Ages Unending_Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  Alfred exchanged a knowing smirk with the Vocendi. “The Ilani attempted a coup in the dead of winter; they came under guest rights, and they repaid my hospitality with treachery. So I killed them. I drained the life from their eyes, then I molded their bodies into something more… suitable. Now, they are my loyal guards.”

  Matthias shook his head. “The Alfred I knew would have never done this. You were a priest and scholar. You were charged with sending souls to Helnya’s hall.”

  “I was a scholar you mocked and pitied!” Alfred shouted, lunging from his throne. “Now, I have power you can scarcely dream of—I will be king here. And if the Jarls will not give me the respect I deserve, I will break them like I broke you!”

  Matthias frowned deeply, slowly shaking his head. “Alfred, look at you. You look as dead as Osbren does. You’re driving yourself to an early grave. This magic is twisting you.”

  “Look at him! He trembles in your presence, he fears you!” the Vocendi hissed.

  “I am not afraid of you!” Matthias shouted back. “Look at me, Alfred. You know me. Do I look afraid to you?”

  Alfred shook his head as he sunk back into his throne. “No. Then again, you always were foolhardy.”

  Matthias grinned to Alfred, as the Vocendi’s eyes shifted nervously. “Do you remember the time we first snuck out into the woods as children? We found that cave…”

  The Jarl’s dull eyes suddenly had a spark of color in them as he remembered. “Yes. You thought there was a dragon in it, and you woke up a sleeping bear.”

  “Now that, I was scared of,” the hulking man chuckled. “It was the first time I saw an animal bigger than me. But if you recall, you saved the day, then.”

  “I discovered my power, at that moment. The bear fell dead on top of you, and I willed him off.” Alfred laughed softly. “Father called me a freak. But you, you told me…”

  “I said it was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.” Matthias took a step closer, and reached out for his friend, resting his own hand on Alfred’s good shoulder. “It still is. Alfred, I’ve seen magic do great and terrible things. There’s another way. You don’t have to waste your gift on… this.” He gestured to the deformed, undead constructs serving as the Jarl’s guards.

  Any semblance of fondness instantly evaporated from Alfred. The Vocendi’s eyes flashed as he whispered in the Jarl’s ears. “He seeks to take your power away! He is scared of you!”

  Alfred’s gaze hardened, and with a wave of his hand, a burst of magical energy sent Matthias hurtling to the ground. Struggling to stand, Alfred glared at the warrior. “What reason do I have to change? People respect me now! I am their future king!”

  “They don’t respect you, they fear you!” Matthias grunted as he slowly pulled himself up. “You’re surrounded by corpses, while your living men still call you bastard under their breath.”

  “Who calls me that?!” Alfred ranted, his eyes wide with indignation. “I will silence them! They will never do such a thing again! I’ll show them!”

  “Brother!” Matthias stepped close again, but kept his head bowed. “Fear and respect are not the same thing. I know. I’ve come to know friends that respect me enough to tell me when I’m doing something wrong, and that’s why I’m telling you this now. You will end up getting yourself killed. If you keep down this path, turning people you don’t like into mindless monsters, then the Altani will rise, and you’ll be slain as a tyrant.”

  “Is that a threat?” Alfred spat.

  “No.” Matthias sighed, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts. “I found my father, Alfred. Do you remember your mother?”

  The Jarl’s face softened. “She was a kind woman.”

  The warrior exchanged a sad smile. “My father was a kind man. Then he was taken from me; killed like a wild animal in front of me. I was powerless to stop it, but you, Alfred, you were my brother. Maybe we don’t share blood, but we grew up together. You’re the last person alive I consider family.” Matthias knelt before the throne again. “Please, let me help you.”

  Alfred sighed, slapping away the Vocendi as he came near. “What do you want, Matthias?”

  The larger man pursed his lips. “There’s an army in these lands, larger than anything the Altani have ever faced. They’re coming because the Fospar king is mad with power, and has insulted them and their empire. If they win, then all humanity will be subjugated to Sinrun’s brood, the very thing Fravan Ironhand fought against. If the Fospar king wins, then he will come for us to make slaves of the Altani.” Matthias looked up, locking eyes with Alfred. “I came to forge the Altani into an army, united under a king. Let me pledge my services to you, and I will help you become High King. I ask two things in return.”

  Alfred scoffed, leaning on the arm of his throne. “You’ve never been a good negotiator; this ought to be good.”

  “I ask that the combined might of the Altani be used to immediately march against the Fospar’s mad king; not for conquest. But to save the Fospars, the Fosporians, from their own tyrant. And secondly…” the warrior breathed deeply, bracing himself. “I have met the true god of this world, Alfred. I have spoken with his servants and champions; my father was one of them. Meet me in the woods to the North of this camp tomorrow; and I will show you their wonders.”

  The Vocendi tugged on Alfred’s arm. “Do not believe this farce! This oaf is leading you into a trap, an ambush! I came from the gods to serve you, do not turn your back on them now!”

  Alfred pulled his arm away, glaring down at the gray-furred creature. “Do not forget who will be king!” The Jarl’s gaze turned back to Matthias, and he was silent for a moment. “You come with fantastic tales, after a winter in exile. Armies from across the seas, mad kings, a god I’ve never heard of—I don’t know if you’re mad or desperate, so very well, brother. I will play along. I will meet you in the woods tomorrow, to see this God of yours.”

  The sickly Jarl stood again, pointing down an accusatory finger at Matthias. “But if I get the slightest notion of treachery, I will end your life as easily as I ended Osbren’s.” With a wave of his hand, Alfred jerked back Matthias’ arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the warrior. “Don’t forget the last time we fought.”

  “I won’t,” Matthias growled through gritted teeth, his heart racing as the all-too familiar feeling of magic controlling him absorbed his body. He breathed a sigh of relief when it passed. “Then I will see you tomorrow?”

  Alfred nodded. “You will. And if there are any tricks, I will be the last thing you see.”

  Matthias and his companions left the Moot encampment unscathed; Jarl Alfred’s word, it seemed, did indeed carry weight with the other tribes. When they reached their own camp on the shoreline, Magnus was apoplectic when Matthias finished recounting his meeting with Alfred.

  “You promised him what?”

  “I’ve spoken with the dryads and the Creator; now we just need to summon them here,” Matthias explained.

  “Oh, by the Creator and Virtues Holy!” Magnus ranted. “How could you have gone this long without realizing the dryads don’t work like Altani gods? We can’t summon them down with a sacrificial goat!”

  “I—” Matthias sputtered. “Then what is it you do in your churches?”

  “We pray! We sing hymns, light candles, and read holy texts!” Magnus groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Our only chance is resting on convincing Alfred the Creator is real.”

  “We have magic,” Bai Feng offered. “We could simply encourage him to believe.”

  “I will take no part in controlling a person’s mind,” Magnus said bluntly. “I fought alongside the Prophet so no man would be controlled again.”

  “Then what do you propose, holy man?” the ambassador snapped.

  “Perhaps it is not the Creator, but Xian and Mei who we could beseech?” Song Wei offered. “The dryads also answer their call.”

  “Alfred is not going to get involved with gods of Sinrun’s brood,” Matthias shook his head, then sig
hed. “It was all I could think of to do. I put my faith in the Creator—wasn’t that what I was supposed to do?”

  Magnus reached up to pat the warrior’s shoulder. “We’ll think of something. Maybe…” He took in one deep breath. “Maybe we should pray.”

  “Your faith is not lost, then, disciple?”

  All four turned at the voice. From the brush, a Veratii stepped forward. “The dryads mourn your loss, son of Stefan. Bring this Jarl to the woods as you promised. There, you shall see Dranasyl’s wonder.”

  Chapter 27

  The Weight of Power

  Stefanurbem had never seen such a sight as this; the harbor outside the city, ringed by tall cliffs and littered with the ruins of old Altun statues, was filled with the red sails of Qingrenese ships. The vanguard of the Hegemon’s vast army poured out onto the shore, and were met with the closed gates of Stefanurbem, with Cyril’s mages and archers lining the walls. The Qingrenese set up a camp that sprawled along the local docks, preparing magical fortifications and keeping an ever vigilant eye on the city at the top of the cliffs.

  Kazan’s massive flagship, Shinko’s Wrath, sailed into the harbor, dwarfing all other ships in the Qingrenese fleet. Towering red sails bore Kazan’s personal sigil, two serpentine dragons entwined around two crescent moons, as silk banners fluttered from the lacquered hull. In the Hegemon’s ornate cabin, Kazan and his lieutenants gathered around a circular table, with maps of the Fosporian coastline spread out across the surface. At the head of the table, Kazan sat with wings folded, staring out from his mask at the gathering of Jaoren and Tsuriin warriors.

  “The Battlemages are prepared to pound the walls with fire and stone, striking from below while our Tsuriin bannermen will drive the secondary attack from the air, striking from above. In unison, we should be able to overwhelm the defenders and take the city,” a Tsuriin officer concluded.

  “A competent strategy,” Kazan muttered softly; high praise from the Hegemon. “But what of Cyril’s Faircliff?”

  “Faircliff, with all due respect, great Hegemon,” the Tsuriin officer bowed his head, “is a rustic outpost. It is nothing compared to the great fortresses of Qingren. When we hold the city, Faircliff Castle will be a mere trifle.”

  Kazan was quiet, drumming his fingers on the table until the officer’s confident smile slipped off his face. The officers dared not speak until they were spoken to, and then, the Hegemon turned to a Jaoren officer. “General Mengzhu, you’ve been silent throughout this whole meeting. Tell us your thoughts.”

  The General thinned his lips, eyeing Kazan nervously. “Most Sagacious Kazan, I only wish to counsel caution. It has been more than a thousand years since Qingren has ever gone to war with a nation with substantial magic users. I wonder if we underestimate the humans.” He looked around the table, as his colleagues cast him contemptuous looks. “It was only a couple decades ago when we could scarcely imagine them forming a nation of their own, and then, one of them bested Hegemon Taizong. It was only by Stefan’s mercy that Most Revered Taizong even survived.”

  “You dare speak that devil’s name in the Hegemon’s presence, Mengzhu?” the Tsuriin officer shot up, his hand quickly wrapping around his sword. Others either rallied around Megnzhu, or sided with the Tsuriin, shouting their indignation at each other.

  “Peace, General Umezu.”

  Kazan held up his hand, and all the officers were silenced. All of them sunk back into their seats as Kazan removed his mask, revealing a once handsome face, framed by a carefully maintained goatee that was marred from his scars. One of his eyes had been made milky and blind, and all that was left of chiseled features and a strong jaw was an ugly, jagged scar that ran the length of his face, and torn sinew on one side that left part of his jawbone exposed.

  “General Mengzhu is correct. We know too well the dangerous potential of humanity’s magic.”

  Umezu shifted uncomfortably in his seat before bowing his head. “Forgive my excessive pride, Most Serene Kazan.”

  Kazan replaced the mask, then nodded slightly. “You have committed no great crime, Umezu, while we are still off the battlefield. All the world envies the endless multitudes of our Army; but we will fight as if we are outnumbered.” He pointed a gauntleted finger at the map. “We have enough men to divide our forces, and attack on two fronts. Let us confuse the Fosporians with a multi-pronged attack. Then, let us see if we can send some of our more discrete bannermen to land further south, skirmish in the streets until we control the gates, and assess Faircliff’s fortifications more closely.”

  “A wise strategy, Great Kazan,” Mengzhu murmured.

  Suddenly, a massive explosion shook the walls, shattering glass windows and throwing some officers out of their seats. Kazan leaped to his feet, even as his guards swarmed him. The Hegemon forced himself outside onto the main deck of the ship, and for once, the Tsuriin was taken by surprise. His good eye beheld a wreck where one of the ships of the vanguard had been, a proud vessel reduced to scorched wood, slipping under the waves. Electricity hung in the air, but Kazan sensed something more; magic.

  “Great Hegemon!” Kazan was tackled to the ground by his guards, as overhead, a brilliant bolt of lightning shot across the deck of Shinko’s Wrath, striking another ship that immediately cracked in two, the surviving crew leaping into the water or taking to the air.

  Breathlessly, Kazan forced his guards off, and looked to the cliffs of Stefanurbem, scanning the horizon until he spotted the towering white walls of Faircliff, where the sparks of lightning still danced from its tallest tower.

  “Cyril!”

  High above the fleet, the self-proclaimed Archon of mankind was left swaying where he stood, his vision going blurry until Angelus righted him. “Another excellent shot, my Archon,” the Magister said quickly.

  “It is no matter…” Cyril wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “This is but a taste of the power within me. I just need to regain my energy.”

  “There is no time, Cyril! The enemy is at your gates!” the Vocendi hissed in his ears.

  “I have not slept for weeks!” Cyril snapped down at the creature beside him. “I commanded the very winds to return home faster, and I have prepared every defense possible. If I am to face Kazan, I must have my strength!”

  “Stefan’s power, great as it was, was not enough to sustain you forever,” the Vocendi counseled. “You must take in more.”

  The Archon paused. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe, my lord,” Angelus stepped forward, stroking his beard while drawing close as he dared. “He means to say that you know how to take the life of another, particularly a mage’s, and augment your own power. There are, after all, very capable mages in your service.” He took a meaningful look at the black-clad Inquisitors standing at attention near Cyril. “As Archon, their power, their very lives, belong to you.”

  The Archon looked two particularly young and healthy Inquisitors over. “Yes…” He beckoned them over, his bloodshot eyes staring them down. “Men, are you willing to give even your lives for the Creator and the Freedom of Mankind?”

  The two Inquisitors exchanged nervous glances. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Cyril nodded approvingly. “Good. Then die, knowing the Creator smiles upon you.” He latched onto the two Inquisitors, immediately pulling on the invisible threads of energy, the very tethers of life within them, and beginning to unravel them. The Inquisitors’ panicked shrieks made him falter, but only for a moment; they deserved a quick death.

  “Father!”

  As Cyril finished consuming the essence of life and let the Inquisitors’ husks drop to the stone floor, his head snapped back to see his daughter and Braya standing at the top of the tower’s staircase, dressed in traveling cloaks and ragged from the road, but now staring at Cyril in abject horror.

  Braya let out an unnerving scream as she rushed to the side of the fallen Inquisitors. “Davidus! Lanian!” She cradled one as a mother would her child, sobbing openly as a free h
and beat her bare head in anguish. “My lord, why?” she begged of Cyril. “These were virtuous men! They served you faithfully, they answered every order, unflinchingly! What was their crime?”

  “Pull yourself together, Braya,” Cyril snapped. “We are at war. Sacrifices had to be made.” He drifted closer, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You should be proud; they faced their death faithfully and willingly. They stand now at the Creator’s side.”

  Braya snarled, pushing Cyril’s arm away, only to realize what she had just done. She stared up fearfully at her Archon, who glared back at the Inquisitor.

  “Perhaps you wish to follow their example?”

  “Father!” Floriana stepped forward, putting herself between Braya and Cyril. “We rode as fast as we could to warn you. The Veratii have taken the bodies of Stefan, Matthias, and Magnus. They acted in the name of the dryads themselves.”

  “What?” Cyril felt a tinge of fear, but as he looked back to Angelus and the Vocendi, he recovered himself, turning to embrace his daughter. “You have done well in warning me, Floriana.” He pulled back, brushing aside a strand of his daughter’s red hair. “In this darkest hour, I am touched by this sign of loyalty.” He gestured out to the sea, where the Hegemon’s fleet was scrambling to save drowning sailors from the ships he had struck. “If we see victory here, then you stand to inherit the world.”

  It took every ounce of her self-control for Floriana to not shudder with revulsion. “I stand by you, Father,” she said quietly.

  “Good.” Cyril kissed Floriana’s cheek before turning back to Braya, who had recovered herself and now stood at attention as other Inquisitors quietly carried their comrades’ bodies down the stairs. “This show of devotion, Braya, has not gone unnoticed. Trust in me. The Inquisitors have fulfilled their purpose; a new order must be formed, and the more inflexible Inquisitors will serve their purpose, as Davidus and Lanian did. But you, I promise, are in no such danger. Provided you remain loyal, the rewards will be great for you.”