Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  “Irene!” Matthias roared, rushing to her side and cradling the older woman in his arms.

  “You fool!” Braya shouted at her subordinate. “What have you done?!”

  “She—” the Inquisitor faltered. “You said she was performing witchcraft!”

  “Where is the honor in this?” Braya demanded. “Are we to be no better than these heretics?!” She gasped breathlessly, teeth clenched as she tried to think past the pain.

  Matthias heard none of it, coming to the aid of a woman, a teacher, who he had come to know as friend. “Irene… you should have let me help.”

  “And let you be the one gutted like a boar?” Irene tried to smile, but only ended up in a coughing fit; the blood was spreading. “I couldn’t let three people from the Prophet’s family come to harm because of me.”

  “Can’t you heal yourself? Isn’t there a spell for this?”

  Irene laughed ruefully, only to fall to a hacking cough again. “Oh, my child, I know magic, not miracles.” She reached up to pat his cheek. “It’s alright. After all this time, I’m not afraid. The Creator calls me home. Keep reading the primer, and keep Floriana safe.”

  Then, her last service in the Prophet’s name completed, Irene breathed her last, and fell limp in Matthias’ arms.

  There was a moment of dreadful silence as Braya was escorted out. Her lieutenant, a broad-shouldered man with the same sun-shaped scar and shaved head stepped forward. “Come, savage. You will face the King’s Justice. It’s over.”

  Matthias’ grief gradually turned to rage. As Irene’s body slipped from his hands, the warrior withdrew his sword and lunged. Bright flames sliced through the air after his sword like the mane of a galloping horse as he loomed over the Inquisitor, tensing his powerful arms and letting out a deafening roar. The world around him grew hazy, and once more, all he knew was rage and fury. Braya’s lieutenant saved himself by a mere second as he leaped out of Matthias’ way, barreling down on his men like the wrath of an angry god. The one who had speared Irene from behind stood no chance; Matthias fell on him with all the strength he could muster, driving him into the ground and bashing him again and again with his shield, until the results were almost unrecognizable. When Matthias saw that Braya had been carried away, he roared with frustration that she had gotten away from him. He turned on the others, and soon, in his blind outrage, he had lost track of those that fell before his blade, their bodies torched by magical fire and sliced through by Andrathi metal.

  Not long after, the snow and sleet on the ground were stained with blood; Matthias’ onslaught was relentless, cutting a fiery swath through the Inquisitors. He was lost to his rage, until his father’s voice rang clear and loud in his head.

  “Matthias!”

  As if jerking awake, the warrior breathed in sharply, and his eyes adjusted themselves as he took in his carnage. The bodies of nearly a dozen Inquisitors lay at his feet, and in his frenzy, he saw that an innocent bystander from amongst the now terrified crowd had been cut by his blade. His eyes wide with regret and shame, Matthias looked up to see the disciples had gathered at the bridge leading to the island. Floriana looked horrified. The warrior couldn’t bear to look at her, and instead looked to his father, still leaning on Magnus.

  “You broke your vow.” Stefan’s voice was sad and morose. Matthias sunk to his knees.

  Seeing their opportunity, the surviving Inquisitors surrounded the warrior. “You are hereby charged with dishonorable, sinful wrath, and the murder of the innocent,” Braya’s lieutenant declared. The Inquisitors raised their wands. “You will be brought to trial, however quick it may be. May the Creator have mercy on your soul.”

  Nearly a dozen bolts of lightning shot at Matthias from all sides, coursing through his body as he cried out in intense pain, and then, he knew nothing but silent, all-encompassing darkness.

  Chapter 20

  The King’s Justice

  Cyril could only stare at Braya as she gave her report. His sister was dead, and yet, he felt so little. Irene had protected him when he was a boy, had stood by him as they faced the Hegemon’s vengeful soldiers, had taught him to read and now she was gone, forever. Why could he not muster up the barest of emotions for her?

  “Thank you, Braya,” the king said, raising his hand to silence her. “You have done well, and honorably took great pains in serving your God. Gather the court; I will try this heretic and pretender myself, as quickly as possible.”

  Braya winced, gingerly adjusting the cast her shattered arm had been woven in. “And what of your sister and daughter, Your Highness?”

  “I had thought it obvious you would bury the former and bring the latter to me,” the King snapped.

  Braya regarded her King with a strange look, then bowed. “As you say, Blessed King.” She signaled the Inquisitors with her good hand, as they moved to fetch the princess.

  “Good, Cyril. You’re almost there. Bring the wolf to me, and all will be as it should…”

  Cyril gasped suddenly, and scanned the room. It had been the Vocendi’s voice. His guards gave him worrying looks, but said nothing as Floriana was dragged before her father in manacles. She glared at him as she was forced on her knees.

  “The manacles are not necessary,” Cyril muttered.

  “But, my king,” the Inquisitor who brought her in gestured down at the Princess’ scowl. “She took up arms against you!”

  “I said remove them!” the King barked, and the Inquisitor scrambled to undo Floriana’s bindings.

  Cyril furrowed his brow as a conflicting mixture of emotion welled up inside him. “My child, must you look at me that way?”

  “How can you ask me that when you’ve lied to me my whole life?” Floriana shot back. “What would mother think of you now? Did she know?”

  Cyril’s face flickered with that growing sense of anguish and indignity. “Your mother is dead, child. It does not do to raise the specters of the past when we live in the present.”

  Floriana shook her head. “You betrayed the Prophet! You killed Paragon Suyi, and you almost—”

  Cyril waved his wand, and Floriana swooned, falling unconscious into the waiting hands of the Inquisitors. “She is delusional,” he announced to all those standing in the throne room. “Her time with these heretics and frauds has twisted her mind. Take her to her chambers and lock her up.” He pursed his lips as his daughter was being dragged off. “But, please, be gentle.”

  The king was left ruminating on his throne as the courtiers present slowly began to file in. Angelus and the other Magisters trailed after the Hierophants, bowing before the throne.

  “We stand in awe to watch the King of Fosporia deal swift and righteous justice,” Angelus intoned with a knowing smirk before joining the rest of the Court.

  Other diplomats filed in, Bai Feng nodding curtly before taking his place, but all were dwarfed as the Andrathi delegation marched in. Derogynes’ focus was on Cyril as he stormed toward the throne and refused to bow. “Why did you summon me to this farce of a trial?” the Andrathi growled. “Haven’t you caused enough misery today, Cyril?”

  “The Ambassador from Theragos will remember his place, or he will be sent back to Theragos on the first ship out of the harbor,” the king declared. “I summoned you here because you need to be taught a lesson; that we in Fosporia will punish the wicked.” He leaned closer, whispering in the Andrathi’s ear. “Don’t think I don’t know about your letters. Every single one of them has been intercepted. So far, no one outside this castle knows what happened in this room. If you want to survive your diplomatic mission and tell your story, I suggest you play your role, you fat, indulgent hedonist.”

  Derogynes snorted in anger, his eyes bulging, but he stood straight all the same and bowed coldly, taking his place beside Bai Feng.

  “Trouble with the king, ambassador?” Bai Feng murmured.

  “What is the phrase back home? ‘To pull an Andrathi’s tail is to summon his horns’?”

  Bai Feng arched
his brow, but did not press further. “Yes, well, do try to keep calm; you look like you’re ready to eat him.”

  Matthias was led in first. His limbs were manacled with the heaviest chains available, reserved for Andrathi prisoners. They seemed to be holding him, for now. His sword and shield had been confiscated, and his tattered shirt was still splattered with blood. He glared at Cyril, but knelt when he was told to, and bowed his head.

  Magnus came next. Horrified and confused whispers fluttered through the court to see one of the Prophet’s own disciples in chains. He was walking with a noticeable limp; the Inquisitors had not been gentle with him. The wolf, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is the savage’s beast?” Cyril demanded angrily of Braya as she returned, standing at his right.

  “The wolf eluded us. Doubtless, it’s with Hierophant Ferrin and his rebels, still holding out in Lady Irene’s house. We will break them soon enough,” Braya reassured her King.

  “Worry not, Cyril.” A shiver went up the king’s spine as the Vocendi’s voice whispered in his ear; he still could not see the blasted creature. “You have his son. Stefan will come.”

  Composing himself, the king shot Braya a look to answer her. “For your sake, you had better hope so.” Cyril stood to address the crowd. “This trial will now begin. The Crown will pass judgment on one so-called Matthias Wolfborn, self-declared son of the Prophet Stefan, accused of murder, heresy, and blasphemy, and Magnus Fletcher, accused of fraud, heresy, and blasphemy.”

  There was a howl of protests as Magnus’ supposed crimes were read out. A middle-aged woman in Hierophant robes shot up from her seat. “Do what you will with this rabble rouser, Your Highness, but Magnus is the best of us! Do not let your zeal for punishing heretics blind you to punishing one of your most faithful servants!”

  “Be silent, Hierophant Victoria, or this court will find you in contempt!” Cyril thundered. The Hierophant slowly sank back into her seat as attention was turned back to Matthias and Magnus. “What does the accused have to say in their defense?”

  Matthias screwed his eyes shut, thinning his lips as he did. He would not answer.

  “I will say only that Stefan has returned!” Magnus shot up after a moment of silence. “Hierophants, Priests, if you believe in your god and the vows you swore to him, rise! The Prophet is alive, and this man, this fiend, betrayed him!” He gestured as best he could with his chained arms to Cyril. “He killed Suyi!” He looked out to the crowd. “Hierophant David, Hierophant Zoe! You heard the Prophet speak. You know his voice. All of Stefanurbem heard him this afternoon; the mountains themselves shook with his roar. Did you not recognize it?”

  No one directly responded to Magnus, but there were hurried whispers, and suspicious glances shot at Cyril.

  The king’s face soured. “Enough of this blasphemy and falsehood!” Cyril stood. “I am not the one on trial! You claimed to have followed a Veratii into the woods, and were captured by the Altani savages! How do we know you weren’t just a spy, a saboteur sent to sow dissent and doubt amongst the faithful? You followed this bloodthirsty mongrel, this beast, to bring Fosporia to its knees at the hands of the Altani horde just to save your own skin! I will not allow it!” Cyril had been gesturing wildly with his wand, and a clap of thunder punctuated his statement.

  Magnus stared at him with a mix of pity and disgust. “How lost are you, brother, that you would spout such nonsense, to hide your own actions? Where is the man that followed Stefan unerringly, that braved the white walls of the great city of Mei-Xian, and followed our Prophet into the mouth of hell itself to face the Hegemon? I loved you, Cyril.”

  The short man’s face had hardened, and he threw such a look of contempt at Cyril to make the King balk. “But you have fallen so low. Your sister is dead, and instead of mourning her, you stand here getting petty revenge on a man who would have caused you no harm if you hadn’t killed his mother and betrayed his father.”

  “My sister made her own decision,” Cyril said softly. “She died a heretic. I can do nothing for her but mourn the woman I used to know. And if I can do it by punishing the men who turned her against me and all faithful Fosporians, so be it.”

  Magnus spat at Cyril’s feet in disgust. “The Creator will judge you. You can’t escape that, Cyril. You never will.”

  Matthias had remained silent. Cyril shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “Will the accused say nothing in their defense?”

  The hulking warrior raised his head, his eyes bloodshot and his face a mask of regret. “I am guilty of murder. Nothing more. But it is enough to condemn me.”

  “Then you admit guilt, to all crimes?” Cyril’s lips began to curl into a smirk.

  “Only one. I am not learned enough to know the nature of blasphemy or heresy. I have only spoken in truth. But innocent blood still stains my hands.”

  The king scoffed. “A murderer’s word means little. The crown finds you guilty of all crimes. For your part, Magnus, your title of Hierophant is forfeit. You will be flogged in the streets until you have been deemed to pay proper penance.” He leveled a malevolent glare on Matthias. “As for you, for your crimes of murder and your part in turning members of the Virtuous down the path of sin and heresy, you will be burnt at the stake until dead. May the Creator have mercy on your soul.”

  There was a howl of protest from the Hierophants.

  “This is outrageous! Magnus has done nothing wrong!”

  “You’ve gone mad, Cyril!”

  “Silence!” Braya stepped forward, and with a wave of her good hand, her Inquisitors turned on the Hierophants. “I have sacrificed much for my service to my king and my God—what have you given? What have you lost? While my men and I were cleansing the land of heresy and sin, you were here, safe behind the walls of Faircliff Castle and growing fat off our labor. To go against King Cyril is to go against the Creator!”

  The Hierophants’ protests died down as they cast wary eyes at the Inquisitors priming their weapons, and one by one, they settled down.

  Cyril smirked, patting Braya on the shoulder. “Well done. Your service will not be forgotten.” He turned again to Magnus and Matthias. “If the condemned has no last words, they will be taken away. This trial is over.”

  There was a commotion at the doors to the throne room, with the sounds of struggling and the snarls of a dog. Guards pushed through the door. “Your Highness, forgive the intrusion, but…” The guard winced as powerful jaws snapped at him again, and pressing into the throne room was Stefan, the great white wolf’s icy gaze fixated on Cyril.

  “I won’t let Cyril kill you. He will get what he really wants, my son,.” Matthias inhaled sharply as his father’s words reverberated inside his head. “No!” He leaped to his feet. “Father, don’t do this!”

  The wolf calmly stepped forward, resting on his haunches before the throne. Their eyes locked on each other, Cyril and Stefan seemed to have reached a silent agreement.

  “I won’t let you do this, Father!” Matthias roared. “Don’t give yourself over because of me!” He struggled as four Inquisitors piled atop him, yanking at his chains to trip the huge warrior.

  Cyril smiled hungrily, then raised his hand. “The Crown is not without mercy. To better understand this heretical threat which has so disrupted the peace and virtue of this land, we commute Matthias’ sentence, until such a time as he has had a chance to better understand this…” he gestured dismissively to Stefan, “piece of dark magic and witchcraft. Muzzle the beast, and take these two heretics away.”

  “Master, teacher, no! Please!” Magnus pleaded, struggling against the Inquisitors. Stefan bowed his head, his ears splayed as Braya directed the Inquisitors to bind his mouth with a leather and iron muzzle. The wolf yelped as a mace hit him, knocking him to the floor.

  “Father!” Matthias roared, landing a punch that knocked one of the Inquisitors off his feet. Ten were on him now, tugging on his chains and shocking him with bolts of lightning from the tips of their wands. “Don
’t do this!”

  “It is done, Matthias.” Stefan’s voice rang in his head. “The sins of the past demand retribution.”

  “Father!” Matthias cried out in one last desperate plea. He nearly broke free of the Inquisitors, but with their overwhelming magic, his strength failed him, and the warrior slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Whether it was a twist of the knife or some half-hearted attempt at kindness, Matthias and Magnus were given a separate cell, free from the overcrowded dungeon cellar the rest of Cyril’s heretics had been herded into. Neither of them spoke, for what could be said? Neither ate the meager, half-rotted rations shoved into their cells, and could only watch with jaded and downcast eyes as the sun set and night fell upon them outside their tiny, barred window.

  There was a heavy shuffling outside their door, as if someone was leading a bull inside. With the sound of the heavy tumblers being unlocked, the door swung open, and coins exchanged hands between a hulking visitor and the guard. Derogynes shuffled in, pulling back his hood.

  “Derogynes? What are you doing here?” Magnus asked.

  The Ambassador smiled bleakly. “By order of King Cyril, I’ve been banished. I leave for Theragos in an hour.” He buried his head in his hand, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

  “There’s nothing any of us can do,” Matthias grumbled darkly.

  Derogynes pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, Matthias. I don’t want to be right about this. But I told you; pretty words alone weren’t enough to stop Cyril. Stefan could have preached love, peace, and virtue until he was old and gray but nothing was really going to change.”

  Matthias grimaced. “Maybe you're right.”

  The Andrathi nodded grimly, then pushed a small book into the warrior’s hands. “I grabbed it before I left the house.” Matthias looked at it and sighed bitterly; it was Irene’s Primer. “I thought you would like to have it.”