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Song of the Black | Chapter IX: The Sons of Karl


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SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER IX: THE SONS OF KARL

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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

Chapter VI: The Shadow of Dules

Chapter VII: A Pact of Glass

Chapter VIII: Dules Besieged

 

The Siege of Dules, the focal point for the struggle to control all Ruska, nears its conclusion. In the Electors Palace, Josef Tideborn - captain of the Stagbreaker mercenaries employed in the city's defence - consults with Lady Yaina, one of the few Electors of Dules who is of a mind to help him. In the Nzechovich siege camp, Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich contend that the Karovic must be forced to reveal the plan they risked everything on by coming to Dules. In the ships of the Karovic fleet moored on the riverbanks south of Dules, the Karovic Princes - the Elder Prince Barbov and the Younger Prince Kosav - reflect on the heavy burdens thrust upon them since the Coup of Lahy and the death of their father, and Prince Barbov struggles with the choices he must inevitably make to become the King of Ruska.

 

Music - Play & Loop All

Spoiler

 


 

 

 

At the very least, the Siege of Dules had not been boring.

 

As Josef Tideborn stared down absently at the painstakingly-detailed map of Dules spread across the desk, he reflected on past sieges in his decades as a mercenary; most of them had very little actual fighting, and instead left defenders squatting inside their walls, underfed and with gloomy thoughts slowly crippling their will as the days passed as slowly as months. Sitting in a squalid, disease-ridden encampment for months on end on the attacking side was not much better, either. It was no wonder that most mercenaries, the Stagbreaker Company among them, avoided siege contracts with a ten-foot pike.

 

In contrast, the Trade-City of Dules had only been under siege for barely over a month, and since the Karovic fleet arrived from Mejen twenty-two days ago and struck their little deal with Vladrik Nzechovich, the city had been attacked daily. It made for a much more exciting affair, and a fitting way to mark Josef’s final war. Or, at least, it would be an exciting way … if we had much hope of winning. 

 

At that moment, Josef stood not on the walls amidst battle, but in one of the ornate offices of the Electors of Dules where every stitch of furniture was dark hardwood or shining marble and nearly every edge decorated with gold leaf. The tick of a grandfather clock replaced the ceaseless din of screams and clashing steel, and the only thing that burnt here were the logs in the marble fireplace, not sails, ships, and corpses. In peaceful moments like these, it was Josef’s own mind that was besieged. A hope of winning … is it really time to turncloak? Mercenaries were no strangers to distasteful tactics to secure not only their lives, but their payment, but Josef’s jaw clenched stubbornly at the prospect. If this is my last war, is that really how I went to go out? Dragan and I’s legacy will be … winning a siege by treachery. The idea of winning this war for Dules against seemingly impossible odds seemed like too good of a legacy for Josef to pass up, and yet he had weighed up every possible option, and the chances of surviving the combined Nzechovich and Karovic onslaught grew more slim by the day. 

 

A loud tap brought his attention back to the table as slender fingers moved one of many marble figurines to a specific spot on the harbour wall. “And now they’ve even attacked the refuse gate.” It was difficult to believe that the dainty fingers moving those marble figurines, representing armies and bloody clashes, belonged to the young woman with plump cheeks, youthful eyes, and brown curls on the other side of the desk. Lady Yaina Zeravozch was the youngest of the Electors of Dules, apparently after the untimely death of three seniors in the wealthy Zeravozch family, which had controlled Dules’ Dyers’ Guild, but perhaps it was because of her youth that Josef found her much more tolerable than her peers. The other Electors, most of them wrinkled and completely inexperienced at war, tried to ignore Josef and the war outside their Palace - their war - but not Yaina; Yaina had asked Josef for private reports of each and every battle, the status of the walls and their defence each day, and Josef was happy to deliver. At least she cares about her city. The only problem was that the Electors of Dules ruled the city as a council, and Yaina could do little to help Josef on her own.

 

“Ai, my lady. It was not cheap to have a dozen men sit in the refuse tunnel for the last three weeks.” His eyes drifted to the marble figure Yaina had just placed over a tiny label on the north-western edge of the harbour wall, marked ‘refuse gate’. It was barely big enough for a grown man to crouch in, but Josef had placed a token guard down there just in case. “I’m glad it paid off.” Just before dawn that morning, a stinking messenger from that token guard reported they had just fended off a crew of Karovic soldiers trying to sneak into the city. “Still, I have to admire Prince Barbov’s commitment. Most royals wouldn’t lower themselves to attacking through the sewers.” 

 

Yaina snorted, though calculating eyes did not leave the map. “Barbov? No, you had the right gauge of him. I’d bet the entire city trying the refuse gate was not his idea. I’d wager it was Kosav’s doing instead.”

 

“What makes you say that, my lady?” Josef arched cautiously with an arched eyebrow. It was not the first time he had noticed the young Elector speak of the Karovic Princes with a sense of familiarity. 

 

Yaina’s eyes flit up from the map, meeting Josef’s. “You don’t know much of the Princes, do you, Tideborn?” 

 

Josef shrugged indifferently. “The last time I spent longer than half-a-year in Ruska, King Karl had made his peace with the Nzechovich. After that, I spent the better part of fifteen years fighting on the Waldor, but most folk spoke fondly of old Karl. Didn’t hear much of anything about his runts.” 

 

Yaina pursed her lips. “I was tutored at the Royal Court in Lahy. Granted, we were only children, but I find it hard to believe the Princes have changed much.” 

 

Josef smiled faintly. “That so?” The politics and history of royals and rulers had never interested him a great deal, but he was in the thick of it now, and if Yaina could tell him something that might allow Josef to understand and predict his enemy … well, he was certainly not going to say no to that.

 

Yaina nodded, her eyes glazed in thought. “Barbov was well and truly the son of King Karl - belligerent, demanding, and prideful, redeemed only by brutish charisma. History remembers King Karl as a wise and fair ruler, but it was more than obvious from within Lahy Castle that all of Ruska’s prosperity came from the White Sage.” 

 

“The White Sage?” Josef baulked a laugh. “What, he had a wizard in his pocket?” 

 

Yaina didn’t seem to share his amusement. When she spoke again, it was with admiration. “Not a wizard - his brother, Prince Diedrik. It was he who told Karl where to swing his hammer, where to show mercy, and how to unite Ruska.” 

 

“So why didn’t this White Sage just become King himself?” 

 

Yaina sighed as she stared down at the marble figures marking the Karovic fleet moored along the banks of the Lower Huns River south of Dules. “The Palace chaplain used to say that God did not make perfect men. For all his merits, I’d say Prince Diedrik lacked the heart to overthrow his own brother. He was eventually exiled, either self-imposed or by his brother, after they feuded over a woman, of all things. They say that was the moment King Karl began to die." 

 

“Hmph. God does have a way of making sure things are never easy.” Like this bloody siege, he added to himself. Everything would have worked perfectly if the Nzechovich and the Karovic had just fought each other like I planned. His eyes flit to the encirclement of black marble figures around the city representing the Nzechovich siege lines - they were over three times as numerous as the Karovic. 

 

“It seems to be a curse in the Karovic dynasty, though. Barbov is the brute who wears the crown, but his younger brother is the one with the brains.”

 

“Prince Kosav? Hmph. I heard he’s as gaunt as a stick, and too weak to hold a sword.” 

 

Yaina smirked fondly in recollection. “Well, he’s no warrior, but he’s not sickly either. He was my … friend, back when I studied in Lahy. While the other young lords always had their heads filled with notions about becoming great Bogatyrs and conquering the known world, Kosav was one of the only ones who really cared … anything else, really. I actually thought I might end up marrying him one day.” 

 

“You speak warmly of a man who is doing everything he can to take this city.”

 

Her smile slowly faded. “That’s hardly unusual. War often turns kin against each other.” 

 

“True enough, as long as you are prepared to kill him,” Josef bristled. “If you knew these Princes personally, tell me this, then, Lady. Why are they here?”

 

Yaina narrowed her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean? They’re here to take Dules to regain their father’s throne.” 

 

“Naturally.” Josef’s eyes flicked between the Karovic fleet, and the much larger Nzechovich army. “But why here, and now? Their army is smaller than both ours and the Nzechovich, and while they may have reached a deal with Vladrik Nzechovich for now, I can’t see how it benefits them. As soon as the city is in his clutches, Vladrik will kill them. They must know that.” 

 

Yaina shifted uncomfortably. “I … have been wondering the same.” 

 

“So, why would the Karovic put themselves in this position?” Josef pondered, before his eyes drifted back to the refuse gate. “As of this morning, they’ve tried to infiltrate every one of Dules’ gates and weaknesses. There’s nothing else they can do, which means …” 

 

BSsPw-EKPuN56hirTlCw0b-m7GBrG6cHbX4Y8DdF_lxKN6YiDlKWa5U6n2aiB9OhWeiK3vxOkaUvDkpO2a3abN1lQLn8iQqFW5bykQVai-VeW36aIcF8suJyROdndvHHPakwzABtoG73goFdeA9chM-MJzmL-OEBXBi9oMooVWo3YgxHPkXwG-r0BPLGgQ

Yaina Zeravozch

 


 

“ … they are out of options!”

 

“Conventional ones, at least,” Szitibor added with a frown. It was on his way back from another failed assault on Dules’ gates that one of the Nzech watchmen had reported the Karovic attempt to sneak through the city’s refuse tunnel earlier that morning, only to be met with a garrison of Stagbreakers. 

 

“So, was that their big plan? The refuse tunnel? No, surely not … though, it is fitting for Prince Piggy Barbov.” Vladrik Nzechovich chuckled into his cup as he lounged back in his high-backed chair. A tent it might have been, but Szitibor felt widely out of place among the lavish furnishings and rich banners and tapestries in his bloodstained cloak and armour. Vladrik, of course, with his chainmail vest unlaced and his face freshly shaven, had not yet taken to the frontlines himself. 

 

“Perhaps we should focus on our problems first, cousin,” Szitibor said stiffly. “That Waldenian monster practically cut down the fourteenth banner single-handedly during our assault this morning.” 

 

“Hm?” Vladrik glanced up from his cup, as if he had not really noticed Szitibor until now. “You mean Dragan Skullsplitter?” 

 

Szitibor grit his teeth. “Yes. I’ve been telling you, he’s been cutting swathes through us. We can’t keep attacking the gates while he’s leading the defence; we’re losing scores of our own, and I can see no sign of the defenders growing tired.” 

 

“Yes, well, don’t fret too much,” Vladrik muttered tersely. “We still have plenty of troops to spare.”

 

“Then why aren’t we using them? Why are you restricting me to only three banners of troops to attack the walls while Dragan Skullsplitter cleaves a hole through us every time?” 

 

“Damn it, Szitty, would you think?” Vladrik rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “It’s the Karovic! You said it yourself that day when we met the damned Princes - they have some kind of plan.  They wouldn’t have deliberately walked into the bear’s den and put themselves between us and Dules otherwise.”

 

Szitibor blinked. “I don’t -” 

 

“They’ve tried to use every hidden gate and weakness the city seems to have,” Vladrik went on. “Even we didn’t know about some of these gates, but seems like it doesn’t matter. Good ol'e Josef Tideborn has been two steps ahead of them every time. He’s covered up every weakness, every nook and cranny.”

 

Szitibor had to stop himself from raising his voice. “And Dragan Skullsplitter is two steps ahead of us at the city gates. What’s your point, cousin?” 

 

“We’ve been waiting all these weeks to see what trick they were going to try pull, to see why they risked coming to Dules and putting themselves at our mercy, and I don’t believe it was to try sneak in any of these gates.” Vladrik tapped a finger pensively on the rim of his cup. "We keep a healthy stockpile of troops in our camp so we're ready for whatever trick they have up their sleeve. And, besides, it's no harm letting them whittle down the harbour defences in the meantime." 

 

“So, what?” Szitibor unconsciously flexed his hand on his sword-grip. He had little patience for whatever games the Karovic, the Electors, or even Vladrik were playing -- his sole priority was to save his sister from the mess he had landed her in. I can’t lose sight of that. 

 

“It means, dear Szitty, that if the Karovic do have this plan that they were willing to stake everything on, then …” 

 

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Szitibor Nzechovich

 

 


 

Spoiler

 

 

“ … we have to do it now, brother!”

 

From the foggy window in the ship’s cabin, Barbov Karovic stared out into the churning, grey waters of the Lower Huns River. He sat uncomfortably in a suit of fine chainmail that had not a speck of blood nor chip on it -- despite his base instinct, he accepted he could not waltz out onto the frontlines himself. As much as I’d like to. At the very least, it would make for some stress relief. But no, instead he remained cooped up safely behind his armies, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

 

“We have to put the plan into motion now, brother,” Kosav repeated. His younger brother was the only person in the cabin of one of the ships that Barbov had taken for his study, though there was no decoration besides a plain desk, a rug, and some chairs. Kosav wore a look of pained urgency on his gaunt face, and his mop of dark hair was strewn from the wind. In a way, Barbov felt strangely proud to see his brother like this; back in Lahy, his eyes always wore a flat, lazy gaze, and he seemed to look down his nose as if he couldn’t understand the way everyone else behaved. He’s changed a lot since the Coup of Lahy, since we were driven out of the nest. As a cloud passed overhead, Barbov saw his own wide-eyed expression reflected in the window. Have I?

 

“Brother?” 

 

“I heard you, Kosav,” Barbov said at last, and he could hear the deflation in his voice. It wasn’t like him, that softness, but when he was alone with Kosav were the only moments where he did not have to layer his voice, and his composure, with strength and authority - it was those moments where he did not have to pretend that everything was going according to plan, and that he was the true King of Ruska that would deliver his followers to salvation.

 

Kosav’s face seemed to be a battleground of doubt and determination as he locked eyes with his brother. “Can … you give the order then, brother? We must play our hand now before we lose too many more soldiers at the harbour.” 

 

“Must we?” He looked at the sword laid on the table in his bejewelled sheath inlaid with silver vines - Svetjlast, the blade of Raevir kings that had been wielded as a mark of absolute authority by Nzechovich and Karovic kings alike. On the night of the Coup of Lahy, Barbov had commanded his scant forces make a push into his father’s reliquary to retrieve it, and that had nearly spelled his doom. One of his father’s Bogatyrs - Lorszan - had died to fulfil that request. It had seemed so important to Barbov at the time, but as he eyed Svetjlast now, he found it hard to believe he had chosen that path, and whether Lorszan had been content to sacrifice himself so that Barbov could hold a piece of metal. How could he be? 

 

“Must we?” Kosav repeated with a knit brow. “What’s that supposed to mean? We have no other choice, Barbov. We’ve tried to fight our way into the harbour, we’ve tried every gate and weakness this city has, but the Stagbreakers aren’t letting their guard down. We’re out of options.”

 

“I can think of another option. We could die.” 

 

Kosav narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

 

Barbov was not quite sure where the words came from; he did not think as he spoke. “We’ve come this far. We escaped Lahy, we rallied an army in Osyenia, we won at Mejen, and we came to Dules. Maybe … maybe this is as far as we can go.” 

 

“Are … you drunk?” Kosav’s voice was an incredulous whisper. “What are you saying?! We - we can go further, brother! We can win at Dules!” 

 

“And then what? Our army grows larger, and the stakes grow higher? Then, next time we’re gambling with fifty-thousand lives instead of ten?” 

 

Kosav dropped into a chair across from Barbov, his shoulders slumped and his face haggard. “Where is this coming from, Barbov?” 

 

“I … don’t think I can do this, Kosav, not anymore.” His own voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand those eyes.” 

 

“E-eyes?” 

 

Barbov nodded as he stared at Svetjlast, unseeing. “The eyes of the living, who trust us with their lives to bring them to victory as if you and I know the first thing about real war, the eyes of those who silently need to know that their sacrifice will be worth it, that we’re not just two kids who are going to get them killed without any meaning … and the eyes of the dead are there, too.” His eyes, watery now, slid to his brother. “Tell me, Kosav, do you feel him? Do you feel father, watching, judging?”

 

“ … No,” Kosav sighed after a moment. “I don’t, but you always were father’s favourite.” 

 

“Well, I do. I can feel him watching, all the time, even now … watching to see if I do the Karovic dynasty proud, if I do right by our bloodline, if I continue the work that our forefathers gave their lives for … if the sons of King Karl are worthy of their name.” 

 

“So, what, you’re worried father will scold you in the Skies if you don’t live up to his expectations?” 

 

“It’s not just him. It’s … it’s everyone who’s died for us. I can feel Lorszan watching to see if it was worth giving his life to deliver me Svetjlast, and all the others who died giving their lives to get me and you out of Lahy Castle safely because they thought I was their rightful king … I can feel Miliv and the dead from Mejen, who were cut down from behind instead of dying in honourable battle, each and everyone wondering whether dying like that was a price they were willing to pay for me to win the throne back … but …” his voice became a scarce breath. “How can it, Kosav? How can any of that be worth it?” 

 

“Barbov …” Kosav began weakly as he placed a hand on his shoulder, but he paused, struggling for words.

 

“No, Kosav, how … how can we live up to that? How can we possibly make any of their sacrifices worth it?"

 

“I … I don’t …” 

 

“That’s why maybe it’s just easier … for us to go out here, at Dules, with honour. We can die fighting the Nzechovich for our throne with honour, like father would have wanted, and stop this madness before we have a chance to throw any more lives away. We can do right by the Karovic dynasty, and - and just …” 

 

Kosav’s hand tightened around his shoulder. “ … No. If that’s what haunts you, then you can’t stop now. ” The waves crashed noisily against the hull as Barbov turned his head to face his brother. “From the Coup of Lahy, to the Battle of Mejen, to the siege we’re fighting right now -- so many have already died, brother. They’ve already made their sacrifice, and everyone still following us is prepared to do the same. We can’t just … let that go, Barbov. We can’t turn back now, and we can’t give up either.” 

 

Barbov closed his eyes on warm tears. “I know that, but those eyes are just … crushing, Kosav. I don’t know how I can keep going. I just … lack the strength.”

 

His brother’s hand squeezed his shoulder tighter. “Then find it, brother. We’re the sons of Karl, and we chose this path when we raised our banners at Osyenia. We cannot turn back now, for the sake of everyone who died believing in us -- in you. So, whether it’s in the end of a bottle, some pretty girl’s smile, or the spirit of a King, find the strength, and keep pretending to be Barbov the Strong until we have won.” 

 

“Where do you find it, then? Your strength?” In all his life, Barbov had never heard this heat, this conviction, in his younger brother’s voice. In their youth, when Barbov was off playing Bogatyrs with the other noblemen, Kosav had always kept to himself. Barbov had always known his brother was smart, but he had never thought he had this kind of spirit to him until they left Lahy.

 

“Well, it’s a little selfish, but I suppose we’re beyond keeping things to ourselves now.” He sucked in a quiet breath. “All my life, I felt like I was waiting for my real life to begin. Since I was born, it always just felt like I was waiting for … something. All those years just reading, learning, and lounging in Lahy Castle … I never knew what I was waiting for, exactly, but I knew it would be something monumental, something that would actually mark the start of my real life.” He laughed faintly, and bitterly. “Maybe it was the Nzechovich coup. I … suppose the point is that I’ve waited all this time, that I’m not going to let my life be ended by Msitovic and his Nzechovich traitors. I just - I just can’t let it happen.”

 

Barbov opened his eyes, and gave his brother a sidelong look. “You’re saying this war has made you feel … alive?” 

 

Kosav nodded slowly. “I know, it’s … terrible to think, but I’ve never felt more alive than I have these last months. So … there you go, then. That is my strength, brother.” 

 

To fight to let my own brother live … well, maybe that can be a strength in itself. Barbov sucked in a sharp inhale, and straightened up. “Very well,” he said at last. “Seems I’ve got no choice. We’re both the sons of Karl, and I won’t let you show me up with a stronger spirit. You’re right; I’ve no choice but to redeem every sacrifice made for us so far. Iblees would take me otherwise.” Even as he spoke, Barbov was not sure if he was lying to himself, but he had no qualms if that were the case; if lying was what convinced him to carry on, then he would lie to himself to the very end. For Kosav, and for all the eyes.

 

Kosav returned a weak smile, but it lasted only for a moment. “So, you’re not going to die on us?”

 

“Not yet, at least.” Barbov stood at last, brushing Kosav’s hand off, as he turned back to the cabin window. In the evening light, the pale walls of Dules stretched along the horizon, topped with the tiled domed towers and spires beyond the walls. 

 

“What about -” 

 

“Yes. Give the order. Let’s see if this crack-brained plan of yours will work.” If you are watching father, then … I’m sorry. I have more lives to answer to than yours. “Let’s see if we can take this city.” 

 

041ce539e369495efa2e1d6d070cdfdf.jpg

Barbov the Black

 


 

Spoiler

 

 

"Finally," Ratibor grumbled as Stanislaw delivered the news.

 

"I could have done with waiting a while longer," Stanislaw grumbled in the doorway of Ratibor's cabin, where he stood mailed and cloaked in the moonlight. "Attacking at night like this is far from ideal. There's something cowardly about it."

 

"Oh, relax," Ratibor snorted as he buckled on his scabbard. "Sometimes you have to play a few sly hands to win."

 

Stanislaw's gaze hardened. "How can a Bogatyr speak like that?"

 

"Hmph. Maybe I'll tell you some day." Ratibor's sword clicked as he slid it into its sheath. "Now, where is my squire?"

 

__________________

 

Josef had barely taken a sip from his freshly-poured cup of mead when Dragan relayed the message from the walls.

 

"The entire Karovic fleet is attacking?" he repeated as he sighed, and took his cloak from the peg on the wall. "Right now?"

 

"Most of it, at least." Dragan Skullsplitter's form was silhouetted by moonlight in the door. Behind him, the sound of Stagbreakers being roused from their sleep to rush to the city's defence rang through the air. "You think this might be their big push?"

 

"We'll just have to find out." He tightened the cloak at his neck with his broken-antler brooch. "If it's the entire fleet, I'll need your help this time, Dragan. I have a score to settle with Ratibor Skysent." 

 

His hulking companion gave a stout nod. "I'll be at your side, Josef. After all, a worthy opponent might be just what I need to feel better after shredding all these little Nzech." 

 

__________________

 

Slavomir the Drowned quietly ran an oiled cloth along his sword as Karovic soldiers dashed back and forth across the deck.

 

Hastily, soldiers loaded arrows into their quivers, tied their bowstrings, fetched their polearms and shields from racks, and donned their scalemail and gambesons. The excitement, anxiety, and anticipation was practically electric in the air - despite the fact a clouded moon hung high in the sky, there was enough ambient on the Karovic ships - and from nearby Dules - to match a fair at noon. Slavomir did not share their excitement, though. One battle in the service of King Karl, and now his sons Barbov and Kosav, was much the same to him. 

 

"TONIGHT, THE KAROVIC BANNER SHALL FLY FROM DULES!" one man - Slavomir thought it might have been Ratibor - roared, and was met by hoarse cheers and applause from the soldiers. It was only then that he realised some of the ships had began to glide through the oil-black water, towards the harbour of Dules.

 

"ASERE TRIEKMARV WJEIK KARONYZ!"

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