Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  “When this battle is done, I will raise you to the rank of Magister for your service.”

  Before Braya could respond, a shout ran up the walls of Faircliff. A Tsuriin Sorahai, an elite warrior distinguished by the gold crest on his helmet, was flying toward them. As Cyril’s hands ignited with flame, the Sorahai waved a white banner, signifying parlay. He landed on the tower unharmed, and immediately bowed in the Qingrenese fashion to Cyril.

  “Great King Cyril, Hegemon Kazan, Blessed of the Two Moons, wishes to parlay with you,” the warrior announced.

  “Tell Kazan we will hear his terms for surrender and nothing more; and if he fails to address me by my proper title of Archon, then I will be forced to take it as a grave insult,” Cyril declared imperiously, glaring down at the Sorahai.

  The warrior was unflinching in his duty, and gave another bow to Cyril. “As you command.”

  “Hegemon Kazan never parlays before a battle!” Angelus gasped with amazement. “You’ve scared him, my lord.”

  “Even the Hegemon of Qingren is in awe of your power,” the Vocendi said. “Do not waste this opportunity.”

  Cyril took in a deep breath, the power fueled by the two Inquisitors welling up inside him; he could feel it flowing through every part of his body. “I wonder…the Hegemon is a powerful mage…” He turned to his court. “Let us humble Qingren, once and for all.”

  On the sloping field north of Stefanurbem, in the shadow of a towering mountain that marked the extent of the Fosporian kingdom, the two sides met. On one end, Kazan had assembled as great a display of power as he was able. Rows of Jaoren and Tsuriin soldiers, clad in flowing silk robes, lacquered leather armor, and silvery scales, were armed with elegant weapons that hummed and sparkled with enchantments.

  Above them was a sea of red and white, as each soldier bore a banner on their back, stamped with Kazan’s sigil. At the front, Kazan was dressed in full armor and flanked by his honor guard and generals; Mengzhu was dressed in the robes of the Battlemages, while Umezu donned the heavy, elaborate scaled armor of the Sorahai.

  Opposite them, Cyril’s entourage seemed as if they had stepped out of the pages of history. How much of the image was magic was unknown, but the Torinusian soldiers had their dented and battered armor replaced with shimmering suits of black and gold, with horsehair plumed helmets and shields of beaten bronze. Flanked by Angelus and Floriana, Cyril himself was dressed in the same fashion as he had seen the Archons of old in statues and paintings; a purple robe, heavy gold jewelry around the neck, and a gold laurel wreath crown. Sitting on the biggest horse he could find, Cyril glared down at the Hegemon as he approached.

  Kazan bowed formally. “Custom dictates, Archon Cyril, that when two equals meet for parlay, they stand as equals. Will you not dismount?”

  “I have no equal, Hegemon,” Cyril snarled. “I have power you can scarcely dream of—what you saw today was but a taste.”

  Beneath his mask, the Hegemon’s eye twitched. Floriana urged her horse forward and dismounted, and General Umezu did the same, donning a fanged mask similar to the Hegemon’s. “My lord, Hegemon Kazan merely wishes to talk. Surely this would be easier if you were to dismount?”

  Cyril stroked his beard for a moment, then conceded. “Very well.” He slid off his horse, sneering at Kazan. “We will hear your terms of surrender.”

  “Surrender?” Kazan scoffed. “You think that the loss of two ships will cause me to surrender, when my army is still whole? You’re mad. The atrocity you committed in Torinus must still be answered for.”

  “I considered it dealing with the city’s pest problem,” Cyril spat back. “If humanity has learned one thing in thirteen hundred years of slavery, it is that Veratos would be well rid of Qingren.”

  “One could say the same of Altun, Archon. Your people destroyed yourselves; our people merely struck at an opportunity.” Kazan waved it off. “Enough banter, Cyril. We are prepared to leave the city unharmed, but we demand reparations for the lives lost in Torinus.”

  “Here is my counteroffer; subjugation.”

  Kazan and Floriana stared at Cyril as if he was speaking in tongues. “Father, what are you doing?” Floriana hissed.

  “Making a better world, my dearest.” Cyril turned back to Kazan. “Bow before me, Hegemon. I have climbed to heaven and gained the power of gods. You are nothing compared to me, Kazan. Bow, and I will spare your pitiful life. But Qingren will be paid in kind, for every drop of human blood spilled for thirteen hundred years.”

  Kazan stared at Cyril in amazement, then chuckled low. “You are mad, Cyril. This is pointless. We will reconvene when you have regained your senses.”

  The Hegemon turned his back on the Archon, and began to march back to his men. “This is it!” the Vocendi’s voice rang in Cyril’s head. “Strike him now!”

  Floriana saw her father summon sparks of lightning out of the corner of her eye, and grabbed his arm. “Father, no!” But it was too late; Cyril shoved her off, and fired his spell.

  The princess’ cry reached the ear of General Umezu, who turned back just in time to see Cyril unleash a bolt of lightning, headed straight for Hegemon Kazan. “My Hegemon!” He leaped in front of Kazan, the bolt tearing through his armor, and Kazan had just enough time to turn around as Umezu’s lifeless body hit the ground. There was a deathly silence as the Hegemon knelt, cradling Umezu’s body before raising his head, his silvery eye burning as he glared at Cyril.

  “Traitor,” he whispered, before leaping to his feet and tearing off his mask. “TRAITOR!” the Hegemon roared, his scarred face contorting with rage.

  Grabbing the enchanted twin swords at his side, he rushed for Cyril, yelling with all the intensity of a warrior possessed. He brought his blades down on the Archon, but he was rebuffed, thrown back by a shockwave of magical energy. Recovering quickly, the Hegemon leaped back to his feet and summoned a volley of fireballs that struck at the soldiers behind Cyril. A handful of the handsomely dressed Torinusians fell, but when Kazan had Floriana in his sights, the Archon feverishly summoned a magical shield, losing his satisfied smirk as the Hegemon tried in vain to strike at his daughter.

  “You are a worm, Cyril!” Kazan shouted, as General Mengzhu and a few soldiers rushed to their Hegemon’s side, desperately trying to pull him back to safety. “You have broken the truce of parlay, you strike at innocent people, and you barter with your own people’s lives just to save your pride! May Heaven itself spit on you! I did not intend to harm the civilians of this city, but for your arrogance, for your deceit, I will see this city burn!”

  The Hegemon threw his attendants off him, only to point an accusatory finger at Cyril. “Mothers will weep over their slain children, men will beg for mercy, but they will find none! I swear to you now, I will not leave two stones on top of each other, and as every man, woman, and child dies, they will know you are the source of their misery and anguish, and every suffering human will curse your name with their last breath! This I swear by all the Heavenly Host!”

  Cyril stared at the Hegemon’s violent declaration. His whole body convulsed as Stefan’s words came flooding back to him, an echo from twenty years past. When Kazan’s rage was finally spent and the Qingrenese retreated, he was frozen where he stood.

  “My lord?” Braya asked after a tense moment of dreadful silence.

  Shaking his head, Cyril turned to Floriana, roughly grabbing her arm. “You let him live!” he snarled. “I had a perfect chance to make him pay for all he’s done to our people!”

  “You were under parlay!” Floriana shouted back, struggling to break free. “We could have ended this battle before it even started, without any bloodshed!”

  “I want bloodshed, you little idiot! I want to stain the harbor red with Qingrenese blood! We could have won the day if you hadn’t ruined my chance at redemption!” Cyril raised his hand to strike his daughter, but he lost the will, lowering his arm and sighing as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “My dearest, you are still so naive.
You never knew slavery; but now, you must trust me if you wish to avoid it. You have made me so proud. Do not falter now.”

  Floriana glanced briefly over to Braya, who subtly shook her head. Swallowing every ounce of outrage, she played the dutiful daughter; at least once more.

  “I believe you, Father. I am here to serve.”

  Chapter 28

  A New Dawn

  Matthias and Magnus came to a small spring, just on the edge of the woods north of the Great Moot, where the Veratii had directed them. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting brilliant hues of purple and yellow on the verdant green of the forest. Spring had come early to these southern lands, and Matthias’ thoughts drifted back to the Bybic Citadel. He wondered if they still had snow, so close to the mountains. He looked back to the spring, and shifted nervously when he could see no sign of the Veratii that had summoned them.

  “Um…” Magnus cleared his throat. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  Matthias placed his sword and shield against a tree trunk, just out of sight. “Where is he? Is it Veratii practice to vanish like this?”

  “I don’t know,” Magnus shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense…”

  “How could you not know?” the warrior demanded. “Didn’t you spend decades studying them? Alfred is minutes away, and he won’t listen to reason if he thinks this is all a trick!”

  “I don’t know, Matthias! This was your idea,” Magnus snapped. “I’ll protect us as best we can if things go wrong.” The mage patted his robes, where the grip of his wand was hidden in the folds of cloth.

  Matthias grunted, looking over to his hiding spot behind the tree. He could just see the rim of his shield from here. It was, as Magnus had said, a precaution, but he dreaded the thought of taking it against his friend, now that the Veratii had evidently abandoned them. There was no more time for preparation, however, as the cry of a warhorn cut through the air. Alfred came charging up to him, flanked by Osbren and two other warriors that had the ominous stench of death about them; more of Alfred’s constructs.

  “Well, Matthias!” Alfred’s skin was almost as white as snow in the sunlight, and his bloodshot eyes were a sign he was not accustomed these days to being outdoors for long. “Where is this new god of yours, hmm? Call him down. I have precious little time,” he declared, circling his horse around the warrior.

  “Alfred, those things are an affront to nature!” Magnus glowered at the undead warriors staring blankly at him. “Get them away from here!”

  “And lose my numerical advantage? I think not, little man,” Alfred shot back before turning his attention to Matthias. “Well? Where is your god?”

  “See? It is all a farce! They are tricksters!” the Vocendi declared, riding on the back of Alfred’s horse.

  Matthias sighed. “This isn’t a trick. Alfred, I am still new in the ways of this God, and I thought he worked like the Altani gods, but he does not accept sacrifice.”

  The sickly Jarl scoffed. “What sort of God is he, then?”

  “You will see,” Magnus declared, tilting his chin up. “All in good time.”

  “Yes, I remember you were particularly devout. Tell me, has Matthias been a good master to you?” Alfred glanced between the two. “Or is it that, since he changed his name, the roles are reversed, now?”

  “Magnus is my friend, Alfred,” Matthias grabbed the reins of Alfred’s horse to stop the beast in its tracks. “Just as you are.”

  “Is that so?”

  The Vocendi had slipped off the saddle, and the creature rushed to the trees, grabbing Matthias’ shield. “A trick! Look, they are armed! They’re prepared to attack!”

  Alfred gasped suddenly, and reared his horse, the steed neighing as it threw Matthias to the ground, threatening to trample him. “I knew it!” He shouted, and with a wave of his hand, he lifted Magnus off the ground, the mage suddenly gasping for breath. “More Fospar trickery! Is this a mere ploy, brother?”

  “Let him go!” Matthias shouted, leaping to his feet. He latched an arm around Magnus, tugging him down from Alfred’s magical grip. “Alfred, you don’t understand! We just needed to take a precaution—”

  “No more! You had your chance, Matthias!” Alfred shouted, and struck Matthias with a powerful burst of magical energy, pinning him to the ground. “I warned you!” He applied more pressure, and the warrior struggled in vain, slowly being crushed under the sheer force of Alfred’s magic. “And now, I have no choice,” his voice broke, and he took in a deep breath to steady himself. “Goodbye, brother.”

  “Alfred!”

  At the last moment, a wolf’s piercing howl carried throughout the forest. The Jarl’s spell was broken as he lost his concentration, and Matthias gasped for breath. Now free as well, Magnus rushed to the warrior’s side, but Alfred’s attention was drawn to the other side of the spring. There, a brilliant white wolf stood, its icy blue eyes staring at all three of them.

  “Matthias,” Alfred paused, staring at the great beast. “Is that your creature?”

  Matthias and Magnus, however, were thunderstruck. “It—it can’t be,” Magnus muttered. “We watched him die!”

  “Father!” Matthias’ face split into a wide smile as he leaped to his feet again, splashing across the spring. When he reached the wolf, he fell to his knees and threw his arms around the beast, pressing his forehead against the wolf’s. “You’re alive!”

  Alfred looked to the Vocendi. “Explain this!”

  The Vocendi, however, was locking eyes with the wolf, now that it had pulled out of Matthias’ embrace. The short, gray-furred creature shuddered, and fell forward, suddenly gasping for breath. When it raised its head, the Vocendi’s eyes were now an ordinary, brown color.

  “What…”

  The creature stared at the faces around it, and its eyes lit with recognition. It turned to the wolf, who growled savagely at it; the Vocendi let out a small, nervous squeak before breaking into a run, disappearing into the woods.

  “Wait!” Alfred shouted, hobbling after the Vocendi. “Get back here, you cursed creature! I command you!”

  “Alfred,” Magnus cautiously drew close to the young man. “That creature was never yours to command.”

  “What do you know of it?” Alfred spat.

  Magnus gestured to the wolf. “I think you have bigger concerns, now.”

  “Father,” Matthias turned to the wolf. “Where have you been? What happened?”

  The wolf stared intently at Matthias, but said nothing. Instead, it loped further into the forest.

  “He wants us to follow,” Magnus clarified.

  Matthias, overwhelmed with relief, turned to Alfred. “Well? Will you walk with us?”

  Alfred looked from the hand to the wolf. “I—” Instinctively, he turned to where the Vocendi had been standing before looking back to Matthias. “I—I don’t know. It seems I’ve not gone without counsel for a long time.”

  Matthias grinned, beckoning him. “A king has to make his own decisions, no?”

  Alfred chuckled in spite of himself, but then nodded. “Very well.” His smile slipped away. “Can I trust you?”

  Matthias’ smile slipped away as well, and he lowered his hand. “I know I failed you once. But Alfred, you’re my brother. Let me earn your trust back.”

  “Let me ask one question, then.” Alfred pursed his lips. “When you were holding the Jarl’s Crown, were you going to give it to me?”

  Matthias was silent for a moment, then hung his head. “A part of me wanted to, but a greater part wanted to keep it. Alfred, I’m sorry.” He rose his head again to look the Jarl in the eye. “But that man is no longer here. That was Hakon; he was arrogant, cruel, and he put his own honor and glory ahead of those he loved. I will always live with what I have done; I can’t change the past. But I’m no longer that person. Now, I’m asking you to take a chance in the present.”

  He offered his hand. “Please, Alfred.”

  The Jarl thought for another moment and nodded. H
e grabbed Matthias’ hand and shook as firmly as he could. “Very well, then. Lead the way.”

  The three men followed the wolf deeper into the forest. Matthias was anxious to see where they were led, eager to hear his father’s voice again, while Magnus could only stare in wonder, and Alfred hobbled along, sometimes leaning on Matthias for support. He squinted; the sunlight seemed to only grow in intensity here, and the bold and bright greens all around him seemed so much more intense to what he was used to.

  “Are you sure he knows where he’s going?” Alfred asked, gesturing to the wolf.

  “As sure as I am that the rising sun will follow night,” Magnus replied.

  At last, they passed into a clearing. Before them were rolling hills of green that were instantly recognizable to Matthias; and sitting under a tree by a crystal blue river, the warrior spotted a familiar bearded man, clad in simple robes, and he charged after him.

  “Father!” Matthias shouted, grabbing Stefan in his arms and pulling him off the ground.

  The Prophet chuckled warmly, hugging his son in return before patting his wide back. “Easy, easy, Matthias,” Stefan grunted. “You’ll snap me in half!”

  As Stefan was lowered back to the ground, Matthias released him, allowing Magnus to step forward. “Teacher.” The mage took another step forward, but then slumped against Stefan. When he raised his head there were tears in his eyes. “I am so sorry I doubted you.”

  “Magnus,” Stefan spoke, embracing his disciple close. “Doubt is no great sin. Faith not tempered by doubt is blind; you came back. That’s all I care about.”

  The Prophet’s gaze rose to meet Alfred, who was standing at a distance. “Ah. And this must be Alfred Gunnarson, Jarl of the Bybics.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Alfred asked.

  The Prophet grinned. “No. But I know you.” He patted Matthias’ arm. “I am Matthias’ father. And I should be thanking you for trying to keep him out of trouble for twenty years.”