SONG OF THE BLACK: CHAPTER II

[Xarkly 12581]

SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTR II: LAHY

A Lord of the Craft short story inspired by Ruskan Lore.

 

Read Part I here.

 

Spoiler

 

---

 

Lahy was the only city Mylah had ever seen, but she doubted there was another to rival it.

 

As she so often did these days, the young woman slouched cross-legged in a wide stone windowframe in the upper quarters of Lahy Castle, and stared down at the expanse of onion-domed towers and sloping slate rooftops beneath her. Her home village - Karinov, out west - could have fit within Lahy’s towering walls fifty times over. In the setting sun of the spring evening, the fading light glistened off the tiled onion domes, and bathed the city in a soft golden glow.

 

Mylah had tuned herself out from the conversation happening in the room behind her, and instead let the din of noise from the city - from the indistinguishable tide of talk, to the ship-bells ringing in the harbour - wash over her instead. Her trance, however, was broken when she heard a deep voice intone, “Enough, Szitibor! I have given my answer, and I have delayed court long enough,” before another man’s voice said, “Mylah, will you please tell him?!”

 

“Tell him what?” Mylah did not turn around. Instead, she lazily watched a crow hop along the slate rooftops just under the window. 

 

“Do not forget yourself, niece,” the first voice said sternly. “If you are going to speak, then give us your attention. You are a Nzechovich -- show manners befitting your status.” 

 

Pfft. Some good my status is doing me now. With a sigh, Mylah wound herself around to face into the parlour. Standing amidst the ornate rugs and tapestries, the gilded darkwood furnishings, and the vine-patterned walls, was Szitibor, her brother, with frustration painted on his bold-featured face, and the evening light shining on his shaved head. Beside Szitibor stood their uncle - Lord Msitovic, Chancellor of the Raev Court, and the man who had driven Prince Barbov and Kosav into exile. He was a tall man with a hard, weary face, and the pale-brown hair that hung loose over his shoulders was streaked with grey near his temples. Though well into his middle-years, wide shoulders and a broad chest belied a soldier’s physique, and paired with his red-and-white fur cloak and tunic, he exhibited a regal aura.

 

“Tell him what?” Mylah repeated with an effort not to sound curt. Msitovic was their uncle, and he had cared for Mylah well, but she had no patience for these debates.

 

“Tell him we both came up with the plan,” Szitibor pleaded.

 

Mylah barked a laugh. “Do you think Szitibor pressured me into this, uncle? If anything, it would be the other way around.” She ignored the glare that earned her from her brother. 

 

“Hmph.” Msitovic’s eyes were tight. Those eyes had a keenness to them that, when she was a girl, had made Mylah think he could tell when someone was lying. Sometimes, she still believed he could. “It is not pressure from one another I fear. Rather, I think you are both pressured by some nonsensical need to prove yourselves.” Mylah opened her mouth to protest, but her uncle raised a hand to silence her. “Do not deny it! You think that because you are distanced from Nestor’s blood, you need to prove yourself worthier than your cousins so that you will not be neglected.”

 

Mylah exchanged a guilty look with Szitibor. It was true; the pair of them were part of the Nzechovich dynasty, the bloodline that had feuded with the Karovic dynasty for generations for the throne of the Raev. Though there had been brief peace between the families when the late King Karl took the throne and named Msitovic as his Chancellor, that peace was shattered when, on the eve of King Karl’s death, Msitovic had led the Nzechovich supporters in a coup that had ousted the Princes Barbov and Kosav -- Karl’s sons and heirs. While that made Szitibor and Mylah part of the ruling caste, they were distanced from the main bloodline of King Nestor V -- the boy that had been installed on the throne after the coup -- and though Msitovic was their uncle, they had a score of cousins to compete with for limited positions and power.

 

I will not be sent back to Karinov to be forgotten. I will not. 

 

“You can prove yourselves in the main army with your cousin Vladrik,” Msitovic went on softly when neither of them spoke. “You shall be at his side when he secures Dules and brings control to the eastern and southern Boyars.”

 

“Vladrik is a fool!” Szitibor moaned. “He only has command of the army because he’s Nestor’s uncle!” 

 

Msitovic gave Szitibor a frosty stare, but he did not deny it. “Do not speak of your own kin like an enemy -- we have enough internal divisions. I’ve given my answer, and we cannot delay the royal court any longer -” 

 

“Our plan makes sense, uncle!” Mylah cut him off. That freezing look turned on her, but impatience drove her on. “Let Vladrik secure Dules, the west, the south, wherever! Szitibor and I only need a small force to kill the Princes and take Osyenia.” When word had first reached the newly-reclaimed Nzechovich court that Prince Barbov and Kosav had begun raising an army at Osyenia to take back their father’s throne, mild panic had spread through Lahy. Mylah and Szitibor, however, had seen it for exactly what it was. A golden opportunity.

 

Msitovic, however, shook his head as he began to stride out of the room. “It is a needless risk. Once Vladrik crosses the Huns, there will be nothing the Princes can do.” Outside the parlour, the tiled corridors of the upper quarters were flooded with the golden evening light from the open-columned wall that looked over one of the Castle’s courtyards. “None of the other Boyars will risk joining him when our army controls the midlands. Once the damned Electors yield Dules to us, the few supporters the Princes do have will abandon them.” 

 

Mylah subdued a growl of frustration, and shot her brother an urging look behind the Chancellor’s back. 

 

“It’s not a risk for you!” Szitibor insisted, then. “What has the throne got to lose? We only need to borrow a few hundred soldiers to supplement our retainers from Karinov! If it works, then we take Osyenia, we kill the Princes, and their resistance dies with them! If we fail, then you only lose a handful of soldiers, the Princes will be weakened, and Vladrik can finish them off.”

 

“Not a political risk, perhaps,” Msitovic conceded. They passed a gaggle of serving women in kokoshniks who almost dropped the bedding they were carrying in their haste to bow their heads. “But I do not wish to send my niece and nephew to their deaths without purpose.”

 

“It’s not without purpose!” Szitibor went on as they turned away from the sunlit corridor, and started a spiralling set of stairs. “Barbov and Kosav might not be a threat with their current numbers, true, but they could become one! It could take Vladrik months to make Dules accept Nestor as king, and in that time, who knows what tricks the Princes might pull? Barbov might be an idiot, but you mentored Kosav yourself! And they still have Stanislaw Horselegs and Ratibor Skysent! Not to mention the Mutt …” 

 

The Mutt … Even Mylah suppressed a shiver at the thought of Slavomir. As they stepped out of the stairwell into another set of tiled hallways. Down one of them, servants scrubbed tiles that were still stained with blood from the coup. Barbov and Kosav had been meant to die during the coup, but the story went that Slavomir the Mutt had carved through dozens of Nzech soldiers to let them escape. 

 

“You two are too young to risk your lives for mere glory,” Msitovic went on as they walked. Servants and courtiers alike crossed the hallways, and all of them favoured Msitovic with a deep bow. 

 

“Isn’t that why you risked all of our lives when you ousted the Princes?” Mylah had spoken in an absent-minded grumble as she stared at the floor, and so she did not realize Msitovic had stopped walking until she stumbled into his back. When she looked up, her uncle wore such an eerie look that even she flinched.

 

“Glory?” the Chancellor said, his voice whisper-soft. “I did not risk our entire dynasty for glory, girl. I did it so that we would not have to endure another fool of a King who would abandon the gods of our ancestors for the drivel that is Canonism, a fool of a King who would not leave our borders open to invaders, and a fool King who would not rule the Raev like a tyrant. I had to cut Karl’s spawn out like a cancer for the good of all Raev … not for glory.” He finished in the same whisper, but it was as soft as steel now. The hallway passing courtiers in the hallway had stopped to look, and abruptly, some of them began to cheer and clap.

 

Msitovic did not even seem to hear them. Mylah blinked at him in surprise. She had never seen her uncle like that before. She was still comprehending what he had said when he lay a hand on her shoulder. The momentary anger seemed to have deflated out of him as quickly as it had come. “I ...  am sorry. I forgot myself, Mylah. All … All I meant was that there is more to life than status, and power, and prestige. Sometimes, we must do what is right for the world, not just for us.”

 

“I … I see,” Mylah said at last. In truth, she was not sure if she did -- she had never enjoyed the intricacies of politics, and so she could hardly tell what was or was not right in all this. What she did understand was that if she did not distinguish herself, she would be forever overlooked for people like Vladrik. 

 

Whether he could tell she was lying or not, Msitovic nodded slowly. He seemed very tired now, as if the exchange had left him sapped. He resumed leading the way to the throne room, ignoring the echoing claps from the Raev who had heard his speech. Mylah flashed her brother an uncertain look, and received one in turn. 

 

For a time, they just walked wordlessly through Lahy Castle. As they neared the throne room in the heart of the castle, more Raev began to throng the corridor, from more courtiers in fine-cut coats and servants in kokoshniks, to Bogatyrs - the most elite Raev warriors - in their resplendent scale-mail and masked helmets tucked under their arms, and even a few Boyars in feathered fur-lined caps. All of them, Boyars included, bowed their respect to Msitovic, but the Chancellor seemed lost in thought. A few spoke up as if to speak to him, but Msitovic walked right on.

 

“Uncle,” Mylah began softly, just quiet enough so that those around them did not overhear. “If you do want to help all Raev, why not make yourself king? Why put a six-year old on the throne?”

 

At first, she thought she might have spoken too low for Msitovic to hear, but after a moment, he sighed, and murmured, “There are others, even within our own clan, who covet power and control. Vladrik’s father, Nestor’s mother, Boyar Eyzov … They accept Nestor as king because they think they can use him, and that keeps them docile.” 

 

Something about it gnawed at Mylah’s mind. “And what makes your control better than theirs?” Szitibor flashed her a warning look, but she ignored it -- this was an answer she wanted to hear. 

 

Msitovic’s broad shoulders shook with wistful laughter. “Because, dear niece, I have no choice but to believe it, else we would be at the whims of fools and tyrants forever. Why? Have you come  to doubt me, Mylah?” 

 

She did not need to look at Szitibor frantically shaking his head. “No,” she answered honestly. “I only ask because I think you should be king.” At least then Szitibor and I would have our station secured.

 

Msitovic, however, gave no answer.

 

A few moments later, Mylah was surprised to realize they were nearing the massive set of doors that led into the throneroom of Lahy Castle. A din of hushed talk echoed from the doors, and a constant flow of men and women streamed into the doors. Scale-mailed Bogatyrs flanked the doorway on either side, cloaked and plumed in green, and stood rigidly with their bardiches in hand. “You are sure?” Msitovic asked under his breath as they approached. “About Osyenia. You are sure you are prepared to risk your lives?”

 

Almost simultaneously, the siblings blurted, “Yes.” 

 

Msitovic looked at them over his shoulder. Hesitation was etched into the Chancellor’s weary face, but Mylah had to stop herself from smiling when he nodded. She knew he would not like that, and she owed him that much.

 

“Very well,” he bristled, and then marched into the throne room.

 

“Finally,” Mylah wheezed once he was gone. “Finally! We’re going to do it, Szitibor! When we kill Barbov and Kosav, they’ll make us Bogatyr ourselves!” 

 

Her brother’s smile was wry. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We have to kill them first.” 

 

Mylah laughed dismissively. Of that, she had no doubt. Grinning from ear to ear, she and Szitibor joined the tide of Raev trickling into the throne room - the crowd had seemed to double once people realized Msitovic had arrived. 

 

The throneroom of Lahy Castle was much like the other decorated rooms and corridors of the Castle, only more colourful. A red carpet with golden spirals so intricate that Mylah could not make out what they began marked a wide path between gold-and-silver vinework columns that arched into a tall crimson roof, and what spaces of the walls were visible through the throng were colourful vistas of Raevir history. More bardiche-wielding Bogatyr stood in lines at the edge of the carpet, keeping the path clear, and so Szitibor and Mylah joined the packed wings behind the column. Mylah was taller than most women, and a good deal of men, but even she could barely see the dais through the crowd, where King Nestor V, decked in red-and-white-fringed furs, sat on a throne, his little legs swinging beneath him, his face round with baby fat.

 

A child for a king, Mylah thought bitterly. I hope you can use him better than your rivals, uncle. For our sake. Those rivals in question - from Nestor’s stone-faced mother, to the fiery-haired Boyar Eyzov - stood around the dais, but only Msitovic stood next to the throne. Then, a gong chimed near the dais, and the Raev gathered in the hall bowed their heads in unison. 

 

“This Royal Court,” Msitovic proclaimed loudly, “is now in session. Long live Nestor V, King of Raev!” 

 

“Long live Nestor V, King of Raev!” the attendants echoed in unison. Szitibor frowned at Mylah when she did not repeat it, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Why should I praise him? He’s done nothing for his throne. Who cares if he’s the last son of Nestor IV? If I have to work for my station, then so should he. 

 

“My lord King,” Msitovic went on in that ceremonial drone. “I ask you for the honour that I may hold this Court on your behalf.”

 

“Huh? Oh!” Nestor V looked up from playing with the bejewelled broach of his cloak, and look to his tight-lipped mother before he bobbed his head uncertainly. 

 

Bah. Mylah sneered. My uncle is the reason you’re fat arse is on that throne, boy. 

 

But Msitovic only smoothly answered, “Thank you, my lord King.” Only a flash of irritation showed on the Chancellor’s face as he addressed the court once more. “My lords and ladies, under the patronage of our lord King, we have driven the cravens Barbov and Kosav from Lahy, and spared all of Raevdom from a ruinous reign that would have spelt the end to our realm.” Though cheers began to rise, they were silenced when Msitovic went on. “But our work is not done. Not only are some of the Boyars in the south and east yet to accept our rule, but the Electors of the trade city of Dules have closed their gates and ports to all, and refuse to say if they will stand with us or against us. I speak for all Raev, and our lord King, when I say that we will not have brought peace to this realm until Dules is firmly ours. To that end, Lord Vladrik of Nzechia is called before the King.” 

 

The idiot in the flesh, Mylah thought as the cheers and clapping resumed as an armoured man proudly marched down the carpet. Vladrik’s scale-mail was gilded on the shoulders, neck, and breast, and thus he sparkled in the evening light as he knelt before the dais with a clang of metal. As their cousin, Vladrik looked similar to Szitibor with his bold-features, only he had a squarer jaw, and a neat crop of dark hair on his scalp as opposed to Szitibor’s shaved head. 

 

Nestor V had resumed playing with his broach, oblivious to Vladrik, as Msitovic continued. “Lord Vladrik. Our lord King is to understand that, by his order, you have assembled a great army of loyal men from Nzechia and our holds in the west.” 

 

“Yes, lord uncle. Thirty-thousand Raev soldiers and one-thousand mounted Bogatyr are ready to march at the command of my King.” 

 

“One-thousand Bogatyr?” Mylah whispered quietly under her breath. “Why so few?”

 

“Because,” Szitibor hissed back, “most of them were killed in the coup.” 

 

“Then your duty is clear, Lord Vladrik,” Msitovic said. “You will cross the Huns River with your army and bring order to the lands that would threaten the peace of Raevdom with the threat of rebellion … chief among them the city of Dules.” 

 

“Nothing would bring me greater honour, lord uncle.” Vladrik slapped a fist over his heart. “I shall march with the sunrise!” 

 

The cheers broke out again and, as usual, Mylah did not join them. Instead, she stared up at the dais, and locked eyes with her uncle, who gave a single nod before he said, “Then prepare yourself well, Lord Vladrik. You, however, will not be the only army that marches tomorrow.” Almost immediately, the cheers began to fade with puzzled murmurs. Boyar Eyzed, Nestor’s mother, and the others on the dais shot Msitovic questioning looks, but the Chancellor did not look at them as he announced, “The lord Szitibor and lady Mylah of Karinov are called before his Majesty.” 

 

Mylah sucked in a breath, and she and Szitibor began to jostle their way through the crowd until they passed through the line of Bogatyr to stand on the central carpet. Mylah had never considered herself the nervous type, but the hundreds of eyes suddenly watching them was certainly daunting. Only the disbelief on Vladrik’s face soothed her sudden surge of anxiety. In unison, she and Szitibor started down the carpet, and smoothly kneeled to either side of Vladrik in front of the dais.

 

Msitovic hesitated only for a moment before he began again. “The Karovic Princes have been driven from Lahy, and most of their cretinous supporters lie dead. However, to the south, on the border of Hanseti, the traitorous Boyar Olske has given them sanctuary in his castle of Osyenia, and from there they rally an army to strike back against us. Though this army remains small and of little threat, any babushka will tell you that a thorn is best pricked quickly, before the wound is infected. Therefore, my niece and nephew … you will ride to Osyenia with a force of three-thousand, and you will return with the heads of Barbov, Kosav, and all who stand with them.” 

 

This is it. Right or wrong, Nestor or Barbov, all of it be damned. This is my chance for greatness, and I will earn it, she thought as Szitibor smoothly answered, “It shall be done, lord uncle. On our honour.” 

 

I’m sorry, Princes, but I’m coming for your heads.

[CopOwl 1668]

Dame Lynette Mendez wonders how the writer can publish these ancient works at such speed! Though she grins the entire time while reading of her predecessors.

[Capt_Chief26 1205]

Ser Reinhardt Barclay smiles as he has another story to read in his private study