Ages Unending_Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  The Prophet smiled warmly as he rose. “Now that you’re here, I wish to return to Fosporia. Travel with me, to make up for lost time. Our blood is our bond, and now that we have spoken here in Dranasyl, I will be able to speak with you in the waking world. I only ask one promise in return, my son.”

  “What do you wish?” the warrior asked warily, casting a suspicious eye down at Stefan as he stood, dwarfing his father at his full height.

  “No more will you raise your sword in anger. No more will you lash out and demand honor in exchange for blood. You are stronger than most, and I would see it put to good use; only raise your sword in defense of others, in service to the weak, the poor, and the downtrodden. Promise me this, and I will ensure your honor will be restored.”

  Hakon stared at his father, but soon his eyes drifted down. “I do not know if I can do as you ask. I will try.”

  Stefan smirked. “What kind of answer is that? Where is the boldness Hakon Wolfborn is so famous for? Should you not leap at every challenge, prove your worth?”

  Hakon chuckled ruefully. “You sound like a Bybic. Very well, old man.” He grasped Stefan’s wrist in a vice grip, holding it in the traditional way to swear an oath. “You have my word, I shall only ever raise my sword in defense of others.”

  Creideam finally drew near. “You are reunited, then,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now is the time to return to the waking world. Prophecy is at hand.”

  “Prophecy?” Hakon clarified.

  “In time, my son,” Stefan explained with a grin.

  The three walked through the endless, shifting forests and fields of Dranasyl, when at last they came to the willow Hakon had first found his father. “The way ahead is clear, Wolfborn,” Creideam stated. “Walk due south, and you will find your way back.”

  Hakon narrowed his eyes. The rolling fields did not yield to the forests he knew. “That isn’t the way back. Nothing looks familiar.”

  “Have faith, my son,” Stefan patted his son’s arm as he took the lead. “Have faith.”

  Hakon snorted, lumbering behind the Prophet.

  They walked in silence for some time, until at last, Hakon had to grudgingly admit the brush they found themselves in was beginning to look familiar.

  “My son,” Stefan began. “I want you to know I am so very glad to see you. And speak to you.” The Prophet turned around, grinning wide. “Twenty years…it seemed like only yesterday I was lulling you to sleep in your crib. You look like you would smash it underfoot, now.” Stefan turned introspective, tugging at his beard. “I only hope I am not too much of a disappointment. I am not, I hazard to guess, anywhere close to the fiery god you expected.”

  “No, you’re not,” Hakon responded with his own grin. “But don’t worry, old man,” he tousled Stefan’s hair, as one would a child. “I can grow used to you.”

  “How very reassuring,” Stefan muttered, straightening his hair. As they pushed further into the brush, the chill of winter came back, and the twigs and branches that snapped underneath the warrior’s tread were brittle and dead. With the bracing cold once again hitting his bare chest, Hakon knew he had returned. He looked to his side, and saw that Stefan was not there.

  “Father?” he called, but there was no answer. Looking over his shoulders, craning his neck, Hakon was beginning to grow nervous, until he felt a familiar pair of eyes upon him, just up ahead.

  The white wolf’s tongue lolled out in a wolfish grin as Stefan’s voice, tinged with Creideam’s, rang in the warrior’s head. “Now that all is made clear, I trust you will not skin me and offer up my pelt to Faolen?”

  “Depends,” Hakon responded, pressing further south back to Irene’s hut. “I’ll have to see if you get on my nerves, first.” He chuckled as the wolf whined in a shocked tone.

  The two walked side by side until they came to the clearing in which Irene made her home. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed, as Magnus was just coming outside and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Floriana had her arms crossed, glaring imperiously at Hakon.

  “What kind of madman are you?” the princess demanded. “One word, and you fly into a rage. Pray to the Creator in thanks that Magnus was not hurt, because otherwise…” she trailed off as she saw the white wolf trod up to them, tame and passive as a puppy. “You brought him back alive?”

  Hakon looked down at the wolf, rubbing the back of his head and tugging at his hair.

  “Tell them, pup.”

  The warrior sighed. “The wolf is the Prophet Stefan.”

  Hakon rolled his eyes at everyone’s reactions. Derogynes scoffed derisively, smiling wide, certain it was a joke. Magnus could only stare in grave concern, afraid Hakon had gone mad. Irene seemed oddly quiet, but Floriana looked incensed. “How dare you mock us! This beast is not our prophet.”

  “He is,” Hakon responded. “And it was your father who made him this way. Cyril is a traitor.”

  “What?” Floriana demanded. “How dare you, how very dare you! My father is a man of god, a disciple of the Prophet! He would never…”

  “Let him speak, Floriana,” Irene said in a quiet, commanding tone that stole the Princess’ anger away in a moment.

  “Tell Irene that I remember her dearest friend, still,” the wolf instructed. “Tell her that Julia was a good woman,”

  “Stefan wants you to know that he remembers Julia. That she was a good woman,” Hakon recited, and Irene gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “Did you tell him?” the hermit woman demanded of Magnus.

  “No, I swear, I didn’t,” Magnus replied, slowly looking at the wolf with awe.

  “Derogynes will be the biggest skeptic,” the wolf said next. “Tell him that I am all too aware his squadron adopted me as their mascot; and I did not care for being called ‘Legionnaire Pinkskin.’”

  Hakon repeated Stefan’s words, and Derogynes burst into laughter, clutching his middle. “Marvelous, marvelous,” the Andrathi muttered.

  “Are you all going to be taken in by this… deception?” Floriana demanded. “This Altani, this savage beast of a man, is mocking all of us! The Prophet is not a wolf, and my father is not a traitor.”

  “Floriana,” Irene drew close, resting her hand on the princess’ shoulder. “I believe him.”

  “What?” Floriana pushed Irene away. “You too, Aunt Irene? He’s your brother!”

  “And I know what he was like when I was still in his court. Dearest, your father is a conflicted man, and I think I’m beginning to see why. Days before the Prophet disappeared, your father approached me for help. We poured over scrolls from ancient Altun, and I found a spell—a curse, used by Altun Magisters, to turn their enemies into beasts of burden. When I showed him, there was this peculiar look in his eye I had never seen before, one I would never forget. He thanked me but said he saw nothing here that would help the Prophet. Then when Stefan disappeared…”

  Irene gasped as realization sank in, her eyes wide as she fell to her knees before the wolf. “Prophet, Teacher, my Lord, forgive me,” she clasped her hands in prayer. “I had no idea, I couldn’t imagine—I delivered your betrayal into my brother’s own hands!”

  Irene was beside herself, but the wolf only whined in response, bowing his head.

  “He says there is nothing to forgive,” Hakon translated. “That you were lied to just as he was.”

  Irene raised her head, clasping the wolf’s muzzle in her hands and staring into his eyes. “My Lord, is it really you?”

  “He says have faith.”

  Derogynes snorted. “That certainly sounds like him.”

  Magnus had remained silent throughout all the proceedings, and only now did he dare to draw closer, kneeling before the wolf. “Stefan, Teacher, I followed a messenger to your son. I had no idea…” he averted his eyes. “I—I was not as strident as I should have been. I should have spoken out against Cyril. I should have looked for you longer. He said there was no hope, that you were gone. Forgive me, Lord, for I lost my faith
.”

  Hakon frowned at Magnus, feeling a pang of sympathy for the small, curly-haired Fosporian that had been at his side. “He says take heart, for faith, like honor, is not something that can be lost. It is always with you, defined only by you.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Stefan’s voice chided in Hakon’s mind. The warrior nervously glanced down at him, and the wolf returned another grin. “But I like it. Well said, my son.”

  Irene breathed in deeply, rising with a new purpose in her eyes. “Perhaps we have all been a little too complacent in these past years. Well, I say we rectify that. I will go where the Prophet goes, and I say we all should have words with my brother.”

  Chapter 13

  The Faith of Prophets

  Stefan’s disciples and son returned to the camp that Floriana and Derogynes had left behind. The mages who traveled with the princess were skeptical to let a hulking Altani warrior still covered in the war paint of his last campaign into their camp. The wolf did little to ease their concern, but the combined authority of the princess, Hierophant Magnus, and the king’s own sister put their more vocal concerns to rest.

  Hakon, to his credit, was able to win a significant number of them over when he was given a lone spear. The warrior was in the woods for only an hour until he returned with a massive boar slung over his mighty shoulders, the beast plump and swollen in preparation for winter. The mages were only too eager to pass up their meager rations in exchange for roasted pork.

  As the evening went on and dinner concluded, Hakon looked over to Derogynes, his muzzle buried in a book. The warrior moved over, sitting next to the Andrathi’s place by the fire.

  “I’m told, beast man, that you are the representative of your people,” Hakon began.

  Derogynes smirked, snapping his book shut. “We are called Andrathi. I’m the ambassador for Theragos, the world’s oldest nation, feared and respected for our legions and soldiers.”

  “Your people are warriors?” Hakon perked up considerably.

  Derogynes chuckled. “It’s what we are known for, yes. That bronze sword and shield you’re lugging around are very, very old Andrathi weapons. I recognize their make. We traded with the Altun, two thousand years ago. No doubt they were treasured possessions of a long-dead Magister, exotic curios he would bring out at parties.”

  Hakon nodded, his eyes drifting over to the fire. “And, you are a friend of my father’s? One of his disciples?” The last word still tasted odd on the warrior’s tongue.

  Derogynes chuckled, shaking his mane. “Gods above, no. I’m fond of your father, but discipleship is not my style,” he smacked his wide middle. “The food is terrible, or so I understand.”

  “You do not believe he is a Prophet, then?”

  The Andrathi gave Hakon a wry smile. “Wolfborn, your father is a good man. One of the best I have ever known. He has done great things, but I do not believe in his god, and I do not think he is the herald of a new era. We know this as the year 1367 of the Age of Ash; a sober name for a sober era. In thirteen hundred years, every race has offered up Prophets several times over, and they always end the same; the Prophet is either killed or corrupted, their great, divine message falls by the wayside and little changes.”

  “Are there many races in the world, then?”

  “Axer’s mane, where to start? There are my people, the Andrathi of Theragos, the Qingrenese and their sprawling southern empire, the Dwarven kingdoms to the west, the Centaurs on their endless plains, I could go on. Veratos has many, many great and old nations, and they all fight for power and what riches are left in the world.”

  He sighed. “I had hoped things would play out differently for humanity, though. But this business with Cyril is a bitter truth. Strong men rise up, and the weak need to follow or get out of the way.”

  “You sound like some of the warriors I fought with, but you use prettier words than them.”

  “They sound like charming men,” Derogynes grinned. “Do you agree or disagree?”

  Hakon stared into the embers of the fire. “I’m not certain. I thought I was, but I have never had to think about such things for long.”

  The Andrathi chuckled, patting the warrior on the back. “A cautious answer. An Andrathi philosopher once said that the wise know only one thing; that they know nothing. If that is true, then you may be the wisest of us all, Wolfborn.”

  Hakon snarled, but sat in silence until Floriana approached him. “Altani,” she addressed him stiffly, still looking at him with a harsh gaze.

  “Princess,” he replied curtly.

  “I wish to speak to the Prophet,” she said.

  “Very well, what do you want me to tell him?”

  Floriana bristled. “I wish to speak with him in private.”

  Hakon arched his brow. “Unless you’ve learned the tongue of beasts, princess, I must be there. Only I can understand my father.”

  “What I have to say is not for the likes of you!” she declared, flustered.

  “What would you have me do?” Hakon rose. He cast Floriana in his shadow, but she did not budge. “Should I put a stick in his maw and have him write out his message in the dirt? If you want to talk with the Prophet, I must be there.”

  Floriana tapped her foot, then conceded. “Very well.” She ducked out from under Hakon’s shadow and began marching over to where Stefan lay.

  “A word of warning, friend,” Derogynes began, without even looking up from his book. “Floriana may appear as timid as a flower, but she, too, has her thorns. It would be unwise to push her.”

  Hakon snorted, and followed after her. He didn’t get very far until Irene stopped him. “Hold still,” she ordered, and the warrior found himself complying almost instantly. She took out a strip of cloth used for measuring, and stretched out her arms to reach around his wide back.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Irene turned to a pile of cloth at her feet. “Making you a shirt. It won’t do to have you marching about half-naked.”

  “Are you concerned I’ll frighten your countrymen?” Hakon sneered, crossing his arms.

  Irene scoffed. “Hardly. As far as some of the young women may be concerned, I imagine it will be the exact opposite reaction. But winter is fast upon us, and I won’t have you catching your death.”

  “I am not bothered by the cold, woman,” Hakon declared, but Irene ignored him, beginning to sew. “I’m not wearing any shirt you make!” he warned.

  “If you say so, Matthias,” she muttered. “Oh, and I expect you to bathe at the first clean body of water we find.” Hakon bristled, half a dozen protests on his tongue, but he was left sputtering. Flustered, he stalked after the Princess in a considerably darker mood to where his father rested, the wolf gnawing on a bone. Floriana kept a respectable distance, unsure of what to do with herself.

  “Well?” the warrior snapped. “He’s not going to bite you.”

  The princess looked from son to father, and took her few first tentative steps toward him, kneeling down before him. “Prophet? I feel unprepared for this. I am nervous to approach you thusly.” There was a pause as Stefan continued to gnaw on the bone, and Floriana turned to Hakon. “Well? What did he say?”

  “He said it’s rude and unwise to approach a wolf when it’s still eating,” Hakon declared.

  “That’s not what I said,” Stefan chided. “Speak truthfully.”

  “Fine, that last part was me,” Hakon sighed, earning another glare from the princess. “He says you are welcome, and have no need to be nervous. He’s happy to see you.”

  Floriana pursed her lips. “Prophet is there any way you are mistaken about my father? I cannot imagine him doing such a thing. I know him to be a good man.”

  The wolf looked up to meet the Princess’ eyes. “I knew him to be a good man, too. Cyril was once my most favored disciple. But his betrayal was long since written. It pained me, as it pains you, but one good deed does not wash away the bad. When a man shows love to his daughter, it does not
absolve him of sin.”

  As Hakon repeated his words, Floriana screwed her eyes shut, holding back tears.

  “What will you do with him? When we confront him?” she asked.

  Stefan was silent, leaving Hakon unsure, but soon, he spoke. “He says that he does not wish vengeance on Cyril. If he wishes to be forgiven, it will be given.” Hakon frowned as he recited the words, shaking his head in disgust.

  Floriana breathed a sigh of relief, throwing her arms around the wolf and burying her face in his fur. “Oh, Prophet, my lord, thank you,” she cried. “I feared for him. I’m sure he will repent once you speak with him. He still holds you in the highest esteem and venerates your teachings. He even named our capital after you.” She rose, bowing her head. “If this is your word, then I will gladly follow you.” She bowed again, leaving Hakon and Stefan alone.

  Hakon watched her leave, before turning back to his father. “Do you really believe it will be so easy?”

  “I never said that, my son. But Cyril is a son of the Creator, as are all men. No one is beyond His mercy.”

  The warrior shook his head. “Why is your god such a weak creature?”

  “Because the rest, I’ve found, are such monumental bastards. Who are you to throw random insults at gods you barely know?”

  The warrior sneered but relented. “You’re right. It is how the Bybics talk.”

  Stefan drew near to him. “You miss them.”

  “They’re all I know,” he admitted, sitting down and absent-mindedly scratching the wolf’s ears as if he were a dog. Stefan didn’t seem to mind. “It is a hard bargain. The Bybics at camp sing about heroes like the old High Kings. Fravan Ironhand and his vast host, turning back Sinrun’s brood; Otho Bullneck, slayer of dragons, and Dagmar, the first shieldmaiden, Bride of Battle and Mother of Warriors.”

  Hakon chuckled dryly. “And what do your people have? Take the war songs and heroes, and in exchange, there are…” the warrior gestured dismissively to the mages, gathered in prayer, “men grovelling and muttering in a language they don’t understand. Don’t you have any heroes of your own? Any songs to sing by the campfire?”