Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  Once inside, Matthias forgot the weight of the chains. He had never seen such a grand and vast assortment of people before. The cavernous hall inside the basilica was awash with Torinus’ great and good, as well as a number of dignitaries. Great rays of sunlight poured down from the gaping hole in the dome, illuminating the rich colors and golden finery of the nobles’ and Magisters’ robes. The Inquisitors roughly pushed at Matthias, who was led into the very center of the room. A great tide of whispering and disparaging looks from the assorted gentry rose and fell as he passed. The sunlight fell most intensely upon a raised stone dais, where at last, Matthias saw familiar faces. Forced to his knees, Matthias was placed next to Magnus. On the opposite end was Floriana, dressed again in the lavish Torinusian robes, and avoiding meeting eyes with either of them. By her side was Braya, her steely glare boring into Matthias.

  “What’s going on? Where’s the Prophet?”

  Magnus looked up wearily. The small man was worse for wear; he, too, had been shaved, but his round face had been pummeled, with a swollen black eye and bruises littering his body. “A coronation.” He glanced over to the end of the basilica. “The Prophet will play his part, I have no doubt.”

  Matthias grimaced. “What did they do to you?”

  “Nothing compared to what’s to come, I’m certain.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. Flanked by four Inquisitors, Cyril was being led into the room, floating atop a massive shield borne by the magic of his guards. Behind him shuffled the Magisters of Torinus; Angelus, Gallienus, and Nonnosus led a procession to the dais, then all bowed low before Cyril. The king had been adorned with ever more lavish robes and silks, his hair had been trimmed, and his beard groomed, decorated with the small, gold accents Magisters like Angelus wore in their beards. His crown had been replaced with a laurel wreath of gold, and in his hand was an ancient staff of polished wood, topped with a golden griffin’s head.

  “Behold, Torinus!” Cyril shouted out to the crowd, his arms raised high. He brought his staff down with a dramatic flair, a gust of wind racing through the chamber. “I stand before you as the herald of a new age. Let it be known that from this day forth, the Age of Ash, the age of human captivity, of humiliation, is ended! I, Cyril, King of Fosporia, Defender of all Free Men, stand before you. I promise to lead all humanity to a future of restored Imperium, of reconquered lands. Let what was once taken from us be returned! Let the lands so callously ruined by cruel and evil demons be reclaimed! Let us prove our worth to the Creator of this world, and let all creation echo the glory of our race! Grant me your loyalty, let me be your Archon, and I will restore the very essence of our being—” He waved the staff in his hand, summoning up a great display of colored ribbons of light and energy, shooting out to the far corners of the room. “Magic!”

  There was a stunned silence as the enraptured crowd watched the display. It occurred to Matthias that these people may never have seen real magic before; not in their lifetimes. “To secure this glorious future will require but a single act of sacrifice.” Cyril banged his staff on the dais, and more Inquisitors marched into the room. They carried in Stefan, tied to a stake. At first, Matthias feared he was dead, but he felt a small bit of relief as the wolf’s head twisted, his icy blue eyes meeting with his son.

  “This beast will be sacrificed at the Tomb of Jaeder; the power inside this creature, touched by the same dryads that scourged our great empire, will unleash mankind’s potential. As your Archon, I will give you your birthright, withheld for thirteen centuries!” Cyril declared.

  “No!” Summoning up all his strength, Matthias stood, lifting the chains off his body as he lunged for Cyril, tackling the man to the floor. “Traitor! Murderer!”

  Magnus jumped to his feet. “People of Torinus, Cyril is lying to you! That wolf is the Prophet Stefan, the redeemer of mankind, the Creator’s own son!”

  Braya, her arm still shattered, moved to silence Magnus, while Matthias, struggling to break the manacles on his wrists to get a better hold of Cyril, was thrown off the king with a great burst of magic. Incensed, Cyril stood, his teeth bared and his eyes wild with indignation as he breathed heavily, snarling down at his captive. Braya had succeeded in shoving Magnus down to the floor, tripping him over the chains around his feet. Cyril slowly grabbed the golden laurel wreath from the floor, placing it back upon his head.

  “Yes.” Cyril finally said. “This wolf is Stefan.”

  Braya looked as if she had just been stabbed, her head swerving to Cyril. “What?”

  The Archon waved her off. “And do you remember what he did, Torinus, the last time he was here? Do you remember as he terrorized your streets, destroyed buildings, and then, in his audacity, refused to share with you the secrets of unlocking magic? He deprived you, while he gave wands and education in magic to his own followers! Where is the justice in that?”

  The Magisters were loudest in their condemnation, and had primed the crowd to shout down Magnus and Matthias’ protests. The warrior turned to his father in disbelief. “Father…?”

  The wolf looked mournfully at his son. “I destroyed their slave markets. In my anger, I refused to teach them magic until they repented.”

  “What does he say, wolf-whisperer?” the king demanded, kicking Matthias in the face while he was still kneeled next to his father. “Look at his ears!” Cyril demanded, tugging on Matthias’ face as Inquisitors held him at bay. “This half-breed, this savage mongrel, is nothing more than the pup of a Jaoren bitch. Will you listen to him?”

  The crowd was peppered with angry mutterings as Matthias was finally let go, blood dripping out of his nose.

  Cyril’s self-sure smirk returned. “Torinus! You have been robbed of your greatness for too long. The prophecy of Stefan states that his blood will lead to the redemption of mankind, so I say, let us correct his mistakes, take what he was too cowardly to claim! When his blood spills on the steps of Jaeder’s tomb, I will show you the power we were always meant to wield! Will you reclaim your destiny, Torinus? Will you be the rebirth of Altun, and redemption of man?”

  The crowd had been worked into a frenzy, roaring their approval. Cyril smirked at Matthias and knelt to whisper in the warrior’s ear. “Savor every moment, savage. When we reach Jaeder’s Tomb, your father will know all the pain he forced me to endure. And when I am done with Qingren, your barbarian refuse will be next. The Altani will bow before their rightful Archon, or they will be broken.”

  Before Matthias could respond, Braya put herself between him and Cyril. “My king, please,” the Inquisitor begged, “you’re not going to kill the Prophet. You wouldn’t!”

  Cyril grabbed Braya by her withered arm, causing her to grimace in pain. “I had hoped you of all people could understand the truth. Stefan betrayed us, Braya. Do not falter now. I am your lord, the emissary of Providence itself. To go against me is to go against the Creator. And you will obey me. Or would you stop the prophecy from coming to fruition?”

  “No…” Braya gasped as Cyril let her go. “I will follow you faithfully, my king.”

  The Archon’s procession from the basilica was as grand a sight as Torinus had seen in millennia. Inquisitors, Magisters, and all the nobles formed a long parade through the city streets. Drums and horns roared out a triumphant fanfare, with Cyril at the forefront, hovering on his shield, with Floriana carried in an ornate palanquin, and Braya given a spot of honor at the head of Cyril’s guard. At the rear, Stefan, Magnus, and Matthias were carried in a cart and heckled by the swarming crowd around them.

  “Solet Arconus! Vivam Altun!” the crowd cheered. “Solet sospilar maginum emt humini!”

  Matthias grimaced. “What are they saying?”

  “Hail the Archon, long live Altun,” Magnus recited grimly. “Hail the savior of magic and mankind.”

  The warrior turned to the wolf. “Father, you can’t let them do this! They’re going to kill you!”

  “We cast ourselves at the mercy of He who made, knows, and loves all.” />
  Matthias shook his head. “That’s it? Just let Cyril win? After all he’s done, after what he did to you, my mother, Irene, and everyone else?” He reached to grab his father by the neck. “We’re getting out of here!”

  Stefan snarled, biting his son’s hand. “No, Matthias!” The warrior recoiled, shocked as he looked at his bloodied hand. “There is no escape from this. Cyril has not won. He has struck a bargain, but in the end he will find it a poor exchange. Fate will come for us all.”

  The warrior stared at his father in disbelief. “Your hope is that Cyril will end up feeling bad, and that this is somehow supposed to be a great victory? When you won’t even be alive to see it?” He turned to Magnus. “He wants us to just let this happen!”

  “Matthias,” Magnus gestured to the soldiers surrounding them. “Look around you.” The small man’s face was set. “Cyril’s already gotten what he wanted. Even if you were able to tear apart this cart, there is no way to fight through this crowd. Even if you could win, how many innocents would die in your wake? Again?”

  The warrior’s eyes lingered on Magnus before he hung his head.

  “I’m done running. I’m done letting others get killed because of this supposedly sacred mission. If the Prophet wants to kill himself and us…” Magnus glared at Stefan, his expression wounded. “Then let him do it. I only hope to face my destiny with some semblance of dignity.”

  The procession marched out of Torinus’ gates, and into the dry and barren fields surrounding the city. Matthias had never seen land like this. The ground was dusty and cracked, and the cool winds of the sea that had shielded him from the sun’s intense heat faded away, leaving him squirming and sweating under the glare. Beyond were rolling hills of sand, that seemed to stretch as far as the ocean that had carried them here.

  “Where are they taking us? Jaeder’s tomb?” Matthias finally said, his voice cracked after hours of the procession marching into the desolate wilderness. He was becoming acutely aware he had not had a drink of water in more than a day.

  “It’s the final resting place of humanity’s first prophet,” Magnus explained. “And once a great temple. It’s nothing more than ruins, now.”

  Soon, Matthias could see for himself. Along the featureless and endless horizon, a great structure of stone stuck out, looming in the distance. The procession came at last to Jaeder’s tomb, situated on a rocky outcrop. It was a circular structure, with giant pylons of stone and obelisks marking its grand entrance, but the remains were weathered and crumbling.

  There were three concentric circles, one stacked upon another, with a single, broad causeway leading to the top. There were hints of grandeur and opulence in the stonework, carvings of more animal-headed gods and men, but they had all fallen to the solemn march of time. In the center was a finely preserved, marble sarcophagus, and it was there that Stefan was roughly dragged, tied to the top with strong rope. Matthias watched as the Inquisitors dragged his father away, and this time, did nothing. Their eyes met one more time.

  “It is as it should be. Know that I love you up to my final breath.”

  Matthias held back a wellspring of emotion; love, he thought bitterly, had made him weak, and it hurt so intensely now, it was like he was being poisoned. But he would not give the Inquisitors, or Cyril, the satisfaction. He was a warrior. He would not flinch at death, his or his father’s.

  The sarcophagus was surrounded by ornate columns, which had held up a long-since gone dome. Between these columns, Magnus and Matthias were chained; Matthias doubly so, weighed down with as much stone and iron as the Inquisitors could muster. As the Magisters prepared the ceremony, Cyril drew close to Matthias, grabbing him by the chin and yanking him up to meet his eyes. The king had a cold look on his face, filled with resentment and, Matthias felt, a tinge of jealousy.

  “Your father deserved more than a mongrel brute for a son. For years, I obeyed him. I believed in him. I killed for him. I followed him across an ocean to a land no one knew even existed anymore. What have you done to earn his love?” Cyril demanded.

  Matthias looked up to meet the king’s eyes, his back bent from the huge weight girded on him. “Nothing. He gave it freely.” His gaze drifted away from the king, falling on a now familiar figure; Cyril’s Vocendi stood nearby, smirking. The warrior had the distinct feeling that no one else saw him.

  After a moment, Cyril sneered and turned away from Matthias. The sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon, casting dark reds and purples across the sky, yielding to the stars. Torches were lit for the Magisters and their crowd, and the Inquisitors summoned balls of blue magefire. Angelus, Nonnosus, and Gallienus stepped forward in their fine robes, new silver diadems crowned on their heads, as did Braya, her sun-shaped scar almost glowing in the light of the magical flames. Along with Cyril, each had an ornate silver dagger in their hands, surrounding Stefan tied to the sarcophagus.

  “Jaeder!” Angelus intoned formally. “Divinam Primas! We beseech your spirit; grant us the favor of your power, first mage of mankind!”

  Matthias looked over to Floriana, staring at the sarcophagus with a blank and forlorn look on her face. “Floriana!” The warrior growled. “Why aren’t you doing anything?”

  The Princess looked back with a haunted look in her eye. “I stand by my father, the savior of mankind.” Floriana turned away from Matthias, shuddering as she held back a sob.

  “Torinus! Altun!” Cyril shouted out to the crowd, his staff in one hand and a dagger in the other. “Tonight, we appease the prophecy of this fallen hero, who spurned and scorned you. Through his blood, you will be redeemed! Through his blood, you will know the power of the Ancients!”

  The crowd cried out in rapturous delirium, chanting in the old Altun tongue. “Sini nus! Liberam emt plarinae!”

  “This is for your virtues, Stefan,” Cyril spat down at the wolf, nodding to Braya. “For your compassion, which you only ever gave sparingly.”

  Braya hesitated, but one deadly look from Cyril compelled her to drive the dagger into Stefan’s flank, and Matthias winced as he heard the wolf whine in pain.

  “For your faith, which you let blind you,” Cyril continued, and Angelus drove in another dagger. Stefan cried out again, struggling against the ropes that had him bound.

  Magnus grimaced, shaking his head. “Monsters. They’re dragging it out! They’re torturing him to death!”

  “For your wisdom, which you guarded jealously,” on the king’s command, Nonnosus stepped forward, and drove in another dagger.

  “For your honor, which you betrayed and cheated,” Gallienus drove in his dagger.

  Matthias could stand it no longer. He tugged against his chains, but it was no use. He looked back to Floriana; the princess had turned away, and in the firelight, he could see tears streaming down her face.

  Cyril loomed over Stefan, the wolf’s pelt soiled red from the four daggers already driven into him. He was hanging on to life by a thread, and the king looked down, letting the suffering drag out for just a few more moments. “And for your freedom; the freedom you promised, but were too weak to guard.” He held his dagger high above Stefan’s head. “Die knowing your blood will fuel our vengeance!” With a great cry, Cyril drove the dagger into Stefan’s neck. There was one last, pitiable whine, then the wolf’s blue eyes rolled back. The Prophet was at last dead.

  “No!” Matthias cried out, his chains creaking and the columns he was tied to groaning and cracking, but ultimately, the warrior’s strength failed him. Holding back a sob, he fell to his knees, hanging his head.

  For but a moment, there was silence. Then, the ground trembled beneath the tomb as Stefan’s blood dripped down the sarcophagus onto the stone floor. There was a sudden sound of thunder, and as Cyril looked up to the sky, he began laughing wildly.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  The crowd gasped as a bolt of lightning struck Cyril where he stood, but to the amazement of all those gathered, the sheer electric power didn’t so much as singe his robes. Surr
ounded by a rush of arcane energy, Cyril absorbed the lightning strike, throwing it back into the sky in a terrible display of power. With a mad smile, he threw down his staff, summoning a ball of fire in his hand.

  “I have no need of wands or staffs; the Prophet’s little instruments are meaningless to me!” Cyril stood, his eyes wild as he looked over the crowd. “Bow! Bow before your Archon!”

  “All hail Archon Cyril,” Angelus was quick to declare, directing the other Magisters to bow at his feet. “Imperator of the Magisterium, Lord over all mankind, Pontifex Priam of the most holy, and Domani of the World.” The entire crowd quickly fell to their knees.

  Cyril breathed in the adulation of the crowd like a drowning man taking one last desperate breath of air. With a wicked smile on his face, he turned back to Matthias and Magnus. “One lingering business remains…”

  “Father!” Floriana put herself between Cyril and her companions. “Wait!”

  “Floriana? You would plead mercy for these traitors of mankind?”

  “No.” Floriana locked eyes with her father. “Let me do it, in your name.”

  Cyril arched his brow as his daughter knelt before him. “I did not understand your actions, Father, but I see clearly now. As your child and heir, let me prove my loyalty. Let me kill these two.”

  Magnus looked over to Matthias, only to see the great warrior with his head bowed. If he had heard Floriana’s words, he didn’t care.

  Cyril smiled wide, resting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “You surprise me, Floriana. Very well. You may reaffirm your loyalty.”

  The princess looked up grimly, and nodded. She turned to Matthias, still kneeling, and pressed her wand against his neck. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

  “Just get it over with,” Matthias snarled. “Your father’s taken everything else from me.”

  Floriana’s eyes flitted back to Cyril, before she leaned in closer. “It’s just like the market, Matthias. It will all be over soon.”