KUSORAEV

[indiana105 2139]

HAUCHPRINZEN VAN

KUSORAEV.

 

 

“They are few, borsa. We win this day.”

 

---

 

THE LIFESBLOOD OF SOUTHERNERS RAN FROM EVERY STONE. Uruks roared in their foreign tongue as men drove their pikes deep into green flesh. A sickening, sweet stench filled the helm of the Grand Prince of Kusoraev, and his ears rang with the song of steel. All around them surged the righteous horde of the Covenant. Slaughter such as this had not been seen since the fields of Acre. 

 

The enemy this day flew the same banners. These men fought the war of their fathers, and their fathers before them. Orenian lay next to Lodenlander, Uruk next to brigand. Though unlike the wars of the past, true raevir followed them into the grave. They were not the sort to don a powdered wig and lick the boot of a heartlander named Emperor. These were horsemen, streltzy and bogatyr. Why do they spurn the Motherland, and take up arms with the lords of summer? 

 

A spray of crimson erupted from a Romstun levyman as a lance burst through his chest, snapping at the half. Ivan watched him crumple silently into the gentle waters of the river Petra. These ones were once bannermen to his great-grandfather. Once, they had been sworn enemies to this line of Orenian usurpers. Why had they abandoned their lands and titles? He threw down the stock of his spent weapon, and unsheathed the sabre that hung at his saddle. “It makes nie difference,” he told himself. “They are the enemy. Borsa or niet.”

 

Was this the fate of the Lord and Protector of the Highlanders? To slaughter his people in the wars of the heartlands? The victorious column wound through forest and plain, stomping the dirt of the Midlands beneath thousands of boots. The scent of Carrion was thick in the air, and Haensemen sang of their longing for the Motherland; for the North. Banners of black, embroidered with the proud Golden Crow snapped overhead, but the prince could only stare at the compass in his palm. Its needle pointed to the rear. The road to Valdev was south.

[ContestedSnow 778]

The longer that the Duke of Vidaus marched, and the older he grew, the more his thoughts wandered to the past. His memories were largely poor ones, punctuated by great bounds of bloodshed and regular suffering, but there was still much he could appreciate. The love of his long-dead mother, playing in the streets of Karosgrad, winning his first victory in battle, lost loves, the pride of fatherhood, and the joy of grandfatherhood.

 

Thoughts flickered through his mind, fleeting as they were; no doubt his comrades had the same memories. And the Raev they slew on opposite sides of the field, and even the Veletzians. No doubt they had such thoughts. Were their thoughts of their homeland or of such memories when they drew last breath? What would Viktor's thoughts be, he wondered? Perhaps the Motherland, or the lands he left behind, or the family he lost, or the family that he would likely not rejoin in the Skies. 

 

It did not matter. As long as he still drew breath, he had his duties and his responsibilities. His place was to rule over his lands, and to march, and to kill the enemy. He continued to ride in the Crown Prince's column, for as long as it needed march. He must fight, as they all must.

Edited January 18 by ContestedSnow