“Sons of Fosporia!” Cyril called out, his hands outstretched. “Twenty years ago, our Prophet, the son of Creation, was taken from us. On that day, the sun itself was shrouded in darkness, and it was the Creator’s will I serve as your king. It has been my grave duty to carry out that sacred task, to protect and guide our people into the Creator’s light. Now, it falls to you to defend our people’s freedom and faith against the heathens of this land. Strike them with all your might, for they have rejected the Creator’s grace and given to savagery and darkness. Show no mercy, for theirs is the way of the Tyrant; ours is the way of God. And as their souls fill the Tyrant’s Halls below, you will win redemption for your own sins, and the Creator will smile upon you. Go now, sons of Fosporia, sons of the faithful—go now and purge the land of the Altani, once and for all!”
A great, roaring cheer went up from the army; warriors raised their swords to the sky, and mages summoned blue flames. Their commanders barked out orders, and the army poured through the gates of the castle to the cheers of a burgeoning crowd that had come up out of the city. The Hierophants turned to Cyril and all bowed low to him as the king walked down to the courtyard, to see his daughter off.
Floriana grinned as she saw Cyril approach, sliding off her horse to meet him. “Do I look regal now, Father?”
Cyril forced a smile, chuckling as he embraced his daughter. “Like a queen.” He paused to look down at her. “You promise not to do anything reckless?”
“Of course,” Floriana grinned wider. “You taught me well. But, if all else fails, I can take cover behind the good ambassador,” she said with a sideways glance to Derogynes.
The broad Andrathi chuckled, patting his well-fed middle. “You could probably hide two of her behind me, my friend, and none would be the wiser.”
“You are to listen to the commanders, and return back here with all haste once this expedition is done,” Cyril said. “May the Creator forgive me if anything happens to you.”
Floriana looked to her side, where Braya was quickly gathering her fellow Inquisitors. There were dozens of them gathering.
“You’re sending Braya and her minions to watch after me?”
The king forced another laugh. “You know me too well.”
Floriana scoffed, pecking her father’s cheek before jumping back on her horse. “You worry too much, Father. You shall see; the Creator is with us.” She exchanged one last smile with her father before she turned her horse around, urging it forward.
Derogynes nodded as he plodded after the princess. “Don’t worry, Cyril. Your God’s been kind to you these many years, I don’t see a reason why he’d suddenly turn spiteful.”
Cyril’s smile slipped away as soon as the Andrathi’s back was turned. “I am ever at his mercy.”
Chapter 6
Glory and Honor
“Brothers!” Hakon raised his sword high. “Bybics! Ilani!” He banged his bronze shield, to the cheers of the warriors below him. “Today, we strike at the Fospars and take back what is rightfully ours! The other tribes will weep with shame when they hear of the glory we carried back to our halls!”
Hakon leaped down from his perch, landing with a heavy thud to look his men in the eye. Besides heavy boots and leather leggings, the warrior wore no armor; Hakon would go into battle as a berserker, letting the rage of Faolen drive him to defeat the tribe’s foes. Only a wolf’s pelt was wrapped around his bare torso, his thick arms and broad chest covered in intricate symbols of blue woad paint, runes to augment his power and to show his devotion to the War God. His head was crowned by the wolf’s head, making him tower even further over the other warriors.
“We march on Springhead, as fat and ripe a Fospar town as we could hope for! Call on Faolen and Aemir, and prepare to send Fospar wretches to Helnya’s halls, so we come home with barges of gold and grain, and take Springhead like she was the best whore of any tribe!”
The warriors roared their approval, banging their weapons and shields and smacking Hakon on the back. He forced a smile; the last bit left a bad taste in his mouth, but he knew the other warriors loved that sort of talk. As Bybic and Ilani began marching through the gates of the village, Hakon was cut off by Alfred’s horse.
“Nice speech,” Alfred muttered, adjusting leather armbands, his bow and a full quiver on his back. “You always knew how to get the most out of simple men.”
Hakon arched a brow. “You seem moody.”
“Do I? Forgive me,” Alfred sneered down from his saddle at Hakon. “I suppose it’s in my nature, as a misshapen, weak-kneed creature.”
Hakon’s eyes widened with realization, Gunnar’s words echoing in his head. “Alfred, that wasn’t…I defended you to your father!”
“Well, you did a poor job of it when you bent your knee and accepted your part in his little coup,” Alfred spat. He glared at his friend, locking his eyes. “Answer me this—did you just say that to please Father? Or are you going through with it?”
“How could you even ask that?” Hakon snapped.
“Well, if there’s going to be a knife in my back, I’d like some warning.”
The warrior turned away, unable to look Alfred in the eye. “It’s what Bybic warriors are supposed to do. We take what we’re worthy of.”
The smaller man narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see. You’re suddenly concerned about looking like a proper Bybic, is that it? Feeling insecure in your reputation, and you want to look like the best Altani warrior, lest people start asking questions about your oh-so-wolf-like ears?”
Hakon’s head snapped back as he glared at his friend, while quickly brushing his hair back to hide the pointed ends of his ears. “Fine. It’s not all that. Your father told me what would happen if you became Jarl. I don’t want to see you get hurt by your kin.”
“Oh! Is that all?” Alfred tugged on his reins, guiding his horse back towards the gate, checking over his shoulder to ensure no one was listening before dropping his voice down to a deadly whisper. “You’ll take the one thing I was destined for, the one thing that was truly mine, and play it as some form of pity? ‘Oh, poor Alfred, the cripple, the bastard, he’s too weak to be Jarl. Poor boy will get hurt!’” Alfred spat at Hakon’s feet. “Well, I’ll tell you this, Bybicson. We all have our weaknesses, and you would do well to remember who has knowledge of those weaknesses before making any power grabs.”
Hakon scowled as Alfred trotted away on his horse, stewing in his own thoughts as Magnus joined him, the short man’s pack loaded with Hakon’s spears and supplies. “Are we joining the rest of the warriors?”
“You’re eager to see us make war on your own people,” Hakon growled, Magnus jogging to keep up with his powerful stride.
“There’s always hope,” Magnus said plainly. “Maybe you’ll have a change of heart.”
Hakon sneered at the Fosporian, and his mood only grew darker as he spotted a familiar figure on the edge of the woods; the child-sized fox that had been at Magnus’ side was watching him. “He’s been there, skulking at the walls for days. That creature’s going to be woven into a cloak if it gets much closer.”
“I don’t think so. Remember what happened the last time the mighty Hakon Bybicson went up against him?” Magnus hid a smile as he left Hakon fuming in a relatively silent tantrum.
The forest was still in the full throes of autumn, with explosions of reds, orange, and yellows all around the raiding party. This would be the last great raid of the year for the Bybics; while the women prepared the village for winter, they would come back with enough food and gold to wait out the snow, and return to pillage the Fospars again come summer. With the Ilani at their backs, they would be able to sack Springhead and leave nothing unscathed. As they marched, the warriors spoke little, but when they set for camp, the Ilani and Bybics sang war songs about the heroes of the Altani, like Fravan Ironhand, Agnar the Berserker, and Dagmar the Shieldmaiden around the campfires, their hard and deep voices carrying through the forests. The weather had been with them, but t
he marching was slow. At the end of the week, they came to the end of the forest at the foot of a mountain pass that marked the edge of Bybic lands.
Hakon looked over his shoulder; unlike the rest of the prominent leaders of the raid, like Jarl Osbren, he rode no horse. It was rare enough to find a beast that could carry him over long distances as it was, but his legs never tired. Over the crowd of warriors, he could see Alfred bringing up the rear. The pale man emerged from the woods, and Hakon spotted the outline of what he knew to be Magnus’ fox. Scowling, he turned to the Fosporian.
“Your fox is following us.”
Magnus shrugged. “He’s not my fox. I don’t know what you expect me to do. He is a messenger of the Creator. I can command him no more than you can command the wind.”
“You’re very sure about your god,” Hakon grunted.
“Are you not about yours, Hakon?” Magnus asked with a sly smile. “My faith can endure hardships. If yours can’t, then I suggest finding something that can.”
The warrior scowled. “Don’t get smug. Just keep Alfred away from that thing.”
Magnus looked back. “Are you quite sure he was talking to the messenger?”
Hakon looked back, snorting in derision when he could see no sign of the creature. That fox was starting to remind him of the white wolf, and it put his teeth on edge. They marched for another two miles before breaking camp for the night, setting their tents in a large crevice carved out of the mountain face. While the Altani gathered around the campfires, orders were barked at the Fospar slaves to cook food for supper.
“My men are on edge,” Osbren grumbled. “The scouts say they saw the witches of the Fospar king skulking ahead of us.”
“They call themselves Fosporians,” Hakon corrected, tearing into a flank of beef.
There was a silent moment as the others stared at him with strange looks.
Ingvar, who was now serving as Hakon’s second, grinned, patting the huge Bybic on the back. “Well, Fospoorans or Fospars, they won’t get past us!” he declared, eliciting cheers from those around the fire.
Hakon grinned, but then his eye drifted over to the far corner of the camp, where Alfred sat alone, poring over some scroll he probably had taken from the temple.
The warrior made his excuses, and moved over to his erstwhile friend. “Alfred?”
The crippled man gave one angry look at Hakon, then immediately scoffed. “To what do I owe this pleasure, oh mighty Jarl-to-be?”
“Stop that.”
“Am I not allowed to be sullen when I found out I’ve been stabbed in the back?” Alfred scoffed.
“Alfred, you…” Hakon sighed. “You’re not strong enough to lead. What would you even do as Jarl?”
“You say I’m not strong enough? What would you know about ruling? What do you know about administration, about ensuring the farmers will bring in enough crops, what the womenfolk need to make clothes and tend the hearth, and that the gods are properly appeased?” Alfred paused, as he looked off in the distance. “If Father did one worthwhile thing in his life, it was stuff the Jarl’s hall full of treasure and build our esteem with the other tribes. I say capitalize on that, and give the Altani a proper king again; the first one since Fravan Ironhand.”
“And why would the other tribes just accept you as king?” Hakon asked.
“And they would accept you, Fospar? At least I actually have Altani blood,” Alfred hissed. Realizing what he had said, he looked about to make sure no one had heard him. “I was hoping I could depend on my loyal warriors to ensure my position.” Alfred shot him a nasty look. “Thank you for disabusing me of that notion.”
“Did you expect me to kill anyone who questions your right to rule? We’d only have the priests and the womenfolk by the end. A Jarl needs strength to rule.” Hakon loomed over Alfred. “I’ve got that.”
Alfred rolled his eyes. “And little else.” He looked over to Hakon, an acerbic smile on his face. “Look at you. Father and the rest of these warriors gave you everything you ever wanted because you were blessed. You killed a boar when you were twelve. And by then, you were already as tall as grown men. Even as a…” the crippled man looked over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Even as a Fospar, the gods smiled on you, and even though I served them dutifully, I had to fight for any scrap of respect or honor that came my way.” His smile faded, and he could no longer look at his friend. “I will never forgive you if you take this from me, Hakon. You got everything else. Let me be Jarl. If it kills me, at least I died as Jarl of the Bybics.”
Hakon sighed, at a loss for words. A long pause had passed before he thought of something to say. “Why were you talking to the fox creature?”
“Who said I was?”
“Come off it, Alfred. I saw you.”
The smaller man shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t your bondsman’s creature. It—”
Alfred was cut off by the low, bellowing sound of an Altani warhorn rolling across the ravine. The horn’s cry ended abruptly, as an unseen arrow found its mark in a sentry’s neck.
“Fospars! Altani, to arms!” Jarl Osbren shouted, rousing the men around him.
“Faolen’s fangs!” Hakon swore, pushing warriors aside as he rushed back to the fire to grab his sword and shield. “Magnus! Get out here!”
The Fosporian man came huffing up with his pack still strapped to his back, as Bybics and Ilani were shouting and running past him. “What’s going on?”
“Your brethren came by for a little visit,” Hakon snarled. “Spear!”
Magnus hesitated for only a moment, and quickly passed a spear into the warrior’s waiting hand. Hakon snatched it up, and immediately hurled it with all his strength at the ravine’s entrance, piercing through a Fosporian’s chainmail. The small army, all wearing black and white tabards, were made of sword-wielding warriors, archers, and finally, the mages, in flowing robes and equipped with their strange staffs and wands brimming with magical power. Filling the ravine and effectively cornering the Altani, they shouted a chant, “Vivanum Paralas! Em nomus Divinam!” A hail of fire rained down on the Altani, balls of flame exploding from dozens of wands.
“Defend yourselves!” Hakon bellowed as he raised his shield and pushed Magnus and Jarl Osbren back, fireballs pummelling his great bronze barrier. Warriors from both tribes scrambled, snatching what they could out of burning tents and readying themselves for a counterattack. Alfred had plastered himself against the rock-face to avoid the mages’ fire. He picked off Fospars with his bow, his arrows finding their mark in half a dozen of the enemy’s host while other Altani roared, brandishing axes and swords before charging at their foe to break the line.
Holding off against the mages’ assault, Hakon snarled, screwing his eyes shut as he focused as he had been trained, summoning his inner rage.
“H-Hakon?” Magnus looked at the warrior, almost reaching out, but Osbren quickly pulled him back, grinning wide as he reached for his own sword.
“Keep a wide berth, Fospar—you’re about to see why your kind will never beat a good Altani warrior!”
Hakon took several deep breaths until the rage took hold of him. He roared like an animal, banging his sword against his shield. His eyes were wild, his muscular build tensed and coiled like a spring, and he was bearing his teeth like fangs. Ingvar had just enough time to look over his shoulder, after burying an ax in a Fospar’s face. “Clear the way—clear a path for Bybicson! He’s gone berserk!”
The Altani pulled back to give Hakon all the room he needed, and then he charged. Pounding against the ground, his powerful legs carried him to the Fospars in a few strides; nothing, not a hail of arrows, explosions of flame, or a solid wall of ice summoned by the mages in panic could stop him. The fierce warrior bellowed and slammed his shield against the ice, shattering it before he raised his sword high and took a great leap, falling on the mages like the wrath of angry gods.
The rest was a maelstrom of chaos, as Hakon’s massive arms threw back mages and warriors alik
e or slamming his shield into his foes with all the force of a rockslide. His sword found purchase again and again, gushes of blood from countless enemies coating the giant Bybic’s body as he pressed on in his carnage. On the verge of consciousness, he could hear the Altani cheering him on, but as they charged again to break the remains of the Fospars’ forces, some drifted too close to Hakon’s reach. Thus did a few excitable Altani shared the same fate as their foes, as it was when anyone crossed a Berserker in the middle of their frenzy.
The Fospars were decimated, and those that survived scrambled out of Hakon’s path. His rage-induced frenzy ebbed, as Hakon became aware that some of the blood that coated his body was his own. A hundred small cuts, from jagged bits of ice, from swords, and arrows that only just missed their mark littered his thickly roped arms and torso, and as he continued to be sapped of his rage, he could feel the pain shoot through his body.
Hakon’s frenzy was finally ended as he roared out in pain; an arrow shot from a desperate archer pierced the warrior’s flank. Another hit his back, and the last mage, with his final breath, slammed a bolt of electric energy at his front, leaving an angry burn mark running up his wide chest. In ragged breaths, Hakon took a few staggered steps before dropping to his knees, his weapons clattering to the ground. He could hear his brothers cheering in victory, but for now, the mighty Bybicson would rest. The Skalds would record that Hakon Bybicson slew forty Fospars alone that day; though the survivors of that battle would call that a gross understatement.
Even in his prone state, Magnus could quickly tell Hakon was breathing. “He lives!” He shouted back to the Altani, who cheered and banged their weapons against the stone ground. “But…” Magnus looked down again, and grimaced. “He’s injured. Badly.”
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