Xarkly 12614 Share Posted July 21, 2022 SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER IV: SOUL & SWORD A Lord of the Craft short-story set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen The battle for the port-town of Mejen begins as the exiled Karovic royals - Prince Barbov and Kosav - clash blades with the traitors of the Nzechovich dynasty that stole their throne. Although outnumbered, Mylah and Szitibor - niece and nephew to the Nzechovich leader, Lord Msitovic - enact a cunning plan to trap and kill the Princes. As Mylah infiltrates behind the Princes' army, only Lady Vlasta of Osyenia - the daughter of a noble who is forbidden to fight - can do anything to warn the Princes before it's too late. Music Spoiler Vlasta was frozen to the spot. Miliv, his mouth twitching wordlessly, dropped to his knees as he clutched the gaping wound in his stomach. Her blood had chilled in her veins. Her breath had caught in her throat. Why can’t … I move? As Miliv collapsed onto his front, she hardly heard the sounds of screams and fighting around her. As the woman - Mylah - splashed Miliv’s blood off the small sword she had hidden under her cloak, Vlasta could do nothing but watch. Why is this happening? On the ground, blood seeped out to create a crimson puddle around Miliv. Other soldiers were lying dead on the road between the tents, now, too; overwhelmed by the Nzechovich, disguised with dirtied faces and plain peasant clothes, the reserve soldiers caught by surprise fell victim to their onslaught. Though some of the Karovic reserves managed to raise their weapons in time, they only managed to strike once or twice before numerous blades overwhelmed them from all angles. Why? This … this isn’t … Smoke stung her nostrils. She could see columns of smoke rise from further back in the camp. As the soldiers fell in the road, she saw some of the Nzechovich overturn braziers, and toss torches and lanterns into the sea of canvas tents. Smoke and fire spread out before Vlasta as she stood petrified. Mylah prodded Miliv’s motionless form with a boot, to no effect, before her heavy-lidded eyes flit up to Vlasta. “You’re not going to make me kill you, are you?” she asked in a tone so casual she may as well have been remarking on the weather. “We’re here to kill the Princes, and not bystanders.” In a rush, Vlasta’s senses seemed to return to her. Without so much as she thought, she turned, and broke out into a dead sprint, leaping over the bodies of fallen Karovic soldiers as she bolted towards the battle at Mejen. “PRINCE KOSAV!” she roared, but her call was swallowed up by the chaos. Stanislaw lowered the spyglass. “The Nzech are thinning more on the south-west portion now,” he reported eagerly, though his eyes felt strained from scanning the walls of Mejen since the assault had begun. He sat amongst the Princes’ retinue, atop his stallion - Iskje - in decorated Ruskan mail with the other Bogatyr, their squires, and of course, Prince Barbov and Kosav. Ringed by elite Karovic footmen, they were positioned at the back of the army, watching as their soldiers exchanged a ceaseless hail of arrow-fire with the Nzechovich defenders atop Mejen’s wooden walls. “The pagans are pinned on the south-east side, too, lord Prince,” Ratibor Skysent, his fellow Bogatyr, remarked as he lowered his own spyglass. Stanislaw and Ratibor were tasked with monitoring the walls during the volley of arrows to assess where the defenders were concentrated on the walls, and try to identify any sections that were undermanned and ripe for attack. Of course, while Stanislaw sat safely on his horse, the frontlines of their army laid down their lives as their bows fired ceaselessly from behind the shield-walls. “They’re concentrated by the gatehouse, and we can’t sit here for much longer, my Princes,” Stanislaw said as he passed the spyglass to his squire Villorik, who sat atop his own horse next to Stanislaw with a face as pale as death. “If we wait much longer, we’re going to lose too many of our own to their archers. We should storm the south-west and south-east while the defenders are pinned there.” “Seems like that might be best. They have less soldiers than we estimated, it seems, to be weakening already,” Kosav intoned thoughtfully. The Younger Prince did not quite look like he belonged in his silverworked mail, whereas the Elder Prince Barbov seemed to have been born in his armour, with the way he wore it dignantly. “So be it, then,” Barbov determined with a nod. “I told you they’d crumble quickly. Elkna, Tarslev!” He called to two of his personal squires. “Signal Boyar Vitomir’s group to take siege ladders to the south-east, and Boyar Yarik to the south-west! Kosav, you join them on the south-west with Stanislaw. Ratibor, Slavomir, you two are with me on the south-east!” “This will be it, then. Stay close to me, Villorik,” Stanislaw said quietly with a soft exhale. As it had every night in his dreams, images of the bloody coup of Lahy Castle flashed through his mind, of the Nzechovich traitors trying to kill him in his sleep. “Our revenge for Lahy Castle starts here.” At his signal, Elkna raised a warhorn to his lips, and blew three short blasts, followed by a long one. Beside him, Tarslev hosted the maroon banner of Boyar Vitomir on a very long flagpole, and waved it about. Together, the horn and banner signalled Vitomir to attack the south-east, and they followed with another set of peels from the warhorn and another banner to signal Boyar Yarik to the south-west. Barbov stood in his stirrups, grinning ecstatically as his regal cloak and plume billowed in the wind. “TO THE WALLS, THEN! THE RECLAMATION OF RUSKA STARTS NOW!” “They’re moving on the walls, Lord Szitibor!” Szitibor stood atop the gatehouse, his eyes closed as the sound of battle washed over him. As his captain delivered the report, he cracked an eye open. “They’ve taken the bait?” “Yes, lord,” the captain answered with an uncertain nod. “They’re moving towards the south-west and south-east portions as we speak.” Szitibor glanced over his shoulder, behind the battlements of the gatehouse tower, to where hundreds upon hundreds of Nzech warriors stood in formation of Mejen’s dirt streets. The plan is working so far, then, he assured himself. His heart had been in his throat since last night, but he felt focused now. Fixated. Mylah had crafted them a cunning plan, if a dishonourable one, and Szitibor would do what he had to to win. For us, and for Ruska. As planned, he had slowly withdrawn his soldiers from parts of the walls to give the impression to the Karovic attackers that they were weakening, and bait them into attacking those sections with siege ladders. If the Princes attacked both the south-east and south-west simultaneously, it would spread their forces across the width of Mejen’s southern bulwark. Szitibor would catch them by surprise by charging the bulk of his forces through the main gate, smashing their spread lines. Normally, it would be suicide to abandon the defense of the walls, but that was where Mylah came in. He looked across the other side of the tower, beyond the attacking army. Already, he could see tents burning in the Karovic siege camp, and smoke climbing in the sky. Mylah’s infiltration was successful, then. Good. Disguised as peasants expelled from the town, his sister had entered the siege camp with several hundred Nzechovich warriors, and the Karovic had foolishly welcomed them as refugees. I … suppose dishonour does have its advantages, he told himself half-heartedly. Though without armour or heavy weapons, Mylah’s soldiers, with weapons hidden in their cloaks, were to ambush and slaughter the Karovic reserve soldiers, and then flank the Princes from behind. Between Mylah and Szitibor, the Princes would be trapped, caught off-guard, and crushed. “What is your command, Lord Szitibor?” the captain prompted after a moment. Despite his nerves, Szitibor almost laughed. “Have Velco and Lamek’s groups ready to reinforce Orm’s unit on the walls. Let the Karovic push up slowly, but too much. It won’t be much longer now.” Without blinking, he watched the flames spread in the distant camp. The Karovic had not noticed yet, and by the time they did, it would be too late. We’re doing this, Mylah. We’re winning. Mylah rolled her eyes as the dark-haired woman took off running. She did have that look in her eyes, she thought. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. As her Nzechovich cut down the Karovic reserve soldiers in the tents around them and began to pillage their weapons and armour, Mylah cracked her shoulder. “That one’s running for the Princes, Lady Mylah,” one of the nearby Nzechovich - who Mylah could not quite recognise thanks to the dirt they had covered their faces with to aid their disguise - said gruffly as he pulled his dagger free from the neck of a Karovic soldier. “Should we -” “I’ll get her,” Mylah cut him off. “The rest of you, stay your course. Burn the camp, kill every soldier you find, and then get into position for the flank.” Before the Nzech could say anything else, Mylah broke into a sprint of her own. Her sword clutched in hand, Mylah weaved through the crowds of fighting Karovic and Nzechovich soldiers on the camp’s main road as she trained her eyes on the dark-haired girl. Mylah had decided to chase her herself not only because she was most certainly faster than most of her Nzech soldiers, but also because something of the determined glimmer in the girl’s eyes right before she had bolted spoke to Mylah. It reminded her of herself, in a way. And if she’s anything like me … then she could be dangerous. Spoiler Vlasta’s lungs laboured for breath as she sprinted. I have to get to Kosav! Or Stanislaw, or Ratibor, or even Villorik! I have to warn someone! If these Nzechovich attack from behind, the Princes will be caught between them and Mejen! Ignoring the cramp in her sides, she ran down the camp road, towards the gates, beyond which the Princes battled at the walls of Mejen. Nzechovich soldiers in their peasant disguises fought with small blades and axes against outnumbered Karovic soldiers. Although some of the Nzechovich lay dead and dying on the ground, they had sprung their attack far too quickly -- there was no organisation or unity among any of the Karovic left standing, and the numerous Nzechovich quickly surrounded and cut them down. None of them paid any attention to Vlasta - who was immensely grateful she did not wear any mail that might have marked her as a warrior, too - as she ran towards the battle. None of them, except one. With a panicked glance over her shoulder, Vlasta saw that Mylah was barrelling after her, her sword still wet with Miliv’s blood, and she was closing the distance. Damnit! She’s faster! Ahead of Vlasta, the camp’s gate neared, but a sinking feeling told her that Mylah would catch up with her if they remained running on a straight track. Damnit, damnit! I have to lose her! In a split second decision, she pivoted on her heels, and launched herself into one of the smaller paths between tents that branched off the main road through the camp. I can lose her in the tents! That’s my best hope! Without daring to look behind her, Vlasta dashed between tents, taking turns at random, in a bid to throw off Mylah from her trail. Even as she neared the fringes of the camp, some of the tents here had been set ablaze, and Karovic corpses lay scattered about. Tents had been slashed open, and men lay dead in the streets. Running as she was, she was grateful she could not get a proper glimpse of any of the bloodshed, but she still heard weak cries out for help that she had no choice but to ignore. I’m sorry. It’s too late for you, but I can still warn the main army! I - As she rounded a corner of tents, her foot snagged on a tent pegging, and she crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. No, no, get up! As she scrambled to stand, though, a boot was drilled into her side. With a strangled gasp, the impact sent her rolling several feet forward. She instinctively tried to stand, but the pain of the kick grounded her once more. “You’re quite fast,” Mylan said. The Nzechovich woman hardly seemed tired as she approached at a walk, now. “Get away!” Vlasta shrieked, and managed to scramble back. She did not realise she had backed into the corpse of a slain Karovic soldier until she placed her hand on his bloody torso, but instead of letting it distract her, she snatched up the fallen man’s sword. Focus. If I don’t want to end up like the rest of them, I need to focus! That, however, was easier said than done; her whole body felt in a panic from the ordeal, her lungs ached from the sprint, and her side throbbed from Mylah’s kick. “If you want to fight, that’s fine.” As cinders from the flames began to drift through the air and the sky became choked with smoke, Mylah shifted into a swordsman’s stance. “You can stand up, if you like.” Vlasta spat a laugh. With one hand clutching her side, and the other using the sword for balance, she stood, and glared at the other young woman. “Now you’re showing me honour? After you snuck into our camp, and attacked us from behind?!” While Vlasta’s voice quivered with rage, Mylah looked utterly unphased. “Honour? Heh. You sound a little bit like my brother." For a moment, the Nzechovich woman watched her with subtle intrigue. "How come you didn't run and hide? I didn't have to kill you, before you decided to go running for the Princes." "Because," Vlasta managed with as much strength as she could muster, "I ... I'm not some dishonourable craven, like you!" "That so?" Mylah arched a lazy eyebrow. "Then why are you here, and not on the battlefield?" When Vlasta only glared back, Mylah went on. "You must be some Boyar's daughter, right? I can tell, since your face is so clean. So, why do you care if the Princes live or die? You betrothed to one of them or something?" Gritting her teeth, Vlasta did everything to ignore her aching body as she raised the borrowed sword. “I ... I'm going to save them, and prove myself worthy to become a Bogatyr!" "Is that so?" Mylah cracked the faintest of grins. "What a coincidence. I aspire to be a Bogatyr, too. A great hero, like out of a babushka's tale." "You? A hero?" Vlasta spat. "After you deceived us and ambushed us outside of the battlefield?" Mylah shrugged, but her smile faded. "Well, with any luck, they'll leave that part out of the stories. You have a name?" "... It's Vlasta," she told her after a moment's hesitation. The longer I keep her talking, the more time the Princes might notice something's wrong. I can at least catch my breath this way. "Vlasta, of Osyenia." "Well, Vlasta of Osyenia, what I always tell my brother is that honour is just some excuse people tell themselves to justify what they're doing. Where was the Karovic honour at the Slaughter of Isztegan, or the Battle of Tefa? Truth is," she drawled as a gust swept cinders and embers through the air, "people only care about who wins, and whose in control. They won't care about how you fought and died with honour." Vlasta's grip tightened on her sword. "I don't plan on dying here." Mylah's faint smile, as if she was privy to a private joke, returned. "Neither do I." The Nzechovich stepped forward, and swung. Vlasta had received a little bit of training in combat - all Boyar’s children did, for self-defence if nothing else - and so she met Mylah’s strike with a high-guarded block. In the cinders of the burning camp, they clashed, striking back and forth with sparks flying from each clang of steel on steel. From the first, Mylah proved herself the dominant fighter; under her flurry of quick blows, Vlasta found herself on the defensive, consistently forced back as she had to twist her blade to meet Mylah’s snaking slices. I can’t keep up with her, a panicked voice rolled across her mind as he hastily backstepped to avoid an attempt from Mylah to grab her wrist. I - I can’t beat her! What am I going to do!? Another blow glanced off her sword, and grazed Vlasta’s forearm. No, wait ... I just can’t beat her in a fair fight, and she’s already thrown honour out the window. So … As an idea bloomed into her head, Vlasta arched her neck aside to avoid a sudden thrust. As soon as she parried Mylah’s sword aside, she turned, and dashed backwards. There! Her eyes settled on a marquee - a mess tent for the soldiers - just a few tents away, and she ran with all her vigour, hoping that Mylah would not catch her before she reached it. Fortune smiled on her as she leapt through the tent-flaps, and she was grateful to find the tent was absent of living or dead bodies. She knew she did not have long, though; the roof was already growing charred with encroaching heat from the fire. As Vlasta positioned herself in the centre of the tent, heaving deep breaths, Mylah followed leisurely behind her. “What happened to honour? Honourable warriors don’t run from battle.” Though she spoke it like an insult, her tone and expression remained completely placid. “I don’t have much longer to waste, so let’s get this over with. I promise, I’ll make it quick for you.” As Mylah advanced, Vlasta tightened every muscle in her body. Now! Instead of swinging at the approaching woman, she cut overhead; her sword sheared through the ridge-pole of the tent supporting the ceiling in one clean blow, and the burning canvas suddenly caved inwards. As the marquee’s ceiling collapsed, she rushed towards the back entrance, and sliced her sword through the support poles there as she passed. She heard only a surprised grunt to indicate that Mylah had become ensnared in the collapsing tent, with the canvas now afire, but Vlasta did not linger to see what became of the woman. Dropping the sword - it would only weigh her down, now - she forced herself into one final charge, towards the camp’s gate, and towards the battle. Before it’s too late … I’m coming! “STEADY! STEADY! HOLD!” Stanislaw’s throat seared as he roared commands. With several dozen other Karovic soldiers, he formed a turtle of red-and-black shields at the foot of Mejen’s south-west walls. His soldiers had formed several shielded turtles, within which they carried siege ladders to lift onto Mejen’s walls. Several ladders lay fallen and splintered in the town’s shallow moat, surrounded by the corpses of Karovic soldiers, but Stanislaw had seen for himself the Nzechovich numbers diminishing on the walls, and what defenders remained were surely growing spent. Just another push or two, and then we’ll be up. “READY?!” he bellowed, and looked to Villorik on his right, and Kosav on his left. Though both had their visors lowered, Stanislaw could see wide eyes through them. My squire and my Prince … I won’t let either of you die. “AI!” the soldiers around him roared back. “THEN PUUUUUUSH!” Their shielded columns surged forward as arrows thudded into them. Morning light shone through the cracks between their shields as his soldiers began to lift the long ladders, pushing them up as high as they would go until gravity pushed them against the battlements of Mejen’s walls. “WEIGH THEM DOWN! GO, GO, GO!” The bombardment from Mejen’s walls intensified as the Karovic rushed to drive weighted stakes into the bottom of the ladders to secure them, and while most of the soldiers managed to lock their shields back together, Stanislaw saw plenty of their allies fall victim to Nzechovich archers. Out of the six ladders they had erected, one was thrown back down by the defenders immediately, and a second quickly followed. Out of the four that remained, soldiers began to climb once the stakes were set. “Wait until they’re up, Prince,” he told Kosav as he and Villorik - and a handful of Kosav’s personal guards - cautiously stepped away from the ladder they had erected, with their shields walled together. “Once the first wave is up, it’ll be over. The Nzech don’t have the numbers.” Kosav gave a quick nod, his breaths sharp. “This will be our message to Msitovic. We won’t be stopped.” “By no one but God himself, my Prince!” Stanislaw flashed him a grin, but the smile did not last long; it was hard to smile while watching his allies fall to their death from the ladders as Nzechovich spears and halberds stabbed at them. Despite the resistance, the Karovic attackers were slowly pushing up. The walls would be swarmed any minute now. “STAAAAAANISLAAAAAAAAAW!” At first, Stanislaw thought the sound of a woman screaming his name had been his imagination, but a second later, he heard another cry over the sound of battle. “PRINCE KOOOOOOSAAAAAAV!” “What in the …?” Kosav started to turn, but Stanislaw stopped him with an elbow. “No, Prince! If you turn your back on archers during a battle, you’re inviting death! Villorik, disengage and see what that is!” With a nod from his terrified squire, Villorik was at least able to slide his shield out of the wall carefully enough for the soldier beside him to close the gap, and the squire vanished behind the mass of soldiers in their column. Could that have been …? “L-Lord?!” came Villorik’s voice from behind. “What?!” “It - it’s Lady Vlasta! She’s running towards us!” Szitibor lowered the visor of his helmet as he watched the Karovic climb the walls. Everything was perfectly in place. The Karovic force was spread all along the south wall as they tried to breach two separate portions, utterly oblivious to the fire blazing in their siege camp behind them. As instructed, Szitibor’s Nzech forces slowly abandoned the walls, letting the attackers get a foothold, while the bulk of his force rallied at the gate below him. Any moment now, he would gave the order for the gates to open, and he would charge into the thinly-spread attackers, and Mylah would strike them from behind. There was no sight of Mylah yet, but that was no cause for alarm -- it was too early to charge. They had to wait until the Karovic were partially on Mejen’s walls, so that they would not be able to band together quickly enough to withstand the Nzechovich counterstroke. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the peel of a Karovic warhorn. Three short, urgent beats. They’re giving a signal? Now? The warhorn repeated the signal, and suddenly, Szitibor heard a unified cry break through the din of battle. “PULL BACK! GET OFF THE WALLS!” From the battlements of the gatehouse, he looked left and right to see Karovic soldiers begin to climb back down the siege ladders they had spent the last hour trying to climb. The warhorn’s urgent bleat repeated, and the attackers began to fall back from the walls in a chaotic bustle. “Lord Szitibor!” called his captain as he rushed out atop the tower. “They’re retreating, they must -” “I know!” Szitibor hissed through gritted teeth. “Someone must have escaped from the camp to warn them!” Damnit, what happened?! Did something go wrong with Mylah?! “Should we reinforce the walls, lord? We can’t charge without your sister in the rear.” “No,” he barked back harshly. “We - we have to charge now!” If they did not attack now, Mylah would be stranded and left at the mercy of the Princes. “B-but Lord Szitibor, they’re regrouping, we -” “Then we strike now, before they can! Give the order, captain!” Under his tenacious glare, the captain slowly nodded, and descended back down from the tower. Drawing his sword, Szitibor looked back towards the battle as the Karovic forces began to regroup back into one central force. I have no choice but to attack now. That’s my only chance to save Mylah. He heard a warcry go up below him in the street, and the gates of Mejen began to open with a mechanical groan. To hell with glory, and to hell with Ruska! Mylah, don’t worry … I’m coming to save you! Mylah hacked a cough as she pulled herself free from the burning canvas. She collapsed on the ground outside, gasping for air as burns stung all over her body. Shouldn’t have let the ***** stand up, she thought as she sucked in deep breaths in an attempt to quell the pain, and regain her focus. She had been caught off guard by Vlasta collapsing the tent on top of her, and that mistake might have cost them the battle. Don’t let it be too late, please, she prayed vainly as she clambered to her feet, and began to stagger in the direction of the camp’s gate. Please, God, let one of the others have stopped her before she could warn the Princes. While she had chased Vlasta through the camp, her Nzechovich infiltrators had kept themselves busy; the tents had been swallowed by an ocean of fire, and some of them had been burnt to ash already, and everywhere Mylah looked she could see the bodies of slain Karovic soldiers. Everything had gone according to plan, except for Vlasta. Don’t let it be too late. Forcing herself into a painful jog, she emerged out onto the camp’s main road. It was there she found that most of her soldiers had gathered, and outfitted themselves with shields, weapons, and helmets from the bodies of their slain enemies in preparation of their surprise attack from behind the Princes. Despite their obvious victory within the camp, however, all her soldiers looked out towards Mejen with worry, anger, and even fear. “What … what’s going on?” she demanded of them, her voice hoarse and raspy from the smoke. “Lady, I … think we’re too late,” a soldier replied, and raised his sword to point to Mejen. Mylan followed the blade, and her heart sank. The fighting was no longer at Mejen’s walls, but at the fields outside its gates. She could see green-and-red Nzechovich standards flying above a host of soldiers clashing against the Karovic army. Siege ladders lay abandoned against the palisade walls, and Mejen’s gates stood open. Vlasta … warned them. They pulled back from the walls in time to face Szitibor, and I’m not there to strike from behind. Any last inklings of flanking the Karovic vanished when she saw something even worse: a retinue of Karovic soldiers had broken off from the main army, and were charging back towards the camp. “Lady Mylah, get ready!” One of the soldiers called hesitantly as they raised their weapons. “They’re coming! We’ll need to fight our way back to Mejen!” Mylah did not bother. As the shouts of the nearing Karovic soldiers grew louder, she yawned. There would be no fighting their way back to Mejen - even with her help, the entire plan had hinged on catching the Karovic attackers spread out along the walls. Now that they had all grouped up again, she knew it was hopeless. Well, Szit, I have to admit. I never thought it would be me that messed up the plan. She threw down her sword, and she raised her hands in surrender. The battle was lost. As Mejen’s gates closed behind Szitibor and the soldiers he had managed to retreat with, he removed his helmet, and flung it to the ground in rage. How could it have gone wrong!? What happened to my sister?! Back behind the gate, he a tremendous, triumphant cheer seemed to shake the entire land as the Karovic celebrated. Without the Karovic being spread out on the walls, Szitibor, despite every effort, had not been able to break through their ranks to find Mylah. The battle was lost, and so was his sister. While the soldiers outside the walls cheered, what was left of his Nzechovich army groaned and cried out from their injuries. Soldiers carried their comrades back to shelter within the houses, while his surviving officers, their faces stark with concern or disapproval, stood silently awaiting him to say something. What can I say? The plan … Mylah … “ … We’re leaving,” he declared. They could not hold Mejen anymore, not with these numbers; once the Princes recovered from the first battle, storming the walls would be childsplay. “We take the tunnels under the well, and we make for Dules. There, we join my cousin Vladrik.” Normally, it would have made him sick to even think of going to his cousin for help, but not anymore. Not when saving - or, God forbid, avenging - Mylah was on the line. No one objected to his plan - it was suicide to stay in the town - but no one looked pleased, either. Heaving deep breaths, Szitibor turned back towards the gate, and at the Nzechovich banner hanging from it. I swear it, Mylah, I’ll come back for you, and if they kill you, I’ll wipe out every last person with a drop of Karovic blood in their veins! By my soul and sword, Mylah, I swear it! I’ll save you! 21 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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