SONG OF THE BLACK: CHAPTER I

[Xarkly 12581]

A LORD OF THE CRAFT SHORT STORY

SONG OF THE BLACK - CHAPTER ONE

 

A multi-part LotC Short Story based off Ruskan lore in the era of King Barbov the Black

Spoiler

 

---

 

The sensation of driving his sword into the man’s heart made Stanislaw queasy. The resistance of the muscle, the crush of bone, and then the quick puncture - all of it made his stomach turn. 

 

Stanislaw. 

 

He ripped the sword free with a fleshy squelch, and the man he had stabbed - he was a boy, really - let his own blade clattered to the bloodied tiles, before he made a wheezy rasp, and collapsed down beside it. Blood bubbled through the rift Stanislaw had carved through the man’s gambeson, and drenched the red-green Nzechovich badge on the boy’s breast.

 

Stanislaw!

 

Stanislaw’s lungs laboured for breath. Unlike his attacker, he was dressed only in his nightshirt -- had the boy not made such noise kicking down the door, Stanislaw would have had his throat cut in his sleep. His heart thrummed in rhythm with the echo of shouts and screams  throughout Lahy Castle. 

 

Staaanislaaaw! 

 

He stumbled down the corridor. He knew he had to act, he had to find the Princes, and he had to find who was behind the fighting. The moonlit corridor seemed to twist and distort around him, and before he had taken three steps, the door at the end of the hall opened. Men in gambesons with Nzechovich badges before to march through, each of them with death-glazed eyes, a bloody hole in their hearts, and the exact face of the boy that Stanislaw had killed.

 

Stanislaw woke with a strangled growl. He leapt off the haybale he had fallen asleep on, and before he had drawn a full breath, his sword was halfway out of its sheath. It took him a moment to realize he was not back in the tiled corridors of Lahy Castle, but instead he stood at an empty coop in the corner of a green pasture. It was the cloudy night of the Coup, but instead a pleasant spring morning with a blue sky marred only by a few streaky clouds and a bright, worthless sun. There were no screams nor rings of steel this morning -- it was a din of distant chatter and smiths hammering anvils that echoed through the air.

 

And, of course, the young woman with the dark, braided hair and the vulpine face in front of Stanislaw was not his enemy. The only weapon she had was a canteen of water, held with the cap unscrewed as if she went to empty its contents on Stanislaw.

 

“... Vlasta? What are you doing?” 

 

“What am I doing?!” the young woman shot back before she hastily slammed the cap back on her canteen. “What are you doing? You almost drew your sword on me!” 

 

With a start, Stanislaw noticed he still held his sword half-bared. Hastily, he slid it back into the scabbard and let it fall loose around his waist. Shame swelled up in him at the reaction; his nerves had been frayed since the Coup. “And you almost drenched me.”

 

“Yes, well, I thought you might be dead, comatose as you were,” Vlasta said stubbornly, though with a defensiveness that betrayed her guilt. 

 

“Hmph. Why did you wake me?” He reached up to his brow, and was not surprised to find cold sweat.

 

“Why were you asleep in the first place? In a pasture, of all places, and at nearly midday?”

 

Stanislaw only frowned as he brushed strands of hay off his gambeson and his good wolfskin cloak. The answer was that he struggled to sleep at night ever since fleeing Lahy Castle, but now he suffered nightmares even during the day. When he did not answer, Vlasta shrugged, and told him, “Well, you’ve been summoned, my lord. There’s a war council happening in the keep. It might have already started, since they couldn’t find you.”

 

“That so?” Stanislaw found his feathered fur cap - the mark of a Raev captain - at the foot of the hay bale, and fixed it back on his head. “And why is the Boyar’s daughter running messages? We have squires for that.”

 

“It’s something to do,” Vlasta grumbled, and crossed her arms over her padded jerkin. Since Stanislaw had come here from Lahy Castle, she had taken to dressing like a soldier herself. “This war business isn’t as exciting as I had hoped it would be, but that might be because my father will still not let me do anything. And besides -- Prince Kosav himself asked me to find you, and I’m hardly going to refuse him.” 

 

You half-brain, Kosav. This was not the first time Stanislaw’s liege and milk-brother had found an excuse to talk with Lady Vlasta, and Stainslaw knew that would lead to more trouble than it was worth. Still, he could not help but smile ruefully. “Very well, then. Lead on.” Stanislaw did not need directions to the keep, but he did not mind taking Vlasta for a guide; some company after that dream would not be amiss. Vlasta took off with a bounce in her stop, and after tenderly rolling his shoulders - sleeping in a haystack was not exactly comfortable - Stanislaw followed, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

 

The spot Stanislaw had chosen for his nap was a farmer’s pasture just outside of town, and he was surprised Vlasta had even managed to find him here. On a bright spring morning like today, animals would normally have been grazing, but the cattle had all been bought up by the army when it had arrived from Lahy - and at an extortionate price, much to Stanislaw’s discontent. As he climbed the fence over a sty behind Vlasta, the town of Osyenia spread out before him. Farms, streaked by a distant river, cloaked the land around the palisade walls of the town like patchwork, and a small but sturdy keep rose up on a hill among the townhouses, flying the banners of the late King Karl -- King of the Raev. 

 

Osyenia was a march on the border of the Kingdom of the Raev, and its lord - Boyar Olske, Vlasta’s father - had earned his rank by defending the land against Hanseti raiders from the south for decades. Normally, the town was home to a mere few hundred, but now it bustled with well over a thousand. Clusters of tents blanketed the fields afoot the palisade, and more were erected every day as retainers came to Osyenia to pledge their support to Prince Barbov and Kosav, the exiled heirs of King Karl. Most that came did so under the banner of minor Boyars who saw the Princes’ exile as nothing more than an opportunity for power, but as Kosav had told Stanislaw, vipers made for better allies than nobody. To Stanislaw, though, the only ones he could trust were those who had come from Lahy with him and the Princes.

 

“So, you are still expecting your lord father to give you command?” Stanislaw asked idly as they joined the main dirt road, scarred and pocked from generations of cartwheels and horseshoes, that led to the town gates. Peasants - most of them carting the last of the farms’ winter stores into the town - bowed their heads deeply as they passed. The locals were clearly intimidated by all the soldiers, but there was nothing to be done about that. 

 

Vlasta glowered. “I’m not expecting it, but one can hope. None of my half-brothers are old enough to walk, and my father is too old to command. I am the only one who can lead Osyenia, but instead my father just lets you and the Princes take all the glory.”

 

Stanislaw laughed wistfully. “Well, Boyar Olske knows he has a winning hand. He’s earned enough reward by letting the Princes establish their court-in-exile in his castle -- he doesn’t need to do anything else.” Boyar Olske was no less an opportunist than the others, but he was an opportunist with a castle. 

 

Vlasta opened her mouth to retort, but remained silent when a cluster of soldiers gathered around a cookfire - in the standard mail coat, cloak, and cap of a Raev warrior - called out, “Hail, Horselegs,” in near unison. Despite the fact that most of them were older than Stanislaw, they saluted. 

 

The greeting was enough to make Stanislaw smile in spite of his mood, and he returned the salute as they passed. “Is it true they call you Horselegs because you won the last four jousts at Lahy?” Vlasta asked with renewed interest.

 

“Five,” Stanislaw corrected. “And three at Dules. Everyone always forgets about the jousts at Dules.” A few more cries of ‘Horslegs!’ followed them as they passed through the palisade gates and into the packed dirt streets of Osyenia proper. Every corner was crowded with the retainers of Boyars who had earned the privilege of camping their men inside the walls, and every third building seemed to have a makeshift smith’s forge set up to arm them. 

 

“What if you took me to council?” Vlasta asked abruptly.

 

Stanislaw arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Are you mad?”

 

“I could be your squire!”

 

“I have a squire.”

 

“You mean Villorik?” she scoffed. “Everyone says he’s a craven! I heard he tucked tail and ran from Carnatian raiders up north last summer. They call him Villorik Turnheel, you know.”

 

Stanislaw grimaced. He did not need reminders of his squire’s reputation. “Lord Villorik is … learning. He shows great potential.” And half of the soldiers in Osyenia were supplied by his father. 

 

“But I could -”

 

“Your father will not allow it, Vlasta,” he told her firmly, “and not even Prince Barbov will risk angering your father. Not now, at least.”

 

Vlasta firmed her jaw, and crossed her arms stubbornly as they followed the road through the square, and up to the castle. He was grateful to spot familiar faces manning the stone gatehouse in scale-mail armour and with masked, plumed helmets under their arms. “Hail, Miliv,” Stanislaw called as he approached.

 

“Hail, Horselegs,” the broad-faced Miliv, captain of this watch, called back. He had more than a little grey in his bushy moustache, but like every other good Raev warrior, he respected Stanislaw’s rank despite his youth. “You’re missing a council.”

 

“So Lady Vlasta tells me. Has the shouting begun?”

 

“Oh, certainly,” Miliv rumbled. It would not have been a war council without Prince Barbov raising his voice. “The Elder’s mood is foul today.”

 

“Hmph. I had better hurry, then.” 

 

He saluted farewell to Miliv and his company as he marched through the gate, Vlasta at his heels, and into the castle courtyard. More smiths worked in proper forges here, and crowds of soldiers in the same scale-mail and masked helmets - the personal guards of the Boyars - loitered around braziers outside the large, open doorway. Stanislaw could hear raised voices echo from within. 

 

“Maybe he’ll take me as his squire,” Vlasta mused, and Stanislaw paused to frown at what she was pointing at.

 

A man had just emerged from a barracks adjoined to the courtyard wall, and he was the only Raev present that did not wear any armor at all. Instead, he wore a plain linen shirt under a cloak of blue wool that was as unremarkable as the cloth-wrapped sword at his waist. The only notable detail about the man was the dried blood splashed across his breeches. 

 

“I would not suggest trying,” Stanislaw grunted tightly. 

 

“Why? Why do you all call him the Mutt?” 

 

“Because all he is good for is being an attack dog.” The man in question was Slavomir. He was born a serf, as lowly as could be, but he had earned a spot among King Karl’s retinue through unmatched skill with a blade. He was liked by none in the court - how could a peasant be? - but he was begrudgingly tolerated for his value as a warrior, and he took orders only from Prince Barbov directly. Stanislaw did not care how good the man was -- he was a serf, and serfs did not belong in Princes’ retinues. 

 

“Whose blood is that, Slavomir?” Stanislaw called to him as Slavomir passed them on his way to the keep. The other man blinked and looked around, as if it took him a moment to notice he had been spoken to.

 

“Hm? Oh. Deserters,” he answered absent-mindedly. Slavomir was Stanislaw’s elder by six or seven years, but there was a grizzled look chiselled into the deep lines of his lean, weathered face that made him look much older. “Some men from Lord Berislav’s service fled during the night.”

 

“That was for Lord Berislav to deal with.”

 

Slavomir only shrugged. “Barbov commanded me to hunt them down.” 

 

“Prince Barbov, serf,” Stanislaw corrected him sharply, but Slavomir hardly seemed to have even heard him. The older man resumed trudging to the keep in his bloodstained breeches before Stanislaw had even closed his mouth. 

 

“Now you see why he’s called Mutt?” Stanislaw hissed to Vlasta. “He sees no issue tending to his liege while drenched in blood. That’s what keeping serfs as guards gets you.”

 

“Careful, my lord,” Vlasta drawled. “It almost sounds as if you don’t like the man. So …” her eyes flashed to the doors. “Shall we?”

 

“Nice try. Be about your duties, and stay clear of the council.” 

 

“I don’t have any duties!” Vlasta called behind him as Stanislaw followed Slavomir inside. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” 

 

Spoiler

 

 

The great hall of Osyenia Castle was a long span of flagstone floors and arched columns, and rugs, tapestries, and trophies of battles from long ago hung from the wall to alleviate the dull grey of the stone. Braziers burnt between the columns, and most of the fireplaces built into the wall were lit, though all the tables before them were empty. The only gathering in the great hall was near the dais beneath a row of tall windows at the back of the hall, where the Princes’ war council gathered around a round table laden with maps.

 

“ … any strategy must revolve around the ultimate goal of securing Dules!” insisted a bellowing, familiar voice as Stanislaw arrived. “There is no point dancing around that fact! Mejen, Kurwen, Brativar - they’re all a waste of when we can take the Nzech by surprise now!”

 

“Without Mejen, Kurwen, and Brativar,” a calm, measured voice responded, “we have no foothold over the Huns River, and without control of the River, any siege on Dules is suicide. Not to mention, we need those forts as defensive positions so that the Nzech cannot use their numbers to force an advantageous battle in the field. If we just …” 

 

Only a few looked up at Stanislaw’s approach, and one - a boy with long, black hair that might just barely pass for an adult - flocked to his side and began to hurriedly whisper. “Prince Barbov called the council suddenly. I tried to find you, my lord, I did, but -” 

 

“It is alright, Villorik,” Stanislaw cut him off in an equally quiet voice. He peered over the shoulders of fur-clad Boyars to the maps spread across the table, and the fat wooden carvings placed on them. “What have I missed?”

 

“Not a great deal, lord,” his squire whispered back. “Prince Barbov wants us to move on Dules immediately while the Nzech have yet to secure control in the north, but -” 

 

“But Prince Kosav wants to take the River first, ai,” Stanislaw finished. “So nothing has changed.”

 

“Most of the Boyars do not come because they think we have no chance,” the first voice was urging as Stanislaw listened back in. That voice belonged to the broad-shouldered young man on the west side of the table, clad in a deerskin jacket and with a mane of raven-black hair spilling across his shoulders to frame the bold, proud face of Prince Barbov. “If we strike at Dules,” the Elder Prince went on, jabbing a finger at the riverside tradeport on the map, “if we take Dules, then not only will the Boyars know our strength, but they will know the Nzech days are numbered.”

 

Across the table from Barbov, Prince Kosav spread his hands. He held traces of his brother, but he was leaner, thinner, and his eyes almost had a gaunt cast. “Maybe we can take Dules. Maybe the Nzech haven’t consolidated their forces there yet, and we can force our way in. Maybe the Electors will even side with us and yield the city.”

 

“Exactly!” Barbov exclaimed. “That is -”

 

“Or maybe they don’t,” the Younger Prince went on coldly. “Maybe the Nzech already have fortified their garrison. Maybe the Electors side with them, because they offer stability for trade, which is what the Electors have always valued. And if that happens, dear brother, our entire resistance is done.” He leaned forward, pressing bony hands against the table. “We cannot take needless risks. It will be slow, but if we take a few months to secure as far as Mejen, not only will the rest of the southern Boyars join us, but it gives us a much safer foothold to push north. From Mejen,” he dragged a finger across the map, “we can cut off the River from Lahy, and isolate Dules by ranging as far east as Ingeslaw. If we do this right, we can end the war at Dules -- the rest of the Boyars will see Nzech as a lost cause. We may not even have to fight a battle for Lahy.” 

 

Rumbles of agreement rippled across the gathered Boyars and captains, and Barbov’s jaw clenched. “What do you think, Villorik?” Stanislaw whispered quietly to his squire.

 

“I … I do not know, lord.” 

 

“Come, boy,” Stanislaw grumbled patiently. “You are a student of war. Try.” 

 

“Well…” As Kosav began to talk about the potential of raids from Hanseti from behind, Villorik chewed his cheek as he eyed the map. “The Nzech have most of their support from Boyars west of the Huns, but the rest are loyal only under threat of force. It seems too risky to strike right at Dules when instead we can build a resistance in the south first that can threaten the Nzech’s hold over the rest of the Boyars.” He turned doubtful eyes up at Stanislaw. “...right?” 

 

“Good. You have a sharp mind, boy. Use it more.” 

 

Villorik’s smile was both apprehensive and pleased, but Stanislaw’s attention returned to the meeting as a weedy voice belonging to a portly, white-bearded man who sat on a high-backed chair upon the dais spoke. “My lord princes, the Hanseti have always taken advantage of turbulence among the Raev to press their claims on our border. Though they have lost their mettle since your lord father - God rest his soul,” around the table, men traced the cross in unison, “crushed them at Lahy, but who knows what the fiends might try now if we do not keep a strong presence in Osyenia?” 

 

“We are well aware, Boyar Olske,” Kosav intoned grimly. It was clear from the look on the Younger Prince’s face that he did not have an answer for that one yet.

 

“A problem we would not need to fear if we moved straight to Dules in force,” Barbov input stubbornly, but when he glanced around the table, he threw up his arms in defeat. “Alright, fine! We will focus on Mejen and control of the Huns firstly, and Dules secondly. But mark my rotting words, as soon as Boyar Vitomir arrives with the last of the levies, we march!” Barbov did not wait for any acknowledgement, and immediately turned to march off with a grunt of frustration. Within seconds, Slavomir was at his side, and after exchanging a few uneasy looks, some of the Boyars did, too.

 

“ … That will be all, then,” Kosav said grimly as he watched Barbov vanish deeper into the Castle with a procession of Boyars. The Boyars that remained muttered farewells and support before they gradually began to dissipate. Before long, the only men left at the table were Stanislaw, Villorik, Olske in his chair, and Kosav himself. 

 

“A most wise plan, my lord,” Olske grumbled. “I must admit, I am glad we have your level head to rely on. Prince Barbov is, ah … most brave, but …” 

 

“But he is rash, impatient, and does not think things through,” Kosav finished. “Yes, my lord, so I have come to learn.” 

 

Olske’s entire form seemed to bounce as the stout Boyar laughed. “Your words, my prince, not mine.”

 

“Still,” Kosav’s eyes slid to Stanislaw, “I could have used some help convincing him.” 

 

Stanislaw smiled apologetically. “You had it well in hand.” 

 

Kosav snorted. “Boyar Olske. Would you leave us for a moment?”

 

The old man frowned for the briefest of moments - even though Kosav was his liege, this was his castle - but he obliged with a nod. He hoisted himself out of the cheer, off the dais, and then leisurely waddled down the hall.

 

“Villorik -- you will go see to feeding Iskje now.” Villorik’s mouth opened to instinctively complain about tending to Stanislaw’s horse, but a curt look with Stanislaw killed the complaint before it was voiced. Villorik nodded, and a moment later, Stanislaw and Kosav stood alone at the table.

 

“Not like you to be late,” Kosav began as he leaned back against the dais with a sigh. 

 

“Yes, well … I was catching up on sleep. You can forgive me, I hope.”

 

Kosav arched an eyebrow. “You are still …?” He did not need to finish -- Kosav was the only one Stanislaw had trusted with his nightmares.

 

“Yes,” Stanislaw said with a sigh of his own as he joined Kosav by the dais, “and I fear they’re getting worse. Each time is more vivid, like … like I am really back there.” Even as he closed his eyes, Stanislaw could picture the Nzech traitors rushing through the Castle, cutting down men and women blindly. 

 

“We’ll have our revenge soon enough. Don’t worry.”

 

“Revenge?” Stanislaw scoffed in half-hearted amusement. “You’re sounding like Barbov now.”

 

“What do you want me to say?” Kosav closed his eyes as the beam of light from the window fell on him. “That we’ll restore strong administration, rule of law, stability? Because we will, but the Nzech promise to do the exact same thing.” His eyes opened on the map again. “And they possess the greater, ah, territorial means to do so.” 

 

Stanislaw's own gaze looked at a fat wooden figure placed over the bold dot labelled ‘LAHY’ on the map. “I still just don’t understand,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Chancellor Msitovic and the Nzech served King Karl to build this kingdom over these last decades … they regained their honour, their respect … why oust his heirs as soon as they can?” 

 

“The Nzechovich have challenged Barbov and I’s forefathers for kingship of the Raev for generations,” Kosav answered absently, as if by rote. “They saw an opportunity, and they took it by trying to kill us in our sleep.”

 

The look Stanislaw gave his friend was wary. “Do you really believe that? Some of the Nzech would leap at the first opportunity to seize power, but … God, Kosav, you know Lord Msitovic is not like that. He values more than just the pride of his people.” 

 

“ … I know.” 

 

“So then why would he lead a coup to drive you out?”

 

Stanislaw almost wished Kosav had said anything else besides, “I don’t know.” Before Stanislaw could ponder any further, though, Kosav pushed off the dais and ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter now. You heard Barbov - before the month is out, we’ll finally be marching on Mejen. I think that calls for a drink. Don’t you? Stanislaw?” 

 

Stanislaw blinked as if waking from a trance. He nodded along politely, and followed as Kosav began to lead the way to his chambers, but his mind remained at the table. 

 

His mind remained on the table, and the fact that he could have sworn that when Stanislaw asked why the Nzech led their coup, Kosav had been staring at the spot where Barbov had stood.

 

[GoodGuyMatt 7060]

The title...

 

 

[Crevel 4727]

Too many words but I'll +1

[Capt_Chief26 1205]

Ser Reinhardt Barclay enjoyed the short story with a pint

[CopOwl 1668]

Dame Lynette Mendez, from wherever she was, smiled softly to herself upon reading through the story. "I wonder where such stories have been dug up." She muses to herself, then setting the parchment down and standing with grim determination to return home; filled of inspiration from reading of such a dedicated Knight to protect her own Liege the instant she is able...

[UnBaed 8910]

I have his autograph 

[Marquesa_ 298]

Bogdana enjoyed reading this, and wanted a sequel

[Radzig 546]

Spoiler

Great read, looking forward to more