THE CROWN AND KORVACZ

[prophetisms 982]

Spoiler

 

 

O R

T H E   S I E G E   O F   K O P P Á N Y. 

 

 

Upon the dais of Castle Lesanov, Joren did not rally his bannermen or allies in wrath to Lemon Hill, nor did he reject the Church, within its own halls, with fury. It was all with virtuous conviction, wrought upon him by the crown he carried for his brother. His people deserved a better life than what the Church offered unto him, and no scholar nor holyman could take that belief from Joren. If the Haeseni could not find peace through penance or pen, then the new king found his blade a better guide than the shepherd’s crook.

 

Before an Archaengul, the loving king did not relent from the bloody path ahead of him. “The Koeng’s duty is to his people. His people’s duty is to him,” he spoke in earnest. The Haeseni would march alongside Joren, and thus he kept an open hand too, to usher them along the long road of war. Of the first Haeseni to know this was the Viscountess Dszamila, ambitions waylaid by the news Joren provided. 

 

Even as a Raevir, Dszamila did not act with pride. When Joren spoke hers and Istvan’s names before the Horenic Covenant, in their plans to defend Koppány, she did not find her head held high at the mention of her home or kin. Her chin dipped low, as a servant of the Haeseni and God alike. She could not keep it low, though, as the viscountess had to set her eyes onto the path Joren charted.

 

The path, to Dszamila’s chagrin, led to Xéniavaros. It stood tall enough against the cliffside, unwavering yet. Laborers made their defenses or insights within the white walls for the Crown and Korvacz. Meanwhile, the viscountess laid the groundwork for new arrangements beyond their keep. Crate by crate did she and her kinsmen funnel out their belongings, to collect dust some place else than by their crypts. Root by root did the Saintswood falter from the courtyard, to be upended like the great one of Stran and find new soil all the same. Dszamila orchestrated such without envy. It was a pragmatic matter, which led Dszamila before the steps of Castle Lesanov, and before Joren.

 

Along with their kinsmen, Korvacz and Barbanov alike, Dszamila and Joren conversed in the high halls of the red keep. “Should moy lose this,” the viscountess said. 

“We won’t lose,” the king said.

 

 How wrong he was.

 

 

Atop the ramparts of Xéniavaros, on the day of reckoning, Dszamila stood side by side with Nadya; a loving queen, but a ferocious soldier first. If the engines of war around them did not rip through their hearing already, the viscountess could hear hers and the queen’s hearts beating out their chests. Dszamila’s mind hardly felt her own as she manned a ballista. Load, aim, loose. Over and over, load, aim, loose. As Nadya drilled the process into every artilleryman, Dszamila told herself it was no different from drawing a bow upon a deer in the woods. What lurked in the treeline was far more unforgiving, though.

 

Every bolt that soared out onto the manmade field needed its replacement, provided to Dszamila by Nadya, at least. Even if the viscountess did not see the way the queen’s hands turned red, both women shared the pain, nonetheless. The pain of war, their labors, and their survival. “To the left!” Nadya commanded from Dszamila’s flank, her voice strained, yet loud enough for the order to rattle in Dszamila’s ear. 

 

Together, the Viscountess of Koppány and Queen of Haense moved as one entity to turn the ballista onto their next target. They could do it, Dszamila knew it–even if her vision turned clouded by the smog that loomed over the viscounty. She could not let that stop her, Nadya would not let that stop her–nor the both of them. There was much to lose, regardless of title. For Dszamila, it was her home, her kinsmen, and her queen. For Nadya, her allies, her people, her friends, and her child. 

 

Despite all they fought for, none of it could shield them from cannonfire. Shot after shot from Eulersburg, in rapid succession, sundered Xéniavaros and its palisades. As wood and stone went flying, so too did the ballistas. So too, did Dszamila and Nadya. Whatever directions the women went were lost upon the viscountess as she met grass and gravel within the walls. Her shoulder burned hot with a newfound pain that was not parallel to the rest of her body’s ache. 

 

Nadya. Where did she go?  

 

Dszamila’s throat burned from the smoke and her screams for Nadya. That was her queen, her friend and comrade. She had to make sure she was safe, so they could pick up their blades and start again. Her calls came to nothing, though, as others screamed for help; injuries, breaches, and whatever else war made of the Covenant. 

 

The viscountess could not wait upon the queen, even if Nadya’s safety would haunt her through the rubble. Dszamila’s rosen cloak ran red with her own blood as she pressed on. If she did not swing her sword, she pulled someone onto their feet. They had all had to make their stand, not die upon their bellies in the dirt. It was not the way–it was not her way. 

 

“Pull back! Retreat!” were words that made Dszamila buckle, as Joren bellowed from somewhere within Xéniavaros and its destruction. It was her home, but not the hill that the Haeseni and the Covenant should die upon. Dszamila surged past bannerman after bannerman that made their leave. If she could not scream in defiance from a hoarse throat, the Viscountess of Koppány could still move past her aches and pains. Her blade could still find another man or two. 

 

Her own kinsman was quick to take that away from her, though. “Mila,” a familiar voice rose through all the clamor of soldiers, steeds, and steel. An arm hooked around her, like a shepherd preventing a lamb from running into the pasture. It was her grandfather, Alekszej. 

 

“Vy can’t,” Dszamila rasped out. Everything that was left to her, for her children, was going up in flames or down to rubble around them. What viscountess, or mother, or woman would she be, to abandon it? 

“Y will,” was all Alekszej said, knowing his granddaughter better than most. 

 

Alekszej pulled against Dszamila, but not for long, as Alekszej still bested her in strength and stature. As the Viscountess of Koppány was dragged from her lands, the answer became clearer than the skies above them: 

 

She would be living. 

 

Dszamila would return to New Valdev, still as a viscountess, even if her keep no longer stood on the cliff. Dszamila would return to her children, to cradle them again. Dszamila would still be her own woman, willful as ever. She could not shoulder the burdens bestowed onto her if she were dead. 

 

One legacy, at least, lived on. It was only at the cost of whitened stones. 

 

Spoiler

It took a little longer than expected, but I am so happy with how this piece turned out. It would have not been possible without the assistance of @sarahbarah and @erictafoya , along with the course of the war and the Horenic Covenant players.

 

[sarahbarah 7105]

 

 

DSZAMILA SAT SLUMPED in a high-backed chair before the flickering hearth, her posture sagged with fatigue. Her armor had been stripped, leaving her in a dirtied linen undershirt and trousers torn at the knees. The black curls that once crowned her proudly were disheveled and damp with rain and sweat. She stared at the flames, unmoving, eyes hollow and glassy with grief. The wine goblet in her hand was left untouched.

 

Without warning, Queen Nadya made way into the chamber. The firelight flickered against her bloodied face, casting deep shadows beneath her eyes. She knelt beside Dszamila, grasping her wrist with a firm, calloused hand. Dszamila barely stirred at the touch, her gaze still distant, unfocused.

 

“I am a stubborn woman as you are, Dszamila,” Nadya rasped, her voice low and rough from the strain of battle. She squeezed the woman’s wrist tightly, as though to will her back into the present. “I know you mourn the battle lost. But you must stay alive.”

 

The Queen's voice wavered slightly, but her grip did not. She lifted Dszamila’s hand and pressed it against her own, feeling the faint, weary pulse beneath her fingers. A reminder that she still lived – that she could still fight.

 

“Live to fight another day,” Nadya whispered, the words fanning softly against Dszamila’s knuckles – a reminder that she, too, drew breath. Her bloodied hand fell to the sword that leaned against the armrest and guided Dszamila’s fingers around the hilt, closing them firmly over the worn leather grip. It was a silent command. A plea.

 

“Do not let them make a martyr of you, Mila.” She pushed the sword into her grasp, firm and insistent. “Make them fear you still draw breath.”

[Koodini 854]

So soon after the first cry came cannon fire. Within walls a stranger to her blood, the Viscountess's babe — Dzsenifer, would soon find her namesake a haunting thing. "White phantom," its roots formed; her reminder of paled ramparts and alabaster stones felled yet. Her mother was the defense bolstered, a shield snug between her children and the world, the likes her brother was destined to inherit. Was she to become the blade against it? The tongue raised in the face of the unjust?

Time revealed all truths. But for now, beneath a mother's hum, she'd rest. Soon a woman, even sooner a girl.