Song of the Black | Chapter XIV: Blood is Nothing

In Lahy Castle, Lord Msitovic Nzechovich - the man who orchestrated the Coup of Lahy to restore his family to the throne and ousted Prince Barbov - reflects on the difficult choices lying ahead of him. Surrounded by scheming factions and fleeting allies, Msitovic feels more alone than he ever has as he tries to precariously balance the civil war that he has created. In a moment of doubt, he seeks comfort from Bozidar Kindheart, an old friend but also an enemy sworn to Prince Barbov, who is held in Lahy Castle under house arrest. Msitovic fully explores his heart and mind over a game of Lafsk with his friend and enemy, and resolves to see his ambition through -- to save Ruska from its history of violence and infighting.

Spoiler

The piece clacked against the wooden Lafsk board as Msitovic moved it.

The piece was barely three inches tall, but it felt heavy in the High Chief’s fingers. It was a kind of weight that Msitovic had felt before, many times. When his father, stern faced and demanding, had first thrust a sabre into Msitovic’s hands when he was six and told him that he would use it to defend Ruska and the Blood of Nzech, Msitovic felt that weight for the first time. He felt it again when he was sixteen, and he had skewered that same sabre through the gambeson of a Carnatian raider in his first true battle. He remembered the weight when he was twenty, and he watched a unit of Nzechovich armsmen charge to their deaths in the Battle of Vsevford for no other reason than because Msitovic was a Nzechovich, and he had ordered them forwards.

The weight had been there when Msitovic had knelt before King Nestor IV Nzechovich - his own uncle - and sworn his undying fealty, only for Nestor IV’s reign to go up in smoke three years later when Karl Ruswalda declared his rebellion, smashed the Nzechovich loyalists, and drove Nestor IV into exile. The weight had never felt more crushing than when Msitovic agreed to serve as High Chief - or Chancellor, as the title was also known - to King Karl Ruswalda, in the hopes of mending the bitter gap between Karl’s victorious Karovic lineage, and his defeated Nzechovich kin. Msitovic had been haunted by the weight in the years that followed as he signed laws and enacted change on behalf of the slothful King Karl, but the last time he had felt it - truly felt it - was a mere two months ago, when King Karl had died, and Msitovic ordered that his son and heir - Prince Barbov - was to be killed.

That weight - the weight of power, death, and consequences - had been part of Msitovic’s life for so long now that Msitovic wondered if it was part of him, and whether would have become an entirely different person if not for how that weight had warped him. Now, as he stared at the Lafsk board in front of him, he felt it again, pressing down on his shoulders, threatening to crush him. It was, of course, not the board game before him that brought on that weight, but the moves playing out in his mind.

For it was Msitovic’s turn to make his move against Prince Barbov, the boy prince he had failed to kill at the Coup of Lahy.

“Come, Bozidar,” Msitovic tutted absent-mindedly. “Make your move already.”

“Hmmm …” came a brooding rumble from the other side of the board. “I can sense the makings of a trap, but I do not see where it will spring.”

“A wise fox trusts his instincts and runs, instead of waiting to see if the wolf pounces,” Msitovic recited half-heartedly in turn.

“Yes, well, I do not think I am much of a fox.”

“ … No.” Despite that weight bearing on his mind, Msitovic cracked a faint smile at his opponent. “I do not think you are, Bozidar.”

Bozidar Kindheart’s massive shoulders shook as the man chuckled. The Bogatyr that sat before Msitovic was far closer to a bear than he was a fox with his barrelchest and tree-trunk arms, which strained the fabric of his shirt. Despite the fact that Bozidar was the largest Bogatyr to have served the Ruskan throne in generations, the man was far from intimidating. With that innocent cast of his eyes, the warble of his voice, and the spring of blond curls clinging to his shiny scalp, Bozidar seemed more like a stuffed teddy bear than a grizzly one. The man’s reputation did not help, either; his moniker was self-explanatory enough, and, besides which, Bozidar was famous for his oath to never kill another man. It was almost comical to Msitovic that Bozidar - despite his size - was the only Bogatyr who had not earned his station through bloodshed.

Where Bogatyr like Slavomir the Drowned and Ratibor Skysent were renowned for cutting their foes to ribbons, Bozidar handed out alms to the poor, and shared his wealth with whoever fed him a sob-story. That was not to say Bozidar was useless in battle, though; while he held to his holy oath to never kill another man, Bozidar’s famous greatshield served to turn the man into a walking fortress on the battlefield. Ever since the Elk War - when Msitovic’s family had been toppled from the throne - Bozidar Kindheart had been the sworn shield of King Karl Ruswalda, and no arrow nor blade had ever made it past him.

“You, on the other hand, would make a fitting wolf, I think,” Bozidar said with a toothy smirk as he finally advanced his own Lafsk piece.

“I would hope not.” Clouded as his mind was, Msitovic instinctively assessed Bozidar’s move, and saw it posed little threat. The man was playing without a plan, it seemed. “I was never partial to hunting. Besides, if it were my choice, I’d much rather be a friendlier creature.” With another clack, he moved a piece of his own, and the trap Bozidar sensed began to close.

“Like what? A sheepdog?”

“More like a peacock, perhaps.” That brought out another bout of chuckles from both men. “Though, a sheepdog isn’t inaccurate. I certainly feel like one - I’m stuck chasing things that continue to run from me.”

“So it seems, aye,” Bozidar said, a touch cautiously, before he made a reluctant move on the board. “I have heard you have called the Duma to sit.”

Mention of the impending Duma made the weight press deeper into Msitovic’s shoulders. “Yes,” he answered softly. He stared over Bozidar’s shoulder, to where an ajar window looked out at the tiled rooftops of the Royal City of Lahy, glistening in the evening sun. “I have. Prince Barbov has taken Dules, against all odds, and now I must do something about it.”

“He has earned your personal attention, has he? I pray my Prince Barbov steps lightly, then.”

“Yes, well, he survived last time I tried to kill him,” Msitovic grumbled, before he nodded towards Bozidar’s side of the board. “Move.”

Bozidar blinked at the board, as if he had forgotten about the game, and then pressed a piece forwards. He was trying to form a line of defensive pieces until he figured out Msitovic’s stratagem. “Still, it almost sounds as if you are impressed, old friend.”

“That’s because I am,” Msitovic answered bluntly, and he watched Bozidar blink in surprise as Msitovic moved one of his pieces on the opposite side of the board. The move was a decoy, just to throw Bozidar off the scent of his trap a little further. “Like I said, Barbov and his ragtag band of exiles has defied all odds so far. They went from a few-hundred men on the fringe of Ruska, to an army of ten thousand holding the realm’s richest city. They defeated the Electors and outwitted Vladrik in what I can only call a stroke of daring military genius, and before they ever reached Dules, they defeated Szitibor and Mylah at Mejen.”

Mention of Szitibor and Mylah - his niece and nephew - caused anxiety to bubble up within Msitovic. Those two had begged him for the opportunity to battle Prince Barbov and snuff out his little reclamation before it could get started, and Msitovic had eventually relented. It had been over a month since news reached Lahy of Szitibor and Mylah’s defeat at Mejen by Barbov’s Karovic insurgents.

“Szitibor? Your nephew? I remember the boy. Excellent with a sword, is he not?”

“He is,” Msitivoc answered faintly as he stared at the Lafsk board’s polished tiles, and the pieces gleaming atop them.

“Did he and his sister survive Mejen?” Bozidar made his move as he spoke, but Msitovic hardly noticed.

“I … do not yet know. I -” he stopped himself, and closed his eyes as the weight grew heavier, grew crushing. One thing at a time. If I do not focus only on what I can control, then I will drown in what I cannot. With a slow breath, he opened his eyes again, and calmly moved one of his pieces on the board. “That is another reason that it is time to call a Duma. Our intelligence of events on the other side of the Lower Huns River is patchwork at best. Our main army is still intact and camped a few leagues away from Hunsburg, and though it remains under Vladrik’s command, I have a good mind to take that boy’s head myself.”

Msitovic could not muster the anger to match his words. Vladrik was another one of his nephews, and, until the Battle of Dules, he had been hailed as the young prodigy of the Nzechovich clan. He had proven himself as a skilled warrior in his own right, and a commander of smaller companies fighting Carnatian raiders in the northern hinterlands. For all his talent, he was plagued by an arrogance that made Msitovic’s blood boil -- it was the kind of arrogance that made Vladrik think himself invincible; the kind of arrogance where he did not bother to disarm his foe because he so thoroughly believed they could not harm him. Vladrik’s command of the thirty-thousand Nzechovich army, and their mission to subjugate the Trade City of Dules, had been meant as Vladrik’s debut as general, and he bungled it.

And, because of that, Barbov Karovic has gone from an annoying fly in my periphery to a colossal threat at my doorstep.

“What is it you intend to put before the Duma, then?” Bozidar’s eyes did a final scan of the board, before he scratched his moustache, and slid a piece forward.

“You could find out for yourself.” Msitovic moved his own piece barely a second after Bozidar had taken his sausage-sized fingers off the board. “You could stand with me at the Duma tomorrow, as an ally.”

“You know I cannot,” Bozidar said softly. “I have told you many times, old friend. I swore myself to King Karl Ruswalda, and so I am bound to serve his heir - bound to serve Prince Barbov … as you should be, Msitovic.”

“You seem intent not to change your mind.”

“I am. You swore to serve King Karl as I did. Our oaths hold to his heir, and I intend to keep mine.”

Msitovic only sighed. The Coup of Lahy had been the culmination of months of planning in preparation of the death of King Karl, during which time Msitovic had deftly spun the threads of his plot, compelling allies to his side through lies and promises and appeals to the restoration of the Nzechovich reigns of the past. Speaking those things had made Msitovic sick at the time, but it had been necessary to enact his plan. Those that he knew could not be convinced were marked for assassination on the night of the Coup, namely the inner circle of King Karl’s Bogatyrs. Bozidar had been among those, but, much to Msitovic’s relief, Bozidar had slept through the entire Coup, oblivious to swords ringing in the halls and his kinsmen being cut down in the halls. He had appeared the following morning in the bloodsoaked pantry for breakfast, without a clue what had happened.

Bozidar had been confined under house arrest ever since, and Msitovic was grateful for it - he was grateful he had one friend he did not have to kill to realise his ambition. Msitovic had found himself visiting Bozidar more and more often as his quest to stabilise Ruska dragged on - as he found himself more and more alone.

“I understand,” he said stiffly at last, and idly moved a random one of his pieces. His mind had long since drifted from the Lafsk game. “Then, when I kill Prince Barbov, you will be absolved of your oath, and I trust you will be at my side then. I could use a shield like you, Bozidar. Unless, of course, you think your oath will compel you to seek vengeance.”

A dark look flashed across Bozidar’s face, and then mellowed into weariness. “Come now, Msitovic - you are not feeling sorry for yourself, are you? I must say,” he bristled, “it does not suit you at all.”

Msitovic managed a weak smile. “Don’t be foolish. I was the one who chose this path, and I was under no illusions when I did so.” It felt like his bones were about to creak under that unseen weight on his shoulders, on his soul. “I’m just … tired. I have to balance half a dozen competing factions who seek to manipulate me and our infant King for their own gains, I have to coordinate our diplomatic and military efforts to bring the Boyars in the south-east of the Basin on board, and now I have Barbov to contend with in Dules.” There was silence for a moment, broken only by the distant toll of a bell from outside. “But all that is to be expected. It doesn’t bother me.” He stared at the board’s polished wood, unblinking and unseeing. “The only part that grates on me is that they all think my goal is to restore the Blood of Nzech to the throne of Ruska.”

Bozidar regarded him uncertainly, and narrowed his pale eyebrows. “I daresay you hardly find that surprising. You are Msitovic Nzechovich, after all - nephew of King Nestor IV, and uncle of Nestor V, a boy-king that you installed after your Coup. As far as most of Ruska can see, your motive is clear - after decades of reluctant service to King Karl, you have ousted his sons, and are restoring your family to the throne.”

“Most of Ruska … but not you.”

“ … No,” Bozidar agreed after a long moment. “Not me. I fear I know you too well to think that.”

That was a small comfort to Msitovic, the slightest relief to the weight. “I am just glad someone knows, at least.” His eyes broke up from the board at last, and flit up to meet Bozidar’s own beady eyes. “Even if they do serve my enemy.”

The Bogatyr snorted, and crossed his massive arms over his chest. “Still, there is ambition, and then there is pure arrogance, old friend. You have plunged Ruska into civil war, killed comrades, and sullied your own honour - all because you think this is how you will bring peace and prosperity to Ruska.”

“I will bring peace to Ruska,” he affirmed.

“Through war?” Bozidar challenged.

“The wheels of change must be greased by blood, Bozidar; there is no way around it,” he retorted. “The common folk care not a whit who rules them if they have wealth and times of peace in which to spend it. You know I can give them that, Bozidar - you know that I have been giving them that for years!” He felt the heat rise in his voice, but it felt … good. It made the weight feel a little lighter. “King Karl might have worn the crown since he deposed my uncle all those years ago, but you know who really ran his court, who really stabilised Ruska.”

Bozidar nodded stiffly. “I do. You, and the White Sage.”

That name - the White Sage - brought a different sensation to Msitovic. Not the unseen weight, but a sense of mourning, of grief. Diedrik Karovic had been the younger brother of Karl Karovic - who reigned as Karl Ruswalda after overthrowing Msitovic’s uncle - and he had been Msitovic’s personal mentor. It had been Diedrik who convinced Msitovic to take the post of High Chief of Karl’s court despite the fact that Karl had taken his throne from Msitovic’s own family, all because of Diedrik’s belief that infighting and feuding between families would eventually tear Ruska apart if someone did not put an end to it all. That was no small part of why Karl Ruswalda’s reign had been so fruitful - it had been Karovic and Nzechovich, working hand-in-hand. Of course, King Karl himself had little part in that: he might have been the face of Ruska, but Diedrik and Msitovic were its left and right hands. So acclaimed was Diedrik’s wisdom that history had come to remember him as the White Sage.

“Would that he were still here,” Msitovic said under his breath. The White Sage was not dead, but he had left the Royal Court seven years ago after a falling out with his royal brother, and he had not been seen since. Msitovic could still remember his white cloak and mane of silvery hair riding out from Lahy’s gates, and his own pleas to try to convince his mentor to stay had fallen on deaf ears. Diedrik had only placed a gnarled hand on Msitovic’s shoulder before he left, and spoke his last words.

Sangk kes Toza. Those were words that the White Sage had uttered several times in his long tenure as his brother’s left hand, but that last time haunted Msitovic ever since. Sangk kes Toza, he thought wistfully to himself as the evening light flooding Bozidar’s apartment gradually grew darker. Blood is Nothing. That had been the White Sage’s driving belief, a belief that he had imprinted onto Msitovic ever since the fall the King Nestor IV; it was the belief that one’s family ties, one’s religious alignments or political interests, should mean nothing compared to the good of the realm - the good of all Ruska.

“That’s it, then?” Bozidar queried with an arched eyebrow. “You simply believe you can rule … better than anyone else?”

“Diedrik and I already proved it. Think, Bozidar; twenty years ago, our country was about to tear itself apart over religious friction between the pagans and the Canonists, and now they coexist together in this very city because we made the Edict of Yuultiba to equalise religious worship! The Rhenmarch Boyars were fighting wars against each other every summer because of Rhenyari inheritance, but it was Diedrik and I who brought an end to it with the Basika Decree, and we silenced their objections at the Battle of Khosentar! Now, and nary a blade has been unsheathed in the Rhenmarch since! And need I remind you of the Saltfens? How many acres did we cede to Hanseti encroachment, before we finally sent them back across their side of the river at the Battle of Vizstenya?” Msitovic found himself breathing heavily as he finished, and his hands had clamped the edge of the table. There was a desperation in his voice that he hadn’t intended, and he was not sure why. Bozidar was a good and honest man, but it was not as if Msitovic craved his opinion. Unless … I am still trying to convince myself of all this.

Bozidar opened his mouth as if to object, but then closed it again. He merely frowned at Msitovic for a long moment as another chorus of bells tolled outside - to signal the end of evening prayers for the Canonists, this time - and scratched his moustache. “Could you not have simply guided young Barbov, as you did his father? Then there would have been no need for anyone to die.” He closed his eyes, then, and pinched the bridge of his broad nose with even broader fingers. “Lorszan, Paitaer, Movedric, Akhiev, Caize … all my fellow Bogatyr slain …”

Msitovic knew those names, of course. They had been his friends, most of them - except for Movedric, at least; Msitovic had it on good authority that Movedric had beaten his wife to death - and they had all died as a result of Msitovic’s ambitions. They had been too close to King Karl, and they would have never stood down while Msitovic deposed his son. Therefore, they had to die. The wheels of change must be greased by blood. He sucked in a slow breath, and reclined in his wicker chair. “Perhaps I could,” he answered Bozidar at last. “But Barbov is young, reckless, and headstrong. He didn’t listen to his tutors, and often not even his father. What if he fell in with the Canonist radicals, and revoked the Edict of Yuultiba? Or if some other snake like the Boyars in the Hanseti’s pockets convinced him to give the border fort at Vizstenya back to them? All the work of Diedrik and I could have been undone in an afternoon! I - … it just could not be risked, Bozidar.”

Bozidar said nothing, but his eyes had widened slightly. The two of them sat there in silence for a moment as the din of the city beyond drifted into the room, and clouds passing over the setting cast slants of shadow across the two men and their game of Lafsk. Finally, Bozidar said, “I just wish -”

Msitovic slammed a hand into the table, and the pieces clattered on the Lafsk board. “You just wish that no blood could have been shed?” He seethed through grit teeth. “You wish that we could have all been friends? That we could have all been happily ever after? Your wish is misplaced, Bozidar! If we had done nothing - if I - had done nothing, the King of Hanseti would continue his schemes to pay off Boyars of the Duma to push treaties that would cede more and more land until he was ready to invade! Both the Canonist Archbishop and the Maenvestiyaeo Oracle would stoke the fires of persecution, sparking riots in the streets until the Royal Court picked a side! And do you know what the worst part would be, Bozidar?” Hands pressed against the table, Msitovic leaned in towards the wide-eyed Bogatyr. “Every time our incompetent kings breathed their last, this wretched cycle would repeat itself! Blood is nothing, Bozidar. If I can end this cycle, I will.”

With that, Msitovic sank back into his chair as if suddenly deflated. His cheeks felt hot, and his fingers twitched restlessly. Bozidar did not seem sure what to make of it all, but the man seemed more shocked than Msitovic had ever seen him. “I … I’m sorry, Bozidar. I should not have raised my voice. I - …” He cut off as Bozidar burst into laughter, of all things. It was not a rumbling chuckle like before; now, Bozidar’s massive chest heaved as he boomed his amusement. It was Msitovic’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” Bozidar said between laughs. “It is just … it is good to see some life in you again, old friend. I thought all this business since the Coup had turned your heart to stone.”

“Is that so?” Msitovic rubbed his temple. He was not sure if he ought to have been relieved, or offended.

“Indeed,” Bozidar hummed. “And do not mistake me, Msitovic; I am just a guardian who has taken a holy vow never to slay another. A man like me, though, can never change the world. I am not a smart man, but I understand that much. I never had the … constitution to be a man like that. So,” he straightened one of the Lafsk pieces that had been knocked over when Msitovic banged the table, “all I mean to say is that my opinion should mean little, as should any other’s. If it is approval you seek, old friend, then you will never escape your doubts. Now, shall we finish the game?”

Msitovic shook his head, and smiled back in spite of himself. Maybe I am feeling sorry for myself. He stopped himself then, and leaned forward to overlook the Lafsk board again. Well, not anymore. “The game? Hm. Will you accept my humble surrender, Bozidar Kindheart? I feel as if this is a victory that belongs to you.”

Bozidar’s eyebrows shot up. “What?! What slight is this? You cannot trap me, and then surrender! You rob me of a defeat with dignity!”

“It is a game of Lafsk, Msitovic.” The chair creaked as Msitovic rose to his feet, and rolled his shoulders. “But if I have offended your honour, noble Bogatyr, well then …” He spread his arms. “By all means, kill me.”

Bozidar snorted. “Well played, High Chief. Perhaps you might send me some more wine. There is little to do in this cooped up room other than drink.”

Msitovic smiled once more, and this time it was warm and genuine. “I will, old friend. I owe you that much.”

“Owe me?” Bozidar asked as Msitovic turned, and made for the door. “Owe me for what? Msitovic?”

As he stepped into the tiled hallway and closed the door to Bozidar’s apartment behind him, the trio of guards standing guard snapped to attention, and planted fists over their hearts in greeting. “Have the Lord Bozidar brought some good wine,” Msitovic told them idly, and started down the hallway.

He still felt that weight bearing down on him, but he no longer felt like it would crush him.

Bozidar Kindheart

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Song of the Black | Chapter XIV: Blood is Nothing

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