“Give us time, my son. Fosporia is barely into its second generation. Legends are not grown overnight.” The wolf yawned and stretched out, lying at Hakon’s feet. “Maybe you will serve as one.”
The next morning, it was decided that Hakon would walk among the Fosporians as one of their own. Irene had taken over his waking routine with all the vigor of a conqueror, ordering him into a stream to wash away the last of his war paint and the stink of the road. His long copper hair was brushed back, revealing Hakon’s pointed ears, and he was forced into the linen shirt Irene had prepared for him. It fit fine across his broad frame, but he drew the line at the sleeves; he tore at them and rolled up the remains, leaving his arms bare.
“It’s to move better in battle,” he had protested, crossing his arms and pouting as Irene gave him a disapproving look.
“Fool boy, if you go looking for a battle in every village we stop in, we won’t reach Cyril until he’s a withered old man,” she had replied, but let the subject drop. For now. While the rest of their companions rested their feet and tried to keep warm against the encroaching cold, Hakon, Magnus, and Stefan moved ahead to the nearest settlement, just a half hour’s walk from their camp.
The town of Valorem was much like Springhead; a farming and trading town situated near the banks of a river, with wood and thatch roofs frosted with the first chills and ice of winter, the ground gray and dead as it waited to be smothered by snow. It, too, was ringed by a wooden palisade, but the gates remained open, if under heavy guard.
“I know the priest here,” Magnus said, walking alongside Hakon with a wooden staff in hand. “Mother Ysolde. Like all our Priests, she serves as the town’s leader.” He pointed to a tall stone steeple that peaked over the rest of the buildings. “The church is one of the finest in this area; Valorem is a prosperous place.”
The Fosporian’s eyes drifted from the gates to a sprawling encampment clinging to the town’s edge. “Oh, Creator…”
“What is it?” Hakon asked.
The shorter man sighed. “It’s a refugee camp. From Springhead.”
Hakon grimaced. There were at least a dozen tents huddled against the town’s wooden wall, most of them filled with women and children. He was used to seeing the grisly face of war, but he had spared little thought to the aftermath. The end of a battle meant reveling in glory, boasting in the mead hall and staking his claim on the bounty. The burying of dead and clearing the battlefields were tasks for women and old men.
But there was no glory in this. Children cried out for food, and gaunt mothers with weary faces did what they could to hold everything together. The few men that had survived gathered on the road; many had been crippled in the fighting, and they begged for food and coin from passers-by.
Hakon turned his head as Magnus knelt down, dropping a few coins into one of the beggar’s cups and offering a small prayer. He recognized the man, and some of the women, as well, from the raid; he felt a heavy lump settle in his stomach with the recognition. As they approached the gate of the town, they could hear a man arguing with a guard.
“Please, you must help us get some food from the merchant Grent! Mother Ysolde promised he would feed us!”
“Mother Ysolde isn’t here, so I can’t know what she promised you. Back away from the main road; the people of Valorem need food and coin too, and stopping trade from coming in won’t make it easier for anyone.”
Hakon frowned, resting a hand on his sword as they approached the guard, who barred their passage by holding out his spear.
“State your business before entering Valorem,” he ordered bluntly.
Before Hakon could say something regrettable, Magnus stepped forward. “My child, do you mean to say you do not know who I am?”
“I…” the guard looked at Magnus’ face uneasily. “Your face looks familiar,” he conceded.
“I am Hierophant Magnus, a disciple of our Prophet, and friend of King Cyril,” Magnus declared, suddenly carrying himself with an air of authority Hakon had never seen him with, holding his head high and brushing idly at his tattered brown robes as if they were a King’s finery.
The guard looked him up and down, then his eyes widened with recognition. “My lord! Blessed One!” He quickly saluted the curly-haired man. “Forgive me, in your mercy. What brings you to our humble town?”
“I would speak with your leader, Mother Ysolde.”
The guard frowned uncertainly. “Do you not know, my lord? All the Hierophants and Priests are gathering in Stefanurbem for the annual council with the King. Mother Ysolde left two days ago.”
“Then who administers the town’s needs in her absence?”
“The Inquisitors, my lord. I’m sure one of them would be honored to help a living disciple of the Prophet.”
Magnus thanked the man, and he, Hakon, and the wolf were ushered into the town without further delay. The warrior wore a deep-seated frown etched into his face as he passed by the wood and stone houses of the town.
“You are troubled,” Stefan noted. “Does it surprise you to see Magnus act thusly?”
Hakon shook his head. “It’s the refugees. They’re from Springhead; I recognize some of their faces.”
“You feel shame, then.”
The warrior grunted, glancing nervously at villagers that cast him wary looks. “I have never seen the aftermath of a raid in such a light before. I would like to do something to ease their pain.”
The market of Valorem was one of the busiest in the southern reaches of the kingdom; traders from the outlying farming villages came to sell everything from grain and ale to wool and wooden carvings. At one end, outside the tall stone church, were men in the black robes of the Inquisitors on a wooden platform, holding banners of Cyril’s black sun.
“Repent, brothers and sisters! Repent before the Creator’s mercy! King Cyril has had a vision from the Prophet himself that heretics and heathens hide in our midst, and must be purged! Report any suspicious activity to the Inquisitors, for we are ever glad servants of our king on earth and our king in heaven.”
“Rubbish,” the wolf growled. “Cyril’s never had a vision in his life, and if he had, it most certainly wasn’t from me.”
“If they lie, can you not stop them? Fosporians must do what you say,” Hakon said to Magnus.
The shorter man scoffed. “They are Cyril’s creatures. They would put on a respectful face, but as soon as we left, they would be right back at it.”
Hakon growled with frustration. “Your people are too bound by your own rules, and your leaders don’t follow them at all. Are these your teachings, Father?”
“I haven’t spoken as a man for twenty years. What would you have me do?”
The warrior was getting in the sort of mood where he had to hit something. With one last venomous glare at the Inquisitors, he stomped off to the markets, his mind soon drifting back to the starving refugees. The market was filled with good, hearty food, and he soon honed in on a particularly well-fed merchant with a shock of black hair shouting his wares.
“Preserved fruits! Sacks of grain! Salted beef and fish, everything you need for a Sanctilis feast!” the merchant shouted, before spotting Hakon. “You! A strapping man like yourself needs a lot of food, am I right? You’re a carnivore if ever I saw one.”
Hakon stepped forward, casting the man in his shadow. “Are you Grent?”
The merchant smiled. “I am, indeed. Has a friend recommended me? I sell only the finest produce in the southern reaches.”
The warrior crossed his powerful arms. “You promised to feed those people outside the gates, did you not?”
Grent smirked. “Mother Ysolde tried to commandeer my stock, but freedom is a virtue, is it not? I’m happy to sell them food, but those people don’t have two coppers to rub together.”
Magnus arched a brow. “If you sell produce from all over the Southern lands, then you buy some stock from Springhead, do you not?”
“I do indeed; they grow good grain down there. Sham
e about the raid, but that’s life, is it not? One man’s misfortune is another’s profit, you understand. With such a high demand, I’ve had to raise prices… not enough to drive away paying customers, though.”
Magnus shook his head. “You venerate Freedom, brother, so you at least know of the virtues. What happened to compassion?”
Hakon arrived at the point Magnus was setting up. “You buy their food, then when they starve, you charge more than what you paid for? The men who raided their town had more honor than you.”
“Maybe, but not as much coin, eh?” Grent shrugged. “And with Mother Ysolde gone for Stefanurbem, I’m not obligated to give them anything by law, so unless you want to buy something, kindly back away, half-giant. The rest of my customers can’t get around you.”
The warrior snarled, and took a step closer. Grent barely came up to his chest. “Give them the food you promised.”
“You think you scare me, big man?” the merchant scoffed. “You lay a hand on me, and the Inquisitors will haul you off as a heretic. They’re desperate to grab anyone these days, especially one that looks so savage.”
Hakon snarled, and wrapped his hand around Grent’s throat and lifted him off the ground with little more than a negligible grunt, pinning him against a house near his stall. Tensing his free arm, he grabbed his sword. “I have been training to kill men since I could hold a sword. I could gut you like a pig before you cry for help. Now you are going to feed those people, and you will do it because I, Hakon Wolfborn, told you to.”
Grent nodded frantically, his legs kicking as he struggled against the warrior’s grasp. “I—I would be only too happy to! Compassion is a virtue!”
Hakon snorted, letting him drop. “Be out at the gates as quick as you can. Don’t make me come looking for you.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the market, as people gave him a wide berth. Out of either fear of Hakon, or a strong dislike for Grent, none were rushing to tell the Inquisitors what had happened.
“Have you forgotten your vow so quickly, my son?”
Hakon gave the wolf a bleak smile. “You said to raise my sword in defense of the downtrodden. Are the refugees not so?”
“As long as you remember that they were downtrodden by you in the first place.”
Grent, while greedy, possessed other despicable habits like cowardice. He had quickly turned out his goods to the refugees, and soon, the survivors of Springhead were clamoring around Magnus as he handed out food. Hakon even dared a small, proud smile at his quick thinking, until a small, balding man caught his eye.
“You…” the priest of Springhead, Father Thomas, had locked eyes on Hakon and forced his way to the front, urging his people back. “You’re the one! The Altani savage that raided our town!”
Hakon balked. “I was not the only one who fought that day, old man. Besides,” he gestured to the cart. “I have given you your life twice, now.”
“Given?” the priest shook his head. “You left us with our lives because it was too tiresome to take anything else!”
The warrior’s face was flushed. “I showed you mercy! Does that warrant no gratitude?”
“Mercy?” the priest was almost shaking with rage. “I—” he cut himself off, looking at his people as they quickly gathered as much food as they could carry from a suffering Grent. Pursing his lips, he stepped further away with Hakon, so as not to disturb them. “I can hardly see what you did as merciful. You robbed us of our dignity and our valuables.”
“I didn’t have to spare you,” Hakon shot back. “It cost me honor with my tribe.”
“Oh, honor?” Father Thomas scoffed. “Go to the still smoking ruins of my home, go to the grave of my brother and nephew, who you slaughtered, and ask them if they give a damn about your honor!” He shoved at the warrior, but Hakon barely budged. “I buried my friends and family because of you! Do you know how many orphans you left in your wake? How many widows? You didn’t just end lives, you ruined them! My sister-in-law would not eat, not after she had to bury her husband and only son! Her daughter is all I have left of my family. Do you want to explain to her why her father is out of her life, after only six years?” He shook his head as Hakon stared, suddenly robbed of words. “You cost me and all these people everything!”
“I…” Hakon looked from Thomas’ furious face out to the refugees. Even as they hastily ate at the first decent meal they had seen in weeks, they still looked as if they might drop. The warrior sighed, hanging his head. “I know. And I am sorry. I did not know that battles carried such a price.” He pointed back to Grent’s cart. “But, I brought you and your people food to seek amends and your forgiveness.”
The priest stared at him, then slowly shook his head. “No.”
“What?”
“Do you even remember my brother and his son? They defended the church and all the women of the town,” Thomas explained with a break in his voice and tears standing in his eyes. “They had the same black hair and brown eyes. My nephew was in such a hurry to grow up, he refused to shave his whiskers… do you even remember them?”
Hakon stared at the priest, and eventually muttered “No.”
“You want forgiveness for your actions, but I have none to give. One good deed doesn’t wash away all the horror you inflicted on my people. This will feed us for a time, maybe even get us through part of the winter but what are we to do, then? Springhead is a ruin. It will take years to recover. Go to the Inquisitors if you want salvation; they are stronger men of faith than I, and it will save me the trouble of reporting you.”
Father Thomas gave Hakon a glare that could pierce stone. “And I intend to, as soon as I know all my people have something to eat. I suggest you take your head start while you still can. Maybe the Creator will comfort your guilt, for I will do no such thing. That is even if he considers such a base, monstrous creature as his child.”
Hakon was speechless as he watched the priest walk away. He felt Stefan’s presence draw near.
“My son, do not let this discourage you. Father Thomas is hurting, and speaks out in grief. The road to redemption is hard and steep, but you can get there. For it has been said—”
“Stop.” Hakon looked down at the wolf. “There is nothing for me here. I am returning to camp. Lead Magnus back when he is done.”
The Prophet watched his son walk away, his heart heavy for Hakon’s sake. He knew he would not listen to anything offered right now.
Chapter 14
The Voice of Prophets
The warrior was sullen when he returned to camp, and sat apart from everyone, as was becoming his custom. Stefan drew near, but did not speak. The wolf circled the fire, then laid next to his son. Hakon dared a small smile as the wolf began to sleep; he wasn’t ready to admit it, but he was glad for the company.
“I brought you dinner.”
Hakon looked up to see Magnus, offering a bowl of pork stew; the princess’ servants were going to draw out the warrior’s boar as far as it would go. “You still think you need to bring me my meals?”
Magnus smirked. “Old habits, I suppose.” He set the bowl down at Hakon’s feet, and sat opposite him, tending the fire. “Father Thomas did end up passing word to the Inquisitors, you should know. But I used what pull I had to throw them off our scent.”
Hakon grunted, quickly eating the stew. It had little taste besides the pork, and more than anything, he wanted to finish eating as soon as possible.
“His words wounded your pride,” Magnus commented.
The warrior scoffed. “You think me so predictable?”
“I know you, Hakon. It’s a hard truth to bear, but he had a point. You cannot expect to be rewarded for not being quite as cruel as you could have been.”
Hakon gave his former bondsman a level look. “I know.”
“Oh?” Magnus arched his brow.
“Alfred did not steal my honor,” Hakon sighed, bowing his head. “I had none to begin with. There is no honor in making war for… what? Trinkets? Grain we could n
ot grow ourselves? Not when it leaves behind women robbed of their homes and children too weak to defend themselves.”
He absentmindedly touched his pointed ears. “There have been many Springhead raids for me, and in a Berserker’s trance, I do not know how many I slaughtered. I am not even fully human.” His eyes looked past Magnus. “Perhaps I am only a monster.”
The curly-haired Fosporian frowned, moving next to the warrior. “Maybe there’s something you should know. Before I was taken in by Stefan, I…” he shuddered. “I had no control of my magic. No conduit to channel it out. I wasn’t entirely honest with you about how I left the service of the rich family. The daughter, Wu, will remember me as long as she draws breath.” Magnus screwed his eyes shut, wincing from the memory. “I killed her husband.”
Hakon arched his brow. “How did you accomplish that?”
“I panicked. I was about to lose my position. In a fit, I thought I could erase him. Like he had never existed.” Magnus offered up a rueful smile before burying his head in his hands. “But magic doesn’t work that way. He died in such pain. I can still hear him screaming for mercy, but I couldn’t—I didn’t know how to stop what I had started until he was destroyed.”
Hakon was silent, but was beginning to commiserate with the smaller man at his side.
Magnus continued, reaching up to pat Hakon on the shoulder. “But, in time, my sins were washed clean. I can never change what I did, nor in anyway justify it. He was not cruel to slaves, and did not deserve his fate. But Stefan and the Creator gave me purpose, and I became a better person because of it; at least, I try to be one.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” Hakon shrugged off Magnus’ hand. “Fall to my knees and pray like the rest of you? I still have not seen your god or his works; I doubt he could miraculously change me into a meek and virtuous priest in a dress.”
“Robe,” Magnus corrected in a thorny manner. His tone softened as he stood up. “Hakon, you’ve done bad things. But that does not make you a bad person. In some ways, you are more naive than any of us. Did you not think that war had such consequences?”
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