Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  The warrior inhaled sharply as a stinging jolt of magic shot into his body. He heard Floriana’s voice ring in his head before he slipped into darkness. “Be as dead, and wake at my summons.”

  Chapter 24

  The Archon Ascendant

  Cyril’s procession marched back to Torinus through the night, urged on by their new leader. As the dawn rose on a new day for the ancient city, the Archon traveled past the gates with one destination in mind: the Qingrenese consulate.

  The grand complex was heavily guarded by the time Cyril and his entourage arrived at its gates; the Qingrenese had been preparing to move their captured slaves to the harbor. Around the Magisters and Inquisitors, a huge crowd had gathered, still genuflecting as their new Archon passed by. Cyril stared at the buildings before him. Stefan had destroyed the slave markets when he had come to Torinus, but was too weak to strike at the wellspring of all human misery for thirteen hundred years; Qingren.

  “People of Torinus!” Cyril raised his arms, demanding the attention of the crowd. “Look upon these buildings, a monument to our oppressors! Twenty-five years ago, Stefan had the opportunity to exact justice and vengeance upon the slavers that even now brazenly try to begin again the vicious cycle. Will we allow it?”

  The roar of the crowd was clear; whipped into a frenzy, the Torinusians loudly declared their hatred for Qingren.

  “Then see what becomes of those that would cross humanity and reborn Altun!” Cyril turned to Braya, gesturing quickly to her. “Order your men to kill any survivors of this. A statement must be made.”

  Braya nodded grimly. “Yes, my king.”

  Cyril beheld the consulate’s grand facade, then summoned a great ball of fire in his hands. The flames grew bigger and brighter, until Braya and those close to Cyril had to shield their eyes and back away from the intense heat. Cyril, at last, let it loose, and the orb of flame hurtled for the gates like a comet, striking it with such intensity the ground beneath shuddered, and when the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of the gate but a blackened crater.

  Breathing in, Cyril assessed his handiwork with a satisfied smile. When Qingrenese guards fled the charred remains of their gates, they barely had time to rally defenses and raise magical barriers before a volley of electric bolts struck from Cyril and his Inquisitors. Those that had been slow to react were roasted alive in their armor. As more fell, Cyril’s attacks grew more powerful; and soon, harnessing fire and lighting was not producing the devastating effect Cyril yearned for. It was then, in his growing bloodlust, he developed a vicious plan.

  As the consulate’s dwindling guards summoned more and more desperate magical defenses, Cyril turned his attention to their barriers, and, with a wave of his hand, stole away the guards consciousness and took control of their barriers. He poured all his willpower into those shimmering, iridescent shields of magical energy, and made them grow larger and larger, pushing the remaining guards back, then absorbing them, trapping them in their own defenses.

  The shield continued to grow, until the entire consulate was encased under a shimmering dome. Then, Cyril added one last flair; another magical barrier, a sphere containing an unstable spark of lightning. The volatile mix of energy shuddered and then, with no other way to go, expanded. The guards and bureaucrats trapped inside panicked as the sphere grew larger and larger; rushing to the sides of their barrier, they frantically tried to undo the Archon’s magic, or turned to banging on the impenetrable barrier, begging Cyril for mercy. But there would be none from the Archon, filled with every ounce of hatred and resentment he could muster, remembering every crack of the whip, every beating, every insult from his years as a slave.

  At last, the unstable energy trapped inside the barrier could no longer contain itself; the resulting explosion shook Torinus to its very foundations, and Inquisitors that had drawn too close fell to their knees, gripping their ears in agony; the roaring release of raw power was loud enough to deafen them. As the barrier encasing the consulate fell away, the crowd gasped in shock and terrified awe at the sight before them.

  The smoldering ruins were almost unrecognizable; not a single building had been spared, and a smoking, black crater about as deep as a normal man’s height dominated the immediate landscape. Not a single living thing could be seen; a staff of hundreds had been reduced to ash in mere moments. Breathing in deeply, Cyril turned back to his crowd, then raised his hands high. “Torinus! You are free!” He then turned to the Magisters, headed by an expectant looking Angelus. “And to show my generosity, I will give your city leaders Fosporia’s most cherished treasure—” he turned to a servant, holding a case of wands. “Magic!”

  The Magisters bowed magnanimously, following Angelus’ example. “Mighty and gracious Archon, we accept this gift. May Altun ever be blessed by your reign!”

  The crowd, having recovered from the shock of Cyril’s display of power, burst into a rapturous applause, falling to their knees as they kissed the hem of Cyril’s robe. It was all Floriana could do to hide her sheer horror at what her father had done. When the Archon drew near, he embraced her, and the princess’ skin crawled.

  “But I will not linger here in glorious Torinus for much longer,” Cyril announced, and the crowd’s applause slowly died out.

  “What do you mean, mighty Archon?” Angelus asked.

  Floriana’s father gave her a confident smile before turning back to the crowd. “My subjects, I will return now to Stefanurbem to rally my army. Prepare for the days of blood and glory, for we will strike at Qingren, and reclaim every ounce of human blood lost over a millennium!” He pulled on his daughter, dragging Floriana to the front. “I leave you in the hands of my heir, the beautiful and wise Princess Floriana. Her word is my word; her actions mine. If any would go against her…” He lingered as people’s eyes drifted nervously back to the smoking crater. “They will know the wrath of the Archon.” Cyril grabbed Floriana’s hand and raised her arm in the air. “Hail Princess Floriana! Daughter of God’s Chosen!”

  “Hail Princess Floriana!” the crowd echoed, bowing deep to her.

  Cyril looked back to his daughter, and embraced her one last time. “You have done well, Floriana; do not flinch in your duty, and do not disappoint me. I will send for you soon, and when you arrive home, I will name you queen.”

  Floriana blinked, looking to her father. “Queen?” she echoed.

  Cyril nodded. “You are the only one I can trust. The only one I love. I must be Archon for all mankind; so I leave Fosporia to you.” He leaned in, kissing her on the forehead. “I know you will make me proud.”

  Floriana felt like screaming, but before her father, she was as calm and cool as a cup of water. “I will, Father.”

  Things moved quickly; Cyril was eager to set sail, and despite not sleeping for two days, immediately left for Fosporia, energized by the thrill and rush of power coursing through his veins. Floriana was quickly installed in Cyril’s palace, where the Magisters paid her homage, and Torinus rested for the last quiet night the city would see for some time.

  Floriana did not sleep long; hours before the dawn, she woke, her eyes bleary by a restless sleep, plagued with visions of the Prophet and Matthias. Her apartment in the palace was well-appointed, and she had been afforded every luxury. Her large bedchamber was dominated by a soft and plush bed with silk and cotton sheets. Bowls of exotic fruit and amphorae of spiced wine sat nearby. The walls were decorated with lavish works of art depicting the great and storied history of the city, and silk curtains fluttered in the moonlit breeze from open windows, coaxing in the cool air. Torinus could be a beautiful city in the night, but none of it mattered to Floriana.

  She could think of no better time to revive Matthias.

  Throwing a traveling cloak over her shoulders, she crept through the palace, not even willing to risk exposure by lighting magefire. She felt her way along the walls, and moved back to the stables. As she finished saddling her horse, a familiar chill ran up her spine.

  “Wha
t are you doing, Princess?”

  Muttering a curse under her breath, Floriana turned to the severe face of Braya, her sharp features and sun-shaped scar lit up by magefire. Floriana tilted her chin, brushing back her red hair. “I have need to travel outside the city.”

  “In the dead of night?”

  “Do not question the lady of this city, Inquisitor,” Floriana snapped.

  Braya studied her. “You ride out to Jaeder’s tomb.” She said it as a statement; the leader of the Inquisitors was ever certain.

  Floriana froze, her body stiffened. “What if I am?”

  Braya nodded. “I will ride with you, for your own protection.”

  “What is a cripple going to do to protect me?” Floriana spat venomously, nodding to Braya’s shattered arm.

  If her barb wounded the Inquisitor, Braya didn’t show it, grabbing the reins of another horse with her good arm. “Perhaps, Princess, you are not the only one who mourns the Prophet.”

  The ride out to the tomb was silent. The two women had little to say to one another; Braya had been humbled by Cyril’s display of power, and Floriana had a streak of barely concealed loathing for the Inquisitor after the burnings and Irene’s death. When they mounted the top tier of the tomb, and the first morning rays lit up the marble sarcophagus, both women became even more somber as they saw Stefan’s body, still lying atop the marble slab. Cyril would not dignify his old teacher with a tomb; better to keep the wolf’s corpse under a magical barrier, a monument to the moment Altun was reborn.

  “You were wrong, Braya,” Floriana finally spoke, staring at Stefan.

  “I did as I was commanded,” Braya countered, her voice breaking. “And lest you forget, Princess, you were not a bystander in this. You point at the wolf and scold me for what I have done, well, look for yourself, Highness.” Braya jabbed a finger in the direction of Magnus and Matthias’ seemingly lifeless bodies. “See your own handiwork. Did not Hierophant Magnus consider you family, like your aunt? Did you not, in your foolish youth, develop feelings for the Prophet’s son?” Braya nodded in their direction again. “And yet, you killed them. This was done to redeem mankind, but we both have blood on our hands. Pray that your father was right, because otherwise, we are both consigned to the Tyrant’s Hell.”

  Floriana’s eyes widened with indignation. “You forget your place, Inquisitor. You will not speak to your future queen with such insolence!”

  To Floriana’s surprise, Braya bowed her head. “Forgive me, Highness,” the woman said softly, her voice properly contrite. “I misjudged you. You seem so much like your father in this moment.”

  Braya had meant it as a compliment, but she could not fathom how deeply the words cut. The end of Floriana’s staff sparked with energy as she angrily dismissed the Inquisitor. “Get out of my sight, Braya. Go wait by the horses, and wait for me to come. Do not speak another word if you value your position in my father’s court.”

  The Inquisitor moved past Floriana, approaching the sarcophagus. “Allow me to pay my respects, first.” She knelt before Stefan, muttering a prayer, then rose to her feet. As she was ordered, she moved past Floriana to return to the horses.

  “Why do you mourn someone you were so willing to kill?” Floriana demanded, her back to Braya.

  The Inquisitor stopped in her tracks. “My lady, if you think I stabbed Stefan gladly, then you do me a great disservice. I did as my God and King bid me; the Virtuous can do nothing else.”

  Floriana did not reply. Braya quickly averted her eyes and bowed low before retreating to the bottom of the hill. Once she was certain she was alone, Floriana finally broke, staggering over to Stefan’s body and falling to her knees, her hands pressed up against the barrier.

  “Forgive me, Prophet,” she muttered after a dry sob. Her tears had already been spent. “May the Creator forgive my failure. I wanted so badly to put things right.” Breathing in deeply, she looked past the wolf’s prone body to Matthias and Magnus. “But at least I can do this much.”

  She slowly inched over to her friends’ bodies. Magnus looked as if he was merely in a deep, well-earned sleep. The Princess grimaced as she looked over Matthias; the mighty warrior’s face was still clenched in a ghoulish rictus grin, still bracing for the killing blow. She tenderly brushed her hand against his face, then pulled away; they were cold to the touch. She gripped her wand and offered a silent prayer, before releasing the two from her spell.

  “Awaken.”

  Hearing the horses braying, she quickly set her waterskin at Matthias’ feet before dashing across the flagstones.

  “Floriana…?”

  The Princess’ heart skipped a beat as she heard Matthias’ weak voice. She turned back, and their eyes met for a split second before she raced down the tomb to meet Braya, and move the Inquisitor along as quickly as possible.

  Matthias’ head was pounding; every part of his body ached, his limbs still tingling as blood rushed back into them. As he was thrust back into the waking world, his eyes were blinded by the rising morning sun, but he could swear he saw Floriana on the other end of the tomb.

  His mouth as dry and cracked as the desolate land around them, he saw the waterskin at his feet, and desperately tried to reach for it before the chains stopped him. At his side, Magnus gasped suddenly as air rushed back into his lungs.

  “What… what happened?” Magnus gasped. “We’re alive?”

  Matthias looked around, grimacing. There was no sign of Floriana, but he knew he had seen her. “Floriana. She saved us.”

  Magnus breathed deeply. “Are you certain it was her?”

  “She used magic. It felt the same as when Alfred had me under his control, or Irene healing me…” he turned to Magnus. “Is that what being enthralled is?”

  The smaller man scoffed ruefully. “She used dark magic to save us.” Magnus glanced over to Matthias. “The irony is not lost on me, don’t worry.”

  Whatever levity the two had soon faded as they saw Stefan’s body lying on the sarcophagus. The air of dread was palpable, then Matthis struggled against his chains. Breathing in deeply, he summoned up all his strength, the manacles cutting into his wrists, but then he let out a roar of defiance that carried across the plain. Just out of sight of the Tomb, Braya’s head instantly whipped back, stopping her horse in its tracks.

  “What was that?” she said quickly.

  “Most likely some beast,” Floriana said. “Perhaps a wolf.” She lingered, hiding a small, relieved smile before urging her horse onward. “Come, Braya. We shouldn’t stand out in the open if it is some hungry creature.”

  Tensing his powerful muscles, Matthias took one laborious step forward, then another, his wide back stretched out as far as it would go. His arms felt like they would pop out of their sockets, but, with a piercing, groaning sound of twisted metal, his chains broke, shattered links and cast-off weights clattering to the floor. Nearly losing his balance, he staggered to his feet, gasping to catch his breath before snatching up the waterskin and drinking deeply. Looking over to Magnus, he threw all his remaining might into breaking his friend’s chains, pushing the waterskin into Magnus’ hands. The two of them felt a rush of relief after they emptied it, but again, their eyes drifted to Stefan’s prone body.

  “Why is it shielded from us?” Matthias demanded. “Can you undo it?”

  Magnus sadly shook his head. “I have no wand. This is Cyril’s work.” Magnus spat at the name of his former brother. “He wants to leave Stefan here as some ghoulish reminder of what was done.”

  “Then what are we to do?” Matthias asked.

  Magnus didn’t answer, his eyes still drifting back to his teacher. “I told you Stefan found me in a warehouse, didn’t I?” He chuckled in spite of himself. “I was still so sullen from what I did to my old master’s family, I fell to stealing. Stefan found me with a small hoard, and he gently rested a hand on me and said, ‘This isn’t you. You’re better than this. The Qingrenese can take many things from us, but they cannot take away our
virtue.’” Magnus shook his head. “I was mad at him, in that moment. Who was this stranger, skulking about my master’s warehouse, to tell me I was doing something wrong? Still, I listened, and I learned at his feet.”

  Matthias was silent, lost in his own thoughts of his father. He looked up at Magnus’ souring face, as the smaller man beat his fist against the shield. “Why did he let this happen?” he demanded, his voice breaking.

  The warrior frowned. “He said it was time. He said there was no other way.”

  “Not him,” Magnus snapped. “The Creator. Stefan was his son. He was our Prophet. Why could the Creator not stop this? He had twenty years to correct it, and he wouldn’t even lift a finger to save his only son.” The disciple sighed heavily. “Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe there never was a Creator to begin with. Stefan could have just made him up to give us hope.”

  “Is that really what you think?”

  Magnus glared at Matthias, then his gaze softened. “I don’t know.”

  Matthias’ shoulders drooped. He shared Magnus’ bitterness and anger, but the warrior didn’t know how to put his anger into words. His anger demanded action. Steeling himself, he rested a comforting hand on Magnus’ shoulder, and looked across the horizon, to the path back to Torinus. “If we have no hope, the only thing left to do is fight.”

  The road back to Torinus was hot and dusty; both men had not eaten for days. Weak, irritable, and tired, they trudged on as best they could. Talking would just wear them out further, and as the hours slipped by, it fell to Matthias to keep Magnus standing upright.

  At last, they saw the walls of Torinus, but they were met with a grim sight. The shoreline seemed to have disappeared under a tidal wave of tall, red and white sails, as Qingrenese ships stretched out across the horizon, and a plume of smoke wafted up from the city.

  “Oh, Creator above, what did Cyril do now?” Magnus muttered.

  The two men reached the gates, only to find them deserted. On his guard, Matthias led the way in, blocked off as a cohort of guards rushed past. Exchanging looks, Matthias and Magnus hung to the rear, drifting closer to a huge crowd gathered around the site where the Qingrenese consulate used to be.