Song of the Black | Chapter VII: A Pact of Glass

[Xarkly 12576]

SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER VII: A PACT OF GLASS

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

Chapter VI: The Shadow of Dules

 

With a daring plan crafted by the cunning Prince Kosav, the Karovic rebels, on the foot of their victory at the Battle of Mejen, march into the belly of the beast -- they sail north to the Trade City of Dules, where Vladrik Nzechovich has the Trade City under siege with an army three-times larger than the Karovic. After learning that the Electors of Dules want independence, and will submit to neither Karovic nor Nzechovich kings, the Princes meet with Vladrik Nzechovich, and strike a very dangerous agreement that neither side wants, but knows is essential if they hope to win the throne of Ruska.

 

Music - Play & Loop All

Spoiler

 

---

 

So many people in one place and yet there was silence.

 

Of course, there was not complete silence: overhead, tides of black-red Karovic and green-red Nzechovich banners flapped ceaselessly in the westward wind; the nearby waters of the Lower Huns River lapped noisily against the creaking hulls of the fleet of Karovic carves moored near the bank; and creaking leather and clinking metal marked the anxious shifting of warriors. And yet, to Stanislaw Horselegs, the oppressive, heavy tension in the air could only be described as silence, as if the thousands gathered here held back shouts, screams, and the drawing of weapons.

 

Stanislaw shared their anxiety. He did not like this plan one bit. 

 

He stood astride his fellow Bogatyr, Ratibor and Slavomir, in a pavilion atop a small bluff some three miles south of the Trade City of Dules, besieged by Nzechovich forces. The pavilion had been erected halfway between the Nzechovich encirclement of the city, and the hastily-erected fortifications on the riverbank where the Karovic had moored their modest fleet. Stanislaw glared under his helmet at the Nzechovich elites on the opposite side of the pavilion, who glared right back through their silver-winged faceguards.

 

“This is madness,” Ratibor Skysent hissed at Stanislaw’s side. Though absent any signs of nerves, the holy Bogatyr looked irate with that fiery look in his eye, one hand tapping the pommel of his sheathed sword impatiently, and the other gripping the Hussariyan Cross around his neck. “We should have just crossed the Huns and carved a bloody path to Lahy.” 

 

Stanislaw did not disagree -- with thirty-thousand Nzechovich busy besieging Dules, it made perfect sense for the smaller Karovic army to attack the undefended royal court at Lahy. And yet … after hearing Prince Kosav analyse the situation at the war council in Mejen, he could bring himself to agree with Ratibor’s assessment either. “It’s … like what the Younger Prince said, Ratibor,” he whispered back. “If we let the Nzechovich take Dules, it’ll give them enough wealth and resources to eventually overwhelm us, even if we did retake Lahy.”

 

Ratibor’s grip tightened around his Cross. “I am not breaking bread with Nzech pagans.”

 

“You will if the Prince orders you to,” came a nearby mutter, and both Stanislaw and Ratibor’s narrowed eyes snapped to the rugged-faced man on Stanislaw’s right. Slavomir the Drowned seemed to be one of the few people present who showed no outward signs of nerves or disdain. Instead, the weathered face of the serf-turned-Bogatyr wore the same idle nonchalance as always. Stanislaw had always found that infuriating.

 

“Was that a threat, Mutt?” Ratibor hissed. While Stanislaw held Slavomir in equal disdain for his low birth, at that moment, a small voice in his head had to admit he envied the other Bogatyr his unwavering calm at moments like this. While Slavomir was aloof and Ratibor agitated, Stansilaw was nervous - though he was a Bogatyr who had seen his fair share of battles and blood, this was not a battle. They had sailed from Mejen to Dules to make a gamble, a gamble that had to be made if the Karovic Princes were to retain any chance at reclaiming Ruska. Stanislaw saw the need for the gamble, but it did not make him feel any better about it. 

 

“Of course not,” Slavomir answered indifferently. “Just an affirmation of my loyalty to the Princes.” 

 

Ratibor clenched his jaw, and he opened his mouth to retort, but cut off when Stanislaw laid a hand on his shoulder. “Not now, Ratibor. Not here.” Ratibor looked between Stanislaw and Slavomir, and then shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. 

 

Stanislaw released a shaky sigh -- Ratibor was far from the only one with frayed nerves. Behind them, rows of Karovic soldiers stood in formation outside the Karovic side of the pavilion, nervously waiting under black-red standards for any sign of trouble. On the other side of the pavilion, a much larger force of Nzech soldiers were arrayed in waiting lines. They haven’t attacked yet, though. The gamble is working so far. We just need a little more luck. 

 

With that, he steeled his resolve, and turned his eyes back to those in the middle of the pavilion. 

 

Sat on a plain stool on the Karovic side, the Elder Prince Barbov’s black curls whipped around his broad shoulders in the wind, and the rightful King of Ruska’s face was set in an icy scowl. The Younger Prince Kosav stood beside the stool, and shared his brother’s hair and hawk-like eyes, but he was far gaunter than his broad-built brother. It was Prince Kosav’s plan that had brought their small army to Dules to confront the much-larger Nzechovich army -- Kosav was Stanislaw’s milk-brother and oldest friend, and while Stanislaw could not comprehend what the Younger Prince was thinking with this plan, he was prepared to trust him. Until the very end … which may be rather soon.

 

The two Karovic Princes had their eyes coldly set on a man with a neat crop of hair on an otherwise-shaved head slouched on a high-backed chair, with one leg crossed on the other. Every ounce of Vladrik Nzechovich oozed confidence and comfort, with his chainmail vest unlaced at the neck, the way he waved about his silver winecup that was kept periodically refilled by a comely young woman at his side whose dress was fine enough for a Bogatyr’s daughter, and the constant wry smirk he wore on his chiselled face. Like Barbov, he too had an advisor at his side -- a young man who looked a good deal like Vladrik, except his jaw was squarer, his head was completely shaved, and he wore a scowl darker than even Ratibor. Stanislaw did not know that one’s name, but he certainly recognized him. He was one of the Nzechovich at the Battle of Mejen. Their commander, I think. 

 

“You’re really serious about this?” Vladrik looked as if he was holding back a laugh. “You want a truce?” Stanislaw could not help but glare as the Nzechovich spoke. He had not really known Vladrik outside of polite greetings at feasts and tourneys before the Nzechovich Coup of Lahy, but the young man was well-known and respected for his performance at jousts and as a warrior for fighting raiders on the Carnatian border. Stanislaw had never had cause to hate the man, until now, and even in spite of his family’s betrayal at the Coup, something about his demeanour made Stanislaw want to stab him every time he spoke.

 

“A temporary truce,” Barbov corrected through a tight jaw. The Elder Prince had not been enthusiastic about his younger brother’s plan either, but like the rest of them, he could see no other option that would not lead to their eventual defeat. 

 

“Oh, come on, Barbov. You can’t be serious!” Vladrik’s sly smile blossomed into a brazen  grin. “You roll up to my army, outnumbered three-to-one, and say you want to be friends? You’ve just put the apple in your mouth and climbed onto the platter like a hog at a feast! And you even have the right physique for that role, too.” 

 

Laughter rippled through the Nzechovich soldiers, but it lasted only a second before the hiss of Karovic blades leaving their sheaths echoed through the tent at the insult, Stanislaw’s included, and the Nzech were quick to bare their weapons in return. Before anyone moved, though, Prince Kosav raised a forestalling hand and called, “Stop! Weapons away! We are here to talk of peace, not spill blood!” Gritting his teeth, Stanislaw obliged, and gave Ratibor an urgent look to prompt him to do the same. Prince Barbov sat perfectly still on his stool, as if any movement would cause him to draw his own weapon. 

 

“Easy, easy!” Vladrik cooed. “I didn’t know the Karovic hated jokes so much. Though, then again, I do think this peace of  yours is a joke.” 

 

“Temporary peace,” Barbov growled through grit teeth. 

 

“Yes, well, as much as I can admire a last-ditch act of desperation to save your hides,” Vladrik began as he held out his cup from the woman to refill, “it lacks a certain … symbiosis. To be honest, I thought you came up here to die fighting at the hands of a great warrior.” He flashed his smile. 

 

Kosav and Barbov exchanged looks, and then nodded as if communicating silently. It was Kosav who answered. “It’s true that you have the advantage by far, Lord Vladrik. You have thirty-thousand troops, and we have just under ten thousand. It would be an overwhelming victory if you attacked us here. But we’re not here to die.” 

 

“Really, now?” Vladrik arched an eyebrow. “Because I might -” 

 

“If you choose to fight us now,” Kosav cut him off hastily, “you’ll never take Dules.” 

 

The smile slid off Vladrik’s face. For all his posturing, it was obvious to Stanislaw that the Nzechovich general was well aware of that fact. So, he’s not too stupid to see it. Good. Kosav’s plan hinged on Vladrik not being too arrogant or ignorant to prioritise his objectives, and Stanislaw had not been the only person who doubted him. Vladrik reclined in his chair with a more sombre expression now. “And what makes you say that, little Prince?” 

 

Kosav visibly swallowed a lump in his throat and answered, “the situation in Dules is plain to see now. The Electors won’t open the gates for either you or us. The city is seizing this chance to establish independence from the throne of Ruska, and they’ve hired many mercenaries to bolster the Dulen Guard. Without the wealth, resources, and influence of Dules, many other lords and holdings in Ruska will defy the rule of Nzechovich and Karovic alike.” 

 

“Be that as it may,” Vladrik said with a distasteful twist of his lips, “I can still win this siege with -”

 

“With your current force, yes.” It was Barbov who interrupted this time, and Vladrik glowered. “If you fight us here, though, we will bleed you, Vladrik. You’ll win, but at the cost of some of your force -- enough to cripple you in any attack against Dules. You can defeat the Karovic here, but it will cost you Dules, and that will cost you control of Ruska.” 

 

The first throw of the dice. The tense silence returned as Vladrik pondered the equation, and the Nzech behind him shared doubtful looks. Although the Karovic were in open rebellion against the Nzechovich puppet who had been placed on Barbov’s rightful throne during the Coup of Lahy, their current army was only a thorn in the side of the Nzechovich. Everyone with an ounce of sense knew that the wealth of Dules was key to winning an actual war. Stanislaw sucked in a calming breath as he waited for the dice to stop spinning. 

 

The silence shattered as Vladrik abruptly laughed and slapped a knee, but there was a darkness to his eyes now. This arrogance is all an act. He sees the situation clearly. That’s good, at least. “You have a funny way of seeing things through those funny eyes, Princes. Humour me, then -- if I agreed to stay your execution until Dules’ treachery is dealt with, what will you do? Stand back and cheer for me? Run away and hide?” 

 

“Neither,” retorted Barbov. “We’ll attack the city, too. Help you, even.” The Elder Prince looked physically pained to say those words, but it was all part of the gamble, and so Stanislaw was grateful he was keeping a level head. “We’ll leave you to continue your assault on the walls, and my fleet will assault the harbour.”

 

“Help me?” 

 

“Perhaps ‘help’ is a little strong,” Kosav intoned. “The reality is that we both want the Trade City, and it’s in neither of our interests to fight each other before that happens. So, we’ll both attack the city and stay out of each other’s way until Dules has fallen.” 

 

Surprised murmurs rippled through the onlookers. “And then what? We’ll remain friends? Forget about the Coup of Lahy? We’ll split Dules between us? Share Ruska?” His smile was mirthless now.

 

“Then we can fight,” said Barbov.

 

“ … You are joking, now, right?” There followed another rich laugh as Vladrik leaned on his knees, splashing wine over the rim of his cup. “Okay, okay -- let me get this straight. You want to call a truce so that both of us can attack Dules, and once the city falls, then we’ll fight for control of the city between us?”

 

“Something you don’t understand about that, Nzech?” Barbov grunted. 

 

“I just … I don’t …” he said between bursts of snickers. “My force still outnumbers three-to-one. How do you …?” he trailed off, and the shaved-headed Nzech beside him whispered something inaudible, to which Vladrik gave a dismissive wave and seemed to murmur ‘I know’. His eyes flit back to Barbov. “What is it, then?”

 

“What is what?”

 

“Your plan. Why else would you agree to something so disadvantageous and that seems to benefit only me?” 

 

Barbov’s sudden smile was as cold as his eyes. “Canonism teaches us to help all those in need.” 

 

Vladrik barked another hearty laugh. “Well, if your false god is so inclined to help me, then it’d be rude to decline. I think we might have a deal, Karovic.” The man with the shaved head at Vladrik’s side coughed for attention, and shared a look with Vladrik, who rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s right. One more thing, Princes. My cousin, Mylah … she fought in that disaster at Mejen,” he shot a sidelong look at the man with the shaved head again, who clenched his jaw. “Did you capture her? Is she still alive?”

 

“Not for lack of trying …” Ratibor whispered under his breath to Stanislaw. The Nzechovich girl that had very nearly ruined them at the Battle of Mejen had kept her tongue still in most attempts to interrogate her, and when they left Mejen Kosav ordered her to be kept chained in one of the cargo ships to be used as a hostage, despite Barbov’s insistence she be hanged, or worse. 

 

“She’ll definitely stay alive now,” Stanislaw muttered back. “The fact that they brought her up first means she’s valuable to them.” Only, it didn’t seem like Mylah was valuable to Vladrik - he seemed to ask out of some begrudged obligation rather than genuine concern. The same did not seem to be true for the man with the shaved head, though; as soon as Mylah was brought up, intent and anxiety were etched into his face. He wants her rescued. Not Vladrik. 

 

There had been silence for a moment as the Princes considered the question, before Kosav answered, “She is. Would you like her released?” 

 

Instant relief flooded the standing man’s voice, but Vladrik only tapped the armrest of his chair impatiently. “Get on with it. What do you want for her?” 

 

Kosav pursed his lips, as if to make it look like he was thinking it over and he had not rehearsed this interaction a dozen times. “Your faith will suffice. If you abide by our truce, we will release her once Dules has fallen -- before our battle.” 

 

“You’re leveraging her to make sure I keep my word? ” Vladrik snorted. “Insulting my honour, now, are you?” 

 

Kosav opened his mouth, but Barbov beat him to it. “Your honour?” A cold fire roiled in the Elder Prince’s voice. “After what the Nzechovich did at Lahy … less than a day after the death of my father, after you killed us in our sleep and drove us out of our home, you dare to even use that word?” 

 

Vladrik pushed off his seat, throwing his wine cup to the floor. He was not smiling this time. “And what if I do, Barbov? Hm? What if I say it was an honour to cut down your swines? What would you do about it?” 

 

Barbov leapt up from his stool, and within the blink of an eye, both Vladrik and the Elder Prince were squared up with each other with their hands on their weapons, and the rest of the pavilion reaching for theirs, too. Stanislaw blinked in disbelief. What caused Vladrik to snap like that? The man was not teasing or mocking with that smirk like he had before -- he seemed rattled. 

 

“Barbov,” Kosav hissed as he pulled at his brother’s shoulders to no avail. “Barbov.” 

 

Vladrik’s taunts did not stop, though. “Go ahead, Barbov. Let your little brother do the talking. Better bow down and listen.” 

 

“Barbov, we can’t,” Kosav insisted, and Stanislaw only watched as every soldier gathered waited for the signal to act. Barbov’s fist was clenched around the hilt of his sword, and the metal rattled in its sheath. Come on, your Highness, he urged silently. Back down, just this once. We bide our time, and we’ll kill them later. Please, Highness. 

 

He sighed in relief, and Ratibor seemed to grunt in disappointment, when Barbov turned, kicked over the stool, and stormed out of the pavilion. Immediately, a crowd of footmen - Slavomir included - folded around him as he began to march back to the Karovic encampments on the banks of the Lower Huns. Left in the pavilion, a pale-faced Kosav panned back to Vladrik, who watched Barbov retreat bitterly. 

 

“You know, Kosav, you really should have been the one to be King,” Vladrik snorted. “We might never have been in this situation.” 

 

Kosav only firmed his jaw and asked, “Does our agreement stand?” 

 

“Oh, it does.” Vladrik seemed to regress into his composure as he turned back towards his own troops. “But once Dules has fallen, every last one of you who remain here will be cut down. I don’t care whatever clever plan you think have it -- it won’t save you.” He made a gesture to the shaved-headed man, who looked anxiously out towards the Karovic ships before falling in behind Vladrik. The rest of the Nzechovich lines followed suit behind them, leaving Kosav and the remainder of the Karovic forces standing in the pavilion as the wind flapped the canvas.

 

“Well … we won the first roll of the dice, at least,” Kosav sighed. Suddenly, his composure and calmness deflated out of him, and he leaned forward on his knees, as if exhausted. “We have our pact.” 

 

“We do, Highness,” Stanislaw answered cautiously as he watched the retreating backs of the Nzechovich. “But it’s a pact of glass.” 

 

“If your hands are all you have, your hands are all you have,” Kosav muttered the old Ruskan phrase, and Stanislaw smiled weakly. 

 

Whatever else happens, we’re alive for now. 

 

That brought little comfort, though. They had won the first roll of the dice, but the second phase of Kosav’s plan was the hard part.

 

 

---

 

Kosav Karovic

Spoiler

 

___________

 

Szitibor spared one last glance for the pavilion on the hill, and then mounted his horse behind Vladrik.

 

They had picketed their mounts on a copse of trees near the bluff, and a war trumpet cried out the signal for the Nzechovich warriors that had escorted Vladrik to the negotiation to return to their encampment. As he trot just behind Vladrik with the rest of his immediate retinue - which entirely consisted of sycophantic nobles whose company he kept for prestige - he could not help but frown at his cousin’s back. 

 

Mylah is alive. They said so. She’s alive. The question of whether his sister was alive after the Battle of Mejen had kept him awake nearly every night since he arrived at Vladrik’s camp, but now that he knew she was not dead and waiting to be rescued, he barely felt any different at all. I’m not done yet. I still have to actually save her. To hear the Karovic say it back in the pavilion, though, he had nothing to worry about -- once the Trade City had been taken, they would release her, so long as the Nzechovich observed the truce.

 

But … why? 

 

Vladrik had pointed out what everyone had been thinking -- this truce the Karovic offered was simply too good to be true. They’re not going to fight us, help us attack the city, release Mylah, and agree to fight us with far fewer numbers after Dules has fallen? It doesn’t make any sense. It was an unsettling analysis. Something important was missing.

 

He urged his horse to ride at Vladrik’s side. “This plan of theirs -- do you have any idea of what it might be?” he asked in a quiet voice over the sound of marching soldiers.

 

Vladrik wore an unusual pensive expression as his eyes stared at nothing, lost in thought. “A few,” he murmured after a moment. “Nothing solid, though. The most likely seems to be that they’ll try to ally with Dules behind our backs, but that doesn’t make a lot of sense either if Dules wants to be independent.”

 

“Maybe Dules intends to use them to defeat us, and then turn on them to secure their independence.”

 

“Maybe … but then why didn’t Dules open the harbour and let the Karovic in from the start?” 

 

Szitibor opened his mouth, but no answer came to mind, and he closed it again with a frown. They rode in silence for a few moments, and the knot in Szitibor’s stomach that he thought would undo itself once he learned Mylah was safe seemed to only grow tighter. “Are … you alright, cousin?” he found himself asking.

 

“What? What do you mean?” 

 

“Just … at the end of that meeting, you seemed … different when Barbov brought up honour.” 

 

“Did I? Hmph. Didn’t notice.”

 

“Vladrik -”

 

“Just drop it, Szitty. We have a lot of work to do back at camp.” 

 

Szitibor watched his cousin’s stiff expression, absent the usual wry and lazy smile it normally wore, before he acquiesced. The din of the siege encampment grew louder as they approached the ocean of tents, beyond which the pale walls of Dules dominated the horizon. They did not get much further, however, before Vladrik suddenly spoke up again.

 

“I know all you care about is saving Mylah, Szitty … but you know what we’re doing is best for Ruska too, don’t you?” 

 

Szitibor blinked at the question. It was not at all unlike what Mylah had said to him back in Mejen, before the battle had gone so horribly wrong. For Ruska. “... I do. Barbov would make a terrible king, and Kosav is too subservient to his brother to do what needs to be done.”

 

“Exactly. I … know that, too. We all have our own ambitions, but they’re unified in creating a prosperous Ruska under the Nzechovich. It’s just …” He closed his eyes, and sighed. “I wish there had been a better way.” 

 

Szitibor furrowed his brow. For as long as he had known him, his cousin had been all flash and pomp without any ounce of self-reflection, so this Vladrik was new to him. “Better how?” 

 

“Barbov was right. We don’t have any honour for what we did at the Coup of Lahy.” The glazing of his eyes seemed to behold something unseen and unpleasant. Szitibor had not been present for the Coup - he and Mylah had been among the Nzechovich nobles called to the capital after the takeover - but he knew Vladrik had fought there. “We … had to kill people in their sleep, people without weapons, people … people who begged for mercy.” He coughed to clear his hoarse throat. “I … still believe it’s what had to be done to stop the Karovic from destroying Ruska, I just … wish there had been a better way. That’s all.” 

 

It took Szitibor a moment to realise that Vladrik was not asking him something, but confiding in him for his own sake. How … long has had this bottled up? Before Szitibor arrived at Dules, Vladrik had already been besieging the city for weeks, and he had had no shortage of company, from Nzechovich Bogatyr, to Boyars, to their noble children. And yet, when Szitibor had arrived, it was he that Vladrik wanted to take on as an advisor, and now it was him that Vladrik seemed to share his trauma with.

 

He … doesn’t have anyone to talk to. But why choose me? Szitibor knew he was not likely to get an answer for that, but it at least bode well. He had only come to Dules to beg for Vladrik’s help to save Mylah, but now he might really be able to help his cousin - and the Nzechovich - in return.

 

Since the defeat at Mejen, Szitibor had scorned any notion that he might be able to help make Ruska a better place … but now, he was not so sure.

 

 

---

 

From atop the walls of Dules, the wind beat at Josef Tideborn’s cloak and thinning hair.

 

Through his eyeglass, he had watched the Nzech and the Karovic convene on a hill in the southern hills, where they seemed to have spoken for the better part of an hour before parting. Parting, with no signs of bloodshed. Clicking his tongue irritably, he lowered the spyglass, and handed it to the much taller, and broader, man at his side.

 

“Seems our job just got a little harder, old friend.” 

 

Dragan Skullsplitter sighed, and twisted the haft of the axe resting on his shoulder.