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Song of the Black | Chapter VI: The Shadow of Dules


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SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER VI: THE SHADOW OF DULES

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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

Chapter V: The Eyes of Ruska

 

As the Karovic and Nzechovich forces plan their next move after the Battle of Mejen, a new foe for both sides emerge in the form of the wealthy trade-city of Dules, which seeks to take advantage of the political chaos to claim independence from the Ruskan crown. As Szitibor reunites with his cousin Vladrik, commander of an army of 30,000 soldiers besieging Dules, he agrees to help his cousin take the city in exchange for his aid in rescuing Mylah, who remains a prisoner of the Karovic Princes. Meanwhile, inside Dules, the mercenary captains known as Josef Tideborn and Dragan Skullsplitter prepare to fulfil their contract to defend the city.

 

Music - Play & Loop All

Spoiler

 


 

 

 

The Nzechovich siege camp was like a city unto itself.

 

Broad, muddy streets - trodden by thousands of boots, hooves, and wheels - ran between endless rows of tents, where merchants and craftsmen called out their prices and plied their services, from cobbling, to sowing, to brewing. Even in the day’s rainy drizzle, Nzech soldiers and camp workers moved leisurely between the streets, wearing their mail and livery proudly, and little sign of hardship on their faces. Aside from the drone of countless voices in the air, the echo of blacksmiths’ hammers at work mingled with snatches of music and singing from mess-tents and bonfires. As Szitibor led his broken army through the camp, he found it all strangely comforting. Despite the rain, the place felt more like a festival than a siege encampment, with all the vendors and music, and that quelled his feelings of shame for his defeat and Mejen alongside the otherwise all-encompassing worry for the fate of Mylah. 

 

Upon arriving in the camp, soaked and exhausted from their retreat from Mejen, Szitibor had learned that Vladrik had set up his command quarters in one of the tourney grounds outside of Dules, in the south-western quadrant of the camp. As he made his way there, wordless and stoney-faced beneath his wet cloak, his band of defeated soldiers - some of whom still had blood splashed across their mail - attracted no small amount of looks, but Szitibor barely noticed any of it. He did not even object when he noticed some of his soldiers peel off from their column, and vanish into the larger camp. They’re not my concern anymore.

 

No matter where in the camp he went, the walls of Dules were always visible in the distance. Fifty feet of pale stone, topped with crenelations, watchtowers, and even fresh hoardings that had been erected for the siege. From the peak of slate-roofed watchtowers, it was not the black-and-red banner of the Karovic dynasty or the green-and-red of Nzechovich that flew, but the gold-and-aqua flag of Dules itself. As far as Szitibor could tell, there had been no fighting; in the no-man’s-land between the camp and those pale walls, there was no sign of even arrows jutting out of the dirt, much less any blood or bodies. 

 

It’s not surprising Vladrik hasn’t attacked yet, Szitibor found himself thinking as he watched those gold-and-aqua banners snap in the wind, but what is Dules holding out for? Unlike every other holding in Ruska, Dules had always been ruled by the Prince of Dules, a leader chosen by a council of wealthy families known as the Electors, and the trade-city had become part of Ruska when King Nestor III, several generations ago, had been elected as Prince. Since then, the custom of electing the reigning monarch of Ruska as Prince of the city had been unbroken, and governance of the city was left to the Electors themselves. While Dules often tried to remain apart from the politics of greater Ruska, they were at worst a nuisance, and never a threat. Szitibor, like many others, had assumed that the city would capitulate and agree to elect Nestor V as Prince, once Vladrik arrived with his army … but that had been weeks ago, now. Why is the city still resisting? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

 

Szitibor marched his troops through makeshift plazas and marketplaces, past cordoned-off fields where engineers tinkered with trebuchets and half-built siege towers, and by squadrons of soldiers being drilled in formations by shouting sergeants. Finally, the stands and arenas of the tourney grounds came into view above the sea of tents, beneath flapping Nzechovich banners. A fresh palisade, coated in damp sawdust, had been erected around the grounds, and so it took a few minutes of criss-crossing through the surrounding streets before he located a solitary gate, manned by two Nzech elites in feathered helmets and bearskin cloaks.

 

After motioning his soldiers to remain in the adjoining plaza, Szitibor approached the gate with squelching boots, and he found himself unsure of what to expect when he came face-to-face with Vladrik - the two of them were cousins, but they had never been very close, and they had certainly never been friends. Vladrik was his senior by a few years, and he was simultaneously the most insecure and arrogant man Szitibor had ever met, prone to utter defeatism when things did not go his way, and his ego inflated beyond belief when he succeeded at anything. Despite that, no one - perhaps except Mylah - would deny that Vladrik was a capable soldier and leader who had distinguished himself in skirmishes on the Carnatian frontier before King Karl had raised him to the rank of Bogatyr. 

 

One of the two guards raised a forestalling hand as Szitibor neared. “This is the command district,” he barked gruffly, “move along.” 

 

Szitibor narrowed his eyes at the soldier. “I’m here to see my lord cousin, Vladrik.” 

 

“Your cousin? And who does that make you?” 

 

Szitibor’s eye twitched, but he kept his patience. “I am Szitibor Nzechovich, of Karinov.” 

 

The guards’ helmets creaked as they exchanged looks, before one asked, “Nzechovich? You look as if you just crawled out of the Huns.” 

 

The twitching intensified. “I have returned from battle at Mejen. I have news of the Karovic Princes down south, and it’s important that I share it urgently with my lord cousin.” 

 

“The Karovic? Are they still down in the south? Huh.” The guard tapped a gloved finger on his chin. “I’d heard they fled to Waldenia.” 

 

“Ai, bent the knee to some chieftain down there, or something like that,” his fellow added.

 

“They have not,” Szitibor snapped. “They are at Mejen, three days south of us, and they could be on their way here already!” How is it these idiots don’t know where the Karovic are? Has Vladrik told his army anything? Does he even know?! 

 

“No need to fret,” one of the guards said, raising a hand defensively. “I’m sure Lord Vladrik will hear you out, if he has a mind to. Come, I’ll take you to him. Just make sure your rabble in the square don’t cause any trouble, ai? I’ve no patience for rabble, and Lord Vladrik has less.” 

 

As the guard turned to lead him into the grounds, Szitibor contemplated challenging him to a duel right then and there. He might have lacked the martial prestige of Vladrik or a strong claim to the throne, but he was a blooded Nzechovich. Not only did these guards seem to doubt that, but they treated him like some kind of lowly petitioner. If I had any doubts as to whether this was your personal retinue, Vladrik, they’re well and truly gone. The prospect of using Vladrik’s army to rescue Mylah was the only thing that kept his sword in its sheath as he followed the guard inside.

 

Vladrik had turned the tourney grounds into a defensive compound, with log towers erected between spacious tents, atop which stood crossbowmen scrying for tents within the camp, and Szitibor spied more archers and sentries atop the roofs and stands of the arena. Vladrik’s elites seemed to have taken the ground’s smaller buildings - taverns, tack-rooms, and smithys - as their barracks, while luxurious tents, most of which were larger than those buildings, were adorned with the banners of various Boyars and Bogatyr who inhabited them. 

 

It was the jousting arena - a large, hollow ring of stands in the heart of the grounds - that Szitibor was to. The tune of a domra’s strings greeted Szitibor as he neared, followed by singing voices. “... shave your beards and wash your spears, so she told the soldiers! Once war is done, come home my son, but don’t track any mud!” Szitibor knew the song - it was about a mother who followed her son into battle to make sure that he behaved himself, but it sounded as if some of the singers were drunk. As the hoarse lyrics grew louder, Szitibor was guided through the stands, past more guards, until they came to a multi-roomed tent in the middle of the arena. 

 

“Wait here,” his escort instructed as he pushed through the door-flaps, leaving Szitibor under the watchful eyes of two silent and heavily-armoured soldiers. The singing lulled for a moment, but thankfully, he was not left standing outside for long as a loud voice called out inside the tent.

 

“COUSIN SZITTY? SEND HIM IN, RIGHT THIS INSTANCE!” 

 

As the guard held open the door for Szitibor to enter, letting the fumes of incense and food waft out, Szitibor braced himself, and stepped inside. 

 

Vladrik’s tent - or this part of the massive tent, at least - seemed to function as a parlour. Richly-embroidered rugs and cushions and dark-wood furnishings decorated the specious area, in the middle of which was a lit fire-pit, from which smoke drifted up through a hole in the canvas roof. The sweet incense mingled the smell of smoke, food, and strong drink, and the air was uncomfortably warm to Szitibor. Five people sat around the fire-pit; three of them were women, all young, and clearly the daughters or sisters of Boyars judging by their opulent travelling-dresses and jewellery, and they sat on cushions with red-hues to their cheeks and porcelain cups in their hands alongside a young man in silk shirtsleeves. Szitibor recognised the young man as a Boyar loyal to the Nzechovich, though his name escaped him, and some of the women seemed vaguely familiar, too.

 

It was not them Szitibor paid attention to, though. Lounging atop a purple-cushioned armchair and an ashwood domra slung across his lap was Vladrik Nzechovich. Szitibor’s cousin wore a vest of chainmail, unlaced at the neck and arms, like it was a shirt, and he grinned broadly at Szitibor through a chiselled face. Everyone had always said Szitibor and Vladrik looked alike, only Vladrik’s jaw was squarer, and where Szitibor kept his head shaved, Vladrik’s head was topped with a neat crop of dark hair. As his sparkling eyes settled on Szitibor, he spread his hands. “Strike me down if it isn't so! Cousin Szitty!” 

 

Vladrik’s companions laughed in surprise, and Szitibor clenched his jaw. ‘Szitty’ had been his pet name used by some of the older Nzechovich when he was a child, and he had always despised it. Good to know you’re still a prick, cousin. Not that I ever doubted it. I, at least, won’t abandon etiquette. Drawing in a sharp breath to quell his agitation, he dipped his head. “Lord cousin,” he began stiffly, “I am returned from Mejen, where -” 

 

“Oh, oh!” Vladrik strummed the domra urgently. “I forgot all about that! That’s right, Mejen!” He slapped the shoulder of the closest woman. “Cousin Szitty here was off fighting what was left of the Karovic! He’s our little hero, riding out to his first proper battle to finish off the Princes! Did you bring their heads, Szitty?” 

 

Szitibor’s jaw tightened further. “Vladrik, I …” 

 

“Because I have a great spot for them,” his cousin went on with theatrical gestures. “I was thinking, right, of putting Barbov’s head in the rally ground, but as for Kosav’s … oh, ho!” he chortled, wagging a finger. “I want his head here in my camp, just as a little memento! Well, only after we show their heads to the Dulesmen first, of course.” 

 

“Vladrik,” Szitibor began again, but he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

 

“Oh, oh, and did you get any of the rebel Boyars’ heads, too? What about their Bogatyr? Now, Stanislaw Horselegs? That would be an impressive one to have! Skysent’s head, too, on the ruins of the nearest Canonist shrine!” As Vladrik laughed again, aimlessly plucking on the domra, his companions laughed too. “Now, if we -” 

 

“Vladrik, we lost at Mejen,” Szitibor cut in harshly, and the laughter and the domra fell silent.

 

The courtiers exchanged uncertain looks, while Vladrik only stared silently at Szitibor, as if only really seeing him there for the first time. The silence dragged on for an uncomfortably long moment, broken only by the patter of the rain on the roof and the cackle of the fire, before Szitibor dared to speak up. “The Princes -”

 

“Give us the room.” At those quiet words from Vladrik, his courtiers stood smoothly, setting down their cups, and bowed in acquiescence as if Vladrik was a king himself, before they filed out of the tent, giving Szitibor askance looks as he stepped aside for them. Even after the tent door closed, tense silence gripped the room. Szitibor did not take his eyes off Vladrik, nor unball his fist, until his cousin burst into laughter.

 

“You lost!?” he chortled, slapping his knee. “How in the Skies did you manage that?” 

 

Szitibor’s temper slipped. “You think this is funny? The Princes could be amassing their forces to come north, here to Dules, or worse, cross the Huns and go for Lahy while we’re occupied!” 

 

“Well, it isn’t not funny,” Vladrik answered as he picked up a silver cup by the fire and drank from it. “You and Mylah used to talk such a big game about becoming the next Nzechovich top-dogs, rise to the rank of Bogatyr and even Boyar, and all that. Ah … to tell you the truth, Szitty, it’s a good thing the Princes humbled you.” 

 

“You’re glad?! Our best opportunity to kill the Princes is gone, over two-thousand of our troops are dead, and we now have a growing enemy directly south of us!” 

 

“Over two-thousand of your troops are dead,” Vladrik corrected with an infuriating smirk. I have lost thirteen soldiers. Seven of those died in three separate brawls, two in duels that had something to do with Boyar Veltka’s sister, and four to a very, very suspect serving of chicken sarma in the cavalry camp. Oh, Szitty, you should have seen what those four did to the latrines, it -”

 

Szitibor cut him off with a sneer. “So, what, you’re glad Mylah and I lost? Because we’re not a threat to your position anymore?”

 

Vladrik snorted. “Come on, Szitty, don’t be ridiculous. No,” he paused to drink, and then smiled a touch more sincerely. “I’m glad because now you and Mylah can stop trying to chase your own fame, and work with the rest of the family to secure our throne.” 

 

“I wasn’t chasing glory,” he retorted coldly. 

 

“Well, maybe you weren’t, but Mylah certainly was, and you just do whatever she says.” 

 

The rage that sparked inside Szitibor died as quickly as it came. He’s right, he knew. But … without Mylah, without her cunning and courage, I never would have stepped up to do anything. “ … That’s just how it is,” he said tersely instead. “The Nzechovich dynasty has always favoured those who prove themselves over their kin.”

 

Vladrik spread his arms, sploshing some wine out of his cup. “True enough! Since the days of Nestor I, our dynasty’s been defined by competition between the family to lead the biggest armies, capture the greatest cities, and defeat the strongest foe … and that competition has been the downfall of more than a few kings and chieftains. When siblings and cousins work against each other rather than cooperate, it’s hardly surprising, right?” 

 

Szitibor narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What are you saying?” 

 

“Only this, cousin: if we get caught-up trying to out-do each other, if we focus more on competing for glory or positions within the Ruskan court, then that is the only way the Karovic, or anyone else for that matter, can defeat us. Whether it’s you, me, or cousin Letzan up north or Ausla out east, or even Uncle Msitovic in Lahy -- if we treat each other like rivals, then the Karovic will exploit that.” Vladrik stood, setting down his cup, and trudged over to lay a hand on Szitibor’s shoulder. “Point is, we have to work together, Szitty. Because, if we lose, the Karovic will kill every last Nzechovich they lay their hands on. I can help you, and Mylah. We can help each other!” 

 

Szitibor stared back at his cousin uncertainly. Despite the smell of wine on Vladrik’s breath, something about the look in his eyes and the way he spoke told Szitibor that he was sincere. He had predicted the ridicule he would receive for his folley at Dules, but he did not expect Vladrik to be so … well, not quite welcoming, but he was certainly not unfriendly. For a long moment, he was not sure what to say.

 

“Speaking of your darling sister,” Vladrik drawled after a moment, “where is she? Dead?”

 

Szitibor’s boiling blood turned to ice, and his throat grew thick as he answered, “... captured, I-I think. She got stranded behind the Karovic when we retreated at Mejen, but … they wouldn’t kill her. She’s a valuable hostage. They … they wouldn’t.” 

 

“So, you don’t even know for sure,” Vladrik rolled his eyes as he returned to his seat to pick up his cup. “Well, this reminds me of when I was a young squire, when we used to patrol the Carnatian hinterlands. There was this other squire, the daughter of the Boyar of some hovel down by Bretzenov, and I had quite the fancy for her. We fought some Carnatian raiders one day, and we were forced to retreat, but this poor girl was too slow to disengage and got captured.”

 

A flicker of hope swelled in Szitibor. “And … you were able to save her?” 

 

“What? Oh, no. She was brutally dismembered when we found her.” 

 

“Why would you-” Szitibor stopped himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Vladrik, I came to you to ask for help to rescue Mylah, and defeat the Princes. That would be working together, right?” 

 

“Hmph. Well, if she is alive, then chances are you’re right - the Princes won’t kill her. Not yet, anyway. Not until they try to use her as a hostage.”

 

“So, you’ll help?”

 

Vladrik arched an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose I have much choice, do I? Someone has to finish off the Princes, now that you’ve botched it. But I want help from you, too.” 

 

“From me?”

 

“Yes, from you. Cooperation goes two ways, Szitty.” 

 

“How am I supposed to help you?” 

 

Vladrik drained the last of his wine, and frowned as he lowered the cup. “I need to take Dules. The siege is taking too long, and the Electors aren’t budging.” He trudged away from the fire-pit, and gestured Szitibor to a long table in the west wing of the tent, where a large map of Ruska was spread out and weighed down by various figurines representing armies in motion. 

 

Szitibor frowned thoughtfully as he followed, and watched as his cousin plucked a sleek white-marble figure of a soldier off of Mejen, and slapped down a crude wooden carving of an obese man in a jester’s cap in its place. He did know me and Mylah were in Mejen. He didn’t forget at all. “I … meant to ask what was going on with Dules. I expected the city to have surrendered to you by now, and elected Nestor as Prince.” 

 

“So did I,” Vladrik said sourly. “Uncle Msitovic has offered them more autonomy, tax-liens, trading rights … but the Electors won’t go for any of it.” 

 

“What is it they want, then? When I arrived, I saw the banners on the walls. Not Karovic, but …” 

 

“The Dules’ banner, yes. They want independence.” Vladrik’s lips twisted the word disdainfully as he stared down at the map. 

 

“Have they gone mad?” Szitibor baulked.

 

“Hmph. According to the Electors, they’re tired of the feuding between the Nzechovich and Karov. When King Karl overthrew Nestor IV forty years ago, the fighting dried up trade in Dules for almost a year, and same with the last three succession wars before that. On top of that, they say that they pay far too much tax to the Ruskan crown, for very little in return.” 

 

“They’re digging their own grave, then,” Szitibor snorted. “The Dulen Guard is a peacekeeping force, not an army. Your army could crush them.”

 

“I know that.” 

 

“Then why not leave them under siege here, and send a few thousand of your soldiers south to wipe out the Princes?” 

 

“Because, Szitty, there’s more to it than that. The Dulen Guard number maybe twelve or thirteen thousand, but it’s not them I’m worried about.” He jabbed a finger on the Huns River on the map, and trailed it upwards towards Dules. “Just before my army laid siege, the Electors of Dules summoned boatloads of mercenaries to bolster the city’s defence. Tarcharmen, Waldenians, even some Rhenyari … around four-thousand, I think, but it’s been hard to estimate.” 

 

Szitibor blinked at the number. “Dules must have prepared for this in advance. They must be paying a fortune, too.” 

 

“They are, which just goes to show they’re committed to opposing us and the Karovic, which means they’ll be a blight on our control and influence until they capitulate. Worse than their numbers, though, is their expertise. These sellswords are born and bred in war, and I've even recognised some of the names. The Stagbreaker Company, the Burnt Banner, the Freemens’ League … the Dulen Guard might quake in their boots at the sight of us, but not these sellswords.” 

 

Szitibor shifted uncomfortably. Some of those names were familiar to him, too - factions of professional warriors who earned their coin fighting in tribal feuds and civil wars in the lands south of Ruska. “Still, your army has the numerical advantage. You can still fight the Princes while starving out Dules.”

 

“You’re missing the point, Szitty,” Vladrik said impatiently. “I can’t afford to risk any troops fighting the Karovic right now. Yes, we have the advantage, and yes, we would win, but we would still sustain casualties, and that would permanently weaken us in an assault on Dules. And before you say it,” he raised a finger, silencing Szitibor before he could object, “we do have to assault them. We can’t afford to starve them into surrender, and I’m confident the Electors know that. The longer Dules resists us, the longer the rest of Ruska will resist us. They’ll see Dules as a sign of weakness, and a sign that we don’t have the wealth and power to stabilise the country. To secure Nzechovich control of the realm, we have to bring Dules back into the fold as quickly as possible.” 

 

Begrudgingly, Szitibor admitted he saw the sense in what Vladrik said, though admitting that meant leaving Mylah stuck in Karovic clutches. “What about the Princes, then?”

 

“They’ll just have to wait until we deal with Dules. There’s no other way around it. But, I promise, Szitty,” Vladrik turned to face him, his expression oddly sombre now. “When the time comes, we will crush them, and save Mylah.” 

 

“... Thank you, Vladrik.” That was not something Szitibor ever imagined himself saying, but there was a reassuring decisiveness in the way his cousin spoke. “But what help could I possibly be to you in taking Dules? My army is mostly gone.” 

 

“An advisor and commander I can trust will do. Say what you will about rivalry within Nzechovich, but the Boyars and Bogatyr around me are all self-centred sycophants, trying to ingratiate themselves as much as possible with the new King and his family. I know I can trust you, so long as that means rescuing Mylah after we’re done here. Am I right?” 

 

In Szitibor’s experience, Vladrik would have loved a band of sycophants to constantly keep his ego inflated, but he was not wrong - Szitibor was prepared to trust him if it meant saving Mylah. It’s not like I have any other choice. “... You are, Vladrik. You have my word, I’ll help however I can.” 


“Good!” He slapped Szitibor on the back, and moved away from the table. “You can start by taking a bath. You smell like sweat and piss. After that, you and I are going to pay a little visit to the gates of Dules.”

 

“You mean a parley? What for?” 

 

“Well, someone has let the Karovic crawl up our asses,” Vladrik grunted as he grabbed a cloak from a peg by the door, and draped it around his shoulders. “So, we need to speed up things at Dules before the Princes become a real problem. The Electors haven’t deigned to meet with me themselves yet; instead, any communication I’ve had with Dules has been through two mercenary captains in charge of defence of the walls. It’s about time I gave them an ultimatum.” 

 

“And who are these captains?”

 

Vladrik flashed him a wry smile. “Maybe you’ve heard of them. Josef Tideborn, and Dragan Skullsplitter.” 

 

Szitibor felt a shiver run down his spine. He had heard of them. 


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Vladrik Nzechovich

_____________

 

Josef of Vledyon dreamt of the water.

 

Not the stormy seas on which he had lived most of his life, nor the bloodied coasts where he had earned his fortune, but of the still waters of the Upper Huns River where he had been born. Although far in the north of Ruska, late-spring was always a peaceful season, when the air was crisp and the sunlight painted a vivid landscape of rolling fields, blue water, and the cloud-capped mountains of Carnatia to the north. Josef found himself alone, reclined back on a rowboat as the gentle current sloshed against the hull, and a deep blue sky, unmarred by any clouds, stretched out infinitely above him. As if it were water, for some reason he could see his own rippling reflection in the sky; his pale-blonde hair, his short beard, the lines of age on his face, and a thin scar on his right cheek where a Tarchary spear had once grazed him.

 

“I should come back one day,” he found himself muttering as he trailed his fingers in the water. “I wonder if the war has touched this place.” The prospect did not bother him; he knew better than most that war could destroy towns, fields, and forests, but lakes, hills, and mountains would endure forever. There was something reassuring about that, but at the same time, he sighed, as he knew the dream would end soon. It always lasted only a few moments, whether he slept for fifteen minutes, or fifteen hours. He could almost sense an unseen presence, rousing his real body, and his dream of the water began to fade.

 

“Josef! Wake up!” 

 

His eyes fluttered open. The blue sky was replaced with the wood-panelled ceiling of the barracks bedroom, a pale lifeless grey filled the room instead of the spring sun, and, of course, he was no longer Josef of Vledyon. In the waking world, he was Josef Tideborn, captain of the Stagbreaker Company, and he was in Dules, many miles south of the Upper Huns. He was not alone anymore, either.

 

As he blinked away his grogginess, Dragan came into view looming above him. Josef’s co-captain of the Stagbreakers, and his oldest friend, was easily the largest man Josef had ever seen; his bald and scar-pocked head was just a few feet short of the ceiling, and the man was so broad that it was as if he was carved from rock. In his youth, Dragan’s flat-features and massive stature had earned him monikers like the Stoneman and the Waldenian Giant, but today, most knew him by only one - Dragan Skullsplitter. Despite his reputation, he did not look like a world-renowned killer with the toothy grin he flashed at Josef. “Rise and shine!” 

 

“Something the matter?” Josef grumbled sleepily as he straightened up in the armchair. He had dozed off in one of the officer rooms in a Dulen Guard barracks, which had been given to the Stagbreaker Company under their contract with the city, but it was not like any barracks room Josef had ever seen before with its hardwood furnishings and lavish curtains, rugs, duvets, and seats.

 

“The little Nzech is back.” 

 

“Which one? Vladrik?”

 

“Ai, that’s the one.”

 

“And what does he want?” 

 

“Not sure, but he’s being more of a nuisance than usual, by the sounds of it. That’s why I thought you ought to speak with him.” 

 

“Hmph,” Josef grunted as he rolled his shoulders and neck with a creak of bone. I’m really getting too old to be falling asleep sitting up like that, he thought, then wistfully added, I’m too old to still be a sellsword. He found himself thinking that a lot lately. He thought that at this point of his life - with his forty-third birthday nearing - that he would have retired to some lavish estate, with some king deeply in debt to him for winning him his crown in some war, and nothing to worry about for the rest of his days. While he had earned plenty of gold as leader of the Stagbreakers over the last two decades, something still felt … unfinished to Josef. Something big. Yes, that’s it. I need to win a war that makes the world a better place, and then I’ll finally be done. I’ll hang up my sword, sell my ship, and go back to Vledyon to die a rich man. He glanced back to Dragan. One step at a time, though. “What do you mean by ‘more than usual’?”

 

“Oh, he’s whining about how he’s going to attack in a few days.”

 

“That is a bit more of a nuisance than usual,” Josef bristled as he stood. “Before it was all pleasantries about how the city would flourish under Nzechovich rule, and now he’s resorting to threats? Huh. Something must have changed.” 

 

“Like what?” 

 

Josef pulled his cross-hatched cloak, embroidered with the broken-antler crest of the Stagbreaker Company, off the bed. “Let’s go and find out.” 

 

Together, the two of them made their way out of the room and down through the three-storey barracks. All throughout the building, Stagbreaker mercenaries lounged about idly between their patrol shifts, reading in window-sills, drinking in the common areas, or playing Ur or other board games. The only common feature of most of the soldiers were the broken-antler pendants they wore; otherwise, their mails were mismatched, varying from light jerkins to plated vests, and even their features greatly differed, for Josef had recruited men from all across the land. He passed several dark-skinned Rhenyari, and fiery-haired Adunians alike. All of them, however, were dreadfully bored - the siege had already dragged on for weeks already, and fighting men and women like these did not take well to sitting around doing nothing all day. 

 

“Who’s speaking to the Nzech now?” Josef asked as they descended the final flight of stairs. 

 

“Who else?” Dragan grunted. “Him and Pinky are having a shouting match.” 

 

“Captain Vranna, you mean.” Josef was not sure if Dragan meant it as mocking or if his memory was truly so poor, but Josef was practically the only person he called by their real name. The names he used for others were mostly insulting, but someone would have to be insane or very drunk to pick a fight with Dragan Skullsplitter. “Best we intervene before Vranna pisses him off too much.” 

 

They strode through the open doorways of the barracks, and out into rainy Dules. The barracks was built on a cliff that adjoined the city’s south wall, and so the barracks led directly out onto the ramparts. From here, Josef had a view of both the city behind him, with its gleaming towers, spires, and domes, and the massive ring of tents encircling the city on the other side of the wall. “You really think they’ll attack?” Dragan asked as he stared down at the siege camp with a frown.

 

“Good question,” Josef grumbled. “Why? You getting cold feet?” Much to Josef’s amusement, Dragan, who himself was over forty now, had lost his love for fighting long ago. He was still exceedingly good at it - even aside from his size, Dragan was fast and skilled with a weapon - but he no longer relished in it like he once had.

 

“No,” the hulking Waldenian answered gruffly, “I’d just prefer to get paid without having to kill anyone.” 

 

“Fat chance of that, old friend.” No, there will be killing, Josef mulled as he watched the Nzechovich banners flap above the camp. It’s just a critical question of when. “When it’s done, we can finally think about retiring somewhere to raise sheep and farm turnips.” Josef wasn’t sure if he believed this war would truly be his last, but he felt like Dragan needed the reassurance. “Come on.” 

 

They started along the ramparts, where braziers burned periodically and Stagbreakers trudged along the battlements in thick cloaks and crossbows in hand. Under their contract with the Electors of Dules, the Stagbreaker Company, as the largest and most prestigious of the mercenary groups, had been tasked with warding off any attacks on the city’s walls, while the Dulen Guard had mostly been pulled back to defend the Electors’ Palace, in the heart of the city. That was more than fine with Josef - he had no need for the pompous children of merchants who had never war telling him what to do. There was, however, one small annoyance: the city’s gates were still manned by a squadron of Dulen Guards, who the mercenaries were meant to report to, but they were nearly entirely ignored. At the south gate, Captain Vranna - a young woman who Josef had no doubt owed her rank to her family’s wealth - held ‘command’.

 

Troubled thoughts weighed on Josef as they walked. It’s far too soon for Vladrik to attack. His eyes glossed over the enormous camp beyond the walls again. If his full army attacks, there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to hold them off. Damnit, where are the Karovic? When he had agreed to take charge of defending the walls, Josef had gambled on the exiled Karovic Princes posing a distraction for the Nzechovich. Even if the Karovic were smashed in battle - which seemed likely to be their fate - all Josef needed them to do was whittle down the Nzechovich by a few thousand soldiers. If that came to pass, Josef was confident that the mercenaries and the Dulen Guard could withstand an assault from the weakened Nzehovich. All I need is for the damned Princes to earn Vladrik’s attention. 

 

Already, Josef could hear a woman yelling from the walls ahead the towers of the southern gatehouse as they neared.

 

“SO TAKE YOUR NZECH AROUND, MARCH BACK TO LAHY, AND THE ELECTORS WILL TREAT YOU AS CORDIAL ALLIES! YOU SHALL HAVE NO QUARTER NOR COURTESY AS LONG AS YOUR ARMY IS CAMPED HERE!” 

 

“Skies,” Dragan sighed. “Even when she’s yelling, Pinky still sounds like a little girl.”

 

They drew closer to the gatehouse, and the source of the shouting. Instead of Stagbreakers patrolling in differing garb, the Dulen Guard stood along the battlements here, all of them uniformed in blue-gold jackets over their cuirasses and sallet helmets, with crossbows loaded and aimed at the drawbridge below them. More than a few of them gave Josef and Dragan a sidelong look of disdain as they passed, but that was nothing new; the Dulesmen were openly bitter about their reliance on the mercenaries to defend their city. 

 

“Looking good as usual, friends!” Dragan chimed as they passed. “Good thing you’re all dressed up like that to send the Nzech running!” None of the Dulesmen dared invoke Dragan’s ire - though Josef knew there was not much ire to invoke in the first place - and so the pair of them chuckled as they passed through the first of the twin towers topping the gatehouse, passed more crossbowmen, and out onto the battlements that overlooked the drawbridge.

 

Captain Vranna stood in decorated mail and a gold-frilled jacket, with her visor lifted to expose her chubby pink cheeks as a row of crossbowmen stood ready at her side. Below the gates, a wide drawbridge spanned some two-hundred feet past the gate, and it was on that bridge that the Nzechovich delegation sat on horseback. As always Vladrik Nzehovich was at the head of the retinue, the green-and-red plumes of his helmet whipping in the wind and his gilded scale-mail glistening in the rain. His usual companions were arrayed just behind him - standard-bearers, some high-ranking Boyars, and a selection of Bogatyr - but this time, there was a new addition that Josef did not recognise: a lithe, young man with a shaved head and a dark scowl. 

 

“YOU’VE WASTED ENOUGH OF MY TIME, WOMAN!” Vladrik hollered back up. “I TIRE OF OFFERING YOU EVERY PLEASANTRY, ONLY FOR YOU TO SPIT IN MY FACE WHILE MY ARMY IS NEEDED ELSEWHERE!” 

 

“THEN TAKE IT ELSEWHERE, NZECH, BEFORE -” Vranna cut off with a surprised yelp as Josef laid a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Perhaps I should take it from here, Captain,” he said softly.

 

She slapped his hand away. Perhaps, Tideborn, you should keep to your own business and man the walls.”

 

“I yearn to, Captain, yet I fear part of defending your walls is careful diplomacy. I shall speak to the Nzech now, but if you object, Dragan here will happily hear you out.” The two of them had played this act many times, and so Dragan grinned down at Vranna - who’s head barely reached Dragan’s chest - and the colour left the woman’s cheeks.

 

“Don’t worry, Captain!” Dragan slapped a firm hand on her shoulder, and did not let go. “You’ll not find a man or woman living more cunning and clever than Josef Tideborn! Don’t you agree, Captain?” 

 

Vranna wet her lips as the massive man looked down at her. “I … ah … yes, of course.”

 

Dragan’s smile widened. “And don’t you think he’s very handsome, too?”

 

“Cut it out, Dragan,” Josef snorted as he took Vranna’s place at the battlements, and stared down at the Nzechovich as his thinning hair tossed in the wind. He cleared his throat. “GREETINGS, LORD VLADRIK!”

 

The Nzech lord grimaced. “YOU AGAIN? I TIRE OF DEALING WITH SELLSWORDS. BRING ME THE ELECTORS!”

 

“AS I TOLD YOU BEFORE, MY LORD, I’M AFRAID I CANNOT!” Josef yelled back, and his throat already began to ache from the yelling. “I WILL CARRY ANY MESSAGE TO THEM THAT YOU WISH, BUT THEY WILL NOT COME TO YOU!” The Electors would barely meet with Josef himself -- they had been holed up in their Palace for weeks, now. 

 

“THEN TELL THEM THIS: IF THE ELECTORS DO NOT ELECT NESTOR V, KING OF RUSKA, AS PRINCE OF DULES AND ACCEPT HIM AS THEIR LIEGE, THEN I WILL LEAD MY ARMY OF THIRTY-THOUSAND AND MAKE THEM DO IT AT SWORD-POINT!” 

 

“IS THAT SO?” Josef paused for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, and scanned Vladrik’s retinue. Every time the lordling has come to parley, he’s brought the same people … He squinted at the new member of the retinue, with the shaved head. So, who is this one? “HAS SOMETHING CHANGED, LORD VLADRIK? YOU DID NOT SEEM TO BE IN SUCH A HURRY LAST TIME WE SPOKE!” 

 

“I’VE NO MIND TO HUMOUR YOUR QUESTIONS, SELLSWORD! TAKE MY WARNING TO THE ELECTORS! IF THIS CITY DOES NOT SUBMIT TO NZECHOVICH RULE IN THREE DAYS, THEN I WILL TAKE MAKE IT SO BY FORCE!” 

 

Something has changed. It must have. There’s something urgent about the lordling now. Again, Josef found his eyes drifting back to the shaved-headed man that had appeared in Vladrik’s retinue. “...TELL ME, MY LORD. HAVE YOU HEARD OF WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE KAROVIC PRINCES? LAST I KNEW, THEY WERE LURKING SOMEWHERE NEAR THE HANSETIAN BORDER.” As Vladrik’s face tightened, Josef grinned. That’s it. That must be it. The Karovic are finally getting on their nerves. 

 

“UNLESS YOU WISH TO SHARE THEIR FATED DEFEAT, SELLSWORD, YOU NEEDN’T WORRY! ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS HEED MY WARNING, AND YIELD THIS CITY!” 

 

Three days, eh? Josef scratched his beard. Even if the Karovic were finally on the move, it would still not help him if Vladrik attacked the city with his unscathed army before the Princes could do anything. “AS YOU WISH, THEN, MY LORD! YOUR WARNING WILL BE PASSED TO THE ELECTORS!” 

 

“YOU ARE A WISE MAN, TIDEBORN!” Vladrik began to turn his horse, and the rest of his retinue followed suit. “DO NOT FORGET! IF YOU DO NOT YIELD IN THREE DAYS, THIS CITY WILL DROWN IN BLOOD AND IRON!” 

 

As the sound of horse hooves clattering on the drawbridge faded after the Nzechovich withdrew to their camp, Josef sighed again. Three days. Hm. 

 

“You have no right to speak for the Electors,” Vranna hissed behind him. She seemed to have forgotten about Dragan’s hand on her shoulder until the Waldenian gave her a gentle squeeze.

 

“Relax, Captain. I’m simply playing for time.” 

 

“Three days isn’t much time, Josef. Do you think he’s bluffing?” 

 

“Bluffing?” Josef looked east, to where the grey waters of the Lower Huns River churned in the rain. “No, old friend. I’m sorry, old friend, but there’s going to be a fight.”

 

“A … big one?” 

 

Josef laughed. In this business, very little was ever certain, but he knew it for a fact that it would be a big fight. Perhaps one of the biggest in his career.

 

Maybe this will be my last war after all.

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