“Hegemon Kazan, glorious leader that he is, has been misguided in this attack on Fosporia,” Bai Feng said briskly. “He risks a war Qingren can ill afford.”
Derogynes exchanged looks with Ambrosus, who stepped forward. “My father has not been forthcoming, Ambassador. We know Hegemon Kazan is here. Our forward scouts engaged Tsuriin Sorahai sent ahead to survey the countryside. They captured one of ours.” The younger Andrathi grinned toothily. “We killed ten, and took two prisoner. They’ve been forthcoming about their numbers, apparently in a bid to scare us off.”
“You killed ten of the Sorahai?” Bai Feng asked incredulously.
“We have excellent archers, Lord Bai.”
Jarl Gudrun stepped forward, eyeing the Andrathi up and down. “What, exactly, brought you to these shores, ambassador?”
Derogynes shot Matthias a grin. “I suppose I thought the world could change for the better, if I helped give it a nudge in the right direction, naturally. I didn’t bring an army for conquest; just enough to help out the right side and protect innocent people from getting hurt. It’ll make more of a difference than sitting in my villa getting fat in my old age.”
“Fatter, Father,” Ambrosus corrected
“Ah, a loving son is a boon to any father,” Derogynes sighed, lightly smacking the back of his son’s head.
Gudrun seemed satisfied, nodding curtly. “Very well. The Balnir tribe invites you to our hearth. May we break bread today, and spill blood the next.”
“Oh, I like her,” Derogynes noted to Alfred.
“Ragnar? You’ve said nothing to our guests and allies,” Alfred commented, his brow arched at the blond Jarl. “You don’t think an apology is in line?”
“Well, I’m sorry for nearly attacking,” Ragnar sighed. “But it’s just more people to divide the loot between.”
“Loot?” Ambrosus frowned. “The Ardri has forbidden his legions from looting. It’s unprofessional, and dishonorable in the eyes of the gods. My men and I have already been paid for our services; through a salary.”
“So, you’re nothing more than mercenaries, then?” Ragnar asked.
“Oh, grow up, Ragnar,” Gudrun chided, knocking her staff against her fellow Jarl. “Andrathi, our warriors expect loot and bounty. Do your gods frown upon fighting alongside our people?”
“Not if we win,” Ambrosus quipped briskly.
“Then we’ll share our supper,” Alfred declared, holding out his hand for Derogynes. “And we’ll discuss the best way to make this mad king enter into the next life.”
Derogynes grabbed the High King’s hand, shaking firmly. “We are now Phas Fratan, blood brothers. May Cyril and all his minions tremble at our approach.”
Marching out together the next day, the combined forces of the Altani Tribes and the Andrathi legionnaires was a sight unlike any other. Altani warriors moved about the heartland of the Fosporian kingdom like a horde, a great wave of humanity living off the land and boasting of the great conquests to come. The Andrathi marched as one, a close knit group of columns, marching to the beat of horns and drums, inseparable by their uniform armor and weapons.
The villages they marched past kept their gates closed to the Altani horde out of old habit, but word spread quickly ahead of the army bearing down on Stefanurbem. When the news reached the ear of Archon Cyril, he fell silent, invoking dread in his remaining courtiers. Floriana watched her father carefully; he was preparing something horrible. And there was little she could do to alert them in time. If she wanted to make sure the gates of Faircliff opened for Matthias and his army, she couldn’t run now. She had come too far to make her father suspicious now.
Word of the Altani horde had also sailed on the wings of Sorahai scouts to the Hegemon’s camp sprawled out across the mountain plains north of Stefanurbem like a sea of red. In the Hegemon’s tent, Kazan was with his generals, poring over a map for the umpteenth time as his officers looked on. “Is there nothing that can bring that shield down?” the Hegemon demanded in a soft, but insistent voice from beneath his mask.
“Word has reached us from the capital, Serene Kazan,” a Tsuriin officer announced. “The human rebels have gathered into an army. They marched on Mei-Xian, but when their leader scaled the walls, she was killed. The rebels are now swarming the coast, commandeering ships and sailing east.”
“Damn Cyril!” Kazan exploded, pounding his fist against the table. “That madman may as well have planned this from the start! I want his head on a pike when this is over! I will destroy anyone that takes the pleasure of killing him from me! Is that understood?”
“We obey, glorious Hegemon,” General Mengzhu said. “My scouts have delivered reports that some humans have escaped the city, fleeing east and south, further inland. The men are itching for sport, but I felt it best to leave the call up to you.”
Kazan thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No. The unfortunates left in the city will make enough of a statement when we breach their defenses. There is no honor in hunting down refugees for little more than sport.”
“As you say, Sagacious Kazan.”
Kazan eyed his generals. “The scouts have confirmed this new element on the battlefield, this army of human barbarians. We do not yet know what these Altani are doing here. They declare themselves Cyril’s enemy, yet align themselves with Theragos, who were eager to ally with the king.” The Hegemon turned to face his captive, a lumbering Andrathi scout forced to kneel before the Hegemon. “And they have already spilled Qingrenese blood.”
The Andrathi shook his shaggy mane. “A lot of us have been itching for a fight,” he said with a smirk. “You attacked us; and when you tug an Andrathi’s mane, you get the horns. I keep telling you, we’re part of an expeditionary force to unseat Cyril. We’re just trying to get our man on the throne before you.”
Kazan stared down at the captive. He flexed his fingers out of frustration, sparks dancing across them. “Take him away,” he growled. As the Andrathi was dragged to his feet and forced out of the tent, the Hegemon turned back to his generals. “The Altani and their Andrathi allies are opposed to our goals. Until further notice, they are to be counted amongst the enemy. They—”
There was the slightest change in the wind, and a subtle shift in the ground beneath Kazan’s feet. His head snapped up, and the more magically inclined of his lieutenants also sensed the movement. Powerful magic was flowing through the air.
“My hegemon!” General Mengzhu shot from his seat, gripping his sword. “Brace yourself, Cyril is preparing an attack!”
Kazan’s eye drifted to the flap of his tent, where the shimmering dome over Stefanurbem could be seen, and beyond that, the tendrils of smoke marking the Altani camp. “He is, but the attack is not for us. Mei and Xian have mercy on the savages.”
The Altani army set up camp on the edge of the forest to the south of Faircliff, with tribal banners dotting the landscape. As the sun set, their torches and campfires were spread out all along the horizon, and Floriana gripped the stones of Faircliff’s battlements staring out at them.
“Please, Heavenly Creator,” she whispered. “Grant them victory. I cannot pray for the death of my father…” The queen’s eyes wandered to the highest point in Faircliff, where Cyril was performing his daily ritual, consuming the lives of the dwindling Inquisitors. “But by the Paragons and Virtues Holy, stop him.”
Cyril let out an inhuman roar, and unleashed a powerful explosion of magic. The shockwave shook every living soul in Faircliff, but soldiers clamored along the battlements and watched as the earth itself near the enemy began to rise, fall, and shake like turbulent ocean waters in the midst of a storm. A jagged scar raced along the ground, the earth cracking open and swallowing entire crowds of warriors. Sharp outcrops of rock and stone shot out like spikes, bursting apart tents and impaling men where they stood. Men and horses were thrown to their knees, if not disappearing into the cracks of the earth. When the ground at last settled, the cries of panic and anguish coming from the
camp was carried on the wind back to the walls of Faircliff.
Cyril looked out over his handiwork with a mad grin, panting breathlessly from his latest exertion, his head pounding as he focused his control again on the shimmering shield over Stefanurbem. “There. Let these savages scatter! They will bear witness to my power and despair.”
Chapter 32
The Virtuous Host
The following day was a grim one for the Altani tribes and their Andrathi allies. Alfred, his council, Derogynes, and Ambrosus gathered in the High King’s tent, shocked into silence. The day had been spent preventing desertion and burying the dead; thousands had been taken in Cyril’s attack.
“This is not the war we swore to fight, my king,” Ragnar said bitterly. “My men are threatening to kill me if I don’t let them go home. We were to fight the Fospars, not a god.”
Matthias grunted. “Cyril is no god.”
“The warriors cannot tell the difference,” Gudrun replied glumly. “No tribe has ever faced magic like this. I have read augurs, performed sacrifices…” the old woman shook her head. “But the gods are silent.”
“This has shattered many a resolve,” Song Wei added. She, alongside Gudrun, had tended to the wounded; where one died, two had been injured. “The aura of despair is overwhelming, here. Many of these men are terrified, and too ashamed of their fear to admit it. If we are not careful, this mix of emotions will boil over into something terrible.”
“I know that,” Alfred snapped. “But what do I tell them? The gods, as Gudrun so politely stated, are silent, and the Altani know nothing about magic.” He turned to the Jaoren. “Do your people possess such power?”
“Only in great numbers. To create the same sort of devastation Cyril has wrought would require at least a dozen powerful Sage Lords.” Bai Feng shook his head, before turning to Derogynes. “How are the Andrathi dealing with this?”
The ambassador deferred to his son. “We were on the periphery of the camp, so we have few casualties,” Ambrosus explained. “But almost five hundred legionnaires cannot win this siege alone.”
“Then we must soothe the nerves of our people,” Gudrun said.
Ragnar stroked his beard. “We could promise them loot. Greed is often confused for courage, when there’s a big enough reward at the end of a fight.”
“No,” Matthias said emphatically. “We’re not saving this city just to pillage it ourselves.”
“The choice lies with you.” Gudrun bowed her head to Alfred. “You must make a decision.”
Alfred furrowed his brow, staring into the fire. “I can’t in good conscience ask these men to lay down their lives, in the face of such overwhelming odds, unless I can give them some sort of comfort, some sort of reward at the end of it.” Alfred turned to his friend. “I’m sorry, Matthias. But if the only way to get rid of this Cyril is pillaging the city, it’s what I have to do.”
“It may be better than letting Kazan take the city,” Bai Feng muttered.
“And would you be saying that, Feng, if it were a city in Qingren?” Matthias shot back bitterly, but the ambassador couldn’t think of an answer.
“Then we are decided?” Ragnar asked. “I can tell my men the good news?”
“Wait.” Magnus stood up, putting his attention on Alfred. “If you let the Altani pick this city clean, there will never be peace between the Altani and the Fosporians. You have the opportunity to come in as saviors, and for that, my people will be grateful. It won’t be loot, but we’ll share land. Food. Whoever ends up on the throne will be generous. But if you spite us in our hour of need, you slam the door shut on that opportunity forever.”
“Well, unless you have another way to prevent all-out mutiny, I don’t have much of a choice,” Alfred replied.
“I have an alternative,” the short mage declared, glancing over at Gudrun. “If the Altani gods are silent, maybe my god won’t be. Let Matthias and I speak to them.”
“Are you trying to steal converts, little man?” Gudrun scoffed.
“Does it matter at this point, Jarl Gudrun?” Matthias paused to look around the room. “We will all share the same fate if we lose. But if my god can provide a miracle, we may yet all live.”
The room was silent, then Alfred stood. “You have a chance to win them over, Magnus. One chance. If piety and faith fail us, then I have to fall back on greed.”
Magnus bowed. “I thank you, High King Alfred.”
As the sun began to set, Matthias and Magnus began to gather the Altani in the woods, around a great bonfire. They had gathered buckets of paint as well as incense, begrudgingly given by Jarl Gudrun.
“I don’t know about this,” Matthias grumbled. “Didn’t you say that you couldn’t just call down the Creator like the Altani gods?”
“They need to believe,” Magnus replied. “When Stefan was gathering followers, he knew sometimes spectacle won people over. All religions do this, Matthias. Or does Gudrun wear black robes and animal skulls for practical reasons?”
The warrior shook his head. “Would my father approve of this, then?”
“He would understand,” Magnus snapped. He sighed, turning to his friend. “It is not deception to give a blessing and to pray over these people. I believe that the Creator sees the worthiness of our cause. And if this army carries the sign of the Creator, maybe that will send a message over the walls. I don’t believe in tricking people into my faith, but if this works and we carry the day, it will be a miracle. If we lose, it’s rather a moot point.”
Matthias slowly nodded. “Alright. Let’s get on with it, then.”
They turned to face the burgeoning crowd before them, thousands of Altani warriors with furrowed brows and nervous glances; these were men that had their confidence shattered, and a sense of dread hung over them all. Magnus mounted a makeshift platform, and rose his hands in the air.
“Warriors of the Altani, hear me!” Magnus paused as the crowd quieted down. “You have seen the face of the enemy, borne witness to his terrible power, and survived to tell the tale. Though you mourn the brothers you lost, know there is one who stands with you, and that is the Creator.”
Magnus held out his wand, and produced a dazzling display of a rising sun that outshone the bonfire roaring behind him. “For as sure as the Sun rises after the darkest of nights, so too does the God of all Creation stand with you. Stefan, his only son, was killed by Cyril; but we do not fight to avenge him, for he is alive again! Death itself is not to be feared, not when you walk with the Creator.”
“Wolfborn!” a warrior shouted out. “You claim this Stefan’s your father, yes? Where is he, then?” There was a muttering of agreement rippling through the crowd. “Why won’t he come to the defense of his own son? What sort of coward is this god of yours?”
“He’s all around you, friend,” Matthias responded. “For he is the warrior’s honor and freedom. I was skeptical as you were, and my faith was tested time and time again, but he is always there, if you seek him out.”
“This is the god the Fravani abandoned their brothers for; why should we turn to him now?” another warrior shouted back.
“We are not asking you to abandon your culture and accept something on blind faith, just like that,” Magnus responded. “Stefan spoke to your brothers and treated them as his own, when you would welcome them as brothers one day, then make war with them the next. Is it any wonder, then, that they would at least consider an alternative?”
A noticeable silence washed over the crowd. “The Fravani were not stolen from you; they made a choice. And that is all my god wishes to give you. That is why he sent Stefan to us. In the face of such a terrible enemy, he calls upon you now. Cast aside your tribal markings; do not be Ilani, Bybic, Balnir, and Faul; be united, under one pact of brotherhood. Take up the sign of the Creator, the Rising Sun, and as sure as dawn will break, we shall triumph!”
Matthias left no room for questions, hefting up his own shield. He had finally found a new sigil. “I will take the Creator�
�s sigil,” the warrior declared. He knelt before Magnus, his giant bronze shield lying at his feet.
Magnus nodded, whispering a blessing over the warrior. “Pel Aedanus emt silem, tes vora dorias,” he recited, producing his wand and searing the rising sun into the shield. “By the Creator and his sign, you shall see his glory.”
A small collection of warriors, moved by Magnus and out of respect for Matthias, began to step forward. One warrior, however, turned to Alfred, who had been watching the display to the side. “My king! Is this what you wish of us?”
Matthias and Magnus looked to Alfred, who slowly shook his head. “No.” The High King slid off his horse, and slowly limped to the front, a shield of his own slung over his back. “As they have said; their god is a god of choice.” With Matthias’ help, he knelt before Magnus. “And this is mine. Do as you will, but your king will take this chance.”
Ragnar came next, and soon, the vast sea of Altani warriors knelt, ready to receive Magnus’ blessing. Matthias watched for a time, then found Song Wei lingering by, watching the last warriors receive their blessing, painting the rising sun over their shields.
“Did it work?” he asked the priestess.
“I am not sure,” Song Wei responded. “I do not know the ways of your Creator.”
“That’s not what I mean. How is their resolve?”
Song Wei frowned, concentrating. “There is still so much doubt and uncertainty in the air. But in some, I sense hope. In others, determination.”
Matthias looked out over the Altani, and nodded. “Then we’ve done something right.”
As the sun rose, the remaining warriors and Andrathi prepared their assault on Faircliff. Whether it was the effects of Magnus’ sermon, or men preparing for their final battle, the Altani approached each other more willingly; suddenly, tribe didn’t matter as much. Ambrosus, gathered with the rest of the army’s leaders, looked out approvingly.
“They look more like Andrathi, now. A proper army,” he noted. “That is why I prefer soldiers over warriors. Warriors are concerned with their own honor; soldiers honor a higher cause.”
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