“Hakon—Hakon!” Alfred stumbled over to his friend, vainly trying to pull him back up. “Calm down, look at me!”
Hakon resisted, pushing him away.
“I said, look at me!” Alfred held out his hand, making the same gesture as he had with Agatha’s corpse. In an instant, Hakon felt his body go rigid, and by some invisible force he was pulled up. He stared at his friend, his face grim and set.
“I didn’t know you could do that with your gift,” Hakon finally said.
Alfred pushed back his hair, catching his breath. “It takes a lot out of me, but I’ve been practicing.”
“Magnus was telling the truth,” Hakon whispered. “I’m a Fospar.” He hung his head in shame.
“Listen to me.” Alfred pressed his hand against Hakon’s shoulder, steadying himself to stand. “You are more a Bybic than most anyone in our tribe. Look at you—your strength has been one of our greatest boons. You are the champion of this village, of my father. And when I am Jarl, I will give you all honors.”
“I don’t deserve them,” Hakon sighed. “My whole life has been a lie.”
“Stop that! Warriors don’t sulk.” He shoved at Hakon, which had little effect. But still, the warrior slowly stood.
“Hakon,” Alfred sighed. “You are a great warrior. This changes nothing.”
“It changes everything,” Hakon said sullenly. “When the village finds out…
“The village won’t find out.”
The warrior narrowed his eyes.
“You and I grew up together. I was closer to you than any of my brothers.” He grabbed Hakon’s hand, clasping it tightly like a warrior. “This just proves you are my brother. We both have Fospar blood. You stand by me. Now let me stand by you, best as I can.” Alfred patted his twisted legs and gave a self-deprecating smile. “You didn’t grow up being spurned because of your mother’s race. You’ve spared me from humiliation countless times; let me spare you this one that I know better than anyone.”
Hakon shook his head, inhaling deeply. He was silent for a moment, but finally clapped Alfred on the shoulder. “We are brothers, then.”
Alfred grinned. “As long as you have my back, I’ll have yours. Just remember; this changes nothing. It makes you no less a warrior, and no less my father’s champion. Go, get out of this dark hole and get some fresh air. I’ll clean up Agatha.”
Hakon nodded, returning the smile at last. “Thank you.” He trudged through the caverns, exchanging glowering looks with the Wise Women, relieved to leave the musky stench of decay behind and once again be cast in the rays of the noontime sun. Almost immediately, however, the Jarl’s men approached him.
“Hakon Bybicson! Jarl Gunnar demands your presence, immediately.”
He panicked for a moment but reminded himself Gunnar couldn’t possibly know the secret of his birth so soon. “I answer my Jarl.”
The guards led Hakon to the mead hall, and into the Jarl’s private quarters. Scattered about his bedchamber were the countless trophies and riches Gunnar had won over his long life. Shields and banners from conquered foes, and the weapons and riches of the Fospars, lined the walls or were stored in overflowing chests.
“Ah, my champion at last!” Gunnar gasped in a dry and raspy voice. The Jarl was lying almost entirely prone in his large bed, wrapped in furs and woolen blankets.
The warrior approached the bed and kneeled, keeping his head down so it would not rise above Gunnar’s. “You called for me, my lord?”
The Jarl’s bony hand reached out, patting the hulking man on the shoulder. “Hakon, I am dying.”
Hakon offered a smirk. “You’ve been doing that for years.”
Gunnar’s whole body rattled as he hacked out a laugh. “Good, good. You keep your boldness.”
The warrior smiled bleakly. He had learned a long time ago how to handle Gunnar.
“The time draws near for Helnya to lead me to her Hall. I am proud of the life I have led; I was a warrior, a Jarl, and I brought glory to my people. But one bit of business remains.” Gunnar’s mouth twisted in disdain. “The next Jarl.”
“I will do everything I can to serve Alfred as loyally as I have you, my lord,” Hakon declared.
Gunnar sneered. “Do not degrade yourself, Bybicson. You are ten times the man that mongrel is. You are the son I was owed; this is why the gods sent you to us. Let Alfred play with his bones. You are worthy of standing before the Great Moot in spring, and you are worthy of being Jarl.”
Hakon’s heart skipped a beat. Magnus’ words came back to haunt him. “I would not come before your blood, Jarl.”
The decrepit old man coughed violently before speaking again. “A Jarl must be strong! Alfred doesn’t know true strength; you embody it. Promise me you will not let our tribe suffer such a disgrace!”
“My lord, I am Alfred’s friend. This would be a betrayal.”
Gunnar rolled his eyes. “A Jarl has no friends. He has allies, enemies, and subjects. That is all. You fear for him? All the more reason to become Jarl. You think that misshapen, weak-kneed creature that shares my name would prosper? He would wither in my seat, like a weed in winter. I have told my men; they are to declare you Jarl upon my death. They stand with you.”
The Jarl tried to sit up, his arms shaking from the effort. “Can you protect my son from warriors who will not respect him, who will chafe in servitude to a mixed breed? You may as well ask a wolf to follow a hound’s mutt. They will not follow him, and they will overthrow him. Are you willing to kill your own, just so my son can play at being something he’s not?”
Hakon was silent. He remembered the men ignoring Alfred’s orders; it had been done countless times.
“Alfred will die a violent death if he becomes Jarl. He is no warrior and Bybics will only ever follow a warrior. If you count him as kin, spare him the humiliation,” Gunnar concluded.
The warrior rose, his shoulders slumped. “You think the Bybics will kill their own?”
“Already, two of our eldest warriors have stepped forward to me in secret. They would sooner follow a weak-willed woman than my bastard.” Gunnar gazed at Hakon with a hard glint in his eyes. “For the sake of my tribe, and if it please you, for Alfred’s sake, take my mantle when I am gone.”
Hakon exhaled, his eyes closed. He couldn’t bear to look at anyone with the answer he was about to say. “Yes, my lord.”
Gunnar fell to another coughing fit. “Good, good. Gods be with you, Hakon Bybicson. I can die knowing the Bybic Tribe will have a warrior at its head; as it should be.”
“Jarl.” Hakon bowed, and turned on his heel without another look at Gunnar.
“Oh, and send in one of my girls… one of the young, supple ones. If I am to die tonight, let me die happy!” Gunnar cackled. Hakon hid a shudder of disgust as he lumbered out of his quarters.
The warrior was so lost in thought, he did not see Alfred pressed up against the wall, just returned from his duties. The crippled man shook with indignant rage; he had heard enough.
Chapter 5
The Old Masters
Bai Feng drummed his fingers against the desk provided for him in his chamber at Faircliff, his lips pursed as he looked over the missive again. There, at the bottom, was the seal of Qingren, a white and black tree intertwined, with two crescent moons overhead.
“He’s quite serious, isn’t he?” the ambassador finally asked as he looked up to the Hegemon’s messenger.
The messenger was of the second race of Qingren, the Tsuriin. Stoic and stone-faced, his skin was dark as night, and great, leathery wings spread from his back. He wore a gold and black tunic covered by scaled armor adorned in silver. This stood in stark contrast to the Jaoren ambassador’s genteel silk robes. The Jaoren and Tsuriin appeared as different as night and day, but they had ruled Qingren in harmony for millennia. The matter of the human slaves had caused the first serious debate between the two races in countless generations.
“Hegemon Kazan, long may the Lovers guide him, is tired
of the indignity suffered upon our glorious empire. King Cyril has broken the terms of our agreement, thus Kazan sees no reason to honor it any longer,” the messenger said, an intense glare aimed at Bai Feng. “Do not tell me you have softened in your time with these people, Ambassador.”
Bai Feng bristled. “I am a loyal servant of Qingren. But can we afford…” He looked over to the door. Cyril had a nasty habit of posting an Inquisitor to eavesdrop on him. He turned back to the Tsuriin, his voice lowered. “Can we afford to push Fosporia into a war? Theragos is itching for a fight, and how will the remaining slaves react when they find we slaughtered their brethren?”
“It is a demand for King Cyril to be humbled before the Hegemon, whom this uppity wand-peddler has insulted,”the Tsuriin warned. “The humans back in Qingren grow restless and unsightly; they’re turning their rabble into a horde. They will burn our home if they are not brought to heel or driven out of the empire. You have your orders, Bai Feng. Do not disappoint He That Knows All Mysteries of Heaven.”
“They will never agree to this,” the Jaoren sighed.
The messenger scoffed. “Then we must rely on your powers of persuasion. Is that not why you are ambassador to these dogs?”
Bai Feng frowned. “Do not be glib with me, soldier. I am in line to become a Sage Lord, destined to sit at the Hegemon’s side.”
“Then you must do as he says, no?”
The Jaoren sighed in frustration, and rose from his seat. “Give me a moment to present this to the king.” The Ambassador left his chamber in a huff, and returned to the Throne Room.
Cyril was already waiting for him. “Ambassador. I understand you have news from the new Hegemon to share with us?”
Bai Feng stumbled, his face betraying his surprise before he recovered, bowing low to Cyril. “I will, of course, not question how you knew I had received word from our sagacious Hegemon mere moments after I received it myself, good King.”
The Fosporian glared at Bai Feng, waving his hand for him to continue.
The Ambassador pursed his lips, fidgeting as he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “King Cyril, Hegemon Kazan has informed me the situation with the humans remaining in Qingren has grown intolerable. As you have refused the petitions of Hegemon Taizong again and again, divinely wise Kazan feels a more drastic response is warranted.”
Cyril scoffed. “Oh? And just what does Kazan think a drastic response entails?”
Bai Feng took a deep breath to keep calm. “Hegemon Kazan demands tribute.”
The king shot from his throne. “You dare come to me with this insult?” Cyril’s face contorted in rage as he withdrew a slender piece of dark wood, its end sparking with magical energy. “Give me one reason I should send a single copper coin to the nation that bounded my people in chains for thirteen centuries!”
The Jaoren rose, raising his hands defensively. “Good King, Hegemon Kazan does not want money. But…” he sighed, resigned to face the king’s wrath. “He demands three hundred of your people, to be held in bondage.”
Cyril shook with rage. “What?”
“If—if Hegemon Kazan does not receive this tribute, it will mean war,” Bai Feng said quickly. “He is preparing the armies of Qingren to invade Fosporia if you continue to insult him thus.”
Cyril’s eyes, wide and wild with wrath, swerved to his guards. “Everyone, out!” he bellowed, and the guards quickly filed out of the throne room, leaving the king and the ambassador alone.
“Your Highness, please, listen to—”
Bai Feng quickly jumped back from a burst of magical energy that smote the ground he had been standing on a moment before, blue and purple residue wafting from the singed stone.
“You dare!” Cyril shouted, throwing out another barrage of energy at the Jaoren. “You dare!”
“Good King Cyril, listen to me—”
“SILENCE!” the king roared, leaping from his throne and sending a wave of magical energy that shook the very walls of his Throne Room. “Qingren will not have a single Fosporian, ever again! Do you hear me, Ambassador?” He threw a fireball, the flame close enough to Bai Feng to singe his long blond hair. “Never! Fosporia is a free nation, built for a free people! Tell Kazan to come here with his armies, I will stain Stefanurbem’s harbor red with the blood of Qingren!”
Bai Feng gasped, quickly bringing his hands together and pulling them apart, summoning magical energy to serve as a shield to protect him from another of the king’s attacks. “King Cyril! Listen to me!” Bai Feng fell to his knees in prostration, begging for mercy. “Or if not, listen to reason. Kazan was a general before being risen to the ranks of the Sage Lords. He’s a Tsuriin, and when he fights wars, he fights to win them. He will unleash a terrible fury on your people, and forgive me, but Fosporia is in no fit state to fight a war on two fronts.”
“You dare to presume you know our country better than we do?” Cyril sneered.
“You know it as well, good King,” Bai Feng replied as he stood up again. “You’re sending a large host to fight the Altani tribes this very day. You can’t fight both them and the Hegemon’s army. I implore you, please, think of the thousands of lives that will be lost on both sides. What is the more precious price to pay? The deaths of thousands of your countrymen, or three hundred held, for a time, in bondage?”
Cyril lowered his wand, if only just. “What do you mean, ‘for a time’?”
“Your Highness, Hegemon Kazan knows he plays a dangerous game bringing in more slaves when the humans still in Qingren are so close to violent revolt. He will not send more out to the mines and fields where they would merely join with their brethren.”
“Then what is his game?”
Bai Feng sighed. “Kazan is a man who puts his own honor and the honor of Qingren before all other matters,” the Jaoren explained. “If you placate him now with these three hundred hostages, then there will be no war. Most likely, they will be bound to the homes of Sage Lords, where they will be sold to the highest bidder and treated as household servants. They will be safe.”
“They will be slaves again,” Cyril shot back.
“Who is better off, King Cyril?” the ambassador urged, slipping his arms behind his back. “A live slave, or a free man cut down by the Hegemon’s army?”
The king immediately raised his wand again, sneering at the Jaoren as the end crackled with flame. “Don’t make threats on which your Hegemon can’t follow through.”
“I’m not making threats, I am merely trying to avoid war.”
Cyril pocketed his wand, his face twisted with disgust. “You will have your three hundred then, Ambassador.” He shot the Jaoren a withering look. “Now, get out of my sight.”
Bai Feng released a sigh of relief. Behind his back, his hands relaxed, and the magical flames licking at his fingers died out. Without another word, he bowed low and fled the throne room, leaving the king with his own thoughts. Cyril paced around, shaking his head. A thousand thoughts consuming his mind, as he felt a familiar specter of guilt tug at him.
“Traitor.”
Cyril screamed, turning on his heel and firing off a great bolt of lightning from his wand. The spell charred the flagstones at his feet, leaving a stinging smell in the air.
“Your Highness?” Two guards rushed in, their weapons primed. “We heard you scream. Is everything alright?”
The king collected himself, brushing back his black hair. “Send in Inquisitor Braya. Now.” He looked sharply at the guards, who hesitated. “Your king has given you a command! Go, you wretches!”
Cyril tried to calm himself, straightening his robes and moving back to his throne. As he eased into the seat, the doors were flung open as a young woman strode in, immediately prostrating before the king. She wore a black robe with five white stars on her chest; the sign of the Inquisitors. Her face was gaunt, her eyes passionate and fiery like those of a fanatic, and o stave off vanity, her head was shaved and wrapped with a cowl. Upon her forehead, she had taken the king’s mark;
a scar in the shape of the sun carved into her flesh.
“Rise, Braya,” he commanded. “I have a task for you.”
“My life for the Prophet’s chosen, my king,” Braya intoned, bowing her head.
“You are to take the Inquisitors and go out to the outlying towns and villages.” Cyril pursed his lips. “It has come to our attention that heresy has grown at an alarming rate along our borders. Go out and find them with all haste. Thieves, liars, heretics, Altani savages. Hunt them down and return them to the capital; three hundred in all.”
Braya looked up. “Is there some significance to three hundred, my king?”
Cyril fidgeted out of annoyance. “Do not ask unwarranted questions, Inquisitor. It is the Creator’s will.”
Braya immediately bowed her head again. “Forgive me, my king. Give me your blessing, and I will see these heretics punished.”
“They are to be brought here alive,” Cyril clarified. “That is paramount.”
The Inquisitor nodded. “As you say.”
Cyril held out his hand. “Go now, in the Creator’s name; may your faith be strong, your compassion boundless, your honor pure, your wisdom infinite, and your freedom everlasting.”
Braya clasped her hands in prayer. “I am thus blessed.” She looked up. “If you’re ready, the Hierophants have gathered for your speech to the army.”
“Very good.” The king rose from his throne. “Let us see them off, then.”
Faircliff’s great hall sat on the peak of a hill, looming over the lower courtyard below. It was filled to the brim with warriors and mages, the first generation of Fosporians born free. At the foot of the great hall, the Hierophants had gathered in all their finery, white stoles draped over robes lined with gold, heavy amulets, and long staffs topped with fiery suns. All paled against Cyril’s finery, however, as he was handed his crown and an ornate scepter.
Below him, the army looked up to him with rapt attention as soon as they spotted their king, and a hush fell over the crowd. Many of them were young and did not know the ways of war, but still, their chests puffed out with pride. Warriors were girded in chainmail and leather, bright white tabards with black suns adorning their armor. Mages carried wands and staffs, and at their head, Princess Floriana rode astride a brilliant white horse, dressed in a long traveling cloak and a silver tiara crowning her red hair to mark her status. Derogynes was at her side, ready to travel on foot; the Andrathi knew of no beast of burden strong enough to carry them on their own.
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