Alfred laughed again. “You’re Matthias’ father? Are you a god, then?”
Stefan’s smile grew mysterious. “What do you think I am?”
Matthias grabbed his father’s shoulder. “How is this even possible? Magnus and I saw you die—you were stabbed five times.”
“So I was,” Stefan shrugged, rolling his robes off part of his body. Five deep gashes ran down his back and ribs. “But the prophecy was very plain; death has yielded to everlasting life. Now, a new dawn is upon the world; the Age of Ash is ended. It is time to enter into a new Age, a better one than what preceded it.”
Alfred stared with a profound lack of comprehension. “You—you are a god, then?”
“Ah well,” Stefan approached Alfred, patting him on the shoulder and steering him deeper into the valleys of Dranasyl. “My son and Magnus have much to tell you, but I did not lead you here for a sermon. Why don’t I show you to more familiar faces?”
“What do you mean?” Alfred asked with a touch of reservation.
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
The three followed Stefan downriver, where Abarrane and Leannan had gathered. Leannan was in her circle again, playing her haunting melody as animals pranced around her, but Abarrane’s fiery gaze immediately fell upon Alfred.
“Sacrilege!” She declared, and a bolt of light struck Alfred and blinded him in an instant. “Stefan, you let this thief, this robber of life and death, into Dranasyl? He reeks from his sins.”
“Abarrane, be at peace,” Stefan spoke firmly, and with a wave of his hands, Alfred could see again. “He is need of guidance and forgiveness, not castigation.”
“Forgive me, great Lady, if I have offended,” Alfred said immediately. “But I am afraid I do not know your face.”
Abarrane scoffed. “It is my solemn task to guide the souls of mortals beyond the veil of this world and the next.” She lifted an accusatory hand, a beam of light piercing through the young man. “You profane my sacred duty by stealing away the souls of the suffering; even as you, Alfred Gunnarson, served in a temple your people dedicated to me.” She tilted her head up, and her great wings spread as far as they would go. “For the Altani know me as Helnya.”
Alfred let out an undignified cry as he fell to his knees. “You—you’re real?”
Abarrane sneered at the groveling man. “I am not worthy of the name Goddess, for I serve another. But yes, even as you quietly scoffed at the names of those you chanted in the Bybic temple, did you, in your arrogance, never assume there was a grain of truth to it all?”
Abarrane’s light intensified, causing Alfred to cover his eyes and cower where he had fallen. “Answer me, Alfred Gunnarson! Did you only mock the name of your gods in your heart, just so you could convince yourself you would not answer for your desecration of the dead, and your mockery of life?”
“I—I’m so sorry,” Alfred mumbled, shaking as he hid his face. “I never meant…”
Matthias and Stefan knelt beside Alfred, while Magnus pulled the Altani up, giving him a reassuring smile.
“Come, sister,” Leannan stepped forward, her hair of vines and flowers flowing behind her. “You do not need to scare him.” She stepped forward, offering her hand and a warm smile. “Rise, Alfred Gunnarson. I have a gift for you.”
“And who are you?” Alfred asked. “Aesir, Goddess of the Hunt?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” Leannan laughed lyrically, like leaves in the wind. She knelt down to gently scratch the ears of a fox that stood in her circle. “I love the creatures of the forest far too much to ever hunt them. Your people knew me as Dagmar.”
Alfred laughed nervously. “Am I to be introduced to the others? Jaedrun? Faolen?”
Leannan grinned mischievously. “What? Are we not enough for you, Alfred?”
The Altani tried not to stare indiscreetly at the beautiful Leannan. “No! No. Nothing like that at all. I am just overwhelmed.”
She giggled. “I understand. My sister makes quite the first impression, does she not?” Leannan tugged on his arm. “Come. Let us speak alone, Gunnarson.”
Alfred looked back to Matthias. “Brother?”
The warrior smirked, folding his arms. “I’m afraid Leannan is too great a challenge even for me. There’s no fighting her.”
“I did get him to dance,” Leannan giggled again, before pulling Alfred away and leading him under the shade of a tree. She helped him sit against the trunk, as she sat across from him. “You’ve done things you are not proud of, is that right?”
Alfred grimaced. “Don’t all men?”
“That may be true, but I have a gift, and a proposition for you, Alfred Gunnarson.” Leannan plucked a slender limb from the tree, shaping the wood in her hands. “You know, magic was a gift given to mortals by another sister of ours, Sophona. She gave her life to deliver magic to your kind. So, you understand why Abarrane is so angry to see it misused?”
Alfred sighed, looking down. “I do.”
“And you understand that how you used your gift of magic was something profane and twisted?”
“I do.”
Leannan smiled softly. “You can change, if you want.”
Alfred nodded. “I’m so tired of keeping these guards upright, but I’m afraid of what will happen to me if I let them go. My people do not look kindly on weakness. I know that intimately.” Absent-mindedly, Alfred touched the small hump in his back.
“There is another way. And if you promise to never again misuse your gift, I would like to give this to you.” Leannan held out her hands, and out of the branch she had plucked from the tree, she had made a fine wand, adorned with a curving vine carved into it.
Alfred picked up the instrument, inspecting it closely while Leannan explained. “This is a wand, a conduit for magic. Stefan discovered the art, and passed it on to his followers. With this, you could do great things, not just for you but for others, as well. You could be a hero.”
The Jarl laughed bitterly. “I think you’ve confused me for Hak—Matthias.”
Leannan cupped his chin, smiling gently as their eyes met. “Not everyone will become a hero. But a hero can come from anywhere. You have a great gift, and you’re a smart person. All you need to do now is live for others, instead of yourself.”
Alfred nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly.
The three men and the three immortals came to their entrance into Dranasyl, and there, they said their farewells. Leannan was quick to embrace all three men, but Abarrane continued to level a hard look at Alfred.
“Great Lady?” Alfred approached Abarrane solemnly, and bowed. “Forgive my trespasses. I was lost and desperate. I promise, I will never insult you by using my magic in such a way again.”
Abarrane did not smile, but her glare softened as she nodded. “Then I have no ill will against you, Alfred Gunnarson. When I come for you, may you have lived a life worth living.”
Alfred bowed again, looking down at the wand Leannan had fashioned before stepping back into the thicket that led back to the mortal plane.
Magnus and Matthias were left with Stefan, lingering, and unwilling to part. “You will not come with us, Teacher?” Magnus asked.
Stefan smiled warmly, pulling his disciple close one last time. “My brother, my friend; things cannot be as they used to be. Things are changing, though you may not yet understand them all. My mission binds me to the souls of the world, thus I am bound here in Dranasyl. But this is not goodbye; we'll meet again, my most faithful disciple.”
“Faithful?” Magnus shook his head. “You do me too much credit. In my heart, I cursed your name and the Creator’s when I thought we were to die.”
Stefan chuckled. “You faltered, Magnus. But even at your darkest moment, you never stopped being a good man. Don’t carry ancient guilt with you; leave it in the past, where it belongs. I leave it to you to spread my word.”
Magnus closed his eyes to keep his composure and nodded quietly. Then, he too, followed after Alfred into the th
icket, leaving father and son. Matthias was suddenly sullen, his face a brooding grimace as he couldn’t bear to look at his father.
“My son?” Stefan frowned. “What troubles you?”
“I wasn’t strong enough.”
“What?”
Matthias sank to his knees, hanging his head low. “I failed you, Father. I broke my promise, and I wasn’t strong enough to save you.”
“Oh, Matthias,” Stefan spoke quietly, bidding his son to rise again. “It was not your place to save me. Your strength, great as it is, has its limits, but it no longer defines you. What defines you, my son, is your virtue.” For one last time, father and son held each other tight. “Go now, and stay true to your course. You may not see me, but know that I am with you, and that I am proud, as only a father can be, of the man you have become.”
“Thank you, Father.” After a moment, Matthias thought of one final question, even as he moved toward the thicket. “What should we tell others about what happened here?”
Stefan smiled softly, even as he faded from view by the branches of trees. “Tell them only what you saw here. The rest is up to them.”
Matthias breathed deeply, filled with an intense desire to get one last glimpse of Dranasyl, but also an all-encompassing sense of calm and contentment. As long as he lived, Matthias would never forget that feeling. The warrior moved through the thicket to rejoin Magnus and Alfred. When they came to the end of the forest, Alfred stared at the three attendants he had brought with him, sitting stock still in the saddles while their horses grazed.
As Matthias approached them, Magnus placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “You must let them go, Alfred.”
“They’re the only reason I’ve remained in power,” Alfred replied weakly.
“Is it worth it if it drives you to your grave?” Matthias rumbled. “You have ambition, vision, and you know how to rule.” The warrior frowned as he looked back at the undead guards. “These things are not the only reason you are still Jarl.”
Alfred steeled himself, and, with one last reassuring nod from Matthias, gripped his new wand tightly and raised his hand. “Father did always hate when I made a mess. I might as well clean it up, then.” He spoke directly to the undead staring at him, awaiting orders. “I release you,” he said softly.
Magnus was able to detect the shift in magical energy, but at first, the changes were so subtle, it was as if Alfred had done nothing. His undead soldiers shuddered before slumping forward and slipping off their horses, spooking the animals before Matthias could get a hold of them to keep them calm. When the lifeless bodies hit the ground, their faces, twisted as they had been, looked peaceful.
“It’s done, then.” Alfred whispered. “Helnya—Abarrane works fast,” he commented at the serene looks on his former guards. The Jarl took in a deep breath. “They should be buried. Given proper rites. After that, if it’s all the same to you, I could really use some sleep.”
Chapter 29
The Great Moot
After the bodies of his former constructs had been buried, Alfred retired to his tent back in the Bybic enclave and did not come out again until the following morning. Although he still looked paler and sicklier than Matthias had remembered, the Jarl’s long and peaceful sleep coupled with a warm bath had done him an immense amount of good. Some spark of life had returned to his eyes, and he even found occasion to smile as he met Matthias and the others for breakfast, eating with far more gusto than his friend was used to seeing from him.
“The Great Moot begins today, I understand?” Bai Feng asked, picking at the bread, cheese, and bacon they had been provided. He didn’t quite seem to know what to do with his hands as he nibbled on the Altani breakfast, and he was loathe to touch their ale; an enchanted teapot was kept on hand for the ambassador’s sensibilities.
“Yes,” Alfred nodded. “Every great tribe has come. The Bybic, Ilani, Balnir, Hygal, Draumr, Faul, and Cnutem, all hailing from the Northern Highlands to the Southern Floodlands. Supplication and sacrifice have been given to the gods, so now, we can finally get to the business of declaring a High King.”
“I’ve not been idle,” Bai Feng stated. “Song Wei and I have been earning our keep. We’ve set up a basic, yet fruitful network to supply us with information on each Jarl.”
Alfred arched his brow. “How did you set up a network of informants? Altani are all terribly tight-lipped around people they don’t like.”
The ambassador feigned offense. “I would hope, Jarl Alfred, you did not think I was given my position for some reason besides talent. I have served three Hegemons of Qingren over a century of work, and I’ve been instrumental in ending two wars and even starting one, when the Hegemon had need of it.”
“Your task, worthy Lord Bai, was made particularly easier when all you needed to win over these people was a cask of ale,” Song Wei spoke softly, a small smile playing on her lips as she sipped her tea.
“Yes, well, thank the Torinusians for brewing such potent spirits,” Bai Feng muttered.
“Jarl Alfred, we did uncover troubling news,” Song Wei spoke. “The Jarls of the Draumr and Hygal tribes have entered into alliance out of fear and suspicion of you. Any advantage you hoped to gain from holding the Ilani tribe has been rendered void.”
Alfred scoffed in disgust. “I know who started that, as well. Jarl Hrothgar of the Draumr, that old boar. He hated my father, and he’s equally disagreeable with me.”
“That leaves you and him to fight over three votes,” Bai Feng added. “The Jarls Theogav, Ragnar, and Gudrun, of the Faul, Cnutem, and Balnir tribes, respectively.”
“Gudrun?” Matthias furrowed his brow. “That’s a woman’s name.”
“The Balnir have taken to declaring one of their wise women as Jarl,” Alfred explained. “Rather recent development, so I understand. Old Jarl Gunnig had no surviving children, and his warriors threatened to tear the tribe apart.”
“Of the three, she seems most agreeable to you, Alfred,” Song Wei explained. “She and I were drawn to one another, as she felt some kinship with a fellow female dedicated to worship. Since you, too, share a similar path in veneration of your gods, she may see in you a kindred spirit. She, too, feels outcast by her fellow Jarls.”
“That leaves Ragnar and Theogav,” Matthias grumbled.
“Ragnar is a ‘practical’ warrior,” Alfred said with some disdain. “He’ll demand loot before he fights, but he’s not afraid of it. Theogav, on the other hand, is a spineless little man that barely demands respect from his warriors.” The Jarl drummed his fingers on the table. “I could lean on Theogav. Between you and me, Matthias, we could probably scare him straight.”
“We have a strategy, then,” Bai Feng said with some satisfaction as he stood. “May I suggest we move to the meeting ground? We might want to be the first there, if we can help it.”
“Really?” Alfred arched his brow. “I was thinking of hanging to the back. Give myself a proper grand entrance.”
Bai Feng shook his head. “A beginner’s intuition, Jarl Alfred. If we were speaking of vassals that are expected to defer to you, then yes. But these Jarls barely regard you as their equal. Being the first one to enter will give you more subtle control over the situation; time to read each Jarl’s face, and time to plan if improvisation is needed. With us there to greet each Jarl, and good Matthias looming over them all, it will put them all off balance, if only temporarily.”
Matthias abruptly stood, gathering his sword and shield. “Then let’s get moving.” The warrior’s face was set with determination, and he had taken to wearing a wolfskin headdress and a leather jerkin again. His bare arms were decorated with the familiar blue markings of the berserker; if the Altani were to respect Alfred, then his chosen champion would have to look the part again.
Alfred and his entourage made an impressive image; the Jarl was flanked by Bai Feng and Song Wei in their finest silk robes, Matthias marched ahead of them and cutting a path as if he were fording a river, and Magnus car
ried the rear with as much dignity as he could summon.
The Jaoren gave the Altani pause as they passed by, their long pointed ears, pale complexion, and strange clothes made them appear alien and yet more magnificent than most of their Jarls. The whispers of Hakon Wolfborn returning were proven true, and all looked on the greatest warrior of his time with awe.
Alfred willed himself to walk straight and tall, with the Bybic’s silver crown placed on his head, and his old bow slung over his back to appear as warlike as possible for the other Jarls.
When they came to the rough-hewn pillars of stone marking the sacred stone circle where the Jarls were to meet, they were met by a group of warriors that barred their way. On their shields were the images of a fierce boar; the symbol of the Draumr Tribe.
Their leader glared at Matthias as he approached. “Halt!” he shouted, raising his spear. “By order of Jarl Hrothgar of the Draumr and Jarl Coathun of the Hygal tribe, the bastard pretender to the Bybic Jarldom is not to be granted entry.”
“What right does Jarl Hrothgar have to deny a fellow Jarl the right to sit at the Great Moot?” Alfred demanded. “And why are you armed? Do you care nothing for the Gods’ commandments?”
“The gods will forgive us for standing up to you, Witch-King,” the warrior spat at Alfred’s feet. “Leave. You are not welcome here.”
Matthias tensed every muscle, reaching past the spear and grabbing the guards’ leader by the throat, yanking him off his feet. “You will be shamed with defeat if you stand in our way. Lower your weapons before you embarrass yourself.”
“We don’t take orders from Fospar foundlings!” the Draumr guard shouted, grabbing a dagger and slashing at Matthias’ cheek. The huge warrior growled in pain, letting his adversary drop while pulling out his sword. The bronze blade ignited in flame and, with his shield, Matthias rammed into the group of guards, knocking three off of their feet and sending a few more scattering.
“Peace!” a new voice shouted. Matthias and the Draumr warriors turned to face a withered old crone of a woman, with gnarled skin and dark, tired eyes. Like Alfred in his old priestly vestments, she was dressed in heavy black furs, and wore a crown fashioned from the antlers of stags and the skulls of goats and ravens. Behind her, warriors carried red banners showing two stags; the sigil of the Balnir tribe.
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