“They will not answer, nor will they hear. I have come to discuss a proposition, and my masters would not wish us to be disturbed until you have heard their proposal.”
Cyril turned around, his wand in hand. “Be gone!” he shrieked, letting loose an explosion of flame, but not a single whisker on the gray-furred creature was burned. Instead, the force of the repulsion ricocheted, slamming the King back against the heavy wooden doors, nearly knocking him unconscious. His wand rolled out of his hand, and the Vocendi picked it up.
“Let’s not have any unpleasantness, Cyril. I am here only to talk.”
“What business would I have with a demon?!” Cyril spat, his heart pounding. “I am a disciple of the Prophet Stefan, son of the Creator!”
The Vocendi chuckled, shaking its head. “That’s not entirely true, is it? If the Creator cared, you would not be in his good graces, Cyril. You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?”
“I did what was right for the people,” Cyril responded stiffly. “They needed a strong leader. A king.”
“And you selflessly offered yourself up as a candidate, didn’t you?” the Vocendi chuckled. “Only, there were several someones in your way, weren’t there?”
“Do not mock me,” the King spat, his face pained. “I did not do it gladly.”
“No, I’m well aware,” the Vocendi smirked. “You didn’t have the heart to kill Stefan or his family… well, save for poor, sweet Suyi. If only that noxious little brat had died with her. If only the poison had acted just a little faster, eh?”
Cyril shook his head, tears in his eyes. “Suyi was my friend. But she—she was offering bad advice. She told Stefan to show forgiveness to the Qingrenese. She was making us weak!”
“And we couldn’t have forgiveness, could we?” The Vocendi chuckled darkly. “Don’t be so modest, Cyril. My masters are admirers of your work. It wasn’t a zeal for revenge that drove you to kill Suyi, she was in your way. You were Stefan’s favored disciple, his apprentice. Couldn’t have that Jaoren harlot stealing him away from you, could you?”
“I have lived with that action for twenty years.” Cyril choked back guilt-laden sobs. “I didn’t want to. Stefan shouldn’t have told me, should have never told me the prophecy. I didn’t choose this role! Fate and the Creator, the dryads, Stefan, they all forced me into it!”
“I know,” the messenger said in a conciliatory tone, patting Cyril’s arm. “I know. Fate is cruel, is it not? More so are the masters of fate who wrote that Prophecy in the first place. My masters offer you a chance to break free of it, Cyril.”
“My fate has been sealed for twenty years. Stefan, Suyi, his son… they’re gone and dead,” Cyril muttered.
“They live.”
The king’s jaw dropped. “No—you lie. That’s impossible.”
“Stefan walks the earth as a great, white wolf, and his son was found by Altani savages before he was found by a hungry beast when you left him in the woods, far from Stefanurbem. A concubine of the Bybic chieftain took pity on the mewling infant and raised him as one of her tribe. He has grown into a strong and powerful warrior, but now, Stefan and his son have found each other. Even now, Stefan plans his return—and his vengeance.”
“He can’t,” Cyril said emphatically. “He’s a wild beast, now. He can’t speak. He’ll be slaughtered by the first hunter that crosses his path.”
“You had better hope that is not the case, because you will need the Prophet in the days to come.”
There was a quiet moment. “What do you mean?” Cyril asked.
“My masters know of things long since forgotten. They know the secrets of the Altun Magisters of old, jealously guarded by the frauds and sorcerers in Torinus that can no longer understand them. There is an ancient ritual, a sacrifice of blood, which will grant you, o King, great and terrible power.”
Cyril stared at the messenger. “Why would I be foolish enough to make a bargain for power with demons?”
“We don’t think you’re foolish, Cyril.” The Vocendi flashed him a toothy smile. “We think you’re desperate.”
The king glowered at the creature. “Fosporia can stand on its own. The Creator will protect us.”
The Vocendi burst out into laughter. “You think the Creator will save you? Why would he do such a thing, when you killed his daughter-in-law and betrayed his only son? The Creator is a vindictive, angry god. Look at what he did to Altun. Are you ready to become another Julianos? Cursed forever because you were too weak to seize power? The armies of Qingren are closing in on you, Cyril. Feeding Kazan innocent souls is only buying you very limited time. When they come, will you allow your people to be marched back into slavery? Will you let your pretty little girl be dangled on a leash by some lecherous Sage Lord, forced to play to his perversions?”
The king trembled, turning away and screwing his eyes shut to banish the memories of his slavery. “I would do anything to secure my people’s freedom from Qingren.”
“Then you know what you must do, great King.”
When Cyril looked again, the Vocendi was gone.
“Give us the wolf, and you shall have the power of a God. Power to do what the Prophet could not; bring justice to your captors, and dignity back to the race of man.”
Chapter 12
In the Land of Immortals
Hakon sat in silence with his father for some time; though how long that was, the warrior couldn’t tell. He had watched the sun rise, painting the sky in a myriad of beautiful, relaxing colors, but it had never set to begin with. “What is this place?” He asked, staring out on the plains, waiting for the white wolf.
“Dranasyl, home of the Immortals. It is on this island the first children of the Creator made all the world, in all its splendor,” Stefan responded.
“The Wise Women taught us the world was made when Jaedrun’s father, Volni, fought with the dragon Feldror; his blood waters the world tree, his scales its seed.”
Stefan chuckled. “There might be some truth to that.”
Hakon looked over to the smaller man. “You believe in the Altani gods? I thought the Fosporians only worshipped one.”
“All stories have their truths. There is a world tree at the center of Dranasyl, from which the forces of nature draw their energy. It’s terribly old.” Stefan arched his brow as he surveyed the plains. “Ah, but that will be for another time. Your friend has arrived.”
The warrior gripped his sword tightly as the wolf approached, but Stefan grabbed his wrist. “That would not be wise, Matthias.”
Hakon narrowed his eyes, and saw the wolf was changed. The icy blue eyes were the same, but the wolf was bigger than the warrior had ever seen him, with lines of blue energy, glowing like embers, tracing in intricate patterns across its white pelt. Stefan had grabbed his staff and now stood, patting his son on the shoulder- even as he had to reach up to do so. “My son, the white wolf you have so long hunted is a dryad; Creideam. A maker of this world. He has ere been my friend, guide, and partner, as of late.”
The wolf bowed its head and spoke with the voice Hakon recognized. “My apologies, child, for so long a deception.”
The warrior stared at the creature that had so long been his enemy, and after a moment, dropped his sword in disgust. “I cannot continue this hunt. My honor is lost forever.”
Stefan offered a conciliatory hand. “Matthias, it’s not lost forever.”
“Stop calling me that!” Hakon swerved, pushing the other man away. “My name is Hakon! I have already lost my last name, will you take away my first as well?! If you really are my father, where were you all this time? Magnus and the rest of them say you’ve been missing for twenty years! What kind of coward are you that you would abandon your own people?”
“I did not abandon anyone,” Stefan returned, speaking with a tone of force and anger that Hakon had underestimated. “Do you wish to speak to me of loss, Hakon Wolfborn? Do you want to know where I’ve been all this time? I was trapped inside the body of a wolf for twent
y years, having lost my wife, my son, my very humanity, all while forced to watch my flesh and blood be brought up as a—a savage!”
“Savage?” Hakon spat back. “You Fosporians throw that word around my tribe for years, and for what? Because you use magic? Isn’t that why the brood of Sinrun threw you in slavery in the first place?”
“They are not your people! You’ve killed your own people, men and women I risked everything to bring here to a land of their own, to live in freedom, only to be slaughtered by primitive tribesmen who know nothing of the world beyond their forests and hills.” The Prophet cut the space between him and his son, wringing his hands as he grew red in the face. “I watched as they took a sweet boy with a promising future, my son, and strip away every ounce of innocence, mercy, and kindness. I reject Hakon Wolfborn, for there is no such person! There is only Matthias. Your real name. Your only name.” Stefan screwed his eyes shut, throwing his arms around the warrior.
A hundred emotions boiled up inside Hakon as Stefan embraced him, to the point of frustration and confusion. “Get—get off!” The warrior shoved Stefan off of him. “Do not blubber at me, old man! I was told I was the son of gods, and I find my father is a weak fool!”
“Peace!” Creideam thundered, stealing the warrior’s voice in a second. “Wolfborn, whatever your name is, you know so little of this story. Are you so dense that you do not wish to know the details of your own birth?”
Stefan sighed, nodding to the wolf. “Thank you, Creideam. You see how the Altani have twisted his mind.”
“Stefan, quiet,” the wolf snapped. “You forget, I have watched Hakon grow just as you have. He is confused and lost; he needs your guidance, not your criticism. Your great ministry is to begin again; do not forget where you came from.”
The Prophet looked from Hakon to the wolf, then sighed, bowing his head. “Forgive me. I foresaw this happy reunion playing out differently.” The wolf was silent, and Stefan looked back to his son, gesturing to the river. “Why don’t we take a walk?”
“I have spent hours here. I do not know if I would be missed, but there are those that will wonder where I have gone.”
“Time does not exist in Dranasyl,” Stefan said, gesturing to the sun overhead. In minutes, it had gone from sunrise to sunset, the sky awash in fiery reds and oranges, with streaks of purple clouds. “So, we have no time at all, and yet, all of it. Please,” he gestured to the water. “We have twenty years of catching up to do, no? We must start somewhere.”
Hakon grunted a yes, then lumbered after the smaller man. They walked for some time in silence, Creideam’s presence always felt, but the wolf, for now, was keeping a respectable distance. The river flowed without end, down fields of grass and cutting through lush forests. Stefan seemed utterly at home here, but Hakon was frustrated that he could not find his bearings; even the sun was of little help, as it had already turned to a brilliant noontide.
“You must have questions,” Stefan said to break the silence.
“Any questions I had about my father went unanswered for twenty years. Curiosity does not live forever,” Hakon responded.
Stefan sighed. “Please, do not direct your anger at me. My son, I would have done anything to be in your life.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
The Prophet pursed his lips. “The day you were born, the Creator called your mother to his side. For the first few months, it was just you and me. I had so many plans for you. I felt the gift of magic in you; this great energy pulsing inside your very being. You would receive all the education I was denied, in rhetoric, history, religion, and magic.”
Hakon growled as he thought of Alfred and his scrolls. “You would have me be a limp-wristed scholar?”
“Matthias,” Stefan sounded hurt. “I wanted to give you the tools to be anything you wanted to be. That’s what knowledge and education can do for you. Slaves were kept ignorant; no one knew how to write, or knew how the world worked. Through wisdom, freedom is won, and thus are the ways to all virtue open.”
“Forgive me,” Hakon said, his voice softened. “My path was chosen for me. I assumed you had similar designs as the Wise Women and the Jarl.”
Stefan smiled sadly. “The day you went missing, I fell to pieces. Your mother’s corpse was not yet cold, and I had been robbed of my only child. I begged the Creator for mercy, and I spent weeks in the forests looking for you. My disciple Cyril found a spell to aid me, letting me transform into a wolf, to run through the forest with an animal’s heightened senses. But in doing so, I knew he would betray me.”
“What did you do, then?”
The Prophet’s smile broadened. “I allowed him to think he had gotten away with it. Such was Cyril’s desperation that he would have killed me had I refused his help, and it was not the time for that yet. In his rush to carry out his deception, he had overlooked an essential detail. He assumed that when I was trapped in a wolf’s body, I would lose my mind to that of a beast’s. Instead of a pet he could control, I became the white wolf, bonded with Creideam.” Stefan stopped to look back at the white beast, watching them from afar. “Through him, I finally picked up your trail.”
Hakon frowned. “You let your betrayer win? You didn’t fight?”
“Matthias, by becoming the wolf, I found you. If I gathered an army, marched my way to the Bybic lands, do you know what would have happened? They would have slaughtered you to spite me. It was not ideal, but the Creator’s hand was in it. I found you, and made it so I would always be able to see how you grew. I hunted you as much as you hunted me; I sought you out, to see you grow into a remarkably strong man.”
The warrior growled; something in his head told him arguing over his name was a lost cause. “I can appreciate choosing me over vengeance.”
“I’m relieved you see it my way,” Stefan chuckled.
“But if this is true, then I swear this,” Hakon took his sword, driving it into the ground and kneeling before Stefan. “If your blood flows through my veins, then the insults and grievances paid upon you are mine to bear, Father. I swear, I will avenge you, and strike down Cyril. He will know your wrath through my arm.”
The Prophet chuckled, patting his son’s shoulder. “That’s not necessary, my son. I don’t seek vengeance on Cyril. I don’t wish death on him.”
“What? But he betrayed you! He usurped your throne, your power!”
“The throne was never mine; it was an invention of Cyril’s. I’ve never worn a crown in my life, myself.” Stefan sighed sadly, turning to the endless river. “My son, I love Cyril as a brother. He was my brightest student, my most loyal disciple; he had a zeal for our faith. But… events played out. I don’t blame him for the part he was given. If anything, I feel sad for him. His life has not been easy, and I imagine in some ways, it has only gotten worse.”
“Whatever love you had for him should have died when he betrayed you,” Hakon declared. “Who thinks that way? Should a man feel pity for a snake that bites his ankle? It is a weak thing to think, and will only make the man weak in his final hours.”
Stefan gave Hakon a very steady look. “Matthias, you have tasted both bitter sides of betrayal in your last moments with Alfred. Answer me truthfully; what is it that hurts you more? The act itself, or that it came from one you loved? Would you rather wish to have your vengeance on Alfred, or to have your old bonds of brotherhood and friendship restored?”
The warrior’s brow furrowed deep, and he turned away from his father. “There is no going back. I cannot change the past.”
“No, you are right in that. The past is etched into stone; unchanging and immutable,” Stefan patted Hakon’s arm. “You can only move forward. But remember that the echoes of our past ring into our future. When you hear it come for you, be honest with what you want. Vengeance is a hard master to please, whereas forgiveness has no bondsmen. It frees without reservation, where revenge moves with an iron fist until it is sated.”
“You would have me forgive Alfred, for all he’s done?
After he’s taken everything from me?”
“I would have you let go of your anger. What does it profit you? Anger is a natural part of our existence, but you let yourself be ruled by it. I have seen you slip into a berserker rage; you are like a mindless animal. Are you aware that you have often killed some of your own?” Stefan asked pointedly, staring down Hakon.
The warrior’s face fell. There were only flashes in his mind; he did not remember any of the times he passed into a berserker’s trance, only the cries of victory at the end of it, and the thrill of battle, ringing in his ears. But the more he thought on it, faces, Bybic faces, slashed or stained red by his own hand, floated to the surface. His heart sank. “I had no idea. The warriors are told to give Berserkers a wide berth. You would hold me responsible for their stupid choices? They got too close! They knew the consequences!”
“Matthias,” Stefan spoke softly, “is that really what you think?”
Hakon was not used to complexity; his path as a warrior was simple, to cut down anyone in his way. That was all he was ever meant to do. Grunting in frustration, he slowly sank to his knees. “I don’t know what I think. I have never had to. No one seeks me out for counsel.”
Stefan knelt next to his son. “You have lived a violent existence all your life. And you were not given any choice in the matter. I watched as you grew into a weapon, a tool for conquest and war. But now, the Creator has delivered you, my only child, back to me. Let me show you a different way.”
“What different way?”
“Let me teach you what I have learned. Let me teach you the virtues of your people; faith, honor, compassion, freedom, and wisdom. It is your choice, my son; I only offer because I truly believe it will lead to a better life for you.”
Hakon looked down at Stefan, into the only eyes that were like his own. “What would I have to do?”
The Prophet smiled warmly as he rose. “Now that you’re here, I wish to return to Fosporia. Travel with me, to make up for lost time. Our blood is our bond, and now that we have spoken here in Dranasyl, I will be able to speak with you in the waking world. I only ask one promise in return, my son.”
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