“You—heretic!” Cyril cried madly, pointing an accusatory finger at Gwen. “Kill her! Mount her head on a pike, with the rest of the traitors!” he shouted, pushing some of his Torinusian soldiers forward.
“You can’t kill all of us, Cyril!” Gwen shouted, and on her word, dozens of men and women, armed with whatever they could find, stood up. “We are the Virtuous! We are Stefanurbem! And the Creator will smile on us.”
“Kill them all,” Cyril ordered coldly, then threw a bolt of lightning at the feet of his guards. “Kill them all! Make them suffer!”
Gwen and her insurgents pushed forward, rallying the crowd to stand with them. Floriana grabbed her wand, and as her father summoned up a fireball, she subtly flicked her wrist. The rubble under Gwen collapsed, allowing the young woman to escape the Archon’s wrath. “Get the Archon out of here!” she ordered to the soldiers as the mob, primed by Gwen and her followers, began to push against them. She pushed them back as gently as she could, summoning up her own magical barrier.
“No!” Cyril ranted, foam flecked on his mouth as he wildly struggled against the hold his soldiers had on him as they pulled him out of the stone circle and back to Faircliff. “I want their heads! I want them all to burn!” he shrieked. “Traitors!”
They rushed out, and the gates of Stefanurbem shut resolutely behind the Archon and his guards, barring the angry mob. Ahead was Faircliff, and the grisly reminder of Cyril’s displeasure; at the gates, and all along the battlements, were pikes, with the remains of the Archon’s more public victims. Among them were Tsuriin Sorahai that had flown too close, priests that had voiced their objections a little too loudly, and the common people that happened to get in Cyril’s way. Floriana grimaced as she looked up at the grisly sight; Faircliff had been so beautiful before.
As they moved closer to the castle, the gates were flung open as Angelus came riding out with a pair of guards. “Archon!” He bowed his head. “What happened?”
Cyril glared at Angelus, finally wrenching himself free of his guards. “Ask the queen.”
Floriana looked from the Magister to her father. “But, my lord, I was only—”
Cyril expelled the last of his rage by slapping Floriana hard enough to knock the queen off her feet. “You overstepped your boundaries! You do not countermand my orders! Ever!”
Floriana breathed heavily from shock, composing herself as best she could as she pulled herself up. “My only concern was your safety, father.”
Cyril grabbed her by the cheek, pulling Floriana close. “You are the only one I trust, Floriana. Do not give me cause to question that loyalty. Do not presume you are my equal; I am your lord and your father.”
Floriana steadied herself, and appeared as calm as ever. “I understand, my lord.”
Cyril let her go, placing a kiss on her forehead. “Then let us forget this incident. I must attend to the defenses of the city. I need the scent of Qingrenese blood to sate me.” Straightening his robes, he turned to the castle’s keep.
With her father out of sight, Floriana made it into her private apartments. When she was at last alone, the queen leaned against the cool stone walls, and took several deep breaths, gingerly touching her raw cheek. Sinking down to the floor, she buried her face in her hands and wept.
“My queen?”
Her face red and tear-stained, Floriana looked up to see Braya standing nearby. She immediately stood again, adjusting the crown on her head.
“What do you want, Inquisitor?”
“I heard what Cyril did,” the bald woman said.
“He’s never struck me before.” Floriana shook her head. “But it is no concern of yours,” she snapped coolly, storming away from the other woman.
“I’m down to a hundred Inquisitors,” Braya said suddenly, stopping Floriana in her tracks. “My men once numbered five hundred.”
“Do you mean to say that our Archon has found it necessary to kill four hundred?”
Braya shook her head. “Not quite. Some have been conscripted into his Altun army. About half that number has been killed…” the Inquisitor scoffed, trying to stifle her emotions. “They weren’t even given the honor of a proper burial; just thrown from the castle walls into the sea, as if he can hide this!” Braya paused, glaring coldly at Floriana. “I’m sure that pleases you, my queen.”
Floriana faced the Inquisitor. “I would never wish such a fate on anyone, Braya. It gives me no joy to witness such slaughter.” She cleared her throat. “But, as the Archon says, it is necessary to keep our people safe and punish Qingren,” she added unconvincingly.
Braya took her meaning, and nodded. “I appreciate your words, Highness. As Head of the Inquisitors, until I am given a new title, my loyalties belong to the Fosporian king.” She looked over her shoulder before continuing. “And our beloved Archon has relinquished that title to you.”
Floriana nodded slowly. “That he has.”
“Then, as my loyalty is to the Fosporian crown, I see it as my duty, Highness, to warn you that you are being watched. One of the Torinusian soldiers has been eyeing you, following where you go, and trying to get close. You can spot him by a patch he has over his eye,” Braya explained. “It would seem the Archon has his doubts about your loyalty; which you will doubtless try to improve.”
“Of course,” Floriana said softly. “Thank you, Braya.”
The Inquisitor snapped to attention and saluted, before quietly making her way down the corridors of the castle. Floriana, in turn, began her search for the spy. It was not a difficult task; the one-eyed soldier was no great master of subtlety. Floriana soon found him doggedly following her before nervously retreating when someone else appeared. When they were at last alone, Floriana glanced over her shoulder and ducked around the corner, plastering herself against the wall. When the soldier came around, she pulled out her wand, pressing it against his neck.
“Is there something you need, soldier?” she hissed.
“I—I bear a message!” the soldier hissed. “From Matthias.”
Floriana narrowed her eyes. It had to be a trick. “You lie. He’s dead, along with the heretic Magnus. I killed them both.”
The one-eyed man glanced at her, frowning. “What? But I just saw him. I was sent ahead from Captain Brutus.” He looked over his shoulder. “We sailed with him back to Fosporia.”
Floriana slowly lowered her wand. “Let’s say that a dead man sent me a message. What did he say?” she asked cautiously.
The soldier grinned. “Matthias and Magnus are marching with an army of Altani. They come to overthrow your father, and end the siege. Matthias wanted me to tell you that he only wishes he could dance with you again.”
Floriana had to stifle a gasp; she hadn’t felt this relieved in a long time. “Thank you. Is there anything I need to do to help them?”
“When the army comes, they’ll lay siege to Faircliff. If there’s any way you can get the gates open, that will help us.”
The queen nodded. “That, I can do. Be careful. If my father finds out you’re not one of his, he’ll kill you.”
The soldier quickly bowed and retreated, leaving Floriana alone. She was left with a giddy feeling, but soon her smile slipped away as it dawned on her that the end of her troubles probably only had one, final answer; her father needed to die.
Chapter 31
March of the High King
Never had so many Altani come together in the history of their people; even without Hrothgar and his allies, five tribes, Bybic, Ilani, Balnir, Cnutem, and the majority of Faul had united under a single banner and a single High King. Their numbers were in the tens of thousands, and as they set up camp for the night, they looked like they carried a city with them. In the High King’s tent, Alfred’s inner circle was settling in for dinner, taking a rare moment to relax and gather their strength. While Bai Feng and Song Wei shared cups of tea, Alfred and Magnus practiced, mostly in vain, with their wands. Alfred hadn’t quite mastered summoning magefire, and his frustrations we
re ended when he spotted the strangest sight he had seen in a long time; Matthias was hunched over the fire, studying and reading from a little red book, and writing things out on a sheet of paper.
“Alfred, do you want to learn magic properly, or not?” Magnus asked in a resigned tone.
“Wait a moment, I need a break.” Alfred took a deep breath, looking over to Matthias. “What are you doing? Are you reading?”
Matthias looked up with a slightly pained grin. “A friend taught me.”
“This friend must have had the patience of a sage and the wrath of the gods,” Alfred quipped.
Magnus let out an emphatic snort, and Matthias nodded. “That describes her well. Her name was Irene; Cyril’s dogs killed her. You remember the wise woman we met in the woods, on the way to the raid in Springhead?”
“That almost makes sense…” Alfred muttered. “That woman gave me a look that would curdle milk, but then fed me the best stew I’ve had in years.”
“There was no one like her,” Magnus added. “I think she would’ve knocked some sense into you far sooner than either of us.”
“Hah.” The Altani High King elbowed Matthias. “I am glad you both came back. Thank you for seeing something better in me.” He narrowed his eyes at Matthias’ writing. “You misspelled ‘Alfred,’ by the by.”
Matthias groaned. “I have trouble with names…” he muttered, before jostling his friend back, almost tipping him over. “We’re brothers, Alfred. I won’t forget the good in you. Just like I won’t forget the time you tried to get sweet on Brunhild Bjornsdottir, then forgot your own name after, what, half a keg of ale?”
Alfred feigned offense. “Liquid courage, Matthias, is still courage.” The High King frowned. “It’s still odd to call you ‘Matthias.’ Are you sure I can’t call you Hakon?”
“I don’t mind the ‘Wolfborn’ part anymore, if that helps,” the warrior shrugged.
“It’s accurate, after all,” Magnus chimed in. “Now, Alfred, do you want to learn how to summon fire or not?”
The High King sighed, looking at the wand gifted to him by Leannan. “Raising the dead was easier.”
“Before or after it started killing you?” Magnus waved him over. “Now, fire is the most volatile, but often, the easiest element to summon forth.” The mage held out his hand, and created a ball of blue magefire in his palm. “Fire breathes and consumes; it’s alive, and the very spark of life itself. It’s destructive, but also brings in light and warmth. Just like you tugged on the tethers of life to control and animate the dead, now, you’re merely plucking them, like the strings of a harp.”
Alfred scoffed. “You make it sound awfully poetic.”
Magnus grinned. “Magic is an art. It’s making your thoughts and imaginings real; but where Skalds and bards use their voices and artists paint and chisel, we use our willpower, focused through our wands.” His smile turned wistful, as the ball of magefire in his hands changed shape into a wolf. “I’ve seen magic used for great and beautiful things; it’s magic that freed us, after all.”
“The sages of Qingren use magic for beauty, as well,” Song Wei said. “In the Temple of Heavenly Love, the priests of Mother Mei and Father Xian use naught but the wisps of incense and sparks of fire to create dazzling displays of color and light in the sky, as vast as the great city of Mei-Xian for all to see.”
“It takes forever to get the smell of smoke out of silk, though,” Bai Feng muttered.
“It sounds potent…” Alfred looked over his shoulder. “If it’s so wonderful, why don’t you try it, Matthias?”
The warrior shook his head. “It’s too late for me. Magic runs in my blood, but I can’t use wands.” He flexed his powerful arm. “I got this in exchange.”
“Focus, Alfred,” Magnus said, softly but firmly.
Alfred held out his hand and concentrated. He used his innate sense to focus on the push and pull of energy all around him, and then, the end of his wand ignited in flame, scorching his hand. “Faolen’s Fangs!” he shouted, dropping his wand and waving his hand to cool it off.
An Altani guard breathlessly rushed into Alfred’s tent, his eyes wide. “My king! Monsters are at the camp entrance!”
“What?”
The guard was beside himself, gripping his spear tight as he gestured wildly. “Great, shaggy beasts, taller than any man! With fangs, claws, and massive horns! Jarl Ragnar is preparing an attack. They’re armed, and yelling at us in demon tongue!”
“Great, shaggy beasts with horns and claws?” Bai Feng echoed as he stood up. “There’s one group of people that come to mind with that description.” The Jaoren gestured to the guard. “Were they wearing any type of clothes?”
“They were clad in scaled armor, carrying banners. Their leader had gold in his mane, and a great, round belly.” The guard paused as a sense of dread washed over him. “By the gods, you don’t think they eat people, do they?”
Magnus and Matthias exchanged looks. “It can’t be.”
“More friends of yours, Matthias?” Alfred sighed resignedly, grabbing his crown and making sure it was straight.
“Not if Jarl Ragnar has his way.”
Matthias and his companions broke into a run to reach the entrance of the Altani encampment. A great crowd of Altani warriors was armed with spears and swords, and the blond Ragnar was at the head of the vanguard, shouting a challenge at the intruders. Facing them were a dozen or so Andrathi, clad in polished armor and billowing red cloaks. Their shields formed a protective wall around their front line, and they carried banners stamped with a lion’s face framed by a fiery mane.
“Come, beasts!” Ragnar shouted with a toothy grin. “Face the might of the combined Altani tribes!”
“Ragnar!” Alfred stepped forward. “Back down. These aren’t enemies.”
“What?” The blond Jarl gestured at them with his spear. “Look at them, my king! The men have been itching for a proper fight.”
“You fool, you’ll spite our only ally in this fight,” Matthias grumbled, pushing himself to the head of the vanguard. On the other side, the Andrathi line parted to reveal Derogynes, his mane freshly combed and braided with gold, and his rotund body squeezed into armor that did little to hide his girth.
“By Axer’s eyes, look at you!” The Andrathi smiled widely as he threw his arms around Matthias, patting him firmly on the back. “I’ve been searching the countryside for weeks, now. Oh, my friend, I’m so glad to have finally found you.”
Magnus quickly flicked his wand at all the Altani notables, granting them the ability to understand the Andrathi’s speech. “Derogynes!” the mage cried as he drew near. “What are you doing here?”
“It turns out you lot are a bad influence,” the Andrathi grinned. It slipped after a moment as he patted Matthias’ shoulder. “I reached Torinus first, and I heard what Cyril did to your father. My condolences. Stefan was too good for this earth.”
The warrior nodded curtly. “We march now to avenge him, in part.”
“I can see that. And wouldn’t you know it, I had the same notion?” The Andrathi Ambassador gestured back to the soldiers lined up behind him. He summoned a particularly broad-shouldered specimen that shared the same scarlet mane as Derogynes, his rank marked by gold on his cloak and golden rings crowning his horns. “This is my son. Introduce yourself, cub.”
The younger Andrathi saluted Matthias by thumping his fist against his chest. “Protogios Isauri Ambrosus, Protos Lochagos of the Fire Cohort, Twelfth Legion, sir. My father has told me much of the Prophet’s son, and my men and I are honored to fight at your side.”
Derogynes fondly patted his son on the back. “Ambrosus has brought you five hundred Andrathi legionnaires. And you?”
“We’ve gathered twenty thousand Altani warriors from five tribes,” Matthias stated, nodding in deference to Alfred. “United under our first High King in over a thousand years, Alfred Gunnarson.”
“Ah! So we’re roughly even then,” Derogynes smirked. “
And you must be Alfred.” He bowed to the King. “Your Highness. I represent Ardri Gordias of Theragos, so, if you wish to open diplomatic channels, I’m your man.”
“Forgive me, ah, Ambassador,” Alfred approached the Andrathi warily. “I was not even aware your kind existed until Matthias told me stories about his journey. But so long as I can tell my men you’re not going to eat them, I consider that a decent start.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Derogynes chuckled, patting his broad middle. “It entirely depends on what our camp cook dredges up.” His smile faltered as Alfred nervously took a step back. “It’s a joke, Your Highness. I promise.”
By this time, the leaders of both sides had come forward. Jarls Ragnar and Gudrun regarded the Andrathi with narrowed eyes, while Bai Feng and Song Wei were slow to approach them. When Derogynes spotted the Jaoren Ambassador, he was quick to pull him into the center of things.
“The venerable Bai Feng.” Derogynes was still smiling, but it never quite reached his eyes as he regarded the Jaoren he had pulled against his side. “Just what are you doing here?”
Bai Feng gave his Andrathi counterpart a bracing smile. “You haven't heard, Derogynes? Your Andrathi will not just be facing off against Mad King Cyril, but the Imperial Army of Qingren, with the Hegemon himself at the head.”
“Is that a fact?” the Andrathi arched his brow, his grip tightening on the Jaoren. “And are you Kazan’s messenger?”
“Something of a defector, actually.”
Derogynes looked to Matthias and Magnus. “You can't be serious.”
“We’re as shocked as you are,” Magnus replied. “But we would never have escaped Torinus without the Ambassador’s aid.”
The Andrathi released Bai Feng from his grasp. “What’s your game, Lord Bai? I've been studying your career since I was a fresh recruit. You've never taken a toe out of line.”
“Hegemon Kazan, glorious leader that he is, has been misguided in this attack on Fosporia,” Bai Feng said briskly. “He risks a war Qingren can ill afford.”
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