Ages Unending_Dusk Into Dawn Read online

  “So I’ve been promoted over mere Fospar, then?” Magnus smiled. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Why did you swear yourself to me after you saw the color of my eyes?”

  Magnus nodded. “Forgive me, I should have clarified earlier. I have only seen eyes like that once in my life, and I would never forget them. As soon as I saw them, I knew you were the person the messenger sent me to find.”

  Hakon arched his brow, looking back to the fox, still staring and unblinking. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they were your father’s eyes.”

  The large man stopped in his tracks. “My father?” Something fired off in his mind, as if he were just jolted awake by a dream. He saw a woman screaming in pain, a man who was not a man, and then, sending his heart pounding in his chest, he saw the white wolf, staring at him.

  Magnus rested a hand on Hakon’s arm. “I knew your father. He was a Fosporian, a good man and more than that—”

  “Silence!” Hakon roared. His eyes wide with rage, he hefted Magnus off his feet and slammed the smaller man against a tree trunk. “You don’t know what you’re saying! Look.”

  Hakon pulled back his long hair, revealing his ears, which came to a fine point. “I am more than a mere human. My father is the forest, my mother, the sky- the Bybic Tribe found me and took me in because I was sent by the gods!” He clenched his fist, pulling his arm back to knock sense into this arrogant little Fospar. “I am not one of you snivelling cowards! You came to our lands, with your demons and your magic, and you expect us to change our ways because you had a Prophet? You may have spelled the end of our brother Fravani Tribe, but if you ever speak about my father again, I’ll squeeze your face until it bursts like overripe fruit!”

  Magnus, however, seemed to have reached his limits, his smile disappearing as he returned his captor’s glare. “Hit me, then, Hakon Bybicson. Strike me with all your strength! Do whatever you like to me, but that won’t change the truth! You can’t beat the truth into submission; it doesn’t care how strong you are.”

  Hakon glared at Magnus, but then, with a frustrated snarl, he let the man drop and swung his fist at the trunk with all his strength, splintering the wood.

  “Gods above, Hakon!” Alfred had brought his horse around. “What are you doing? We’re within earshot of the village! Do you want the guards to think you’ve lost your mind?”

  “Sorry.” Hakon took a deep breath, shooting a dirty look at Magnus. “Let the night guard know my hunt was successful; I’m bringing home boars for the roast.”

  Chapter 2

  The Bybic Tribe

  Of all the tribes of the Altani people, the Bybic tribe held the grandest home. Their village sat on a great circle, the remains of an ancient citadel with stout fortifications and towers, looming over the forest like a mountain. Grand columns and arches surrounded them, weathered by two thousand years of exposure to the elements. Their Jarl’s mead hall sat on a plateau, while the rest of the tribe carved their homes out of the walls surrounding them, mingling with mosaics and statues of warriors left by the ancients.

  Magnus had been brought to Hakon’s home, part of the old barracks, a low stone building with a slate roof near the Jarl’s hall. It rested in the shadow of a chipped and battered statue of a griffin, its wings spread with shards of sunlight peeking through weather-worn holes. It once had a twin on the opposite end of the building, but a long-gone battle had claimed it, leaving only its plinth and bottom-most paws.

  Hakon lived a simple life, and his home had few comforts. He slept on a bed of pelts, leaving Magnus a place by the fire, in full view of the warrior’s extensive collection of trophies. The walls were crowded with broken weapons and shields, animal heads, and a collection of helmets, Altani and Fosporian alike, which spoke of his prowess in battle.

  He awoke in a foul mood. The same visions of the white wolf and strange, ominous warriors surrounding him haunted his dreams, and he couldn’t rid himself of them. His rancor passed in part, at least, when he saw a meal waited for him; porridge, with an apple, a flank of bacon, and a flagon of mead.

  Sitting up, he arched an eyebrow at Magnus, who was hunched over, examining a carving of a warrior.

  “You can cook. Good,” Hakon grunted, tearing into the bacon first.

  Magnus immediately stood straight. “Oh, you’re awake at last,” he grinned. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I gave it my best guess.”

  “Meat,” Hakon replied, finishing off the bacon.

  “Of course,” Magnus nodded. He turned back to the wall and dug into his pack. He produced scraps of parchment and a quill, which he immediately began scribbling on. The warrior carving was surrounded by writing in the language of the ancients that had built the citadel.

  “What’re you doing?” the warrior grunted, chugging down the mead.

  “Transcribing. This is fascinating! Do you know who owned this citadel, in the past?”

  “The Bybic Tribe has lived here for centuries. Jarl Gunnar’s ancestor, Harald Dragonsbane, led our people here. It was passed from father to son, in an unbroken chain. Before that?” Hakon shrugged. “Some great warlord of the ancients, probably.”

  “Not just any warlord, an Archon of Altun. This was built in the Blessed Centuries, over two thousand years ago. This whole carving is reminding the soldiers garrisoned here of their allegiance to the Archon. I can translate it for you if you like.”

  The warrior scoffed, leaving the apple untouched as he staggered to a chest where he kept his clothes. “What do I care for long-dead kings?”

  “Archon,” Magnus corrected, missing the dirty look Hakon shot him. “You might like learning about the warriors of the past. I can translate it to your tongue, if you like. Yours is actually just a continuation of the Altun language, so you’ll recognize some of the words.

  Hakon slipped a jerkin over his broad frame, and then stopped, thinning his lips. “I never learned to read.”

  “You never…?” Magnus looked back, and offered an encouraging smile. “That’s no great failing. I can teach you. The Prophet had to teach many former slaves, and—”

  “Gods, do you ever stop talking?” Hakon chuckled, slamming the chest shut. “I’m a warrior. I live by the sword. Let old men and limp-wristed wretches like you stick to letters.” He glanced down to the floor, lost in thought. “I was bred for battle. Nothing more.”

  Magnus frowned. “Sounds grim. My people were born slaves, and our calling was whatever our masters chose for us. Now, by the Creator’s grace, we can be whatever we want.”

  “And you chose to walk into Bybic lands and become my bondsman.” The warrior gestured to the fire. “Sit. You need to understand how this is going to work.”

  The round-faced Fosporian obeyed, sitting close to Hakon.

  “You are part of my house, now. Your words are my words, your actions are also mine. Any other warrior would have beaten you until you were obedient, but since you swore yourself willingly, I will not harm you until you’ve dishonored me.” The warrior crossed his arms, puffing his chest against them to make himself look even bigger. “I will only say this; if you break my honor, I will be merciless.”

  Magnus nodded warily. “I have no intention of dishonoring you.”

  Hakon returned the acknowledgement brusquely. “Then no one in the tribe has an honorable reason to harm you. But you’re soft, and our more spiteful warriors would like to make sport of you. Stay out of their way. But since a Bybic protects his household, if any of them threatens you, tell me. I’ll take care of it from there.”

  “I understand,” the short man said. “I won’t make trouble. I just want to help.”

  Hakon lumbered for the door. “You want to help? Clean this place, and then prepare to attend me in the mead hall tonight. Our brothers from the Ilani Tribe are visiting to prepare for the coming battle.”

  “Battle?” Magnus asked, slow to rise.

  “Autumn is here, and the harvest is coming in, is it not? We
wouldn’t want any more Fospars getting fat as you.” Hakon lumbered out the door, leaving Magnus to his work.

  The village had fully awakened. The smiths were busy, with the rhythmic clanging of hammers against iron carried on the wind. Beyond the walls, farmers worked in their fields. Farther off, Hakon saw a great plume of smoke where iron was wrought and purified to keep the smiths supplied. Women wove at their looms or tended their hearth. Children, if not doing chores, played in the streets, some daring to climb statues and toppled columns before someone yelled at them not to.

  Hakon took a deep breath as his fellow warriors gathered near the great, towering gate of their home. They were, like him, dressed in plain clothes, and carried only ceremonial weapons; such was the custom when a neighboring tribe came to talk in good faith. Only the Jarl’s guards, grim and serious men bearing spears and round shields with griffins painted on them, were armed.

  “Hakon!” came a cheer from the warriors as he approached. A squat but broad-shouldered man named Ingvar lumbered over and clasped Hakon’s hand, attempting to outdo his iron grip before relenting. “We heard you finally settled down with a plump little wife of a Fospar last night,” he thundered, making the others around him laugh.

  “He’s still prettier than your wife, Ingvar,” Hakon shot back, smirking as the other warriors laughed.

  A horn blasted as three men on horseback approached; two were the Jarl’s guards, and the one in the center was Alfred, dressed in a thick fur-lined cloak that hid his hunch.

  “Ah, good morning, Hakon. Your new pet behaving himself?” Alfred asked.

  Hakon frowned. “Why are you here without Gunnar? The Ilani will be here any minute.”

  Alfred rolled his eyes. “You know Father these days. For a man who berates his only living son for being born a cripple, he spends more time in bed than me. He’s not feeling well enough to face Jarl Osbren; he’s saving his strength for the feast tonight, so he won’t look like a corpse.”

  Another horn sounded from over the wall, and the guards began working the ancient mechanisms to open the gate.

  “Well, let’s all look our best, shall we?” Alfred called, the warriors gathering in something passing for a formation.

  As the gates opened, horsemen charged in. Jarl Osbren was a large man built like a bear, thick and sturdy limbs matched with a broad middle and a great, shaggy black beard obscuring most of his face. His guards carried shields bearing the Ilani sign, three ravens circling one another, but like the Bybics, Osbren was unarmed and dressed in nothing more than fine clothes. Half a dozen gold amulets glittered through his beard; a subtle hint he and his men had met with successful raids as of late.

  “Alfred Gunnarson,” Osbren made a face as if he had smelled something unpleasant. “Why does Jarl Gunnar insult me by sending out his cripple?”

  Alfred’s face twitched out of annoyance, but only Hakon caught it. “Jarl Gunnar has taken ill, my lord. He is resting so he may be of sound mind and body at the feast.”

  Osbren grunted and turned to Hakon without another word to Alfred. “And Hakon Bybicson.” He punched the larger warrior’s arm. “Hard as stone, like they said! You looking forward to killing Fospars? Will make for some fine stories when we see you at the Great Moot.”

  Hakon gave a bleak grin. “Of course, my lord.”

  Osbren barked out a laugh. “Our tribe has heard of the wrath of Hakon Bybicson. I look forward to seeing it for myself. The Ilani have a challenge for the mighty Bybic; I take it you’d be willing to accept?”

  “I’ve never met a challenge I couldn’t win.”

  Osbren glanced over his shoulder, as his men led in a covered wagon. “We’ll see tonight, eh?” The Ilani Jarl clapped Hakon on the back, before following his men further into the village.

  “He didn’t even have the decency to leave me with a parting insult,” Alfred muttered. Hakon shrugged with a sympathetic look on his face. The Jarl’s son shook his head, and called out to the warriors of his tribe. “Bybics! Form up, and help our guests settle in.”

  The warriors looked at Alfred with disdainful looks. None of them moved.

  “Hey!” Hakon bellowed. “Bybics, your future Jarl gave you an order! Form up!” The large warrior puffed up his chest, and the others immediately fell into line, following the Ilani and leaving Alfred alone with Hakon.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Alfred said quietly, tugging on his horse’s reins to head back to the mead hall.

  “Of course I did.” Hakon reached up to pat Alfred’s shoulder. “We can’t embarrass ourselves in front of the Ilani of all people.”

  Alfred scoffed, grinning softly. “Well, let’s wait and see what ‘challenge’ Osbren has for you. Do me a favor and wipe that smug smirk off his face before he leaves. Or tear out his beard, I’m not picky.”

  It would take most of the day for the Ilani to get settled. By sunset, Magnus helped Hakon prepare for the feast, forcing him into a fox fur-lined red and blue tunic that strained against his massive frame. His hair had been woven into a warrior’s braid, and he wore an intricate gold amulet showing griffins in flight; a sign of favor with Jarl Gunnar

  “Magnus,” Hakon looked back at the Fosporian, and remembered how he had treated him in the morning. “You won’t need to attend me tonight,” he said as he headed for the door.

  “Oh?” Magnus arched his brow.

  Hakon thinned his lips. “We’re meeting to plan raids on Fospar lands. You’re too new in the village, and wouldn’t be trusted to hear them.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Hakon sighed, resting his hand on the doorframe. “You stole our people’s lands. That’s why we raid your towns. We don’t have enough farms to support us.”

  “The Fravani invited us to their lands. If you needed help with farming, you could have asked for help or traded with us,” Magnus explained plainly. “We have more than enough food.”

  “Then your people won’t miss it, will they?” Hakon stated sharply as he left.

  Hakon walked to the mead hall. Jarl Gunnar had brought wealth and prestige to the Bybic Tribe over his long life, adorning his holdfast’s high stone walls with intricate carvings of dragons and griffins. From inside, the light of six hearths, more than any other hold, poured golden light into the night sky, as the sound of raucous laughter and the banter of warriors boasting of their prowess spilled out like overflowing mead.

  The warrior pushed inside to find the feast well underway. Long tables crowded with warriors of both tribes were groaning under the weight of mead barrels; roast pork still sizzled from the spit; and bread and hearty stews were served by either Fospar slaves or the many women Gunnar had taken for his bed over the years. Hakon shifted uncomfortably at the sight of them; the Fospars reminded him of Magnus, and Gunnar’s women had a strange look in their eyes that always left him at a loss for words.

  “Hakon!” a withered and cracked voice at the end of the hall called for him, and warriors cheered as he entered, raising their tankards to him. The large man lumbered forward, where at the high table sat Jarl Gunnar.

  No one in the Bybic tribe was entirely certain how old their Jarl was, as no one was old enough to remember. He had outlived his first three sons, and Alfred had been born when he was already ancient in comparison. Gunnar’s skin was wrinkled and saggy, his white hair long and thin. His eyes, once sharp and black as jet, had grown milky and gray with time. His withered frame was buried under several thick furs, matched with the ancient silver crown of the Bybics resting on his head. It nearly tumbled off as he fell to a hacking cough, but still, he raised a near-skeletal hand to greet Hakon.

  “Hail, Bybicson, pride and honor of our tribe,” Gunnar announced grandly. Osbren was at his right, the seat of honor, and to his left, Alfred. “Come, sit at my side.”

  Alfred looked to the Jarl. “But, Father—”

  “Silence, boy!” Gunnar hissed. “Let a real man sit at his Jarl’s side.

  Alfred huffed, exchanging an ap
ologetic look with Hakon as he shuffled further down the table. As Hakon sat down, some of Gunnar’s women immediately attended him. They would not look him in the eye, and he felt a twinge of sympathy as Gunnar grabbed at their backsides, cackling as they gasped in shock.

  “Jarl Osbren says he has a challenge for you, Hakon. Are you up to it?” Gunnar asked.

  “I’m ready to meet any challenge for the honor of our people, my lord,” Hakon replied.

  Osbren grinned. “Excellent!” He shouted to his men. Two Ilani carried in a chest larger than either of them and opened it in the center of the hall. There, in a tangled mess of charred metal, the hilt of a sword shimmered through.

  “My men and I found this in the ruins of the ancients; some long-dead witch tried to hide her treasures in this bramble of iron. It has a shield to match it, which I possess. I challenge you, Bybics, as I challenge my own- should you break the sword free, and have the strength to wield it, my men and I will follow you as the leader of our raid.” He lifted his tankard. “Here’s to the Fospars; no matter who gets the sword, they shall make us rich and feed us through winter!”

  The warriors cheered, raising their own cups and drinking deeply.

  Alfred nudged Hakon. “If you let him lead the raid, we’re no longer friends.”

  Hakon smirked. “At least let me enjoy my dinner first.”

  As the feast continued, some enterprising warriors approached the tangled iron cage, attempting to free the sword from its confines. No progress was made, save for one Bybic who sought to pull the sword free through one of the narrow openings and only got himself cut for his troubles.

  In the small hours of the night, Esben, the Skald and historian of the Bybic tribe, stepped forward. He was second-oldest in the tribe, but had aged far more gracefully than Gunnar. Strumming his harp, he cleared his throat and began reciting one of the many epics he had memorized.

  Hark, pay heed and homage to the Free-born,

  Sons of greatness, sons of Ancient warriors past,

  What great battles Spear-armed Altani have won!