“Jarl Gudrun,” Alfred bowed his head respectfully, trying to stay composed.
“Jarl Alfred,” Gudrun nodded in return, before glaring down at the Draumr. “Is this how the sons of Draumr act? Spilling blood on sacred ground?”
“Stay out of this, old hag!” the guard spat, and instantly, Gudrun’s warriors reached for their weapons.
Gudrun shuffled over, leaning on a staff as she spat at the Draumr’s feet. “Leave. Hrothgar has no respect for the old ways if he will so brazenly send men after another Jarl during the Great Moot. Or do you think you can stand against both my men and Hakon Wolfborn?”
Matthias growled again, flashing his fiery blade at his fallen foes. The Draumr leader slowly stood, sneering at Gudrun. “When Hrothgar is High King, Gudrun, you will pay for this!” Gathering his men, he led them away, clearing a path for Alfred.
“I understand, Jarl Alfred, that you have stopped abusing your power over the dead?” Gudrun asked sharply, turning her full attention to Alfred.
The Bybic Jarl nodded. “I have been informed how misguided my actions were.” He added, “I should also thank you for your intervention. I would hate for my champion to be forced to spill blood on sacred ground.”
Gudrun waved it off. “Hrothgar would make a terrible king. He’s an idiot. But, he only has a chance to become king because of you, Gunnarson.” She eyed Alfred for a tense moment. “Where he is dangerously stupid, you are dangerously clever. Do not give me pause, Bybic. You haven’t won my vote yet.” She began shuffling away, but stopped when she spotted Song Wei. “Oh, and good to see you again, dear.”
Song Wei beamed, bowing her head respectively. “You as well, Sister Gudrun.”
“Sister?” the old woman cackled. “Such fascinating company you keep, Jarl Alfred.” As a sign of good faith, she stepped aside, allowing the Bybics to pass.
Their way clear, Alfred led the group into the stone circle, taking his seat on one of seven stone thrones, marked by the Bybic’s griffin banner. Bai Feng’s advice paid off, as one by one, the other Jarls of the Altani came in and regarded Alfred in their own way; some seemed wary and nervous, while others were shocked. The last to enter, giving a great show of strength with his lines of warriors chanting a war song, was Jarl Hrothgar, a broad-shouldered man with a great, shaggy red beard.
“Fool man,” Matthias heard Alfred mutter as he took his eyes off Hrothgar.
The Jarls all regarded each other for a long while before Gudrun rapped her staff against the ground, pulling herself up. “Well, if no one will speak, then I will. We all know, my brothers, what we are to discuss here today. For the first time in centuries, two worthy candidates have laid claim to the ancient crown of the High King.”
“One worthy, old woman,” Hrothgar declared in a deep, gravelly voice. “I have fought the Fospars and other enemies of our people for twenty years. What does this half-formed witch bastard offer?”
“Intelligence, for one, Hrothgar,” Alfred said. “I’ve seen your eyes cross trying to count past twenty.”
“I don’t need to count to skewer you like a pig, boy,” Hrothgar growled. “You bring demons into the Great Moot, and half-breed exiles not fit to carry a warrior’s sword. What manner of Altani are you?”
“One that will lead our people to victory!” Alfred shot back. “These aren’t demons, Hrothgar. The two you see beside me are honorable, but their brethren are the same Sinrun’s brood that Fravan Ironhand faced a thousand years ago. They come with an army of tens of thousands, and their aim is to lay waste to this land.”
“Honored Jarls,” Bai Feng stepped forward. “My master, Hegemon Kazan of Qingren, is a warrior of great renown, and has come to do battle with King Cyril of the Fosporians, who you know as the Fospars. If Kazan wins, he will seek to shame and subjugate all mankind for past grievances, but do not fear that he will win. Fear that he will fall in battle. King Cyril is mad, and if he wins, he will come for the Altani with power the likes of which no one has ever seen. I saw him kill hundreds with a single wave of his hand, obliterate buildings with ease, and call down lightning from the sky.”
“And he comes for us?” Jarl Theogav, a pot-bellied blond asked nervously.
“He will, if no one stops him.”
“And you would lead us to war, bastard?” Hrothgar laughed. “When you can barely stand?”
“I would,” Alfred declared stiffly. “This isn’t a war for glory. It’s a war for survival. Hakon Wolfborn has traveled amongst the Fospars, and he will tell you that their King is a very real threat to us. We must stop him and Kazan, or Fospars and Altani alike will fall.”
“Wait,” Ragnar, an impressively built warrior with long blond hair stood, grinning ruefully at Alfred. “You would have us fight to save the Fospars from their own king? And where would my men get their loot from?”
“This isn’t a war for gold, either, Jarl Ragnar,” Bai Feng countered. “It’s a war for your way of life.”
“Is that right, ghost-man?” Ragnar shook his head. “Gunnarson, you’re not doing yourself any favors as king if you can’t provide your men with gold. What are they supposed to fight for? The thrill of battle alone? If these people are such a threat, I say let them come to us; that way, we can pick their corpses clean when they get here.”
“Cyril will make you slaves,” Bai Feng shot back. “And my lord Hegemon Kazan will make you all but a slave.”
“Slavery? What makes you think Altani fear slavery?” Hrothgar laughed. “I’d kill any man who would call me slave!”
“Jarl Hrothgar has the right of it,” Ragnar said. “A man has no one but himself to blame if he’s dragged down into slavery.”
“You know nothing of slavery, Jarls.”
There was a palpable silence as all eyes turned to Magnus. The short mage had stepped forward, staring intently at Hrothgar and Ragnar. “My people, the ones you deride as Fospars, suffered in slavery for thirteen hundred years at the hands of his people.” Magnus pointed at Bai Feng. “Do you think we had no strong men among us? Do you think we never fought back?”
“Evidently, you didn’t fight hard enough,” Ragnar shot back.
Magnus produced his wand and called down a bolt of lightning that struck the ground, silencing the Jarls. “We fought with our very lives! Before the Prophet Stefan freed us, another tried to break our chains, and another before him, and another before that. Slaves rebel, but slaves are not made by conquest alone. It is a slow, devious death. Maybe you’ll fight back, but what of the ones after you?” The mage pointed to Ragnar. “Do you have children, Jarl?”
The blond Jarl smirked. “Not that it’s any business of yours, Fospar, but I have three strapping boys, on their way to becoming proud warriors of the Cnutem.”
“Your sons, living free, could grow up to be proud and strong warriors, indeed.” Magnus nodded. “But if they were forced into slavery, do you know what would happen to them? Bit by bit, they would have their humanity stripped away. They would be treated as beasts of burden, whipped for even speaking, being denied food and water until they behaved, tortured with every vile instrument you could imagine, and worn and beaten down, day after day, like grain being ground by a mill, until they lose the will to fight. Slaves are not made, Jarls, by breaking bones, but by breaking minds. And these armies coming for you have magic. You have seen what Jarl Alfred has done with magic; imagine what can be done by those that have trained for years, specifically, to enter your mind and twist it, until it no longer belongs to you. Imagine your mind being filled with your worst nightmares, over and over again, until you would give anything for relief. No amount of strength will save you from that; no weapons, no strategy, no armor. When the slavers have you, you will be broken until you are as meek and obedient as cattle. Are you willing to risk it, Jarls?”
Magnus levelled a gaze at Ragnar and Theogav, as Bai Feng suggested, the cowardly Jarl squirming in his seat. “Are you willing to risk your very souls, and the future of your children, all because
for this one battle, you might not get enough loot?”
The silence was palpable; no Jarl could muster a response, staring with troubled looks at the mage. Bai Feng squirmed from the denunciation of his people’s actions, a dark look wrinkling his fine features. Song Wei was unreadable, but she averted her gaze, looking down at the ground as Magnus returned to his place. Exchanging a quiet look, Matthias rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder, giving him all the support he could at that moment.
“Yes, well…” Hrothgar cleared his throat. “We drove Sinrun’s brood back into the sea, why could we not do it again?” He countered lamely.
“I think we have all heard enough,” Gudrun declared. “Jarl Alfred, do you have anything else to add?”
“Only that my first priority as king will be the survival and liberty of our people. I know how easy it is to break men, even hardened warriors. I have regretted my actions as Jarl; and as king, I will ensure no one has a chance to commit similar acts of tyranny against us. I have allies who can help us win this coming war, because the Altani cannot fight two armies alone. We must unite and rejoin the world, or wither on the limb like a flower in winter.”
“Let us cast our votes.” Gudrun pulled herself up. “I, Jarl Gudrun of the Balnir, declare my tribe for Alfred Gunnarson.”
“I, Jarl Hrothgar Griffinbane of the Draumr, declare myself King, with the Hygal tribe as my vassals.”
Alfred exchanged a nervous look with Matthias. “I, Jarl Alfred Gunnarson of the Bybics, declare myself king, with the Ilani tribe as my vassals.”
Alfred and his supporters looked to Theogav and Ragnar. Pot-bellied Theogav was the first to stand, glancing anxiously to Hrothgar, who gave him a nasty glare. “I, Jarl Theogav Gaverson of the Faul, declare my tribe for Hrothgar Griffinbane.”
“What?” Alfred hissed, grabbing Bai Feng’s arm. “He was supposed to be for us!”
Song Wei shook her head. “Hrothgar threatened him; he was more scared of being maimed than he was of your magic.”
All eyes turned to Ragnar as he stood. He seemed to almost enjoy the attention, as both sides hung on his words. “I, Jarl Ragnar Hrunding of the Cnutem, declare my tribe for Alfred Gunnarson.”
“It is done, then,” Gudrun declared, as Alfred, awash with relief, fell back into his throne. “Hail Alfred, High King of the Altani!”
“Hail Alfred, High King!” Ragnar and his warriors echoed.
Matthias crossed his arms, glaring at Hrothgar. “Jarl Hrothgar, will you not pay homage to your king?”
“That misshapen bastard is no King of mine!” Hrothgar spat. “I will not bow to Gunnar’s whelp.”
“You disgrace yourself and your tribe, Hrothgar,” Gudrun accused.
“N-no!” Theogav protested. “Hail Hrothgar, the true High King! Hail Hrothgar!” he shouted desperately.
His warriors behind him shook their heads, throwing down the white and grey banner of the Faul as they moved over to Alfred’s supporters. “You disgrace us, Theogav. You lost; we will not follow you any more, spineless coward,” one of the warriors shouted as their old Jarl quickly moved over to Hrothgar.
“You are no true Altani!” Hrothgar shouted. “Hang you! May Helnya spit on your graves!”
“You dare disrespect the rightful king, Hrothgar?” Matthias challenged, drawing his sword.
“Enough,” Alfred declared as he raised his hand. “Let Hrothgar and his ilk scurry back to their hold. I will not begin my reign by profaning this sacred ground with blood. Save it for the Fospar king.”
Weapons were lowered, and as Hrothgar and his allies skulked out, Gudrun and other wise women produced the High King’s crown, made of woven bands of gold beset with rubies. “As Jaedrun rules above, Alfred Gunnarson rules on earth. Hail Alfred, High King!”
“Hail High King Alfred!” Matthias roared his approval, grinning wide at his friend as he accepted the crown. All the Altani knelt before the slender and pale man, and he bid them rise.
“We break camp immediately,” Alfred declared. “Prepare your provisions, polish your armor, and sharpen your swords. Faolen will smell the scent of blood on the wind, and Skalds will sing of this for ages to come. The Altani march to war!”
Chapter 30
Long Live the Queen
Cyril had done the impossible; Stefanurbem, for several days, was untouched by the Hegemon’s army. Despite the teeming hordes of Qingrenese on the city’s doorstep, none had breached the walls of the city, as the Archon’s magic had kept them at bay. He had summoned a shimmering dome that covered the entire city, impenetrable to any magic the Qingrenese had at their disposal. Every day, the Archon tirelessly kept the wards up, but there was a price to pay.
It began with those that had fallen out of favor in the Archon’s circle. Skeptical Hierophants unwilling to acknowledge the rise of Cyril’s new Altun, Inquisitors that couldn’t adapt to the new regime, and priests that questioned Cyril’s word, all of them simply vanished in the night. Those that remained learned to not question it, so long as the Archon kept the bodies out of sight. But as the Qingrenese rained down a near-constant barrage of fire and lightning on the shield, and their battle mages tried to dispel the barrier, Cyril needed more.
As the days wore on, the Archon became more and more unhinged. He ranted about the loss of an advisor that no one had seen; some whispered that it had been a Vocendi, a messenger of the Demons, while others counted it as a figment of the Archon’s imagination. Whatever this lost figure was, it seemed Angelus had filled the role, though even the Torinusian Magister was getting more and more concerned about his Master.
Even as balls of fire and lightning erupted over their head, the people of Stefanurbem gathered at the city’s largest church, around the sacred circle where the Paragons of Virtues had their names carved under each animal totem. Bells rang out constantly in a bid to drown out the magical barrage overhead, and priests sang solemn chants to bolster the people’s spirits. The Archon had called all the faithful to witness a historical event; there was to be a coronation.
All the remaining members of Cyril’s court were packed inside the stone church, where, bathed in the light of blue magefire, Floriana knelt before her father. The Archon was dressed in his flowing purple robes, and had in his hands his old silver and gold crown.
“By the grace of the true god of this world, I, Cyril, Archon of Altun and Lord and Master of mankind, do proclaim thee, Floriana, rightful queen of Fosporia. Ul voriea Aedanus emt Arconus, eto verit.” Cyril declared, placing his crown on Floriana’s head. “Thus begins a new age for Fosporia. Our enemies shall fall, and upon their ashes, we shall usher in the Age of Man!”
The remaining Hierophants, priests, and Magisters all cheered as loud as they could, singing the praises of their Archon and the new queen; where genuine enthusiasm ended, and fear of earning Cyril’s ire began, it was hard to tell. As the queen was led out of the church in as grand a procession as could be mustered, the people of Stefanurbem also cheered as loud as they could, mirroring their noble counterparts. “Salutem Arconus! Vivanum Ragenis!” the crowd shouted, singing the praises of the Archon and queen both. Despite their joyful facade, the common people did not escape the Archon’s wrath.
As Cyril led the procession to the center of the circle, his whole face twitched as he called down a bolt of lightning, causing people in the crowd to scream. “On your knees!” he demanded. “All of you! Is this is the respect you would show a queen?!”
The crowd quickly obeyed, prostrating themselves before the Archon, but Cyril’s mad gaze fell on a man with a broken leg, struggling to get on his knees. The Archon marched over to him, and with a wave of his hand, pulled his good leg out from under the man, who shrieked in pain as he fell on his broken leg.
“Why do you not bow to your queen?” Cyril shouted, his eyes wide with anger.
“My—my Lord! Please, mercy!” the man cried out, his teeth grit as tears of pain rolled down his face. “I was wounded in your army, fighting the Alta
ni!”
“And you think your past duty freed you from paying homage? Sacrilege!” Cyril shrieked. “You’re a spy for the Hegemon, aren’t you?!”
“What?” the man looked up at Cyril with a mix of fear and bewilderment. “I would never!”
“Father!” Floriana put herself between Cyril and the man. “Let him be. I don’t want my coronation marred by blood. Not on this happy day.”
“Oh, my dear,” Cyril spoke softly, caressing Floriana’s cheek. “I want this day to be perfect for you, don’t you see?” He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “And that’s why this traitor will die!”
“Father, no!” Floriana shouted, but Cyril threw her aside and unleashed a magical energy that hit the crippled man where he lay. His last breath was spent screaming in agony as the Archon absorbed his essence, and the shield over Stefanurbem shimmered with renewed energy.
“Tyrant!” a lone voice cried out from the crowd.
“Who said that?” Cyril swerved, his hands engulfed in flame.
“Murderer!” another voice cried.
“You will not disrespect me!” Cyril spat, unleashing a fireball that slammed into a house just behind the sacred stone circle. “I am your Archon! Your savior! You will obey me!” he fired off another fireball into the crowd, sending terrified people scattering. “You will respect me!” Another; this time, people were consumed by the flame. “You will LOVE me!”
Cyril’s concentration was broken, as a single stone struck him on the cheek, snapping the Archon’s head back and causing him to bleed from the mouth. “Who dares?” he demanded, cradling his jaw.
Clambering on top of some rubble above the crowd, a lone woman stood with a sling in her hand. Floriana stifled a gasp as she recognized her; Gwen, the blond-haired youth from Ferrin’s Glade. “No more, Cyril!” Gwen cried out. “No more will we allow villains and tyrants to rule over us! Stefan and his son live; you are a false savior! A liar, and a usurper!”
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