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Song of the Black | Chapter XII: Drunkards in Dules


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SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER XII: DRUNKARDS IN DULES

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A Lord of the Craft novella set in ancient 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 ...

Chapter XI: ... Banners Black

 

In 246 B.E.S., the future Prince Barbov Karovic captures the Trade City of Dules in his quest to reclaim the throne of Ruska.

 

After Prince Kosav's cunning plan to force the Electors of Dules - the city's ruling council - to surrender, the result led to the 10,000-man Karovic army triumphing over both the 30,000-large Nzechovich army commanded by Vladrik Nzechovich, and the combined force of the Dulen Guard and the Stagbreaker mecenaries - numbering nearly 18,000 - commanded by the sellsword captains, Josif Tideborn and Dragan Skullsplitter. Now, as the impact of the historic Battle of Dules ripples across Ruska, a week has passed as the Karovic victors find their footing. 

 

Vlasta of Osyenia finds herself at a loss as she's unable to get training from her mentor, the famed Ratibor Skysent, he has isolated himself in a depressed drunken stupour after his defeat at the hands of Dragan Skullsplitter in the Battle. It falls to the Bogatyr Stanislaw Horselegs to pull Ratibor out of his depression, but that brings with it some uncomfortable reflections for the cavalry commander. Prince Barbov himself and Prince Kosav find themselves unable to celebrate their titanic victory as Kosav is haunted by those whose blood stains his hands, and Barbov struggles with the pressure of those who have died in his name. 

 

Spoiler

 

 


 

A lone gull soared through a cloudless sky.

 

Beneath the gull's wings, the rushing waters of the Lower Huns River glistened in the morning sun as ships glided to and from the western bank, where the domes and towers of the Trade City of Dules - the Jewel of Ruska - sparkled in the summer sunlight. At a glance, it seemed like Dules had already forgotten about the great battle fought in its streets barely a week prior; no longer did rib-sailed carves blockade the port, no trace remained of the siege encampment that had said beyond the walls except for miles of dead grass, and the markets thronged from sunrise to sunset since trade had resumed.

 

But only at a glance.

 

The fires were extinguished and the bodies buried, but the memory of the Battle of Dules was engraved on the city. The gull glew above finely-garbed burghers wearing haggard looks and paranoid eyes, as if they could still see the blood running in rivers through the cobbled streets and the smokestacks blotting out the moon. For all its wealth and influence, Dules had never been a city of warriors -- for its townsfolk, war was a distant thing that existed beyond their pale walls. Now, though, it had scarred their utopia, and they could never forget the fear it had brought with it.

 

As the gull drifted above the city's western wall, it was not the Dulen Guard - the city's peackeeping force - that patrolled the fifty-foot high stone ramparts in their resplendent breastplates and blue-gold jackets, but instead it was common armsmen in drab gambesons and chainmail hauberks. The Dulen Guard themselves, ashamed after their defeat in the Battle, patrolled the streets below with sour expressions and downcast eyes, and the locals met them with looks ranging from pity to spite. 

 

The wind ferried the gull to the heart of the city, where the Battle's greatest scar stood in the form of the Electors' Palace with its magnificent spires and onion-domes stretching high above the sea of tiled rooftops. From the heights of those spires flew not the aqua-gold banner of Dules, but the black-red flag of the Karovid dynasty, billowing like a single stormcloud in the otherwise blue sky. From every corner of the city, that banner could be seen, and try as they might, no one could ignore it or what it meant. 

 

Beneath that banner, in the Palace itself, ran a warren of hallways, chambers, and parlours, and every inch of every room oozed the wealth for which the Trade City was so famous for. Gold-worked pillars flanked the walls, silver scrollwork scaled the bright stone walls, and tapestries and rugs splashed the Palace with vibrancy. Since the Battle, the courtiers, staff, and the Electors themselves remained recluse in their apartments, and so instead it was wide-eyed Boyars and nobles in service of the city’s Karovic conquerors that roamed the corridors, incredulous that just a few rooms contained enough wealth to eclipse their own. 

 

It was in one of those corridors that a young woman stood frowning at a soldier guarding a door. 

 

The two could not have been less alike. Vlasta of Osyenia was lithe and slender, her dark hair tied back to frame a pale, proud face of noble heritage, and her arms were crossed over her maroon jacket as she tapped her boot impatiently. If Vlasta’s build made her a twig, then Serkov of Ketzej was the trunk; the Karovic retainer was both tall and broad even without the added bulk of the chainmail vest beneath his coat. His long face was pocked with scars and he held his spear with a comfort that belied deadly skill, yet despite that, he bowed his head apologetically. 

 

“I’m sorry, my lady, but I told you before -- my lord has ordered that he is not to be disturbed. You know this.” 

 

“I know that it’s nonsense,” Vlasta answered curtly. “Lord Ratibor is meant to be my mentor, but he’s refused to see me since we took Dules. That’s almost a whole week, Serkov!” 

 

“Please understand, my lady. Lord Ratibor is -” 

 

“Drunk,” Vlasta finished flatly. “Again.” 

 

Before Serkov could answer, a slurred shout boomed from behind the door. “I am not drunk!” 

 

When Vlasta only arched an eyebrow at him, Serkov sighed. “ … my lord Ratibor is still recovering from his duel with -” 

 

“Do not say that hog’s name in my presence!” barked the voice again.

 

“ … with the … um … large Waldenian,” Serkov concluded weakly. 

 

“For God’s sake - Ratibor! Vlasta yelled back, and Serkov flinched at the noise. It only vaguely occurred to her that she was yelling at one of the famous Bogatyrs and a veteran soldier, and felt not an ounce of fear. How could I? Unbidden, images of the Battle of Dules - of arrows whizzing through the night, of dying men writhing on the ground - flashed through her mind. “How long are you going to wallow in there?! I’m your squire; you’re supposed to be training me!” 

 

Wallowing?! How d-dare you speak to … speak …” Ratibor trailed off with a bout of hiccups, and when he spoke again it sounded as if he was trying not to vomit.  "… speak to me … like that.” 

 

Vlasta’s eye twitched as she opened her mouth to yell back, but both her and Serkov’s attention were drawn by a sudden voice down the corridor. “What’s this racket?” 

 

Stanislaw Horselegs - one of the three Bogatyr left in the service of the Karovic Princes, like Ratibor - strode towards them with a leisurely, but sturdy, grace. He wore a brass-buttoned jacket instead of his mail, but he still looked every inch a Ruskan warrior and commander with the sword belted at his side, hardy face beneath his beaverskin cap, and the rigid set of his shoulders.

 

“Lord Stanislaw, sir!” Serkov saluted, but Vlasta spared the Bogatyr no such formalities. 

 

“Ratibor is still sore that he lost to Dragan Skullsplitter in the Battle,” she explained. “He won’t come give me my lessons!” 

 

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY HIS NAME!” roared Ratibor, and something ceramic shattered inside the room. 

 

While Serkov edged away from the door, Vlasta’s glare hidened. No, he doesn’t frighten me. After pulling still-living bodies with their guts spilling out from the battlefield last week, Vlasta didn’t think anything would frighten her again. “You don’t command much respect from behind a closed door, Ratibor, you cowar -” 

 

Stars swam in her vision as she staggered back, and her jaw throbbed with a sharp pain. It took her a moment to realise that Stanislaw had struck her across the mouth. 

 

“You forget yourself, squire,” Stanislaw spoke coldly, but his expression harboured no malice. “Ratibor Skysent is a Bogatyr and a hero to our cause, on top of being your master. Even when he does not act the part, you owe him your absolute respect at all times. Is that understood?” 

 

“I …” As her jaw ached, a mix of shame and anger grappled in Vlasta, but as she turned her glare to Stanislaw’s calm face, she really did feel fear. It was not the same fear she had felt at Mejen or the assaults leading up to the Battle of Dules where it was death that frightened her - now, as she locked eyes with Stanislaw, she was overwhelmed by the sudden fear that she had gone too far, that she would be stripped of her role as squire, that she would never become a Bogatyr. If that happened … then all the hells I’ve been through from Mejen to Dules would have been for nothing. She could not think of anything more terrifying, and she bent herself into a deep bow. “I most humbly apologise, Lord Stanislaw. Please, I beg your forgiveness.” 

 

“Hmph,” Stanislaw grunted. “It’s to Lord Ratibor you owe your apology.”

 

“Right, I - Lord Ratibor, please forgive me,” she called louder.

 

There came a drunken belch behind the door, followed by, “Yes, well, just don’t run your mouth again. Dumb broa -” 

 

“Thank you, Ratibor,” Stanislaw cut him off firmly, but kept his eyes on Vlasta. “Now, leave us, squire. I’ll see to it that your training resumes as soon as affairs here in Dules are put in order.” 

 

That could be weeks, damnit. Still, Vlasta cowed herself to meekness as she repeated her apologies. “Of course, my lord. I won’t forget myself again.”

 

“Good. The Princes have put a good deal of faith into you, to name you a squire in such an unconventional manner. It would be a true shame to see that go to waste.” 

 

For that reason, and many more. The invasive memories of her battles so far were broken briefly by the image of a smiling Prince Kosav on the night they spoke outside Mejen. That had barely been a month ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime. With a salute of her own, she turned, and stormed down the corridor. 

 

I can’t loosen my tongue like that again, she scolded herself as her boots clicked on the polished tiles. But I can’t afford to wait around for Ratibor to pull himself out of his stupor.

 

If he won’t train me … then I’ll just have to find someone else that will. 

 

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Vlasta of Osyenia

Spoiler

 


 

Stanislaw sighed once Vlasta was out of sight.

 

“I should not have struck her,” he mumbled as a dull pain pulsed in his hand. 

 

“I am fond of the girl, but you are well within your hearts, lord,” Serkov offered, albeit half-heartedly. “Discipline is important.”

 

Stanislaw only grunted as he stared absently down the hallway where Vlasta had vanished. Discipline … Back when the Princes had started their campaign in Vlasta’s family home of Osyenia, the girl had always been full of spirit, but in a cheerful, mischievous type of way. Now, though, after their battles at Mejen, their assaults on Dules, and the final attack on the city, that playfulness had been replaced by a steely determination. I just hope you don’t end up regretting it, Vlasta. 

 

“Has Ratibor left his room since I last visited?” he asked as he turned back to Serkov, and reluctantly put Vlasta out of his mind. 

 

Serkov shook his head. “He takes all his meals, but he will not leave or see anyone. He even grew violent when the doctor came to change his bandages.”  His eyes nervously flit to the door as Stanislaw reached for the handle. “... be careful, lord.” 

 

“Violent, you say? Good.” He smiled faintly as Stanislaw began to pull the door open. “It’s like you said, Serkov: discipline is important.” 

 

The stench of vodka washed over Stanislaw as he stepped into Ratibor’s apartment, and closed the door behind him. The curtains were all drawn, casting the opulently-furnished parlour with its cushioned chairs and dark-wood furnishings in shadow, but the balcony door had been left open to admit a pleasant breeze that stirred the opaque silvery curtains. In the centre of the parlour, facing an empty hearth and surrounded by plates of half-eaten food and empty cups, a pair of booted legs were slung over the armrest of a couch.

 

Stanislaw bristled at the smell as he walked, carefully avoiding cutlery and cups abandoned on the floor, before he stepped into the middle of the room to get a proper look at Ratibor. Flat on his back on the couch, Ratibor was shirtless except for a lining of bandages over his torso where Dragan Skullsplitter had broken two of his rubs, and his beaverskin captain’s hat was angled to cover his face. A smashed cup in a puddle of liquor stained the rug, and his scabbarded sword lay across his lap.

 

“Go to hell, Stanislaw,” came a mumble beneath the hat. 

 

“I haven’t said anything.” 

 

“Yet.” 

 

Stanislaw narrowed his eyes. As the caw of gulls echoed through the open balcony door, Stanislaw yanked the curtains back to let the morning sunlight flood into the pearly rooms, and pool right on Ratibor, who swatted a muscular hand at the light as if to shoo it. “Vlasta was not wrong. You are wallowing, Ratibor. Wallowing like a child.” 

 

Ratibor swiped the hat off his sweat-slicked face, exposing his venomous glare through misty, unfocused eyes. His cheeks were hued a bright red. “... Tsch. Is the girl with you?” 

 

“Vlasta? No, I sent her away after I made her apologise.”

 

“Hmph. Good. I was close to coming out there myself … but not for training.” His sword clacked metallically as he patted the scabbard. 

 

Stanislaw turned towards the balcony, and the sunlit rooftops of Dules spread out before him. “And why is it you have refused to train her? Vlasta is your squire, by order of Prince Barbov himself.” 

 

“Pfft. You blind?” There came a swig behind him as Ratibor scooped up one of the many cups littered around him, and drank from it clumsily, sloshing vodka over the rim and onto the floor. “I’m injured.” 

 

“Not too injured to drink yourself into a stupour, though.” Briefly, Ratibor scanned the parlour’s adjoining rooms. At least there’s no sign of any courtesans having visited. “I thought Dragan Skullsplitter only broke your ribs, but now I fear he’s broken your spirit.” 

 

Ratibor’s eyes tightened. “Don’t say his name around me.”

 

Stanislaw took a slow breath. Once, when he had first been named Bogatyr, he had been intimidated of Ratibor Skysent for his skill, temper, and influence as a holy warrior. Now, though, as he looked down at the wounded drunk, he found it hard to believe anyone he had once felt like that. “Why?” he asked softly. “Are you going to do something about it?” 

 

For a long moment, there was silence but for the din of the city beyond the balcony as the two Bogatyr exchanged stares - Ratibor’s smouldering glare against Stanislaw’s icy composure. Finally, Ratibor hissed through his teeth, and his eyes panned to the roof. “When did you grow a pair of balls, Horselegs?” 

 

Stanislaw ignored the insult as he eased down down on a stool facing the couch. “This war has changed all of us if you cared to notice, Skysent.” In the light, he could see splotches of bruised flesh peeking out from Ratibor’s bandages. Dragan really did a number on him. Even now, he could recall that fight in Dules’ harbour clear as day; the titanic Dragan swinging his flail in deadly arcs, and Ratibor blurred between the strikes and biting with his sword. “Are you really that upset you lost to Dragan Skullsplitter? The fact that you survived the fight is achievement enough.” 

 

Ratibor firmed his jaw as he stared up at the ceiling. “I … have a reputation to uphold.” Despite his intoxication, there was a seriousness beneath his red cheeks and misted eyes. 

 

“So ... you're sore over the fact that Ratibor Skysent, holy warrior and champion of the Lendian Church … lost to a pagan.” 

 

“Don’t pre-pretend …” Ratibor grit his teeth as hiccups forced his way up. “Don’t pretend this is just about me!” 

 

“It is just about you.” 

 

“Come on, Stanny,” he growled. “You’ve grown some balls, but now grow a brain. It’s a bad omen for everyone in our campaign.” 

 

Stanislaw just stared at the other Bogatyr for a moment, and tapped a finger on his knee. He did not care to admit it, but Ratibor wasn’t wrong. Most Bogatyr drew their power from strength at arms, horsemanship, or as commanders, but Ratibor Skysent was different -- while a fearsome warrior in his own right, his power came from his name. Everyone knows the legend of Ratibor Skysent, whether they love him or admonish him, Stanislaw thought bitterly. The man who killed Burgov Godsbane.

 

Indeed, everyone had heard that tale. Close to twenty-years back, during the height of King Karl’s reign, the faith of Lendian Canonism had spread like a wave through the regions of Ruska, most of whom worshipped the spirits of the Maenvestiyaeo until King Karl’s conversion to the southern Canonist faith. That wave, though, had been dammed in the west by Burgov Godsbane -- Stanislaw had only been a boy at the time, but he remembered the stories of Godsbane - of how he would raid villagers that had converted to Canonism, and impale survivors alive in their churches - kept him up at night. Godsbane had been nothing more than a particularly brutal marauder who stripped Canonist churches and missionaries of their gold and silver, but he was lauded as a hero by those towns and villages that still adhered to the Maenvestiyaeo, and protected by them. His raids, and the religious division, served as a black mark on King Karl’s rule - despite Godsbane’s viscous raids, the King could not assemble an army without escalating a civil war, and the few Bogatyr that were sent to take Godsbane’s head never returned. 

 

Then, Burgov Godsbane raided the hold of Ketzej. 

 

Ketzej was a larger holding and comprised numerous farmsteads along the Upper Huns, but it Godsbane attacked like a lightning strike. The local lord - Boyar Drezensk - had been surrounded and killed in the fields while trying to rise his levy, and though Ketzej burned, Godsbane never left alive. Amidst the flames, he crossed paths with Boyar Drezensk’s fifteen-year-old son - a boy named Ratibo - and was slain by a breadknife to the gut. When the smoke cleared, there was no explaining how a boy so young could have killed one of Ruska’s strongest warriors. It could only have been the will of God, or so everyone proclaimed, and the Lendian missionaries soon declared that Ratibor had performed a miracle. The young boy was taken to the Royal Court in Lahy to train as a Bogatyr, and without Godsbane as a rallying figure, the Maenvestiyaeo resistance died. Once he became a Bogatyr proper, Ratibor personally saw to the conversion of many of the remaining Maenvestiyaeo strongholds, and so his fame and support grew. Today, most of Ruska practised the Lendian faith - save some older bloodlines, like the Nzechovich - and many attributed that to Ratibor. 

 

There was no denying, then, that the name Ratibor Skysent had power, and it had influence. When he stepped onto a battlefield, he instilled both fear and awe as the man everyone thought wielded God’s fury, like he had that day when he smote Burgov Godsbane. Now, though, that fury had been overcome by Dragan Skullsplitter. 

 

“ … Tell me something, Skysent,” Stanislaw found himself speaking softly as he reflected on the tale.

 

“What?” Ratibor took another clumsy swig from his cup, carelessly splashing liquor on his bandages. 

 

Stanislaw’s mouth had gone dry -- it was not the first time this question had occurred to him, but he was uncertain if he wanted to hear the answer. “If the Nzechovich had not been one of the few bloodlines that hadn’t converted to Canonism … would you have still taken the Princes’ side in this war?” 

 

There was silence for a long moment, save for the noise of the city, and the song of a windchime on the balcony. “I don’t know,” Ratibor said at last. “I’m not like Slavomir, who follows Prince Barbov like a dog, or you and your friendship with Prince Kosav.” His eyes - deadly serious, now - slid to Stanislaw. “Why do you ask me that now, of all times?” 

 

Stanislaw stared back. “I’ve … just been wondering for a while now. Before King Karl died, we were three-hundred Bogatyr strong … loyal and strong warriors, sworn to the Ruskan throne … and yet only three of us are in service of the Princes. If it weren’t for the fact that the Nzechovich just so happened to follow the old faith, then it would just be one and Slavomir.” Abruptly, a laugh - shrill and bitter - forced its way out of him. 

 

Ratibor eyed him askance, and then looked back up to the ceiling. “It’s not as if they’re all dead. Most of them just joined Msitovic and the Nzechovich - if not before the coup, then after. Besides, we had other comrades. Had you forgotten while you were busy giving yourself a pat on the back for still being alive? What about Lorszan, and Paitaer, and Movedric? Or Caize? Bozidar? Akhiev?” 

 

Stanislaw closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered. “I … haven’t forgotten.” He could not forget if he tried; those warriors had been his brothers and sisters at Lahy, and he had been powerless to prevent their deaths. Lorszan had died after leading a successful charge to reclaim Svetjlast - the sword of the Ruskan kings - from the reliquary when the Nzechovich began their coup; Paitaer and Movedric had stayed behind to hold a barricaded door while the Princes were ushered to safety; Caize had been overwhelmed by the enemy while holding the stable gate; Bozidar had simply gone missing in the chaos; and Akhiev had escaped with the rest of them, but died of his wounds not long after leaving the city. 

 

There had been others, too, not to mention the hundreds of common soldiers who had laid down their lives for the Princes, too. And only three Bogatyr loyal to the Princes survived that day.  As he opened his eyes, he stared down at his open palm. Not for the first time, he wondered if it would have been better if he had traded places with any of those who perished. Instead of him, would Caize Snakeblade had been a better tool for the Princes, what with her affinity for executing enemy commanders in the heat of battle? Or Bozidar Kindheart, who let nothing past his tower shield? 

 

Stanislaw had loved them all, even those who had turned cloak to join the Nzechovich. Try as he might, he could not even bring himself to hate them, for he knew they had seen reason in the Nzechovich coup. Lorszan … Caize  … Bozidar … everyone. It’s all up to me to make it so that they didn’t die in vain. That was the single thought that kept him awake at night, and that plagued him of nightmares of the Coup of Lahy with troubled sleep. 

 

“You’ve gone awful quiet, Stanny,” slurred Ratibor as he swished the contents of his cup, and splashed more onto the floor. “You angry with me?” There was just the hint of a challenge in his voice. 

 

“No,” Stanislaw answered under his breath. “No, I don’t care why you fight, or if you’re just using the Princes for your own ends … just so long as you do fight.” So long as you help me carry their spirits … Stanislaw rose to his feet, and approached Ratibor. … until we win this fight, and they can rest in peace.

 

“Yes, well …” Ratibor shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “It’s too late to go back now, anyway. My sword’s not going anywhere. It’s like I said - I have a reputation to uphold.” 

 

The stool creaked as Stanislaw stood, and stepped across the parlour to loom over Ratibor on the couch. “Good. Then quit your damn wallowing, and go act like the hero you pretend to be.” He extended a hand. “Give me that booze.” 

 

Ratibor frowned uncertainly, but when he handed the cup over, Stanislaw drained the contents down his throat, and then poured himself another. 

 

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Stanislaw Horselegs


 

Prince Kosav drank from his silver cup.

 

Out of habit, he anticipated the burning sensation of vodka, but instead a spiced fruity flavour flooded his mouth. "This stuff," Kosav exhaled as he slapped the cup back down on the marble tabletop, "is very good. What did you say it was called?"

 

"Mead," chimed his brother with a grin. Prince Barbov - the heir of the late King Karl of Ruska, and the recently-elected Prince of Dules - sat on the other side of the round table in a high-backed chair, and his legs were propped on the table. His shoulder-length dark curls hung unkempt around his broad, strong-jawed face, and there was a rosy hue to his stubbled cheeks. "Apparently, some Dulen merchants travel to Carnatia every spring to buy it."

 

"Carnatians? There's no way Carnatians could make something so ... nice." Kosav had never met their tribal nations to the north, but all he had ever heard of them was there raids on Ruskan borderlands. 

 

"That's the thing - they don't! They buy it from a tribe that's even further north, way past the mountains!"

 

Kosav felt the heat in his own cheeks as he indulged in the exotic brew again. "A tribe even further north than Carnatia?" He supposed it was possible, but he had never seen a map that charted north of the Carnatian hinterlands and the Ulvenraek Mountains. "What are they called?"

 

Barbov waved a dismissive hand. "The Skif, or the Scyffe, or something like that. Boyar Tega says they grow crops on ice and worships bears as gods."

 

"Bears as gods?" Kosav smiled faintly as he stared into his distorted reflection in the mead. "I don't think Ratibor would be very fond of them, in that case."

 

"No, definitely not," his elder brother agreed with a chortle before he tilted back his jewelled goblet, and emptied it of mead. "Still, they make some good booze, even if they are heathens."

 

Kosav only nodded his agreement as he continued staring into his murky reflection. They were meant to be drinking to celebrate their victory over Dules, and yet, despite their smiles, Kosav felt far from celebratory. As he watched his face in the cup, he could see a shadow cling to his gaunt-set eyes that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

 

He blinked, and another face appeared in the cup.

 

A woman looked back at him, her hair parted around her comely face by a silver circlet and her wide eyes sparkling in the reddish liquid. Her beauty was unmarred, except for a deep, bloody gash through her throat. Kosav swat the cup away, and the mead spilled out across the snowy marble as the cup rolled towards Barbov.

 

It was not the first time Kosav had seen Yaina's haunting face since he had ordered Slavomir to cut her pretty throat to secure their victory in the Battle of Dules, alongside four of her fellow Electors. That face had kept him up every night since, depriving him of even a moment's rest, and she seemed to watch him silently from every shadow of the Palace. Now, he had come to rely on liquor to keep her ghostly face at bay, but he knew he could never escape her ghost, and the weight on his shoulder for her death. 

 

Barbov brought the cup's roll to a stop with a finger, and flashed a concerned look towards Kosav. "Are you ...?"

 

"Yes," Kosav breathed as he steadied himself. "I ... I'm fine." As he looked across at his brother, though, Kosav saw that that same shadow clung to his face, too, and no amount of drinking or boasting could hide it. "Are you alright, Barbov?" 


"Huh?" he narrowed his eyes. "My coronation as Prince of Dules is in four days. Why would I not be alright?" Kosav, however, only kept staring at him, and finally Barbov sighed. " ... Fine. It's just that, well ... sometimes I worry that this is all a dream."

 

"A dream?" 

 

"A dream that we're here." Barbov spread his arms, gesturing to the ornately-decorated parlour in which they sat, where oil paintings of long-dead figures looked down on them from the walls and the furnishings glittered in gilt. "We should have never have made it out of Lahy alive, brother. We escaped with barely two-hundred supporters, and we raised an army of three-thousand at Osyenia. We won at Mejen, and then we grew to ten-thousand. That wasn't nearly enough to take Dules by force when we had the Nzechovich and the Stagbreakers in our way ... and yet, here we are."

 

"We've been ... lucky," Kosav said meekly. "Lucky that our Bogatyr died to get us out of Lahy; lucky that Boyar Olske offered us shelter in Osyena; lucky that Vlasta saved our hides at Mejen ..."

 

" ... Lucky that my brother figured out a way to capture the Trade-City of Dules, right under Vladrik Nzechovich's nose. I still don't understand how you thought of your plan."

 

"It was easy," Kosav said briskly. Even broaching that topic made Yaina's specter linger on his mind. "We just had to understand the type of people that the Electors were. I already told you; Dules is a city of wealth, not warriors. They fear for their lives, not their honour. That day, when Slavomir and I were able to sneak into the Electors' Chamber ..." He pressed a hand to his forehead as he remembered the look in Yaina's eyes when Slavomir placed his sword to her throat. " ... all it would have taken for Dules to have won the battle was for the Electors to call my bluff, and refuse to let me use them as hostages. If they had let themselves die, then our path to victory would have gone up in smoke. Josif Tideborn would have defeated Vladrik Nzechovich at the gates, and Dragan Skullsplitter would have crushed you and the rest of our army at the docks." 

 

"You should be King."

 

Kosav narrowed his eyes at Barbov, and frowned when he saw he was not laughing. "What?"

 

"I'm serious. You should be the one to become King of Ruska when we win this war, not me."

 

"Barbov, what are you talking about?"

 

With a hint of desperation in his eyes, Barbov lowered his legs and pressed his palms against the table. "Kosav, we owe so many debts to so many people - not just those like Boyar Olske, but everyone who took up a weapon for our cause. Tell me - why would they do that? Sure, the Boyars think we'll favour them with rewards and favour, but why would any common soldier raise their blade for me? Why did all those Bogatyr die for me?"

 

"Because ..." Kosav's voice had gone thick. He had never seen that wistful look in his brother's eyes before, except for the night of the Battle of Dules. "You are the rightful King of Ruska."

 

"No," Barbov said softly as he shook his head. "You know that can't be it. Was it because they think I'm a better choice than any enemies they have in the Nzech court? Or because I'm easy to control?"

 

"It's ... it's because they believe you'll become a strong king." Kosav's own words rang half-heartedly.

 

Barbov laughed mirthlessly. "But I won't be, Kosav. I'm not strong like father, or smart like you. I couldn't have escaped Lahy without all those Bogatyr who gave their lives, I would have gotten us all killed at Mejen if not for Vlasta, and I could never have thought of a plan to capture Dules like you did." He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. "So many people have already given their lives for honour, or because I'm some rightful King ... and I'm going to squander their sacrifice, Kosav. If it's left up to me, their deaths are going to amount to nothing. So please, just ... agree you'll become King, and take this weight off my shoulder." 

 

For a moment that felt like eternity, Kosav stared at his brother -- at Barbov, son of Karl. Until the day that had been ousted from their home, Kosav had always felt like a husk of his brother; Barbov had been boisterous, brave and strong, whereas Kosav had been reserved and quiet; Barbov had preferred his martial training, whereas Kosav lost himself in books; Barbov had been the favourite of their father, a worthy successor to the Ruskan throne, whereas Kosav had been obscure and easily-forgotten. To see him now, dejected and depressed, felt ... wrong. 

 

"I refuse," Kosav whispered softly. The sad look in Barbov's eyes as he opened them made Kosav's heart sink, but he pressed on. "It doesn't matter if you're not strong or smart, or if you don't know what you're doing. You have me, Stanislaw, Slavomir, Ratibor, and all the others to make up for whatever shortcomings you might have. You'll get to Lahy, and you'll sit on the throne, even if someone - or ten thousand people - have to carry you there." 

 

"But ... why?" Barbov said scarcely. "Why carry somebody like that? Tell me honestly, Kosav ... wouldn't it have been better if I had just died at Lahy? None of the Bogatyr would have died to help me escape, Miliv wouldn't have been cut down in an ambush at Mejen, and the Electors and every soldier in the Battle of Dules wouldn't have had to die. Msitovic Nzechovich could have controlled Ruska from the shadows, and we would all be better off." 

 

Kosav shot to his feet, and knocked his chair to the floor. "And so what if it would!?" he snapped. "We're here now, Barbov! We're here, and all those people have already died! We already owe these debts! We can't go back and wish we had died to change things! So ..." he sucked in a deep breath as his brother looked at him with wide eyes. "No. I'm not going to be king instead of you. I'll drag you to Lahy myself if I have to."

 

"Kosav ... why?"

 

"Because," he growled through grit teeth. In the marble's polished reflection, he glared at Yaina's ghostly reflection with that gash in her throat. "You're my brother. I am not going to let you fail."

 

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Kosav Karovic


 

Vlasta fumed as she stormed through the Palace's winding halls.

 

To hell with all of them! First, Ratibor drank himself into isolation instead of training her; then, Stanislaw said he was too busy helping the Princes set up their new administration in Dules; Slavomir had just given her a sideways look when she asked for tutelage; and Villorik, although a squire himself, was a terrible teacher. Any time they sparred, he always won. "It's no surprise, since you've only been a squire for a few weeks," she mimicked what he had told her in a high-pitched taunt. "And besides, don't forget - women are weaker than men!" She spat as those words echoed in her mind. She had attacked Villorik right after, as if to prove him long, and the memory of that defeat only made her angrier.

 

Fine. Forget them, she glowered as she finally found the staircase in the corner of the Palace that led underground. I'm not giving up just because they're idiots. I'm not going back to sit around Osyenia until father marries me off, and I'm not giving up after surviving those battles. It was after her spat with Villorik that a memory had come to her -- a memory of a fearless, female warrior who had almost delivered the Princes a crushing defeat in the very first battle of their campaign.

 

The white walls and marble columns of the Electors' Palace gave way to dreary stone corridors lit by plain copper-case torches as Vlasta followed the stairs down, and before long, she found herself at the foot of the dungeons. Karovic armsmen - replacing Dulen Guards - lounged about in the front of the barred doorway that led deeper into the dungeon, with three playing a round of cards at a rickety table by the door, and a fourth tending to a kettle boiling above a stove against the wall. All four looked around in surprise as Vlasta came to a stop, her hands on her hips.

 

"My name is Vlasta of Osyenia, daughter of Boyar Olske and squire to Ratibor Skysent," she declared sternly, before any of them could speak, "and I wish to speak to a prisoner." 

 

The guards exchanged confused looks. One of them quietly pocketed what appeared to be a flask. Finally, the one tending the kettle - he looked to the be the oldest of the four, with a tinge of grey to his thick moustaches - cleared his throat, and uncertainly asked, "Ah ... which prisoner would that be, my lady?"

 

Vlasta stared past the barred doorway, and the cells beyond. "I have a proposition for Mylah Nzechovich."

 

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WE'RE SO BACK

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I'm a simple woman

I see Xarkly post

I read

 

I upvote

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I love the Ruska lore posts, keep it up if possible! 

Thank you

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