Xarkly

you can just not upvote

Looks great. If I had a suggestion it would be to maybe try focus on newer types of videos -- I think whenever the Media Team is revived, the racial lore videos (particularly orcs) tend to get remade whereas I think it would be seriously cool to see things like history videos on wars etc.

Ryke tilted his straw hat to obscure his face as he finished his business in Balian, and swiftly took to the road. He would need to find somewhere else to hunt for a while.

We have characters sail off to non-playable islands and continents or whatever all the time. The playable continent isn't the entire world, and we don't need to constrain ourselves to that. If people were so inclined to stay on Almaris, then I don't actually see there being anything wrong with that. Instead of forcing a transition through an exhausted map-end formula, we should instead present compelling reasons why characters might move but not to force them. This could be a whole range of things, from some America-tier colonisation where "the map event" is the discovery of a rich and bountiful land that dwarfs Almaris and expeditions travel overseas and eventually become new capitals; or, on the flip side, maybe Almaris' resources become exhausted that devastate the economic opportunities of the land; maybe they're colonial settlers sent to settle this new land (that again leads to it becoming the new seat of power for their homeland); and so on and so forth. Not everyone needs a motivation to move, and it can instead serve as an opportunity to retire/shelf/PK characters and start a fresh slate on a new map. There are plenty of complex questions to figure out like what becomes of nation territories that remain on Almaris, but I think this could lead to interesting eventlines like communication being lost with Almaris or those powers falling into delapidation or being overtaken by an NPC/event faction. Plenty of natural options that could offer a fresh approach to LotC worldbuilding. Granted, there are problems with it sure, but there are definitely major issues with the same formula of map-end disasters again and again that would benefit from a change.

"Verily, the King will be heard," Vanhart swore under his breath as his Evil Magic Flying Carpet ferried him above Karosgrad. "And woe be to those who do not listen."

Vanhart sighed as he watched the flames dance in the hearth. He may not have been born Reinmaren, but he knew well the mistakes of King Henrik. "You'll know better, Georg," he mumbled as the logs cracked. "Lead, and do not be led."

Vasegra i ve Aurza Kastija EXECUTION OF THE ROYAL WILL WER RASTET DER ROSTET Issued by THE CARROT On this 14th day of Gronna and Droba of 459 E.S. UPON MY NAME AS VANHART THE CARROT I do declare, upon my honour as a Reinmaren lord, that it was the wish of the late King Karl III that I assume the mantle of executor of his royal will and that of his wife. Pursuant to this honour, I call upon these named men and women to attend the Morivi Prikaz this coming harvest to hear the will of their late Majesties read aloud, and to distribute their personal worldly possessions accordingly: His Majesty, King Georg of Haense Her Majesty, Queen Esfir of Haense His Highness, Prince Marius of Haense His Highness, Prince Nikolas of Haense Her Highness, Princess Analiesa of Haense His Highness, Prince Sergei of Haense Her Highness, Princess Klara of Haense His Grace, Duke Aleksandr of Vidaus His Highness, Prince Aleksandr of Haense Her Highness, Princess Mariya of Haense His Highness, Prince Stefan Edvard of Haense Her Ladyship, Elizaveta Cometborn Ruthern His Lordship, Viktor Siegmund Ruthern His Highness, Prince Lucien of Savoy Ser Conrad ‘The Bulwark’ Ser Vlad ‘Hothand’ Ser Flemius ‘The Unwavering’ Ser Sebastien ‘The White Sun’ His Lordship, Felix Weiss His Lordship, Audo Weiss His Lordship, Haus Weiss His Lordship, Wolfgang de Vilain, Baron of Acre Ser Jakob ‘Ivansbane’ His Lordship, Atilan Bishop His Lordship, Wilfriche Sigismund Barbanov Firress Elia Stafyr Dame Giovanna ‘Serpentsbane’ Firr Branimar Kvaszyev His Lordship, Sviatoslav Godunov His Lordship, Loran von Draco Firress Karina Morovar Ser Coin Her Ladyship, Dahlya Kruger Wright Her Ladyship, Ophelie de Falstaff His Lordship, Vladrik of Jerovitz Her Ladyship, Margrait Baruch, Viscountess of Greyspine Her Ladyship, Viorica Kortrevich His Lordship, Isa Basrid Her Ladyship, Angelika of Vidaus On the eve of the Feast of the Harvest, I, as executor of this Royal Will, shall read aloud the final messages of the late monarchs and distribute their possessions. I pledge that I shall give voice to their last worldly wishes with sufficient theatre and gusto, and that I shall shed no further tears in the process. Let those who neglect to attend be known to shirk the last wishes of their departed liege, and forfeit their claims lest they plead their case in advance. [[Sunday, January 8th, @1:30PM EST/6:30PM GMT in the Haense Palace]] IM NAMEN DES KONIGS Vanhart the Carrot Barclay

I don't think our mission statement as any bearing on the quality of new players, nor is this necessarily incorrect, it's just promoting the freedom aspect of LotC's RP, which is definitely one of the server's most marketable traits. Ultimately, it's essential to remember that most people who come onto the server as noobs are young people who will have to go through the usual growing pains.

The obscure truth was that it took two people to wear the Crown with greatness, and some Kings only stood so tall because of the Queens that lifted them, who unconditionally stood at their side when all the world weighed on them, who lightened their burden when their hands were bloodied and their conscience scarred, who reminded them of what they toiled and fought for. That Karl had found that in his wife would have made his father happy.

To rest easy was no simple thing. To know that one's work was not only preserved, but built upon ... to know that the blood shed and the lives sacrificed for a cause were not in vain ... to know that all that was achieved in a brief glimpse of life outlived their mortal bodies, that it was all given meaning ... A fresh candle flickered on the tomb of King Sigismund III.

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER XI: ... BANNERS BLACK 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 ... The Battle for Dules for continues. Ratibor Skysent faces off against Dragan Skullsplitter in the city's harbour; Josef Tideborn outwits Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich after they breach the city gates; and Prince Kosav finally enacts his plan to capture the city in the name of his brother, Prince Barbov the Black. Music “Tea?” Yaina blinked out of her trance. She narrowed her eyes at the steaming porcelain cup presented to her, and then to the face of the man holding it. Elector Kvadden, eldest of the Electors of Dules and the man that had done nothing but frustrate Yaina’s attempts to end the Siege of Dules, was the last person she expected any kindness from, but his matured face, framed by a mane of silvery hair, wore a faint, if apprehensive, smile. “I … ah … thank you, Elector Kvadden,” she mumbled as she took the cup. “Consider it a peace offering,” Kvadden said as he eased himself down next to her on the bench, which was one of many built into the towering walls of the lamplit Electors’ Chamber. Since the assault had began on the city - it must have been nearly four hours ago, now - the Electors of Dules, their haggard, worried faces in contrast with their resplendent cloaks and jewellery, had remained languishing across the Chamber listening for reports of the battle outside, but to little effect. There was nothing to do but wait for it to end. “We have had some … ah, disagreements, you and I.” “I suppose we have,” Yaina said cautiously as she brought the tea to her lips. A Rhenyari oolong brew, she recognised the tea, and then frowned immediately. This is no time to be thinking about tea. Screw your head on, Yaina. “And yet here we are … cautiously united in fickle hope. Tell me, Elector Zeravosch; why is it that you trust Josef Tideborn to save this city?” As the elder turned his head to look at her, Yaina only stared into the deep red-brown tea. “This doesn’t sound like much of an apology, Kvadden.” The aged man’s smile twitched wider. “I said it was a peace offering; not an apology. But please, I mean no offence. I am just … curious. You vouched for the man more than anyone.” Yaina gave him a sidelong look, and relented. “I don’t trust him. I trust my understanding of him; of what he wants, of what he will do, of what he’s capable.” “Care to enlighten me?” There was silence for a moment but for the muttering of other Electors across the room as Yaina drank again. “... He’s a mercenary, but he’s not a turncloak or a craven. He doesn’t care about Dules, really, either, nor the Nzechovich, nor the Karovic. We’re just pieces on a board, and payment is just a means to an end for him.” “Then why …?” “I … I think it must be legacy.” She had pondered on the curious man that was Josef Tideborn many times since she put her trust in him to defend Dules from Barbov Karovic and Vladrik Nzechovich, but she also knew that, if she had misunderstood the man, then he might hand the city to their enemies on a silver platter. “I think Josef Tideborn wants to be remembered as an incredible man. Not as a killer, like Dragan Skullsplitter, but … a genius. He wants to be the man who saved Dules from certain defeat, who defeated two armies, who defied the Ruskan throne. He wants -” “... to make his mark on history,” Kvadden finished with a slow nod. “Well, he may get his wish, based on the reports so far.” He paused. “There was something else I wanted to ask, Elector Zeravosch.” “And what might that be?” She continued staring into the tea, and her own tight-eyed reflection. “You remember why we chose this path, don’t you?” Kvadden’s smile was gone, now. He stared absently at one of the Chamber’s arched, moonlit windows at something unseen. “Yes, Kvadden,” she answered curtly. “I was part of the vote to reject the Ruskan crown so that half of our wealth didn’t fill their coffers.” Kvadden shook his head, and when he spoke again, there was a strange thickness to his voice. “No, it’s … more than that, Yaina. The rest of Ruska mocks the Dulen Guard because they are not real warriors, but that is because Dules never needed warriors! We do not fight or conquest; we trade, we build! We have more wealth than the rest of Ruska combined! We don’t need the Nzechovich or the Karovic, or whichever fool claims the Ruskan throne …” He sagged forward, leaning on his knees. “If we could just defeat them here, we could show the rest of the world that they don’t need crowns and wars.” Yaina snorted. “It’s ironic, then, that we need to win a war to make that happen.” Kvadden’s smile was wistful, and his eyes sad. “When this battle is over … when Dules is triumphant … you would seek election as the Princess of Dules, wouldn’t you?” Her eyes snapped up to him, but before she could answer, there came a metallic groan as the doors to the Chambers were opened. The Electors rose to their feet from wherever their sat, and immediately briskly congregated at the marble roundtable in the room’s middle as Captain Virzakev, commander of the 1st Company of the Dulen Guard, half-jogged into the room, and almost tripped as he bowed his head to the table hastily. Behind him, the din of the distant battle raging throughout the city was audible for just a second before the doors closed once again. “My lord Electors,” Kvadden wheezed. His blue-gold jacket and breastplate was unscathed and unbloody. “A - a stroke of good fortune! We …” “... captured Prince Kosav?” For just a moment, Josef Tideborn forgot all about the battle - about the officers of the Dulen Guard rushing around his barricaded pavilion in Dules’ Grand Plaza, of the ceaseless din of clashing steel and roaring men a short distance away, of the constant clanging of the church bells - and narrowed his eyes as Captain Vranna of the Dulen Guard reported the news. “Y-yes, Lord Josef,” the pink-cheeked woman affirmed. “Captain Virzakev apprehended the Prince with a small contingent of Karovic armsmen … disguised as Stagbreakers.” “Disguised as my men?” Josef bristled. “Hmph. Bring him to me.” “I, uh … Captain Virzakev has already taken him into custody in the Electors’ Palace, Lord Josef." As he smelled a fresh wave of smoke waft into the Plaza, Josef narrowed his eyes. “Why was he not taken to me first? I am in command of the city defence.” Vranna flinched under his stare. “T-the Prince was caught trying to scale the Palace walls with grapples, my lord, s-so Captain Virzakev took him straight to the Electors!” “Tsch.” Josef grit his teeth, and turned instead to face the main city avenue. A pillar of smoke and the glow of fire marked the main-gates, where Vladrik Nzechovich’s horde was attacking. Something doesn’t add up. Why would Prince Kosav try to sneak into the Palace with only a handful of men? The entire 1st Company is garrisoned there - he couldn’t possibly achieve anything. So why …? “Lord Josef!” a Dulen Guard called hoarsely as he barrelled into the pavilion. As Josef looked to him, he realised it must have been the first time he saw one of the Dulen Guards with blood on their armour. “The Nzechovich are deploying another battering ram!” Another? We’ve already destroyed two. Damnit. He stared down at his hastily-spread battlemap and the figures spread across it, but his eyes kept drifting back to the Electors’ Palace. Prince Kosav captured … Am I overthinking this? Maybe he’s just a fool. Or, maybe … “M-my lord?” The bloodied Guard prompted. “We can move the 4th Company to reinforce the 2nd and 3rd Company on the ramparts.” “I know what we can do.” Josef glared at the map. Something gnawed at him about Prince Kosav’s capture, especially since he had been brought straight to the Electors without Josef seeing him, and yet … It can’t be helped. I can’t afford to take my attention off Vladrik Nzechovich. Yaina, he thought as he stared down at the Electors’ Palace on the map, right in the heart of the city. You’ll have to handle this one. “Don’t move the 4th Company so much as an inch. Order Captain Urslav and Captain Kormir to prepare to withdraw to checkpoint-four at my signal.” “Withdraw from the gates, my lord?” “Do it. We’re losing too many at the gates as it is, and besides, I’m preparing quite the welcome party for the Nzechovich on the avenue.” “... Yes, Lord Josef!” As the Guard took racing off to deliver his orders to the frontlines, Josef cracked his knuckles. I hope you’re having fun at the harbour, Dragan. I’m about to see if Vladrik Nzechovich has an ounce of brains to back up his balls. Josef Tideborn Ratibor Skysent’s mind raced. In the span of a split second, he tried to gauge the trajectory of the spiked-head of the flail as it blurred towards him. Duck, and then backstep. He had no time for second-guesses: he buckled his knees right before the flail smashed into his helmet, and then sprung backwards off his heels before the flail’s chain abruptly jerked, and the head slammed down into the spot Ratibor had been in just a second before. He gripped his sword, and dashed forward to close the distance, but the chain flexed like a whip to crack against his sword, before the flail’s head took to the air again; Ratibor pirouetted away from its first descent, but he bit off a curse as he was forced to dive backwards away from the second. As he scrambled back another dozen feet, heaving deep breaths through clenched teeth, he nearly tripped over the corpses of dead Karovic soldiers and Stagbreaker mercenaries strewn across the bloodied and burning docks of Dules. He barely noticed the cheering soldiers at his back, roaring, “SKYSENT! SKYSENT! SKYSENT!” This is no good. Armour is useless. One hit from that flail and I’m dead either way. He carelessly ripped off the straps of his feathered helmet, and tossed it to the ground. He raised his sword back into a mid-guard, and glared down the blade at his opponent. A man of his size has no right to be that quick. He moves that flail like it’s a third rotting arm. Dragan Skullsplitter, at least seven-feet tall and with shoulders the width of a tree trunk, seemed unperturbed as he coiled the flail’s chain again as he spun the spiked-head leisurely. Though more of Dragan’s Stagbreaker mercenaries lay dead on the battlefield than Ratibor’s Karovic kinsmen, there were still plenty left alive rallied behind Dragan, and they cheered for him too. “You’re quick on your feet, Skysent,” the towering barbarian said, and he showed no signs of tiredness despite the intensity of their duel. The same could not be said for Ratibor. Although he had managed to avoid being crushed by the deadly flail, that was all he could do: Dragan used the flail’s long chain to keep him at a distance, and every time he came close, the brute pulled the chain in his path like a snare that forced him to retreat, or be caught like a rabbit. “Comes from all those courtly dances,” Ratibor managed in retort. “I suppose you can’t say the same, ox.” Dragan grinned through his helmet. “We didn’t have courtly dances on the River Waldor. Tell me, Skysent: is it true you’re some holy warrior?” “Sent by God himself, to scour the earth of pagans like you.” Ratibor added his own smirk for good measure. He was happy to keep the man talking for a moment, at least so he could regain his breath. I can’t just keep jumping around his strikes forever. He’ll catch me eventually. Rot! How am I going to hit him? In the lull of fighting, he could hear the mutters in the Karovic ranks behind him, the groans of the wounded, and the cackle of a fire that had consumed one of the dock warehouses. “So, you were the one to slay Burgov Godsbane?” Ratibor’s grip tightened on the sword at the mention of the man he had first killed - the dreaded Burgov Godsbane, the pagan bandit warlord who had terrorised western Ruska throughout Ratibor’s youth - and whose death at Ratibor’s hands had propelled him to prophesied fame and earned him his moniker. That was the story everyone believed, anyway. “It’s true. And Burgov Godsbane was ten times the warrior you are, Skullsplitter!” Another bout of cheers came from the Karovic soldiers. The chain clinked as Dragan half-looped the flail around his shoulders. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. That’s why I’m wondering, Skysent; how did you do it? All the stories say that you killed him with nothing but a bread-knife, and you must have been young, too. How did you do it?” Ratibor was not smiling now. His gaze hardened on Dragan as embers drifted through the air between them. “Didn’t you hear me, pagan? God guides me in battle! I am his warrior, sent from the Seven Skies to lay waste to those who scorn his love!” With the flail’s chains linked in his fingers, Dragan spread his huge palms. “Well, I am a pagan, and you’ve yet to scratch me. Will you show me this power from your god, Skysent?” “Be it at your peril,” he seethed. With another roar of cheers at his back, he dashed forwards and he shifted his mind into the same focus he always adopted in battle. Under the chipped helmet, he did not see the face of Dragan Skullsplitter, but instead the hooked nose and sunken eyes of Burgov Godsbane, sickly and bloody like the day he had died. Whenever Ratibor pictured that face, a burning, spurring stamina coursed through his veins. With a shrill clang, and a pained grunt from the vibrations, he fended off a spiked edge of the flail as it streaked towards him, and leapt over the chain as Dragan tried to sweep it through his legs. He advanced, and as the Waldenian expertly yanked on the chain to bring the head crashing towards his back, the spikes scraped against Ratibor’s cuirass as he spun aside. With another rasp of steel, he swat down the chain with his sword before Dragan could coil it, and the dance. This better be enough time for you, Prince Kosav! Step two. Kosav was not sure where exactly he was. Some parlour on the ground floor of the Elector’s Palace, he supposed. It was certainly no holding cell, not with its marble-topped dining table, cushioned chairs, frilled rugs, and the massive unlit fireplace. A handful of lanterns lit the room, and their light flashed against the four halberdiers of the Dulen Guard guarding the doorway. Kosav himself did not match their splendour with his torn and ragged gambeson, the grime and blood flecking his face, and the coarse rope bonds that bound his hands behind his back. Strands of unkempt, dark hair streaked his vision, and he kept his eyes downwards. He could not gauge how much time passed as he sat there in silence, waiting as the battle raged on outside; waiting as Vladrik Nzechovich and his army battered down the gates; waiting as his brother, Stanislaw, Ratibor, Vlasta, and the others fought Dragan Skullsplitter at the harbour; waiting to see if his plan would work, or if they were all doomed. Finally, though, the door opened, and light flooded in from the hall outside as a woman’s shape filled the doorway. “Kosav.” When he looked up, Kosav almost gasped. Though matured now, he could recognise those slightly-pudgy cheeks, those youthful but calculative eyes, and the proud, beak-like nose anywhere. “Yaina?” As Yaina stepped into the room, the heels of her boots clicking on the tiles, her eyes lingered on Kosav for only a moment before she turned to the four Dulen Guards. “I’m told you four were among those that apprehended him.” Her eyes took in the cracks and bloodstains on their once-spotless mail as testament of that. “Yes, my lady,” the tallest of them answered hoarsely through his visor. “The cravens were trying to scale a portion of the north wall with ropes. My patrol cut his companions down on the spot.” “How fortunate you were there,” Yaina titted. “You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your valour when the battle is done. Would you please leave me with the captive for a moment?” “Lady, are you sure that’s -” “It’s perfectly alright.” Yaina waved a ringed hand dismissively. “The captured Prince and I are old friends.” The Guards shared a look, but complied. A moment later, the door clicked shut, and Kosav found himself alone in the parlour with Yaina. For a long moment, there was silence as Yaina simply stared down at him. With her high-necked dress and clean hair, she was the image of composure in contrast with the bloody and bonded Kosav as he stared back at her in disbelief. “We are still friends, aren’t we Kosav?” He swallowed a lump in his throat. This has not been part of the plan. “Y-Yaina … I had no idea you were an Elector now.” Her subsequent smile was warm and genuine. “Surprised? I don’t blame you. I’m sure you remember that my father drank himself to the grave.” “But your brother -” “Died of the sweating sickness,” she finished nonchalantly, “about four years or so after I left Lahy. After I left you.” “... Oh.” His mind whirred. “Wait - is that why he refused to let you marry me all those years ago?” There was a slight lace of sadness in her smile, but it remained warm. “Indeed it is. He knew he was dying for a few years and that I would succeed him, so he didn’t want an Elector of Dules bound to the Ruskan royal family. Of course,” he went on as she paced towards the window, “I didn’t know about that until a few years later. It was sad, really.” She stopped at a window, and brushed the curtain aside to reveal the night sky. “I blamed him for ending my tutelage in Lahy, for forbidding me from marrying you like I wanted, and I didn’t know why until he was close to dead.” “I …” Kosav searched for words. His heart thrummed, his mind raced. “I’m sorry, Yaina.” “I am too.” She let the curtain fall again as she turned to face him with that wistful smile. “Being an Elector isn’t very fun. It’s all decrees, taxes, and protocols … I think I would have been much happier if things had been … different.” “Different …?” “Different. If I had stayed in Lahy, if we had gotten betrothed like your father wanted …” Her sudden giggle took Kosav aback. “Does that sound silly? Thinking back on when we were twelve years old, while now we stand on the opposite sides of a war?” Kosav felt sweat roll down his brow. Yaina … In those days as a boy at his father’s court in Lahy, Yaina Zeravosch, sent from Dules to be tutored in politics, had been his only real friend while Barbov and the other boys were always in the training yard, beating each other over the head with practice weapons. While everyone looked at Kosav askance as the quiet, reclusive son of the magnificent King Karl, Yaina had been the one to spend all those days with him at the library, pouring over old tomes and stories, looking at maps and globes and dreaming of what the rest of the world was like beyond the hills and rivers of Ruska. Why does she have to be here? Why now!? “ … No,” he said at last, his voice a breathy whisper. “No, it’s not silly at all.” All my life, I felt like I was waiting for my real life to begin, the words echoed in his head. That’s what I told Barbov the other day. He stared into Yaina’s eyes, and became lost in their deep hazel pools. Would I still feel that way if Yaina … if my only real friend … had stayed in Lahy? If we had gotten married? He had never felt such a purpose in his life since this war began, but now, for the first time, he felt the foundation of that purpose tremble. Why does she have to be here now? There was silence for a moment, broken only by the occasional shout and clamour of armoured footsteps marching past the door. “So,” Yaina said eventually, “did your brother put you up to this?” His mind roiled in panic. What do I say? What do I say?! “Y-yes. Ever since he led us to victory over the Nzech at Mejen, he … he keeps saying that I’m useless, that I contribute nothing to our war … that I shame the memory of our father and the quest to reclaim his throne. S-so, I … I volunteered to lead a small group to try to infiltrate the Palace. It was the only thing I could think of, the only way I could think to make myself useful.” He hung his head, but his eyes remained wide with fright. “I … should have known it was doomed. Every one of the soldiers that followed me is dead, now.” Yaina clicked her tongue. “Barbov the Brute. I’d kill him myself if I could. You see now why a man like that should never be King, Kosav? Much less Prince of Dules.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Kosav, I … I’m so sorry he forced you into this. He sent you here to die.” “Thank you … for saying that.” He had to force the words out. Why does she have to be here?! The words echoed in his mind over and over again. “I just want this all to be over.” “It will be, soon,” Yaina said, and Kosav almost flinched when she lay a hand on his shoulder. “You’re free from him now, Kosav, and from the cruelty of the Crown of Ruska. You’ll be taken before the Electors, but I promise you’ll be treated gently.” “ … Thank you, Yaina,” he whispered. Why her? “I don’t know what to say.” She gaze his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Oh, Kosav … I can see it in your eyes. I can see what your brother and this war have done to you. But I promise - it’s over now. I … I’ll keep you safe.” Elector Yuris Kvadden “PUUUUUUUUUSH!” The gate gave way in a shower of splinters, and the mass of Nzechovich bodies surged forward as the battering rap - chipped, burnt, and bloody - was dropped to the body-laden ground. His arms leaden from exertion and his throat stinging from yelling, Szitibor thrust his sword upwards. “GO, GO! ALL BANNERS FORWARD!” A tide of triumphant Nzechovich soldiers answered him as they streamed through the opening in the shattered gate, the banners of various Boyars - many of which were torn and signed - moving overhead with them. For a moment, Szitibor stood back on the bridge to regain his breath. We were right about the Dulen Guard, he thought to himself as the formations continued to charge into the gate, and into the main avenue of Dules proper, stomping over dozens upon dozens of their dead fellows, most of whom were peppered with arrows and bolts. They may be numerous, but they’re little more than a glorified guard-force. The gate had given way with relative ease, and with minimal losses to the Nzechovich army. Now, it was a simple matter of storming into the city, forcing their way to the Electors’ Palace, and claiming it for themselves. “SZITTY!” As he glanced around, past the seemingly endless wave of Nzechovich soldiers now storming into the city, Szitibor spotted Vladrik himself in his white-plumed helmet, atop his horse, and with a retinue of Bogatyrs at his side. “WE’VE BREACHED, COUSIN! PULL ALL TROOPS DOWN FROM THE WALLS TO STORM THE GATE!” Vladrik nodded, and gestured to one of the Bogatyr at his side, who raised a brass horn and began to sound two long-winded peels. This will spell the end of Dules, Szitibor thought as he looked back to the smoking ruin of the gate. The main force had been concentrated on the main gate, but Vladrik had also sent some of the massive army to try ladder up portions of the wall. Now that the gate was breached, however, those units could be recalled to reinforce the main army that was now storming the gate. This will be it. The Nzechovich victory … and I’m going to be at the forefront of it. He took a step forward, and then abruptly paused. His eyes drifted eastward, towards the dark waters of the Lower Huns River. Even from here, he could make out the scant remaining ships of the Karovic fleet that had not participated in the attack on the harbour. They … must be their supply ships. Mylah … could she on one of them? He squinted through the firelit night at the ships as they bobbed in the water. There must only be a skeleton garrison on them, if even that. I could save her, right now. That’s why I came here, I … “SZITTY!” Vladrik’s roar snapped him out of his thoughts. “GET BACK IN THERE TO LEAD THE VANGUARD! DON’T STOP UNTIL YOU GET TO THE PALACE!” “R-RIGHT, COUSIN!” For a moment, though, he just stood there staring at the Karovic ships in the distance. I could save her right now. Instead of taking off on his own towards the riverbank, though, his legs began to carry him towards the breached gate. What am I doing? I can save her myself while the Karovic are in battle! His legs did not stop, though. He gripped his arrow-studded shield, and fell in line with the Nzech soldiers marching through the gate. “The gate is breached, Lord Josef!” “Good!” Josef called back to Captain Vranna as he buckled on his scabbard. “And the walls?” “It - it’s just as you said, my lord! The Nzech are pulling their attackers off the walls, and redirecting them all to storm the gate!” “Haha!” He smiled so wide his jaw hurt. “Little Vladrik took the bait hook, line, and sinker!” With another laugh, he drew his blade, and swiped all the figures off the map with it. The little idiot has never fought anything other than raiders before. His only experience of a battle like this is from books, if the snot-nosed twit can even read. His predictions had come true like prophecy: by deliberately ceding the main-gate, Vladrik not only thought that he must have broken the Dulen Guard and thrown them into disarray, but the fool had even been kind enough to stop all his other attacks on the walls and focus solely on the gates. Now, all the Nzechovich army was congregated nicely on the main avenue that spanned between the fallen gates, and the Grand Plaza where Josef now stood. “Vranna!” he called between bursts of triumphant laughter. “Give the order!” Szitibor kicked through the corpses, and into the city. Mylah will still be there to save after, he assured himself as he followed the mass of his fellow Nzech onto Dules’ main avenue. I … I have a chance to win glory for me - and her - now! She’ll just be all the happier when I rescue her, that way. Even in the heat of battle with adrenaline coursing through him, he was not convinced. Before him, past the rows of Nzechovich helmets already in the city, the main flagstone avenue of Dules was lined with barricades and stakewalls between the ornate townhouses, behind which the pikes and halberds of Dulen Guards flashed in the moonlight. A feeble defence. We’ll break through those barriers in no time. “FORWARD! TO THE ELECTORS’ PALACE!” someone in the mass called out, and others took up the cry. “FORWARD! NZECHOVICH! LORD VLADRIK AND NZECHIA!” That cry was broken, though, when a signal-trumpet blared further down the avenue, behind the Dulen Guards’ line. A single, urgent burst, repeating over and over again. “ALL COMPANIES! FIRE!” That was when the first of the Nzechovich soldiers began to drop. In the haze of battle, it took Sztibor a moment to realise what was happening: his eyes followed the volley of crossbow bolts soaring through the moonlight to the figures lining the rooftops of the townhouses, lying on their stomachs, and with dark cloaks to hide the usually flashing mail of the Dulen Guards. “SHIT!” he called out to no one in particular. “CROSSBOWS ON THE ROOF! RAISE SHIELDS! SHIELDS!” He was not the only one to raise the alarm, but it did little good: all around him, Nzechovich soldiers dropped with shrieks as crossbow quarrels bloomed through their mail. Szitibor felt his shield creak and shudder as two bolts struck it, and one head almost punched completely through. “SHIT, SHIT! WHERE IS LORD VYCHEK’S BANNER WITH THE SHIELDS?!” Even if the soldiers could hear his command under the chaos, their formation was too packed together from when they had stormed the city. There was no hope of reorganising their banners into a suitable formation capable of enduring the hail of crossbow-fire like this. “PULL BACK! PULL BACK AND REFORM!” He kept repeating the command in the hope that some would echo it, and while he did hear others repeat the command in panic, his heart sank when he looked around. What seemed to be the entire Nzechovich army seemed to be pushing through the gate, unaware of the crossbow bolts raining death on the front-ranks on the avenue. The units from the walls! They’re blocking our escape by trying to enter the city! We’re trapped! Vladrik Nzechovich The doors closed behind Yaina as she entered the Electors’ Chamber. Outwardly, she maintained her still and stony expression, but she was conflicted within. Kosav … she thought, and looked to the man in question as a bloodied Dulen Guard escorted him into the Chamber in front of her. His hair was matted with dirt and sweat, his once-bright eyes staring absently at the tiles. Why did you let Barbov corrupt you like this? Kosav had never cared for the antics of his brother and the other men of the Royal Court when Yaina had known him at Lahy. Now, he just seemed … defeated. Broken. “My lord Electors,” she spoke to the men and women seated around the roundtable as she moved to her own chair. “I present to you Prince Kosav Karovic, junior to Prince Barbov Karovic, and the loyal Dulen Guards who captured him.” On cue, the line of twelve Dulen Guards by the doors bowed towards the table. They were not the only Dulen Guards present in the room - Virzakev and six others stood arrayed by the columns ringing the table - but only the dozen beyond Kosav sported signs of battle, from ripped sleeves of their blue-gold jackets to dents and cracks in their armour, but the most startling mark was the grim, haggard expressions they wore. “Here, here!” Kvadden called, and slapped the table vigorously. “Glory to Dules!” The cheer echoed around the room, by Electors and Guards both, and Yaina repeated it half-heartedly herself as she sat. Despite herself, she could not take her eyes off Kosav, on that look of deep, deep fear in his eyes. He’s traumatised, even. “I would propose that we leverage his Highness here to his brother in exchange for ending his attack on the city,” Yaina went on, “but I suspect he holds little value to Prince Barbov. He was sent here on a suicide mission to earn his brother’s favour.” Gazes were exchanged throughout the table, and Kvadden spoke next. “Leverage will not be necessary to win the battle, it seems. Captain Virzakev,” he nodded to the Dulen Captain who stood by the door a short distance from Kosav, “informs us that Josef Tideborn is slaughtering the Nzechovich at the gates, and Lord Dragan is keeping the Karovic firmly in place at the harbour. We will have won this battle by morning.” Yaina breathed a sigh, but no relief came. Not with Kosav standing across the table, flanked by the dozen Dulen Guards that had captured him. “Tell me this, then, Prince Kosav …” Kvadden went on. “Your brother did well to survive the Nzechovich coup at Lahy and triumph at Mejen, but why did he commit to this doomed assault on Dules?” In a way, the fact that you survived was a miracle, Kosav, Yaina thought as she stared at the ghost of the Younger Prince. Now, I can save you from Barbov. I can nurture you back to the genius you once were. “ … Your brother has far less troops than both the Dulen Guard and the Nzechovich. Even with his alliance with Vladrik Nzechovich, how could he hope to survive?” As Kvadden spoke, Yaina found her eyes drifting to the Dulen Guards behind Kosav. She could not quite put her finger on it, but something … stuck out about them. Squinting, she scanned each of them again, observed the bloodstains and fractures in their armour … “... What could he ever have hoped to achieve in these circumstances? This battle was a doomed cause for the Karovic, right from the start.” Yaina’s blood froze over as she spotted the detail that had been gnawing at her. One of the Dulen Guards stood closest to Kosav had blood dried all over his breastplate, with one deep rend in his armour on his left side, and the other … Directly at his heart. If he was wearing that armour when that wound was made … he should be dead. So how …? It hit her like a hammer. Her chair scraped as she leapt to her feet, and she cried, “those men are not the Dulen Guard!” Confused ripples spread across the room, but only for a second before Kosav spoke with a vigour in his voice that had not been present when Yaina spoke to him. “Slavomir! Now!” There was a hiss of steel as the Dulen Guard with the broken armour above his heart ripped his blade free from its sheath. “Yes, your Highness!” Come on, Ratibor. From the docks, Stanislaw stood at Barbov's side with his blade drawn but dry, and his visor lifted to watch the duel unfolding between the Karovic and the Stagbreaker lines. Their entire goal in the operation was to draw the attention of the city's defenders away from the Palace, and so Ratibor's ongoing duel with Dragan Skullsplitter was perfect in that regard, but Stanislaw was far from eager to see Ratibor die. As arrogant and flamboyant as the man was, Ratibor Skysent was one of just three Bogatyr that had survived in the Princes' service since the Coup of Lahy, and he was a far better fighter than Stanislaw -- perfect for leading the Karovic vanguard with his skill and charisma both. Yet, as Stanislaw watched Dragan toss that viscous flail around, he feared a single misstep from Ratibor would spell his doom. Chants of, "SKYSENT! SKYSENT!" rang out across the battlefield amidst the clashing combatants. Stanislaw could only imagine how exhausted Ratibor must have been as leapt and slashed aside the flail and its snaking chain. Come on, Ratibor ... you have to do something! You'll be hit eventually! As if on cue, Ratibor whirled aside as the flail head smashed into the ground, but instead of launching himself at Dragan at the apparent opening, he slammed his sword down into the chain connecting the flail to the haft in Dragan's hands. What is he doing? That became clear a moment later. Ratibor pranced back as Dragan hoisted the flail into the air again with ease, and spun it in a loop overhead before it descended down towards Ratibor in a killing blow. The watching Karovic soldiers seemed to collectively hold their breath as Ratibor threw himself low, under the flail, but sliced upheards in the same motion. That collective breath was released in a deafening, triumphant roar as the chain snapped under Ratibor's strike, and crashed into the ground to spew a cloud of dirt and ash. Dragan did not miss a beat, though, and quickly delivered a kick that forced Ratibor back. Don't get cocky! You almost have him! Stanislaw urged silently, and briefly glanced up to the distant spires of the Electors' Palace, towering above the city. Ratibor let out a manic laugh as he stared down Dragan, who was left holding only a limp chain at the end of his haft. In contrast, Ratibor held his own blade at the ready, but instead of attacking in a swordsman's stance, Ratibor instead rushed in as if to tackle the man with his sword raised carelessly high. The crowd's cheers died almost immediately as Dragan cracked the now-lightened chain like a whip, and it snaked around Ratibor's sword-hand like a snake. Ratibor stopped dead in his tracks, struggling to fight his ensnared hand, but Dragan kept his limb locked tight beneath the chain. Ratibor was left practically helpless as Dragan closed the distance in three quick strides, and sunk a fist into the Bogatyr's face. Only the Stagbreakers cheered as Dragon drilled his knee into Ratibor's chest, and then knocked him into obvious unconsciousness with a final elbow to the back of the head. As Ratibor's sword clattered to the ground, Dragan casually scooped his unconscious body over his shoulder like a bag of flour. While his troops applauded and hooted thunderously behind him, Dragan turned to Karovic lines, and hurled Ratibor's body through the air. "It seems God isn't on your side today." Karovic soldiers hastily lowered their weapons so as not to accidentally impale the holy Bogatyr as he plummeted towards them, and he dropped on top of two other soldiers with muffled grunts. "Rot," Barbov cursed at Stanislaw's side. "Get him to the medics, right now!" "Your Highness," Stanislaw urged as he watched the Stagbreaker shields and pikes to part to allow Dragan to trudge back through to the other side, and with a battle-cry, the mercenaries began to rush towards the Karovic once more. "They're coming again." "Yes, I can see that, Stanislaw," Barbov snapped as he gripped Svetjlast. "To to the Nether with them. We have no choice but to engage. We buy Kosav as much time as we can." Stanislaw gulped, and lowered his visor. " ... As you wish, my Prince. ALL LINES, HOLD! ENGAGE!" He looked to the distant Palace one last time. There was still a little time for God to pull through for them. Yaina stared in disbelief. It had all happened impossibly fast: the man named Slavomir’s sword cleaved through the three Dulen Guards - the real Dulen Guards - on the west side of the room, while the rest of the men clad in bloody and broken Dulen armour behind Kosav rammed their spears and blades into the guards on the east side of the room. Within ten seconds, only Virzakev remained standing, clutching a bleeding left arm and pinned to the wall by a spear pointed at his neck. All the Electors watched in stunned silence, but it did not take long for Yaina to piece together what had happened. Kosav’s men must have ambushed a patrol of Dulen Guards, and taken their armour after killing them … then they brought Kosav to the Palace as a ‘prisoner’, and we welcomed them as heroes. If she had not been absolutely chilled to the bone, she might have laughed. A heavy thud through the Chamber as two of Kosav’s disguised men lowered the thick wooden bar over the Chamber door. That was designed as a final barrier to save the Chamber from invaders, and now it had trapped all the Electors inside. “You swine!” Elector Oskienne roared as she ripped her sabre from its sheath, and Elector Giranov and Elector Turova followed suit. “Do not bare steel against the Younger Prince,” Slavomir commanded in cold contrast, and levelled his reddened sword at the table. With stark expressions of anger and fear, Oskienne, Giranov, and Turova looked around the table with pleading eyes, searching for a way out. When they found none, their weapons clattered to the floor, and they sank into their seats as if deflated. Yaina stared at Kosav as her mind grappled with what had just occurred, but the Prince - who massaged his wrists had Slavomir cut his binds - seemed to deliberately avoid looking at her. Was this … your will, Kosav? Or your brother’s? “Never … in all my life … have I seen such a debasing act of dishonour!” Kvadden bellowed. He had not drawn a weapon, but each of his words hammered into the silence like nails. “To sneak into a besieged city, and wear the armour of your enemy … Despicable. Deplorable.” Kosav stared back at him, and he did not seem to blink as he spoke in a distant voice. “You’ll forgive me, Elector, but it’s as you said -- we could not hope to achieve anything otherwise. Now, you have nowhere to run, and no way of calling for help. So, please … let’s end this without any more death and bloodshed.” “End this?” Kvadden repeated. A bead of sweat glistened in the lamplight as it rolled down his face. “End this,” Kosav repeated. “Electors of Dules, I ask you; elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules.” “Kosav,” Yaina called, and she quashed the sense of shame at the meekness of her voice. “Kosav.” The Younger Prince winced at the sound of her voice, but still did not look at her. “This is utter madness,” Elector Vilcka boomed. “A candidate for Prince of Dules must be present to be voted on!” “Or, a member of his immediate family,” Kosav answered in an eerily soft voice. “Hence my being here. I know the laws.” “Know the laws?! Piss-posh!” Vilcka hollered back. “What do you intend to do, boy?! Have your rabid dog here cut us down if we don’t vote for your monkey of a brother?!” “Yes, actually.” The softness and distance of Kosav’s reply extinguished Vilcka’s anger as quickly as it came; now, the beefy Elector only blinked at Kosav, and then looked to Slavomir. Yaina’s heart felt as if it was going to beat out of her chest as she gripped the edge of the table. “Kosav. You - you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to fear your brother.” “I don’t,” Kosav answered, but his voice was weak, and he still seemed unable to actually look at Yaina. “I do this of my own will - of my own desire. Slavomir,” he motioned to the bloodied swordsman, who nodded. Elector Kossga, the next youngest Elector after Yaina, nearly knocked over her chair as she squirmed back from Slavomir’s approach. The man levelled his sword at her neck, and Kossga shook so much in her seat and Yaina thought she might cut her own neck on the blade. Slavomir gave a firm, matter-of-fact nod to Kosav. “Elector,” Kosav began in that same ghostly, soft voice. “Would you please issue a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules?” “Leave the poor woman alone, you weasel,” Kvadden barked. “This decrepit display is pointless - I said as much! Josef Tideborn is beating back Vladrik Nzechovich as we speak. Once he’s done, duelling with your brother at the docks will be trivial! You think you have trapped us in this room?” His nostrils flared. “You are trapped in this city, with no escape!” “It’s true.” Kosav’s absent eyes were locked on Slavomir’s sword resting against the Elector’s neck. “Neither my brother nor Vladrik Nzechovich will take this city by force. By morning, both armies will have been defeated.” “Exactly! So why -” “But you won’t be alive to see it.” Kosav’s words brought utter silence back to the room. “Unless my brother is voted as Prince of Dules, none of you will live to see the morning’s victory.” Yaina’s heart, which had been pumping in her ears just a second ago, seemed to stop entirely. Kosav … You … can’t be serious … Elector Kossga whimpered as Slavomir pressed his sword closer to her throat. “Prince Kosav made a request of you, Elector.” “Yes,” Kosav echoed. “Please, raise a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules, or you will force my hand.” “This is ridiculous!” Kvadden fumed. “Kossga, do not say a word!” “I - I … I …” Tears streamed down Kossga’s slender cheeks. Even if she wanted to speak, she could not seem to get a word through her chattering teeth. “Elector Kossga! Do not submit to his bullying!” When Kossga pointedly closed her mouth, though her entire body still quivered, Slavomir glanced back towards Kosav. No … Kosav, don’t. Please. Finally, Kosav’s eyes broke out of that distant stare, and he closed them. “It seems Elector Kossga … has chosen to abstain.” In one fluid motion, Slavomir’s blade sliced through her neck. Elector Yaina Zeravosch This is my great gamble. This is where it will all be decided. Would the Electors lay down their lives and die, knowing that Josef Tideborn would repel the invasion, or would they value their own lives above the city, and side with Barbov? That was the question Kosav had spent months pouring over, weighing up, assessing -- was Dules worth saving if they were not going to be alive to see it? Either way, the die is cast. It’s too late to turn back now. That was what Kosav kept telling himself as blood sprayed from Kossga’s severed artery across the marble table. Some of the Electors shrieked in terror, while others just watched incredulously. The only reaction Kosav did not see was Yaina’s - he could not bring himself to look at face. But why? I’ve … committed to this path. I have since we made this plan at Mejen. Why should a face from the past change it? Thinking that, though, did nothing to change his inability to look at her. Slavomir let Kossga’s body slump in his seat as he moved to the next Elector. Kosav’s mouth seemed to move on its own. “Elector. Please raise a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules.” “Oh, to the Nether with this!” The Elector in question cursed. He gripped the sabre he had dropped earlier, and leapt up from his chair to slash at Slavomir. He let out a primal scream as the Bogatyr’s sword parried aside the sabre, and then cleaved clean through his right arm from the elbow. Another chorus of screams echoed in the Chamber as the severed hand thudded onto the table, fountaining blood. “Is that your vote, Elector?” Slavomir placed the sword to the fellow’s neck as he clutched his stump of right hand. The Elector, his once-ornate brown coat stained in his own blood, glared at Kosav through features contorted with pure anger. “**** you, you -” A squelch of steel on flesh silenced him as Slavomir repeated the same motion that had killed Kossga. … Too late to turn back now. Too late. As he desperately tried to control his own breathing, he could see his own soldiers turn away in distaste as the second Elector was slaughtered. Slavomir alone seemed to be the only man in the room unphased as he moved to the next Elector, a bespeckled middle-aged woman. “Elector,” Kosav began again. “Please raise a motion to elect Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules.” The sheen of Slavomir’s sword flashed against the woman’s glasses as it was pressed to her neck. “I …” “Mirkovic,” the silver-haired Elector at the top of the table began in a hoarse voice. “Don’t.” “I … I can’t, Kvadden,” the woman sobbed back. “My daughter is just about to turn two, I-I can’t … I can’t leave her like this, I can’t - I can’t die like this … I …” Tears dripped onto Slavomir’s sword. “E-Electors of Dules, I-I raise a motion before us to … to elect B-Barbov Karovic as Prince of Dules, in which I v-vote in favour of.” “Thank you, Elector Mirkovic.” Kosav was not sure how he was speaking in this emotionless drawl, but he was grateful for it. If not for whichever mood that gripped him, the strange icy adrenaline, he was positive he would have broken down crying already. Kossga’s throat was still pumping blood. Slavomir moved to the next Elector, the broad-shouldered man who had cursed at him earlier. Now, though, his expression was one of fear, not anger. Slavomir’s sword had barely touched his throat before he professed, “I vote in favour of the motion.” Finally. The rest are falling in line. This will finally be - His mind trailed off as Slavomir stepped to the next Elector. It was Yaina. For the first time since entering the Chamber, Kosav looked at her. She was every bit as beautiful, and more, even with that look of profound sadness in her wide eyes. She did not cry, nor did she beg like the other Electors. She just stared at him wordlessly, and the shimmer of her sad eyes said everything. “Yaina …” he managed weakly. His facade of calm quivered. “... Please.” The faintest shake of Yaina’s head made tears well in Kosav’s eyes. “ … No. I won’t. The Kosav I knew from Lahy would -” “THAT KOSAV IS GONE!” The calm crumbled. Every emotion, every doubt, every fear, suddenly roiled up to the surface as he screeched. “THAT KOSAV DIED WHEN YOU LEFT, AND WHEN THE NZECH TRIED TO KILL HIM, AND HIS FAMILY, WHILE HIS FATHER’S CORPSE WASN’T EVEN COLD!” No one spoke. No one even seemed to react as Kosav's shoulders heaved with his heavy breathing. “Please, Yaina … just … end this. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.” Again, her head shook. “You don’t have to hurt anyone else, Kosav. Please, we can still … we can still salvage this.” Now she tried; trails of glistening, silvery tears rolled down the plump cheeks that Kosav remembered poking and cupping as a boy. “I know that you’re still Kosav. And … I know that you won’t hurt me. I will not vote for your brother, Kosav, but I will still save you from him.” Kosav closed his eyes on his tears. He seemed to become deaf, as if his body was unwilling - or unable - to listen to what happened next. As Slavomir cut into Yaina’s throat, he knew that Barbov was not the one he needed saving from. Dragan leaned back against the walls of one of the dock's warehouses, watching the battle. Since Skysent's defeat - Dragan's fists still hurt from pummelling the man - his Stagbreakers had fought with a second-wind. Their reformed lines had crashed into the Karovic, and were steadily tightening the gap between the harbour's water and their bloodied spears. The mercenaries remained outnumbered, but Dragan knew that all he needed to do was to enter the fray himself to beat back the Karovic lines. As far as he was aware, the battle was won, but it might take an hour or two for the Karovic to realise it. "You put up a decent fight, Skysent," he idly mumbled to himself as he watched an ember swirl between his scarred fingers. "But you were nothing special. So, how did you really kill Burgov Godsbane?" He sighed as he looked down at this broken flail, lying pooled at his feet. He didn't suppose he was going to get an answer anytime soon. Before he could dwell on it much longer, though, he noticed a lone figure staggering along the road from the city, towards the harbour. As Dragan squinted through the firelit night, he recognised that it was one of the Dulen Guard - an officer, even - with his right arm in a sling, and his left clutching onto a halberd like a walking-stick. "Skullsplitter!" he called hoarsely as he approached. "Huh? Captain?" Dragan blinked. He recognised the man -- Captain Virzakev, he thought, leader of the 1st Company of the Dulen Guard. That doesn't make sense. He should be in charge of the defence of the Palace. What's he doing here? "Have you brought word from Josef? Has he defeated the Nzech already?" "I have orders," Virzakev growled as he came to a stop a few feet from Dragan. "From the Palace." The man looked wretched: whatever wound had put his arm in that sling hadn't seemed to have been treated, and so the sling itself was already stained red, but the look on Virzakev's face bore a wound much deeper that Dragan had seen many times before -- a wound that went right down to his soul. A wound of pride. "The Palace?" Dragan sniffed. "You know I only take orders from Josef. You -" "I could give less of a rat's arse," Virzakev barked, and Dragan arched an eyebrow in surprise. He had never heard anything besides submissive acquiesence from Virzakev before, but now he looked like he was ready to bite Dragan's head off. Something must have happened. Something has broken this man. "Your orders are to withdraw your Stagbreakers to the Palace immediately. You are to do no further battle with the Karovic." Dragan's breath caught in his throat. He asked his next question very slowly. "Who ... gave these orders?" Virzakev stared with his helmet with a smouldering, frozen anger. "Kosav Karovic ... on behalf of the new Prince of Dules."

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER X: BANNERS RED ... 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 The Battle for Dules, the wealthiest city in Ruska and the latchkey for handing either the feuding Nzechovich or Karovic dynasty control of the realm, begins. Vlasta delivers food to the imprisoned Mylah Nzechovich, who reveals to her an unsettling truth about Vlasta's beliefs; with the aid of Yaina Zeravosch, an Elector of Dules, Josef Tideborn finally gains complete control of the 10,000-strong Dulen Guard to defend Dules from impending attack; Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich mobilise their army of 30,000 to attack the walls, but Szitibor harbours doubts about whether he can fulfil his promise to save his sister Mylah; Prince Barbov and Prince Kosav share a goodbye before their attack on Dules' harbour begins; and, after breaking the enemy lines at the harbour, Ratibor Skysent finds himself facing the fearsome Dragan Skullsplitter in battle. Music - Play & Loop All The hull creaked as Vlasta descended below deck. In one hand she held a bowl of a watery porridge, and a lantern in the other lit her way down the hold of the supply ship, where crates and sacks lined the wall. Tucked away at the rear centre of the fleet, the ship only had a garrison above deck, so below deck was both dark and empty. Together with the dark of night, the constant creaking of the hull made it all feel so creepy. Creepy? She scolded herself. She had been to battle, now - real battle - and watched Ratibor Skysent and her other comrades cut down enough enemies to turn her stomach a dozen times over. Even now, it was hard to keep the memory of all those men and women out of her head as they were cut down; as they squirmed on the blood-slicked floor; as their cries for help were drowned out by the drone of battle. There’s nothing creepier than the fact I haven’t run away yet. She trudged down the hold just a little more confidently. She heard voices from the storage cabin at the back of the hold before she pushed through the rickety door, and found Villorik Turnheel slumped against the wall, his lean face lit fitfully by a candle. He looked up in surprise at her with the same sudden alarm as always, as if he expected a foe to storm through the door to gut him at any moment. “Relax, Turnheel,” Vlasta told him dryly as she shouldered the door shut again. “It’s me, not Vladrik Nzechovich. Are you two having a nice chat in here?” Villorik hardened his eyes, and looked across to the other person in the room. Even with streaks of unkempt hair criss-crossing her face and ropes binding her wrists and ankles, Mylah Nzechovich had a rugged beauty about her. She wasn’t like any of the other noblewomen Vlasta was used to with their silk dresses and porcelain faces; instead, Mylah exuded a surety and defiance that Vlasta could not help but envy, as much as she hated that. “ … We were talking about Nzechia,” Villorik said after a moment. “The Nzechovich homeland?” Vlasta snorted as she set down the porridge in front of Mylah, and earned a flat-eyed look from the Nzech in thanks. Mylah’s bound hands, though unrestrictive enough to let her eat, made no move for the food. “It’s bad enough we have to guard her, but now you’re talking to her about that den of traitors, Turnheel?” “I was there once for a tourney,” Villorik answered in the same standoffish tone he often took when Vlasta called him that name. “It was … nice. It had orchards, and meadows, and it was warmer, too. Nicer than most places in Ruska.” “Nicer than most places?” Vlasta bristled as she leaned back against the door. “That region’s main product is bloodshed and treachery.” “You really should stop that,” Mylah spoke up abruptly, her voice low and coarse. Vlasta flashed her a sidelong glare. “Who was talking to you, Nzech? Stop what?” Mylah blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, and a mix of shame and anger swelled in Vlasta at the sudden urge for her to look away from the Nzech prisoner’s icy, unflappable stare. It was me who defeated you, Vlasta reminded herself. I was the one who outwitted you at Mejen. I foiled your plan. I saved the Princes. “You talk about us as if the Nzech are your personal enemy,” Mylah went on calmly. “Are you stupid? You are my enemy.” Mylah gently picked up the bowl of porridge, and was forced to crane her head low to eat in the bonds. Somehow, that did not detract from her stoic self-assurance. “Yes, but you don’t know why.” “What are you talking about? Of course I know why! You tried to kill the Princes at Mejen! You tried to kill me! You and your family are the ones who started this whole war. You are the enemy in all of this!” “I tried to kill you because you were going to kill us.” “And? Because you -” “Because we … what? Attacked the Princes at Lahy? Seized the throne?” The derisive snort was the first sign of emotion Vlasta had seen from the Nzech woman. “Do you think that was unprovoked? Are you pretending there isn’t one hundred years of bad blood between the Nzechovich and the Karovic? Or that most of this land belonged to the Nzechovich before the Karovic came along?” “I - …” Vlasta’s jaw quivered, but produced no words. Villorik’s eyes were downcast, as if he was trying to pretend he was not here. “No, you don’t hate us because of what happened at Lahy, or Mejen, or Dules.” The spoon clicked as Mylah set the bowl down. “You hate us because you’re supposed to.” Vlasta’s hands itched towards the blade at her waist. She didn’t understand how Mylah was making her so abruptly angry, and why she felt so juvenile. “And what makes you so different, Nzech?” “Not much. I have no personal reason to hate the Karovic dynasty, you, and everyone else who fights for them. I fight because I was told to, and if I do, I’ll be rewarded. The only difference between us is that I accept that fact, instead of hiding behind the illusion that you’re some great evil to be destroyed.” With the toe of a torn boot, she pushed the bowl back towards Vlasta. “Thank you for the porridge.” Vlasta’s nails dug into her hands as she clenched a fist. Unbidden, she once again saw all the dead at Dules’ harbour, and she understood her irrational anger: she hadn’t watched all those people die because she hated them, but because they were on the opposite side. If she helped to kill them, she would become a Bogatyr -- she would achieve her dream, and rise in the world to a station of her own. If she doubted the illusion that they were the enemy, then she would never be able to build a tolerance for bloodshed like Ratibor. She thought she saw the faintest gleam of satisfaction in Mylah’s eyes, as if the Nzech could read her thoughts, but before the anger in Vlasta could bubble over, the door she was leaning against opened to send her stumbling forward. “Oh! There you two dunces are,” Ratibor Skysent grunted as he stuck his head in. The light from the lantern and candle flashed on the Bogatyr’s silverworked breastplate, his Hussariyan cross, and his grinning teeth. “Did you not hear the warhorn down here? Get up on deck - we’re preparing to push!” Villorik’s face went as white as milk. “P-push? On the city?” “No, on your mother’s bedroom. Yes, on the city! Tonight is the night that Dules falls!” Vlasta stared absently at Ratibor as he chortled in excitement at the prospect of battle. He’s always believed they really are the enemy. He’s never doubted any illusion. Is that what it really takes to be a Bogatyr? Ten minutes ago, the thought of going back to the bloodbath of Dules’ harbour might have made Vlasta vomit, but now she felt oddly tempered by Mylah’s words. That was the creepiest thought of all. “Give the Nzech girl a kick for good luck!” Ratibor called as he turned and practically skipped back down the hold. “Stanislaw will send an auxiliary down to guard her!” With a cold stillness in her now, Vlasta looked down at Mylah, and she really did not consider kicking her for a moment. Finally, though, she sneered and turned away. “Dig deep for your balls, Turnheel. Let’s go.” As Villorik followed her through the door in sullen silence, Mylah one last time. “You should stop calling him Turnheel. You have no reason to do that, either.” Vlasta slammed the door shut. Mylah Nzechovich Music - Loop The leather of Josef Tideborn’s gloves creaked as he flexed his hands impatiently. “Our decree was to hire the Stagbreakers to defend the city walls from attack,” insisted a silver-haired man. He was not the only one of the Electors of Dules present in hastily-donned robes and the shadow of sleep clinging to their eyes. Most of the gold-worked lamps in the Electors’ Chambers, dominated by the massive roundtable, had not yet even been lit since news of the impending assault had broken. “Defence of the inner city and the Palace was to be left to the Dulen Guard!” “Yes, Elector Kvadden, but circumstances have changed,” Yaina Zeravosch, the youngest of the noble Electors of Dules, and Josef’s informal sponsor at their court, retorted with a cold authority her youthful face didn’t seem capable of. “Both the Karovic and Nzechovich armies are about to launch an all-out-assault on us. The Karovic fleet will be the nail in the harbour, and the Nzechovich horde the hammer at the gates!” “The Nzechovich haven’t made any signs of attacking yet,” interjected another Elector, a stately older woman. “It is, in my view, far too rash to deploy the Dulen Guard under the command of a mercenary at this stage.” From where he stood patiently by the doorway, Josef could see Yaina wring her hands under the table. “We have to act now, or -” “Elector Zeravosch,” Kvadden firmly cut in. “Calm yourself. This assault may be cause for alarm, but we have navigated chaos before. You would do well to recall you are the youngest among us, and you are a stranger to war. Cool heads and reason will prevail, and so we must …” Josef grit his teeth as the Elector prattled on. A stranger to war. Pah. It was true that Yaina had been born and raised in wealth, but so had all the other Electors. Kvadden no doubt thought that ordering a company of armoured enforcers to put down a pack of cattle-thieves armed with sticks was an experience of war. Yaina, at the very least, had a fighting spirit and the common sense to know that the Trade City of Dules was in a tenuous position. All the Electors were strangers to war, and Josef was tired of entertaining their facade. “Speaking of reason, my lord Electors…” Josef’s voice carried through the grandiose hall. He knew it was an offence to speak in the Chamber without being called upon, but that was of no concern. They need me. “The Karovic are mobilising their entire fleet to attack the city harbour as we speak. The Nzechovich will follow suit and launch their own offensive: if we have to dedicate our troops to a defence of the harbour, then the main gate will be weakened, and Vladrik Nzechovich has been waiting for an opportunity like that since the siege began. He’ll throw every soldier he has at us. At you.” He paused and looked around the table to be met with looks of disapproval, fear, and apprehension. Josef cracked a smile, daring one of them to speak up, but none did. “The fact is that my Stagbreakers can’t defend against a full offensive by the two armies without the Dulen Guard reinforcing us. Make no mistake, if the city walls fall, the Palace won’t stand a chance even if you garrison the entire Dulen Guard here. It isn’t built for a siege.” He flourished a bow, and he hoped it looked every bit as mocking as he intended. “My lord Electors, I beseech you: place the Dulen Guard under my command, and I will win you this battle.” Yaina gave a stiff nod, but anxiety laced even her voice as she began the formal vote. “Electors of Dules, I raise a motion before us to place nine of the ten companies of the Dulen Guard under the direct and experienced command of Josef Tideborn to repel the Karovic and Nzechovich assault, and retain the 1st Company to garrison the Palace.” All ten companies would have been nice … but I’ll settle for nine. A silent debate filled the room as the Electors placed their votes. Some of them spoke with scorn, while others took almost two entire minutes to speak when their turn came. Finally, though, the tally was counted: Zeravosch, Lirinskia, Vilcka, Oskienne, Karalinski, Rutva, Turova, Tarauskien, Kvadden, Mirkovic, Kossga, and Giranov voted in unanimous favour. “Well, ah … as elder of this Council,” Kvadden began hesitantly after a sweaty-faced Giranov cast her vote, “we hear an accept the motion duly raised by the honourable Elector Zeravosch. L-Lord Josef …” As Kvadden looked across the table at him, the aged Elector seemed unsure whether to be angry or relieved. “We … place the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th Companies of the Dulen Guard under your command … until the Siege of Dules is lifted.” Josef didn’t bother to mask his smile. “I applaud your wisdom, my lord Electors. I will be setting up my primary command centre in the Grand Plaza. I will need the Dulen Guard to rally there immediately.” Yaina’s wide eyes shimmered with a determination that outweighed her worry. “Captain Virzakev will see to it immediately.” Josef nodded in return with as much genuine respect as he could muster. With any luck, he would see Yaina elected as Princess of Dules when the dust had settled, and he would place himself firmly at her side to reap the rewards. No, not just ‘any luck’, he reminded himself as he turned and marched from the Chamber without dismissal. A lot of luck. Even with the addition of ten-thousand Dulen Guards under his command, defending against both Barbov Karovic and Vladrik Nzechovich would be no easy task. The Electors’ Palace was already in upheaval from the news of the impending attack as servants and couriters scrambled back and forth, but Josef shared none of their serves. As far as could be controlled, everything was falling into place. Outside, in the mosaic-tiled courtyard, the Dulen Guard were already rushing past him to the Plaza as commands echoed from somewhere in the Palace halls behind Josef. “Well?” came the grunt of Dragan Skullsplitter from where he leaned against a column by the gate. “We’re in business,” Josef said as he stopped beside him. Alarm bells echoed throughout the city, but he barely heard them as his head swam with calculations. “Great,” Dragan grumbled. The combination of the chainmail hauberk and his gambeson made the massive Waldenian look even bigger. “Then I should be off to the harbour. Who was that Bogatyr who gave you trouble the other day again?” “If by ‘trouble’ you mean damn near cutting my head off …” Josef instinctively rubbed his neck. “Ratibor Skysent. I’ll buy you every vat of vodka in Dules if you bring me his head.” Dragan slapped a hand on Josef’s shoulder. “For my oldest friend? I’ll do it for half the vats.” “Just remember …” Josef said as he placed his hand on top of Dragan’s. “This is our last fight, right? It’d be a damned shame if you went and died.” A smile split Dragan’s gloomy face. “Well, now you’ve gone and jinxed it.” Dragan Skullsplitter “Boyar Zelka’s Banner is positioned, Lord Vladrik.” “Boyar Kastanov is moving his Banner to the forward-rally point as we speak, my lord!” “My lord, Boyar Vychek is still arming his Banner, but he’s sent his son ahead with the foreguard.” Szitibor’s frown was etched into his face as he listened to the stream of officers report to his cousin. Vladrik Nzechovich, dressed in a bearskin cloak draped over his scalemail, leaned forward on the table in his tent, scouring a map of the Trade City of Dules. I don’t like this, Szitibor thought to himself. It had barely been twenty-minutes since word arrived that the Karovic were mobilising for a full assault on in the harbour, and, in one way, it was immensely impressive that most of Vladrik’s army had prepared for their own attack in such a short time, but it all still bothered Szitibor. He did not like letting the Karovic choose the time to attack, and nor did he relish the prospect of attacking Dules at night, but he knew it could not really be helped; there was no denying that now was the best possible time to attack. With the Karovic occupying the city’s defenders at the harbour, the city gates should easily crumble under the full might of the thirty-thousand strong Nzechovich army with minimal losses. And then we have to deal with the Karovic … Unconsciously, he closed and opened his fist around the pommel of his sword repeatedly. “... and Boyar Valyya, Boyar Hutzov, and Boyar Ostvan are now -” “What about Mylah?” Szitibor said abruptly. Surprised eyes flit to him from across the command table, Vladrik’s among them. Slowly, Vladrik lifted an eyebrow. “What about her, Szitty?” “You said you would save her.” For a moment, Vladrik just stared at him before he clicked his tongue irritably. “The rest of you; get out and see to your stations. Kerzic, you handle logistics until I arrive at the rally-point.” “But, lord -” “Just do it, Kerzic!” he snapped irritably. “You don’t need me to give you a pat on the back for reporting that the troops are assembling! Just go and do it!” The officers, already nervous with battle afoot, filed out of the tent while carefully avoiding eye contact with the two Nzechovich. When the two of them were left alone, there was silence except for the echo of shouts in the night outside, and the stir of the tent’s canvas in the gentle wind. For a moment, Szitibor was worried he might have gone too far: Vladrik could be irritable at the best of times, but the pressure of leaving an army of thirty-thousand in the most important battle for Nzechovich control of Ruska was enough to crush anyone. “... Are you going to lose sight of what’s important here, Szitty?” “ … No, I … just wanted to remind you that -” “I haven’t forgotten, Szitty. I haven’t forgotten that you want to rescue your rotting sister, and I hope you haven’t gotten the idea that I’m happy about a blooded Nzechovich like Mylah being a Karovic prisoner. But tell me, what do you expect me to do about it right now? Conjure a spell to conjure her here? Attack the Karovic fleet instead of Dules?” He pinched his nose with an exasperated sigh. “Look, Szitty, we’ll negotiate with the Karovic after Dules has fallen. That’s all we can do.” Szitibor opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He just stared into his cousin’s face, searching for some kind of reassurance. For all his life, Vladrik had been arrogant and belligerent, but since Szitibor had come to his camp, his cousin had shown more compassion and reason than he ever had in their youth. Is it enough, though? “ … Fine,” he said at last. “I misspoke, cousin. Forgive me.” Vladrik’s smile was tired as he pushed off the table. “Good. Just remember that what we’re doing here will secure the Nzechovich dynasty for generations, and snuff out the Karovic for good. People like you and Mylah will never need to fight for glory and relevance again. Just …” he released a shaky breath. “... Promise me you’ll remember that, Szitty.” Despite the impending battle, Szitibor felt strangely relieved. “I promise, cousin.” But I’ll never forego my promise to save Mylah, either. He just prayed that the two never conflicted. “Excellent. Then let’s go and take this city.” Stanislaw watched the harbour walls come closer. The constant roar of “HEAVE! HEAVE!” rang through the air as the oars of the Karovic ships sliced into the moonlit waters. “ARCHERS, READY! PREPARE TO ENGAGE!” “You’re sure about this, Highness?” Stanislaw asked under his breath. “It’s too late to turn back now,” Prince Kosav answered. They stood at the bow of the Karovic flagship, watching the onion-domed towers of Dules grow nearer and nearer. “We’ve committed to this. Vladrik and his Nzechovich are already on the move.” “Well, I don’t like having to play decoy,” Barbov interjected. The Elder Prince and rightful King of Ruska had already drawn the fable blade of Svetjlast, and slung it across his shoulder so that the moonlight shimmered on its edge. “But spare me, Kosav. I already know we have no choice. Still, I just wish so much luck wasn’t involved.” Kosav’s smile was weak. “Well, half of battle is luck, right, Stanislaw?” Stanislaw could not bring himself to smile back. “More like a third, my Prince. Still, it’s either we hope God gives us the luck we need, or hang our heads in shame and go into exile.” Would that really be so bad? A small voice in his head asked, and not for the first time. To forget about all this worry, this killing, this fighting? He glanced at Kosav, whose dark locks whipped in the wind around his gaunt face. To think he would go from the sleepy-eyed boy who favoured the company of books to the man who crafted a plan to conquer the Trade City of Dules. In truth, Stanislaw did not know how to feel about how much Kosav, his milk-brother and closest friend, had changed since this war began. What he did know, however, was that he intended to honour his oath to serve him until the very end. Even if the very end might come very soon. “Bah …” A cloud of mist marked Barbov’s breath in the cold as he stared at the ships in the front of their formation. “I know it’s your plan, Kosav, but you still have the most dangerous role in it. I’ll bury you with the Nzech if you get yourself killed.” Kosav shared a tight smile with his elder brother. “I should be fine. All we have to do is sneak past the battle-lines at the harbour, and find some of the Dulen Guard. Besides, I’ll have Slavomir to protect me.” He turned, and gave a nod to the silent Bogatyr who stood a few paces behind them. That brought a scowl to Stanislaw’s face; he was not eager to leave Slavomir the Drowned, a serf by birth, as the sole Bogatyr protecting Kosav - no matter how skilled he was - but it was another essential part of the plan. The only other Bogatyrs left in the Princes’ service were Ratibor Skysent, and Stanislaw himself, and both of them were needed to lead the attack on the harbour. “What would father think of us now?” Barbov intoned, his eyes fixed on the approaching harbour. “Taking a city with smoke and trickery ...” “He’d think,” Kosav answered with a click of his tongue, “that we were saving his kingdom.” “ … Right,” the Elder Prince sighed. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can at the harbour.” “Then, with some help from God, next time I see you, brother, you will be the elected Prince of Dules.” “ARCHERS! NOCK! BRACE FOR THE ENEMY BALLISTAE!” Barbov pulled his brother into an embrace with his free hand. “ … it will have been thanks to you, Kosav.” When Kosav pulled away, he turned to embrace Stanislaw, too, but no words passed between them. When they broke apart, Kosav sniffed sharply as more shouts indistinctively rang through the night. “I suppose I can’t delay any longer. I’ll … see you both once the dust has settled.” As Kosav pulled up the hood of his nondescript cloak and started down the deck, the moonlight flashed on the broken-antler pendant hanging from his neck. The insignia of the Stagbreaker Company. “FIIIIIRE!” Stanislaw Horselegs Music “DO THOU, O’ LORD, HAVE MERCY ON OUR DEARLY DEPARTED!” As shields and spears clashed, as men and women screamed and fell, Ratibor roared his prayer. “FOR THE SAKE OF SINNERS ALL WHO GREATLY HOPE AND TRUST IN THEE!” His first thrust once, twice, then thrice, drawing spurts of blood each time as the Stagbreaker line continued to weaken. “FOR THY MERCY CAN TURN BITTERING WEEPING TO JOYOUS FANFARE!” Around him, the pikes of his Karovic comrades bit and bit again at the enemy formation as they had for the last hour as they clashed on the docks of Dules. “FOR THOU ALONE JUDGETH THE LIVING, AND THE DEAD!” So far, everything had gone easier than expected: though the Stagbreaker mercenaries defending the harbour - though there was no sign of the Dulen Guard here - had sunk a few Karovic ships with the ballistae and scorpions atop the harbour halls, the full might of the fleet had finally sliced the chains guarding the harbour mouth, pushed through into the harbour proper, and sending landing parties of soldiers ashore. Since then, the Karovic and Stagbreakers had clashed in a formation of pines in shields spanning the width of the docks, but the mercenaries were gradually getting pushed back. Not much longer … just a little more! “ETERNAL REST GRANT UNTO THEM, O’ LORD!” Ratibor continued as the warm blood of a slain Stagbreaker dripped through the visor of his helmet. “AND MAY PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON THEM!” He stood at the forefront of the western section of the Karovic line, where the Stagbreakers were buckling. He hated line warfare - there was no talent in it, only discipline - but if the Stagbreakers broke, it would be the free-for-all he craved. “FOR THEE … WHO DIED A NOBLE MARTYR…!” He grit his teeth now. It was hard not to trip over the bodies as they pushed. The trumpets from the command ship bleated in the water behind them, spurring them on. “...PRAY FOR ME! USE THE MERITS … OF THINE OWN GLORIOUS DEATH … AND ADVANCE MY CAUSE…!” He could see it, now. The Stagbreakers were not just edging backwards, now; they were running. “ … AND GRANT ME A COURAGEOUS … AND FAITHFUL … END! AAAAMEEENNN!” Like a cracked egg, the row of shields and pikes gave way with screams and shouts. Ratibor’s lungs ached as he stood there, laughing, while the Karovic pikemen swarmed past him to stab at the retreating mercenaries. The peel of the trumpet-signals shifted, too: two triumphant bleats to signal a pursuit formation. “Hahaaaaah!” And to think I thought that Kosav and Slavomir would get all the fun! Sucking in deep breaths, he advanced at a walk as the fighting fanned out around the dock. He mostly regained his stamina after the final push, but he - of course - did not neglect to cut down any Stagbreaker who crossed his path with thrusts to the neck or shearing through their shoulders. At this rate, maybe we won’t need to rely on Kosav’s plan at all! We can push to the Electors’ Palace ourselves! His laughter trailed off when the sound of screams drowned out the ring of steel. His eyes squinted forwards, towards the street leading from the harbour to the Grand Plaza where the Stagbreakers were retreating, and he frowned. He watched as Karovic soldiers were just flying backwards, and landed on the bloodied ground with their chests or helmets … crushed? What on ….? It was then that a new noise thundered throughout the fray: “RATIBOR SKYSENT! WHERE ARE YOU!?” Ratibor’s hand tightened on his sword, and a second later, the source of the noise - and sudden carnage - became clear. By firelight, he watched the head of an enormous flail blur through the air, and crash into the chest of a Karovic spearman. Even from over a hundred feet back, Ratibor heard the agonising death wheeze as the fellow’s ribcage was completely smashed, and fell limp on the ground. With a clink of chain, the flail moved again, and struck true into another soldier, and rebounded into another, before, within seconds, the flail had carved a circle around its wielder. The wielder in question had to be one of the biggest men Ratibor had ever seen, and that in itself was all the introduction he needed. With a plain, chipped helmet on his head and a bloodstained gambeson straining across his girth, Dragan Skullsplitter was single-handedly beating back the Karovic advance. At his side, weary Stagbreakers were already reforming their lines. Well, we can’t have that. With a grin, Ratibor raised his crimson-stained blade, and pointed it directly at the Waldenian. “ENOUGH, SKULLSPLITTER! YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION!” As Dragan’s helmet settled on him, Ratibor laughed again. With one hand, he gestured for his Karovic comrades to stay back as Dragan advanced at a leisurely walk, the deadly flail on his shoulder, and stopped two dozen feet from Ratibor. This is perfect! And here I thought my best shot at glory today would be Josef Tideborn, but Dragan Skullsplitter himself … the Waldenian Wall … the Giant! “... You’re Skysent?” Dragan grunted as the battle lulled around them. “Hah! The one and only!” With a fluid motion, he splashed the blood from his sword in an arc at Dragan’s feet. “Normally people don’t seek me out willingly on the battlefield, pagan!” “Huh.” Dragan scratched under his helmet. “I thought you’d be taller. Well, no matter.” He rolled his massive shoulder, and hoisted the flail in his hands with a clink of chain. “Duel me, Skysent.” Surprised murmurs rippled throughout the watching soldiers as they heaved to regain their breaths. Ratibor felt blood in his mouth as he grinned, and bowed his head. “I accept, and promise you a worthy death, pagan.” As Dragan slid the links of the flail’s chain through his huge fingers, Ratibor’s cackle continued. You idiot! You might be strong, but a bigger body means a bigger target! He raised his sword to chest-level as he assumed his own stance. I’ll bleed you like a pig! “Are you ready, Skullsplitter?!” Without a shred of heat, Dragan flexed his hand on the haft of his flail. “I’m ready, Skysent.” Ratibor pressed off his heel, and charged. Alarm bells, distant screams, and panicked shouts filled the air of Dules. As Kosav Karovic marched through the streets, he had simultaneously never felt so frightened and so alive at the same time. The blood of another - he had no idea who - stained the front of his gambeson, and some pike had just barely grazed the side of his arm, but he paid no attention to any of it. So far … so good. It almost felt hard to believe that the plan - his plan - had actually worked so far. After the fleet had landed and engaged the Stagbreakers in the harbour, he, Slavomir, and eleven elites - dressed in Stagbreaker mail and insignias stripped from corpses felled in their earlier battles at the harbour walls - had taken a tarp-covered rowboat to the far corner of the harbour. From there, they had squeezed through the harbour’s back alleys - a feat impossible for any kind of large party - until they had come out in the rear of the Stagbreaker lines. There, they waited until Ratibor had broken the enemy lines, and, in the chaos, slipped inside the city itself. That’s only step one … he reminded himself, and shared a quick look with Slavomir at his side before his eyes drifted up to the spires of the Electors’ Palace in the distance, in the heart of the city. Now, for step two.

HUEY GUS I M MWO CMMCMENINOGO YORU SPSOT

lold omg the uqenen uahas ewood itos a sexiaal innedido

A Summons to Duel TRIAL OF THE CARROT Issued by THE CARROT On this 9th day of Vzmey and Hyff of 456 E.S. VERILY, Let it be known for before all the realms of Aaun and Haense that I, Vanhart - born to the House of Alstreim and wed to the House of Barclay - do call upon His Highness, Prince James Leopold of Aaun, to face me in combat, as agreed, to prove his worthiness to take the hand of my daughter - the Lady Edith Barclay - in marriage. Verily, though a Prince may have liegemen and banners to call upon, a man is worth nothing if he cannot defend that which is most precious with his own blade. The blessing of this union must be won in strength of arms as a measure of this suitor's honour and integrity. Let all who seek to witness this duel be welcome in the Duchy of Reinmar this coming summer, where we shall do battle. Let it be known -- I shall not part with my daughter lightly. VANHART 'THE CARROT' v. JAMES LEOPOLD ALSTION Reinmar Saturday, December 17, 12EST/5GMT PM

THE BLACK BANNER: THE SUCCESSORS' WAR HAENSE, URGUAN, BALIAN v. OREN, KRUGMAR, HAELUN'OR, ELYSIUM 431 - 434 E.S. | 1878 - 1881 A.H. VICTORY Battle of the Light Purse (431 E.S. | 1878 A.H.) - Stalemate Storming of Daeland (433 E.S. | 1880 A.H.) - Victory Battle of Acre (433 E.S. | 1880 A.H.) - Major Victory Battle of Red Snow (434 E.S. | 1881 A.H.) - Victory SEE THE FULL BLACK BANNER, THE COMPLETE MILITARY HISTORY OF THE KONGZEM OF HAENSE, HERE. _________________________ The Successors' War was christened so because it mainly featured the heirs of King Sigismund III and Emperor Philip III as a direct sequel to the Sinners' War. The years that followed the Peace of Eastfleet, which brought an end to the 19-year-long Sinners' War, brought many changes: in Haense, King Karl III took the throne after his father fell ill and died in an honour duel against Ser Walton the Wall; after a Thanhium blast destroyed her capital, Princess Renata de Savoie dissolved the declining Principality of Savoy; the Elven tribes of Celia'nor, Nor'aseth, Fenn, and Elvenesse (later renamed Amathea) formed the High Principality of Malinor, and set their sights on uniting all Elves under their banner either peacefully or otherwise; and the Orcs of Krugmar briefly grew influential after they vassalized the High Elves of Haelun'or, who feared attack by Malinor, and invaded the Kingdom of Elysium, but they soon found themselves trapped in a doomed war against Vytrek Tundrak, High Prince of Malinor. The most substantial change of the period was the dissolution of the Holy Orenian Empire through a final decree - the text of which has been mysteriously lost - in the will of the late Emperor Philip III and Empress Anastasia I, who sought to reform Oren as a Kingdom under the rule of their third-born son, Frederick. The same decree also ceded the Grenz region of north-western Oren to the scions of the late Manfred of Arichsdorf, who created the independent Crown of Westfall. This monumental edict deeply divided Orenian society, and was contested with steel by the Emperor's first-born, Peter, who was prepared to neither sacrifice his lawful throne nor Oren's imperial status. The viscous Brothers' War followed, which, after a bloody climactic battle in the streets of Providence, ended in the consolidation of the Kingdom of Oren under King Frederick I and the creation of the Grand Duchy of Balian by the exiled supporters of the short-lived Emperor Peter IV under Grand Duke John Casimir. "Them two king's be gettin' ready to swing. I can feels it in me bones." - Billy Barnmallow, a farmer of Honeyhill Both King Karl of Haense and King Frederick of Oren were ambitious young men, and wary of one another. The scars of the Sinners' War ran deep, as many in Oren and Westfall, which remained administratively dependent on Frederick's court after the chaos of the Brothers' War, remained bitter about the cessation of the Upper Grenz to Haense in the Peace of Eastfleet, while King Karl's nobility and council reckoned Frederick was a power-hungry kinslayer and prospective warmongerer. Geopolitics hinted at their eventual confrontation as the two monarchs kept a close eye on the island of Karinah'siol - the home of the High Elves of Haelun'r - off Almaris' eastern coast. In the hands of a military nation, the island was immensely strategically valuable for controlling the eastern sea corridor, and with the High Elves' overlords - the Horde of Krugmar - occupied fighting Malinor far to the west, the island had never been more vulnerable. While King Karl and King Frederick courted Al'Borok, the Rex of Krugmar, to convince him to sell the island, Grand King Bakir Ireheart of Urguan was about to complicate matters. The Dwarven warrior-king had grown bored and belligerent since the end of the Sinners' War, and so he leapt at the prospect of action when it came in the autumn of 431 E.S. | 1878 A.H. after his kin, Balor Ireheart, and his companions were killed after an honour duel had gone askew while visiting Krugmar. Mere hours after the news reached the underrealm, Grand King Bakir marched a retaliatory force of 2,700 Dwarves westward from Kal'Darakaan, and negotiations ensued when they reached Krugmar two evenings later. The Horde expressed a genuine desire to make amends, and the reason was clear: they were losing badly to the Elves of Malinor after their invasion of Elysium had backfired, and they had recently suffered a devastating defeat at the Battle of Mount Karimir. Warring another major power would spell their doom. Despite this, they could not afford the 11,000 mina the Dwarves demanded as recompense, and the Grand King brooked no compromise -- he ordered an attack. The ensuing Battle of the Light Purse was a brief affair, as the tired Orcs engaged the Urguani encirclement for less than an hour before pulling back to their stronghold and resorting to bombardment from their walls. Without the means nor patience for a siege, Grand King Bakir withdrew as night fell. Swallowing his hunger for battle, he begrdugingly marched back home to Urguan to avoid being trapped in the west by the coming winter snows, but he made sure to leave the corpses of slain Orcs as road-markers on his way back. Once back in Ka'Darakaan, Grand King Bakir issued a new ultimatum to Krugmar demanding 7,500 mina, the heads of Balor's killers, a tribute of Orcish leather, and the purging of all Azdrazi, the draconic cultists of Azdromoth rumoured to reside in the volcanoes of Krugmar. It was at this interval that the machinations of Urguan and Krugmar in the west collided with the plans of Haense and Oren in the east. King Karl stood on the verge of striking a deal with Rex Al'Borok to cede Haelun'or in return for sorely-needed funds for his war against Malinor, but the new Urguani threat delayed the agreement. The Orcish Rex called out to all former nations of the Tripartite Accord for aid, but to little avail: Haense was unprepared to alienate Urguan, its closest allies, and the Kingdom of Norland and the Vale of Nevaehlen lacked the strength to act without Haense. King Karl stomached his fury at the Dwarven King for his antics, and arranged a peace conference in his capital of Karosgrad to resolve the matter. As he would soon learn when the conference was attended by a goblin messenger who told the Dwarven and Haeseni kings to suck his toes, the damage had been done; for all Haense's careful planning, the rift caused by Urguan created an opportunity for the Kingdo of Oren. King Frederick not only offered Krugmar payment, but also he promised to broker peace with Malinor - his close ally - and join Krugmar in a war against Urguan. It was, without any doubt, a better deal, and both Haense and Urguan were rightfully alarmed that Oren's intervention to defend Krugmar could lead to a punitive invasion of Urguan and a repeat of the Sinners' War. Forced to act quickly before the Rex could accept the Orenian deal, King Karl and Grand King Bakir declared a joint war on Krugmar with Haelun'or as their first target. "Bah, 'tis like my papej used to say. What Dwarves lack in brains, they certainly do niet compensate for in height." - Utvand of Karosgrad, B.S.K. footman Haense and Urguan did not act alone. While Nevaehlen and Norland, disdaindul of Grand King Bakir's wanton aggression in the last decade, refused to join a second Tripartite Accord, the Grand Duchy of Balian was both eager to make its military debut and mitigate King Frederick's gains as revenge for the Brothers' War. Together, Haense, Urguan, and Balian formed the Eastern Almaris Treaty Organisation, and championed the "Azdrazi purge" as their primary justification for invading Haelun'or (as a territory of Krugmar). This rational found little favour internationally, and even many Haeseni doubted the presence of Azdrazi on Haelun'or. It was, for all intents and purposes, a hasty excuse relied upon by Haense and Balian to launch their invasion before Oren could intervene. Their haste, however, was not rewarded: in the summer of 432 E.S. | 1879 A.H., Krugmar officially ceded the island of Haelun'or to the Kingdom of Oren in the Peace of Vienne. Consequently, the land that the Eastern Treaty was preparing to invade was now a part of Oren, not Krugmar, and King Frederick hoped that this political maneuver would intimidate the Eastern Treaty into relenting. This led to a deadly game of chicken as Oren rechristened Haelun'or as "Fi'Halen" and declared that both the island and Krugmar had been purged of Azdrazi. With Fi'Halen now under the rule of a Canonist monarch, the Canonist Church warned the Eastern Treaty - namely, Haense and Balian - to abandon their planned invasion of Haelun'or in order to avoid a war between Canondom. This gave the Eastern Treaty pause - although the Holy Orenian Empire had been soundly defeated by the Haeseni-Urguani alliance twenty years ago, many other members of that alliance were now missing, and, though the Kingdom of Oren had lost many old Houses in the Brothers' War, it was strengthened by a new generation of martially-minded leaders in King Frederick's court. In particular, Oren had found a powerful vassal in the levies of the Barony of Acre under Lords Gustaf and Hannes de Villain, who were competent and charismatic commanders. If the Eastern Treaty backed down, it would permanently damage their political prestige and cement Oren as the chief power on Almaris, not only through their intimidation of the Eastern Treaty, but also by militarising the Haelun'orian island. No steel had yet been drawn against Oren, but King Karl and King Frederick were far too deep into a battle of political wills to turn back. Regardless, the pleas of the Church still placed King Karl in a particularly difficult position - he had inherited the title of Fidei Defensor from his father, and the reigning High Pontiff Tylos II - previously known as Klaus Barclay - was a Haenseman and the former Court Chaplain, which prompted many in Haense to question if the war was a righteous cause. "Isn't it a little too south for an Eastern Treaty?" - Ordys Sivarrin, N.G.S. Cartographer King Karl eventually resolved to see the war through, as turning back now would relegate Haense into a toothless secondary power. King Frederick, surprised at Haense's perseverance, quickly began to bolster his own forces, and a second non-physical battle ensued between the Haeseni and Orenian kings to hire the services of Almaris' two primary mercenary companies, the Ferrymen Band and the Blackvale Vrijkorps, with Haense employing the former and Oren the latter. While Norland and Nevaehlen could not be convinced to join the war, Matyas Baruch - Lord Envoy of Haense - scored an essential diplomatic victory by ensuring they would not join Oren. As tensions mounted and armies mobilised, the Grand Duchy of Balian found a chance to assert itself in the south, where the fledgling factions of Hyspia and Daeland met with the Grand Duchy to ensure that neither of them supported Oren and created tension in the south. Daeland, however, refused to acquiesce to the wishes of Balian and Hyspia. Although only a minor power, the Eastern Treaty was not prepared to stand idle when it looked as if Daeland intended to pledge its banners to Oren -- in the Storming of Daeland in 433 E.S. | 1880 A.H., an Eastern Treaty strikeforce overwhelmed the southern settlement and captured the Piast of Daeland, Casimir Kovaceski. He was brought back to Karosgrad, where he remained under house-arrest for the duration of the war after vowing Daeland would not assist Oren. After a final warning to desist in the upcoming war was issued by Oren and rejected by Haense, King Frederick formally consolidated his allies and formed the United Sovereign States of Almaris, consisting of the Kingdom of Oren, the Horde of Krugmar, the Kingdom of Elysium, and, of course, the High Elves of Fi'Halen. Additionally, the Crown of Westfall pledged its banners to King Frederick, but the short-lived independent Grenzi nation had withered into complete obscurity since the disappearance of Wilhelm van Aert, and had effectively been re-absorbed into the Kingdom of Oren. After over a year of politics and posturing, the first, and most significant, incident of the Successors' War came in the late-spring of 433 E.S. | 1880 A.H. The Romstuns, ferocious bannermen of the Haeseni House of Baruch, captured a noble of the Orenian House of Komnenos and took him to Karosgrad as a hostage, where a ransom was issued to King Frederick. For the first time, the feuding monarchs answered not in words, but with steel, and Oren called the forces of the Sovereign States to his capital of Vienne to march on Haense and answer the insult of capturing his vassal, and so too did the Eastern Treaty gather in Haense. Under the command of Lord Hannes of Acre, the Orenian-led forces sent a rider across the Haeseni border, who brokered an agreement that the two forces would meet in the field and do honourable battle. Thus began the Battle of Acre, where months of vitriol and threats would finally be put to the test. Night came and went as the Eastern Treaty and Sovereign State forces manoeuvred around the north-eastern Orenian border, positioning themselves strategically like pieces on a chessbord, before the Eastern Treaty finally rushed Lord Hannes' army at his home of Acre just after sunrise. The advance caught the Sovereign State in the middle of shifting position, and isolated their cavalry on a cliff while the bulk of the Eastern Treaty forces crashed into the unsuspecting Sovereign State infantry. The Eastern Treaty had some one-thousand more soldiers than the Sovereign States, and even then the Dwarves, Haeseni, and mercenaries were far more experienced in battle than the non-militant High Elves and Elysians bolstering the Orenian and Orcish frontlines. By midday, over-extended Sovereign State lines crumbled, and they sustained enormous losses disengaging. Not only was this a critical victory that proved the Eastern Treaty's strength to the world amidst enormous uncertain as to whether Haense or Oren was the stronger nation, but both the lords Hannes and Gustaf de Vilain of Acre were captured and taken to Karosgrad, where King Karl released Gustaf in exchange for keeping Hannes under house-arrest in Haense, robbing Oren of an important military commander for the remainder of the war. Adding even further to Oren's loss, the Blackvale Vrijkorps nullified their contract and exited the war. "Does that High Elf know he's holding that pike upside down?" - Fergle of Acre, Orenian Levyman Not all was well for Haense, though, and the war was far from over. In a final bid for peace, High Pontiff Tylos II summoned King Karl, King Frederick, and Grand Duke John Casimir for negotiations, where it was established that, while the Eastern Treaty would not forego the planned invasion of Fi'Halen, the Canonist nations would not engage in any raids or battles against each other until the invasion proper. This was an infamous diplomatic blunder on the part of Haense and Balian, and the Eastern Treaty forces were initially outraged - they had long-since held the momentum in the war, and a pledge not to raid Oren utterly destroyed that. King Karl and Grand Duke John quickly issued a statement reneging on the agreement, claiming that the High Pontiff had twisted their words and intentions. Even today, it was unclear what went wrong. Some accounts indicate that the Lady Palatine of Haense, Isabel Baruch, had consented to the ceasefire unwittingly, while others believe that Haense and Balian were forced to break the agreement due to backlash within the Eastern Treaty. Irrespective, the consequences of the ordeal remained the same - High Pontiff Tylos, entirely alienated, stripped King Karl of the title of Fidei Defensor and, while lamenting on how it had been twisted by political prestige, dissolved it. A second boost to Orenian morale followed just weeks later when an Orenian raiding party was dumbstruck to come across Grand King Bakir Ireheart idly walking the roads of Urguan alone. Upon his capture, King Frederick promptly urged the Grand Kingdom of Urguan to withdraw from the Eastern Treaty in return for the life of their Grand King, but the Dwarven Senate famously stated "this changes nothing" and, whether out of commitment to the war effort or content to let the Grand King suffer for his own mistakes, the rest of the Eastern Treaty remained steadfast as plans continued to construct siege-ships and assemble supplies and forces to besiege Haelun'or, which had proven to be a colossal logistical endeavour. The Orenian morale quickly plummeted once again when the Battle of Red Snow ended in disaster for the sovereign States; Targoth Zahgori of Krugmar led a warband of 2,500 that plundered Haeseni villages en route to Karosgrad, but they were trapped and slaughtered at the Haeseni capital by the defence of Lord Marshal Hieran Melphaestus and incoming Eastern Treaty reinforcements. A second blow to the Sovereign States came later in 434 E.S. | 1881 A.H. when the Romstun bannermen added another hostage to the roster of Piast Casimir and Baron Hannes when scouting the roads of Elysium -- Ellathor Vanari, Lord Commander of Queen Leika de Astrea of Elysium's modest army. In contrast with Grand King Bakir's capture, Haense successfully leveraged Lord Ellathor to secure peace with Elysium, as the Elysians were not a militaristic people, already tired from the recent Elysian War, and most Elysians were of the opinion that their nation had no business fighting this. Queen Leika had joined the Sovereign States in order to endear Elysium to Oren, but paired with dissatisfaction amongst her realm and Oren's growing losses, Elysium withdrew from the Sovereign States in the Treaty of Crow and Fox, and signed a defensive alliance with Haense to protect from Orenian or Orcish retaliation. "The Church scorned, the path to power lined with human corpses ... how could the Fidei Defensor do this?" - Prior Ostvan, Karosgrad Monastery Things continued to fall in favour of the Eastern Treaty as summer passed, continuing with Grand King Bakir's liberation from Orenian captivity by the Romstun warriors and a turncloak of Frederick's court. While the traitor's identity remains obscured to history, the Orenian court and army - the Petrine Legion - was rife with disenfranchisement after their military and diplomatic losses to the Eastern Treaty. What had started as an optimistic and clever political play had devolved into a disaster: Oren's raids were overrun with raiders and their harvests had suffered from razed farms, driving droves of refugees to Vienne; Elysium had withdrawn, Krugmar's strength was entirely spent from entering the Successors' War immediately after the Elysian War, and the High Elves had no military prowess in the first place; Westfall had effectively ceased to exist, and Malinor and Nevaehlen refused to join the war. Growing tensions in Oren finally erupted when Gustaf de Vilain, Baron of Acre, declared that he was withdrawing from the war without the blessings of his King. This sedition amounted to open rebellion against King Frederick, and utterly destabilised Oren, especially when Haense released Lord Hannes de Vilain as a show of good faith and implied support of the Acrean rebellion. Faced with an insurrection from his largest vassal and his allies waned and withered, King Frederick was left with no choice but to concede the war against the Eastern Treaty. By the end of 434 E.S. | 1881 A.H., the Kingdom of Oren, the Kongzem of Haense, the Grand Kingdom of Urguan, the Grand Duchy of Balian, and the Horde of Krugmar had officially concluded the Successors' War in favour of the Eastern Treaty. The High Elven island was yielded to Haense, and though the High Elves themselves had no say in the matter, they were gifted 5,000 mina to relocate. Additionally, the United Sovereign States of Almaris was dissolved, and a memorial bench was constructed in Vienne depicting Grand King Bakir and Emperor Philip III holding hands (the two were long-theorised to be lovers). Through a series of dangerous gambles, Haense and her allies triumphed in the Successors' War, which acted as the hammer to the Sinners' War's nail -- it achieved the second major consecutive victory and gained a vital strategic stronghold on Haelun'or, where it would later settle Hyspian vassals. If Oren had been cracked by the Sinners' War, the Successors' War shattered it as King Frederick was left crippled by rebellion. In the ensuing Harvest War, the rebelling Barony of Acre would defeat King Frederick and dissolve the Kingdom of Oren after his death. This victory, however important, had not come without risk nor consequence - historians readily agree that Haense could have ended up facing a dire defeat if some events had gone even slightly differently (such as Nevaehlen and Malinor's neutrality, or Urguan's commitment to the war despite their Grand King's capture). King Karl had lost the title of Fidei Defensor, a prestigious title of deep symbolic importance from the Sinners' War, and earned himself a much more aggressive and warlike reputation than many of his predessecors which would act as both a boon and burden throughout the rest of his reign. Though victorious, not all in Haense were content, especially due to the feud with the Church (particularly the Waldenians of Reinmar). Yet, at the end of the day, none can deny the Successors' War was a phenomenal victory that cemented the Kongzem of Haense as Almaris' strongest nation for decades to come.

Will james defeat vanhart the carrot for his queen?

said Vanhart.

you need help

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER IX: THE SONS OF KARL 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 The Siege of Dules, the focal point for the struggle to control all Ruska, nears its conclusion. In the Electors Palace, Josef Tideborn - captain of the Stagbreaker mercenaries employed in the city's defence - consults with Lady Yaina, one of the few Electors of Dules who is of a mind to help him. In the Nzechovich siege camp, Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich contend that the Karovic must be forced to reveal the plan they risked everything on by coming to Dules. In the ships of the Karovic fleet moored on the riverbanks south of Dules, the Karovic Princes - the Elder Prince Barbov and the Younger Prince Kosav - reflect on the heavy burdens thrust upon them since the Coup of Lahy and the death of their father, and Prince Barbov struggles with the choices he must inevitably make to become the King of Ruska. Music - Play & Loop All At the very least, the Siege of Dules had not been boring. As Josef Tideborn stared down absently at the painstakingly-detailed map of Dules spread across the desk, he reflected on past sieges in his decades as a mercenary; most of them had very little actual fighting, and instead left defenders squatting inside their walls, underfed and with gloomy thoughts slowly crippling their will as the days passed as slowly as months. Sitting in a squalid, disease-ridden encampment for months on end on the attacking side was not much better, either. It was no wonder that most mercenaries, the Stagbreaker Company among them, avoided siege contracts with a ten-foot pike. In contrast, the Trade-City of Dules had only been under siege for barely over a month, and since the Karovic fleet arrived from Mejen twenty-two days ago and struck their little deal with Vladrik Nzechovich, the city had been attacked daily. It made for a much more exciting affair, and a fitting way to mark Josef’s final war. Or, at least, it would be an exciting way … if we had much hope of winning. At that moment, Josef stood not on the walls amidst battle, but in one of the ornate offices of the Electors of Dules where every stitch of furniture was dark hardwood or shining marble and nearly every edge decorated with gold leaf. The tick of a grandfather clock replaced the ceaseless din of screams and clashing steel, and the only thing that burnt here were the logs in the marble fireplace, not sails, ships, and corpses. In peaceful moments like these, it was Josef’s own mind that was besieged. A hope of winning … is it really time to turncloak? Mercenaries were no strangers to distasteful tactics to secure not only their lives, but their payment, but Josef’s jaw clenched stubbornly at the prospect. If this is my last war, is that really how I went to go out? Dragan and I’s legacy will be … winning a siege by treachery. The idea of winning this war for Dules against seemingly impossible odds seemed like too good of a legacy for Josef to pass up, and yet he had weighed up every possible option, and the chances of surviving the combined Nzechovich and Karovic onslaught grew more slim by the day. A loud tap brought his attention back to the table as slender fingers moved one of many marble figurines to a specific spot on the harbour wall. “And now they’ve even attacked the refuse gate.” It was difficult to believe that the dainty fingers moving those marble figurines, representing armies and bloody clashes, belonged to the young woman with plump cheeks, youthful eyes, and brown curls on the other side of the desk. Lady Yaina Zeravozch was the youngest of the Electors of Dules, apparently after the untimely death of three seniors in the wealthy Zeravozch family, which had controlled Dules’ Dyers’ Guild, but perhaps it was because of her youth that Josef found her much more tolerable than her peers. The other Electors, most of them wrinkled and completely inexperienced at war, tried to ignore Josef and the war outside their Palace - their war - but not Yaina; Yaina had asked Josef for private reports of each and every battle, the status of the walls and their defence each day, and Josef was happy to deliver. At least she cares about her city. The only problem was that the Electors of Dules ruled the city as a council, and Yaina could do little to help Josef on her own. “Ai, my lady. It was not cheap to have a dozen men sit in the refuse tunnel for the last three weeks.” His eyes drifted to the marble figure Yaina had just placed over a tiny label on the north-western edge of the harbour wall, marked ‘refuse gate’. It was barely big enough for a grown man to crouch in, but Josef had placed a token guard down there just in case. “I’m glad it paid off.” Just before dawn that morning, a stinking messenger from that token guard reported they had just fended off a crew of Karovic soldiers trying to sneak into the city. “Still, I have to admire Prince Barbov’s commitment. Most royals wouldn’t lower themselves to attacking through the sewers.” Yaina snorted, though calculating eyes did not leave the map. “Barbov? No, you had the right gauge of him. I’d bet the entire city trying the refuse gate was not his idea. I’d wager it was Kosav’s doing instead.” “What makes you say that, my lady?” Josef arched cautiously with an arched eyebrow. It was not the first time he had noticed the young Elector speak of the Karovic Princes with a sense of familiarity. Yaina’s eyes flit up from the map, meeting Josef’s. “You don’t know much of the Princes, do you, Tideborn?” Josef shrugged indifferently. “The last time I spent longer than half-a-year in Ruska, King Karl had made his peace with the Nzechovich. After that, I spent the better part of fifteen years fighting on the Waldor, but most folk spoke fondly of old Karl. Didn’t hear much of anything about his runts.” Yaina pursed her lips. “I was tutored at the Royal Court in Lahy. Granted, we were only children, but I find it hard to believe the Princes have changed much.” Josef smiled faintly. “That so?” The politics and history of royals and rulers had never interested him a great deal, but he was in the thick of it now, and if Yaina could tell him something that might allow Josef to understand and predict his enemy … well, he was certainly not going to say no to that. Yaina nodded, her eyes glazed in thought. “Barbov was well and truly the son of King Karl - belligerent, demanding, and prideful, redeemed only by brutish charisma. History remembers King Karl as a wise and fair ruler, but it was more than obvious from within Lahy Castle that all of Ruska’s prosperity came from the White Sage.” “The White Sage?” Josef baulked a laugh. “What, he had a wizard in his pocket?” Yaina didn’t seem to share his amusement. When she spoke again, it was with admiration. “Not a wizard - his brother, Prince Diedrik. It was he who told Karl where to swing his hammer, where to show mercy, and how to unite Ruska.” “So why didn’t this White Sage just become King himself?” Yaina sighed as she stared down at the marble figures marking the Karovic fleet moored along the banks of the Lower Huns River south of Dules. “The Palace chaplain used to say that God did not make perfect men. For all his merits, I’d say Prince Diedrik lacked the heart to overthrow his own brother. He was eventually exiled, either self-imposed or by his brother, after they feuded over a woman, of all things. They say that was the moment King Karl began to die." “Hmph. God does have a way of making sure things are never easy.” Like this bloody siege, he added to himself. Everything would have worked perfectly if the Nzechovich and the Karovic had just fought each other like I planned. His eyes flit to the encirclement of black marble figures around the city representing the Nzechovich siege lines - they were over three times as numerous as the Karovic. “It seems to be a curse in the Karovic dynasty, though. Barbov is the brute who wears the crown, but his younger brother is the one with the brains.” “Prince Kosav? Hmph. I heard he’s as gaunt as a stick, and too weak to hold a sword.” Yaina smirked fondly in recollection. “Well, he’s no warrior, but he’s not sickly either. He was my … friend, back when I studied in Lahy. While the other young lords always had their heads filled with notions about becoming great Bogatyrs and conquering the known world, Kosav was one of the only ones who really cared … anything else, really. I actually thought I might end up marrying him one day.” “You speak warmly of a man who is doing everything he can to take this city.” Her smile slowly faded. “That’s hardly unusual. War often turns kin against each other.” “True enough, as long as you are prepared to kill him,” Josef bristled. “If you knew these Princes personally, tell me this, then, Lady. Why are they here?” Yaina narrowed her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean? They’re here to take Dules to regain their father’s throne.” “Naturally.” Josef’s eyes flicked between the Karovic fleet, and the much larger Nzechovich army. “But why here, and now? Their army is smaller than both ours and the Nzechovich, and while they may have reached a deal with Vladrik Nzechovich for now, I can’t see how it benefits them. As soon as the city is in his clutches, Vladrik will kill them. They must know that.” Yaina shifted uncomfortably. “I … have been wondering the same.” “So, why would the Karovic put themselves in this position?” Josef pondered, before his eyes drifted back to the refuse gate. “As of this morning, they’ve tried to infiltrate every one of Dules’ gates and weaknesses. There’s nothing else they can do, which means …” Yaina Zeravozch “ … they are out of options!” “Conventional ones, at least,” Szitibor added with a frown. It was on his way back from another failed assault on Dules’ gates that one of the Nzech watchmen had reported the Karovic attempt to sneak through the city’s refuse tunnel earlier that morning, only to be met with a garrison of Stagbreakers. “So, was that their big plan? The refuse tunnel? No, surely not … though, it is fitting for Prince Piggy Barbov.” Vladrik Nzechovich chuckled into his cup as he lounged back in his high-backed chair. A tent it might have been, but Szitibor felt widely out of place among the lavish furnishings and rich banners and tapestries in his bloodstained cloak and armour. Vladrik, of course, with his chainmail vest unlaced and his face freshly shaven, had not yet taken to the frontlines himself. “Perhaps we should focus on our problems first, cousin,” Szitibor said stiffly. “That Waldenian monster practically cut down the fourteenth banner single-handedly during our assault this morning.” “Hm?” Vladrik glanced up from his cup, as if he had not really noticed Szitibor until now. “You mean Dragan Skullsplitter?” Szitibor grit his teeth. “Yes. I’ve been telling you, he’s been cutting swathes through us. We can’t keep attacking the gates while he’s leading the defence; we’re losing scores of our own, and I can see no sign of the defenders growing tired.” “Yes, well, don’t fret too much,” Vladrik muttered tersely. “We still have plenty of troops to spare.” “Then why aren’t we using them? Why are you restricting me to only three banners of troops to attack the walls while Dragan Skullsplitter cleaves a hole through us every time?” “Damn it, Szitty, would you think?” Vladrik rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “It’s the Karovic! You said it yourself that day when we met the damned Princes - they have some kind of plan. They wouldn’t have deliberately walked into the bear’s den and put themselves between us and Dules otherwise.” Szitibor blinked. “I don’t -” “They’ve tried to use every hidden gate and weakness the city seems to have,” Vladrik went on. “Even we didn’t know about some of these gates, but seems like it doesn’t matter. Good ol'e Josef Tideborn has been two steps ahead of them every time. He’s covered up every weakness, every nook and cranny.” Szitibor had to stop himself from raising his voice. “And Dragan Skullsplitter is two steps ahead of us at the city gates. What’s your point, cousin?” “We’ve been waiting all these weeks to see what trick they were going to try pull, to see why they risked coming to Dules and putting themselves at our mercy, and I don’t believe it was to try sneak in any of these gates.” Vladrik tapped a finger pensively on the rim of his cup. "We keep a healthy stockpile of troops in our camp so we're ready for whatever trick they have up their sleeve. And, besides, it's no harm letting them whittle down the harbour defences in the meantime." “So, what?” Szitibor unconsciously flexed his hand on his sword-grip. He had little patience for whatever games the Karovic, the Electors, or even Vladrik were playing -- his sole priority was to save his sister from the mess he had landed her in. I can’t lose sight of that. “It means, dear Szitty, that if the Karovic do have this plan that they were willing to stake everything on, then …” Szitibor Nzechovich “ … we have to do it now, brother!” From the foggy window in the ship’s cabin, Barbov Karovic stared out into the churning, grey waters of the Lower Huns River. He sat uncomfortably in a suit of fine chainmail that had not a speck of blood nor chip on it -- despite his base instinct, he accepted he could not waltz out onto the frontlines himself. As much as I’d like to. At the very least, it would make for some stress relief. But no, instead he remained cooped up safely behind his armies, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “We have to put the plan into motion now, brother,” Kosav repeated. His younger brother was the only person in the cabin of one of the ships that Barbov had taken for his study, though there was no decoration besides a plain desk, a rug, and some chairs. Kosav wore a look of pained urgency on his gaunt face, and his mop of dark hair was strewn from the wind. In a way, Barbov felt strangely proud to see his brother like this; back in Lahy, his eyes always wore a flat, lazy gaze, and he seemed to look down his nose as if he couldn’t understand the way everyone else behaved. He’s changed a lot since the Coup of Lahy, since we were driven out of the nest. As a cloud passed overhead, Barbov saw his own wide-eyed expression reflected in the window. Have I? “Brother?” “I heard you, Kosav,” Barbov said at last, and he could hear the deflation in his voice. It wasn’t like him, that softness, but when he was alone with Kosav were the only moments where he did not have to layer his voice, and his composure, with strength and authority - it was those moments where he did not have to pretend that everything was going according to plan, and that he was the true King of Ruska that would deliver his followers to salvation. Kosav’s face seemed to be a battleground of doubt and determination as he locked eyes with his brother. “Can … you give the order then, brother? We must play our hand now before we lose too many more soldiers at the harbour.” “Must we?” He looked at the sword laid on the table in his bejewelled sheath inlaid with silver vines - Svetjlast, the blade of Raevir kings that had been wielded as a mark of absolute authority by Nzechovich and Karovic kings alike. On the night of the Coup of Lahy, Barbov had commanded his scant forces make a push into his father’s reliquary to retrieve it, and that had nearly spelled his doom. One of his father’s Bogatyrs - Lorszan - had died to fulfil that request. It had seemed so important to Barbov at the time, but as he eyed Svetjlast now, he found it hard to believe he had chosen that path, and whether Lorszan had been content to sacrifice himself so that Barbov could hold a piece of metal. How could he be? “Must we?” Kosav repeated with a knit brow. “What’s that supposed to mean? We have no other choice, Barbov. We’ve tried to fight our way into the harbour, we’ve tried every gate and weakness this city has, but the Stagbreakers aren’t letting their guard down. We’re out of options.” “I can think of another option. We could die.” Kosav narrowed his eyes. “What?” Barbov was not quite sure where the words came from; he did not think as he spoke. “We’ve come this far. We escaped Lahy, we rallied an army in Osyenia, we won at Mejen, and we came to Dules. Maybe … maybe this is as far as we can go.” “Are … you drunk?” Kosav’s voice was an incredulous whisper. “What are you saying?! We - we can go further, brother! We can win at Dules!” “And then what? Our army grows larger, and the stakes grow higher? Then, next time we’re gambling with fifty-thousand lives instead of ten?” Kosav dropped into a chair across from Barbov, his shoulders slumped and his face haggard. “Where is this coming from, Barbov?” “I … don’t think I can do this, Kosav, not anymore.” His own voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand those eyes.” “E-eyes?” Barbov nodded as he stared at Svetjlast, unseeing. “The eyes of the living, who trust us with their lives to bring them to victory as if you and I know the first thing about real war, the eyes of those who silently need to know that their sacrifice will be worth it, that we’re not just two kids who are going to get them killed without any meaning … and the eyes of the dead are there, too.” His eyes, watery now, slid to his brother. “Tell me, Kosav, do you feel him? Do you feel father, watching, judging?” “ … No,” Kosav sighed after a moment. “I don’t, but you always were father’s favourite.” “Well, I do. I can feel him watching, all the time, even now … watching to see if I do the Karovic dynasty proud, if I do right by our bloodline, if I continue the work that our forefathers gave their lives for … if the sons of King Karl are worthy of their name.” “So, what, you’re worried father will scold you in the Skies if you don’t live up to his expectations?” “It’s not just him. It’s … it’s everyone who’s died for us. I can feel Lorszan watching to see if it was worth giving his life to deliver me Svetjlast, and all the others who died giving their lives to get me and you out of Lahy Castle safely because they thought I was their rightful king … I can feel Miliv and the dead from Mejen, who were cut down from behind instead of dying in honourable battle, each and everyone wondering whether dying like that was a price they were willing to pay for me to win the throne back … but …” his voice became a scarce breath. “How can it, Kosav? How can any of that be worth it?” “Barbov …” Kosav began weakly as he placed a hand on his shoulder, but he paused, struggling for words. “No, Kosav, how … how can we live up to that? How can we possibly make any of their sacrifices worth it?" “I … I don’t …” “That’s why maybe it’s just easier … for us to go out here, at Dules, with honour. We can die fighting the Nzechovich for our throne with honour, like father would have wanted, and stop this madness before we have a chance to throw any more lives away. We can do right by the Karovic dynasty, and - and just …” Kosav’s hand tightened around his shoulder. “ … No. If that’s what haunts you, then you can’t stop now. ” The waves crashed noisily against the hull as Barbov turned his head to face his brother. “From the Coup of Lahy, to the Battle of Mejen, to the siege we’re fighting right now -- so many have already died, brother. They’ve already made their sacrifice, and everyone still following us is prepared to do the same. We can’t just … let that go, Barbov. We can’t turn back now, and we can’t give up either.” Barbov closed his eyes on warm tears. “I know that, but those eyes are just … crushing, Kosav. I don’t know how I can keep going. I just … lack the strength.” His brother’s hand squeezed his shoulder tighter. “Then find it, brother. We’re the sons of Karl, and we chose this path when we raised our banners at Osyenia. We cannot turn back now, for the sake of everyone who died believing in us -- in you. So, whether it’s in the end of a bottle, some pretty girl’s smile, or the spirit of a King, find the strength, and keep pretending to be Barbov the Strong until we have won.” “Where do you find it, then? Your strength?” In all his life, Barbov had never heard this heat, this conviction, in his younger brother’s voice. In their youth, when Barbov was off playing Bogatyrs with the other noblemen, Kosav had always kept to himself. Barbov had always known his brother was smart, but he had never thought he had this kind of spirit to him until they left Lahy. “Well, it’s a little selfish, but I suppose we’re beyond keeping things to ourselves now.” He sucked in a quiet breath. “All my life, I felt like I was waiting for my real life to begin. Since I was born, it always just felt like I was waiting for … something. All those years just reading, learning, and lounging in Lahy Castle … I never knew what I was waiting for, exactly, but I knew it would be something monumental, something that would actually mark the start of my real life.” He laughed faintly, and bitterly. “Maybe it was the Nzechovich coup. I … suppose the point is that I’ve waited all this time, that I’m not going to let my life be ended by Msitovic and his Nzechovich traitors. I just - I just can’t let it happen.” Barbov opened his eyes, and gave his brother a sidelong look. “You’re saying this war has made you feel … alive?” Kosav nodded slowly. “I know, it’s … terrible to think, but I’ve never felt more alive than I have these last months. So … there you go, then. That is my strength, brother.” To fight to let my own brother live … well, maybe that can be a strength in itself. Barbov sucked in a sharp inhale, and straightened up. “Very well,” he said at last. “Seems I’ve got no choice. We’re both the sons of Karl, and I won’t let you show me up with a stronger spirit. You’re right; I’ve no choice but to redeem every sacrifice made for us so far. Iblees would take me otherwise.” Even as he spoke, Barbov was not sure if he was lying to himself, but he had no qualms if that were the case; if lying was what convinced him to carry on, then he would lie to himself to the very end. For Kosav, and for all the eyes. Kosav returned a weak smile, but it lasted only for a moment. “So, you’re not going to die on us?” “Not yet, at least.” Barbov stood at last, brushing Kosav’s hand off, as he turned back to the cabin window. In the evening light, the pale walls of Dules stretched along the horizon, topped with the tiled domed towers and spires beyond the walls. “What about -” “Yes. Give the order. Let’s see if this crack-brained plan of yours will work.” If you are watching father, then … I’m sorry. I have more lives to answer to than yours. “Let’s see if we can take this city.” Barbov the Black "Finally," Ratibor grumbled as Stanislaw delivered the news. "I could have done with waiting a while longer," Stanislaw grumbled in the doorway of Ratibor's cabin, where he stood mailed and cloaked in the moonlight. "Attacking at night like this is far from ideal. There's something cowardly about it." "Oh, relax," Ratibor snorted as he buckled on his scabbard. "Sometimes you have to play a few sly hands to win." Stanislaw's gaze hardened. "How can a Bogatyr speak like that?" "Hmph. Maybe I'll tell you some day." Ratibor's sword clicked as he slid it into its sheath. "Now, where is my squire?" __________________ Josef had barely taken a sip from his freshly-poured cup of mead when Dragan relayed the message from the walls. "The entire Karovic fleet is attacking?" he repeated as he sighed, and took his cloak from the peg on the wall. "Right now?" "Most of it, at least." Dragan Skullsplitter's form was silhouetted by moonlight in the door. Behind him, the sound of Stagbreakers being roused from their sleep to rush to the city's defence rang through the air. "You think this might be their big push?" "We'll just have to find out." He tightened the cloak at his neck with his broken-antler brooch. "If it's the entire fleet, I'll need your help this time, Dragan. I have a score to settle with Ratibor Skysent." His hulking companion gave a stout nod. "I'll be at your side, Josef. After all, a worthy opponent might be just what I need to feel better after shredding all these little Nzech." __________________ Slavomir the Drowned quietly ran an oiled cloth along his sword as Karovic soldiers dashed back and forth across the deck. Hastily, soldiers loaded arrows into their quivers, tied their bowstrings, fetched their polearms and shields from racks, and donned their scalemail and gambesons. The excitement, anxiety, and anticipation was practically electric in the air - despite the fact a clouded moon hung high in the sky, there was enough ambient on the Karovic ships - and from nearby Dules - to match a fair at noon. Slavomir did not share their excitement, though. One battle in the service of King Karl, and now his sons Barbov and Kosav, was much the same to him. "TONIGHT, THE KAROVIC BANNER SHALL FLY FROM DULES!" one man - Slavomir thought it might have been Ratibor - roared, and was met by hoarse cheers and applause from the soldiers. It was only then that he realised some of the ships had began to glide through the oil-black water, towards the harbour of Dules. "ASERE TRIEKMARV WJEIK KARONYZ!"

Ok well That could be anybody

i just think @UnBaed might get carried away