no idea what a human even looked like. I was a young sentry in the Legions, then, about to finish my term of service…”
Floriana chuckled. “You? A soldier? Forgive me, Ambassador, I have a hard time picturing you marching into battle.”
Derogynes smirked, smacking his thick side. “One word, princess: padding. Other Andrathi grow harder and stronger to take the hit, but much more of this, and I shan’t feel a thing were someone to hit me.” He waved it off. “You can only imagine my surprise when I saw this pink-colored little thing rushing up, like a sunburnt Jaoren with cropped ears, babbling in the common tongue to give him sanctuary. Qingrenese slave-catchers were on his trail. I used my effortless charm and grace to convince my superiors to grant him sanctuary. He spoke of things most soldiers never considert; he talked to me and all of us about mercy and compassion, about honor and freedom. And I thought I could enthrall a crowd. By the end of the week, any of us would have given our lives to protect this soft, pink little man from his former masters. My superiors were so impressed, they sent Stefan to the Ardri, and from there, he sailed away to see his people’s lost homeland.”
Floriana grinned. “You must miss him.”
The Andrathi’s expression became sad. “Terribly. I saw him a few years later, when I was a wealthy, powerful man with a fleet of ships. Then I saw him, wielding a staff that could shoot flames, lightning, and anything he pleased, leading a whole host of freed slaves. He gave me one look, then embraced me like a lost brother. I did the same.”
Derogynes sighed wistfully. “He had that effect on people. Of course, I was more than happy to ferry him and his followers across the sea to their new home, —with a discount, naturally. On that long voyage, I watched as he pointed to the rising sun every morning, and preached to the people below. These former slaves, broken shells that had never known freedom, people who were dead on the inside, suddenly sprang to life. He turned none away; the sick, the elderly, the crippled…he spoke with them all and told them there was a reason to live. That they were not chattel to be sold, but people who deserved love and respect, and that their freedom was only the beginning of something wonderful.” Derogynes closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “He made the loneliest, most downtrodden souls feel like the greatest kings.”
“You admire him,” Floriana said after a quiet moment.
“Oh, more than any other person I’ve ever met.”
“Then…” Floriana cleared her throat, taking a moment to collect her courage. “Why don’t you believe he was who he says he was? Why don’t you believe in the Creator?”
“A fair question,” Derogynes conceded. “If you mean his supposed miracles, I never saw them, and he never bragged about them to me. I can admire a man, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to change my religion for him. Claiming to be the son of a god is nothing new to me. Do you know how many Andrathi houses claim descent from one of our own pantheon?” He shrugged. “I don’t judge him for it. It was a part of his story, and he told it well. It was a story that carried him to lead his people to freedom, and give them back magic. Every hero’s story is embellished, and when stories began drifting back across the ocean about him healing lepers and making the blind see, I accepted them as that and nothing more; stories.”
From his spot at the fire, Lord Daveth snorted derisively.
Derogynes shot him a look but continued. “You believe what you believe to be true, Princess. That’s all any of us can do. I just wish…” he sighed, waving it off. “Never mind.”
Floriana frowned. “What is it, Derogynes?”
“I do not wish to speak out of turn.”
“Please, I want to hear what you have to say.”
Derogynes gave her a lingering look. “Very well, but do not grow angry with me for speaking my mind. Regardless of what Stefan really was, what I know him to be was a remarkable man who gave all humanity a chance to start over. I would think it a great insult to his legacy should Fosporia repeat the mistakes of our old world.”
Floriana grimaced. “You mean the business with the Inquisitors.”
The Andrathi sighed. “I have seen many things in the realm of politics, but a most common theme is heinous acts being excused in the name of faith.”
Lord Daveth snorted indignantly again.
Derogynes rolled his eyes. “I don’t disagree with religion; if you were to twist my arm, I suppose I would say I believe in the gods of the Andrathi. But faith is too tempting an excuse for many tyrants.”
The Hierophant scoffed yet again, looking at Derogynes with indignation.
“Do you need medical assistance, Lord Daveth?” the Andrathi shot towards the man. “We can call for a healer if that annoyingly loud cough is getting the best of you.”
“If I may speak, Lord Ambassador,” the Fosporian noble began. Daveth had a hard, scraggly face covered by a beard like chainmail, currently twisted in a sneer. “And with your Highness’ permission,” he bowed out of respect to Floriana.
Floriana nodded. “Speak, Lord Daveth. But be mindful of whom you speak to.”
Daveth cleared his throat. “What does the Lord Ambassador know about our faith? Ours is the way of the righteous. Ours is the way of virtue; faith, honor, compassion, freedom, and wisdom lay out a path to Providence. Stefan warned we would face adversity; are we not entitled to fight when our way of life is threatened?”
“And how does a book threaten your way of life?” the Ambassador shook his head. “You act as if words that disagree with your views are an active threat to your life.”
“Words, as you should know, Lord Ambassador, are powerful things. With mere words, Stefan gave us hope, and with mere words, he broke the chains of tyrants. If mere words can do these things, can they not also re-forge those chains?” Daveth turned away from Derogynes, staring into the fire. “You’re just like our children, Ambassador. You were born into freedom. You’ve never had to fight for it. You don’t know what it’s like to live in bondage, nor how fervently we will fight to stay free.”
“Lord Daveth,” Floriana pursed her lips. “That’s enough.”
Daveth did his best to hide a glare as he bowed curtly to the princess. “I have spoken my piece, Your Highness.” The noble stalked off to his tent, leaving Derogynes and Floriana alone.
The Andrathi sighed, standing up. “Perhaps that’s enough for tonight.”
Floriana rose as well. “Ambassador, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make this unpleasant.”
Derogynes raised his hands. “Please, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I misjudged Daveth; he’s not wrong. I don’t know what it’s like to be Fosporian, to be there for the birth of a new nation, a new society. It’s not my place to judge but, if I may leave you with parting words?”
The Princess nodded. “Of course, Derogynes.”
“I know enough history to know people can cling to freedom too tightly, that virtues can become vices; I won’t speak ill of your father, or your country. Least of all, you. But to answer your question, the Stefan I knew would have never condemned anyone just because he felt his faith was threatened.” He locked eyes with Floriana before turning to his tent. “A thought you might want to pass on to your father when you see him next.”
Chapter 8
The Battle of Springhead
“Get up, Ha
kon.”
The warrior’s eyes opened as he braced himself for another encounter with the white wolf. He sat up and looked around, drinking in the verdant fields once again before casting a dark look at the beast in front of him. “What do you want?”
“Get up, Hakon. You have not walked for some time.”
The great warrior rose. “Are you so quick to continue our chase?”
“Why do you insist on being enemies?”
“Because we are,” he growled.
The wolf sat on his haunches. “What have I done to you to earn such enmity?”
“You have taunted me for years!” Hakon declared. “Any animal in that forest, I could catch it. Any beast, no matter how strong, I could slay it. You- you mocked me. You knew what you were doing.”
“You hate me for outsmarting you, when you were trying to kill me for a sacrifice to your savage gods?” The wolf’s icy eyes penetrated Hakon where he stood. “Is this more of your vaunted honor?”
The warrior shifted uncomfortably. “What would you have me do, wolf? You hate me all the same.”
“I don’t hate you, Hakon.” The beast’s ethereal voice was tinged with sorrow. “Far from it. But now, I bid you to walk once more.”
Hakon jolted awake, gasping for breath as his body trembled. His eyes wide, he swerved his head around, soon recognizing the hut he had been brought to. He breathed in sharply as he saw two figures kneeling at his bedside, their hands clasped and heads quickly looking up at him with awed looks on their faces.
“What are you doing?” Hakon demanded, looking from Magnus’ boyish face to the care-worn features of the woman he had been brought to.
Magnus stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. “We were only praying for you. That the Creator bade you walk again—I am pleased that he has answered my prayer, Aedanus eto bunem.”
Hakon looked down at his body; there was still an angry red burn across his chest, and a jagged cut in his side. There was some irritating itch on his back, and as he reached for it, his fingers ran over another cut. The pain from battle came rushing back.
“Ye Gods…” he muttered. “Who healed me? Wasn’t I shot?”
Magnus nodded, pursing his lips. “Twice.”
The woman allowed herself a small, prideful smile, wiping off her hands on her apron. “I mended your wounds, Bybic. My name is Irene; I am a healer, and an old friend of Magnus’.”
Hakon arched his brow, looking at Irene with suspicion. She looked older than Magnus, a tall and severe woman with noticeable lines carved into her face and iron-black hair tied back in a simple braid.
“I don’t feel any pain,” he finally muttered, as if conceding defeat.
“I’m a very good healer,” Irene answered with a tight grin. Her warm, honeyed eyes, looking Hakon up and down, made a stark contrast with the rest of her. “The wounds were no matter. It was the curious state you came in; completely catatonic. I’ve seen nothing like it. You’ve suffered no head injuries, however, and if you’re up and about, I don’t see much need for concern.”
“The gods protect me,” was Hakon’s quick and blunt response. He sighed, and reconsidered. “But thank you, Wise Woman.”
He looked out the window and narrowed his eyes; the sun had not risen, but the night sky was quickly retreating.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Four days,” Magnus responded.
The warrior grunted in disgust. “That long? Have the others left?”
“Your whole bloody brood has been camping at my doorstep—I’ve been run ragged caring for them. They said your damn fool gods declare it a bad omen to leave without you, so kindly show them you’re all better so I can get my land back,” Irene ranted, quickly grabbing a roughly carved wand from a table, the end sparking with magical energy. “If I find another warrior rooting through my garden, I’m going to turn them to stone.”
“You’re a Fospar witch?” Hakon sneered.
Irene scoffed. “What type of friend did you expect Magnus to have, a bloody Andrathi? Wipe that sneer off your face, Bybic; I’m not going to eat your children or steal your youth, or whatever fool stories you tell about Fosporian women around your fires at night to wet yourselves.” She pointed to the door of her hut. “Now, seeing as your gratitude is spent, get out of my home. If you’re going to go terrorize some poor village, I see no need to show you any more hospitality.”
“Irene—” Magnus began, but Irene sealed his mouth shut with a glare.
“I understand why you’re following this one,” the healer gestured to Hakon as if he were a particularly undisciplined pet, “but helping those savages rape and pillage? I expected better from you, Magnus.”
Magnus sighed. “I don’t really have a choice in the matter.” He glanced to Hakon with a far more harsh look than he was used to. “Do I?”
The warrior responded with a scowl of his own. “You don’t.”
“More’s the pity,” Irene muttered. “Now, both of you, out. Take your horde and go. My breakfast’s on the fire, and I’m not feeding you lot another meal.”
Hakon glared at Irene, but turned without another word. As he and Magnus reached the door frame, she spoke up again.
“Magnus?” Irene’s glare softened, if only slightly. “Take care of yourself. And Hakon,” she sighed, “come back when you’ve got your head on straight.”
The warrior rolled his eyes, and silently left the healer’s hut. Just outside the cleared area around Irene’s homestead, the Altani were camped in tight clusters; there was a chill in the air.
“What did she mean, when I had my head on straight?”
Magnus shrugged. “She knows I have much to talk with you about. She’s hoping it has a civilizing effect on you.”
Hakon glared at the curly-haired man, but it quickly lost its edge. “When we return to the village, and when we’re at last assured of privacy, I…” He screwed his eyes shut, angry with himself for even asking. “I would like you to tell me about this man you think is my father.”
Magnus stopped, looking up at Hakon with surprise. “You would?”
The warrior grunted out a “yes.”
The Fosporian grinned. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
“You know, any other Bybic would have beaten his bondsman for insolent talk by now.”
“How fortunate, then, that I am stuck with one of the good ones.”
Hakon arched a brow, but didn’t comment further. He spotted his sword and shield amongst the Bybic encampment, and snatched up the curved blade and bronze bulwark, slamming them together. “Alright Bybics, you sons of whores! Get up! The Fospars won’t raid themselves!”
“Hakon?” Ingvar was the first out of a tent, chuckling and grinning wide. “Jaedrun be praised! You can never keep a Bybic from victory!”
“Helnya will have to wait before I let her drag me to her hall!” Hakon declared, raising his sword high to the cheers of the rising Bybics, soon attracting the attention of Jarl Osbren and the Ilani.
“Hakon Bybicson! Wondering when you’d wake from your nap,” the Jarl smirked somewhere beneath his great shaggy beard. “Springhead’s three days away. You want to get a move on, or is your strategy to wait for the Fospars to die of old age?”
Hakon offered a toothy grin, quickly falling back into old habits. “We march, then! Break down camp, my brothers! Sharpen your swords and axes, get your war paint on, and prepare to fill Helnya’s halls with Fospar whelps. Honor and glory are just a march away!” He shouted, to a great, roaring cheer.
The Altani wasted no time in breaking down their camp, the return of their champion swelling them with pride and bloodlust. Whatever apprehension and unease hung over their heads as Hakon had lay prone was washed away like autumn frost in the morning sun. The army was soon on the march, but Hakon hung back. One Bybic had not given him any well-wishes, and was even now among the trees, talking with a mysterious visitor. Narrowing his eyes, Hakon grunted as he recognized the man. “Alf
red’s talking to your fox again.”
Magnus peered toward the trees. “I don’t think that’s him.”
The warrior did not hear him, marching over to his erstwhile friend. “Alfred!”
The smaller Bybic gasped, tugging on his horse’s reins out of surprise. The beast reared, and Hakon only caught a glimpse of the creature Alfred was talking to; it was not the fox Magnus had traveled with. He only saw a flash of gray fur to differentiate from the fox’s scarlet, but it was enough to put him on edge.
“Hakon,” Alfred nodded curtly as he collected himself. “You’re alive and well, it seems. Helnya’s put off by losing such a prize, but then, maybe she threw you back just to taunt me.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Hakon muttered, crossing his thick arms.
“I’ve gotten used to it from you.”
The warrior’s hard look faltered; Alfred’s words cut deeper than he thought they would. “Alfred, I’m only thinking of what’s best for our tribe.”
“You’re thinking about what’s best for you, Hakon,” Alfred spat. “It’s all you’re capable of thinking about, and it’s all you’ve ever done. It was a mere coincidence that it also happened to be beneficial to me, until recently.” Alfred wore an acerbic smirk as he spread his hands. “When it came between putting you or your so-called brother first, you really did prove yourself a Bybic after all. Honor to you, mighty Bybicson.”
“What do you want me to say? I’ll let you be Jarl when you can barely walk on your own?” Hakon spat back. “Or when you’re going to speak with bedeviled creatures in the woods, thinking you can hide it?”
“It always comes down to that,” Alfred sneered, tugging on his horse’s reins and goading the animal forward into Hakon’s path. “Well, I seem to be better suited than you. At least I actually know who my father is, and never suffered under the delusions he was a god.”
“Stop it, Alfred, “ Hakon snarled, pushing the horse’s face away as Alfred urged the creature further along. “Stop trying to act like you can throw your weight around.”
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