“Hakon can handle it!” Ingvar shouted back, with more cheers from the Altani. “No Fospar can take down the Bybic’s champion!”
“He was shot twice!” Magnus protested. “Please! He needs healing.”
Alfred crept forward. “How bad is he?”
“That last spell he was hit with was the equivalent of being struck by lightning. It would have killed lesser men,” Magnus urged, then turned to Osbren. “Please, Jarl Osbren. If Hakon is the champion of your raid, he needs proper healing.” The Fosporian looked about the ravine, making sure of his bearings. “I—I know this place. There’s a hermit nearby; she’ll heal him.”
“And why should we believe you?” Alfred shot back. “You’re finally back in your people’s ill-gotten land. How do we know you’re not leading us into a trap?”
“Silence, Bastard!” Osbren shouted. “This is Bybicson’s bondsman, sworn to serve him.” The Jarl lumbered over to Magnus, still leaning over Hakon. “He’s honor-bound to do what’s best for his master, and if not…” The Jarl pulled out his sword, the tip pressed firmly enough against Magnus’ chin to draw blood. “He knows he’ll never see the sun rise again. Isn’t that right, Fospar?”
Magnus gulped, raising his hands. “I want to save Hakon’s life. Please, trust me. I swear on my honor and my life.”
Osbren snorted as he pulled back his sword. “Your life will do; Fospar honor is worth nothing to the Altani.” The Jarl moved back to the warriors and barked orders at the surviving slaves.
Hakon, throughout this, hovered between awareness and unconsciousness. He saw and heard glimpses of Magnus tending to his wounds, his body being lifted by half a dozen slaves into a cart, and the two moons giving way to a new morning. He caught Magnus hovering over him fretfully, Alfred staring at his prone state with morbid curiosity, and the others, taking quick glances at him before reassuring themselves their champion would pull through. Eventually, it all faded into a brilliant, blinding white.
“Why do you hunt me?”
Hakon was shaken by the voice; not by its volume, but by its resonance.
“...What?”
“Why do you hunt me and my pack, Hakon Bybicson?”
The warrior was hit by a rush of awareness. His eyes took in a brilliant blue sky and rolling hills of tall, emerald-green grass that shifted like water as the wind blew on it. Immediately in front of him, however, was the white wolf, sitting tall and staring at him intently with those icy blue eyes.
Hakon felt compelled to strike at the beast, but even as he summoned his strength and twisted his mouth into a sneer, an invisible force pushed him to his knees.
“Peace,” the wolf’s voice washed over him like bracing cold water. “This is the land where life began; death does not walk here.”
“What—what are you?” Hakon snarled, fighting against the force that kept him bound. “Let me go!”
“Do you take me for a fool, Hakon? Tell me. Why do you hunt me, after all these years?”
“The gods are testing me!”
The wolf stared at him. “There is more truth to that than you know, but that is not why you hunt me.”
“For my honor!” Hakon shouted back.
“What do you know of honor? What have you done worthy of it?”
The warrior raised his chin in defiance. “I have killed countless foes in honorable combat and proven my strength countless times. I observe the rites of the gods, and kill the enemies of my tribe without failure or question.”
“Is honor in killing, then?”
“You’re a wolf. Dare you talk to me of honor? You kill all the time,” Hakon spat.
“I hunt and kill to survive, not because honor demands it.” The wolf came closer to the warrior, and he felt the bonds restraining him fall away. “Honor is often found in staying your hand. It is often found in defeating yourself, not your enemies.”
“You speak in riddles,” Hakon accused with a sneer.
“You have lived your whole life obsessed with proving your strength. Why?”
“Strength is power. It’s all an Altani has; it’s what puts him above the beasts of the forest and the Fospar invaders.”
The great beast cast a wolfish grin. “If there is one thing that is so beyond your understanding, it is power. You, the Bybics, the Fosporians, the enemy across the sea—none of you comprehend what power is.”
The warrior scoffed. “And you do?”
The wolf raised his head to the sky to let out a mournful howl. In an instant, the sun fell away, revealing the countless stars and the two, white orbs that watched over the sleeping world. “If you knew all that I know, you would see the nature of power. You struggle in vain, because to understand strength, you must know weakness. To understand honor, you must know shame. To understand power, you must first be at the mercy of others.”
“The Altani would never be at the mercy of others,” Hakon declared.
“Then how fortunate that you are not an Altani,” the wolf said plainly.
Hakon’s temper flared, and he jumped up, looming over the wolf. “I am Hakon Bybicson! I am who I say I am!”
The wolf looked up, and much of Hakon’s anger was sapped as he was drawn into those commanding eyes. “At last, you begin to understand.”
Hakon took in a deep breath, almost shivering from his experience. Everything still hurt, and he was only just on the edge of consciousness. Still, at his center, there was a lingering feeling of peace. It emanated inside him, like the warmth of a hearth in the dead of winter, and he once again slipped in and out of the waking world, but instead of delirium and pain, he fell into restful sleep.
He saw only glimpses once more; he saw a hut of slate stone and a sod roof, and an inside cluttered with herbs and books, but otherwise clean and inviting. He felt the warmth of a real hearth touch his body, and he saw a woman, with a thin and hard face but deep, soulful eyes like honey tend to him.
In his prone state, what control he had slipped away to this woman. She waved a wand over his body, muttering under her breath, but the effect was not the iron-gripped thrall Alfred had locked him into when communing with the dead, but a firm, motherly hand, sealing his wounds and pulling pain out of him. Finally, when sleep claimed him again, it lingered without interruption.
After what felt like an eternity, Hakon awoke. He felt no pain; his wounds were healed. He tried to sit up, but to no avail; he could not move. Panic overtook him, but he couldn’t so much as lift a finger. After a few moments, the warrior tried to calm himself, and listen. He heard voices whispering low, and he saw their silhouettes stretched across the wall, illuminated by the fire of a hearth.
“What are you doing with these people? They killed Stefan.” Hakon didn’t recognize the voice. It was a woman’s, sharp and commanding, made bitter over the years, but there was still a touch of warmth to it.
“That’s what I thought, as well. Cyril lied to us.”
Hakon frowned. That was Magnus.
“Cyril? He would never. You need to get the big one out of my house. I can’t do more for him. He’s catatonic. If the Inquisitors knew I helped the Bybics…”
“Not until he’s well.”
“He’s been lying there stiff as you like for days. What makes you think he’s going to get better at all?” the woman’s voice snapped.
There was a pause before Magnus replied. “You need to understand, this is a very delicate situation. I had a messenger from Dranasyl.”
Hakon didn’t hear what the woman said, but he could see her silhouette clap its hand around its mouth.
“After all this time? I thought we were abandoned.”
“I thought as much, too. That’s why I had to leave so suddenly. It demanded I follow, and he led me to Hakon.” Magnus leaned in closer, and it was all Hakon could do to make out the words. “Talking about it upsets him, and if the rest of the Bybics found out, they would kill him. But Irene, I’m telling you. Look at his eyes, and you’ll know why I’ve had to stay. Hakon Bybics
on is the one we’ve been looking for all these years.”
Chapter 7
On the King’s Road
Derogynes had never seen the interior of the Fosporian kingdom; his association with the young country’s rulers had only ever brought him to Stefanurbem and a few coastal villages. The human followers of Stefan at least picked a pretty enough place to run away from their Qingrenese masters; beyond Stefanurbem’s dramatic sea cliffs were rolling plains, crystal clear rivers, and rich forests.
Despite the millions of poor wretches that had come to these untamed shores in a matter of a few decades, their villages still seemed little more than footholds on the edge of a vast, untamed wilderness. Such was the army’s current destination, Faith’s Crossing, a small collection of thatched cottages huddled around a stone church; a cluster of humanity in the center of a patchwork of cultivated fields which had been harvested.
Floriana rode up next to the ambassador, sighing contentedly as she looked down at the village. “It is good to be out of Stefanurbem. Are you sure you’re satisfied traveling on foot, Ambassador? Someone of your stature is permitted to ride in a cart.”
Derogynes gave the princess a quick grin. “My wives have nagged me about exercising more; I would be loathe to disappoint them. They’d claw my eyes out.”
Floriana chuckled, but her smile faded as she looked closer at the village. “Something’s wrong. Look at the plume of smoke.”
A pillar of black smoke had belched up from outside the church, wafting higher and higher into the sky. Derogynes immediately furrowed his brow. “Raiders already?”
“They were going to hit Springhead. If they’ve drifted this close to Stefanurbem, we’re in more trouble than we thought.” Floriana tugged on her reins, and waved down the Army’s leader, a gruff-looking warrior and Hierophant named Daveth. “Lord Daveth! Signal the warriors! Faith’s Crossing is under attack!” The princess spurred her horse on ever faster to rally the mages.
As the small army raced to the village center, Floriana slowed, her eyes gradually growing wide. There were no Altani savages, none that she could see. As the rest of her forces clustered around her, they were met with the white and black banners of King Cyril, and men and women in the black robes of the Inquisitors. Before them was a great pyre, the flames reaching higher than any building in the village, and the princess gasped when she saw what was being consigned to the fire.
“You’re burning books!” she declared, and then struck the ground beneath her with her staff, summoning a great gust of wind and rain that buffeted the flames and sapped them of most of their strength.
The leader of the Inquisitors turned, and immediately fell to her knees when she recognized the princess. “Your Highness!” She looked up, and Floriana was met with Braya’s intense gaze. “We are honored by your presence.”
“Braya, what are you doing?” Floriana demanded as she slid off her horse. By this time, the village was quickly becoming overcrowded, as Derogynes and the rest of the army gathered behind her.
“We are acting on your father’s orders, Princess,” Braya explained, gesturing to the dying fire. Just to the side, clapped in irons and flanked by armor-clad Inquisitors, was a wealthy looking man, and two others in plain clothes. “These heretics were spreading subversive materials; hateful books filled with Qingren’s lies and stories of the Altani pagans. They are in violation of the virtue of Wisdom, and must be punished for spreading lies and heresy.”
“Princess!” the well-off man cried, chafing against the restraints the Inquisitors had locked on him. “Please, mercy! I am merely a humble merchant, selling exotic goods and books from Qingren a-and stories the Fravani told me! People here, some want to hear stories about Fravan Ironhand, and others are just homesick, that’s all! They were raised on stories about Mei and Xian, and other Qingrenese heroes! I-is it a sin to miss the familiar?”
“Silence!” Braya barked, aiming a wand at the man, a bolt of lightning smiting the ground next to him. “To make us glad to hear tales of ancient savages, or worse yet, yearn for the land we were held in bondage? I can think of no greater sacrilege!”
“Braya, have you lost your mind?” Floriana snapped, her face fixed in shock. “How are you adhering to wisdom by burning books and clapping booksellers in chains? Release him, immediately!”
The Inquisitor gave the princess a hard look. “I am under your father’s orders. Unless you carry further orders from him?” Braya presented her with a parchment, and Floriana’s heart sank as she saw her father’s seal at the bottom.
“I…” The princess tried to regain her composure, but she had been sapped of most of her willpower. “I don’t. Braya, this is wrong.”
“With all due respect, Princess, your father is the chosen of the Creator. He cannot do wrong.” Braya stepped forward, the intense-looking woman resting a patronizing hand on Floriana’s shoulder. “I know this is hard to see, but this is what we must do to walk the narrow path of Holy Virtue. This is what the Prophet commanded in the Book of Truth; ‘Wisdom is ever the guiding light of the Path of Virtue, for its light is pure. Never can it be tarnished by lies.’”
Floriana’s face fell. She looked from the smoldering books to the merchant on his knees. “I…” her voice was soft. “Forgive me, Inquisitor Braya. I was unaware of my father’s orders.”
The Inquisitor offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You have your mission, Your Highness, and I mine. You ensure our people remain free; I ensure they remain virtuous.” With a bow to the princess, Braya turned to the merchant, and began uncoiling a whip that, with a flick of her wand, ignited in flame. “And thus does Honor purge away sin, with the intensity of the flame and the power of the flood…’” Floriana turned away, unable to watch as the merchant continued to cry for mercy.
But as Braya wound up her arm, her fist was enveloped by much larger, clawed fingers. Derogynes had stepped forward, casting the blond woman in shadow. “I’m afraid, Inquisitor Braya, I can’t allow you to do that.”
“Allow?” Braya scoffed indignantly, wrenching her hand free of the Andrathi. “I answer to an authority that is of the Most Holy; what authority do you throw around, Ambassador?”
Derogynes smiled mildly. “That of Ardri Gordias, Chosen of the Gods of the Andrathi. In a way, Inquisitor, I am answering to a most holy authority, as well.” He gestured to the merchant. “That man is now under the protection of Theragos. Touch him, and you risk the wrath of the Andrathi Legions. And do you want to slink all the way back to Stefanurbem and explain to Cyril why his best chance for an ally is now at war with him, hmm?” The Ambassador spoke with a deceptively pleasant tone, that same smile still plastered on his face.
Braya stared with disbelief at Derogynes, before scoffing and gesturing to her men, who released the merchant and his assistants, leaving them gasping with great relief. The Inquisitors mounted their horses, and prepared to ride off. Braya lingered, looking down at Floriana.
“My mission will carry on, for heretics and sinners are as numerous as the blades of grass. Have a care, Your Highness, what company you keep, and what words you listen to; ‘For the words of liars taste sweet as honey, but hide bitter poison,’” she recited, with a pointed look at the Andrathi before riding off.
Derogynes rolled his eyes, glancing over at Floriana, who looked like she wished the earth would swallow her whole. “That woman seems to forget which of us actually met her Prophet.”
The merchant warily approached the Andrathi, and then, when Derogynes turned to face him, he bowed floridly. “Great Andrathi, m’lord, sir, we thank you for your deliverance. We never meant any trouble, we swear! My assistants and I were just trying to make a decent living.”
The Ambassador chuckled good-naturedly. “Oh, I just like to tweak the noses of the self-righteous. Thank you for providing me the opportunity.”
“If there’s anything we can do to make it up to you, just name it, my lord Andrathi,” the Merchant declared.
D
erogynes grinned, his fingers tapping the rim of his wide middle. “You wouldn’t happen to sell anything edible, would you?”
The army set up camp a few miles south of Faith’s Crossing, a sprawling collection of tents and campfires that easily matched the village in size. Floriana and Derogynes had their needs attended to as best as soldiers could, providing them with warm, comfortable tents near the center of camp alongside the tents of the commanders and Lord Daveth. The Andrathi ambassador had eaten like a king, as the merchant had been well-supplied with wine and spices from around the world. He was now resting from his feast, one hand idly resting on his full stomach as he perused through a book, sprawled on a bedroll outside his tent.
Floriana had been quiet throughout the evening, and had not touched a single morsel of food. Her encounter with Braya had left her with an unsettling combination of shame, guilt, and helplessness. She had stared into the dying embers of the fire before she looked over to Derogynes, and dared to move closer.
“Ambassador?”
“Hmm?” the Andrathi snapped up his book, and idly shook his rich, scarlet mane as he looked up. “What’s on your mind, Flora?”
The princess sighed, nervously rubbing at her sleeve before she lowered herself on to the grass next to the Andrathi. “I acted poorly today.”
Derogynes waved it off. “Inquisitor Braya is an intimidating woman. And she had you ensnared with your father’s orders; don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Floriana shook her head. “I should have stood my ground. She flashed father’s seal in my face and threw verses from Stefan’s writings, and I just fell apart.” She stared down at the grass.
“Hah,” the Ambassador chuckled, sitting up. “I’m an ambassador, my dear; if I can’t stand my ground and bargain with a hard-faced fanatic, I’m not fit for my job. You’re a princess. You’re not used to people telling you ‘no,’ so you were unprepared for it. The important thing is that the Merchant and his people are safe, and they were willing to part with a very fine Qingrenese plum wine. It all ended well, no?”
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