Song of the Black | Chapter XV: The Burgundian Host

[Xarkly 12618]

SONG OF THE BLACK

CHAPTER XV: THE BURGUNDIAN HOST

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 ...

Chapter XI: ... Banners Black

Chapter XII: Drunkards in Dules

Chapter XIII: Kusoraev

Chapter XIV: Blood is Nothing

 

In 246 E.S., the man history would remember as Barbov the Black captures the Trade City of Dules.

 

For the young Prince Barbov, this victory marks the first major step in his quest to reclaim the throne of his late-father - Karl Ruswalda’ Karovic, King of Ruska - after Barbov and his brother Kosav were driven from their home by the Nzechovich dynasty, their nemesis from whom Karl Ruswalda took the throne. 

 

While Prince Barbov plans his next move in Dules, a sleeping bear stirs on the other side of the River Huns -- the Burgundian Host, a famous league of Canonist mercenaries, venture out from their keep of Burgstad for the first time since the civil war between Barbov and the Nzechovich erupted. While many expected the Burgundian Host to pledge their allegiance to Karl - who, like his father, is a Canonist in a realm home to many pagan faiths - an officer of the Host finds himself escorting an important guest to the Royal City of Lahy, seat of Nzechovich power.

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

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As a boy, Lazar’s parents had told him tales of the Burgundian Host.

 

The holy order of Canonist mercenaries were villains in some stories and heroes in others, depending on who told the story, but all accounts agreed on their prowess. Since they had first been formed generations ago by the holy hero Jan Yeremi, the Burgundian Host had carved their name into Ruskan history, for it was the Host who vanquished the tyrant Nikolaus of Dules in their maiden battle, who cleansed the realm of the Vampyre of Bretzenov, and who had fought to place King Karl Ruswalda on the throne of Ruska thirty years ago. 

 

Those stories had filled Lazar’s head all throughout his childhood, and so they had eventually turned into dreams, and, finally, ambition. At age six, he played pretend sword-fighting with the other boys and imagined himself as a warrior draped in the Host’s namesake cloaks; at age fourteen, when his father was teaching how to hammer horseshoes, he instead dreamt he was smithing blades for the Host; and, at age eighteen, he left behind his family home to travel to the Host’s stronghold of Burgstad to enlist.

 

And now, eight years later, here I am, Lazar thought as his warhorse - Aegal, a Carnatian thoroughbred - carried him down the Lahy Road. An Attaman of the Burgundian Host … stuck guarding an overweight priest. 

 

He sighed and patted Aegal’s neck, before he looked over his shoulder at the priest in question. Of course, Merilaus of Khosentar wasn’t just any priest - he was the Archbishop of Lahy, which made him the highest-ranking member of the Canonist Church in all of Ruska. Merilaus did not exactly look the part, though: the middle-aged, portly Rhenyari wore plain and dark grab, save for a modest touch of silver scrollwork on his cloak, and the impassive frown on his dark-skinned face did not quite radiate charisma. A small pipe was clenched in his teeth, from which he puffed blue-grey smoke every few moments.

 

“Something the matter, Attaman?” Merilaus arched a bushy eyebrow as he spotted Lazar staring, before he plucked the smouldering pipe from his mouth, and offered it out. “You want a toke? It’s good tabac, from back home in the Rhenmarch.” 

 

“... No, thank you, Your Excellency. I don’t partake.” 

 

“Really, now?” Merilaus popped the pipe back into his mouth. “Well, give it time, son. Every man takes to the pipe or the bottle sooner or later.”

 

“But it is the light of God that keeps men from straying too deeply into vice,” chimed a sing-song voice as a woman urged her horse up beside Merilaus’. Despite her cheery disposition, scars pocked the freckled face of Chaplain Idle of Burgstad, whose unkempt coppery hair stuck out from beneath her plumed half-helmet. Like Lazar, she wore a burnished breastplate over a wine-red coat and a white-trimmed burgundy cloak, emblazoned with a white Canonist Cross. “Isn’t that so, Archbishop?” She flashed the Rhenyari a knowing smile. 

 

“Indeed, Chaplain,” Merilaus grunted dryly. “How wonderful that you are so learned in the matter of basic vice and virtue.” 

 

Idle’s giggle was mischievous as the gleam in her eyes, but it was disarming compared to her battle-scarred face. “Well, I was blessed with an excellent teacher, after all.” 

 

Lazar frowned as the pair of them chortled. I don’t understand those two a whit. Though Ilde was an Attaman like Lazar - an autonomous company-commander within the Host - she was also Burgstad’s Chaplain, responsible for administering all holy rights, and so she had mentored under Merilaus before she had risen to her current rank. The way she behaved around the Archbishop was more like a daughter than servant, though, and Lazar did not approve. It simply was not proper. 

 

And it does not seem like the Archbishop is much better, he added to himself. Before he had met the Archbishop for himself, he had thought that the foremost cleric in all of Ruska, the leader of an infant church in a pagan-infested land, would be both stern and wise, sagely and strong. Instead, when Merilaus had come to Burgstad after the Coup of Lahy, Lazar had found a man that was plainly dressed and plainly spoken, who seemed far more cunning than he was wise. 

 

Lazar had been … disappointed. 

 

At that moment, though, as Aegal carried him down the Lahy Road at the head of a column of fifty riders of the Burdungian Host - warriors from both Ilde’s company and his own - it was not his expectations of the Archbishop that bothered him. Rather, it was their destination. We should be travelling to the other side of the Lower Huns, to Dules - to Prince Barbov, Lazar thought for the umpteenth time. Not travelling to Lahy to break bread with the Nzechovich. Lazar and Ilde’s mission was to escort Merilaus safely to the Royal City of Lahy, where the pagan traitor Msitovic Nzechovich had summoned a Grand Duma, on which the Archbishop had a seat. 

 

It didn’t make any sense to Lazar. During the Elk War - when King Karl Ruswalda had overthrown King Nestor Nzechovich IV - the Burgundian Host had been the military backbone supporting Ruswalda. In doing so, they had created Ruska’s first Canonist king, which had ended decades of religious persecution of Canonists and spread their faith like wildfire. But now, King Karl is dead, God rest of him, and so is most his court. Lazar’s expression darkened as he glared out across the sloping green fields surrounding the road. And the Nzechovich have retaken the throne. So why in the hells are we not riding to Dules to support Prince Barbov?

 

Lazar did not realise he had let out an audible curse until Ilde sped her horse up beside his. “Something the matter, Lazzie?” 

 

“No,” he retorted harshly. “And I have told you to stop calling me that.” 

 

“I know,” Ilde said with one of her infuriating smiles. “It’s just that you look like a thunderhead. Are you -”

 

“It’s nothing. Just - just keep your eyes on the road. Lahy nears, and we may well not be welcome in the city anymore.” 

 

“Oho. Look at you, giving orders to a fellow Attaman. If that’ll help loosen that spear up your backside, then I’ll do just that, Lazzie.” 

 

By the time Lazar’s eyes snapped around to glare at her, she had already dropped her house back past Merilaus. Her melodious laugh hung in the air, and there was a creak of leather as Lazar clenched Aegal’s reins in frustration. He continued riding with a scowl. 

 

The rolling green countryside around them gradually became dappled with more pastures and fields brimming with grain almost ripe for harvest as their party passed the seven-mile marker to Lahy. They had passed some traffic that morning, all of whom had been peasants driving wagons to market in the city, but as the morning drew on, the roads from Bretzenov and Rezenskc joined up, and traffic increased exponentially. By the time they had passed the five-mile marker, Lazar had to assign Kusot - one of his juniors - to ride at the front and yell at the rabble to keep a clear path so as not to trample them. Lazar was grateful they encountered no Nzechovich patrols, but they did cross paths with a convoy of nearly one-hundred mounted and scale-mailed soldiers escorting a Boyar to the city. Lazar did not recognise the banners they flew, but, judging by the icy looks they gave the Hostmen, their master was a pagan ally of the Nzech. 

 

Other travellers gave their burgundian cloaks disparaging or frightful looks, but, for the most part, the peasants and merchants travelling the roads watched Lazar’s company pass with intrigue or even cheers. The regions south of Lahy were predominantly Canonist - in no small part thanks to the Host’s influence, since Burgstad sat two days’ downriver from Lahy - but Lazar suspected that welcome would not last much longer. Merilaus claimed that since he had been invited to the Grand Duma, they would not be harmed in the city, but Lazar was not so certain.

 

“I bet you’re glad I didn’t wear the hat now, hm, Ilde?” Merilaus remarked at one point after they were forced to slow their horses to let travellers disperse for the fourth time. “This lot would be asking me for prayers and blessings every step to Lahy.” 

 

“It’s a mitre, not a hat, Your Excellency,” Ilde tutted, “and I daresay it might not be a bad thing for your flock to see  their shepherd among them once more. You have been gone for three months.” 

 

“Yes, well, matters of politics can’t be helped, now, can they? Besides - it will make for a triumphant return!” 

 

“As you say, Your Excellency.” 

__________________________

 

A rider of the Burgundian Host.

__________________________

 

Despite Merilaus’ efforts to travel incognito, he was recognised by a band of peasants travelling by foot near the three-mile marker, and the Host had to move their horses off the road while Merilaus obliged the peasants with a short sermon. Merilaus took a slab of stone rubble on the roadside for his dais, and the watching peasants quickly grew from thirteen, to twenty-five, and then more than fifty. 

 

While the rest of the Host took their steeds to water from a nearby stream, Lazar remained atop Aegal, watching the sermon with his arms crossed over his breastplate. “You don’t feel like joining in, Lazzie?” chimed Ilde as the Attaman joined him once again. 

 

Lazar gave her a frosty, sidelong look. He was not going to let her get a rise out of him with that name anymore. “I have already said my morning prayers.” 

 

“I know,” Ilde rolled her eyes. “I was there. You can relax, you know; the Nzechovich aren’t going to attack us. Not yet, anyway.” 

 

Slowly, Lazar looked back to the ring of peasants sitting around Merilaus, who gestured animatedly as the sermon continued. “How can you be so sure of that? Not only are the Nzech pagans, but the Host helped overthrow the last Nzechovich king. We should be mortal enemies.” 

 

“We can be sure because Merilaus is sure.”

 

“Merilaus is -” 

 

“A smart man,” Ilde cut across him quietly, but firmly, “even if he might not seem like a model priest. He’s been Archbishop for nearly fifteen years in a city that’s divided between pagans and Canonists. He knows the politics at play here.”

 

“Politics?” Lazar sneered. “For God’s sake, Ilde, he’s an Archbishop, not a prince.”

 

“Skies above, Lazzie, you’re not really that dense, are you?” 

 

“You had better reign in your tongue, Attaman,” he seethed. “One more petty insult, and I’ll make you defend those words in a duel.”

 

“You go ahead and do that, Lazzie, but before you do, you should know that there’s power in prayer. It’s happening right in front of you.” Lazar peeled his glare off to look back to Merilaus, and saw that the crowd of worshippers had grown even larger. A burgher draped in fine wool and furs, flanked by two helmeted armsmen, had even joined them now. “And where there’s power, there’s politics. That’s just the way of the world.” 

 

“Politics,” Lazar repeated the word bitterly. “Is that why we’re going to Lahy in the first place? Is that why we’re breaking bread with the Nzech instead of breaking their bones?”

 

“Is that what's bothering you?” 

 

“ … Yes,” Lazar said tightly. He had no idea if she would relay his misgivings to Merilaus, but he did not care at that moment. “We’re on the wrong side of the River.”

 

“Huh,” Ilde said, without a trace of mockery. “You think we should be fighting with Prince Barbov? It seems you’re quite political yourself, then, Lazar.”

 

“It’s not a matter of politics,” he grunted back. “It is simple right and wrong. The Burgundian Host are an order of Canonist mercenaries, and so we should be fighting to put Barbov on his father’s throne. This business of going to Lahy to meet the Nzechovich …” He grit his teeth. “It’s cowardice.” 

 

“Just … think about it for a moment, will you?” Ilde’s tone took Lazar by surprise; there was none of her usual wit that made everything she said sound insincere. Even her scarred expression was pensive as she stared absently at Merilaus. “Does it look like the Nzechovich are about to start purging Canonism from Ruska? We haven’t heard of any churches being burnt, no clerics murdered, no scrolls burned in the streets. Skies, if that was their intention, Vladrik Nzechovich would have marched his thirty-thousand man army on Burgstad, and not Dules.” 

 

“Hmph. It is only natural that they fear us.”

 

“Except I don’t think it’s fear, Lazzie,” Ilde clicked her tongue. “With Karl Ruswalda as King and Msitovic Nzechovich as his High Chief, Ruska had thirty-years of relative peace. Say what you will about the Nzech, but Msitovic Nzechovich is a smart man.” Slowly, she panned towards him. “He might have usurped the throne from Ruswalda’s son, but he clearly doesn’t intend to incite religious violence.” 

 

“Tsch. Sounds like conjecture to me. Who's to say Prince Barbov does not want the same?”

 

“That’s the point - who is to say? Barbov’s practically still a child, and he’s been forced to surround himself with opportunists for allies who seek to use his fledgling power for their own ends. I’d wager some of his Boyars are just siding with him so they’ll get a sweeter deal from the Nzech to switch sides at the right time, not to mention he’s got extremists like Ratibor Skysent at his side, who would see paganism punishable by death if he had his way. Barbov might very well allow that - point is, Msitovic Nzechovich is known and respected. Prince Barbov is not.”

 

“Ratibor Skysent is a Canonist hero,” Lazar cut in harshly with a clenched jaw. “And so what if Barbov does take a harsh stance on paganism? We should be glad for it! The Host’s ethos is to spread Canonism; not accept the Nzech’s status quo!” 

 

“And what does spreading Canonism mean, Lazzie? Telling folks to murder their neighbours? Forced conversions? Razing the lands of every pagan Boyar? Pfft. Half of Ruska would go up in smoke within the week, and the rest would follow quickly enough.” 

 

Lazar opened his mouth to retort, and then closed it with a click of teeth. For a moment, he just stared down the road, at the throngs of people making their way towards Lahy. Chatter, laughter, the creak of cart axles, the bray of horses, Merilaus’ booming sermon, and the wind in the trees filled the air. He closed his eyes, and sighed - he hated that she was right. “So … you’re saying we should choose the daemon we know?” 

 

“I’m saying that Merilaus and the Host are not fools for hearing what the Nzech have to say, especially if that means the civil war between Barbov and the Nzechs won’t escalate into a religious war. The Burgundian Host prefers to raid pagans outside of Ruska, after all.” 

 

Lazar opened his eyes. He slouched in his saddle, as if he was deflated. “I do not like politics.”

 

“Good,” Ilde snorted. “That usually makes folk less insufferable. I suppose you’re an exception, though.”

 

“I - hey!” he growled, but as he narrowed his eyes into a glare, Ilde had already begun to trot away. “We’re still going to duel at Lahy!” Lazar called after her. “I’m not tolerating your insults any longer!” 

 

Ilde only laughed, and that stoked Lazar’s ire even more. 

 

When Merilaus had finally finished her sermon and their company mounted up once more, Lazar found himself filled with a different kind of anxiety as they set out, wading through the traffic of travellers. No longer did he wonder whether or not the Nzechovich were going to cut them down as soon as they were trapped within the city walls; instead, Lazar’s mind was shrouded by Ilde’s words. He didn’t want her to be right, but he couldn’t ignore the truth now that it had been presented to him. 

 

The daemon we know … 

 

Before Lazar knew it, they crested a slope in the road, and then there Lahy was. 

 

The Royal City spread out before him. A quilt of farmlands, almost ripe for harvest, blanketed the land all around the city walls, at the foot of which clusters of farming hamlets pumped chimney-smoke into the sky. The late-morning sun beamed down, and sparkled against the Tapestry Wall, which was given its name for the enormous mosaics inlaid on the stone to depict scenes of long-dead heroes, vanquished foes, and galloping horses. Naturally, the entire face of the thirty-foot tall curtain wall was not covered in those rainbow tiles - just stretches here and there - but it was enough to lend Lahy a grandeur and character that no other city could match. 

 

Despite his mood, Lazar could not help but smile. Lahy was his home; he had been born and raised in the city’s Farrier District, and it had been nearly six months since he had last come to the city to visit his parents. His smile did not last long, though, because he knew the city he beheld now was not the same city he had visited those six months prior. Karl Ruswalda no longer lived, and a Canonist King no longer sat the throne. It was the green-red banners of the Nzechovich dynasty that streamed from the onion-domed towers atop the Tapestry Wall, and not the black-red of Ruswalda’s Karovic lineage. 

 

Home, and also not. A part of Lazar had expected the city to have been torn asunder by the Nzechovich government, but Idle was right - there was no sign of that. Traders bustled in and out of the city, and the farms swarmed with straw-hatted labourers preparing for the looming harvest. It was a city at peace, but that did not still Lazar’s restless mind. He had wanted there to be living proof that the Nzechovich could not be trusted on the throne, that they were cruel tyrants who simply had to be overthrown for the good of all, and yet … 

 

“Why have we stopped, Attaman?” Merilaus piped up behind him. 

 

“I can only guess he must be stunned by the view,” Ilde sang. “It is a beautiful sight, don’t you think, Your Excellency?” 

 

“Bah. Shit still stinks, no matter how much you polish it. Let’s get a move on.”

 

“ … Right,” Lazar said absently. “Of course, Your Excellency.” 

 

As he heeled Aegal into a canter down the slope towards the city gates, his eyes remained locked on the Nzechovich banners flying from the Tapestry Wall. The Daemon we know. Pah. God, grant me patience … And, if it came to it that the Burgundian Host actually trusted the Nzechovich …

 

… and grant me forgiveness, too.

 

Lazar of Lahy, Attaman of the Burgundian Host.

 

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