Song of the Black | Chapter III: Mejen

[Xarkly 12611]

SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER III: MEJEN

A Lord of the Craft short-story set in ancient Ruskan lore.

 

Previous Chapters:

Chapter I: Osyenia

Chapter II: Lahy

 

After rallying their forces in the border-town of Osyenia, the Karovic Prince Barbov and his brother Kosav begin to secure ports on the Lower Huns River to prepare to retake the Ruskan crownlands - in particular, the wealthy trade city of Dules and the royal capital of Lahy. However, the usurpers of the rival Nzechovich dynasty move to stop their efforts before they begin. Szitibor and Mylah, nephew and niece of the Nzechovich leader Lord Msitovic, rally to oppose them in the port-town of Mejen.

 

Music

Spoiler

 

---

 

A gull soared across the sky.

 

Cawing, it flew above theb anks of the Lower Huns River, its calm waters glistening in the mid-morning sun, and glided on the spring wind above the small port-town of Mejen. The gull sailed above the green-and-red Nzechovich banners flying from Mejen's thick wooden walls, and its shadow trailed across the quilted expanse of ploughed, but abandoned, fields and farms outside the walls until it passed above where Vlasta of Osyenia stood, on the makeshift ramprts of the Karovic siege camp.

 

Stupid bird has it easy, she thought to herself as the wind tossed her dark hair about. He gets to fly everywhere, while I'll probably have these saddle-sores on my arse until I die. She winced as she pressed a hand against her lower back; she had practically lived in the saddle of her horse for the past fortnight, following the Karovic Princes around as they rode from village to village to gather more levies to bolster their army to reclaim their throne.

 

I guess we have one thing in common, mister bird, she thought bitterly as she slumped forward against the palisaded battlement. Neither of us get to fight.

 

Prince Barbov and his younger brother Prince Kosav had planned to secure the main riverports on the Lower Huns River - Kurwen, Brativar, and Mejen - to give them a foothold to assault the trade city of Dules, further upriver, which would bring the Princes enough wealth and manpower to drive the Nzechovich traitors out of Lahy and reclaim their father's crown of Ruska. The plan had gone well at first -- Kurwen had welcomed the Princes without a fight, and the Boyar of Brativar surrendered after a siege that lasted no longer than twelve hours. When they arrived at Mejen two days ago, however, instead of finding another Boyar with a measly levy and no wish to fight royalty - exiled though they were - they had been greeted by Nzechovich banners flying proudly from the walls, and a garrison of three-thousand Nzech warriors ready to halt their advance.

 

"I still don't get it," she mumbled. "I thought the whole plan was based on the fact that the Nzechovich had their hands full with the rest of the Kingdom to bother with us down here." Before the succession crisis, Vlasta had never gone further than the handful of villages around her father's lands of Osyenia, but from everything she had heard, the Nzechovich coup had thrown the entire country into chaos. Compared to rebelling Boyars in the north or Dules trying to assert neutrality, the Princes' modest army should have been of little concern.

 

"Well, it was," came a hoarse reply. Beside her, Villorik - squire to the famed Bogatyr Stanislaw Horselegs - stood staring at Mejen with wide, fearful eyes. Vlasta and Villorik had often found themselves waiting together like this while the Boyars, Bogatyrs, and Princes argued over their battle plans and logistics. Even looking frightened as he did, Vlasta had to begrudingly admit that Villorik was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, with his unblemished, chiselled face and his long, dark curls. That, however, annoyed her; Villorik was too pretty to be a warrior, and he lacked an ounce of courage to boot. "All that time we took taking Kurwen and Brativar will be pointless if we can't take Mejen, too."

 

"We can take Mejen, even if the Nzech have holed up there," Vlasta said, crossing her arms. "We number well over three-thousand ourselves, now."

 

"I know, but they have high walls, and -"

 

"And we have some of the best Bogatyr alive!" Vlasta quipped back. "Stanislaw Horselegs, Slavomir the Drowned, and Ratibor Skysent! Not to mention the Princes themselves have the blood of King Karl in their veins!" As Villorik shied back from her glare, Vlasta clicked her tongue in irritation. The young man was a craven to his core, and yet he was allowed to fight in battle for honour and glory. Vlasta would have given anything for that opportunity - an opportunity to prove her worth for herself, and not sit on the sidelines - but her father forbid her from fighting, and none of the Bogatyr were prepared to upset her father by taking her as a squire. "I can't believe that someone like you gets to fight instead of me."

 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Villorik narrowed his eyes.

 

"Oh, nothing ... Turnheel." She had heard more than a few of the soldiers whisper that moniker for Villorik.

 

Vlasta might have expected Villorik to storm off, or even to rebuke her, but she did not expect the soft, quiet voice that asked, "Do you think it's ... fun? Out there, on the battlefield? Do you think it's something people should want to do?"

 

Something about the squire's eyes, and that soft voice, were oddly haunting. She opened her mouth to retort, but she never got the chance to speak; a sudden commotion from the camp behind them drew their attention simultaneously. Tents sprawled haphazardly across the grassy banks of the Lower Huns, broken up by larger marquees and bonfire circles beneath the black-and-red banners of the Karovic dynasty. Warriors in gambesons and mail, coloured in the style of the Boyar they served, milled about restlessly, talking in hushed voices around fires and glancing about with tight eyes.

 

They're all so tense. They're waiting to hear if we starve the Nzech out of Mejen, or attack.

 

The commotion had come from the command tent - a large, decorated marquee of red-and-black canvas - where the Princes were having their war meeting. The door-flaps, flanked by Karovic elites in feathered helmets, opened up, and the familiar bawdy shouts of Prince Barbov echoed. The Bogatyr left the tent first; Ratibor Skysent wore an eager grin on his moustached face, while behind him, Stanislaw Horselegs frowned thoughtfully as he so often seemed to do since leaving Osyenia, and Slavomir the Drowned wore the same stoic expression as always. The cohort of Boyars sworn to the Princes followed, including her father Boyar Olske, and they too did not share Ratibor's smile. Last came the Princes themselves; Kosav, the Younger Prince, lean and gaunt and messy-haired, looked uncomfortable with the sword at his waist and starkly contrasted his older brother. Broad of chest and shoulders, the Elder Prince Barbov looked every bit the King he aspired to be, with his face proudly set like an eagle, and his cloak and hair stirring in the wind with a regal, effortless aura.

 

As the command retinue left the tent, the camp fell silent but for the flapping of banners in the wind. Soldiers began to congregate between the tents near the marquee, watching expectantly, waiting to hear if they would fight or wait, and the silence grew heavier. Prince Kosav looked uneasily as the retinue paused amidst the onlookers, but the silence was abruptly broken by a boom from the Elder Prince.

 

"What are you all looking like miserable gits for?! TONIGHT, WE FEAST! AND TOMORROW, WE KILL EVERY LAST NZECH IN MEJEN!"

 

The charismatic roar from the King-to-be was enough to cast away the tension that had gripped the camp only seconds ago, and a roar went up from the soldiers. The uneasy frowns of the Boyars turned to smiles of relief, and then joined the cheers.

 

Beside Vlasta, Villorik did not join the cheers. Instead, he gave her a cool glare. "No matter what you want, you're lucky you don't have to get sent out there to kill, or get killed yourself."

 

"Lucky?" she barked a mirthless laugh. "Are you serious? You might be a craven, but at least people know who you are! You get to be somebody, you get to be part of something, while I'm stuck on the sidelines for the rest of my life!"

 

"That so?" Villorik said in that icy voice. "Then maybe we should switch." He hitched his sword at his waist, and then descended from the ramparts towards Stanislaw.

 

Vlasta was left alone, and now it was her turn to frown as the cheers echoed through the camp.

 

---

 

 

"What are they shouting for?"

 

As the cheer from the Karovic siege camp echoed through the top of the tower of Mejen's gatehouse, Szitibor looked up from polishing his sword on a stool. In truth, he had ran an oiled cloth along the blade enough to polish it twenty times over today alone, but he had to keep his hands busy as they sat waiting in Mejen. The anticipation, the anxiety of waiting for the Princes' move, occupied his every waking thought.

 

"Not sure," came his sister's bored drawl. Mylan leaned against the battlements, her head propped lazily on one arm, as her heavy-lidded eyes surveyed the Karovic siege camp across the fallow fields. "But you don't need to worry. They're not making any moves to attack just yet."

 

"I don't need to worry?" Szitibor repeated with a scoff. "They're going to attack eventually."

 

"Isn't that the point, Szit?"

 

Szitibor clicked his teeth shut, and sucked in a calming breath. She's right. Of course she is. The reason we're here is to kill Prince Barbov and Kosav, not have a stand-off with them. " ... Yes, you're right." He rose from the stool, and joined as his sister at the battlements with his bared sword in hand. He swallowed a lump in his throat at the sight of the tents encircling Mejen's walls beneath Ruskan banners and the standards of various minor Boyars. He cast a sidelong look at Mylah; whereas he was nervous and wound tight, Mylah seem as composed and aloof as ever. She even seemed bored. "You're ... sure about this, Mylah? About the plan?"

 

"You're the one whose not sure, Szit. You need to relax. It'll be fine."

 

"I-I know, just ..." He pressed a fist to his forehead. "I wish we didn't have to do it this way."

 

"What way?"

 

"The dishonourable way."

 

His sister rolled her eyes. "Do you want to win, or do you want be an honourable corpse? Not like that would make much of a difference. If you fought with all the honour in the world, that pig Barbov would still bury you in a pile of shit for opposing him."

 

"I ... I know that, too." He had wanted to prove himself worthy of the title of a Bogatyr knight, a paragon of the Raevir King, all his life, but since the Nzechovich coup of Lahy Castle, he knew there was little chance of that; he was a Nzechovich, nephew to Lord Msitovic, and his honour would be forever tarnished by his family's attack on the Karovic Princes and their supporters in their sleep. But Uncle wasn't wrong ... He had to try kill them quickly, for the good of Ruska. I just wish ...

 

"So, do you want to sit here under siege for weeks while Vladrick gets all the glory taking Dukes? Or maybe you want to risk taking on their full numbers in an open assault?"

 

"No, I -"

 

"Then we do the plan, Szitibor. Honour be damned, especially when it comes to Barbov. All that matters is that we win."

 

"Obviously, I just ..." he trailed off. I just what? His right hand held his sword in a vice-grip, with his left hand jittered uncontrollably. What is wrong with me? I'm a warrior of the Nzechovich lineage, here to kill the Karovic usurpers. Why am I shaking like this?

 

He nearly jumped when his sister laid a hand on his shoulder. "Look, Szit. It's ... okay to be scared. But you know that we have to do this. If we don't, we'll be overlooked for the rest of our lives. We'll never be chosen as Bogatyrs, we'll never earn land of our own. We'll be bowing and scraping to the sycophants in the royal court for the rest of our lives. We can't live like that, not again."

 

Szitibor nodded, and exhaled a shaky breath. "Right," he began as a gust rolled off the Lower Huns, sending the Nzechovich banner flying atop the tower into a flurry. "This isn't just for us, either. Everything that Uncle said back in Lahy was true. Another Karovic King, especially one like Barbov, would ruin Ruska forever. We have to kill them here, not only for us, but for Ruska."

 

Mylah smiled wryly. "If you want to be all patriotic about it, fine. Whatever steadies your sword, brother."

 

"Don't worry about my sword," he snorted, and this time, he meant it. For Ruska. We'll fight, we'll win, and we'll be heroes. "You're the one with the dangerous part of the plan. You won't have any armour or heavy weapons."

 

"I'm steady as a rock." Mylah straightened up from her leaning, and brushed down her plain rough woollens, in contrast with Szitibor's Ruskan mail. "Tonight, at sunset, we'll set it in motion. Agreed?"

 

She extended a hand, and Szitibor clasped it to pull her into an embrace. "Yes," he whispered into her back. "Let's kill the Princes, and be done with it. For Ruska."

 

---

 

 

As the sun set, the Princes' camp feasted.

 

Since that morning, the mood of the soldiers had entirely changed. Warriors gathered around blazing bonfires, laughing and drinking of the music of men and women playing the domra and accordion, and the alluring scent of roast meat permeated through the air.

 

Funny how a few words from Prince Barbov can lift their spirits like that, Vlasta thought idly to herself. Instead of partaking in the feasting, she sat alone in the fringes of the circle of tents surrounding the command tent. Despite the Elder Prince's call to feast, the Boyars, Bogatyr, and the Princes themselves remained holed up in the marquee, seemingly finalizing their plans to carry out their assault on Mejen the following morning. According to Vlasta's father, in order to be ready to attack tomorrow, the war council had to divide the army into groups, determine which groups would attack which parts of Mejen's walls and when, and set up a chain of command in case any of the commanders died. For all the way in which her father treated Vlasta like a porcellain doll, to be looked at and never endangered, it did send a chill down her spine to think that there was a possibility he would die in the fighting with any of the other Boyars. This is a real fight this time. A real battle.

 

And yet, despite that, she still thought she would have given anything to change place with Villorik and fight to prove herself, to earn a place as a squire to one of the Bogatyr. Wishes are wind, she reminded herself, and slouched back against a crate as she stared into the dying flames of a small fire outside her father's tent. She ignored a hungry rumble from her stomach, and the dreadful boredom that had plagued her since that morning. She preferred it this way; as a Boyar's daughter, she could not feast with the common soldiers, and she would be at best politely tolerated, and at worst coerced into marrying some third-born noble, if she were to feast with any of the high-born warriors like Villorik. As a flock of geese flew overhead in the light of the waning sun, for the third time that day she resolved it would be easier to have been born a bird than a noble's daughter.

 

As she flicked a small pebble at the fire, she gasped when a shadow in the corner of her eyes became the shape of a cloaked man, and she scrambled back, hands instinctively reaching to the dagger at her waist.

 

"Sorry, sorry!" the shadow said. "I didn't see you!"

 

"I didn't see you!" Vlasta barked back. "Who -" Now that she could see the figure in the fading fire, Vlasta's jaw dropped. The shadow solidified in a slender young man, with a touch of gauntness, and disheveled dark hair. "Prince Kosav?" She was not sure which was more embarrassing, her surprise or the way she squeaked his name.

 

"Didn't mean to startle you." Unceremoniously, he slouched to his knees beside, and stared into the dying fire. "It's Lady Vlasta, isn't it? Boyar Olske's daughter?"

 

Her throat was suddenly dry. Back in Osyenia, she had joked with Stanislaw about marrying Kosav for her power of her own, but now that the Prince was actually speaking to her like this ... "Y-yes, Highness."

 

"You can call me Kosav, if you like. Never saw the point of etiquette when there's nobody around," he said idly. "You don't mind if I join you, do you? Just for a minute or two. I need a break from war council."

 

"Not at all, High - ... ah, Kosav." It felt wrong - criminal, even - to speak his name without title. She watched him sat there, half-expecting him to pull his sword on her or something ridiculous, but, of course, he didn't. He just looked tired. Come on, Vlasta, she scolded herself. Stop acting like a little girl. "Pardon my surprise, Kosav. I just didn't see you leave the command tent."

 

"I slipped out the back while my brother was arguing with Boyar Vitomir," he explained with that same casualness. "Just ... easier that way." His eyes flit from her to the fire. "You know, I've been meaning to ask. Why is it that you followed us here from Osyenia?"

 

"Well, ah ... my lord father is here."

 

"But that's only because you insisted on coming along, isn't it?" He spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion, and Vlasta did not bother to deny it -- her father had wanted her to stay back home in Osyenia, but she had managed to convince him to at least take her along on the march, albeit as nothing more than a spectator. "So why, then? Your father won't let you fight, so why follow us on the march to war?"

 

A hundred of excuses came to Vlasta's head, from wanting to see more of Ruska, to trying to find a good husband by mingling with the other Boyars and Bogatyr, but instead she steeled herself, and spoke the truth. "I ... am going to change everyone's minds, Prince Kosav. I'm going to show them I can be a warrior, and not some prissy Boyar's daughter whose not worth a second glance. If I can't convince my father to let me fight, then I'll convince someone more powerful than him."

 

Only a modicum of surprise showed on the Younger Prince's face. "Is that so? And how will you do that?"

 

"I - ..." Her determined edge faded. " ... haven't quite figured that part out yet. But I will, Prince. I swear it."

 

Kosav laughed, then, but she knew it was not at her expense. It was warm, and melodious. "Seems you've got the spirit for it, at least. The soul must be harder than the sword," he recited, in a faintly sing-song voice.

 

"Did your babushka teach you that?" Vlasta asked in amusement.

 

"Lord Msitovic, actually."

 

That took Vlasta aback. She knew Msitovic, leader of the Nzechovich dynasty, had been chancellor to King Karl - deceased father of Barbov and Kosav - and that he must have lived in Lahy with the Princes, but it still chilled her to hear the name of the man that had started this succession crisis. "You ... knew him?"

 

" ... I thought I did. He was my tutor back in Lahy, before ... well, all this."

 

"Do you know why he's doing this? Why he wants to seize the throne and kill you and Prince Barbov?"

 

For a very long moment, Kosav was silent. His eyes, lost in thought, stared unseeing at the embers of the fire as they gradually faded. "... No," he said at last. "I intend to find out when we take back Ruska."

 

Something about the eerie softness of his voice, and the faraway look in his eyes, told Vlasta he was lying. Somehow, Kosav did know the root cause of all this, but he wasn't sharing it with her, and whatever it was, she could see the pain it inflicted on him. Why is he hiding it?

 

Before either of them could say anything else, though, the sound of running boots heralded the arrival of a cloaked and beaverskin-capped Raevir captain, his long moustaches bouncing with each stride as he jogged towards the command tent. "Highnesses!" he called as he approached.

 

"I'm here, Miliv!" Kosav straightened up, his expression suddenly strained with concern. "What's the matter?"

 

"Prince Kosav," Miliv wheezed, dipping into a hasty bow. "It's the Nzech, lord prince -- they've expelled the peasants from Mejen. There's a few hundred of them, heading this way."

 

As Miliv finished speaking, the flaps of the command tent opened to admit Barbov, followed by Ratibor, Stanislaw, and a few curious Boyars who poked their heads out at the commotion. "They've expelled the peasants?" The Elder Prince repeated in surprise. "Already?"

 

"Yes, Highness," Miliv confirmed, and bowed once again.

 

"Pfft. That was fast," Barbov guffawed. "They took them into the town two days ago, and only now they decide they're going to much put too much strain on their rations?"

 

"Might be that the Nzech have decided to brace for a long siege," Stanislaw pondered.

 

"It's only been two days since they pulled the peasants back from the fields into the town," said Kosav. "Surely the Nzech weren't so impulsive as to take them in and only then realize they couldn't spare the rations in the event of a prolonged siege."

 

Ratibor shrugged. "The Nzech are pagans. Can't rightly expect pagans to be smart, lord prince."

 

"They're headed this way," Miliv reminded, "and it's almost full-dark. Should we send them on their way, Highnesses?"

 

Barbov shook his head. "No need. On the contrary, welcome them in! Miliv, see to it that they get settled at the rear of the camp, and have them fed, too."

 

"You're sure about that?" Kosav input. "We've got supplies to spare, but that doesn't mean we should squander them on charity."

 

Barbov grinned as he spread his hands. "There's no need to fret, brother! This time tomorrow, the Nzech rats in Mejen will be dead and buried, and these people can return to their homes as loyal subjects of the rightful King."

 

A cheer of "HEAR HEAR!" went up from Miliv and the Boyars gathered at the tent, while Kosav only murmured, "If you say so, brother."

 

"Alright, enough, enough," Barbov gestured for quiet, and then motioned back to the tent. "Enough arsing back with the pretty lady, Kosav. We're not finished with planning."

 

It took Vlasta a second to realize Barbov meant her, and she was grateful that the fading sunlight hid her sudden blush. Barbov did not so much as look at her, but Kosav practically flinched. The Younger Prince's surprise was short-lived, though, and he quickly bobbed his head. "Yes, planning, let's, um, yes, right." As the councillors made their way back inside the tent, and Miliv took off at a jog again to settle the refugees, Kosav loitered by the fire for just a moment once everyone else had gone back inside. "Well, ah ... thank you for letting me arse about, Vlasta. I pray that you'll find a blade to match your spirit soon enough."

 

Vlasta was unsure whether she ought to be offended or pleased with Barbov's comment. Settling on a mixture of both, and deciding she definitely preferred Kosav out of the two Princes, she smiled. "The honour was mine, Kosav."

 

Just like that, Vlasta was left alone again outside the command tent as the sounds of feasting washed over her once again. As the last of the sun began to disappeared behind the western horizon, she looked out towards Mejen, where she could just about make out scattered figures moving away from the gates, and towards the siege camp. The peasants the Nzech expelled. She did suppose it was odd that the Nzech would expel the peasants so soon after taking them in, but she supposed Barbov was right - there was to be an assault instead of a drawn-out siege, so food supplies were of little consequence. It was just that the Nzech did not know that.

 

Tomorrow will be the day, then. The first proper battle of the Karovic reclamation effort. Though she was forbidden to fight, she would at least get to watch how a real battle was fought by real Bogatyr and soldiers.

 

With a clouded mind, she slunk off to her tent to sleep, and her dreams were of battle, Bogatyr, and Prince Kosav.

---

 

The echo of drum beats woke Vlasta.

 

THUM. THUM. THUM.

 

With a start, she shot upright in her sleeping roll. The pale light of a grey morning shone through the canvas of her spacious tent, and cold air pricked at her skin. Where? When ... drums? It took another beat of the distant drums to dispel the sleepiness, and she realized what the noise was - war drums. The attack ... it must be starting already! Scrambling out of bed, she dressed hastily as the war-drums continued to peel across the camp periodically. She dressed hastily, and dove out of her tent into the trodden dirt paths of the Karovic siege encampment.

 

Immediately, she could tell most of the camp lay deserted. Ignoring the cutting wind that blew off from the river - she had not spared the time to grab a cloak to throw over her jerkin - she hurried towards the main camp road. She passed a few soldiers, fully armoured and with weapons in hand, waiting in anxious clusters by tents here and there. She had studied a little of warfare, enough to deduce that the soldiers left in camp must have been the reserve units -- once the soldiers attacking Mejen's walls grew spent and tired, the reserves would be sent to attack while the original attackers rested, and they would rotate, applying continuous pressure to the defenders, until they were victorious.

 

THUM. THUM. THUM.

 

As she arrived at the broad main road cutting through the camp, Vlasta saw it was not just soldiers present. Men and women, with dirtied faces heavy with worry, in plain woollens stood in clusters, looking out towards Mejen. They must be the peasants from last night, Vlasta realised, and for a moment she was taken aback by their number. Even at an initial glance, she could spy at least one hundred of them, warily looking between the waiting Karovic soldiers, and the home they had been expelled from. There must be even more of them at the back of the camp by now. Some of them carried crates and sacks with their meager belongings, but most seemed to have nothing more than the clothes on their back.

 

"Miliv!" she called as she spotted the moustached captain atop the ramparts where she and Villorik had stood the previous morning.

 

"Hm? Oh, a good morning to you, lady!" Miliv called as he turned his head and bowed. He seemed to be one of the only soldiers in sight - those whose faces were not obscured by their helmets, at least - who did not appear outwardly tense. "Come to watch the assault?"

 

"That's right!" she answered as she weaved through the scattering of peasants and soldiers along the road to join him on the battlements. "Am I too late -" She cut off as the view of Mejen spread out before her.

 

Rows upon rows of soldiers, beneath a rainbow of banners pledged to the Princes, were arrayed before Mejen's walls, the tips of their spears and helmets flashing in the pale morning light. At first, she thought some kind of mist hung over the town, before she realized it was arrow-fire exchanged between the attackers and defenders, a constant hail of death sailing from walls to field. From this angle, it was difficult to make out how the formations moved, but they did seem to be gradually shifting towards the walls.

 

"Just begun about fifteen minutes back," Miliv explained. "But don't worry, you're not likely to miss anything. With battles like these, they'll be firing their bows for a good hour or two before we'll see any fighting on the walls. To be honest, lady, I'm lucky I'm in command of the reserve units. By the time I'm called upon, we'll be doing the real fighting."

 

While Miliv seemed pleased with herself, Vlasta grimaced at her view of the battle as the drums continued to beat. They'll do nothing but exchange arrows for an hour or two?

 

THUM. THUM. THUM.

 

Spoiler

 

 

"H-hello?!" a voice called from below the rampart, then. A woman's voice, strained and rough. "You - you're the captain, aren't you? P-please, I need help!"

 

Both Vlasta and Miliv looked behind them, where a woman - one of the peasants, given her baggy sackcloth cloak - stared up at them. She was young, with heavy-lidded eyes, and she appeared doubled-over on herself as she clutched her stomach in obvious pain. Despite her state, Miliv's frown seemed far from impressed. "Damned peasant ..." he mumbled under his breath, before he called to her, "What is it?"

 

"Please, captain! One of your soldiers attacked me!"

 

"One of my soldiers?" His eyebrows climbing, Miliv descended from the rampart towards her, and Vlasta followed after one last glance at the town. She supposed she wasn't likely to miss anything, if what Miliv said about battle was true. "They wouldn't dare, lady. These are men of honour in this camp."

 

"Please, sir, I - I just ..." she doubled-over further, stifling a groan.

 

"Come, let me see the wound," Miliv grunted as he approached. Vlasta trailed behind, but as the captain moved to help the woman, she noticed that there were more peasants in the camp road now than there had been moments ago. Far more, and they were not watching Mejen anymore. For some reason, they were watching Miliv. "You'll be alright, easy, now. What's your name, woman?"

 

"Miliv," Vlasta began. She felt her hairs stand on end. Even now, more of the peasants were appearing through the tents. "I -"

 

She did not get to finish. Miliv staggered back towards her, blood oozing from a sudden wound that had bloomed in his gut as the woman who had called for his help brandished a short-sword coated in Miliv's blood. Behind him, from sacks or beneath their cloaks, other peasants pulled out small, concealed weapons before the soldiers around them took note of what was happening. In a heartbeat, weapons were driven into the necks and backs of the soldiers. Screaming erupted in the air as some soldiers were fought back, before they were promptly overwhelmed by the number of 'peasants' that had flocked to the road.

 

The woman that had stabbed Miliv spun the blade in her hands, splashing the blood to the ground as she straightened up.

 

THUM. THUM. THUM.

 

"My name," the woman spoke softly as Vlasta watched helplessly as soldiers fell around her, "is Mylah."

 

[UnBaed 8945]

i have his autograph

[Tabby64 1295]

You're a very big nerd who sucks at bed wars