Floriana looked at her father with pleading eyes, and at last, Cyril conceded. “I do. But you will give me a few moments with my daughter alone? If she is to lead an expedition, we must prepare for her role.”
Derogynes grinned. “Of course, Your Highness.” He bowed low and left the two for his quarters within the castle.
“Father?” Floriana wrapped her hands around her father’s arm. “Please, don’t be angry with me. I only wish to fight for my people, as you did.”
“You have put me in an impossible position, my child.” Cyril touched his daughter’s cheek. “You have been my entire world since your mother passed. You are to be queen, one day. I could never go on if anything were to happen to you.”
Floriana grinned, squeezing her father’s hand. “I know. I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“And, Floriana?”
The princess’ easy smile fell away as her father grabbed her wrist. She looked back up to her father’s eyes, and was met with a cold, steely gaze.
“You are never to supersede my authority again.” Cyril spoke with an even, quiet tone, but his grip was hard as iron as he squeezed her wrist, digging into her flesh. “I am King of the Faithful, I am the Prophet’s own chosen, and I speak with the authority of the Creator. When you are queen, you must not allow anyone to speak out as you have, for they presume to speak over God. And I will not allow that.”
Floriana tried to pull away from her father’s grip. “Father please, you’re hurting me!”
“Do you understand?”
“Father—”
“Do you understand, Floriana?”
The Princess grit her teeth through the pain, and nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry, Father. I should not have spoken out of turn.”
Cyril released her wrist immediately, and instead rested his hands on her shoulders. “My dear, I am only harsh on this matter because I love you, as the Creator loves all his children.” He cupped her chin, gently but firmly turning her face to meet his. “You understand that, as well, don’t you?”
Floriana met her father with a truly wounded look. “Father, I ask your forgiveness, but please, don’t ever grab me like that again.”
Cyril glared at her, but his harsh scowl melted away, and he sighed. “That was unkind. I apologize as well.” He opened his arms and pulled his daughter close, hugging her to his chest. “Promise me, Floriana; when you travel, you will do as I have taught you, and always put the Creator first.”
The princess hesitated, but wrapped her arms around her father. “I promise, Father. Ul voriea Aedanus, uleo verit.”
Chapter 4
The Spoils of War
Hakon sighed, rubbing his eyes after another restless night. He had to force himself to sleep, and with each passing night since the Jarl’s feast, it had become a greater and greater test of will. He stared at his prize, the sword from the metal cage. It was unlike any weapon known to the Bybics; the blade seemed bent, like a blacksmith had done something wrong, but the more he looked at it, the more he understood the contour of the blade. The metal narrowed at the hilt, with a widening curve as it neared the point, giving the sword a unique sense of balance. The hilt itself was wrought in gold; it was too large for a normal man’s hand, and curved like a hook, the pommel ending in a snarling lion’s face with a fiery mane. There were odd, swirling figures etched into the sword, which Hakon couldn’t begin to decipher.
He inspected the shield, which Osbren had been reluctant to hand over. Hakon could understand why; unlike Altani shields, made of wood and animal hide, this shield was bronze. It was almost as tall as a normal man, and had a considerable weight. The shield had the strangest shape; it was almost like an oval, but with two circular bits taken out from the middle, one on either side. The rim bore those same strange symbols, and in the center, some grand symbol, a face of some kind, had worn away with the ravages of time. It would require a new emblem, but oddly enough, the figures etched around the shield’s edge didn’t seem to suffer the same erosion.
Hakon was so enraptured by his prizes, and his head so heavy with the lack of sleep, he hardly noticed Magnus sliding his breakfast over; almost exclusively meat, save for an apple. He looked at the little man with bleary eyes.
“Still troubled by the visions?” Magnus asked.
The warrior grunted affirmatively, before tearing into his breakfast. “I see a rising sun, now. With everything else. It has these five great flames coming off it, rising above an endless lake. Its light was blinding.”
Magnus gave Hakon a long, steady look, but immediately averted his eyes when Hakon looked back. “I’m sorry it troubles you. I pray to the Creator you get a good night’s rest.”
Hakon scoffed. “You pray for me?”
“Well, yes,” Magnus said as if it were obvious. “Our Prophet taught us that the Creator will judge us by how we treat others, even our enemies.”
“Am I your enemy, then?”
The Fosporian looked back at Hakon. “Aren’t you?”
Hakon was at first angry, but when he took a moment to think, he was sapped of the will to do so. Sighing, he looked down. “You’ve been dutiful in your service, and I have not acted as honorably as I should. It was… wrong to taunt you with the raid. Whatever our cause for war, the Fospars are still your people.”
“Yours as well,” the mage added.
“Don’t.”
Magnus grinned. “My apologies. It’s in the past. You’re hardly the worst person I’ve worked for.”
“You mean when you were first a slave?” Hakon clarified, downing his mead before biting into the apple. “What was your old master like?”
The Fosporian sighed. “I was bought by a great family. You would think even less of me, then. I was their pet. A companion for their daughter. They trained me to attend her, dress her, be her confidant. I learned to read and write, and I was pampered as if I were a lap dog. It made me indolent and vain. I considered myself above the other slaves, and they hated me, rightfully so. I would often turn them over to the master if I caught wind of them doing something wrong, and they’d be whipped based on my word. Sometimes, I would lie, to get the slaves I didn’t like in trouble.” Magnus frowned. He didn’t care to remember how he used to be.
“What happened, then? You speak of your past slavery as if it were the worst kind of suffering.”
Magnus ran a hand through his curly brown hair. “There was a price to pay for all my comfort. To be a male slave attending a great lord’s daughter, I had to be curtailed.”
Hakon stared at Magnus with a blank, uncomprehending expression.
“They removed a certain part of me. So I wouldn’t feel urges a man usually feels around a beautiful woman.”
The large man’s eyes bulged as the realization dawned on him. “They cut that off?”
Magnus thinned his lips, slowly nodding. “I’ve never known the pleasure of a woman, and I never will. When the daughter married, she had no more need of me. I wasn’t her friend, I was… a living toy. Something she could dispose of without a second thought. I doubt she even remembers my name. But without her, the master did not need a fat, indolent slave, so I was sold to a merchant, who had me work in a warehouse. That’s where the Prophet found me.”
“I’m sorry your old master was such a colossal bastard. As long as you’re in my house, I promise I won’t have you dismembered unless you’ve really angered me,” the warrior said with a slight grin.
“You’re such a generous master,” Magnus answered flatly. Feeling bolder in this more relaxed atmosphere, he dared a question. “Do you really not see Fosporians as human, like you?”
Hakon wobbled his hand. “The Wise Women say you’re half human and half demon, because you use magic.”
“And would it really be so horrible if you were one of us?” Magnus dared to ask.
Hakon’s face immediately darkened. “Careful, little man. I’m only just starting to like you, but that can change.”
“I’m only curious.”
The larger man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “With my mark,” Hakon tapped one of his pointed ears, hidden by his thick hair. “I am either from the gods or from demons. Even mating with a Fospar is an ill omen. On Jarl Gunnar’s last raid, years ago, he captured a Fospar woman, and took her for his own. He forced himself on her. And Alfred was the result. Many in the tribe think he’s cursed, even though he has the ability to speak with the dead. As he grew older, his brothers, all strong and hearty warriors, died off, one by one, until Alfred was the last. Some tell vicious lies that he had something to do with it.” Hakon grimaced. “They stopped when I got big enough to punch their teeth out.”
“You have a soft spot for the Jarl’s son,” Magnus noted.
The warrior chuckled in spite of himself. “We’re both different, aren’t we? We grew up together. I was always big for my age, so they had me help him move around. See if maybe, in time, his legs would grow stronger.” Hakon frowned. “They never did. But, he’s always been there for me, and I’m there for him. Besides, he’s proven himself. He’s one of the best archers in the tribe. I think he deserves a chance.”
“Even to be Jarl?”
Hakon looked over to Magnus. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve spent enough time in courts to know when there’s an imbalance. When the designated heir isn’t the real heir,” Magnus said. “Your Jarl Gunnar may tap you to succeed him.”
Hakon snarled, jumping to his feet and pulling Magnus up by the scruff of his neck. “You go too far. Jarl Gunnar would never deny his own blood his rights.”
The Fosporian sighed. “Then perhaps I was mistaken about Gunnar.”
“You are.” The hulking warrior let Magnus go, and immediately grabbed a leather jerkin and three spears.
Magnus cast a wary eye at Hakon. “Where are you going with those?”
“Hunting. Clean this place. And don’t talk about Alfred or his father like that again,” Hakon grumbled as he stormed out.
Magnus shook his head as the large man slammed the door behind him. “You’re more like your father than you know.”
An hour passed with Hakon in the woods. The damnable white wolf hid among the trees; its brilliant coat was always on the edge of his sight, always too far to the side for him to get a good look at it. His mood was little improved when he came lumbering up to the gates of the village, a slain gray wolf slung over his shoulder. The guards asked no question as he stalked past them and the Bybics in the village gave him a wide berth.
Hakon moved toward the bowels of the ancient fortress, down beneath, into a cavern illuminated by fire and a great skylight. This was the holiest place in the village; the dwelling place of the gods. All around him were stone stele, adorned with runes and the images of the gods; Aemir, Goddess of the Hunt and the Harvest, Jolun, the trickster God, Jaedrun, the King of the Gods, Helnya, Goddess of Death and Prophecy, and Faolen, the Wolf-God of war.
Hakon stared, even as the carved stone eyes of the gods stared back at him. In the gloom of the cavern, it took him a moment to realize he was not alone. Standing between the stele and forming a circle around him were the Wise Women of the tribe, dressed in long black gowns, wearing crowns of antlers and bone.
“Why come ye here, Hakon, to the hall of the gods that delivered thee?” one asked, her ancient face rough and stony like a mountainside.
“You bring an offering?” asked another, far younger than the other. Her intense gaze made Hakon take a step back. The Wise Women could summon the wrath of the gods if crossed.
“Yes,” Hakon bowed his head. His eyes flitted between Faolen, his favored god, and then to the visage of Helnya, her face obscured by a dark hood. “It is for Helnya. I seek her guidance in prophecy.”
“Call forth the Speaker,” one of the Wise Women declared. “Place your offering to the goddess of Mystery and Death upon the altar, and she will reveal your fortune through her Priest.”
Hakon bowed in reverence as he placed the wolf on a stone slab in the center of the ring, and kneeled, keeping his head down. The Wise Women began chanting, their voices low and foreboding as a figure approached with a shuffling gait and leaning against a staff, dressed in black and wearing a deer’s skull as a mask, obscuring his face.
“Hakon?” a familiar voice whispered from beneath the skull.
“Alfred?” Hakon looked up, narrowing his eyes, and then sighed. “I forgot it was your day to attend Helnya’s altar. I do not mean to bother you.”
“It’s no trouble. This is my job in the village until father dies,” Alfred knelt before the altar. “What brought you here today?”
Hakon grunted. “I’m troubled by these visions, the same that drove me to madness the night of the feast. I see the same tangled mess of images. I hear a woman scream. There’s a man who’s no longer a man. And then I see a rising sun along a lake without end, five rays of fire shooting off from it.”
Alfred nodded. “Helnya will reveal her secrets.” He raised a knife over his head, and plunged it into the wolf, cutting a deep swath in its fur. Hakon gasped in pain, grinding his teeth as his head felt like it had been split open, his vision blinded by the sight of the rising sun.
“Focus on the pain, Hakon,” Alfred said calmly, studying his friend. “Embrace it. Helnya is here, now.”
“I see five rays of the sun,” the warrior grunted. The Wise Women’s chanting pounded in his ears.
The smaller man nodded. “Tell me more.” He drove his dagger in the wolf again, and Hakon recoiled, the pain hitting him in the chest. The chanting became louder and faster, almost shouting at Hakon from all directions.
“Augh!” the warrior cried out, tears of pain trickling down his face as he screwed his eyes shut. “The—the sun, there’s someone in the center it’s…” he shook his head. “I can’t see his face.”
Alfred drove his dagger into the wolf a third time, and Hakon shouted, the pain even deeper, spreading to his whole body. “Stop—enough!” Hakon’s hand shot out, gripping Alfred’s dagger, his blood dripping down his fist as the blade cut him. “Don’t do that again.”
The chanting came to an abrupt stop as the Wise Women stared at Hakon, hissing under their breath.
“Hakon, do not disrespect the gods. You can’t interrupt if you want Helnya’s help.”
“Is she such an almighty bitch she has to stab me for asking for help?!” Hakon demanded in a roaring voice.
Alfred and the Wise Women stared at him in shocked silence. Shakily, Alfred forced himself to stand, and pointed deeper into the cavern. “Go wait in my cell, Hakon. You have profaned the sacred circle. I will complete this sacrifice, and beg Helnya’s forgiveness on your behalf.”
“I—” he looked all around him, the Wise Women glaring at him. “Fine.” Hakon lumbered into the darkness of the cavern until he came to the small room with a desk and chairs where Alfred studied his art. An unsettling collection of animal skulls lined the walls, and runes were carved into the stone. Settling down on a chair, Hakon brooded in silence and nursed his hand.
Several minutes had passed before Alfred came, sighing as he removed the deer skull from his face, and cleaned his dagger. “Well, if Helnya hasn’t been appeased, you’ll probably die in your sleep tonight.” Alfred looked up, giving him a sharp look. “What were you thinking? You can’t insult the gods like that.”
“I was in such intense pain. I’d rather be stabbed. Like… I had been set on fire from the inside out,” Hakon sighed. “Forgive me.”
Alfred sat gingerly, resting his staff against the wall. “There may be yet one more thing I can do to tell your fortune. But you must do exactly as I say.” He prodded his friend in the chest. “Do you understand?”
Hakon looked Alfred in the eye and nodded grimly, keeping quiet.
“Right, then.” Alfred turned in his seat, and beckoned for two Wise Women to enter; they carried a large thing wrapped in linens, which Hakon recognized as a body. Silently, they laid the body of a middle-aged woman
at Alfred’s feet and quietly left. “This is Agatha, one of the Wise Women,” Alfred sighed. “She died recently, and we’ve had her embalmed for a ritual such as this. Give me your hand—the one you cut on my dagger. I’ll need your blood.”
“My blood?” Hakon asked, slowly inching away.
“Do you want your fortune read or not, Hakon?” Alfred snapped. “Your hand, now. Or have we finally found the one thing that unsettles the great Bybicson, a woman who died in her sleep?”
Hakon glared at Alfred, and then offered his hand. He winced, sucking on his teeth as Alfred reopened the wound. He placed his finger on the wound, then dabbed Hakon’s blood on Agatha’s eyes and lips. “Blood of the warrior, willingly given,” Alfred recited as he knelt before the body. “The taker of lives gives the essence of life unto the dead. May the mistress of the Hall of the Dead see this token, and release her charge into the world of the living.”
Hakon stared with morbid curiosity as the crippled man held out his hand, his fingers curling into a fist. His face screwed tight in concentration, Alfred relented only when Agatha’s body convulsed. Eyes gray with milky cataracts opened and locked on Hakon, as a cruel smile curled across cracked and dusty lips. “Ye speak to the dead,” Agatha croaked. “What business have thou, who art half-bred?” she spat at Hakon.
The warrior grimaced, every part of him on edge. He looked to his friend, but Alfred had his eyes screwed shut, beads of sweat on his forehead. Hakon thinned his lips. “I wish to know the meaning of my vision.”
Agatha cackled, her dead skin crinkled and flaking. “Know this, Hakon, for I speak true: there is no Altani blood within you. Your father is your enemy, your mother is of Sinrun’s breed. Eat, drink hearty, and laugh, for thou art a man not by half.” The risen corpse laughed again before her body convulsed and fell limp.
Alfred turned to his friend in stunned silence. Hakon’s breathing was quick and shallow. He fell to his knees as he let out an anguished roar. He struck the ground with his fist, cracking the stone floor beneath him.
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