Lykourgos XII: Behind the Plate and Mail
The Twenty-Eighth Day of the Eleventh Month, 872 AD.
The Anarian Marches, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.
The walls stood before him, defiant and resplendent, but the only thing was... well, the gates were open. As in, wide open. A green banner was flying from the battlements, but there was no sign of an opposing force anywhere save a scant few men atop the walls waving at Lykourgos' own army below. It was almost surreal.
"Do you suspect a trap, your Grace?"
He shrugged.
"It is too early to tell. Do you think it would be best if the armsmen-"
"A rider, no, two, your Grace!"
Lykourgos whipped round to see his cupbearer pointing back at the gates guarding the entrance of the Northern district. Well, he supposed guarding was a generous term seeing as they were wide open, but still.
True to Ilias' word, there was a pair of riders cantering towards them. The one further back bore his brother's standard, a light-green flower on a dark-green field, as well as a longsword and mace with a six foot haft across her back. The one in front... well, Lykourgos knew exactly who that excitable face belonged too.
He pushed his horse at full gallop, ignoring the protests of his friends behind him.
Brother!
He all but vaulted out of his fucking saddle as they got some twenty feet from each other, and Lykourgos watched as his brother pulled back so hard on the reins of his horse it reared up. His brother soon dismounted and, as Lykourgos himself did, launched himself in a running start towards his brother.
They collided against each other and immediately were in a death grip of a hug.
There were tears in his brother's eyes, and Lykourgos had no idea he'd feel so relieved to see him unharmed.
"Brother!"
"Brother."
They released each other and took a step back, smiles still on their faces. The woman who had borne his brother's standard marched up to the two of them, and Ser Romanos did likewise from behind the prince.
Both of them spoke at the exact same time, their voices exasperated yet fond.
"I told you not to do that!"
"Your Grace could you please stop running off without me!"
The two companions seemed to stop and size each other up, the woman proffering an armoured wrist as Romanos did the same.
"Crowe, it's good to see you again."
"Likewise. How is the north of the kingdom?"
"Chilly, but safe. The south?"
"Warm, but safe."
Lykourgos raised an eyebrow and looked at his brother, who just shrugged.
Guess they already know each other. Makes sense I suppose, they are two of the highest ranking military officials in the realm.
"Brother, may I present Marshal Crowe, my trusted advisor and friend."
The woman smiled and bowed deeply, but not so far as to scrape and grovel.
"An honour, your Grace. Your brother has told me much about you."
He smiled at her.
"Well, may I present Ser Romanos, the Knight of Violets and Grandmaster of the Knights of the Order of the Violet."
Romanos looked at him with a small smile on his face.
"What, I don't get the 'trusted advisor and friend' bit added to my name?"
Lykourgos groaned and shoved him playfully.
"Oh, do shut up Ser."
"Careful your Grace, you're starting to sound like Elikoidi."
There was a second of silence as the group slightly awkwardly looked at each other, trying to figure out what they were to do next.
"Well," Rhema started with a sigh, "no point putting this off I guess. Crowe?"
The woman nodded and handed Rhema his crown. He turned to his brother but continued to stare at the crown for a moment.
Rhema drew his sword and stepped forwards. Slowly, carefully, as if trying to prove he was no threat.
Lykourgos watched from the corner of his eye as Ser Romanos' hand slowly and covertly went towards the pommel of his blade, as if expecting an attack.
Lykourgos turned to the knight and shook his head. This was his brother. There would be no blood spilled between the two of them.
His brother stopped five paces from where he was stood and knelt in the muddy road before the city gates. He flipped his sword and held it gently by its blade, proffering the handle towards Lykourgos. In his other hand he held forwards his crown, waiting for his brother to take it.
He stared at the ground in front of Lykourgos as he spoke, his posture and actions ensuring that all knew he was deferential to his older brother.
"I offer you my crown, for it is not mine but yours. I offer you my sword, for it has always been yours. I offer you my kingdom, for there are none amongst my people who would not call you 'King'."
Lykourgos smiled, slightly choked up, and cleared his throat.
"Rise, brother. I accept your oath of fealty to me, and swear I will not dishonour it. Stand at my side, as you always should have, and help me claim my throne."
Rhema looked up at him and grinned.
"Thank you, your Grace."
Two more people rode up to them from Lykourgos' camp. The interpreter from the Order of the Bloody Cross, Dreamwulf close behind with a grimace upon his face and a snarl aimed at the interpreter.
"Tell me you do not intend to pardon the criminal, your Grace?"
Lykourgos looked up in confusion.
"Criminal?"
The man nodded.
"Your brother, the criminal. He who turned his back on the minor sects of the land and condemned their worshippers to an ignoble end."
Lykourgos started, and Dreamwulf spoke while dismounting from his horse, still glaring daggers from his empty eyes at the interpreter.
"I told him you wouldn't like to hear such talk, your Grace, but some people refuse to be reasoned with."
The interpreter trotted forwards a few more paces, hand resting upon the hilt of his longseaxe.
"You would deny the Ichorian Cult its justice?"
Lykourgos started at the implication he was not being just, made all the more galling by the fact that this man was asking him to put his beloved younger brother to the sword.
"Your quarrel is not with my brother," he snarled, placing himself between the interpreter and his brother, sword drawn, "If you disagree, then I would be more than happy to explain why you are wrong. My sister did this. I know it to be true. Rhema has knelt, he is a king no longer. He will fight by my side to retake this city."
He turned to Lieutenant Isen and Ser Romanos.
"Make sure the men know not to fight Prince Rhema and his supporters. They'll be easy to identify, just look for the green markings."
The interpreter stepped forwards, face grim.
"The false king has betrayed our trust. We swore ourselves to him even after he burned the followers of Hydran on the docks, and in return he consorts with vile heathens. He needs to pay."
At the mention of the burnings something visibly changed in Rhema, his breath becoming shallow and fast. It was Dreamwulf, not Lykourgos, that comforted the prince with a hand on the shoulder, glaring at the interpreter all the while with his empty gaze.
"His Grace has already spoken, Ser. I advise you listen to his verdict before any judgement needs to be passed upon you."
Lykourgos stepped forwards and held up a hand.
"Enough. My piece has been said. You wish for vengeance against those responsible for this? Then you will swallow your pride, and stand in line."
There was silence from the interpreter for a moment as he seemed to try and reconcile whatever grudge the Order of the Bloody Cross had with his brother, but eventually he obeyed Lykourgos' commands. It was the only logical course for the interpreter to take. After all, his faith had sworn itself to Rhema's banners, and how could the order hope to deny its own faithful?
"Very well, your Grace."
The interpreter turned to Rhema, a barely contained snarl on his lips.
"Perhaps what they say is true, and you are not to blame for all of this. For your sake, I hope it is so. Our order will may not strike you down, but only because of the protection his Grace has afforded you. Be very, very thankful I am not as rash as some of my comrades."
Before Lykourgos could admonish the man or demand silence he continued.
"Myself and the knights whom I serve will make our way to the Westcoast Church and protect it from any who may seek to loot or vandalise its sacred halls. Anyone. I trust your men will not throw away their lives fighting their own side in a fruitless attempt to plunder the sacred items held within such a place?"
Lykourgos nodded stiffly.
"I will do what I can to ensure such behaviour does not take place anywhere in the city, including at the Westcoast Church."
"Good. I wish you luck."
The interpreter and his knights moved out into the city, intent on reaching the church before anyone looked at its opulence and got any ideas.
By coincidence, at that moment the bells started up again. Eight times the bell rang. Then a pause. It repeated this message three times, a warning shouted from the brass of the holiest place in the city.
War Comes. War Comes. War Comes.
There was a longer pause, and then the bell tolled only twice.
Rhema turned to him, still somewhat shaken from the interpreter's accusations but quickly recovering.
"I guess the people know you're back, then."
Lykourgos furrowed his brow as he thought on his brother's words, then smiled.
Of course, two bells! That could mean only one thing.
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Rejoice.
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The walk through Last Stander's Street was brisk but rather uneventful. It seemed the fighting had already passed through here, and everywhere he looked armed men and women lined the streets and guarded narrow alleyways. Looking closer Lykourgos realised that each and every one of them had some article of green clothing upon them. It was a motley thing for the most part; a sash here, a scrap of cloth stitched to a shoulder pad there, some people had little more than what appeared to be roughspun cloaks or cowls stained with grass. The knights and armsmen were somewhat more organised; the armsmen of his brother wore green surcoats, and most of the admittedly small number of knights Lykourgos saw had kiteshields painted green or else ribbons of green silk twisted around their sword arms.
They walked up the sloping street, all eyes moving to look at him and his brother as he passed, snippets of conversations being carried on the wind to his ears. Lykourgos did his best not to slip on the rain-slicked cobbled streets of the northern district whilst so many people were watching.
"It's the two princes-"
"They're here-"
"Are... are we saved?"
From his side Lykourgos heard Romanos take a deep breath, and he slowed his horse slightly so as not to be on the receiving end of one of the loudest sets of brass lungs he'd ever known a man could possess.
"ALL HAIL PRINCE LYKOURGOS SPERAKOS!"
The bellowed command from Ser Romanos quieted most of the conversations, a unified "HAIL" silencing all other topics for a moment.
There was a quiet voice from somewhere to his left, little more than a whisper.
"You came back."
Lykourgos turned to face the source of the noise. A young levy sat on the floor amidst the death around him, vacantly staring forwards with nary a reaction.
Lykourgos nodded, but the boy's mind was already gone.
"Saw him on the way down," his brother whispered as they walked, "got caught in an ambush with his band, and he just... well, in the middle of the fight he just sat down where he is now with an almost confused look on his face. I don't think he'll forget today anytime soon."
Lykourgos nodded in acknowledgement, but not pity. He could still remember how he felt at Haestinghen, how numb he was when he took his first life.
He hated how people pitied him back then. He would not pity anyone going through the same thing he did, but he did wish it had never had to happen this way.
"Do you think I did the right thing, Rhema? Was I right to rebel against you?"
His brother nodded without even a second of thought.
"Rebelling against me and our sister is the single best thing you've done for the realm, and for our family, to date."
The older prince snorted.
"I find that hard to believe. Our father lies dead, your mother the same, and our sister... our sister will need to die before this is through."
Rhema swallowed hard at that, but Lykourgos continued.
"We'll be all that's left of our family, Rhema."
"We have distant relatives in the Noble Sons Abroad."
Lykourgos snorted.
"Come on. Let's not pretend those people have any ties to our house save only the name they bear."
Rhema sighed as they crested the highest point of Last Stander's Street and moved past a distillery that had been torn down in the fighting.
"Does she need to die?"
Rhema's voice was soft and quiet, far removed from the boisterous and loud tone Lykourgos was used to.
"Could we not send her to Anatolikoi? Mytenaeopolis, perhaps? There's a reason Anatolikoi is known as the isle of exiles, and the marble city is Klironomean in nature. She could live there instead."
Lykourgos sighed and wrestled with his own thoughts on the matter. Anatolikoi was an option, but the possibility of old connections finding their way to her, for her to amass a small army from the generations of nobles exiled to that island...
It was too much of a risk.
He shook his head.
"Okay, what... what about... Angels, the mere thought makes me sick, but what about abacination. If her eyes were put out no-one would follow her."
He stopped in his tracks at that. Abacination. Blinding. It was an archaic punishment for treason or other serious acts, used to leave someone politically dead in the water.
But it was archaic for a reason.
"I am not some Dathanian despot. I will not stoop to disfigurement of my own kin. Besides, she would not live long past the blinding."
Rhema sighed, closing his eyes a moment.
"True enough. Her life after being deposed would be dedicated to taking the throne, and if she was physically incapable of such a thing... yes, she would not let herself live long."
They were both silent a moment as they continued on down the long avenue towards the Inner Gate. Lykourgos spoke up, emotion carefully smothered in his voice.
"I wish there was another way, Rhema. But to allow her to live is to invite her revenge later on. There is no other option open to us."
His brother nodded.
"I trust you, Lyk. Just, please make sure there's no other option first. I do not know of any alternatives myself, but if you can think of any before we take her captive-"
"Then I will act accordingly, brother. Please believe me, I have no wish to be named 'kinslayer'."
The Inner Gatehouse came into view, a knot of soldiers in red liveries holding fast despite the foe in front of them.
"We're here. Ready yourself, brother."
He checked his longsword and kiteshield once more before setting off with the men. Usually one would fight with a greatsword if they could only use the one hand, after all, the added length of the longsword made it unwieldy unless used two-handed.
Lykourgos had no such problems with such things, not anymore. Lord Brathaxe had been a big man, easily capable of wielding his great mace in one hand, and had expected his charge to do the same.
Even ignoring the age difference, Lord Brathaxe was still many times the prince's size, but in the mind of his foster-father that was no excuse. Lykourgos was young, he said, and if he learned to use a weapon such as the longsword one-handed now it would help him the rest of his life. And so it was.
The longsword had taken him years to learn to use, it had taken him the better part of half a decade just to get his grip, stance and balance right, but Lykourgos had to admit that the ability to wield a sword almost a meter and a half in length in one hand made him damn good in battle.
Almost as good as his brother.
Rhema's training, though Lykourgos hadn't been there for the vast majority of it, seemed to have taken the natural ambidexterity his brother possessed and channelled it into combat. He could swing an axe to decapitate with one hand and stab a man through the chest in the same heartbeat.
"So," his brother started, "I'm finally going to be fighting alongside you?"
The words were filled with trepidation and hope. Lykourgos smiled down at his little brother.
"Aye. It's taken us long enough to get to this point, hasn't it?"
His brother nodded, then turned back to the Inner Gate.
"Come on, your Grace. When we take that gate, the road to the palace will be all but open. The throne is nearly yours."
He nodded back and turned himself to face the gate as well. He readied himself to sprint at his sister's levies crowded before the dry stone of the oldest gatehouse in the city.
"Rhema?"
"Yeah?"
He glanced over one last time before charging.
"Never call me 'your Grace' again. That's a command."
His brother grinned.
"Now there's a law I can get behind. Come on! Let's kill the lickspittles!"
The two brothers took off running towards the foe, loyal soldiers at their back and terrified faces in front.
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An axe split the head of some peasant in two as a shortsword impaled another. To the right a longsword cut down three men and bisected another in as many strokes.
"Four!"
"Already? Fuck!"
The smaller figure shouldered a squire with as much force as he could muster, knocking him to the floor. The axe rose and fell on the same spot until the chainmail broke, metal rings being sent flying like shrapnel as the young man opened the squire's stomach with a final blow.
More men were joining the fray now, friends and foe. Lykourgos watched as a terrified young man, definitely younger than his brother, made to stand against him.
Before the prince had even shifted his stance a billhook from the right tore through his leg, severing sinews and ripping the muscles in his thigh free. The boy fell to the ground with a scream before a follow up strike lodged the bill in his head.
The boy fell silent. Whoever slew him the prince would never know; the soldier was already back in the melee.
Lykourgos turned back to the fight and continued. No point wasting time bemoaning a slain foe.
There would be time enough for that later.
He parried the blow of a longseaxe and shattered his assailant's shield on the riposte. A swift stabbing motion impaled the man, the prince turning to the next foe before the last had even hit the ground.
"FIVE!"
"SAME!
He shouted over the din of battle, his brother doing likewise to make sure he could hear him. Lykourgos grinned at him and continued.
"I WOULD BE ON SIX BUT ONE OF MY OPPONENTS WAS KILLED BY SOMEONE ELSE!"
Rhema laughed.
"SOUNDS LIKE AN EXCUSE! SPEND LESS TIME COMPLAINING AND-"
There was a grunt and pause in his brother's speech as he decapitated a woman armed with a shortspear.
"-GET TO WORK! SEE! NOW I'M ON SIX! GET BACK TO IT!"
Lykourgos shook his head and turned back to the melee. He wasn't about to let his little brother beat him.
"Come on then," he levelled his longsword at a small cluster of sellswords from the Band of the Wren before continuing with an almost excited, "who's next?"
Boar's Tooth. Parry. Riposte. Strike. Strike. Stab. Kill. Step Back. Ox Guard. Parry. Parry. Riposte. Kill.
He ran through his movements in his head as his body performed them almost automatically. A man ran at him with a greatseaxe raised above his head, screaming a high-pitched war cry. Lykourgos turned the blade aside then half-sworded his weapon to bring the steel pommel down upon the back of the man's head.
There was an almighty cracking noise, and his newest assailant fell slack to the floor.
Twelve.
He'd never taken so many lives in one day before. Not with his own hands, anyway. He was beginning to tire.
There was a dull pain across his chest as a longaxe slammed into his cuirass. Thank the Angels for good plate armour. Winded but not injured he focused himself on his guard so as to deflect any follow up strike, but whoever had attacked him was lost in the melee.
He took a breath to steady himself, and prepared to plunge himself back into the madness. There was no room for sympathies here.
They were between him and his throne. Between his army and the palace. Between the realm and peace.
And that was something he would not let go unpunished.
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When all was said and done at the Inner Gate he had slain fourteen of the enemy and taken six wounds. The injuries were superficial, being little more than deep bruising or shallow cuts, but he was exhausted nonetheless. The men around him were taking away those who had thrown down their weapons, and a handful of Longbowmen-at-Arms now stood sentry on the gatehouse and its surrounding walls.
All things considered it had gone very smoothly so far, at least in the northern district. He was unaware of any happenings in the eastern portions of the city, but seeing as no urgent missive had been sent to him he felt little worry for those engaged in the street fighting there.
Romanos and Dreamwulf had fought back-to-back with one another down Bastard's Run, slaying scores of foes and taking a few slightly more serious bangs and cuts. He shook his head whilst smiling. Dreamwulf may not have joined the armsmen on paper, but nowadays he was almost becoming a de-facto figure of authority for the professional soldiers of the army, so great was their respect for him.
As for Ser Romanos, well, his fame spoke for itself. Truth be told Lykourgos wasn't sure if there was a single knight in the world better skilled in personal combat than his friend. Maybe Ser Ezekiel or Ser Thera in Aegos could best him, but that was a hefty maybe.
Besides, they were almost the full length of the continent away.
He shook his head to get his thoughts back in order.
Maybe with the most respected armsman and knight in the kingdom fighting alongside one another the burgeoning rivalry developing between the different groups would quiet down somewhat, or at least become friendly in nature rather than truly competitive.
There was little time to dwell on that now. There would be precious little time to regroup and continue into the heart of the city, and Lykourgos did not intend to waste it on bandying words or with idle thoughts. Not right now. He simply motioned for Romanos and Dreamwulf to fall in at his side, Rhema following likewise. A tall, muscular woman that Lykourgos recognised as Marshal Crowe nodded deferentially to him, and moved to stand by his side.
He just nodded back and gave the order to move into the rest of the city. The Eastern and Western districts would fall under their wrath, then they would be free to move southwards, into the hills where the dispossessed nobility had carved out their new homes.
Looting and sacking would be a threat, especially in the Southern district where all the wealth of dozens of former lords lay.
He would not abide a sack, not even against those nobles who deserved to have everything stripped from them.
Well, that last part was mostly so he could use their wealth to bolster the royal coffers. The rebuilding and renovations he would see to in this city once he was truly king would be expensive, after all.
All that would remain after that was the palace itself. His home.
They would isolate it and then decide how best to move forwards. If his sister was smart, or rather if those advising her were smart, then she would already be moving her fighting men and women back towards the Old Keep, perhaps covered by a cavalry charge or two down some of the wider avenues that gently sloped downwards from the outer walls of the palace.
He smiled at the eclectic gathering at his sides. A collection of some of the best fighters and soldiers in the realm at his left and right, protecting him just as they trusted him to protect them. It was a nice thought. He'd have to speak with Marshal Crowe afterwards and introduce himself properly, but he suspected she was more interested in seeing the battle through to its end and ensuring his brother's safety. By itself, that marked her as having a brain between her ears, which made her better than half of their shared opponents immediately.
Here was a group with which he would take his throne. Here were a fraction of those that made all of this possible.
For them, He thought to himself, for justice, for the realm, and for them.