A Score to Settle

[Altiak 1648]

A Score to Settle

 

 Jovir Kovachev stared out at the boundless vista ahead from the battlements of the Felsen palace, clutching the parapets as he watched the goings-on of the capital’s thriving harbor. Nervously, he turned his head to address the figure who stood behind him: a raven-haired, daunting individual, the man’s pale eyes beset on Kovachev’s form as he shifted to face him. Jovir at last wrenched his grip from the castle wall, clasping the man’s hand with a firm shake. They had come to an agreement - and now it was his duty to see the score settled.

 

 

    Wrested from his daydream by a harsh shove from behind, the soldier grunted, before he resumed his tired step in the arduous trek ahead. Marching alongside what remained of his comrades, each of them clad in the dilapidated, moth-eaten garb of the Golden Crows, Kovachev trudged over the thick snow, willing himself onwards with each laborious step. The ragtag band of once-proud Northmen walked with a faltering pace, with nary a banner fluttering at their head as they marched. Carrion birds loomed overhead, though their presence did not bolster the morale of the men bearing their likeness below. Instead, the birds cawed malignantly as they circled the procession of soldiers, their hateful cries plummeting earthwards and further dampening the doomed party’s wavering resolve.

 

 

    

    The band had been marching for three days now towards the distant Mallister Keep, the journey having already claimed a handful of starved and frostbitten men who were unceremoniously left behind in the snow by their compatriots. For the prestigious Golden Crow that had brought the Duchy of Siegrad great renown in what seemed like ages ago, the trek would have taken a scant night’s journey; but the war had transformed the once-great force into a threadbare militia of gaunt, malnourished Northmen.

 

    The contingency, a final vestige of the Adrian rebel sympathizers, had maintained their steadfastness for the first few months of their isolation. Soon enough, however, supplies began to dwindle and the ceaseless winter that hung over the Northlands began to jag at the crows’ spirits, morale decaying as defeatism and desertion ran rampant through the fortress like a virulent plague.

 

    As though to punctuate their dire circumstances, word that a new King had arisen quickly reached the last bastion of the Crows, and with it an entirely new streak of dismal circumstances. Knowing that the Crownland’s army was certain to besiege their crumbling castle in prompt, the company’s commanding officer gathered his men in the desolate square, making it known that they were to march to a nearby hideout in an effort to circumvent the wrath of the coming adversary. A haggard gathering of Northmen paraded out from the walls that had imprisoned them for so long on the next morn, slipping away through a treacherous mountain pass as the King’s army encroached barely a day’s march away.

 

    Amongst them was Jovir Kovachev.

 

---

 

    The russet-haired soldier ambled onwards, tugging his ermine mantle tighter around his robust frame as a biting gust of wind whirled around him. The men at his front and heels groveled in kind, their unshaven faces grim as they cursed through the thick snow. Laden with the tangible burden of despair upon their shoulders, an expression of resigned failure etched itself into the faces of the soldiers. All but Jovir Kovachev, who willed himself onwards with dogged resolve.

 

    They had come to an agreement - and now it was his duty to see the score settled.

 

    Presently, the meager company’s strenuous journey was almost concluded, and as Jovir marched onwards he could see what brought fleeting delight over his comrades’ countenance. The spires of Mallister Keep sprouted upwards from the harsh tundra ahead, beckoning the exhausted party forth and eliciting a handful of fatigued cheers. A few soldiers broke into an enlivened jaunt at the sight, scrambling through the snow towards the holdfast with raucous cries of elation.

 

  

 As night fell on the fortress, silence hung over Mallister Keep like a veil, the only evidence of the Northmen within being the glow of a watchman’s flickering torch as he patrolled the battlements. Though the castle they had took garrison in was not as defensible as their former keep, their commander assured them that no Orenian could have pursued them through the perilous terrain they had traveled. With these reassurances, coupled with the strain of their laborious trek, soon thereafter each of them found slumber as they rested their weary forms.

 

    An unassuming bird, black feathers having long lost their luster, flew from the parapets, flapping through the blustering clouds of snow as it left behind the castle. Gliding over the barren, icy lands below, the crow carried with it a message; bound to its foreleg by a length of bowstring, a crumpled parchment bearing a few words was suspended. The avian informant swooped low through a ridge, before it landed upon a cresting rock whereupon a pair of armor-clad men stood.

 

 

    The first man, his scarred visage donning a look of intense concentration, retrieved the letter, pale eyes scanning the contents for a fleeting moment before he discarded it with abject pragmatism. Exchanging an ambivalent nod with his comrade, a man bearing the similar striking features of an Ashford, the grizzled warrior panned his gaze towards the distant castle as his brother brandished a flaming torch, lofting it skywards and waving it with a flourish.

 

    From within the gatehouse of Mallister Keep, a lone Crow who was crouched expectantly spotted the burning beacon in the stark black night. Exhaling deeply in anticipation, his calloused hands moved slowly to his collar, where he clutched a chain hidden by his fur cloak. The unmistakeable Lorraine cross dangled across his chest as he produced the adornment- a mark of clemency from what was to come.

 

    A favor, one that a powerful man had bequeathed him.

 

    Jovir Kovachev steeled his nerves with a few shaky breaths, before he strode over to the crank that operated the keep’s wrought-iron gate. Hand over hand, in a steady motion, he opened the formerly-barred entrance to the castle, strain visible in his bearded visage as, at last, the entryway sat open to access from outside.

 

    As though to punctuate the act he had just performed, the distant rumbling of hooves made itself known over the howling winds of the Northlands. Squinting through an archer slit to sight the approaching band, Kovachev’s eyes widened as he spotted countless droves of cavalrymen pounding over the glacial plain, beset on the rebel stronghold ahead.

 

    From the head of the indomitable column of riders, King Guy de Bar gritted his teeth as he led his army towards Mallister Keep. The banners of the Ashford sun fluttered high on either of his flanks, and with a fluid motion the veteran warrior unsheathed his blade, raising it to the heavens with a ferocious cry as his host of horsemen swarmed through the castle’s open gates.

 

    Justice had come for the Golden Crows, and the King would make certain that the score was settled.

 

---

 

    Bodies, piled upon each other unscrupulously, lined the inside of Mallister Keep, their lifeless forms bearing the sigil of the Golden Crow. A company of Vindicators took to the duty of heaping their mangled corpses atop one another, chortling boisterously as they collected the discarded armaments of their foes. At the centre of the carnage’s aftermath, the king stood idly, his slate armor stained with the fleshtone of his slain foes. In the meantime, Guy’s brother Adrian yanked his polearm from a cadaverous man’s torso, before he strode over to stand at his kinsman’s flank.

 

    The pair watched as their soldiers went about amassing the crows’ bodies and equipment, the king himself adopting a muted expression as he panned his gaze over the pogrom. The prince’s visage shifted in kind to a ponderous frown, and at last he spoke with open disdain.

 

    “This was a massacre, brother.”
 

    Guy’s head pivoted slowly to glimpse his repentant brother, and a dry snort of derision escaped his lips as he shook his head tersely in stark contrast to his kinsman’s morose glower.

 

    “Nay, not a massacre. This was a debt repaid.”

 

    From the leftwards of the pair, a burly soldier approached, though the man himself did not don the iconic sun that the other warriors bore on their chests. Instead, the man was garbed in the attire that adorned the throngs of corpses, the very same crow embroidered into his raggedy doublet. The man attracted the pairs’ attention as he drew near, stepping over the mangled bodies of his former comrades, and when the King’s eyes were beset upon him he dropped to an unpracticed kneel. Guy de Bar regarded Kovachev with solemnity, beckoning the youthful soldier forth before he uttered a stern inquiry.

 

“Do you know why I did this, boy?”

 

    “They were traitors to the realm; it was justice, Your Majesty,” Jovir replied in a murmur, meeting the monarch’s gaze with visible hesitance.

 

    The seasoned ruler accosted the brazen stripling with a tight-lipped frown and a singular nod of the head, speaking with certainty as he continued.

 

“Karl Barbanov - do you recall the name? He stood a luminary to these men, these fearsome wolves of the North; without him, they were but stray, mangy pups. And like with any rabid mongrel, I sought to end their miserable suffering.”

 

---

 

The King’s prophetic words disseminated like wildfire, echoed by serfs, courtiers, and soldiers alike. The final vestige of the rebel contingent had been extinguished in the pogrom at Mallister Keep; Guy de Bar’s army marched home victorious, reveling in the populace’s gleeful appreciation. The northern continent was nearly unified under one banner and the prospects of a glorious new dawn for humanity were on the lips of every Orenian.

    

    The score was settled.

 

[Porko 397]

Veryn allows a coy smirk to cross his face upon hearing the news. "A debt has been paid- and now Oren may stride forward unhindered."

Edited September 13, 2015 by Porkchops/Memeism

[Jonificus 2741]

Ser Caspar shadows the King back home with a smug smirk on his face.

[Jachnun 566]

 

Gideon Gov sings.

[Rig 17580]

Quinn scowled, making his way along the beaten roads at a brisker pace; he would not leave himself exposed to the highwaymen and kingsmen of the realm.

[lawnmowerman 3040]

"Kawkaw..." mutters Patrick the Highwayman...