Xarkly 12581 Share Posted December 28, 2022 SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER X: BANNERS RED ... 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 Chapter IX: The Sons of Karl The Battle for Dules, the wealthiest city in Ruska and the latchkey for handing either the feuding Nzechovich or Karovic dynasty control of the realm, begins. Vlasta delivers food to the imprisoned Mylah Nzechovich, who reveals to her an unsettling truth about Vlasta's beliefs; with the aid of Yaina Zeravosch, an Elector of Dules, Josef Tideborn finally gains complete control of the 10,000-strong Dulen Guard to defend Dules from impending attack; Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich mobilise their army of 30,000 to attack the walls, but Szitibor harbours doubts about whether he can fulfil his promise to save his sister Mylah; Prince Barbov and Prince Kosav share a goodbye before their attack on Dules' harbour begins; and, after breaking the enemy lines at the harbour, Ratibor Skysent finds himself facing the fearsome Dragan Skullsplitter in battle. Music - Play & Loop All Spoiler The hull creaked as Vlasta descended below deck. In one hand she held a bowl of a watery porridge, and a lantern in the other lit her way down the hold of the supply ship, where crates and sacks lined the wall. Tucked away at the rear centre of the fleet, the ship only had a garrison above deck, so below deck was both dark and empty. Together with the dark of night, the constant creaking of the hull made it all feel so creepy. Creepy? She scolded herself. She had been to battle, now - real battle - and watched Ratibor Skysent and her other comrades cut down enough enemies to turn her stomach a dozen times over. Even now, it was hard to keep the memory of all those men and women out of her head as they were cut down; as they squirmed on the blood-slicked floor; as their cries for help were drowned out by the drone of battle. There’s nothing creepier than the fact I haven’t run away yet. She trudged down the hold just a little more confidently. She heard voices from the storage cabin at the back of the hold before she pushed through the rickety door, and found Villorik Turnheel slumped against the wall, his lean face lit fitfully by a candle. He looked up in surprise at her with the same sudden alarm as always, as if he expected a foe to storm through the door to gut him at any moment. “Relax, Turnheel,” Vlasta told him dryly as she shouldered the door shut again. “It’s me, not Vladrik Nzechovich. Are you two having a nice chat in here?” Villorik hardened his eyes, and looked across to the other person in the room. Even with streaks of unkempt hair criss-crossing her face and ropes binding her wrists and ankles, Mylah Nzechovich had a rugged beauty about her. She wasn’t like any of the other noblewomen Vlasta was used to with their silk dresses and porcelain faces; instead, Mylah exuded a surety and defiance that Vlasta could not help but envy, as much as she hated that. “ … We were talking about Nzechia,” Villorik said after a moment. “The Nzechovich homeland?” Vlasta snorted as she set down the porridge in front of Mylah, and earned a flat-eyed look from the Nzech in thanks. Mylah’s bound hands, though unrestrictive enough to let her eat, made no move for the food. “It’s bad enough we have to guard her, but now you’re talking to her about that den of traitors, Turnheel?” “I was there once for a tourney,” Villorik answered in the same standoffish tone he often took when Vlasta called him that name. “It was … nice. It had orchards, and meadows, and it was warmer, too. Nicer than most places in Ruska.” “Nicer than most places?” Vlasta bristled as she leaned back against the door. “That region’s main product is bloodshed and treachery.” “You really should stop that,” Mylah spoke up abruptly, her voice low and coarse. Vlasta flashed her a sidelong glare. “Who was talking to you, Nzech? Stop what?” Mylah blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, and a mix of shame and anger swelled in Vlasta at the sudden urge for her to look away from the Nzech prisoner’s icy, unflappable stare. It was me who defeated you, Vlasta reminded herself. I was the one who outwitted you at Mejen. I foiled your plan. I saved the Princes. “You talk about us as if the Nzech are your personal enemy,” Mylah went on calmly. “Are you stupid? You are my enemy.” Mylah gently picked up the bowl of porridge, and was forced to crane her head low to eat in the bonds. Somehow, that did not detract from her stoic self-assurance. “Yes, but you don’t know why.” “What are you talking about? Of course I know why! You tried to kill the Princes at Mejen! You tried to kill me! You and your family are the ones who started this whole war. You are the enemy in all of this!” “I tried to kill you because you were going to kill us.” “And? Because you -” “Because we … what? Attacked the Princes at Lahy? Seized the throne?” The derisive snort was the first sign of emotion Vlasta had seen from the Nzech woman. “Do you think that was unprovoked? Are you pretending there isn’t one hundred years of bad blood between the Nzechovich and the Karovic? Or that most of this land belonged to the Nzechovich before the Karovic came along?” “I - …” Vlasta’s jaw quivered, but produced no words. Villorik’s eyes were downcast, as if he was trying to pretend he was not here. “No, you don’t hate us because of what happened at Lahy, or Mejen, or Dules.” The spoon clicked as Mylah set the bowl down. “You hate us because you’re supposed to.” Vlasta’s hands itched towards the blade at her waist. She didn’t understand how Mylah was making her so abruptly angry, and why she felt so juvenile. “And what makes you so different, Nzech?” “Not much. I have no personal reason to hate the Karovic dynasty, you, and everyone else who fights for them. I fight because I was told to, and if I do, I’ll be rewarded. The only difference between us is that I accept that fact, instead of hiding behind the illusion that you’re some great evil to be destroyed.” With the toe of a torn boot, she pushed the bowl back towards Vlasta. “Thank you for the porridge.” Vlasta’s nails dug into her hands as she clenched a fist. Unbidden, she once again saw all the dead at Dules’ harbour, and she understood her irrational anger: she hadn’t watched all those people die because she hated them, but because they were on the opposite side. If she helped to kill them, she would become a Bogatyr -- she would achieve her dream, and rise in the world to a station of her own. If she doubted the illusion that they were the enemy, then she would never be able to build a tolerance for bloodshed like Ratibor. She thought she saw the faintest gleam of satisfaction in Mylah’s eyes, as if the Nzech could read her thoughts, but before the anger in Vlasta could bubble over, the door she was leaning against opened to send her stumbling forward. “Oh! There you two dunces are,” Ratibor Skysent grunted as he stuck his head in. The light from the lantern and candle flashed on the Bogatyr’s silverworked breastplate, his Hussariyan cross, and his grinning teeth. “Did you not hear the warhorn down here? Get up on deck - we’re preparing to push!” Villorik’s face went as white as milk. “P-push? On the city?” “No, on your mother’s bedroom. Yes, on the city! Tonight is the night that Dules falls!” Vlasta stared absently at Ratibor as he chortled in excitement at the prospect of battle. He’s always believed they really are the enemy. He’s never doubted any illusion. Is that what it really takes to be a Bogatyr? Ten minutes ago, the thought of going back to the bloodbath of Dules’ harbour might have made Vlasta vomit, but now she felt oddly tempered by Mylah’s words. That was the creepiest thought of all. “Give the Nzech girl a kick for good luck!” Ratibor called as he turned and practically skipped back down the hold. “Stanislaw will send an auxiliary down to guard her!” With a cold stillness in her now, Vlasta looked down at Mylah, and she really did not consider kicking her for a moment. Finally, though, she sneered and turned away. “Dig deep for your balls, Turnheel. Let’s go.” As Villorik followed her through the door in sullen silence, Mylah one last time. “You should stop calling him Turnheel. You have no reason to do that, either.” Vlasta slammed the door shut. Mylah Nzechovich Music - Loop Spoiler The leather of Josef Tideborn’s gloves creaked as he flexed his hands impatiently. “Our decree was to hire the Stagbreakers to defend the city walls from attack,” insisted a silver-haired man. He was not the only one of the Electors of Dules present in hastily-donned robes and the shadow of sleep clinging to their eyes. Most of the gold-worked lamps in the Electors’ Chambers, dominated by the massive roundtable, had not yet even been lit since news of the impending assault had broken. “Defence of the inner city and the Palace was to be left to the Dulen Guard!” “Yes, Elector Kvadden, but circumstances have changed,” Yaina Zeravosch, the youngest of the noble Electors of Dules, and Josef’s informal sponsor at their court, retorted with a cold authority her youthful face didn’t seem capable of. “Both the Karovic and Nzechovich armies are about to launch an all-out-assault on us. The Karovic fleet will be the nail in the harbour, and the Nzechovich horde the hammer at the gates!” “The Nzechovich haven’t made any signs of attacking yet,” interjected another Elector, a stately older woman. “It is, in my view, far too rash to deploy the Dulen Guard under the command of a mercenary at this stage.” From where he stood patiently by the doorway, Josef could see Yaina wring her hands under the table. “We have to act now, or -” “Elector Zeravosch,” Kvadden firmly cut in. “Calm yourself. This assault may be cause for alarm, but we have navigated chaos before. You would do well to recall you are the youngest among us, and you are a stranger to war. Cool heads and reason will prevail, and so we must …” Josef grit his teeth as the Elector prattled on. A stranger to war. Pah. It was true that Yaina had been born and raised in wealth, but so had all the other Electors. Kvadden no doubt thought that ordering a company of armoured enforcers to put down a pack of cattle-thieves armed with sticks was an experience of war. Yaina, at the very least, had a fighting spirit and the common sense to know that the Trade City of Dules was in a tenuous position. All the Electors were strangers to war, and Josef was tired of entertaining their facade. “Speaking of reason, my lord Electors…” Josef’s voice carried through the grandiose hall. He knew it was an offence to speak in the Chamber without being called upon, but that was of no concern. They need me. “The Karovic are mobilising their entire fleet to attack the city harbour as we speak. The Nzechovich will follow suit and launch their own offensive: if we have to dedicate our troops to a defence of the harbour, then the main gate will be weakened, and Vladrik Nzechovich has been waiting for an opportunity like that since the siege began. He’ll throw every soldier he has at us. At you.” He paused and looked around the table to be met with looks of disapproval, fear, and apprehension. Josef cracked a smile, daring one of them to speak up, but none did. “The fact is that my Stagbreakers can’t defend against a full offensive by the two armies without the Dulen Guard reinforcing us. Make no mistake, if the city walls fall, the Palace won’t stand a chance even if you garrison the entire Dulen Guard here. It isn’t built for a siege.” He flourished a bow, and he hoped it looked every bit as mocking as he intended. “My lord Electors, I beseech you: place the Dulen Guard under my command, and I will win you this battle.” Yaina gave a stiff nod, but anxiety laced even her voice as she began the formal vote. “Electors of Dules, I raise a motion before us to place nine of the ten companies of the Dulen Guard under the direct and experienced command of Josef Tideborn to repel the Karovic and Nzechovich assault, and retain the 1st Company to garrison the Palace.” All ten companies would have been nice … but I’ll settle for nine. A silent debate filled the room as the Electors placed their votes. Some of them spoke with scorn, while others took almost two entire minutes to speak when their turn came. Finally, though, the tally was counted: Zeravosch, Lirinskia, Vilcka, Oskienne, Karalinski, Rutva, Turova, Tarauskien, Kvadden, Mirkovic, Kossga, and Giranov voted in unanimous favour. “Well, ah … as elder of this Council,” Kvadden began hesitantly after a sweaty-faced Giranov cast her vote, “we hear an accept the motion duly raised by the honourable Elector Zeravosch. L-Lord Josef …” As Kvadden looked across the table at him, the aged Elector seemed unsure whether to be angry or relieved. “We … place the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th Companies of the Dulen Guard under your command … until the Siege of Dules is lifted.” Josef didn’t bother to mask his smile. “I applaud your wisdom, my lord Electors. I will be setting up my primary command centre in the Grand Plaza. I will need the Dulen Guard to rally there immediately.” Yaina’s wide eyes shimmered with a determination that outweighed her worry. “Captain Virzakev will see to it immediately.” Josef nodded in return with as much genuine respect as he could muster. With any luck, he would see Yaina elected as Princess of Dules when the dust had settled, and he would place himself firmly at her side to reap the rewards. No, not just ‘any luck’, he reminded himself as he turned and marched from the Chamber without dismissal. A lot of luck. Even with the addition of ten-thousand Dulen Guards under his command, defending against both Barbov Karovic and Vladrik Nzechovich would be no easy task. The Electors’ Palace was already in upheaval from the news of the impending attack as servants and couriters scrambled back and forth, but Josef shared none of their serves. As far as could be controlled, everything was falling into place. Outside, in the mosaic-tiled courtyard, the Dulen Guard were already rushing past him to the Plaza as commands echoed from somewhere in the Palace halls behind Josef. “Well?” came the grunt of Dragan Skullsplitter from where he leaned against a column by the gate. “We’re in business,” Josef said as he stopped beside him. Alarm bells echoed throughout the city, but he barely heard them as his head swam with calculations. “Great,” Dragan grumbled. The combination of the chainmail hauberk and his gambeson made the massive Waldenian look even bigger. “Then I should be off to the harbour. Who was that Bogatyr who gave you trouble the other day again?” “If by ‘trouble’ you mean damn near cutting my head off …” Josef instinctively rubbed his neck. “Ratibor Skysent. I’ll buy you every vat of vodka in Dules if you bring me his head.” Dragan slapped a hand on Josef’s shoulder. “For my oldest friend? I’ll do it for half the vats.” “Just remember …” Josef said as he placed his hand on top of Dragan’s. “This is our last fight, right? It’d be a damned shame if you went and died.” A smile split Dragan’s gloomy face. “Well, now you’ve gone and jinxed it.” Dragan Skullsplitter “Boyar Zelka’s Banner is positioned, Lord Vladrik.” “Boyar Kastanov is moving his Banner to the forward-rally point as we speak, my lord!” “My lord, Boyar Vychek is still arming his Banner, but he’s sent his son ahead with the foreguard.” Szitibor’s frown was etched into his face as he listened to the stream of officers report to his cousin. Vladrik Nzechovich, dressed in a bearskin cloak draped over his scalemail, leaned forward on the table in his tent, scouring a map of the Trade City of Dules. I don’t like this, Szitibor thought to himself. It had barely been twenty-minutes since word arrived that the Karovic were mobilising for a full assault on in the harbour, and, in one way, it was immensely impressive that most of Vladrik’s army had prepared for their own attack in such a short time, but it all still bothered Szitibor. He did not like letting the Karovic choose the time to attack, and nor did he relish the prospect of attacking Dules at night, but he knew it could not really be helped; there was no denying that now was the best possible time to attack. With the Karovic occupying the city’s defenders at the harbour, the city gates should easily crumble under the full might of the thirty-thousand strong Nzechovich army with minimal losses. And then we have to deal with the Karovic … Unconsciously, he closed and opened his fist around the pommel of his sword repeatedly. “... and Boyar Valyya, Boyar Hutzov, and Boyar Ostvan are now -” “What about Mylah?” Szitibor said abruptly. Surprised eyes flit to him from across the command table, Vladrik’s among them. Slowly, Vladrik lifted an eyebrow. “What about her, Szitty?” “You said you would save her.” For a moment, Vladrik just stared at him before he clicked his tongue irritably. “The rest of you; get out and see to your stations. Kerzic, you handle logistics until I arrive at the rally-point.” “But, lord -” “Just do it, Kerzic!” he snapped irritably. “You don’t need me to give you a pat on the back for reporting that the troops are assembling! Just go and do it!” The officers, already nervous with battle afoot, filed out of the tent while carefully avoiding eye contact with the two Nzechovich. When the two of them were left alone, there was silence except for the echo of shouts in the night outside, and the stir of the tent’s canvas in the gentle wind. For a moment, Szitibor was worried he might have gone too far: Vladrik could be irritable at the best of times, but the pressure of leaving an army of thirty-thousand in the most important battle for Nzechovich control of Ruska was enough to crush anyone. “... Are you going to lose sight of what’s important here, Szitty?” “ … No, I … just wanted to remind you that -” “I haven’t forgotten, Szitty. I haven’t forgotten that you want to rescue your rotting sister, and I hope you haven’t gotten the idea that I’m happy about a blooded Nzechovich like Mylah being a Karovic prisoner. But tell me, what do you expect me to do about it right now? Conjure a spell to conjure her here? Attack the Karovic fleet instead of Dules?” He pinched his nose with an exasperated sigh. “Look, Szitty, we’ll negotiate with the Karovic after Dules has fallen. That’s all we can do.” Szitibor opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He just stared into his cousin’s face, searching for some kind of reassurance. For all his life, Vladrik had been arrogant and belligerent, but since Szitibor had come to his camp, his cousin had shown more compassion and reason than he ever had in their youth. Is it enough, though? “ … Fine,” he said at last. “I misspoke, cousin. Forgive me.” Vladrik’s smile was tired as he pushed off the table. “Good. Just remember that what we’re doing here will secure the Nzechovich dynasty for generations, and snuff out the Karovic for good. People like you and Mylah will never need to fight for glory and relevance again. Just …” he released a shaky breath. “... Promise me you’ll remember that, Szitty.” Despite the impending battle, Szitibor felt strangely relieved. “I promise, cousin.” But I’ll never forego my promise to save Mylah, either. He just prayed that the two never conflicted. “Excellent. Then let’s go and take this city.” Stanislaw watched the harbour walls come closer. The constant roar of “HEAVE! HEAVE!” rang through the air as the oars of the Karovic ships sliced into the moonlit waters. “ARCHERS, READY! PREPARE TO ENGAGE!” “You’re sure about this, Highness?” Stanislaw asked under his breath. “It’s too late to turn back now,” Prince Kosav answered. They stood at the bow of the Karovic flagship, watching the onion-domed towers of Dules grow nearer and nearer. “We’ve committed to this. Vladrik and his Nzechovich are already on the move.” “Well, I don’t like having to play decoy,” Barbov interjected. The Elder Prince and rightful King of Ruska had already drawn the fable blade of Svetjlast, and slung it across his shoulder so that the moonlight shimmered on its edge. “But spare me, Kosav. I already know we have no choice. Still, I just wish so much luck wasn’t involved.” Kosav’s smile was weak. “Well, half of battle is luck, right, Stanislaw?” Stanislaw could not bring himself to smile back. “More like a third, my Prince. Still, it’s either we hope God gives us the luck we need, or hang our heads in shame and go into exile.” Would that really be so bad? A small voice in his head asked, and not for the first time. To forget about all this worry, this killing, this fighting? He glanced at Kosav, whose dark locks whipped in the wind around his gaunt face. To think he would go from the sleepy-eyed boy who favoured the company of books to the man who crafted a plan to conquer the Trade City of Dules. In truth, Stanislaw did not know how to feel about how much Kosav, his milk-brother and closest friend, had changed since this war began. What he did know, however, was that he intended to honour his oath to serve him until the very end. Even if the very end might come very soon. “Bah …” A cloud of mist marked Barbov’s breath in the cold as he stared at the ships in the front of their formation. “I know it’s your plan, Kosav, but you still have the most dangerous role in it. I’ll bury you with the Nzech if you get yourself killed.” Kosav shared a tight smile with his elder brother. “I should be fine. All we have to do is sneak past the battle-lines at the harbour, and find some of the Dulen Guard. Besides, I’ll have Slavomir to protect me.” He turned, and gave a nod to the silent Bogatyr who stood a few paces behind them. That brought a scowl to Stanislaw’s face; he was not eager to leave Slavomir the Drowned, a serf by birth, as the sole Bogatyr protecting Kosav - no matter how skilled he was - but it was another essential part of the plan. The only other Bogatyrs left in the Princes’ service were Ratibor Skysent, and Stanislaw himself, and both of them were needed to lead the attack on the harbour. “What would father think of us now?” Barbov intoned, his eyes fixed on the approaching harbour. “Taking a city with smoke and trickery ...” “He’d think,” Kosav answered with a click of his tongue, “that we were saving his kingdom.” “ … Right,” the Elder Prince sighed. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can at the harbour.” “Then, with some help from God, next time I see you, brother, you will be the elected Prince of Dules.” “ARCHERS! NOCK! BRACE FOR THE ENEMY BALLISTAE!” Barbov pulled his brother into an embrace with his free hand. “ … it will have been thanks to you, Kosav.” When Kosav pulled away, he turned to embrace Stanislaw, too, but no words passed between them. When they broke apart, Kosav sniffed sharply as more shouts indistinctively rang through the night. “I suppose I can’t delay any longer. I’ll … see you both once the dust has settled.” As Kosav pulled up the hood of his nondescript cloak and started down the deck, the moonlight flashed on the broken-antler pendant hanging from his neck. The insignia of the Stagbreaker Company. “FIIIIIRE!” Stanislaw Horselegs Music Spoiler “DO THOU, O’ LORD, HAVE MERCY ON OUR DEARLY DEPARTED!” As shields and spears clashed, as men and women screamed and fell, Ratibor roared his prayer. “FOR THE SAKE OF SINNERS ALL WHO GREATLY HOPE AND TRUST IN THEE!” His first thrust once, twice, then thrice, drawing spurts of blood each time as the Stagbreaker line continued to weaken. “FOR THY MERCY CAN TURN BITTERING WEEPING TO JOYOUS FANFARE!” Around him, the pikes of his Karovic comrades bit and bit again at the enemy formation as they had for the last hour as they clashed on the docks of Dules. “FOR THOU ALONE JUDGETH THE LIVING, AND THE DEAD!” So far, everything had gone easier than expected: though the Stagbreaker mercenaries defending the harbour - though there was no sign of the Dulen Guard here - had sunk a few Karovic ships with the ballistae and scorpions atop the harbour halls, the full might of the fleet had finally sliced the chains guarding the harbour mouth, pushed through into the harbour proper, and sending landing parties of soldiers ashore. Since then, the Karovic and Stagbreakers had clashed in a formation of pines in shields spanning the width of the docks, but the mercenaries were gradually getting pushed back. Not much longer … just a little more! “ETERNAL REST GRANT UNTO THEM, O’ LORD!” Ratibor continued as the warm blood of a slain Stagbreaker dripped through the visor of his helmet. “AND MAY PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON THEM!” He stood at the forefront of the western section of the Karovic line, where the Stagbreakers were buckling. He hated line warfare - there was no talent in it, only discipline - but if the Stagbreakers broke, it would be the free-for-all he craved. “FOR THEE … WHO DIED A NOBLE MARTYR…!” He grit his teeth now. It was hard not to trip over the bodies as they pushed. The trumpets from the command ship bleated in the water behind them, spurring them on. “...PRAY FOR ME! USE THE MERITS … OF THINE OWN GLORIOUS DEATH … AND ADVANCE MY CAUSE…!” He could see it, now. The Stagbreakers were not just edging backwards, now; they were running. “ … AND GRANT ME A COURAGEOUS … AND FAITHFUL … END! AAAAMEEENNN!” Like a cracked egg, the row of shields and pikes gave way with screams and shouts. Ratibor’s lungs ached as he stood there, laughing, while the Karovic pikemen swarmed past him to stab at the retreating mercenaries. The peel of the trumpet-signals shifted, too: two triumphant bleats to signal a pursuit formation. “Hahaaaaah!” And to think I thought that Kosav and Slavomir would get all the fun! Sucking in deep breaths, he advanced at a walk as the fighting fanned out around the dock. He mostly regained his stamina after the final push, but he - of course - did not neglect to cut down any Stagbreaker who crossed his path with thrusts to the neck or shearing through their shoulders. At this rate, maybe we won’t need to rely on Kosav’s plan at all! We can push to the Electors’ Palace ourselves! His laughter trailed off when the sound of screams drowned out the ring of steel. His eyes squinted forwards, towards the street leading from the harbour to the Grand Plaza where the Stagbreakers were retreating, and he frowned. He watched as Karovic soldiers were just flying backwards, and landed on the bloodied ground with their chests or helmets … crushed? What on ….? Spoiler It was then that a new noise thundered throughout the fray: “RATIBOR SKYSENT! WHERE ARE YOU!?” Ratibor’s hand tightened on his sword, and a second later, the source of the noise - and sudden carnage - became clear. By firelight, he watched the head of an enormous flail blur through the air, and crash into the chest of a Karovic spearman. Even from over a hundred feet back, Ratibor heard the agonising death wheeze as the fellow’s ribcage was completely smashed, and fell limp on the ground. With a clink of chain, the flail moved again, and struck true into another soldier, and rebounded into another, before, within seconds, the flail had carved a circle around its wielder. The wielder in question had to be one of the biggest men Ratibor had ever seen, and that in itself was all the introduction he needed. With a plain, chipped helmet on his head and a bloodstained gambeson straining across his girth, Dragan Skullsplitter was single-handedly beating back the Karovic advance. At his side, weary Stagbreakers were already reforming their lines. Well, we can’t have that. With a grin, Ratibor raised his crimson-stained blade, and pointed it directly at the Waldenian. “ENOUGH, SKULLSPLITTER! YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION!” As Dragan’s helmet settled on him, Ratibor laughed again. With one hand, he gestured for his Karovic comrades to stay back as Dragan advanced at a leisurely walk, the deadly flail on his shoulder, and stopped two dozen feet from Ratibor. This is perfect! And here I thought my best shot at glory today would be Josef Tideborn, but Dragan Skullsplitter himself … the Waldenian Wall … the Giant! “... You’re Skysent?” Dragan grunted as the battle lulled around them. “Hah! The one and only!” With a fluid motion, he splashed the blood from his sword in an arc at Dragan’s feet. “Normally people don’t seek me out willingly on the battlefield, pagan!” “Huh.” Dragan scratched under his helmet. “I thought you’d be taller. Well, no matter.” He rolled his massive shoulder, and hoisted the flail in his hands with a clink of chain. “Duel me, Skysent.” Surprised murmurs rippled throughout the watching soldiers as they heaved to regain their breaths. Ratibor felt blood in his mouth as he grinned, and bowed his head. “I accept, and promise you a worthy death, pagan.” As Dragan slid the links of the flail’s chain through his huge fingers, Ratibor’s cackle continued. You idiot! You might be strong, but a bigger body means a bigger target! He raised his sword to chest-level as he assumed his own stance. I’ll bleed you like a pig! “Are you ready, Skullsplitter?!” Without a shred of heat, Dragan flexed his hand on the haft of his flail. “I’m ready, Skysent.” Ratibor pressed off his heel, and charged. Alarm bells, distant screams, and panicked shouts filled the air of Dules. As Kosav Karovic marched through the streets, he had simultaneously never felt so frightened and so alive at the same time. The blood of another - he had no idea who - stained the front of his gambeson, and some pike had just barely grazed the side of his arm, but he paid no attention to any of it. So far … so good. It almost felt hard to believe that the plan - his plan - had actually worked so far. After the fleet had landed and engaged the Stagbreakers in the harbour, he, Slavomir, and eleven elites - dressed in Stagbreaker mail and insignias stripped from corpses felled in their earlier battles at the harbour walls - had taken a tarp-covered rowboat to the far corner of the harbour. From there, they had squeezed through the harbour’s back alleys - a feat impossible for any kind of large party - until they had come out in the rear of the Stagbreaker lines. There, they waited until Ratibor had broken the enemy lines, and, in the chaos, slipped inside the city itself. That’s only step one … he reminded himself, and shared a quick look with Slavomir at his side before his eyes drifted up to the spires of the Electors’ Palace in the distance, in the heart of the city. Now, for step two. 20 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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