Ages Unending_Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  Hakon’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but he turned back to hacking apart the last tree. “From what I understand, I killed her by being born; my first victim.”

  Irene cut a path to Hakon, taking his face in her hands and pulling him down to meet her in the eye. “Your mother died because the Creator called her home. You didn’t kill her. Don’t think such a horrible thing about yourself. In that, you’re innocent.”

  Hakon grunted, pulling away from Irene. “I cut enough logs to get you through the next few weeks, hopefully,” he pointed to a pile of wood leaning against the wall.

  “Matthias? Thank you.” Irene gestured to the door. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  The warrior was about to follow her inside when they heard the neighing of a horse, and turned to see that Irene had visitors.

  One was a young woman Hakon’s age. She had fiery red hair and piercing blue eyes, wrapped in a thick cloak that belied her fine clothes underneath. She gasped and beamed as she saw Irene, running at the older woman and embracing her tightly.

  And while the beautiful young woman did not go unnoticed by Hakon, his attention was turned on the strange beast accompanying her. “What is that?” he demanded, looking for a weapon.

  “Oh, Creator above,” Irene fumbled for her wand, breaking out of her hug with the young woman, pointing the magical device at Hakon. “Speak our tongue, Matthias.” She waved to the lumbering beast tending the horse. “Derogynes! The big one’s never seen an Andrathi, don’t excite him.”

  “Far be it from me to frighten a new friend!” the beast called back, and Hakon’s eyes went as wide as they could as he stared at the horned creature lumbering up to him, its round belly and thick arms nearly too big for its clothes. “Gods above, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human big as you,” it said to Hakon. The beast, with its horns and fiery mane, stood at eye level with the warrior, which was enough to make him feel ill at ease.

  “What do they feed you folk in the Altani lands? I am Secundus Isauri Derogynes, Ambassador of the ever-worthy Ardri Gordias. And you are?” He offered a clawed hand, which Hakon could only stare at.

  “It’s polite to shake, Matthias,” Irene said pointedly.

  Hakon never tore his eyes off Derogynes as he cautiously shook the Andrathi’s hand. “You are not of Sinrun’s brood, then?”

  “What is Sinrun supposed to be?” the Andrathi chuckled good naturedly.

  Irene led the young woman over to Hakon. “And this is King Cyril’s daughter. My niece, Princess Floriana.”

  Floriana was about to speak when both she and Hakon stared at each other with sudden recognition.

  “You!” Floriana grabbed her staff, pointing it at the warrior, her face suddenly hard. “You were one of the Altani savages that burned Springhead to the ground! You have Hierophant Magnus captive—what have you done with him, monster?”

  “He’s my bondsman, and he’s inside,” Hakon said brusquely, grabbing the end of the staff and forcing it down. “And you can stop pointing sticks at me, little gir—augh!” the warrior pulled back his hand, freshly burned by magical fire.

  “Play nice, children,” Irene muttered. “Magnus is still inside, asleep. He’s been through a rough ordeal. How did you know to come here?”

  “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” Floriana shook her head. “We left a camp of a few mages about a day’s ride behind. When our scouts reported that Hierophant Magnus was alive and in Altani hands, I took it upon myself to deliver a disciple of the Prophet back to the faithful. Derogynes joined me so he could see firsthand what sort of queen his Ardri will be dealing with. The mages joined us in our search, but when I was in my morning prayers, I saw a white wolf. It was the biggest wolf I had ever seen, and it led me here.”

  Hakon had been staring at Floriana with rapt attention as soon as she mentioned the wolf. “No! The beast is here? Where?” he demanded.

  “The wolf went off to the north, alongside the hills here…” Floriana trailed off as Hakon raced into the hut and reappeared with his sword. “What are you doing?”

  “That beast has been a sign of my misfortune for too long,” the warrior declared. “I’m going to do what I should have done ages ago, and kill it.”

  “Wait, Matthias!” Irene tried to stop him, but the warrior had dashed into the woods as fast as an arrow loosed from the bow, his berserker rage fueling him with the strength to carve a path through the forest.

  The warrior did not have to travel long before he spotted the beast, and his heart leaped with the thrill of the hunt. “Faolen!” he called out. “Banished or not, I will offer this pelt up to you!” He pointed his sword at the wolf, now staring at him with those icy blue eyes. “You will not taunt me, ever again! I have lost my honor, but I will rebuild it with your pelt as a foundation.” The wolf paused, then bolted out into a run, deeper into the forest.

  Roaring with a bestial rage, Hakon tore through the snow, the sleet, and the mud, slicing through branches with his sword and shoving anything that stood in his way. The snow receded as the forest grew deeper and thicker around him, but he paid it no mind. The autumn colors returned, and at the end, he could see strands of sunlight piercing through. Seeing the wolf’s tracks on the muddy ground beneath him, he charged onward, leaping through the brush and into the sunlight, and there, he stopped.

  Autumn had fled. The grass beneath him was tall and green, the trees full, and above him, a pure blue sky, with a gentle summer breeze caressing his face. A river cut through the valley, swift and clear, its banks teeming with willow trees whose tendrils draped down at the water’s edge.

  “It—it’s not possible…” Hakon murmured. Any signs of the wolf had melted away. He took a few steps into the valley, swerving around and craning his neck for any sign of the beast, and then, he heard he was not alone.

  “O Sacra Luni, sacra Denae,

  Sumra carim el aeternibiqun,

  Sumra virtra el meraciqun,

  Carun nus vos, carun nus votamcem,”

  Hakon furrowed his brow. A man’s voice, rich and resonant, carried across the field. As he followed it, the warrior realized he could understand the speech.

  “Sacred light, holy God,

  Let us know of honor’s price,

  We are brave within the light,

  Let us fight for you, e’er to serve you,”

  Rushing toward the voice, Hakon spotted a man in plain brown robes, lounging in the shade of a willow tree, a well-worn staff and traveling sack leaning against the trunk.

  “Sacred light, Creator of life,

  Sacred light, Father of all,

  Sacred light, Eternal love,

  We will love others, as you have loved us”

  The man’s singing ended as Hakon approached him, and he turned to face the warrior. He was a middle-aged man, his pleasant looking face framed by a tangled nest of brown hair streaked with silver and a thin mustache matched with an otherwise full beard. He smiled warmly and patted the ground next to him.

  “Rest, friend. It’s a fine day to take in nature’s beauty, no?” His voice was warm, but had an oddly clipped accent Hakon could not quite place.

  “I hunt the white wolf,” the warrior responded tersely. “Have you seen him? What is this place?”

  “Sit down, Hakon Wolfborn,” the man insisted, still smiling. “The beast you hunt frequents this place. You’ll see him cross by again soon enough; just be patient.”

  Hakon narrowed his eyes but sank down beside the man, under the shade of the willow tree. “How do you know my name?”

  “Who wouldn’t know of the famous Hakon Wolfborn, hmm? The greatest warrior of the Bybics, terror of the Fospars.” The man smirked, pounding his chest. “Your father must be proud.”

  “What do you know about my father?” Hakon snapped.

  “It’s merely a compliment, child. Why are you so angry?”

  The warrior grumbled. “I was banished from my tribe. Everything’s been taken from me. My honor was
taken from me. Even that name you know me by is an insult.”

  “What is honor, that it can be lost? Is it no different than courage or strength, and these things cannot be taken from you, can they?” Hakon caught the stranger’s eyes in the shade of the tree, and they seemed instantly familiar.

  “I suppose not,” Hakon conceded, still a little guarded. He was trying to get a good look at the man’s face again, but however he craned his neck or shifted from his spot, the stranger was now obscured by shadow.

  “Honor is defined by what we are when no one else is watching. It is what we do when we are at our lowest point. It sounds like you’ve reached that point, so if anything, you’ve only just begun to gain honor. Don’t you agree, Matthias?”

  The warrior’s heart sunk in his chest as realization dawned on him. “How do you know that name?” He demanded.

  “Because, my son,” the man turned to face him fully, reflecting the summer green color of Hakon’s eyes. “I am Stefan. Sit and rest awhile; the beast you have long hunted will return shortly.”

  Chapter 11

  The Usurper

  Cyril looked from Braya’s report to Bai Feng. “The deed is done, Ambassador,” the king sighed heavily. “The Inquisitors have finished collecting three hundred souls for your Hegemon’s ‘honor.’” He spat at the ambassador’s feet.

  Bai Feng bowed solemnly. “I have received further instruction from Hegemon Kazan to offer you a pay of commission for…” The Jaoren fidgeted. “F-for future transactions.”

  The Fosporian king narrowed his eyes. “He wants more?”

  “The slave riots have grown… unmanageable. The ones left call themselves Kosmari, and they are rallying behind a leader, a woman named Merina who claims to speak with your god.”

  Cyril scoffed. “A false prophet.”

  “Divine Kazan warns that part of the commission pay is for reparation, should any of the captives need to be made an example of, as hostages.”

  “Of course.” Cyril leaned back in his throne as he stared up at the tall windows that lined the great chamber. Rays of golden sunlight were showering down on him, and his mind drifted before he called himself back to the Jaoren before him. “I don’t mind telling you anymore that I was playing a long game with Taizong. I wanted a violent rebellion. When Stefan left that sniveling coward live, I thought it was a mistake; I knew you dagger-eared snakes would come back for more if you weren’t made to fear us. I was convinced the longer I kept people in Qingren, the sooner the revolution would come. Now that it has, I find myself aiding and abetting the very man who would keep humans in bondage.” He sneered bitterly. “Life is full of these little ironies.”

  “I would not wish to add more when Your Highness speaks of such things with such… clarity.”

  “Ever the diplomat. You profit from this, don’t you?”

  Bai Feng bowed low. “Ever-wise Kazan knows of my distaste for this situation, so he has granted me a majority of the profits for overseeing the transaction of captives.”

  “Fascinating how money can make distasteful things appealing, no?” Cyril stood from his throne, casting his eyes down at the ambassador. “You’re just like the rest of your people. You look down on humanity and see nothing but tools to be used, then hide behind your ‘civility’ as if it gives you an excuse to take advantage of people in need. When Altun fell and we were cut off from our magic, you swooped in like vultures picking clean the carrion. I pray fervently to the Creator that this Merina burns Qingren to the ground.”

  The Jaoren was beginning to understand why his predecessor’s patience did not last long dealing with Cyril. “Perhaps, good King, if you were so willing to use the slaves you swore to protect for your own vengeance, we are not so different.”

  He regretted those words immediately. Whatever else he was, King Cyril had a talent for magic that would rival that of the Sage Lords back home. Cyril took out his wand, the end sparking with flashes of lightning, and his eyes were wide and red with anger. Bai Feng braced for impact, his hands flexed as he prepared a defensive measure, but he watched with relief as the king’s anger left him, his face falling and the sparks of his wand dying.

  There was a tense silence as Cyril sank back into his throne. “Go,” he said in a deathly quiet whisper. “Get out of my sight.”

  The ambassador needed no other cue, bowing and quickly making an exit. As soon as the Jaoren left, the guards barely had time to open the doors as two heavily armored Andrathi barged in. These were men of the Legions, said to be the world’s greatest soldiers hardened from years of bitter fighting. They stood tall and proud in polished scale armor and heavy red cloaks, wielding massive spears and shields as tall as ordinary men emblazoned with the roaring, fiery-maned visage of their god, Axer.

  Unlike Derogynes, they were rough-hewn beasts, with long scars littering their feline muzzles, cast in seemingly permanent frowns, and sinewy, powerful limbs under their armor. The senior soldier had a black mane, dark, oaken brown fur, and a chipped horn. His rank was marked by a gold edge along his cloak, and he beat his fist against his chest, approaching the throne and bowing curtly.

  “Captain Sanidus. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Cyril asked wearily, barely looking at the Andrathi.

  “Word has reached us of the outcome of the Battle of Springhead. Your army was routed, King Cyril.”

  Sanidus was answered with a sour look from the king. “I am aware of the outcome of the battle.”

  “Our Ambassador traveled with that army. He is reported missing, along with your daughter. I will remind you, King, that I was appointed to protect the ambassador.”

  “Then you should have traveled with the army, shouldn’t you?”

  Sanidus snorted, shaking his mane. “The ambassador gave me orders to stay here; as my superior, I was duty-bound to follow his commands. He was confident in your assurance your army would keep him safe.”

  “I hope, Captain, that you are getting to the point?” Cyril snapped. “In case you’ve forgotten, my daughter is with him, so I have a vested interest in ensuring their safety.”

  The Andrathi nodded brusquely. “I have commands from Ardri Gordias which state, plainly, that should any harm befall Secundus Isauri Derogynes, any agreement between the Kingdom of Fosporia and the Dominion of Theragos is null and void, any pretense of friendship forever cast aside.”

  Cyril stared at Sanidus. “Understand this, Captain. I care about Derogynes because he is a friend and comrade, and I will endeavor to find him and my daughter. But do not come in here and deliver threats to me. You think I fear Gordias? If there is no alliance, then that suits me fine. Fosporia has survived and prospered these twenty years without any of the supposed great powers of this world, because we have the blessings of the God who made it. And what is Theragos’ power in comparison to the Creator?”

  “And the armies of the Hegemon, will your Creator protect you from them, King Cyril?” Sanidus retorted.

  Cyril faltered but recovered himself. “Qingren will not invade. I have made certain of that.”

  Both Andrathi exchanged disdainful looks. “We are aware. Your contract with Bai Feng to appease Hegemon Kazan with your own countrymen is a topic of great interest to the Andrathi, and one we find lacking in all honor.”

  The King narrowed his eyes. “And how did you come across such a slanderous rumor?”

  Sanidus struck his spear against the stone floor. “Do not dishonor me with lies, King. Hegemon Kazan will boast openly of how he has you cowed to all the world, and this talk has spread to all dignitaries of other nations. If that were not enough, the stream of ‘heretics’ flowing into your dungeon would be cause for grave concern.”

  Sanidus bowed his head respectfully as Cyril’s face began to contort in rage. “Do not misunderstand me. I do not broker in blackmail. You can keep this dark secret from your people if you so wish, isolated as you are from the rest of the world by an ocean. But the rest of the world knows your shame, King Cyril. We know how the K
ing of Fosporia abandoned his people to wallow in slavery, and then sells more of his own back into it to preserve your throne. In this, you are no more worthy of honor than the human lords of Torinus that first sold their own into slavery.”

  The king shook in indignant rage, but his voice remained level. “You have delivered your message, Captain. I can see why Derogynes was given the appointment of Ambassador.”

  Sanidus bowed once more. “I am a soldier. I have no use for honeyed words. But I am still part of this diplomatic mission, so let us be plain. An alliance is still possible, but it will depend on Derogynes’ survival and his impressions of your daughter. We will make Fosporia our Phas Fratan because of the Prophet Stefan’s past deeds and reputation, and your daughter’s potential. Not because of you.” The Andrathi did not wait for Cyril to respond, and both marched out without another word.

  The king was red in the face and shaking. He shot a dangerous look at the guards and waved them off. Alone with his own thoughts, he let out an anguished cry, fell to his knees and threw off his finery. In nothing more than the plain, white robe he wore under all the regalia, he turned to the sunlight streaming down, and clasped his hands in prayer.

  “Aedanus, doshundim utet auror, emt caliborim nus cefae!” Cyril cried out, banging his fists against the stone floor. “Creator, forgive me my trespasses, unburden me from sin. Touch me with your light, and restore my purity. Creator, forgive me my trespasses, unburden me from sin. Touch me with your light, and restore my purity. Creator, forgive me my trespasses—”

  “And when has that prayer ever been answered?” a voice replied. “You have been saying it for twenty years.”

  The King gasped, turning to face a creature he had dreaded to see. Though it stood no taller than a child, it was what the creature answered to that left Cyril petrified. A Vocendi stood before him; the messengers of Demons.