The warrior scoffed. “What? Do you expect me to sell more as a slave if I'm well read?”
“No, my friend. You won't be a slave.” The Andrathi wrapped his thick arms around Matthias, pulling him close and whispering in his ear. “Your sword and shield were confiscated, but I was able to buy them. I sold them, at a profit, of course, to Ambassador Bai Feng; he fancies himself a collector of enchanted weapons. Now, you are going to be bound on the ambassador’s ship, and sail toward Torinus. Cyril is sailing there, with Stefan in tow.”
Matthias frowned, casting a suspicious look at the door to make sure the guard wasn't listening. “What will he be doing in Torinus?”
“Nothing wholesome, I imagine,” Derogynes muttered, still holding the warrior close. “All you have to do is fight Bai Feng, who is no warrior, I assure you, and win your sword and shield. Then, my friend, as a favor to me?” Matthias grunted; the Andrathi’s soft, doughy build belied the strength of a seasoned veteran as he gripped the warrior hard with his clawed fingers, growling in his ear. “I want you to run Cyril through, and kill him.”
Chapter 21
The Crossing
Derogynes stared out from the deck of a dromon, the pride of Theragos’ navy. It was a sleek, handsome vessel, with bright red sails and the snarling visage of the god Axer and his fiery mane at the bow in beaten bronze. Two decks of oars, powered by over a hundred strong Andrathi sailors, churned the waters of the cold and gray Altadarios. The Ambassador felt a swell of pride seeing the fine craftsmanship of his people, and his thoughts drifted back to home.
He was left reminiscing of the mighty city of Pol-Andros, its grand temples and palaces carved inside the sea cliffs by nothing more than thousands of years of Andrathi strength and stubbornness. He allowed himself a small smile as he thought of the feast his wives and daughters would have prepared for him; he could almost smell the sizzling lamb shanks and candied pears, the ever-flowing spiced wine and as many oysters as he could stomach.
They would chastise him for his laziness. He never had gotten around to exercising like he promised, but they would all be happy to see him, even his oldest wife, Galatea. His eldest son, Ambrosus, would tease him for his belly as well, but the lad meant well. Derogynes remembered he would be on leave from the Legions; it would be the first time everyone had been home in ages.
He could see the marble columns and carefully trimmed cypress trees in the gardens of his sprawling villa, where there wouldn't be so much damn snow, and he heard music on the lyre and pan flute. He slowly frowned. The thought of music made him think of that night when he had celebrated Sanctilis with his friends. Matthias had been so utterly clueless to the princess’ advances it was almost cringe-inducing, and it had been Irene who had requested the music in the first place.
With a long face, he turned back to the east, to Stefanurbem and the rising sun. On the horizon, sailing past the two ruined, monumental statues that marked the entrance to the city’s harbor was Cyril’s ship, the black sun emblazoned on its square sail. Always that damnably ugly sun. What was Cyril thinking when he chose it?
“Something wrong, Ambassador?” Captain Sanidus asked.
Derogynes waved the soldier off. “Nothing, nothing, only… do you ever get the feeling you've left something unfinished?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Sanidus asked, and the ambassador nodded. “I understand you have great affection for these humans, sir, but my personal experience is they are still callow and untested, and their king is not worthy of honor. They would make poor allies. You have done your duty to the Ardi; no one will question your honor or talent back home.”
Derogynes sighed. “They were supposed to be different. It was blind optimism, but under Stefan, I thought maybe…” he sighed. “Never mind. I dwell on these things too much.”
Sanidus nodded. “If being in the Legions has taught me anything, sir, accepting defeat is a bitter pill, but not dishonorable. Losing a battle is not losing the war.”
The ambassador was silent as he watched Cyril’s ship, and he furrowed his brow. He was picking a fine time to indulge in his conscience. He had done everything he could for Matthias, Magnus, and Stefan. Floriana would be fine; Cyril wouldn't harm his only daughter. Would he? And the plan he had given Matthias was flimsy, at best. Indeed, where would they all be without his worldly wisdom to keep them grounded?
“Captain Sanidus?” Derogynes began. “I think when we reach home, I'm going to apply for a military commission again. I think the Ardri will appreciate my report on Fosporia much more if I can add a satisfactory ending to it.”
King Cyril’s ship had managed to pass Derogynes’ vessel by mid-day. The Fosporian ship was smaller than the Andrathi dromon or the Qingrenese ship, a chuan, further behind it, but Cyril was pleased with it. It was built without anyone’s help; and for a people only in their second generation of freedom, it was a handsome vessel, and able to outpace the two bigger ships.
The king’s cabin was located in a forecastle at the stern of the ship; it was cramped, but as well appointed as possible, with a proper bed and desk for him to continue his work. Cyril was seated at the desk, and left staring out the window at the massive Qingrenese chuan behind them, with its lacquered wood hull and silk sails. The gall of the Qingrenese. Human hands had built that hull, and human hands had sewed the sails, and yet the Jaoren and Tsuriin dared claimed it for themselves. In just a few days, he would show them. All would know that humanity would belong to no one; not even the Creator. There was a rustling in the corner, and Cyril’s eyes drifted down to his prize; Stefan was with him, trapped twice over in the body of that beastly white wolf and locked in an iron cage, his face muzzled and his leg chained, which he had been fruitlessly trying to pull loose. The wolf stopped when Cyril turned to face him, and his icy blue eyes penetrated deep into the king’s very being.
“Don't give me that look,” Cyril hissed. “Judge me as you will, Stefan. There is no turning back. The power I will wield as Archon will shield all humanity. I will crush Qingren, and I will do what you could not. The Hegemon’s blood will stain the white city of Mei-Xian, and I will extract every ounce of blood owed from thirteen hundred years of slavery.” The king knelt to be at eye level with him. “I dare you to tell me they deserve less. After what they did to your mother.”
“It’s not much of a conversation if the other party is bound and gagged,” Floriana said quietly. She had been summoned to her father’s cabin, and she would obey. For now.
Cyril glared at his daughter at first, then his gaze softened as he moved to his desk. “Sit.” He gestured to the empty chair.
Floriana continued to regard her father with contempt, but did as she was told. “What do you want from me?”
“Is that any way to speak to your father?”
“The man I thought to be my father apparently never existed,” Floriana said bitterly. “And if he did, he only existed long before I was born.”
Cyril scoffed, pouring them both cups of wine and offering his daughter a honey biscuit; one of her favorites. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
The princess sputtered, pushing the baked treat away. “How can you say that? You’re a murderer, and a liar! A usurper!”
“Technically, I invented the throne myself. I can’t really usurp an institution of my own making,” Cyril quipped. He looked at her and sighed. “You don’t understand, Floriana. I didn’t choose this. I was forced into this role. Do you think I woke up one day and said, ‘I’ll kill one of my dearest friends and betray my mentor?’”
The king smirked. “Think sensibly, my dear. You’re an intelligent woman. It’s the dryads. And the Creator. They made the prophecy, and they declared I would be a betrayer before I was even born. Where is the justice in that? I would liberate mankind, not just from earthly masters, but divine ones as well. They say men will curse my name with their dying breath, that I will be the cause of their anguish, but I will hear only their adulation and gratitude
. I will be the Prophet and liberator mankind deserves.”
The princess stared at her father, her face twisted with concern and a touch of fear. “Father, do you hear yourself? What would mother say?” A horrible thought struck her. “I’ll ask again. Did mother know about any of this?”
Cyril shook her head. “Your mother was a good woman. She was gentle, kind, and she wouldn’t understand.” His face twisted with anguish. “She loved the Creator with all her heart and when she was alive, I could forget what I had done. What the dryads forced me to do.”
“So the dryads forced you to poison Suyi? The dryads forced you to turn Stefan into a wolf?” Floriana returned.
“They left me no choice!” Cyril’s voice shot up, and he thumped his fist against the table, nearly spilling his wine. The king took a moment to recover himself before continuing. “Floriana, look at me.” He reached across the table, grasping her hands tightly. “Listen to me. When your Aunt died, I felt nothing. I couldn’t muster any emotion for Irene. But you? I love you, Floriana. I have lived with my actions for twenty years. And you’re the only one I’ve never doubted. Do you understand?”
He rose from the table, and planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”
Floriana stood, on the verge of tears. “You lost me the day I saw Inquisitors act on your orders to burn books and enslave innocents. You speak so eloquently of freedom for mankind, Father. What of their freedom?”
She didn’t wait for her father to answer and instead stormed out. Cyril was stunned, his face twitching until he shook violently. “Don’t turn your back on me. Floriana—Floriana!” When she did not come, the king began let out a furious roar as he sent a fireball through the window. “Impudent—!” He struck the table, dashing the contents to the floor. “Ungrateful—!” He knocked the chair over with a bolt of lightning. “I’ll show you. You’ll see! You will never doubt me again!” He shrieked, his voice breaking. When there was no answer, Cyril sank to the floor, ready to tear out his beard. His eyes drifted back to Stefan, who stared intently at him.
“What?” Cyril spat. “I suppose that giant, shaven ape of a son of yours adores you.” The king scoffed. “Of course he would. Everyone always did. You shone so brightly, teacher. Everyone was attracted to you. The son of the Creator,” Cyril intoned with an air of pomposity.
“I loved you most of all, you know. The damnedest thing of all?” Cyril shook his head, laughing mirthlessly. “I still do. Perhaps it has been dimmed over the years, but Stefan, I still love you. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, but you sent me away. I prayed for release from my sins for twenty years, and for twenty years, the Creator has been silent. I even wonder if I ever actually heard him, or if you only made me think I did.”
The wolf pawed at his muzzle while giving Cyril a meaningful look.
He let out another mirthless laugh. “Even muzzled, you manage to mock me. Well.” Cyril rose, and gave the cage a swift kick, causing the wolf to let out a muffled yelp. “Enjoy it while you can, Stefan. The Creator will not be able to ignore me for much longer.”
The king turned, straightening his robes as he left his cabin. “Braya?” He turned to the Inquisitor guarding the door. “The wolf, clever beast that it is, escaped his cage and made a mess. I coaxed him back into captivity, but see that my cabin is cleaned while I get some fresh air. Make sure the wolf is disciplined harshly. Wild beasts need to receive hard lessons, sometimes.”
The setting sun dipped under the waves of the Altadarios, casting brilliant, rich red and purple waves of light that yielded to the stars and the twin moons. The crew of the Qingrenese chuan paid their respects to the rising moons, as their religion demanded. For a moment, all was still. Jaoren and Tsuriin alike kowtowed to the night sky, and ceremonial lanterns were lit, lighting up the handsome, polished deck of the ship and its silken sails, held together by several bamboo rigs running the length of the mast. When the ceremony was over, the lower-ranking members of the crew filtered below deck to avoid the gaze of the officers. They had some entertainment planned for the evening; slave fights.
The biggest and strongest looking of the three hundred “heretics” were summoned from the dark recesses of the ship’s vast hold, and the sailors placed their bets on who would win. Matthias was an instant favorite, with a substantial faction of the crew rallying around the giant warrior, but when he was forced into the crew’s makeshift ring, he proved a disappointment.
The warrior, his face sullen and eyes staring blankly, kneeled on the deck of the ship and let the other fighters take their best hits. Matthias was inhumanly strong, and more than a capable warrior, but he was not impervious. After three fighters, themselves strong and hardy, had taken out all their anger on Matthias, the hulking man’s skin was littered with bruises. One had even gotten his eye, now swollen shut and discolored an angry shade of purple. But Matthias would not fight back.
The crew was howling their disappointment; this huge lummox was ruining their fun. They paired him up with one last fighter, one last chance to get the fight the crew wanted. Matthias’ opponent was himself broad-shouldered and muscular, though he was still dwarfed by the warrior. He had a nasty scar running down his face and a full beard, and he was palming his fists, rolling his shoulders to build up his bravado for the fight. The hulking warrior was still kneeling, and then his opponent rushed in, landing a blow at his side that nearly toppled Matthias.
“Get up!” he snarled. “Get up, you stupid mongrel!” Matthias looked up at that comment.
His bearded opponent smirked. “Aye, I see those pointy ears. You’re half-Jaoren, aren’t you? You’re not a real human.” He struck Matthias again, and the warrior grunted in pain. “Get up and fight!”
“I don’t want to,” Matthias said plainly.
“I know who you are. We all do. You’re Stefan’s son, yea?” Another punch. “The Prophet’s little boy!” Another hit. “That makes your granddad the Creator himself, don’t it?”
Matthias bore the pain as best he could. “If you say so,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Then call him.” The fighter landed a kick that had Matthias cry out in pain, and the warrior fell over. “Show us all, Prophet-born! You know why I’m here? I’m a non-believer.” Another kick. “Never believed in no god, nor any fool thing Stefan did, and I said as much.” His third kick hit Matthias’ stomach. “But you? You’re more a disappointment than I thought. You’re nothing but a stupid oaf that tried to con us all.” He stamped on Matthias’ face. “Get up!”
Matthias’ breathing was ragged, and his head was throbbing, but he wouldn’t budge.
The bearded fighter paced, still filled with pent-up rage. “What’s this? You won’t fight back? But ain’t you supposed to be a feared Altani warrior? You ain’t got a problem killing innocent farmers, but suddenly, you’re too good to fight me? Your father was a liar and a fraud, and your stupid, knife-eared bitch of a mother got exactly what she deserved. I don’t care for Cyril, but at least he was smarter than his sister.” The fighter kicked Matthias again. “Hey, Prophet boy, think Lady Irene’s hole-y enough yet?” He laughed and pulled back his leg.
This time, his foot didn’t connect with Matthias’ body. The warrior’s thick hand shot out and grabbed his leg, his iron grip squeezing hard enough to make the bearded man cry out in pain. Pulling hard, Matthias toppled his opponent, and the other fighter’s body hit the wooden deck hard. The crew cheered, goading the warrior on. Casting the man in his shadow, Matthias flexed his mighty arm before winding back, and landed a punch so powerful, it splintered through the wood, leaving a sizeable hole right next to the bearded man’s head. His face masked with a grim scowl, Matthias knelt, then yanked on his opponent’s beard, causing the man to cry out in pain as he was pulled up.
“Never speak ill of the dead, friend. Do you understand?” Matthias growled darkly. His opponent nodded frantically, whimpering as the warrior threatened to tear his
beard out by hand. Matthias let him drop, and rose to his full height, throwing a deadly glare to the stunned crowd.
“What’s going on down here?”
One of the ship’s officers, a Tsuriin in a black cloak adorned with silver moons to denote his rank, had climbed below deck, and the crew scrambled to hide the fights.
“Ambassador Bai Feng wishes to see one of the prisoners; the big one,” the Tsuriin announced.
“Uh…” One of the sailors looked around. “We’ve got a lot of big ones, sir. Which one specifically?”
The Tsuriin officer rolled his eyes, nodding in Matthias’ direction. “Which do you think?” He gestured for Matthias to step forward. “Imbecile,” he muttered at the sailor.
When Matthias stepped into the light, the officer frowned deeply. “What’s been going on here?”
“He tripped, sir. He’s big, but, uh, clumsy,” one of the sailors offered lamely.
The officer turned to Matthias. “Is that so? And what happened to that other one, with the beard?”
“He’s what I tripped over,” the giant man said flatly.
The Tsuriin arched his brow, but said no more as he led Matthias above deck. He was quickly ushered toward the stern of the ship, where the ambassador’s cabin was located. Bai Feng was traveling in style; his cabin was luxuriously appointed, with silk tapestries on the wall, a bed more soft and delicate looking than any Matthias had ever seen, and from the looks of the plates on the table, the Ambassador was eating very well. The smell of exotic spice still hung in the air as Bai Feng rose to greet his guest.
“The prisoner as requested, sir,” the Tsuriin bowed his head.
“Ah, thank you, Koto.” Bai Feng waved the Tsuriin away. The Jaoren stepped closer, and he grimaced as he saw Matthias’ battered body. “Heavens above, what happened to you?”
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