Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  “Funny; with me, Father was always good at spotting mutts,” Alfred spat, spurring the increasingly agitated horse in Hakon’s way. “How do you think he would feel if he found out the champion he was going to parade around the Great Moot was even more of a mongrel?”

  Hakon glared darkly at his friend. “So that’s it, then? I let you become Jarl, or you tell everyone? What happened to you, Alfred? Or have you always been this much of a snake?”

  “You said it yourself; I’m spineless,” Alfred said coldly. He urged his horse forward, the beast nickering as it could find no way past Hakon. “Now get out of my way. You’re not fit to be Jarl, Hakon. You’re a dog that needs a master because you can’t think for yourself. Five minutes at my father’s side, and you lapped up the idea of becoming his heir.”

  Alfred’s increasingly nervous horse tugged at its reins, snorting and pawing at the earth. Trying to find its way around Hakon, it nipped at the warrior. “You want to lead our people, but you can’t even spell your own name.”

  Hakon roared, his eyes filled with fiery rage. He grappled with the horse, and with one mighty heave, shoved the beast out of his path, the horse skittering in panic to keep itself steady, and throwing its rider from the saddle. Alfred tumbled down with an anguished cry, hitting the ground in a crumpled heap.

  The warrior’s heart dropped into his stomach when he saw what he had done. He swerved around, where a few lingering Altani cast him wary looks but said nothing as they caught up with the rest of the army.

  “You stupid brute!” Alfred snarled. “You can’t wait to be Jarl, so you’re going to off the only competition left, is that it?”

  “Alfred!” Hakon immediately knelt down, pulling his friend to his feet. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t touch me!” Alfred shrieked, crying in pain. He grasped at the air, and Hakon felt the pull of Alfred’s magic throw him off. The warrior stared as Alfred staggered to his feet, his crippled legs even more twisted from the fall. Through sharp gasps for air and hot tears standing in his eyes as he gritted his teeth through the pain, Alfred found the will to pull himself back into the saddle, flexing his fingers to calm the horse and bring him under thrall.

  Hakon slowly rose. “Alfred, I didn’t mean to throw you from your horse. You need a healer, you need—”

  “Enough!” Alfred snapped, baring his teeth. “I don’t need a healer, and I don’t need you. I have other friends, Bybicson. They’ve taught me more about my gifts than I could ever imagine; they’re going to make me powerful, and they’re going to make me Jarl.” Alfred tilted his chin upward, sneering down at Hakon as he pulled his black cloak over his shoulder. “You want forgiveness? Beg for it when we return home, in front of everyone. You have one chance to prove where your loyalties are; don’t waste it.” He dug his good heel into his horse’s side, setting off into a gallop to reach the head of the army.

  “Hakon?” Magnus was slow to approach the still fuming warrior. “Hakon, I know this is a difficult time—”

  “Shut up,” Hakon spat. “You have your satisfaction. I know I’m a Fospar. And Alfred knows, too. Does it please you?”

  Magnus frowned. “I’m not pleased by seeing you hurt.”

  “What kind of man are you, then?” Hakon snorted in frustration.

  “One who cares about you.”

  The warrior had no response. He glowered down at Magnus for a few moments, before turning back to catch up with the army.

  The Altani marched with great haste, pounding on the forest paths with as much speed as they could muster. They ate while they walked, and some even slipped into unconsciousness, their legs still marching in sync before they stumbled, roused back to the waking world by their brothers singing their songs of war.

  “Wealth is the reason we fight!” the Ilani recited, banging their spears against their shields, archers singing all the louder. “The hungry wolf, greedy for meat! Bringer of kin-strife! Path of the serpent!”

  “Wealth is the joy of man!” came the Bybics’ reply, Hakon alone overpowering the Ilani’s refrain. “Warmth of the hearth, strength of the home! The eternal King, ring-giver!

  Path of the War-God!”

  When three days passed, the forest thinned, and at last, the scouts reported the news they had all been waiting to hear; Springhead was in sight. Hakon, Jarl Osbren, and Alfred gathered at the head of the army, where the trees were few enough to see beyond the forest. In the distance, they could see a river flowing out of the town, pouring down from the hilltop it sat on into babbling brooks cutting through the woods. The town was surrounded by a wooden palisade, and from a guard tower, they could just make out a white banner with a black sun.

  Osbren sneered. “It’s the banner of the Fospar king. His army’s inside; they’ve beaten us here. Bybicson, where’s your bondsman? Does he know this town?”

  Hakon shook his head. “He’s never seen it in his life. He knows only their capital… but he can tell us his people’s tactics.” The warrior called for Magnus, who was quickly and roughly guided to the front of the army by Ingvar. “Well, Magnus? Your king’s here.”

  Magnus chuckled bitterly. “Cyril wouldn’t drift away from Stefanurbem. He’s too obsessed with invaders from across the sea. If the royal banner’s flying, then his daughter will be there.”

  “A princess?” Osbren smiled toothily, his beard bristling. “The fools chose a girl to lead them? What say you, Bybicson? One of us can conquer Springhead, and the other can conquer the princess!” He cackled, jostling Hakon’s side. “Better me than you, eh? You’d crush her at the first thrust; once I show her what’s good for her, she’ll be begging for more.”

  Magnus gave Osbren a steady look. “Princess Floriana is a powerful mage. She’d turn any man that came near her with such intentions to stone.”

  “Sounds like the usual reaction women have around you, Osbren,” Hakon gave a tight smile, hiding the same distaste Magnus felt for Osbren’s declaration.

  “If Floriana is there, then they will have taken every precaution. She’ll have traveled not just with warriors and archers, but mages, as well,” Magnus continued. “Their first concern will be protecting her, and the lives of the villagers.”

  Hakon frowned. “If they’re well-entrenched, then we should give them too many targets to hit at once.”

  Alfred nodded curtly. “We should divide ourselves into at least three flanks. Archers can come with me; we’ll hit them from the far side. A center column should hit them head on, preferably led by Hakon; then a third, reserve flank will hit them from the other side of the river. We’ll surround them, and cause a panic.”

  “We should have each part attack at different times, keep the rest hidden until the right moment. If they keep seeing more and more of us come, it’ll break their spirits,” Hakon added.

  “Hah!” Osbren grinned ruefully, slapping Hakon on the back, pointedly ignoring Alfred. “I never took you for planning, Bybicson, but that’s brilliant. That’s the type of thinking a Jarl makes.”

  Hakon glanced quickly between the two, shrugging Osbren off his wide back. “It’s Alfred’s plan, Jarl. He should be thanked.”

  Osbren’s smile slipped somewhat, as he was forced to turn and face a now-smirking Alfred. “Yes, well. Gunnar was good at making such plans; at least you got something of his, if not working legs.” Osbren bowed his head before the Jarl of the Ilani took his leave. “I wait for your signal, Bybicson.”

  Alfred glowered after him. “Self-important shit. He acts like complimenting me will kill him on the spot.” He turned to Hakon with an arched brow. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Hakon offered the other man a tight smile; they had not spoken since the incident with Alfred’s horse. “It’d be dishonorable to take something which wasn’t rightfully mine.”

  “Is that so?” Alfred tugged on his horse’s reins, immediately swerving around to meet the rest of the archers. “You can be certain I’ll hold you to those words, Hakon.” />
  The warrior turned toward Magnus. “You did your part. Go back to camp. You don’t need to see the rest of this.”

  Magnus pursed his lips and nodded grimly. “Creator guide your steps, Hakon.”

  The warrior scoffed. “You don’t mean that.”

  The Fosporian arched a brow. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

  Hakon watched him go, but soon shook his head; this would be a victory they would sing about in the Jarl’s hall all throughout winter.

  In Springhead’s town square, Lord Daveth furrowed his brow as the scout finished giving his report. Sighing deeply, he turned to Floriana and Derogynes. “My scouts report they saw two banners; the ravens of the Ilani Tribe, and the griffin of the Bybics. They’re some of the most savage warriors amongst the Altani.” He gave the princess a sidelong glance. “It’s not too late, Your Highness; I don’t mind sending a few of my men to ensure the safety of you and the Ambassador.”

  Floriana raised her chin ever so slightly. “Your gallantry has been noted, my lord, but if I were to leave now with the ambassador, it would defeat the entire purpose of our journey here.”

  Daveth pursed his lips, and then nodded before turning back to his men. “Sons of Fosporia! The enemy is upon us! To the walls! Skewer any savage that comes your way! Vivanum Paralas! Em Nomus Divinam!”

  From the cover of the trees, Hakon was prepared. He rolled his mighty shoulders, his arms tensed as he gripped his sword and shield. The wolf’s head crowning him was still flecked with blood from the last fight with the Fospars, but his war paint was fresh and he would fight with all the rage and strength Faolen would grant him. He turned to Ingvar and nodded brusquely. His fellow Bybic raised a war horn to his lips and blew one piercing note that sent flocks of birds fleeing from the trees.

  A great roar went up from the Bybic host, as warriors sprang from the trees and charged up the hill. Hakon joined them, taking deep breaths and letting his mind slip into the Berserker’s trance. He could feel his heart pounding as a rain of arrows filled the sky, pummeling the Bybics and finding their mark in many of the warriors at the very front. Those that survived scaled the walls, only to be met with a spearhead jammed through their skull, or a great bolt of flame consuming their bodies.

  Hakon paid it no mind; the hail of arrows bounced harmlessly off his shield, and the heat of the mage’s fire barely registered with him. When one of the warriors beside him fell, he turned his eyes to the sky and let out a bestial roar, banging his sword against his shield and charging the palisade with all the force of an avalanche.

  The Fosporian defenders were not prepared for a single man to tear through their wooden defense as if it were cloth; Hakon’s shield hit the palisade like a battering ram, a rain of splintered wood thrown in the defenders’ faces. Hakon, eyes wild and mind given over to the Berserker’s rage, instantly fell upon one of the mages, shrugging off a bolt of lightning and sinking his sword into the man’s chest. Ingvar, who had been at Hakon’s side, turned back to the woods, and sounded the second call.

  Out of the woods, Alfred and the Archers struck out to the left of Hakon’s charge. Now, the battle was truly joined. Alfred himself found his mark often, and the Altani arrows took the Fosporians by such surprise as to nearly overwhelm them then and there. But the mages responded, as fire, ice, and primal energies rained upon the invaders with a ferocity the Altani did not expect. Many warriors fell, either burnt alive or skewered on spears of ice summoned from the ground.

  Hakon charged through the village, implacable in his rage. Even cornered by three Fosporians, dressed in chainmail and armed with swords of their own, it was no contest; Hakon cut through one before bashing the second with his shield. The third managed to disarm Hakon of his sword, smacking Hakon’s fist with the flat of his blade, but the hulking berserker responded by lunging for him, wrenching the warrior’s neck until he heard the snap of bone.

  Beating his bare chest with his fist, Hakon lifted the prone body and threw it against the wall of a house before grabbing his sword again, charging deeper into the fray. His eyes narrowed at a stone building that stood in the center of the town; its windows were glass, and a golden sunrise had been painted on its peaked roof. As its entrance was guarded by a line of men, Hakon’s enraged mind drifted to one thought; plunder.

  The warrior fell upon the Fosporian defenders with all the ferocity of a crazed bear, shattering their formation even as he heard Ingvar’s third war cry, the call of his horn summoning the last of their forces to join the fray. He smiled grimly at the last of the defenders, a black-haired youth, before burying his sword in the Fosporian’s chest. Hakon let the prone body drop before he kicked the doors of the stone building open with enough force to splinter the iron hinges. Once he stepped inside, however, his berserker rage was sapped.

  There, at the opposite end of the building, an icon of the five-rayed sun that had plagued his mind shone. He stared at the icon of the sun, at a loss. A swell of emotion battling inside him, he tore his eyes from it and looked around. Before him was not, as he had hoped, a Jarl’s hold or a storehouse filled to the brim with plunder, but women and children. The women shrieked, hugging children close to their breasts as more than a few infants began to cry. Terrified, tear-stained eyes stared up at him, and Hakon lost all will to fight.

  The building’s interior was lined with long, wooden benches, all facing the sun icon, which stood on an altar. The lone man in the building looked from his perch at the altar, and rushed to the front. He was a slight man; thin, and approaching middle age, judging by his balding head and graying whiskers. Dressed in nothing more than a white and black cassock, he held no weapon and shook in the warrior’s presence. Still, he stretched out his arms as far as they would go, and locked eyes with Hakon. “Eleam! Eleam!” he cried in the Fospar tongue. “Shense femulis hei pinonem, Theus minche, ran tamen!”

  Hakon stared at him. Still shaking, the man did not budge or flinch. “These are women and children,” Hakon reasoned. “You want me to show mercy? Eleam?”

  “Eleam!” the bald man nodded emphatically.

  Hakon slipped into a frown, and then his sword fell from his hand, clattering on the floor. Fighting every instinct he knew as a Bybic, he stepped aside, pointing at the door. “Go. The way is clear, for now.”

  The man breathed a sigh of relief, and called to the women and children. Before he could lead them out, Hakon clapped him on the shoulder. Looking the man up and down, he tore the man’s robe down the front, and snatched at his prize; a gold chain, adorned with five animals. He held up his prize.

  “Leave your gold!” he demanded. “Gold!” he shouted again, thrusting the chain in the air. Quickly, the women dropped what jewelry or coin that they had, and Hakon let them all out without another word. Alone in the building, he approached the altar, and snatched up the five-rayed sun that had distracted him. Hakon frowned at it; it was real enough gold, but of a crude make. The Altani smiths knew how to make intricate patterns and great things of beauty; it was almost disappointing to see how plain the Fospars were in comparison. Still, it was a large hunk of gold, and would catch a fair price. Hakon was content to claim this as part of his plunder, until a carving in the sun caught his eye, and he instantly recognized the unmistakable visage of the white wolf, howling triumphantly in the center of the sun.

  His eyes wide, Hakon developed a keen feeling that he was being watched. “What are you?” he demanded of the wolf carving.

  Outside, Springhead had fallen. Daveth’s line had been pushed out of the main square, and soon the remaining Fosporians were pushed against the town gate. Though the mages had claimed many Altani lives, the warriors and berserkers were relentless. Daveth himself had nearly been taken by one such berserker, wearing a bear’s head and covered in paint and blood, mad as a rabid dog before he had put the savage down. A scout came running up to the Hierophant. “My lord! The main Altani force is almost upon us. We have reports that they’ve taken any survivors as captives. Wh
at are your orders?”

  Daveth turned to Floriana and Derogynes; both had focused their efforts on aiding the wounded. The Fosporian commander stroked his beard before sighing. “We make our last stand. Give orders to the mages to carry the princess and the ambassador out of here; by force or coercion, if necessary.”

  “Lord Daveth!” another man called. “Lord Daveth!” The commander looked up to see a balding man in a tattered robe approach, leading a group of women and children. “We need to get these people out of here; these women and children are defenseless!”

  “Father Thomas!” Daveth looked the man up and down. “What happened? You were to keep the women and children safe in the church!”

  “Your soldiers were overrun,” the Priest explained. “This great beast of an Altani burst in, and at first I thought we were done for. But the Creator intervened, and we were allowed to leave. But we need to get them out of this town, now.”

  “Orders, commander?” another soldier asked of Daveth. The noble looked over the rest of the town; it was already burning.

  “Sound the retreat,” Daveth sighed bitterly. “Evacuate the women and children. We need to make it back to Stefanurbem in one piece.”

  Alfred picked his way through the remains of Springhead; the warriors were already hailing Hakon as the hero of the battle, single-handedly breaking the town’s defenses and cutting a path all the way to the town’s riches. They had begun to plunder the city, but something didn’t quite seem right to Alfred. For one, in this supposedly prosperous town, not a single woman had been found.

  He knelt next to a bloodied soldier outside the stone building Hakon had captured. He thinned his lips looking over the corpse; only Hakon could be this messy and still be effective. He held his hand out over the soldier’s face, fingers gripping the invisible tendrils of life. “I command you, speak.”

  The soldier shuddered as shallow breath filled his punctured lungs. “What would you have of me?” he croaked, his mouth gurgling with half-dried blood.