Song of the Black | Chapter XIII: Kusoraev

AfteNews of this upset reaches the Royal City of Lahy, where Prince Barbov and his followers had been couped from by their rivals of the Nzechovich dynasty just months ago. The Royal Court of the boy-king Nestor V, installed after the coup, frets over the sudden turn of events, and as Boyar Eyzov - a powerful lord and the king's uncle - storms the halls, the Chancellor of Ruska and mastermind behind the coup - Msitovic Nzechovich - is nowhere to be found. Instead, the Chancellor absconds alone into the city, where he reflects on the plight of the Kingdom of Ruska, and his true motives in sparking the bloody civil war between the Karovic and the Nzechovich.

Spoiler

On the banks of the Lower Huns River stood two great cities.

On the west bank stood the Trade City of Dules, while the Royal City of Lahy stood on the east, and, despite the fact they were known as the Twin Cities, they had little in common. For one, Dules was orderly and pristine with its slender pale-stone spires and gold-tiled roofs, whereas Lahy was a chaotic blend of houses, towers, and domes in every size and colour; where Dules drew its influence as a wealthy trading port, Lahy was the ancestral seat of the Raevir Kings, and home to its greatest warriors; and while the black-red banner of the Karovic dynasty flew from the Electors’ Palace of Dules, it was the green-red banner of the Nzechovich that flew above Lahy Castle.

It was through the corridors of that Castle that Boyar Eyzov stormed.

If the Electors’ Palace was a court maiden with her ample light, gilded furnishings, and abundance of portraits and tapestries, Lahy Castle was her warrior husband - the drab stone corridors decorated themselves not in finery, but in trophies, from enemy standards and helmets captured in famous battles long ago to the heads of mighty beasts slain in hunts. While Boyar Eyzov normally admired those trophies, he paid them no attention today as he swept through the hallways with one hand clamped on the sword at his waist, and the other clutching a messenger’s scroll.

Unbelievable. The Castle had fallen under the shadow of intrigue, and if there was one thing Eyzov loathed more than etiquette, it was intrigue. Spineless cowards, whispering what they’re too craven to say aloud. Servants, courtiers, and even soldiers all exchanged the same worried whispers in the shadows and quiet corners of the Castle, and they all spoke of events on the other side of the Lower Huns.

“ … how could they have taken Dules? Lord Vladrik had an army of thirty-thousand, didn’t he …?”

“... I heard they put all the Electors to the sword, too …”

“... and they only have ten-thousand troops? That can’t be right …”

Eyzov’s teeth creaked as he clenched his jaw. Cowards, and parasites. He made no effort to hide his temper as he made his way to the Royal Apartments, and one look at his smouldering glare and fitting mane of fiery red hair served to silence any whispers when he drew near. Despite his fury, everyone he passed - no matter their station - hastily offered their respects with deep bows; Eyzov was the uncle to Ruska’s new King, but everyone knew he was half the power behind the throne. Without his political and military capital, the Nzechovich never would have pulled off the Coup of Lahy. In power, he was second only to Chancellor Msitovic himself.

And where the hell is Msitovic? It was his rotting idea to put that moron Vladrik in command of the army. To think … thirty-thousand soldiers, outwitted by the Karovic army of barely ten-thousand. What a disgrace. How did the Karovic even manage it? Reports from Dules were mostly unconfirmed and unreliable, but most accounts agreed that in the three-way Battle of Dules between the city’s garrison, Vladrik Nzechovich’s army, and the Karovic Princes, the latter had snuck into the Electors’ Palace and forced the city to surrender. All the Boyars who joined the Karovic are either old, opportunistic, and historic enemies of the Nzechovich. None of them are notable commanders, and of the three Bogatyr they have left, only Stanislaw Horselegs is a tactician of any merit. Was the conquest of Dules his doing, then?

Eyzov’s eyes tightened as he reached a corridor in the Castle’s western wing, which, at this hour of the evening, flooded with a burnt orange light through the windows. No, he decided as he walked beneath the dead gaze of a Thorqal’s mounted head. This scheme was too cunning and underhanded for Stanislaw. So who did lead the Karovic to victory at Dules?

The sunlit corridor was empty but for a Bogatyr at the far end, guarding the panelled doorway to the Royal Apartments, and the sun gleamed on the wings of his silver helmet and scalemail. He was Vilcze - easily recognisable by his lucerne - and he was one of the Bogatyr loyal to the Nzechovich, and he had the sense not to bar Eyzov’s passage as he threw open the doors and barged into the antechamber. He followed the sounds of voices and faint laughter deeper into the Royal Apartments - the rooms of which were decked in vibrant Ruskan carpets, tapestries, portraits, banners, and dark-wood furnishings - until he stomped into a living room, and the voices cut off.

Five sets of eyes panned to him. One pair belonged to a kind-eyed governess in a liveried dress, and two others belonged to comely handmaidens standing astride a middle-aged woman whose porcelain face was framed by the silk folds of a snowy kokoshnik. The last pair of eyes were wide and innocent, and belonged to a young boy - no older than six - who sat on the floor holding clay figurines of soldiers and horses.

“Uncle Eyzov!” the boy chimed, and flashed a smile already missing baby teeth. Even now, it was hard to believe that those eyes belonged to Nestor V Nzechovich, the last son of King Nestor IV who had been installed as a puppet king by the Nzechovich after the Coup of Lahy. Eyzov had always been a hard man - a man who never hesitated to do what needed to be done - but looking at Nestor’s wide eyes struck him with a pang of guilt despite his ire.

“One hopes you have good reason to intrude so brashly upon the King, brother,” the porcelain-faced woman intoned coldly, and Eyzov’s eyes slid to his elder sister.

“Karlanya. Where is Msitovic? We must -”

“You are in the presence of the King of Ruska,” Karlanya cut him off sharply. “The only thing we must do is show respect.”

Before, the news from Dules had been the source of Eyzov’s anger, but now his glare was reserved for his sister. She had always been cunning and resourceful, and she had played no small role in the Coup of Lahy herself, but her head had become far too large for her own good since taking the mantle of Queen-Dowager. Or maybe she was really always like that.

As much as Eyzov did not wish to admit it, there was little sibling love shared between him and Karlanya, but not by desire -- Karlanya had been Eyzov’s beloved elder sister when they were both children, before Karlanya had become a handmaiden at the Royal Court of King Nestor IV Nzechovich at the age of eight. Little more than a year had passed before Karl Karovic raised his banner in rebellion, and, after the Nzech were crushed at the Battle of Ozi, King Nestor IV fled Ruska with his courtiers -- Karlanya among them. For most of Eyzov’s life - as he grew to become a powerful Boyar in his own right - Karlanya had lived in the realm of Hanseti, where Nestor IV had established his court-in-exile in the castle of the Hansetian King. They had written letters, and so Eyzov had known that Nestor IV had taken Karlanya as one of his many wives once she came of age - much to his displeasure - but when Karlanya had returned to Ruska after Nestor IV had finally died, and with his infant son in her arms, Eyzov had desperately searched for the sister he remembered in the cold woman.

So far, he had not found her.

“My … apologies, King,” he managed, and the leather of his gloves creaked as he quelled his temper.

“That’s okay!” Nestor chimed obliviously, and brandished his clay soldiers. “Do you want to play war, Uncle Eyzov?”

“Boyar Eyzov is occupied with matters of state,” Karlanya said, and her eyes were tight on Eyzov, who growled under his breath.

Maybe she does understand. Besides, I’m already playing war … The crumpled scroll felt like it was burning a hole in his hand. And I’ve just lost a round. “Yes … quite so, Dowager. We must call a council.”

For a long moment, Karlanya just stared at him with those icy eyes. Eyzov had met the gazes of a good many foes in his time - from tribal Carnatian warlords, to enemy Boyars - but his sister’s was the only one that made him falter. As she looked at him, Eyzov’s eyes slid down to Nestor, who had resumed playing with his toy soldiers with his own sound-effects as they did mock battle. Eyzov had never been one for pity or sympathy, but he felt those sentiments now. Please, Karlanya, he urged silently. I’m doing this for your sake … and the sake of your son. Nestor clashed a clay soldier against a toy horseman with a quiet ‘whoosh!’. It’s too late to go back now. We have no choice but to win - against the Karovic, against everyone.

“Fine, then,” his sister sighed at last, and tapped a ringed finger on the carved armrest of her seat. “Let us send for Lord Msitovic, and see what excuse he offers for the farce at Dules.”

Queen-Dowager Karlanya & King Nestor V

Spoiler

Msitovic Nzechovich closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds of Lahy.

As the markets wound down for the evening and traders packed up their stalls, the cries of wares being hawked was slowly replaced by drones of laughter and music drifting from Lahy’s taverns and alehouses. Dogs barked, children ran playing through the streets, and guards patrolled with a carefree slouch to their shoulders. It was late-summer, and so the air was pleasantly cool without being cold, and the setting sun flashed brilliantly on the colourful tiles and stones of the Royal City.

A city at peace. That -

“Top you up, master?”

Msitovic’s eyes fluttered open in surprise. He sat at a table outside one of the many alehouses that lined Conqueror’s Square - a broad stretch of flagstones jutting from Lahy’s main avenue - and he found himself facing a bald-headed serving man wearing a stained apron. Msitovic had foregone his normal fine clothes in favour of a plain cloak and shirt to avoid attention, so the man did not seem to recognise him as the Chancellor and Regent to King Nestor V, and the most powerful man in Ruska. “I beg your pardon?”

“Uh, ale, master?” The fellow hoisted a ceramic pitcher. “Can I top you up?”

“O-oh,” Msitovic blustered with a laugh as he looked down to the empty cup cradled in his calloused fingers. “Please, goodman. I think another drink would do me well.” Another ten or twenty, maybe.

“It always does,” the server said with a toothy smirk as he began to pour. “You drinking alone tonight, master? If you’re looking for company, the lads from the smithy are just in after their shift, and our lad Pyet is going to play the domra. He’s no Ljursk Honeytongue, but he’s not bad either.”

“My thanks, but I think I’ll sit alone awhile. It’s a nice evening to sit and think.”

“That so? You do seem a little tense, master. Trouble with the missus, is it? It usually is.”

Msitovic forced a smile. “Something like that.” The truth was that when word reached Lahy Castle of Prince Barbov’s conquest of Dules, Msitovic had absconded from the Castle for a while to piece together his thoughts before the sycophants and opportunists of the Royal Court hounded him for answers. So far, though, his thoughts remained fractured. “Business seems to be going well for you,” he found himself commenting instead.

“Going well?” the server guffawed with a grin. “Never been bloody better, master! Mind you, folk are always itching for a drink this time of year, what with the temperature and the harvest coming up, but it’s much more than that lately.”

“That so?” As he drank from his cup - the ale was poor and watery - Msitovic’s eyes began to draft across Conqueror’s Square, and to the statue at its centre.

“Surely so, master. That Nzech Chancellor was able to break up the barley farmers’ monopoly, so we’ve been able to sell drinks again for a fair price without going broke. My wife’s brother works in butchery, and he says the same thing happened with mutton and pork, too.”

That brought a soft smirk to Msitovic. For years, Lahy’s industries had been plagued with monopolies thanks to burghers - and even some Boyars - working together to control prices, and neither King Karl or his Duma had been inclined to fix the problem thanks to their own personal interests. But now that Msitovic had free-reign as Regent, it had been trivial to overrule the city’s Duma to implement a massive tariff on monopolies. Overnight, those monopolies had been forced to break-up, and now they traded at fair and competitive prices once again.

“More than that, though,” the server went on cheerily as he invited himself to sit across from Msitovic, “folk seem happier, too. I s’pose that sounds odd, what with all the chaos since King Karl died and his son was couped, but that’s just how it seems. I’m a man of God myself, and so I was mighty nervous when I heard he was lifting the Temple Tax and giving the pagans roof-right, but there’s been no pogroms just yet. I expected the Nzech to start oppressing us Canonists, but …” he spread his hands. “No books burned, no churches sacked. Like a bloody miracle.”

“I suppose it does seem that way,” Msitovic said wistfully. All his policies so far had been popular the common folk, but at the cost of the ire of the city’s rich and ruling classes, but Msitovic could have cared less about that. What kept Ruska weak was the low power of the monarch, and how Kings were so often forced to bow to the selfish needs of various Boyars to placate them, and Msitovic had every intention of bringing that to an end. I just need to watch out for a knife in my back.

“I’ll hold my breath and enjoy it while I can, though.” The server reached over, and filled up Msitovic’s cup without prompt as the strings of a domra began to play within the tavern. “Good times like this never last. Not in Ruska.”

That a tavernkeep summed up Msitovic’s sentiments so neatly almost made him laugh. Instead, though, he drank deeply, and asked, “What do you think he sees?”

The server blinked. “Who?”

“Him,” Msitovic repeated, and narrowed his eyes at the statue in the middle of Conqueror’s Square. Towering thirty-feet high, King Ivan was carved all in dull stone, with a banner in one hand and a sword - pointing in the direction of the setting sun - in the other. Almost two-hundred-and-fifty years ago, it had been King Ivan that united many of the warring city-states of the Raev Basin to give birth to the Kingdom of Ruska, and for that he was known as Ivan Kusoraev - ‘of all Raev’.

“The … um … statue, master?” the server asked uncertainly as he looked between Msitovic, and Kusoraev’s weathered stone face.

“Yes - Kusoraev.” Msitovic met the first King’s lifeless eyes, slashed with a ray of the evening sun. In truth, Msitovic did not know whether Kusoraev had been a warlord who conquered for his own sake, or someone who genuinely believed in something greater than the Raev as fractured tribes, but he chose to believe the latter.

“I … uh … don’t quite understand, master.”

“Do you think he is proud of the fruit of his conquests?” Despite the monumental achievement that was the formation of Ruska, Kusoraev’s coronation marked the beginning of a new and equally turbulent age as his descendants and vassals battled for the throne he had created. After his death, his nine sons feuded for the throne, and when the fighting was done, the victor - Nzech, Kusoraev’s second-born and Msitovic’s ancestor - had won a pyrrhic victory, and held a throne with little power beyond the memory of Kusoraev.

Wearing a confused frown, the server rubbed the back of his neck. “I … really couldn’t say, master. Not much of a historian, really. All I know is that he was the first King, long before we had the Nzech, the Karovic, or any of the others.”

“It’s not a difficult question,” Msitovic went on softly, his eyes locked with Kusoraev’s. “If you had been the one to create Ruska, would you be proud of what it is now?” Nzech’s ascension to the throne was the start of the corrosive cycle Ruska had been trapped in ever since - when a king was crowned, they sold themselves to their powerful vassals to keep their throne, and were typically warred against and killed by others seeking the title for themselves, only for the victors of those wars to mire themselves in the same dilemma. From King Nzech, to the four Nestors, to King Karl and his Karovic Rebellion, Ruska’s history spelt the same tragedy - instability, which served as fertile soul for plots and schemes.

“I …” His brow creased, the server wet his lips. “I don’t know the first thing about politics, or war, or any of that, master. I’m common-born, not a Boyar. But … if Kusoraev wanted to build a place for folk like us to live, then … at this very moment … ai. I suppose I’d be content.”

“At this moment,” Msitovic repeated. His ears twitched, and he tuned into the din of the city again - the chatter in the air, the laughter, the domra being played in the tavern. “I see. I suppose all we can do is hope that the new King Nestor can turn this moment into a century.”

The server snorted as he rose to his feet, and filled up Msitovic’s cup yet again. “And let’s hope that pigs start pissing wine. Like I said, master, good times don’t last long in Ruska. Now, then, far past time I head back in. You just holler if you need anything, ai?”

Msitovic acknowledged the service with a weak smile, but he could not avert his eyes from Kusoraev as he was left alone once again. Yes, well … he’s not wrong. From Nzech to Karl, every man who has ever held the throne has lacked the will or the means to make any kind of difference with it. Kusoraev united a land of tribes that had little in common beyond language and trade, and we’ve barely progressed in the two-hundred-and-fifty years since then. Every endeavour, every effort to make a positive change … Msitovic’s hand clenched around his cup. Nearly all of them have ended in failure because they lacked the power to make anything last.

Msitovic’s grip relaxed, and he sighed through his nose. People would say I’m no different. In the eyes of Ruska, Msitovic had been the Chancellor of King Karl who took advantage of the King’s death to usurp his heirs and install someone from his own family to the throne - a boy of six, no less. There was no doubt he resembled each and every one of the selfish scheming lords he so utterly loathed, and yet …

There’s no other path to salvation - no other road to a Ruska where every generation isn’t marked with a civil war and succession crisis, and a king too weak to rule the Boyars. It was that belief that had driven Msitovic to cobble together a faction of sycophantic lords under the pretence that he would favour them with more power, and he led the Coup of Lahy to oust Prince Barbov before he could take the throne of his late-father. Contrary to what everyone believed, Msitovic had not done it for the glory of the Nzechovich -- he could not afford to care even about his own family, not when he had his sights set higher.

His eyes hardened into a glare on Kusoraev’s face. Unless we have another Kusoraev - someone with enough strength to lead us into the next chapter - then we’ll never crawl our way out of this hole. That was the revelation that had haunted Msitovic for months, right up until the moment he had stared at the corpse of Karl Karovic lying in wake - the man he had sworn to serve as Chancellor, despite the fact that his reign had been built on a rebellion against Msitovic’s own family. Someone has to do it.

And so, he had bloodied his hands at the Coup of Lahy - he had ordered the deaths of the Princes and their followers, men and women who had done him no wrong, but simply because they needed to die so that Msitovic could assume total power, and do everything he could to bring about the next age - an age of peace, and progress.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though. There was no moment where Msitovic didn’t feel the weight on his shoulders of those who had already died at his hands, and the many more who would surely perish before his work was done. Maybe that is why, he told himself softly as he felt their hands claw at his soul, there has never been another Kusoraev. Bogatyrs he had once fought with under King Karl’s banner, slain simply because they would not understand Msitovic’s plight - slain, because they were inconvenient.

No one could ever bear the weight.

He was sure others had tried; other kings and powerful men had surely begun down this path before, and he had no doubt some gave up and thought that the cycle of war and instability in Ruska was an easier price than bringing the realm to heel as the next Kusoraev. Msitovic just wondered if he was truly the first to think that the price was worth paying.

It’s not like I can turn back now, he reminded himself as he felt the claws inside him leave deeper and deeper marks on his soul. For the sake of everyone whose died already, I cannot stop until I am done.

His eyes still glaring at Ivan Kusoraev, a tear rolled down his cheek.

I cannot stop until I am the next Kusoraev.

Msitovic Nzechovich

MunaZaldrizoti · June 10, 2023

Spoiler

We need a Barbanov named Karlanya cus she's cool af

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Song of the Black | Chapter XIII: Kusoraev

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