The soldier shuddered as shallow breath filled his punctured lungs. “What would you have of me?” he croaked, his mouth gurgling with half-dried blood.
“What happened here?” Alfred demanded.
“This monster of a berserker, head taller than any man and twice as wide, he fell upon us with all the wrath of the Creator. He slew us all. I fell, but my wounds hadn’t claimed me yet. I heard our priest beg him for mercy, and he complied. He let all our women and children go. I saw my own wife and child—”
“Be silent,” Alfred waved his hand over the man, and slowly staggered to his feet as the soldier’s corpse fell back, dead. The realization dawned on him; even at the height of his berserking, Hakon, it seemed, had gone soft. This could be useful if Alfred needed it.
The road outside Springhead was overflowing with refugees and the defeated army. Floriana hung her head, the bitter taste of defeat still fresh on her tongue. Finally, she turned to Derogynes. “What happens now?”
The Andrathi ambassador sighed. “I won’t lie; I was hoping for a glorious victory to thrill Ardri Gordias. But the Ardri is smarter than he looks. He may yet be impressed by this retreat.”
Floriana arched her brow. “What military commander is impressed by a retreat?”
Derogynes chuckled. “You’d be surprised. Defeat is a reality in war. No one can expect to win every battle.” He gestured back to the refugees trudging alongside the army. “A tactical retreat, especially one for the right reasons, shows prudence over vanity. Lord Daveth made the right decision. And who knows? You may see a victory yet before I must write my report.”
A messenger approached on horseback, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Your Highness!” he gasped as he caught up with Floriana. “Your Highness! Is Lord Daveth near?”
“Daveth is indisposed speaking with Father Thomas, deciding how he can ration the army’s resources to feed the refugees.”
The soldier craned his neck, then looked back to the princess. “I was sent to cover the army’s tracks, and make sure the Altani were withdrawing. And…” he cleared his throat. “I can’t believe who I saw in the woods with the captives! I saw Hierophant Magnus in the company of the Altani army.”
Floriana gasped, covering her mouth. Derogynes’ jaw likewise dropped with awe. “Magnus is alive?” the ambassador demanded.
“I saw him, m’lord, plain as day!”
Floriana looked to the Andrathi as the beginnings of a plan formed in her head. “Ambassador, I think that victory may be closer at hand than we thought.” Without another word, she spurred her horse on, racing back toward the ruins of Springhead.
“Floriana!” Derogynes called after, lumbering as fast as his legs could carry him. “Axer’s flame, wait for me!”
Chapter 9
The Victor Claims His Prize
The march back to Bybic lands was hard, but spirits were high. Already, winter frosts were encroaching on the leaves of the forest, taking longer and longer to melt, but the victorious Altani were marching back with full coffers, the spoils of an entire town on their hands. The gold Hakon had looted from the Church was the most impressive, but leathers, sacks of grain, cattle, new Fospar slaves, and casks of mead and beer were all being carried back through the mountain pass to the Bybic village.
The days had been spent singing more war songs and comparing Hakon to Fravan Ironhand and the first berserker, Agnar. Magnus did what he could to make things comfortable for the Fospar slaves; it had not escaped Hakon’s notice that some looked at Magnus with something on the verge of awe and reverence, calling him “mei dho,” or “beoufem” when they thought the Altani weren’t listening. Hakon’s curiosity won out on a slow day’s march, where the frost was beginning to become a nuisance and turning the paths underneath them to mud and slush.
“So… when are you going to tell me what ‘mei dho’ and ‘beoufem’ mean?” Hakon asked, casting his gaze down at the curly-haired Fosporian.
“Oh, ah…” Magnus seemed almost embarrassed. “You heard that, did you?”
“It’s hard to miss. Some of the Fospars looked like they were about to kiss your feet.”
Magnus sighed. “‘Mei dho’ means ‘my lord’, and ‘beoufem’ means, uh, ‘Blessed One.’”
“Blessed One?” Hakon frowned incredulously. “Just who are you to the Fosporians?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
Hakon shrugged. “We’ve got hours ahead of us before we reach home.”
The Fosporian sighed, stroking his scraggly beard. “Well, in some ways, I suppose you could say I was one of the founders of Fosporia.”
“You’re joking. The Fospars have been our enemies for twenty five years. How old are you?”
Magnus bristled. “I’m forty-six, if you must know.”
“You look younger than me. You expect me to believe you’re more than twice my age?”
The Fosporian smirked, wiggling his fingers in a mysterious gesture. “Magic.”
Hakon rolled his eyes. “So how did you become one of the ‘founders’ of the Fospar kingdom? How’d you take over the Fravani?”
“Well, that’s the thing of it. We didn’t take anyone over. Our Prophet came to the Jarl of the tribe and converted him to our faith. He magnanimously invited us to his tribe’s lands. His daughter, Braya, is one of the members of King Cyril’s court,” Magnus shrugged. “I was one of the Prophet’s disciples. The old Jarl, Lothbrok? He gave me land; a vast farm, quiet, and perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. Soon, people moved near me, and we made a nice little village. I could never stay long, because first Stefan, then Cyril, called on me to help with the governance of our new nation. Stefan never called himself a king. I don’t think he ever wanted such a title. But things changed when he…”
Hakon furrowed his brow. “What happened?”
“Twenty years ago, Stefan’s wife, Suyi, gave birth to a boy, Matthias. Suyi died in childbirth, but the boy was healthy and strong. One day, Altani stole the child away. Stefan was beside himself with grief. One day he went searching for his son, and simply never came back.”
The warrior scoffed. “Impossible.”
Magnus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The Altani wouldn’t steal an infant. Where’s the honor in it? We’re not weasels, slinking into the nest to steal eggs. No tribe of the Altani would ever stoop so low as to kidnap a babe barely out of the womb.”
Magnus bit his tongue. “As you say. After the Prophet’s disappearance, we fell into despair. Cyril stepped in, and to assure the people, crowned himself King. Things changed after that.”
“How so?”
“We didn’t have nobility, no Jarls like you do. Us disciples and the other leaders, we rose naturally, not because we had divine ordination. But Cyril declared us Hierophants; priests and rulers both. ‘We are a people ruled by God,’ Cyril said, ‘should not his earthly representatives serve as the leaders of this mortal realm?’ And I suppose some of the new nobles didn’t really want to argue with him. It seemed things got much more complicated after that. I hadn’t been to Stefanurbem in two years when the messenger came to me and led me into Altani lands.”
Hakon grimaced. Talk of kings and nobles made his mind drift to another issue close at hand, as he caught Alfred throwing him a suspicious look. Off in the distance, they could see the familiar fields of the Bybic lands. “What do you think I should do?”
“About what?” Magnus asked.
“About being Jarl,” Hakon sighed. “Alfred feels I’ve betrayed him.”
“Haven’t you?” the shorter man scoffed. “You’ve taken his entire life away from him, his future.”
“You speak as if I plan to kill him.”
“The choice is ultimately yours, Hakon, but if you want my opinion, your pride is getting in the way of a bigger picture. You’re trying to justify taking something that belongs to your friend because you covet it. You want to be Jarl because it feels right to you; you think you’re owed it. But you�
�re not looking ahead; there’s something greater than being Jarl of a tribe in your future.”
Hakon scoffed. “Are you a soothsayer, now?”
“You’re thinking in short-term, yes? You want to be Jarl because it fits the story you’ve told yourself, and it will keep people from asking questions about your lineage. You have to decide what’s more important to you; some temporary safety and prestige, or your friendship with Alfred.” Magnus eyed Hakon’s angry look at him. “Well, if you didn’t want me to be honest, why did you ask for my opinion in the first place?”
Hakon snorted, still scowling at Magnus. “Never mind.” He stomped off, leaving Magnus trailing behind him. He cut through the mud, only to come across Alfred at the head of the army. The black-clad archer didn’t so much as glance at Hakon as he approached, and when he caught the look on Alfred’s face, it was hard as stone.
“Alfred?”
Still refusing to look at Hakon, Alfred pointed to the distance; the Bybic tribe’s citadel loomed ahead, and over its towering stone walls, long, black banners fluttered in the coming winter breeze.
“Father is dead.”
Word spread quickly through the army; war songs were muted. The taste of victory faded away, as the Bybics approached the village with their heads bowed in mourning, and the Ilani watched with interest, to see who their new ally would be. When they reached the gates, Alfred turned to Jarl Osbren.
“Osbren, it would not be right for you and your men to come inside the gates. The Bybic custom is to mourn in peace; on our own,” the archer said.
The Ilani Jarl scoffed. “Jarl Gunnar was like a brother to me, bastard. I won’t let the likes of you get in my way to pay my respects.”
“Alfred speaks the truth, Jarl,” Hakon said, putting himself between Alfred and Osbren. “The Bybics mourn alone. It is our way.”
The hairy Ilani looked between the two, before finally conceding. “Very well. There is an outpost further south where my men and I can rest before heading home. But…” he attempted a conspiratorial look at Hakon. “Should my brother Jarl need any assistance in ensuring a smooth transition, I’m at his call. I couldn’t wait until spring and the Moot to ensure our brother tribe is properly settled.”
“I’m flattered, Osbren,” Alfred replied with a deathly glare. “My father would be touched at your display of loyalty.”
“Of course,” Osbren muttered, before quickly turning his horse around, and shouting orders to his men.
Hakon looked back to Alfred, whose gaze burned dangerously. “You have one chance, brother,” Alfred hissed. “Declare me as Jarl, strike down anyone who opposes me, and all will be forgiven. But don’t stand in my way.”
The warrior returned the glare as Alfred charged into his ancestral keep, the old Jarl’s guards casting him suspicious glances as he rode past them. Ingvar quietly stepped behind Hakon, clapping him on the back.
“Don’t worry, Bybicson,” he whispered. “Word has gone out to the warriors. We know of Gunnar’s request that you follow him. We follow you. Say the word, and the cripple won’t be a problem for much longer.”
Hakon snarled, shoving Ingvar back. “Leave these games of intrigue for the Fospars. We are Bybics; I won’t slip a sword into a man’s back, especially a brother Bybic.”
Ingvar slowly nodded. “As you say, Bybicson.”
Hakon growled, but left Ingvar without another word as he stormed into the keep. The whole Bybic tribe was there, crowding around the steps leading up to the Jarl’s hall. In a circle, the wise women, all draped in black, had gathered around a pyre, where Gunnar’s withered corpse was ready to be burned.
“Alfred Gunnarson,” one of the Wise Women intoned formally, gesturing to Gunnar’s pyre. “Behold, thy father.”
Alfred slipped off his horse with surprising grace, and even bowed without any assistance. The crowd around the pyre looked on with shocked and wary eyes; they had never seen Alfred move like this. As Hakon drew closer, he soon saw the cause of Alfred’s miraculous recovery; his hands were clenched tight behind his back, and his face was a grimace of pain. He was using his own powers on himself.
“Let the true Jarl of the Bybic people, anointed by the Gods, rise and receive his crown,” another Wise Woman announced, producing the silver crown of the Bybic Jarl.
There was a tense moment as Alfred stood, his breathing ragged as he willed himself to stand and keep up the facade a little longer. He locked eyes with Hakon.
“Let our real Jarl step forward,” one of the old Jarl’s guards shouted. “Jarl Gunnar Siggurdson declared Hakon Bybicson our Jarl with his dying breath! Hail Jarl Hakon! Hail the Son of Gods!”
“Hail Hakon Bybicson!” Ingvar shouted, and soon, the cheer spread to the rest of the warriors gathered. As they spread out among their kin, they jostled and shook the rest of the tribe into declaring Hakon their Jarl. The entire village, save for the Wise Women, were shouting for Hakon.
Alfred’s face soured, and he screwed his eyes shut to temper his emotions. As the cries for Hakon continued, he stared the warrior down.
Hakon looked out to the crowd, and his face fell. He could not look Alfred in the eye. Instead, his eyes fell on the silver crown in the Wise Woman’s hands. It was a tempting sight, and the longer his eyes lingered on it, the more agitated Alfred became. The warrior reached out for it, and gingerly took the crown in his hands. It was an elaborately intricate thing, made of intertwining, swirling patterns of silver set with emeralds.
Looking at it, he felt a familiar swell of pride; one day, there would be songs sung of him in every mead hall, and it would all turn on what he did with this bit of metal. Slowly, he looked up to Alfred, who stared at the crown with the same hunger as himself. Their eyes met, and the smaller man’s pale face betrayed his thoughts; he dared to hope his friend and brother would give the crown to him. A moment passed, and Hakon’s face hardened, his fingers wrapping tighter around it. His hopes dashed, Alfred looked crushed.
The smaller Bybic shook his head, and turned to the crowd. Hakon had made his choice; now he would make his. “Enough!” he cried, silencing the tribe. He glowered at them, throwing every ounce of disdain they had shown him back in their faces. “You brave, honorable men of the Bybic tribe, you who shout for your hero and you don’t even know what he is! Hakon Bybicson isn’t a gift from the gods; he’s a cursed, Fospar foundling!”
The crowd was deathly quiet. After a tense moment, Ingvar drew his sword, pushing his way to the front. “You dishonor your father’s memory by telling lies, bastard?”
Alfred laughed uproariously. “You see? Even when faced with the truth, you can’t stand it. Understand this, my brothers and sisters; I am your rightful Jarl. Hakon’s strength and size aren’t blessings from Faolen; it’s Fospar sorcery! His own mother wasn’t even human; she was of Sinrun’s brood, the very same demons that Fravan Ironhand fought.”
With a twisted smirk, Alfred turned back to face Hakon. “Do you deny it, Fospar?”
Hakon had been shocked into silence, caught like a deer at that moment before the hunter’s arrow was loosed. Alfred’s words numbed him; at a loss, he hung his head.
“Alfred tells the truth. I’m not a Bybic.”
Ingvar stared in dreadful realization at Hakon, shaking his head. “That means… then your pointed ears...?”
The hulking warrior looked back to him, self-consciously brushing his long hair over his ears. “A sign of my inhuman blood.”
The crowd’s faces melted from indignation to suspicion and disdain.
“What’s more,” Alfred continued, his smile growing more twisted, “this Fospar animal couldn’t even slay his own kind. I spoke with the spirits of the Fospars trampled beneath the feet of true Bybic warriors, and they condemned their spawn; they told me Hakon couldn’t even capture a Fospar woman or her children. He let them escape! Do you wonder, men, why you didn’t have Fospar lasses to keep your tents warm on the way back home?” Alfred pointed to Hakon with a flourish. “Here is
your answer!”
The warriors’ expressions became suspicious as they looked back at Hakon. Ingvar had backed away, shaking his head as if Hakon had just torn his own head off. “You lie!” another warrior cried out. “Hakon Bybicson fought by our side since he could hold a sword!”
“Ask him yourself!” Alfred shot back.
As all eyes turned to Hakon, the warrior’s shoulders slumped. “Alfred tells the truth.”
Angry mutterings rippled through the crowd. Alfred’s smile couldn’t have been wider. “As rightful Jarl, then, I stand here before my brothers and sisters, and I accuse you, Hakon Bybicson, of cowardice, dishonor, and deceit. You have disgraced this tribe long enough.” He brazenly cut the space between him and Hakon with as powerful a stride as he could muster. “I challenge you to Dusemor.”
“You want to fight me? In single combat?”
“Until honor is restored, yes.”
The warrior shook his head. “Alfred, I’m not going to fight you.”
“What? Is the great Hakon Bybicson scared to face a real Bybic?”
“There’s no honor in fighting so weak an opponent,” Hakon snarled back.
Alfred scowled at his former friend, and turned back to the crowd. “Bybics! This traitor and fraud refuses to fight for his honor. Will you stand for this insult? Will you allow him to so brazenly trample our traditions?”
The crowd had turned, with angry demands for Dusemor, the Altani duel for honor. Those close to Hakon pushed and shoved at him, goading him to pick up his sword and shield.
“What kind of craven, low animal are you, Bybicson? Scurry back to the mud of the earth you were found in, or stand and fight!” Alfred shouted.
Hakon snarled and grabbed at his sword. “Fine! You want a fight, Alfred?” The warrior beat the pommel of his sword against his shield. “Come and get one! Grab whatever weapon you can stand to lift with your spindly little arms, and see the only reason your father saw any victory for the past five years!”
Alfred wore a deadly smirk. “I don’t need a weapon; the gods favor me now, Hakon.” He held out his hands. “Come and get me, Fospar.”
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