Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  The crowd around the two shuffled away, even as they loudly goaded the two to join in battle. Even now, some still cheered for Hakon but were quickly silenced by those around them. Hakon hesitated, looking Alfred up and down. He took one last moment to scan the crowd for Magnus, just to see a friendly face, but the Fosporian was nowhere to be seen. Resigned, Hakon took a deep breath and raised his shield, gripping his sword tightly. With a roar, he broke out into a charge, ready to flatten Alfred with his shield.

  The black-clad man let Hakon get close, staring down the huge man and refusing to flinch. Just as Hakon was about to reach him, Alfred held out his hands and gripped at the tendrils of life surrounding Hakon. Taking a deep breath, Alfred latched on to those invisible cords, and with a mere gesture, was able to slam Hakon down on the ground as if he had buried under a mountain, paralyzing him and cracking several ribs.

  The warrior cried out in agony as Alfred flexed his fingers and wrenched back an arm. Hakon struggled, fighting against the control, but it was a losing battle; he had never been subjected to such crushing magic, and in a panic, could think of no way to beat it. Shouting as his limb was ratcheted back further and further, Hakon’s strength eventually failed him, and not even his screams could drown out the sickening crunch of broken bone.

  The crowd had fallen deathly silent. The warriors that had fought alongside Hakon were sickened and terrified to see the strongest man they had ever known laid low so quickly. The women of the village covered the eyes of the children or fretted, some even calling out for mercy, but Alfred wasn’t done. Standing as tall and straight as he could, he kept Hakon under his thrall, planting a foot on the warrior’s neck.

  “I warned you, Hakon,” Alfred hissed. “This could have been such a great day for both of us. But now? Now, I’m going to show my new subjects what disloyalty leads to. Then, I’m going to give them the Jarl—and king—they deserve.” He looked up to the Bybics surrounding him. “For such low and base crimes, the only way to redeem honor is found in the embrace of Helnya!”

  Alfred staggered, grunting as he picked up Hakon’s sword. “Don’t worry, brother,” he dropped his voice again. “You know what I can do. Maybe once this is over, I can bring you back to serve as my champion, just like we planned.”

  Hakon snarled, his jaw set as he glared up at Alfred with wild eyes. “Jaedrun and all the gods spit on you!”

  Alfred sneered, but said nothing as he raised the heavy sword over his head, ready to plunge it in Hakon’s back. He wavered, his eyes tinged with a touch of regret, but then the sword came down with as great a warrior’s cry as Alfred could manage.

  Hakon had closed his eyes, bracing to accept his fate. But when he opened, he saw his own face reflected in his blade, sticking out of the ground next to him. The crowd stared, stunned with anticipation and dread. Alfred was no longer standing over Hakon, and the young man had turned away; he couldn’t bear to look at the warrior.

  “Well?” Hakon gasped, struggling to stand. He was still enthralled, though the bonds had loosened somewhat. Then, Alfred’s hand dropped. The magical bonds on Hakon lifted entirely; the warrior could feel the intense, paralyzing pressure fade away, and he staggered to his feet. The pale young man stood straight, brushing back his hair, and pointed an accusatory finger at the warrior.

  “Hakon Bybicson, I deny you the chance to find honor in death. You will not be welcomed in Helnya’s halls as a warrior who died in honorable combat. Thus, I banish you. Take your shield, your sword, what good it will do you, and take that fat, pitiable wretch of a Fospar slave with you.”

  He spat at Hakon’s feet. “I will send riders out to every tribe with messages of your shame; you will not be welcome in any mead hall, lest you bring war with my tribe to any who would shelter you. Let the frozen wilderness be your hearth and the coming ice and cold your tomb.”

  Alfred threw one last sneer at him. “From this day forth, you are no longer a Bybic, and worthy of no honor. As such, you do not deserve the name ‘Bybicson,’ and shall be known throughout the Altani lands as Hakon Wolfborn.” Alfred spat in Hakon’s face. “Go back to the forest, where all savage beasts belong. May Helnya take you frozen in the den your mother crawled out of.”

  Hakon stared at Alfred, then quietly picked up his sword, tucking his shield under his good arm. Magnus was shoved to the front, battered by the crowd around him. He and Hakon were marched out of the village and shoved out of the citadel’s walls, grim looks of betrayal and disgust painted on every Bybic that crossed Hakon’s path. The gates were resolutely slammed shut behind them, and Hakon, staring listlessly at the lands beyond, fell to his knees.

  “Hakon?” Magnus knelt beside him. “Hakon, we need to keep moving.” The Fosporian nervously looked over the walls. Already, the guards along the walls were casting them dangerous looks. Some were priming their bows.

  “Hakon…” Magnus tried to pull the warrior to his feet, but he shrugged the Fosporian off. Magnus gasped as an arrow embedded itself in the ground right next to them.

  “Get out of our lands, Fospars! Or we’ll skewer you like rats caught in the larder!” a guard shouted down.

  “Hakon! For the love of the Creator, get up!” Magnus pleaded. Already, the guard was preparing another arrow.

  With the mage tugging at him, Hakon rose to his feet and trudged down the dirt road leading out of Bybic lands. He reacted to nothing, not even as Alfred’s riders nearly trampled the two outcasts as they stormed out of the citadel to spread word of Matthias’ shame.

  The two traveled in silence for the rest of the day. When the sun began to set, it fell to Magnus to prepare as good a camp as possible. Sheltered in a wooded glen just off the beaten path, he was able to summon a fire with his magic to ward against the chill. He rummaged through his pack, still full with supplies left over from the raid.

  “We’ll travel to Irene’s hut,” Magnus said. “She can heal your arm properly. But for now…” the Fosporian looked from Hakon’s broken and twisted arm, the skin already bruised purple in huge splotches, and the warrior’s powerful muscles grotesquely twisted. Grimacing, Magnus tore at his tattered robe for enough cloth to wrap around the arm a few times.

  “For now, I can set it,” he said, proffering his wand.

  Hakon said nothing, and did not protest as Magnus drew near, his arm limp. His gold-tinged green eyes only stared into the fire, grunting softly in pain as Magnus wrapped the cloth around the broken area, and reset the bone. It was an unsettling experience, but Hakon could muster no emotion.

  Sighing sadly, Magnus sat opposite of Hakon when the job was done. “I’m so sorry about what happened today, Hakon. I don’t condone your ambition, but Alfred was brutally vindictive. You didn’t deserve all that.”

  Hakon didn’t look at Magnus. After a moment, he spoke for the first time since his exile. “Tell me about my father.”

  Magnus stared at the warrior for a moment, then nodded. “It was your eyes that struck me, if you’ll remember. No human I’ve ever met, save for one, had those eyes. I told you about why Stefan disappeared. He was looking for you, Matthias.”

  Hakon slowly rose his head as Matthias’ words sunk in.

  “You are the Prophet’s son.”

  Chapter 10

  Father and Son

  Hakon had shown no emotion to Magnus’ revelation. He had stared at the Fosporian for a moment before rolling over and falling asleep. Come morning, Magnus awoke to Hakon clearing their fire of its ashes with his good arm.

  “You don’t need to cover our tracks. No one is coming after us,” Magnus said as he sat up.

  “It’s not for any Altani,” Hakon responded. “It’s for the people of the forest. We’re in their home, and they’re not to be disrespected.”

  “You mean your gods?”

  Hakon looked over to Magnus. “There are things beyond the gods or man in these woods.”

  Magnus tried to shrug the thought off, but he caught himself impulsively looking over his shoulder.
“You didn’t react to anything I said last night. Don’t you have any questions?”

  “I asked you to tell me about my father. So you did,” Hakon grunted, numbly rubbing his arm. “He’s been missing for twenty years, so you say. He’s most likely dead.”

  Magnus frowned. “He was your father and the Prophet of mankind. He freed millions from slavery. Don’t you think it’s awfully callous to not care about any of that?

  “By the Gods!” Hakon swerved around, jabbing a finger in Magnus’ chest. “I have lost everything, Magnus! Do you understand that? Everything I ever cared about was snatched away from me by that spineless, crippled little snake! My honor, my prestige, my trophies, my home, my own name, they are all gone! He cheated me, and has the gall to call me a traitor?”

  “Of course you were a traitor! I saw that look in your eye when you were holding that crown. You were thinking of a way to keep it and save face at the same time!” Magnus balked, pushing Hakon’s hand away. “I’ve seen that look before. Don’t act as if you’re the victim of circumstance; you’re a victim of your own greed and pride!”

  Hakon growled and moved to strike Magnus, but the Fosporian pulled out his wand faster than the warrior could move and immediately sent a bolt of lightning to strike the ground at his feet, freezing Hakon in his tracks.

  “Don’t you dare!” Magnus declared. “I watched you slaughter my countrymen and betray a friend, and my patience has reached its limit. I’m only as disgusted as I am because I know you’re better than this.”

  Hakon scoffed. “Why? Because I’m your blasted Prophet’s son?”

  Magnus lowered his wand. “Because I’ve seen you act with kindness, even when there was no benefit for you. Even when it was the harder path to take. There is goodness in you, Hakon, but your will is weak. Perhaps wherever we end up, that will change. But for now, keep moving.” The mage pointed his wand down the forest path, gilded with white frost. “If you ever want to use that arm again, we need to keep moving to Irene’s. It’s the only friendly hearth you’re going to find.”

  Hakon moved to say something, but instead scowled at Magnus before turning and continuing on his way. The two traveled in silence, spending days at a time without saying a word. They were able to move faster than an army on the march, and in a few days, they came to Irene’s hut, cold and desperate for food that wasn’t two-week old rations.

  Irene waited in the doorway as if she were expecting them. She cast her golden eyes on Hakon, and smirked. “Well, hello at last, Matthias.”

  “That’s not my name,” Hakon returned bluntly.

  “It’s the name your father gave you, no?”

  The warrior glared at her but pushed into her home, eager to get near a warm hearth.

  “How’d you know we were coming?” Magnus asked.

  Irene nodded out to the trees. “Oh, a little bird told me. Or fox, in this case.”

  Magnus looked over his shoulder, and spotted a child-sized fox dash between the trees, out of sight.

  “We were being followed by that cursed creature?” Hakon muttered.

  “That cursed creature is a messenger of the Creator’s servants, the dryads, and worthy of respect,” Irene said stiffly. “A please and thank you wouldn’t go unappreciated for sleeping by my hearth and eating my food, as well.”

  “Thank you, Irene,” Magnus bowed his head as he moved inside. “Matthi—Hakon has had a… trying time these past few days.”

  “What? Did you finally pick a fight with the twitchy, brooding fellow with the bad legs?” Irene scoffed, moving over to the fire where she ladled out bowls of a hearty vegetable stew. “Serves you right, the way you and your horde were carrying on, singing about the women you were going to ravage and the treasure you were going to plunder. I take it you’ve had a good dose of humility, then?” She pushed a bowl into Hakon’s good hand.

  The warrior didn’t answer, devouring his stew in a matter of minutes; it wasn’t until the savory smell of the stew hit him that he realized how hungry he was for a decent meal. He felt a particular pang of loss, realizing he would probably never taste succulent roast pork from the Jarl’s hall again, or that very particular brand of mead the Bybics brewed, but he tried to bury those thoughts deep. It would not do to let such things fester.

  After Hakon had inhaled his third bowl of stew, Irene bullied him over to her spare bed, where she undid Magnus’ makeshift cast and clicked her tongue. “The scrawny fellow did this, without a wand? He’s dealing with terribly dark magic.”

  Hakon looked over to her. “What do you mean?”

  Irene took out her wand. “You ever wonder much about the ruins that dot the landscape, like the handsome stone walls your tribe are squatting in?”

  “They belong to the Ancients,” Hakon shrugged. “They weren’t Altani, and they weren’t strong enough to survive, so they’re of no concern to me.”

  Irene chuckled ruefully, leaning over to look back into her hearth where Magnus was trying to get comfortable by the fire. “Do you hear this? If Stefan heard the way this boy talked, it’d be enough for him to box his ears.”

  “I’ve been living with it for weeks,” Magnus stated as he pulled out his journal.

  Irene turned her attention back to the warrior, pointing her wand at the angry, purple-red bruise that had consumed much of his arm. “Hold still.” The warrior grunted as he felt his arm go limp, with that same firm but maternal grip Irene had used before. “You ought to care about the Ancients, boy, because it’s their actions that led to your father being who he is. The Ancients were the Altun, a powerful empire that stretched from where the sun rises to where it sets, as the old saying goes. The Altun worshipped the Creator, but soon, they forgot their pact with him.”

  There was a pause as Irene directed Hakon’s arm, the shattered bone sliding into place under all the bruised muscle. “Julianos the Accursed, last Archon of the empire, betrayed the Creator and the dryads, and their wrath was terrible to behold; they laid waste to the continent, and as punishment, took away man’s ability to control magic.”

  “Then why can the Fosporians and people like Alfred use magic?” Hakon asked, wiggling his fingers as feeling began to return to his hand.

  “Just because man could no longer control magic doesn’t mean he was no longer born without it; those that are born with the gift better pray they’re not that powerful, or they might… well, many slaves died in Qingren because they couldn’t control their magic. Stefan fixed that for us, by inventing wands on his travels; a gift from the Creator, and a sign that he had forgiven us for our past. They’re conduits, where we can focus our power and direct it out into the world.”

  Irene pulled away, surveying the warrior’s bulging arm. “There. The bruise will heal on its own, and it will be rather tender, but you should be able to go about bashing skulls just as you like again.”

  Hakon rolled his shoulder, stretching out his arm. It was sore, but he no longer felt like it was about to split in two. “Thank you,” he said in a much softer manner. “But how can Alfred do such things, if he doesn’t have a wand?”

  Irene stood up, exchanging a knowing look with Magnus. “Your friend Alfred is able to manipulate the dead; we call that necromancy, and it’s a dangerous, evil tool. If he’s grown even more powerful, then he’s come into contact with something more diabolical than any foe you’ve ever faced.”

  The warrior scoffed. “What foe is that?”

  Irene crossed her arms. “Demons, boy. It was the demons that tempted Julianos the Accursed to betrayal, and it’s demons that prey on suffering humans trapped under the weight of their magic with no release. If a mage is not able to channel his magic, he might be desperate enough to turn to a demon, and in return, they will give the mage power most mages only dream about, but they will torment that mage and drive them to terrible things. You ever see your friend talk to something strange?”

  Hakon frowned. “I saw Alfred talking to a creature like the fox that Magnus followed, but he h
ad gray fur.”

  The two Fosporians exchanged looks again. “A Vocendi,” Magnus stated. “The fox creatures that serve the dryads are called the Veratii, speakers of truth. But the grey ones are Vocendi, speakers of dread.”

  “If they’re so easily spotted, why not just kill the gray ones, drive them out?” Hakon demanded.

  “You’d be surprised what desperate men are driven to,” Irene muttered. “Never mind that your Alfred wouldn’t know a Veratii from a Vocendi to begin with. Enough for now. You both need rest.”

  Hakon was only too willing to sleep in a real bed again, and slept soundly throughout the night. He was the first to awaken, and outside, he could see the first snow had fallen, covering the forest outside Irene’s hut in a thin blanket of white, smothering the last, fiery leaves of autumn. Then, Hakon looked over to the dying embers of the hearth. He grimaced as he thought of how Irene had fed and healed him without asking for anything. She may have been prickly, but it wouldn’t hurt him to at least tend the hearth.

  Grabbing a hatchet from a corner of the hut, he marched out into the snow and began looking for wood to cut, flexing his bruised arm to brace it for some work. It was still not fully healed, but much of his strength had returned. He went at his task with great vigor, felling three small trees and dragging them back to the hut by the time Irene came out later in the morning, wrapped in a shawl.

  “There is such a thing as working too hard, Matthias,” she said with a wry grin. “You don’t have to prove anything just because you can use your arm again. You keep at this pace, there won’t be a forest by the time winter passes.”

  “My name is not Matthias,” the warrior replied.

  “You know, your mother actually chose that name. Your father liked it, as well, but it was her idea. Indulge an old woman; Suyi was like a sister to me,” Irene said.

  “You knew her?”

  Irene nodded. “She was a lovely woman. Most thought her rather meek, as she was born a noble, but she had a fire in her that was as great as any man’s. She would have loved you.”