Song of the Black | Chapter V: The Eyes of Ruska

[Xarkly 12581]

SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER V: EYES OF RUSKA

A Lord of the Craft novella set in ancient Ruskan lore.

 

Previous Chapters:

Chapter I: Osyenia

Chapter II: Lahy

Chapter III: Mejen

Chapter IV: Soul & Sword

 

After the exiled Karovic Princes - Barbov and Kosav - earn their first victory against their Nzechovich rivals at the Battle of Mejen, they do so knowing it is thanks only to the efforts of Lady Vlasta of Osyenia, who raised the alarm of the Nzechovich flank that would have surely doomed them in the Battle. Now, in the fighting's aftermath, the eyes of Ruska turn to the future; Szitibor Nzechovich, the commander of the failed defense of Mejen, retreats north to the shattered remains of his army where he intends to petition his cousin Vladrik, who besieges the trade-city of Dules, for help in rescuing his sister Mylah, who was captured during the battle; Vlasta is rewarded for her efforts in the battle; an imprisoned Mylah Nzechovich is interrogated; and the Princes' war council set their sights north, on the wealthy city of Dules.

 

Music - Play Both

Spoiler

 

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Szitibor marched at the head of his army. Or what was left of it, at least.

 

The scant column of surviving Nzechovich soldiers were plagued by a ceaseless light rain as they trudged down the soaked road winding north from Mejen along the hilly western banks of the Lower Huns River, from which a lonely wind rolled off to beat at their wet cloaks and the green-and-red Nzechovich banners held aloft by Szitibor’s standard-bearers. 

 

Not much longer, now, he thought grimly as rain dripped off his hood. 

 

At his command, his soldiers had fled Mejen through the tunnels that ran under the well and taken them several miles north of the town, but their escape had come at no small cost. Between the soldiers he had lost fighting on the walls, those who had accompanied Mylah on her foiled flank, and Szitibor’s own ill-fated charge against the Karovic Princes, his original army of three-thousand had been reduced to little more than five-hundred. Now, those five-hundred follow Szitibor on the road north.

 

North, towards the trade-city of Dules. 

 

Normally, traders coming to and from markets in Dules would have thronged the road, but with the trade-city under siege, Szitibor had not seen a single traveller in the three days since they had left Mejen. The constant rain and dreary grey skies were a good reflection of the mood of Szitibor’s forces, which steadily lost another half-dozen or so soldiers every night as deserters slunk away from what they thought was a lost cause. Szitibor had even seen two soldiers sneak out of camp with their belongings the previous night, but he had done nothing to stop them. He did not blame them at all.

 

Besides, the strength of his shattered army was no longer his foremost concern. I’ll save you, Mylah. I promise. 

 

While his troops mourned their defeat at Mejen, Szitibor’s mind remained fixed on the fate of his sister, who he had been forced to leave behind after the Karovic army separated them at Mejen. She has to be alive. Not even the Karovic would kill a valuable hostage like her, he told himself for the umpteenth time, but a doubtful voice always answered. But what if the Karovic didn’t know who she was? What if she was killed in the battle, or refused to identify herself when she was captured? What if she chose death? Those thoughts had kept Szitibor awake day and night. And what if she was a hostage? What if they torture her, or - … 

 

No, he stopped himself, and forced him to breathe in deeply. I have no choice but to believe she’s alive and well, and I have no choice but to rescue her. I owe her that much. It was Mylah’s idea to leave Lahy to hunt down the Princes to secure their own fame and glory, and while the plan to trap the Princes at Mejen had failed, it was far more ingenious than anything Szitibor could have come up with on his own. No, without Mylah’s cunning and initiative, Szitibor would have sat back and done nothing while the world forgot about him. And yet despite the ambitions he shared with his sister, he no longer cared about securing the throne of Ruska for the Nzechovich dynasty, or killing the Karovic claimants. Uncle Msitovic and cousin Vladrik can worry about that. All I care about now is saving Mylah, and with God as my witness, I will.

 

Of course, that was easier said than done. He glanced over his shoulder at the column of dour-faced Nzech soldiers trudging behind him in the rain. Even if he had Mylah’s cunning to rely on, they would win no battles with a force of this size. Szitibor’s manpower was spent, and there was only one place on this side of the Huns River where he could get help. Cousin Vladrik. 

 

“Lord,” one of his surviving captains spoke up gruffly, “look; there’s the road marker.”

 

Szitibor glanced up through the rain as a flock of gulls cawed overhead. Not too far ahead, where the road climbed to a small hill, there stood a statue of a weathered stone market, silhouetted against the bleak sky. That, Szitibor knew, was the last mile-marker on the path to Dules. “So it is,” he muttered back. “We’re almost there.”  If that brought any relief to his soldiers, they did not show it. They continued their march, their boots squelching with each step on the rain-soaked road, until Szitibor at last stopped beside the marker atop the hill. 

 

From here, a view of the land for miles upon miles spread out before him. The road led into a vast quilted landscape of farming fields and pastures, broken by small clusters of huts, barns, and windmills, just beyond which lay an ocean of tents, stretching in a ring as far as Szitibor could see. His breath caught in his throat; he had read about great battles and armies throughout Ruskan history as a boy, but the besieging army camped before him was undoubtedly the largest force he had ever seen assembled. He heard a number of faint laughs of relief from his soldiers at the sight of the green-and-red Nzechovich banners flying proudly from the torch-lit, rainy camp. The main Nzechovich army … When Szitibor and Mylah had departed Lahy on their mission, their cousin Vladrik - who was insufferably arrogant, but a capable warrior and strategist - had been tasked with securing the trade-city of Dules with an army of thirty-thousand soldiers.

 

Yet it was not the size of the Nzechovich army that captivated Szitibor, but the city they were besieging. 

 

Vladrik’s army surrounded enormous stone walls that stretched along the banks of the Lower Huns for miles upon miles. Behind those walls, magnificent coloured domes sparkled even in the lifeless grey light. Towers and spires scratched the sky, casting long shadows over hundreds upon hundreds of smaller houses and buildings below. A great-walled bay spanned out into the river, in which hundreds of ships bobbed in the water, and a massive iron chain stretched between either end of the bay to keep unwanted ships out. Above all of it, the golden domes of the Electors' Palace rose like a monument, visible for miles and miles around as a symbol of power and wealth.

 

We’re here, Szitibor resolved, as he began to walk once more. The city of Dules. 

 

---

 

The streets of Mejen

_________________

 

Vlasta tugged up her hood as she stepped out into the rain.

 

It had been three days since the Battle of Mejen had been won, but the air still smelled of smoke and death, even with the ceaseless drizzle to wash the blood from the dirt. Since the Nzechovich survivors had abandoned the town, Vlasta had developed something of a morning ritual: she departed from her quarters in Mejen keep, and began to make her way outside the town. With all the talk of sieging and taking Mejen, Vlasta had almost forgotten Mejen was an actual town, and though everyone from Lahy called it small, it was still bigger than her home of Osyenia. 

 

Within Mejen’s wooden walls, townhouses, workshops, and halls were packed together, all of which spewed chimney smoke into the sky. None of the buildings had been damaged in the Battle - the Nzechovich had abandoned their defence after the fighting outside the gate - but since most of the Karovic siege camp had been lost to Mylah’s arson, each street in Mejen was thronged with Karovic soldiers. Every ale-house and tavern was filled to the brim with soldiers sleeping on the floors and benches, burghers had been paid for any spare rooms in their townhouses, and soldiers had even taken to sleeping on ships in the docks. Even still, Karovic troops lounged in the streets under makeshift shelters from the rain, but the townsfolk hardly seemed to mind. On the contrary, merchants flocked to them, hawking all sorts of wares, from new boots to protective charms.

 

Vlasta wasn’t sure how they could all be so … happy. While the burghers and townsfolk were no doubt displeased about the crowds, to them, it seemed to be the lesser evil of a prolonged siege, or the prospect of a battle actually within their homes instead of just the walls. The merchants clung to any prospect of custom, and despite the bloody battle fought only days ago and the cramped conditions within the town, the soldiers loitered about drinking and resting with relieved expressions. More than that, though, Vlasta was not sure how they so readily ignored the bodies of Nzechovich officers hanging from nooses tied to various rooftops. 

 

Why don’t I feel the same relief? Vlasta wondered as she weaved her way through the packed streets, bumping into mailed-soldiers and cloth-coated merchants alike. An anxious knot had sat in her stomach since the conclusion of the battle, where Mylah and her infiltrators had surrendered, and the defenders inside Mejen had escaped through some hidden tunnel under the well. Frowning, she continued towards Mejen’s open gates, where two Karovic elites in their feathered helmets stood guarding either side. 

 

As Vlasta approached, the guards leaned on their bardiches as they dipped their. “Lady Vlasta,” they greeted in near unison. That greeting had become part of her new morning routine, too; since word had spread that Vlasta had been the one to raise the alarm of the impending flank during the Battle, everyone had begun to look at her differently. No longer did she seem to blend into the background, nor earn cordial greetings of etiquette rather than genuine respect. The soldiers and Boyars alike knew her name, and they had heard of what she had done. There was a newfound respect and admiration in their voices, and yet, Vlasta was not sure if she liked it.

 

This is what I wanted, though. She flashed a half-hearted smile to guards as she passed through the gate, and then frowned immediately afterwards. Bah. Nothing makes sense anymore. Once she passed the gates, there was enough to distract her from her puzzling thoughts. It was as if she had submerged herself underwater; suddenly, the noise from Mejen seemed far away, muted to a distant din in her ears, replaced by the low whistle of the wind as it blew off the River and the cawing of ravens, not gulls. The colours of Mejen - from the heraldry, to cloaks, to tiles and slates - were replaced by a vista of dull green fields and a grey sky above. 

 

Worst of all, though, was the smell. 

 

The bodies from the Battle had been buried, but the sickly sweet smell of decay was oppressive, and the ground was still stained red with blood or stomped entrails in parts. Whenever the lonely wind gusted, fresh air was carried from the burnt siege camp - a mile of mounds of rain-damped ashes - and hazed through the air. She had read both stories and historical records of battles, but they never mentioned much about the aftermath. At least I didn’t have to bury the bodies myself, she  thought in a vain attempt to lighten her mood, but to no effect.

 

Pinching her nose - another part of her routine - she began to walk by the walls, away from the River. Before long, the graves came into sight. The Karovic dead - a little over six hundred, most of whom had died in Mylah’s surprise attack on the camp - had been laid to rest in a small, unused field between two clusters of farms outside of Mejen. Rows upon rows of wooden Hussariyan crosses marked their final resting places, and in the middle of the impromptu graveyard, a larger cross - some twenty feet tall - had been erected in memory of the Battle.  Quietly, but for the caw of ravens and the thin howl of the wind, Mylah made her way into the graveyard. A few others - soldiers, mostly - gathered at various gravestones with bowed heads, but the field was mostly empty. There’s far more dead than living, here, a chilling thought occurred to her as she moved through the rows of crosses. Before long, she reached the grave she had come to for the last three mornings.

 

MILIV VAR LAHY

CAPTAIN OF 3RD BRIGADE & HERO OF LAHY CASTLE

 

“Hello again,” she murmured to the fresh mound of dirt. She was not sure why she felt so drawn to Miliv’s grave -- she had only met the moustached captain a couple of times since the Princes had arrived in Osyenia, and even then, she had been far from friends with the middle-aged warrior. And yet … I was the one who watched him die. Unbidden, the scene flashed through her head: Mylah, disguised as a peasant, plunging her blade deep into Miliv’s gut; Miliv, clutching his wound, blood oozing through his fingers as he vainly tried to stem the bleeding, collapsed to his knees; Miliv, in a pool of crimson, going still as his soldiers died around him.

 

A part of Vlasta worried it might have been guilt. Mylah had targetted Miliv as the officer in charge of the camp reserves, but Vlasta had stood just a few feet away when he had been murdered. Was there something I could have done? She had stood there petrified as Miliv collapsed with his fatal wound, but the attack had come as much as of a surprise to her, too. Could I have tried to help him? Bandage him? Stop the bleeding? She knew that was silly - the camp had been set ablaze, and the Nzechovich had started slaughtering every soldier - but it did nothing to loosen the anxious knot in her stomach. “ … I’m sorry, Miliv,” she said at last, before she began to mutter her prayers. 

 

She was only a few verses in when she heard boots crunch against the wet earth behind her, and when she turned, it was not Prince Barbov she expected to see. The Elder Prince wore a plain deerskin cloak, but he still managed to exert a regal aura with it draped across his broad shoulders. His hood was not pulled up, and so his chiselled face was framed by his shoulder-length dark hair stirring in the wind. Whenever she had seen the Prince before, his moods seemed to switch between boisterously gleeful to impatiently angry, and so the sad, pensive look painted on his bold face took Vlasta by surprise.

 

“Lord Prince.” She swept into a deep curtsy. 

 

“As you were, my lady,” the Prince responded somberly, which also seemed unlike him. He stopped next to her, one gloved hand on the bejewelled, sheathed sword at his side, and the other holding a vibrant daffodil. A few feet behind them, Slavomir the Drowned, Barbov’s favoured Bogatyr, waited with his hands clasped patiently at this front, and his hood obscuring his stony face.

 

Flowers? She almost looked at Barbov with open disbelief.

 

“Didn’t know you knew Miliv,” the Prince went on over the patter of the rain. With a creak of leather, he crouched down, and gently nestled the flower at the foot of his cross before straightening up.

 

“I … didn’t really, your Highness. I just wanted to pay my respects. I was … next to him when he died, is all.”

 

“Ai, so Kosav told me.” Barbov’s pale green eyes, fixed on the grave, did not blink as rain rolled down his cheeks. “At least he didn’t die alone, then.”

 

Vlasta swallowed a lump in her throat. When she spoke to Prince Kosav, he had some calming air about him once he started to speak, but not Barbov. “Were you two close, your Highness?” she found herself asking hesitantly.

 

Barbov nodded slowly. “We were … friends. As much as a liege and a bannerman could be. He served my father.” Vlasta’s shock grew when the Prince released a shaky breath, as if he held back tears. She couldn’t understand - this was Barbov, the Elder Prince and rightful heir to Ruska, who had stood at the head of armies and charged into battle without flinching, and yet this was what gave the man pause. “When Msitovic and his Nzech tried to kill us and drove us out of Lahy, Miliv followed and protected us out of loyalty. Not for gain, nor ease. He could have stayed in Lahy, bowed his head whichever boy king the Nzechovich put on the throne to puppet, and lived a long life.”

 

Vlasta’s eyes trailed back to the grave. “ … but he didn’t.”

 

“No, he didn’t. He followed me as the rightful king, Nzechovich be damned. Miliv, he … he was an honourable man.” 

 

“No doubt, your Highness,” Vlasta nodded along. She knew little of what Miliv was really like, but it was obvious Barbov wanted to speak about the man. Does he feel guilty, too? 

 

“That’s the worst part,” he went on, his voice growing softer. “He was a good man. He followed orders, did the right thing. I just don’t understand, then, why he had to die like that. Stabbed in surprise, like he was mugged on the street, instead of in battle.” 

 

To that, Vlasta had no answer. 

 

“He deserved better.” Barbov’s voice was scarce a whisper. “Even if he had to die, he deserved better. Everyone who died in the camp did. When they joined me, I promised them honour, and glory, and instead, they were cut down from behind when -” he cut off as his voice grew thick, and he took a deep breath. “ … They deserved better. I should have given them better.” 

 

As Vlasta stared in unison at Miliv’s grave with Barbov, Villorik’s warning from the other day rang through her head. You’re lucky you don’t have to kill, or be killed yourself. After Mylah had murdered Miliv, the Nzech had spared Vlasta at first, because she was not a soldier. If I had been a squire … would she have killed me, too, before I could even draw my weapon? Vlasta had little reservations that she would have. If she had been a soldier like Villorik, then she herself would be the one dead and buried now. 

 

After a long moment of silence but for the rain, Barbov said, “My brother told me you were the one to raise the alarm about the attack. That so?” 

 

“Yes, lord prince.” 

 

“He also tells me that you told him you wanted to become a squire, and train as a Bogatyr, but your father forbids it.”

 

“ … Yes, lord prince,” she repeated with a raised brow.

 

“Hmph. If not for what you did in the Battle, the rest of us might be lying dead with Miliv. And, even if Miliv and all his men died, they can rest easy knowing the Nzech failed.” With one last shaky breath, the Elder Prince looked right at Vlasta for what felt like the first time. “As payment, I’ve decided you will train as a squire under Ratibor Skysent.” 

 

Vlasta’s heart skipped a beat. “Wh - me? A squire?” 

 

“That’s what you wished for, isn’t it?” 

 

“I - …” the words died in her throat. This is what I wanted. My entire life. Power of my own, skill of my own. And I earned it, too. This is … Her eyes twitched back to Miliv’s grave. She knew, now; she knew that there were more risks to becoming a soldier, squire, or Bogatyr than fighting in a battle. If she had been a squire on the day of the Battle, she would have been cut down without a shred of honour right next to Miliv. Can … I accept that? If that happened to me? Her mind gave no answer. 

 

“ … what of my father?” she asked half-heartedly. “He’ll be incensed.” 

 

“Iblees take him,” Barbov grunted. “No offence intended, lady. We’ve won a great victory at Mejen - in no small part thanks to you - so your father’s support isn’t as much leverage as it once was. Don’t worry about him - I will deal with any backlash.” 

 

Vlasta was not so sure about that; while Barbov, as the aspirant to the throne of Ruska, might be able to force his way, Vlasta had no idea how her father would treat her in private. And yet … Vlasta had barely seen her father apart from an occasional dinner on the march from Osyenia, and becoming a squire meant she would no longer need to depend on a man who loved her, but offered her no future except to be married off to some minor lordling. She tightened a fist. 

 

“ … You honour me more than I ever dreamed of, my lord prince,” she answered while her eyes were set on Miliv’s name, carved into the wet wood of the Hussariyan cross. 

 

“Well, as I say, it is earned, my lady.” Abruptly, Barbov turned, and started back towards Mejen. “We have a war meeting in the hall of Mejen’s keep at noon. You’re to be there, squire.” 

 

“Y-yes, your Highness!” Vlasta called as the Elder Prince marched away through the graves, with Slavomir the Drowned in tow. 

 

Just like that, Vlasta was alone again in the rain. Ten minutes ago, she had been Lady Vlasta of Osyenia, the sole daughter of Boyar Olske of Osyenia, but behind several young brothers in the line of succession for inheritance of the border territory. And now … I’m Vlasta, squire to Ratibor Skysent, and I might one day really become a chivalrous Bogatyr, the most noble and respected warriors in all of Ruska. Barbov had been wrong; she had not just wished for this -- she had dreamed of it. 

 

While her heart raced and her stomach fluttered, she did not smile. She looked back to Miliv’s grave. She did not smile, for she knew what it meant to be a warrior, now. 

 

---

 

The dungeons of Mejen's keep.

_________________

 

“What did you say your name was, again? Mia, Mya?” 

 

“Mylah.” 

 

“Isn’t that what I said?” 

 

Stanislaw could not help but snort in amusement as Ratibor Skysent questioned the prisoner. Stanislaw leaned back against the walls of the cell, his arms crossed over his jacket, next to a frowning Prince Kosav. Ratibor, his fellow Bogatyr, paced back and forth, one hand idly scratching his neat moustache. 

 

“Mylah Nzechovich, then, is it?” Ratibor went on. “Or are you from a more minor pagan bloodline?”

 

“I’m just a common soldier,” came a bored drawl from a weapon in the centre of the cell. Clad in rags and fettered with chains on her ankles and wrists that bound her to a pillar in the middle of the cell was a young man, her face and dark-blonde hair mired with dirt, and her flat eyes downcast. 

 

“I already told you to cut that out,” Ratibor tutted. “We have plenty of men who recognise you, pagan. Right, Stanislaw?” 

 

“Ai, no point lying, girl,” Stanislaw said, and even he found himself glaring at the prisoner. “I recognise you myself from King Karl’s tours in Nzechia. You’re a relation of Lord Msitovic, aren’t you? A close one, if I recall.”

 

“Mylah of Karinov,” Kosav abruptly mumbled. “Lord Msitovic’s niece.” 

 

Mylah looked up from the floor, eyeing the Prince coldly. “And how do you know that?” 

 

“I know all the bloodlines of note in Ruska,” Kosav answered back with just as much frost. “Your uncle was the one who taught me. If your intention was to hide your identity, then you never should have spoken your true name.”

 

Or perhaps that's what she wanted, Stanislaw thought, so that we'd spare her life as a hostage. 

 

With a jingle of metal, Mylah spread her chained hands. “I confess defeat then, my lord.” 

 

“Your lord Prince,” Ratibor corrected sharply, as if disciplining a child. “Highness, by your leave, I’ll teach the pagan some manners.” 

 

Kosav raised a forestalling hand, and kept his attention on Mylah. “Who sent you to Mejen?” 

 

For a moment, there was silence in the cell, but then Stanislaw blinked at the speed at which Ratibor slammed his boot into the prisoner. Mylah growled in pain and sagged in on herself, her chains clanging as she gasped for breath. Stanislaw knew that this woman had been responsible for the infiltration of their siege camp that had led to the dishonourable murder of hundreds of Karovic soldiers, but even he felt a twang of doubt at Ratibor’s aggression.

 

“Easy, Ratibor,” Kosav intoned softly. With an unapologetic nod, the Bogatyr moved to the other wall of the cell, while Mylah still sucked in air. Kosav stepped forward, and squatted down so that he was on eye level with the woman. “Did Lord Msitovic send you here to fight us?” 

 

“Not … not quite,” Mylah answered in a throaty rasp. “We … asked him to be sent here to fight.”

 

Stanislaw arched his brow. “We?” 

 

“My … my brother and I.”

 

“Your brother?” Kosav repeated. “That would be … Szitibor Nzechovich, yes?” Mylah nodded begrudgingly, and Kosav went on. “Yes, I think I met him once, in Nzechia. An excellent swordsman, from what I remember. Your brother - he was in command of your forces in Mejen?” Another nod was accompanied by a clink as Mylah shifted in her bonds. “Hmph. Where has your brother gone, then?” 

 

Only one place to go on this side of the Huns, Stanislaw thought to himself as the Younger Prince went on with his questioning. 

 

For a moment, it looked as if Mylah was not going to answer, but after a sullen glance towards Ratibor, she croaked, “Dules.” 

 

Kosav shared an uneasy look with both the Bogatyr, and Stanislaw returned it. They had won a great victory at Mejen that announced to all of Ruska that the Karovic dynasty did not intend to let the Nzechovich usurp their throne without a fight, but Mejen was a small town, and the armies that had fought in the Battle were modest. The real fight for the crown of Ruska would start at the trade-city of Dules. 

 

Kosav straightened up, and frowned down at Mylah. “How many soldiers has your uncle sent to Dules?” 

 

“Thirty-thousand,” Mylah answered, without encouragement, much to Stanislaw’s surprise. Both he and Ratibor flinched at the number, but not Kosav. “My cousin Vladrik leads them.” 

 

“Hmph. You’re very trusting all of a sudden,” Ratibor remarked, and Mylah shrugged. 

 

“What’s the point in lying? You already know who I am, and who my brother is. And besides, Vladrik is my cousin, but he’s no friend. Fight him all you like.” 

 

“Even if that means the defeat of the Nzechovich?” Stanislaw asked. Infighting amongst Ruskan dynasties was hardly uncommon, but when the fate of their bloodline was at stake, Stanislaw had expected a little more unity than usual. Mylah gave no answer, but this time he suspected it was because she had none. 

 

“What about the rest of Ruska, then?” Kosav asked. “Where has your uncle sent the rest of the Nzechovich forces?”

 

The rest? Stanislaw bristled to himself. If they have much of their forces left after sending thirty-thousand to Dules, then we’re in serious trouble. 

 

“My uncle didn’t include me on his war councils,” replied Mylah. “But I know some smaller forces were to rally the Boyars near the Carnatian border, then down south-east towards Bretzenov. I don’t know how many.” 

 

“Your cousin, Vladrik. Are there any Boyars with him?” 

 

“A … few, I think.” 

 

“From Nzechia?” At Kosav’s question, Mylah nodded. “All of them?” Another nod. 

 

Stanislaw chewed his lip. In a way, that was good news. While it was certainly unsettling to know that thirty-thousand enemies awaited them at Dules, at least it meant they knew where the vast majority of the Nzechovich host was. If the armies assembled from the Nzechovich stronghold of Nzechia were all at Dules, that meant that any other army on the field throughout Ruska had to be the individual forces of various Boyars -- Boyars which were likely coerced or forced into assisting the Nzechovich. With any luck, those were the armies that could be persuaded to join the Princes’ cause. If we can deal with the army at Dules, that is, he reminded himself grimly. We won’t be doing any persuading until we defeat Vladrik Nzechovich. 

 

Kosav’s frown had deepend with the news as he stared down at the prisoner. “One last question.” A hint of disdain entered Kosav’s glare, betraying his otherwise stony expression. “Why did you attack like that? Why disguise yourselves as peasants, and attack by surprise? Why dishonour yourselves so thoroughly?” 

 

“She is a Nzechovich pagan, lord prince,” Ratibor said as if it were a fundamental fact. “Why else?” 

 

Kosav ignored him, though, and stared down expectantly at Mylah. This time, the prisoner met his look with one as determined as her own, and said, “To win, Prince. To win, and to live. The same things you want. Would you not have done the same, if it meant killing your enemy and securing your throne? In one fell blow, without any further bloodshed?” 

 

Mylah doubled over as she recieved a second brutal kick from Ratibor, who coldly intoned, "Don't you dare to presume the Prince's honour, pagan," as Mylah's chest heaved for breath again. Kosav’s eyes tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned, and yanked open the cell door, before he stormed outside. Scratching his neck, Stanislaw pushed off the wall to follow, and Ratibor did the same. 

 

“I’m sure we’ll catch up again soon, Mia,” Ratibor chimed as they made for the door. 

 

“It’s ... Mylah.”

 

“That’s what I said,” the Bogatyr said as he slammed the cell door shut behind him. 

 

In the hallway of the dungeon outside, Kosav sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. The hallway was far from quiet; while Mylah had been imprisoned in a cell of her own, every other cell was crammed with Nzechovich soldiers captured from the battle, many of which began to call out and began on the cell doors at the sight of Stanislaw, Ratibor, and Kosav. 

 

“Are you well, Highness?” Stanislaw asked sceptically.

 

“What?” Kosav blinked, as if waking from a trance. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. We, ah, we should be making for the war council by now, shouldn’t we?”

Even Ratibor seemed to notice the Younger Prince’s uneasy state, and Stanislaw pursed his lips. “Ai, it’s about time we do, Highness. Are you sure -”

 

“Let’s not tarry, then, for Barbov’s sake,” Kosav went on as if speaking to himself, before he rubbed his hands and took off down the dungeon hallway without waiting for the Bogatyr, leaving Stanislaw and Ratibor wearing mutual frowns.

 

“He’s suddenly distracted,” Stanislaw grumbled. “It’s not like him to be thrown off so easily.” Did the prisoner really get to him? 

 

Ratibor brayed. “Perhaps he’s taken a fancy to Mia,” he grunted dryly, before following after Kosav.

 

“It’s Mylah,” Stanislaw said under his breath when there was no one left to hear, and trailed after the other two.

 

---

 

The Karovic war council.

_________________

 

“I warned you. Now it’s too late.”

 

“Would you stop?” Vlasta hissed back to Villorik under her breath. The two of them stood at alert behind vacant chairs at a long feast table in the heart of Mejen’s keep. The pale light of noon filtered in through tall arched windows on either side the wall, and the light was faintly distorted by the continuous raindrops streaking the windows. It was a simple hall, not meant for particular luxury, with the empty Boyar’s chair set atop a plain wooden dais atop the hall, and only various candlesticks, rugs, tapestries, and banners along the stone walls for decoration.

 

Boyars filled the other chairs of the feast table, most of whom still wore their armour from battle or bits of finer fur clothing they had pillaged from the castle, since all of them had lost their belongings and other clothes in Mylah’s fire. They spoke in hushed voices, while, at the top of the table, Prince Barbov still wore that distracted expression from earlier that morning at Miliv’s grave as he stared absently at the table-top, lost in thought.

 

“I don’t want to call you a fool, but …” Villorik whispered at her side. Ever since he had found out that Vlasta was to serve as a squire under Ratibor, he had seem upset at the notion that Vlasta was his equal, now. He was not the only one, either; her own father, Boyar Olske, had looked at her askance all morning. He had nodded along when Barbov announced her appointment, as if it was what he wanted, but Vlasta could tell she was in for a tongue-lashing once they were in private.

 

“Why?” she retorted dryly. “Worried you’ll offend me? Bit late for that, Turnheel.” 

 

“Tease all you want,” Villorik grunted. “But you’ll only realise what you’ve done when it’s too late -- when you’ve actually seen battle.”

 

“You think I haven’t seen battle, then you’re the fool. I may not have been chased around the northern hinterlands by Carnatian raiders like you, but I was the one who warned the Princes about the flank! I had to watch our soldiers get cut down all around me and fight through a burning camp!”

 

“What, and you want more of that?”

 

Vlasta hesitated, but just for a moment. “Maybe I do.” Of course, now that she had seen what the Nzechovich could do, seen how she could end up like Miliv in the blink of an eye, she was not eager for another battle to come around, but surely what happened at the Battle of Mejen would not repeat itself. Besides, there’s no point denying this. The only way to be heard in this world is to fight. 

 

The muttering in the hall came to an abrupt stop as the double-doors were opened by feather-helmed soldiers to admit the final three war councillors missing from the table. “Thirty-thousand,” Prince Kosav announced with a distasteful twist to his lip as he swept inside the hall, with Ratibor and Stanislaw at his heels. Vlasta’s eyes lingered on Ratibor Skysent, the vixen-faced Bogatyr known for his zealous face. My new master… 

 

“Hmph. You’re late, brother,” Barbov said as if to scold, but his tone lacked any real intent, as if the visit to Miliv’s grave had left him sapped. “Thirty-thousand what?” 

 

“Thirty-thousand Nzech soldiers are at Dules,” the Younger Prince explained. “So the Nzech girl says, at least, and I’m inclined to believe her.” 

 

Thirty-thousand? The number rebounded in Vlasta’s head; she could not imagine that many people in one place, or even one country. The largest gathering she had ever seen had been the army the Princes assembled to attack Mejen, and that had been less than four-thousand. But thirty-thousand? The unease was not hers alone; all along the table, Boyars wore troubled expressions at the prospect, but not Prince Barbov. 

 

“The Nzech girl? I thought I told you to kill her,” the Elder Prince said with a slight narrowing of his eyes. 

 

“She’s a blooded Nzechovich, brother, kin to Msitovic himself.” Kosav unceremoniously dropped into the vacant seat beside Barbov, while Stanislaw took the seat in front of Villorik. As Ratibor approached, eyeing her with faint amusement, Vlasta’s breath caught in her throat.

 

“I hear we are to become friends, you and I,” the Bogatyr intoned quietly. That was all he said, with a slight widening of his smile as he sat. With that tone, Vlasta was left entirely unsure whether Ratibor was pleased or not. 

 

“She’s the Daemon-blooded wench that murdered Miliv and the reserves,” Barbov insisted with a clenched jaw. “I want her dead, Kosav.” Many of the Boyars rumbled their agreement.  

 

“And you’ll have her dead, brother, I promise, but for now she can be of use to us to defeat the rest of the Nzechovich. Can we please discuss the matter at hand?”

 

The hall was silent as Barbov stared flatly at his brother. For a moment, Vlasta thought that the Elder Prince was not going to let the matter go, but he reclined in his seat with a clenched jaw. “Thirty-thousand, you said? Tsch. If it’s true, that means they must have sent every banner in Nzechia to Dules. Who would their commander be?”

 

"The girl says it's her cousin, Vladrik. He's another one of Msitovic's nephews, though he's a closer blood relative to the throne."

 

"Vladrik?" Barbov snorted. "That prick?" 

 

“Would they have left Lahy undefended like that, lord prince?” inquired a lean, grey-haired Boyar whose name Vlasta did not know. 

 

“Not undefended,” Stanislaw input, “There’s no shortage of levies in the crownlands, but the issue is their loyalty. The forces from Nzechia are the only ones that the Nzechovich can rely on absolutely. Any other Boyar won’t have any particular loyalty to the Nzechovich, and only follow Msitovic’s lead because they think they have no choice.”

 

Barbov spread his hands. “Our victory here has given them a choice.” Again, there came grunts of agreement and half-cheers from the Boyars.

 

“Indeed, lord prince,” Stanislaw nodded, “though the crownlands are on the other side of the Huns.” 

 

“Perhaps, my lords,” Boyar Olske, Vlasta’s father, broke in, though he seemed to lack his usual look of admiration for the Princes since Vlasta’s promotion, “this presents a better opportunity. If we can send scouts to verify that number, perhaps we needn’t concern ourselves with Dules at all.” 

 

Barbov lofted an eyebrow. “You mean cross the Huns and go straight for Lahy?” 

 

“Ai, Highness. We can rally our faithful in the crownlands, retake Lahy while the Nzechovich are preoccupied with Dules.”

 

“No,” Kosav suddenly interjected. “No, that reeks of a trap."

 

More than one Boyar eyed Kosav askance. “And how do you figure that, brother?” Barbov asked.

 

Kosav didn’t seem to notice their stares as his eyes locked on something unseen. “Something like this … yes, it would be just like Msitovic. If we withstood his attempts to defeat us at Mejen, then … he’d want us to cross the Huns.” 

 

“What, away from his army?” Barbov baulked. “Cross the Huns, where we gather support from loyalist regions, and threaten his rule in Lahy? That doesn't make any sense.” 

 

“Precisely. His foremost concern isn’t us; it’s Dules. Lahy might be the capital of Ruska, but Dules is the jewel. The wealth of the trade-city dwarfs everything else in Ruska. If Msitovic and the Nzechovich took Dules, they’d take control of their fleet, their wealth, and not to mention the thousands of additional troops within the walls. No …” Kosav tapped his knuckles absently on the table. “The eyes of Ruska are focused on Dules, but Msitovic is trying to distract us. He wants us out of the way so his army has no obstacle taking Dules, so much so that he’s willing to let us attack the crownlands … because, once they take Dules, they’ll have no difficulty wiping us out. If we cross the Huns, we’ll be dooming ourselves. Any victory in the crownlands will be short-lived; Msitovic is playing the long-game.”

 

A sullen silence gripped the hall, but for pensive grunts and the creaking of chairs as men shifted in them. Several Boyars looked as if they wanted to say something, but could not quite find the words. Vlasta had slowly begun to see why Kosav, despite his lack of his brother’s strength or charisma, was just as valuable to their war than the Elder Prince. The man’s a genius, if he really is able to predict Msitovic’s plan. 

 

Barbov seemed reluctant to readily accept Kosav’s warning, and flexed his fingers irritably. “Hmph. If that were the case, Kosav, then how will we defeat the thirty-thousand Nzechovich besieging Dules? True enough, now that Mejen has fallen, we can send messengers to the western Boyars as far as Ingeslaw, but we at best we can bolster our army by another eight thousand or so.” The Prince spoke of tripling the size of their current army as if it were nothing, but Vlasta supposed it paled against the thirty-thousand Nzech at Dules.

 

“Assuming that the Nzech haven’t already paid Ingeslaw a visit,” Ratibor added. 

 

“True enough,” Kosav went on. “Any open military confrontation against Vladrik at Dules will end in our defeat.”

 

Barbov scowled. “So how -”

 

“We may not have to fight them, brother,” Kosav interrupted. 

 

“How?” the Elder Prince demanded. 

 

Kosav smiled wearily, and began to explain. As he divulged his plan, Vlasta thought that if the eyes of all Ruska were going to be on Dules, then it would be Kosav they would watch, not Barbov.

[Buffsanta 960]

Xarkly is so ******* based