Song of the Black | Chapter XI: ... Banners Black

[Xarkly 12581]

SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER XI: ... BANNERS BLACK

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

Chapter X: Banners Red ...

 

The Battle for Dules for continues.

 

Ratibor Skysent faces off against Dragan Skullsplitter in the city's harbour; Josef Tideborn outwits Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich after they breach the city gates; and Prince Kosav finally enacts his plan to capture the city in the name of his brother, Prince Barbov the Black.

 

Music

Spoiler

 

---

 

“Tea?” 

 

Yaina blinked out of her trance. She narrowed her eyes at the steaming porcelain cup presented to her, and then to the face of the man holding it. Elector Kvadden, eldest of the Electors of Dules and the man that had done nothing but frustrate Yaina’s attempts to end the Siege of Dules, was the last person she expected any kindness from, but his matured face, framed by a mane of silvery hair, wore a faint, if apprehensive, smile. 

 

“I … ah … thank you, Elector Kvadden,” she mumbled as she took the cup.

 

“Consider it a peace offering,” Kvadden said as he eased himself down next to her on the bench, which was one of many built into the towering walls of the lamplit Electors’ Chamber. Since the assault had began on the city - it must have been nearly four hours ago, now - the Electors of Dules, their haggard, worried faces in contrast with their resplendent cloaks and jewellery, had remained languishing across the Chamber listening for reports of the battle outside, but to little effect. There was nothing to do but wait for it to end. “We have had some … ah, disagreements, you and I.” 

 

“I suppose we have,” Yaina said cautiously as she brought the tea to her lips. A Rhenyari oolong brew, she recognised the tea, and then frowned immediately. This is no time to be thinking about tea. Screw your head on, Yaina. 

 

“And yet here we are … cautiously united in fickle hope. Tell me, Elector Zeravosch; why is it that you trust Josef Tideborn to save this city?” 

 

As the elder turned his head to look at her, Yaina only stared into the deep red-brown tea. “This doesn’t sound like much of an apology, Kvadden.” 

 

The aged man’s smile twitched wider. “I said it was a peace offering; not an apology. But please, I mean no offence. I am just … curious. You vouched for the man more than anyone.” 

 

Yaina gave him a sidelong look, and relented. “I don’t trust him. I trust my understanding of him; of what he wants, of what he will do, of what he’s capable.” 

 

“Care to enlighten me?” 

 

There was silence for a moment but for the muttering of other Electors across the room as Yaina drank again. “... He’s a mercenary, but he’s not a turncloak or a craven. He doesn’t care about Dules, really, either, nor the Nzechovich, nor the Karovic. We’re just pieces on a board, and payment is just a means to an end for him.”

 

“Then why …?” 

 

“I … I think it must be legacy.” She had pondered on the curious man that was Josef Tideborn many times since she put her trust in him to defend Dules from Barbov Karovic and Vladrik Nzechovich, but she also knew that, if she had misunderstood the man, then he might hand the city to their enemies on a silver platter. “I think Josef Tideborn wants to be remembered as an incredible man. Not as a killer, like Dragan Skullsplitter, but … a genius. He wants to be the man who saved Dules from certain defeat, who defeated two armies, who defied the Ruskan throne. He wants -” 

 

“... to make his mark on history,” Kvadden finished with a slow nod. “Well, he may get his wish, based on the reports so far.” He paused. “There was something else I wanted to ask, Elector Zeravosch.” 

 

“And what might that be?” She continued staring into the tea, and her own tight-eyed reflection.

 

“You remember why we chose this path, don’t you?” Kvadden’s smile was gone, now. He stared absently at one of the Chamber’s arched, moonlit windows at something unseen. 

 

“Yes, Kvadden,” she answered curtly. “I was part of the vote to reject the Ruskan crown so that half of our wealth didn’t fill their coffers.” 

 

Kvadden shook his head, and when he spoke again, there was a strange thickness to his voice. “No, it’s … more than that, Yaina. The rest of Ruska mocks the Dulen Guard because they are not real warriors, but that is because Dules never needed warriors! We do not fight or conquest; we trade, we build! We have more wealth than the rest of Ruska combined! We don’t need the Nzechovich or the Karovic, or whichever fool claims the Ruskan throne …” He sagged forward, leaning on his knees. “If we could just defeat them here, we could show the rest of the world that they don’t need crowns and wars.” 

 

Yaina snorted. “It’s ironic, then, that we need to win a war to make that happen.”

 

Kvadden’s smile was wistful, and his eyes sad. “When this battle is over … when Dules is triumphant … you would seek election as the Princess of Dules, wouldn’t you?”

 

Her eyes snapped up to him, but before she could answer, there came a metallic groan as the doors to the Chambers were opened. The Electors rose to their feet from wherever their sat, and immediately briskly congregated at the marble roundtable in the room’s middle as Captain Virzakev, commander of the 1st Company of the Dulen Guard, half-jogged into the room, and almost tripped as he bowed his head to the table hastily. Behind him, the din of the distant battle raging throughout the city was audible for just a second before the doors closed once again. 

 

“My lord Electors,” Kvadden wheezed. His blue-gold jacket and breastplate was unscathed and unbloody. “A - a stroke of good fortune! We …” 

 

 

---

 

Spoiler

 

 

“... captured Prince Kosav?” 

 

For just a moment, Josef Tideborn forgot all about the battle - about the officers of the Dulen Guard rushing around his barricaded pavilion in Dules’ Grand Plaza, of the ceaseless din of clashing steel and roaring men a short distance away, of the constant clanging of the church bells - and narrowed his eyes as Captain Vranna of the Dulen Guard reported the news.

 

“Y-yes, Lord Josef,” the pink-cheeked woman affirmed. “Captain Virzakev apprehended the Prince with a small contingent of Karovic armsmen … disguised as Stagbreakers.”

 

“Disguised as my men?” Josef bristled. “Hmph. Bring him to me.” 

 

“I, uh … Captain Virzakev has already taken him into custody in the Electors’ Palace, Lord Josef." 

 

As he smelled a fresh wave of smoke waft into the Plaza, Josef narrowed his eyes. “Why was he not taken to me first? I am in command of the city defence.” 

 

Vranna flinched under his stare. “T-the Prince was caught trying to scale the Palace walls with grapples, my lord, s-so Captain Virzakev took him straight to the Electors!” 

 

“Tsch.” Josef grit his teeth, and turned instead to face the main city avenue. A pillar of smoke and the glow of fire marked the main-gates, where Vladrik Nzechovich’s horde was attacking. Something doesn’t add up. Why would Prince Kosav try to sneak into the Palace with only a handful of men? The entire 1st Company is garrisoned there - he couldn’t possibly achieve anything. So why …? 

 

“Lord Josef!” a Dulen Guard called hoarsely as he barrelled into the pavilion. As Josef looked to him, he realised it must have been the first time he saw one of the Dulen Guards with blood on their armour. “The Nzechovich are deploying another battering ram!” 

 

Another? We’ve already destroyed two. Damnit. He stared down at his hastily-spread battlemap and the figures spread across it, but his eyes kept drifting back to the Electors’ Palace. Prince Kosav captured … Am I overthinking this? Maybe he’s just a fool. Or, maybe … 

 

“M-my lord?” The bloodied Guard prompted. “We can move the 4th Company to reinforce the 2nd and 3rd Company on the ramparts.” 

 

“I know what we can do.” Josef glared at the map. Something gnawed at him about Prince Kosav’s capture, especially since he had been brought straight to the Electors without Josef seeing him, and yet … It can’t be helped. I can’t afford to take my attention off Vladrik Nzechovich. Yaina, he thought as he stared down at the Electors’ Palace on the map, right in the heart of the city. You’ll have to handle this one. “Don’t move the 4th Company so much as an inch. Order Captain Urslav and Captain Kormir to prepare to withdraw to checkpoint-four at my signal.” 

 

“Withdraw from the gates, my lord?” 

 

“Do it. We’re losing too many at the gates as it is, and besides, I’m preparing quite the welcome party for the Nzechovich on the avenue.”

 

“... Yes, Lord Josef!” 

 

As the Guard took racing off to deliver his orders to the frontlines, Josef cracked his knuckles. I hope you’re having fun at the harbour, Dragan. I’m about to see if Vladrik Nzechovich has an ounce of brains to back up his balls.

 

Josef Tideborn

 

---

 

Ratibor Skysent’s mind raced.

 

In the span of a split second, he tried to gauge the trajectory of the spiked-head of the flail as it blurred towards him. Duck, and then backstep. He had no time for second-guesses: he buckled his knees right before the flail smashed into his helmet, and then sprung backwards off his heels before the flail’s chain abruptly jerked, and the head slammed down into the spot Ratibor had been in just a second before. He gripped his sword, and dashed forward to close the distance, but the chain flexed like a whip to crack against his sword, before the flail’s head took to the air again; Ratibor pirouetted away from its first descent, but he bit off a curse as he was forced to dive backwards away from the second. 

 

As he scrambled back another dozen feet, heaving deep breaths through clenched teeth, he nearly tripped over the corpses of dead Karovic soldiers and Stagbreaker mercenaries strewn across the bloodied and burning docks of Dules. He barely noticed the cheering soldiers at his back, roaring, “SKYSENT! SKYSENT! SKYSENT!” 

 

This is no good. Armour is useless. One hit from that flail and I’m dead either way.  He carelessly ripped off the straps of his feathered helmet, and tossed it to the ground. He raised his sword back into a mid-guard, and glared down the blade at his opponent. A man of his size has no right to be that quick. He moves that flail like it’s a third rotting arm. 

 

Dragan Skullsplitter, at least seven-feet tall and with shoulders the width of a tree trunk, seemed unperturbed as he coiled the flail’s chain again as he spun the spiked-head leisurely. Though more of Dragan’s Stagbreaker mercenaries lay dead on the battlefield than Ratibor’s Karovic kinsmen, there were still plenty left alive rallied behind Dragan, and they cheered for him too. 

 

“You’re quick on your feet, Skysent,” the towering barbarian said, and he showed no signs of tiredness despite the intensity of their duel. 

 

The same could not be said for Ratibor. Although he had managed to avoid being crushed by the deadly flail, that was all he could do: Dragan used the flail’s long chain to keep him at a distance, and every time he came close, the brute pulled the chain in his path like a snare that forced him to retreat, or be caught like a rabbit. “Comes from all those courtly dances,” Ratibor managed in retort. “I suppose you can’t say the same, ox.” 

 

Dragan grinned through his helmet. “We didn’t have courtly dances on the River Waldor. Tell me, Skysent: is it true you’re some holy warrior?” 

 

“Sent by God himself, to scour the earth of pagans like you.” Ratibor added his own smirk for good measure. He was happy to keep the man talking for a moment, at least so he could regain his breath. I can’t just keep jumping around his strikes forever. He’ll catch me eventually. Rot! How am I going to hit him? In the lull of fighting, he could hear the mutters in the Karovic ranks behind him, the groans of the wounded, and the cackle of a fire that had consumed one of the dock warehouses. 

 

“So, you were the one to slay Burgov Godsbane?” 

 

Ratibor’s grip tightened on the sword at the mention of the man he had first killed - the dreaded Burgov Godsbane, the pagan bandit warlord who had terrorised western Ruska throughout Ratibor’s youth - and whose death at Ratibor’s hands had propelled him to prophesied fame and earned him his moniker. That was the story everyone believed, anyway. “It’s true. And Burgov Godsbane was ten times the warrior you are, Skullsplitter!” Another bout of cheers came from the Karovic soldiers. 

 

The chain clinked as Dragan half-looped the flail around his shoulders. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. That’s why I’m wondering, Skysent; how did you do it? All the stories say that you killed him with nothing but a bread-knife, and you must have been young, too. How did you do it?” 

 

Ratibor was not smiling now. His gaze hardened on Dragan as embers drifted through the air between them. “Didn’t you hear me, pagan? God guides me in battle! I am his warrior, sent from the Seven Skies to lay waste to those who scorn his love!” 

 

With the flail’s chains linked in his fingers, Dragan spread his huge palms. “Well, I am a pagan, and you’ve yet to scratch me. Will you show me this power from your god, Skysent?” 

 

“Be it at your peril,” he seethed. With another roar of cheers at his back, he dashed forwards and he shifted his mind into the same focus he always adopted in battle. Under the chipped helmet, he did not see the face of Dragan Skullsplitter, but instead the hooked nose and sunken eyes of Burgov Godsbane, sickly and bloody like the day he had died. Whenever Ratibor pictured that face, a burning, spurring stamina coursed through his veins. 

 

With a shrill clang, and a pained grunt from the vibrations, he fended off a spiked edge of the flail as it streaked towards him, and leapt over the chain as Dragan tried to sweep it through his legs. He advanced, and as the Waldenian expertly yanked on the chain to bring the head crashing towards his back, the spikes scraped against Ratibor’s cuirass as he spun aside. With another rasp of steel, he swat down the chain with his sword before Dragan could coil it, and the dance.

 

This better be enough time for you, Prince Kosav!

 

---

 

Step two.

 

Kosav was not sure where exactly he was. Some parlour on the ground floor of the Elector’s Palace, he supposed. It was certainly no holding cell, not with its marble-topped dining table, cushioned chairs, frilled rugs, and the massive unlit fireplace. A handful of lanterns lit the room, and their light flashed against the four halberdiers of the Dulen Guard guarding the doorway. Kosav himself did not match their splendour with his torn and ragged gambeson, the grime and blood flecking his face, and the coarse rope bonds that bound his hands behind his back. Strands of unkempt, dark hair streaked his vision, and he kept his eyes downwards.

 

He could not gauge how much time passed as he sat there in silence, waiting as the battle raged on outside; waiting as Vladrik Nzechovich and his army battered down the gates; waiting as his brother, Stanislaw, Ratibor, Vlasta, and the others fought Dragan Skullsplitter at the harbour; waiting to see if his plan would work, or if they were all doomed. Finally, though, the door opened, and light flooded in from the hall outside as a woman’s shape filled the doorway.

 

“Kosav.” 

 

When he looked up, Kosav almost gasped. Though matured now, he could recognise those slightly-pudgy cheeks, those youthful but calculative eyes, and the proud, beak-like nose anywhere. “Yaina?” 

 

As Yaina stepped into the room, the heels of her boots clicking on the tiles, her eyes lingered on Kosav for only a moment before she turned to the four Dulen Guards. “I’m told you four were among those that apprehended him.” Her eyes took in the cracks and bloodstains on their once-spotless mail as testament of that.

 

“Yes, my lady,” the tallest of them answered hoarsely through his visor. “The cravens were trying to scale a portion of the north wall with ropes. My patrol cut his companions down on the spot.”

 

“How fortunate you were there,” Yaina titted. “You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your valour when the battle is done. Would you please leave me with the captive for a moment?”

 

“Lady, are you sure that’s -” 

 

“It’s perfectly alright.” Yaina waved a ringed hand dismissively. “The captured Prince and I are old friends.” The Guards shared a look, but complied. A moment later, the door clicked shut, and Kosav found himself alone in the parlour with Yaina. For a long moment, there was silence as Yaina simply stared down at him. With her high-necked dress and clean hair, she was the image of composure in contrast with the bloody and bonded Kosav as he stared back at her in disbelief. “We are still friends, aren’t we Kosav?” 

 

He swallowed a lump in his throat. This has not been part of the plan. “Y-Yaina … I had no idea you were  an Elector now.”

 

Her subsequent smile was warm and genuine. “Surprised? I don’t blame you. I’m sure you remember that my father drank himself to the grave.” 

 

“But your brother -”

 

“Died of the sweating sickness,” she finished nonchalantly, “about four years or so after I left Lahy. After I left you.”  

 

“... Oh.” His mind whirred. “Wait - is that why he refused to let you marry me all those years ago?” 

 

There was a slight lace of sadness in her smile, but it remained warm. “Indeed it is. He knew he was dying for a few years and that I would succeed him, so he didn’t want an Elector of Dules bound to the Ruskan royal family. Of course,” he went on as she paced towards the window, “I didn’t know about that until a few years later. It was sad, really.” She stopped at a window, and brushed the curtain aside to reveal the night sky. “I blamed him for ending my tutelage in Lahy, for forbidding me from marrying you like I wanted, and I didn’t know why until he was close to dead.” 

 

“I …” Kosav searched for words. His heart thrummed, his mind raced. “I’m sorry, Yaina.” 

 

“I am too.” She let the curtain fall again as she turned to face him with that wistful smile. “Being an Elector isn’t very fun. It’s all decrees, taxes, and protocols … I think I would have been much happier if things had been … different.” 

 

“Different …?” 

 

“Different. If I had stayed in Lahy, if we had gotten betrothed like your father wanted …” Her sudden giggle took Kosav aback. “Does that sound silly? Thinking back on when we were twelve years old, while now we stand on the opposite sides of a war?”

 

Kosav felt sweat roll down his brow. Yaina … In those days as a boy at his father’s court in Lahy, Yaina Zeravosch, sent from Dules to be tutored in politics, had been his only real friend while Barbov and the other boys were always in the training yard, beating each other over the head with practice weapons. While everyone looked at Kosav askance as the quiet, reclusive son of the magnificent King Karl, Yaina had been the one to spend all those days with him at the library, pouring over old tomes and stories, looking at maps and globes and dreaming of what the rest of the world was like beyond the hills and rivers of Ruska. Why does she have to be here? Why now!? “ … No,” he said at last, his voice a breathy whisper. “No, it’s not silly at all.” 

 

All my life, I felt like I was waiting for my real life to begin, the words echoed in his head. That’s what I told Barbov the other day. He stared into Yaina’s eyes, and became lost in their deep hazel pools. Would I still feel that way if Yaina … if my only real friend … had stayed in Lahy? If we had gotten married? He had never felt such a purpose in his life since this war began, but now, for the first time, he felt the foundation of that purpose tremble. Why does she have to be here now? 

 

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the occasional shout and clamour of armoured footsteps marching past the door. “So,” Yaina said eventually, “did your brother put you up to this?” 

 

His mind roiled in panic. What do I say? What do I say?! “Y-yes. Ever since he led us to victory over the Nzech at Mejen, he … he keeps saying that I’m useless, that I contribute nothing to our war … that I shame the memory of our father and the quest to reclaim his throne. S-so, I … I volunteered to lead a small group to try to infiltrate the Palace. It was the only thing I could think of, the only way I could think to make myself useful.” He hung his head, but his eyes remained wide with fright. “I … should have known it was doomed. Every one of the soldiers that followed me is dead, now.” 

 

Yaina clicked her tongue. “Barbov the Brute. I’d kill him myself if I could. You see now why a man like that should never be King, Kosav? Much less Prince of Dules.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Kosav, I … I’m so sorry he forced you into this. He sent you here to die.” 

 

“Thank you … for saying that.” He had to force the words out. Why does she have to be here?! The words echoed in his mind over and over again. “I just want this all to be over.” 

 

“It will be, soon,” Yaina said, and Kosav almost flinched when she lay a hand on his shoulder. “You’re free from him now, Kosav, and from the cruelty of the Crown of Ruska. You’ll be taken before the Electors, but I promise you’ll be treated gently.” 

 

“ … Thank you, Yaina,” he whispered. Why her? “I don’t know what to say.”

 

She gaze his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Oh, Kosav … I can see it in your eyes. I can see what your brother and this war have done to you. But I promise - it’s over now. I … I’ll keep you safe.” 

 

Elector Yuris Kvadden

 

 

---

 

“PUUUUUUUUUSH!” 

 

The gate gave way in a shower of splinters, and the mass of Nzechovich bodies surged forward as the battering rap - chipped, burnt, and bloody - was dropped to the body-laden ground. His arms leaden from exertion and his throat stinging from yelling, Szitibor thrust his sword upwards. “GO, GO! ALL BANNERS FORWARD!” A tide of triumphant Nzechovich soldiers answered him as they streamed through the opening in the shattered gate, the banners of various Boyars - many of which were torn and signed - moving overhead with them.

 

For a moment, Szitibor stood back on the bridge to regain his breath. We were right about the Dulen Guard, he thought to himself as the formations continued to charge into the gate, and into the main avenue of Dules proper, stomping over dozens upon dozens of their dead fellows, most of whom were peppered with arrows and bolts. They may be numerous, but they’re little more than a glorified guard-force. The gate had given way with relative ease, and with minimal losses to the Nzechovich army. Now, it was a simple matter of storming into the city, forcing their way to the Electors’ Palace, and claiming it for themselves.

 

“SZITTY!” 

 

As he glanced around, past the seemingly endless wave of Nzechovich soldiers now storming into the city, Szitibor spotted Vladrik himself in his white-plumed helmet, atop his horse, and with a retinue of Bogatyrs at his side. “WE’VE BREACHED, COUSIN! PULL ALL TROOPS DOWN FROM THE WALLS TO STORM THE GATE!” 

 

Vladrik nodded, and gestured to one of the Bogatyr at his side, who raised a brass horn and began to sound two long-winded peels. This will spell the end of Dules, Szitibor thought as he looked back to the smoking ruin of the gate. The main force had been concentrated on the main gate, but Vladrik had also sent some of the massive army to try ladder up portions of the wall. Now that the gate was breached, however, those units could be recalled to reinforce the main army that was now storming the gate. This will be it. The Nzechovich victory … and I’m going to be at the forefront of it. 

 

He took a step forward, and then abruptly paused. His eyes drifted eastward, towards the dark waters of the Lower Huns River. Even from here, he could make out the scant remaining ships of the Karovic fleet that had not participated in the attack on the harbour. They … must be their supply ships. Mylah … could she on one of them? He squinted through the firelit night at the ships as they bobbed in the water. There must only be a skeleton garrison on them, if even that. I could save her, right now. That’s why I came here, I … 

 

“SZITTY!” Vladrik’s roar snapped him out of his thoughts. “GET BACK IN THERE TO LEAD THE VANGUARD! DON’T STOP UNTIL YOU GET TO THE PALACE!” 

 

“R-RIGHT, COUSIN!” For a moment, though, he just stood there staring at the Karovic ships in the distance. I could save her right now. Instead of taking off on his own towards the riverbank, though, his legs began to carry him towards the breached gate. What am I doing? I can save her myself while the Karovic are in battle! 

 

His legs did not stop, though. He gripped his arrow-studded shield, and fell in line with the Nzech soldiers marching through the gate. 

 

 

---

 

“The gate is breached, Lord Josef!” 

 

“Good!” Josef called back to Captain Vranna as he buckled on his scabbard. “And the walls?” 

 

“It - it’s just as you said, my lord! The Nzech are pulling their attackers off the walls, and redirecting them all to storm the gate!” 

 

“Haha!” He smiled so wide his jaw hurt. “Little Vladrik took the bait hook, line, and sinker!” With another laugh, he drew his blade, and swiped all the figures off the map with it. The little idiot has never fought anything other than raiders before. His only experience of a battle like this is from books, if the snot-nosed twit can even read. His predictions had come true like prophecy: by deliberately ceding the main-gate, Vladrik not only thought that he must have broken the Dulen Guard and thrown them into disarray, but the fool had even been kind enough to stop all his other attacks on the walls and focus solely on the gates. Now, all the Nzechovich army was congregated nicely on the main avenue that spanned between the fallen gates, and the Grand Plaza where Josef now stood.

 

“Vranna!” he called between bursts of triumphant laughter. “Give the order!” 

 

 

---

 

Szitibor kicked through the corpses, and into the city.

 

Mylah will still be there to save after, he assured himself as he followed the mass of his fellow Nzech onto Dules’ main avenue. I … I have a chance to win glory for me - and her - now! She’ll just be all the happier when I rescue her, that way. Even in the heat of battle with adrenaline coursing through him, he was not convinced. Before him, past the rows of Nzechovich helmets already in the city, the main flagstone avenue of Dules was lined with barricades and stakewalls between the ornate townhouses, behind which the pikes and halberds of Dulen Guards flashed in the moonlight. A feeble defence. We’ll break through those barriers in no time.

 

“FORWARD! TO THE ELECTORS’ PALACE!” someone in the mass called out, and others took up the cry. “FORWARD! NZECHOVICH! LORD VLADRIK AND NZECHIA!” 

 

That cry was broken, though, when a signal-trumpet blared further down the avenue, behind the Dulen Guards’ line. A single, urgent burst, repeating over and over again. “ALL COMPANIES! FIRE!” 

 

That was when the first of the Nzechovich soldiers began to drop. In the haze of battle, it took Sztibor a moment to realise what was happening: his eyes followed the volley of crossbow bolts soaring through the moonlight to the figures lining the rooftops of the townhouses, lying on their stomachs, and with dark cloaks to hide the usually flashing mail of the Dulen Guards. “SHIT!” he called out to no one in particular. “CROSSBOWS ON THE ROOF! RAISE SHIELDS! SHIELDS!” 

 

He was not the only one to raise the alarm, but it did little good: all around him, Nzechovich soldiers dropped with shrieks as crossbow quarrels bloomed through their mail. Szitibor felt his shield creak and shudder as two bolts struck it, and one head almost punched completely through. “SHIT, SHIT! WHERE IS LORD VYCHEK’S BANNER WITH THE SHIELDS?!” Even if the soldiers could hear his command under the chaos, their formation was too packed together from when they had stormed the city. There was no hope of reorganising their banners into a suitable formation capable of enduring the hail of crossbow-fire like this. “PULL BACK! PULL BACK AND REFORM!” He kept repeating the command in the hope that some would echo it, and while he did hear others repeat the command in panic, his heart sank when he looked around.

 

What seemed to be the entire Nzechovich army seemed to be pushing through the gate, unaware of the crossbow bolts raining death on the front-ranks on the avenue. The units from the walls! They’re blocking our escape by trying to enter the city! 

 

We’re trapped! 

 

Vladrik Nzechovich

 

---

 

Spoiler

 

 

The doors closed behind Yaina as she entered the Electors’ Chamber.

 

Outwardly, she maintained her still and stony expression, but she was conflicted within. Kosav … she thought, and looked to the man in question as a bloodied Dulen Guard escorted him into the Chamber in front of her. His hair was matted with dirt and sweat, his once-bright eyes staring absently at the tiles. Why did you let Barbov corrupt you like this? Kosav had never cared for the antics of his brother and the other men of the Royal Court when Yaina had known him at Lahy. Now, he just seemed … defeated. Broken. 

 

“My lord Electors,” she spoke to the men and women seated around the roundtable as she moved to her own chair. “I present to you Prince Kosav Karovic, junior to Prince Barbov Karovic, and the loyal Dulen Guards who captured him.” 

 

On cue, the line of twelve Dulen Guards by the doors bowed towards the table. They were not the only Dulen Guards present in the room - Virzakev and six others stood arrayed by the columns ringing the table - but only the dozen beyond Kosav sported signs of battle, from ripped sleeves of their blue-gold jackets to dents and cracks in their armour, but the most startling mark was the grim, haggard expressions they wore. 

 

“Here, here!” Kvadden called, and slapped the table vigorously. “Glory to Dules!” 

 

The cheer echoed around the room, by Electors and Guards both, and Yaina repeated it half-heartedly herself as she sat. Despite herself, she could not take her eyes off Kosav, on that look of deep, deep fear in his eyes. He’s traumatised, even.

 

“I would propose that we leverage his Highness here to his brother in exchange for ending his attack on the city,” Yaina went on, “but I suspect he holds little value to Prince Barbov. He was sent here on a suicide mission to earn his brother’s favour.” 

 

Gazes were exchanged throughout the table, and Kvadden spoke next. “Leverage will not be necessary to win the battle, it seems. Captain Virzakev,” he nodded to the Dulen Captain who stood by the door a short distance from Kosav, “informs us that Josef Tideborn is slaughtering the Nzechovich at the gates, and Lord Dragan is keeping the Karovic firmly in place at the harbour. We will have won this battle by morning.” 

 

Yaina breathed a sigh, but no relief came. Not with Kosav standing across the table, flanked by the dozen Dulen Guards that had captured him. 

 

“Tell me this, then, Prince Kosav …” Kvadden went on. “Your brother did well to survive the Nzechovich coup at Lahy and triumph at Mejen, but why did he commit to this doomed assault on Dules?” 

 

In a way, the fact that you survived was a miracle, Kosav, Yaina thought as she stared at the ghost of the Younger Prince. Now, I can save you from Barbov. I can nurture you back to the genius you once were. 

 

“ … Your brother has far less troops than both the Dulen Guard and the Nzechovich. Even with his alliance with Vladrik Nzechovich, how could he hope to survive?” 

 

As Kvadden spoke, Yaina found her eyes drifting to the Dulen Guards behind Kosav. She could not quite put her finger on it, but something … stuck out about them. Squinting, she scanned each of them again, observed the bloodstains and fractures in their armour …

 

“... What could he ever have hoped to achieve in these circumstances? This battle was a doomed cause for the Karovic, right from the start.”

 

Yaina’s blood froze over as she spotted the detail that had been gnawing at her. One of the Dulen Guards stood closest to Kosav had blood dried all over his breastplate, with one deep rend in his armour on his left side, and the other … Directly at his heart. If he was wearing that armour when that wound was made … he should be dead. So how …? 

 

It hit her like a hammer. Her chair scraped as she leapt to her feet, and she cried, “those men are not the Dulen Guard!”

 

Confused ripples spread across the room, but only for a second before Kosav spoke with a vigour in his voice that had not been present when Yaina spoke to him. “Slavomir! Now!” 

 

There was a hiss of steel as the Dulen Guard with the broken armour above his heart ripped his blade free from its sheath. “Yes, your Highness!”

 

---

 

Come on, Ratibor. 

 

From the docks, Stanislaw stood at Barbov's side with his blade drawn but dry, and his visor lifted to watch the duel unfolding between the Karovic and the Stagbreaker lines. Their entire goal in the operation was to draw the attention of the city's defenders away from the Palace, and so Ratibor's ongoing duel with Dragan Skullsplitter was perfect in that regard, but Stanislaw was far from eager to see Ratibor die. As arrogant and flamboyant as the man was, Ratibor Skysent was one of just three Bogatyr that had survived in the Princes' service since the Coup of Lahy, and he was a far better fighter than Stanislaw -- perfect for leading the Karovic vanguard with his skill and charisma both.

 

Yet, as Stanislaw watched Dragan toss that viscous flail around, he feared a single misstep from Ratibor would spell his doom. 

 

Chants of, "SKYSENT! SKYSENT!" rang out across the battlefield amidst the clashing combatants. Stanislaw could only imagine how exhausted Ratibor must have been as leapt and slashed aside the flail and its snaking chain. Come on, Ratibor ... you have to do something! You'll be hit eventually! As if on cue, Ratibor whirled aside as the flail head smashed into the ground, but instead of launching himself at Dragan at the apparent opening, he slammed his sword down into the chain connecting the flail to the haft in Dragan's hands. What is he doing? 

 

That became clear a moment later. Ratibor pranced back as Dragan hoisted the flail into the air again with ease, and spun it in a loop overhead before it descended down towards Ratibor in a killing blow. The watching Karovic soldiers seemed to collectively hold their breath as Ratibor threw himself low, under the flail, but sliced upheards in the same motion. That collective breath was released in a deafening, triumphant roar as the chain snapped under Ratibor's strike, and crashed into the ground to spew a cloud of dirt and ash. Dragan did not miss a beat, though, and quickly delivered a kick that forced Ratibor back.

 

Don't get cocky! You almost have him! Stanislaw urged silently, and briefly glanced up to the distant spires of the Electors' Palace, towering above the city.

 

Ratibor let out a manic laugh as he stared down Dragan, who was left holding only a limp chain at the end of his haft. In contrast, Ratibor held his own blade at the ready, but instead of attacking in a swordsman's stance, Ratibor instead rushed in as if to tackle the man with his sword raised carelessly high. The crowd's cheers died almost immediately as Dragan cracked the now-lightened chain like a whip, and it snaked around Ratibor's sword-hand like a snake. Ratibor stopped dead in his tracks, struggling to fight his ensnared hand, but Dragan kept his limb locked tight beneath the chain. Ratibor was left practically helpless as Dragan closed the distance in three quick strides, and sunk a fist into the Bogatyr's face.

 

Only the Stagbreakers cheered as Dragon drilled his knee into Ratibor's chest, and then knocked him into obvious unconsciousness with a final elbow to the back of the head. As Ratibor's sword clattered to the ground, Dragan casually scooped his unconscious body over his shoulder like a bag of flour. While his troops applauded and hooted thunderously behind him, Dragan turned to Karovic lines, and hurled Ratibor's body through the air. "It seems God isn't on your side today." 

 

Karovic soldiers hastily lowered their weapons so as not to accidentally impale the holy Bogatyr as he plummeted towards them, and he dropped on top of two other soldiers with muffled grunts. 

 

"Rot," Barbov cursed at Stanislaw's side. "Get him to the medics, right now!" 

 

"Your Highness," Stanislaw urged as he watched the Stagbreaker shields and pikes to part to allow Dragan to trudge back through to the other side, and with a battle-cry, the mercenaries began to rush towards the Karovic once more. "They're coming again."

 

"Yes, I can see that, Stanislaw," Barbov snapped as he gripped Svetjlast. "To to the Nether with them. We have no choice but to engage. We buy Kosav as much time as we can."

 

Stanislaw gulped, and lowered his visor. " ... As you wish, my Prince. ALL LINES, HOLD! ENGAGE!"

 

He looked to the distant Palace one last time. There was still a little time for God to pull through for them.

 

 

---

 

Yaina stared in disbelief.

 

It had all happened impossibly fast: the man named Slavomir’s sword cleaved through the three Dulen Guards - the real Dulen Guards - on the west side of the room, while the rest of the men clad in bloody and broken Dulen armour behind Kosav rammed their spears and blades into the guards on the east side of the room. Within ten seconds, only Virzakev remained standing, clutching a bleeding left arm and pinned to the wall by a spear pointed at his neck. 

 

All the Electors watched in stunned silence, but it did not take long for Yaina to piece together what had happened. Kosav’s men must have ambushed a patrol of Dulen Guards, and taken their armour after killing them … then they brought Kosav to the Palace as a ‘prisoner’, and we welcomed them as heroes. If she had not been absolutely chilled to the bone, she might have laughed. A heavy thud through the Chamber as two of Kosav’s disguised men lowered the thick wooden bar over the Chamber door. That was designed as a final barrier to save the Chamber from invaders, and now it had trapped all the Electors inside. 

 

“You swine!” Elector Oskienne roared as she ripped her sabre from its sheath, and Elector Giranov and Elector Turova followed suit. 

 

“Do not bare steel against the Younger Prince,” Slavomir commanded in cold contrast, and levelled his reddened sword at the table. 

 

With stark expressions of anger and fear, Oskienne, Giranov, and Turova looked around the table with pleading eyes, searching for a way out. When they found none, their weapons clattered to the floor, and they sank into their seats as if deflated. Yaina stared at Kosav as her mind grappled with what had just occurred, but the Prince - who massaged his wrists had Slavomir cut his binds - seemed to deliberately avoid looking at her. Was this … your will, Kosav? Or your brother’s? 

 

“Never … in all my life … have I seen such a debasing act of dishonour!” Kvadden bellowed. He had not drawn a weapon, but each of his words hammered into the silence like nails. “To sneak into a besieged city, and wear the armour of your enemy … Despicable. Deplorable.” 

 

Kosav stared back at him, and he did not seem to blink as he spoke in a distant voice. “You’ll forgive me, Elector, but it’s as you said -- we could not hope to achieve anything otherwise. Now, you have nowhere to run, and no way of calling for help. So, please … let’s end this without any more death and bloodshed.”

 

“End this?” Kvadden repeated. A bead of sweat glistened in the lamplight as it rolled down his face. 

 

“End this,” Kosav repeated. “Electors of Dules, I ask you; elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules.” 

 

“Kosav,” Yaina called, and she quashed the sense of shame at the meekness of her voice. “Kosav.” 

 

The Younger Prince winced at the sound of her voice, but still did not look at her.

 

“This is utter madness,” Elector Vilcka boomed. “A candidate for Prince of Dules must be present to be voted on!” 

 

“Or, a member of his immediate family,” Kosav answered in an eerily soft voice. “Hence my being here. I know the laws.”

 

“Know the laws?! Piss-posh!” Vilcka hollered back. “What do you intend to do, boy?! Have your rabid dog here cut us down if we don’t vote for your monkey of a brother?!”

 

“Yes, actually.”  The softness and distance of Kosav’s reply extinguished Vilcka’s anger as quickly as it came; now, the beefy Elector only blinked at Kosav, and then looked to Slavomir. 

 

Yaina’s heart felt as if it was going to beat out of her chest as she gripped the edge of the table. “Kosav. You - you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to fear your brother.”

 

“I don’t,” Kosav answered, but his voice was weak, and he still seemed unable to actually look at Yaina. “I do this of my own will - of my own desire. Slavomir,” he motioned to the bloodied swordsman, who nodded.

 

Elector Kossga, the next youngest Elector after Yaina, nearly knocked over her chair as she squirmed back from Slavomir’s approach. The man levelled his sword at her neck, and Kossga shook so much in her seat and Yaina thought she might cut her own neck on the blade. Slavomir gave a firm, matter-of-fact nod to Kosav. 

 

“Elector,” Kosav began in that same ghostly, soft voice. “Would you please issue a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules?”  

 

“Leave the poor woman alone, you weasel,” Kvadden barked. “This decrepit display is pointless - I said as much! Josef Tideborn is beating back Vladrik Nzechovich as we speak. Once he’s done, duelling with your brother at the docks will be trivial! You think you have trapped us in this room?” His nostrils flared. “You are trapped in this city, with no escape!”

 

“It’s true.” Kosav’s absent eyes were locked on Slavomir’s sword resting against the Elector’s neck. “Neither my brother nor Vladrik Nzechovich will take this city by force. By morning, both armies will have been defeated.” 

 

“Exactly! So why -”

 

“But you won’t be alive to see it.” Kosav’s words brought utter silence back to the room. “Unless my brother is voted as Prince of Dules, none of you will live to see the morning’s victory.” 

 

Yaina’s heart, which had been pumping in her ears just a second ago, seemed to stop entirely. Kosav … You … can’t be serious … 

 

Elector Kossga whimpered as Slavomir pressed his sword closer to her throat. “Prince Kosav made a request of you, Elector.”

 

“Yes,” Kosav echoed. “Please, raise a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules, or you will force my hand.” 

 

“This is ridiculous!” Kvadden fumed. “Kossga, do not say a word!” 

 

“I - I … I …” Tears streamed down Kossga’s slender cheeks. Even if she wanted to speak, she could not seem to get a word through her chattering teeth. 

 

“Elector Kossga! Do not submit to his bullying!” 

 

When Kossga pointedly closed her mouth, though her entire body still quivered, Slavomir glanced back towards Kosav.

 

No … Kosav, don’t. Please. 

 

Finally, Kosav’s eyes broke out of that distant stare, and he closed them. “It seems Elector Kossga … has chosen to abstain.” 

 

In one fluid motion, Slavomir’s blade sliced through her neck.

 

Elector Yaina Zeravosch

 

---

 

This is my great gamble. This is where it will all be decided.

 

Would the Electors lay down their lives and die, knowing that Josef Tideborn would repel the invasion, or would they value their own lives above the city, and side with Barbov? That was the question Kosav had spent months pouring over, weighing up, assessing -- was Dules worth saving if they were not going to be alive to see it? Either way, the die is cast. It’s too late to turn back now.

 

That was what Kosav kept telling himself as blood sprayed from Kossga’s severed artery across the marble table. Some of the Electors shrieked in terror, while others just watched incredulously. The only reaction Kosav did not see was Yaina’s - he could not bring himself to look at face. But why? I’ve … committed to this path. I have since we made this plan at Mejen. Why should a face from the past change it? Thinking that, though, did nothing to change his inability to look at her. 

 

Slavomir let Kossga’s body slump in his seat as he moved to the next Elector. Kosav’s mouth seemed to move on its own. “Elector. Please raise a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules.”

 

“Oh, to the Nether with this!” The Elector in question cursed. He gripped the sabre he had dropped earlier, and leapt up from his chair to slash at Slavomir. He let out a primal scream as the Bogatyr’s sword parried aside the sabre, and then cleaved clean through his right arm from the elbow. Another chorus of screams echoed in the Chamber as the severed hand thudded onto the table, fountaining blood. 

 

“Is that your vote, Elector?” Slavomir placed the sword to the fellow’s neck as he clutched his stump of right hand. 

 

The Elector, his once-ornate brown coat stained in his own blood, glared at Kosav through features contorted with pure anger. “**** you, you -” A squelch of steel on flesh silenced him as Slavomir repeated the same motion that had killed Kossga. 

 

… Too late to turn back now. Too late. As he desperately tried to control his own breathing, he could see his own soldiers turn away in distaste as the second Elector was slaughtered. Slavomir alone seemed to be the only man in the room unphased as he moved to the next Elector, a bespeckled middle-aged woman. 

 

“Elector,” Kosav began again. “Please raise a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules.” 

 

The sheen of Slavomir’s sword flashed against the woman’s glasses as it was pressed to her neck. “I …” 

 

“Mirkovic,” the silver-haired Elector at the top of the table began in a hoarse voice. “Don’t.”

 

“I … I can’t, Kvadden,” the woman sobbed back. “My daughter is just about to turn two, I-I can’t … I can’t leave her like this, I can’t - I can’t die like this … I …” Tears dripped onto Slavomir’s sword. “E-Electors of Dules, I-I raise a motion before us to … to elect B-Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules, in which I v-vote in favour of.” 

 

“Thank you, Elector Mirkovic.” Kosav was not sure how he was speaking in this emotionless drawl, but he was grateful for it. If not for whichever mood that gripped him, the strange icy adrenaline, he was positive he would have broken down crying already. Kossga’s throat was still pumping blood. 

 

Slavomir moved to the next Elector, the broad-shouldered man who had cursed at him earlier. Now, though, his expression was one of fear, not anger. Slavomir’s sword had barely touched his throat before he professed, “I vote in favour of the motion.” 

 

Finally. The rest are falling in line. This will finally be - His mind trailed off as Slavomir stepped to the next Elector.

 

It was Yaina. 

 

For the first time since entering the Chamber, Kosav looked at her. She was every bit as beautiful, and more, even with that look of profound sadness in her wide eyes. She did not cry, nor did she beg like the other Electors. She just stared at him wordlessly, and the shimmer of her sad eyes said everything.

 

“Yaina …” he managed weakly. His facade of calm quivered. “... Please.” 

 

The faintest shake of Yaina’s head made tears well in Kosav’s eyes. “ … No. I won’t. The Kosav I knew from Lahy would -”

 

“THAT KOSAV IS GONE!” The calm crumbled. Every emotion, every doubt, every fear, suddenly roiled up to the surface as he screeched. “THAT KOSAV DIED WHEN YOU LEFT, AND WHEN THE NZECH TRIED TO KILL HIM, AND HIS FAMILY, WHILE HIS FATHER’S CORPSE WASN’T EVEN COLD!” No one spoke. No one even seemed to react as Kosav's shoulders heaved with his heavy breathing. “Please, Yaina … just … end this. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.” 

 

Again, her head shook. “You don’t have to hurt anyone else, Kosav. Please, we can still … we can still salvage this.” Now she tried; trails of glistening, silvery tears rolled down the plump cheeks that Kosav remembered poking and cupping as a boy. “I know that you’re still Kosav. And … I know that you won’t hurt me. I will not vote for your brother, Kosav, but I will still save you from him.” 

 

Kosav closed his eyes on his tears. He seemed to become deaf, as if his body was unwilling - or unable - to listen to what happened next. 

 

As Slavomir cut into Yaina’s throat, he knew that Barbov was not the one he needed saving from.

 

---

 

Dragan leaned back against the walls of one of the dock's warehouses, watching the battle.

 

Since Skysent's defeat - Dragan's fists still hurt from pummelling the man - his Stagbreakers had fought with a second-wind. Their reformed lines had crashed into the Karovic, and were steadily tightening the gap between the harbour's water and their bloodied spears. The mercenaries remained outnumbered, but Dragan knew that all he needed to do was to enter the fray himself to beat back the Karovic lines. As far as he was aware, the battle was won, but it might take an hour or two for the Karovic to realise it. 

 

"You put up a decent fight, Skysent," he idly mumbled to himself as he watched an ember swirl between his scarred fingers. "But you were nothing special. So, how did you really kill Burgov Godsbane?" He sighed as he looked down at this broken flail, lying pooled at his feet. He didn't suppose he was going to get an answer anytime soon.

 

Before he could dwell on it much longer, though, he noticed a lone figure staggering along the road from the city, towards the harbour. As Dragan squinted through the firelit night, he recognised that it was one of the Dulen Guard - an officer, even - with his right arm in a sling, and his left clutching onto a halberd like a walking-stick. "Skullsplitter!" he called hoarsely as he approached.

 

"Huh? Captain?" Dragan blinked. He recognised the man -- Captain Virzakev, he thought, leader of the 1st Company of the Dulen Guard. That doesn't make sense. He should be in charge of the defence of the Palace. What's he doing here? "Have you brought word from Josef? Has he defeated the Nzech already?" 

 

"I have orders," Virzakev growled as he came to a stop a few feet from Dragan. "From the Palace." The man looked wretched: whatever wound had put his arm in that sling hadn't seemed to have been treated, and so the sling itself was already stained red, but the look on Virzakev's face bore a wound much deeper that Dragan had seen many times before -- a wound that went right down to his soul. A wound of pride. 

 

"The Palace?" Dragan sniffed. "You know I only take orders from Josef. You -"

 

"I could give less of a rat's arse," Virzakev barked, and Dragan arched an eyebrow in surprise. He had never heard anything besides submissive acquiesence from Virzakev before, but now he looked like he was ready to bite Dragan's head off. Something must have happened. Something has broken this man. "Your orders are to withdraw your Stagbreakers to the Palace immediately. You are to do no further battle with the Karovic."

 

Dragan's breath caught in his throat. He asked his next question very slowly. "Who ... gave these orders?" 

 

Virzakev stared with his helmet with a smouldering, frozen anger.

 

"Kosav Karovic ... on behalf of the new Prince of Dules."

 

 

[Cracker 4556]

 

"Fact is Barbov the Black couldn't have done it without me. I was indispensable."