Homelands
Chapter Thirty Six: Black and White
Part 2
Prelude:
By 1323 the war between the Zähringers and the Norse was over, and the Zähringers were on top, ruling a mostly united Scandinavia, save a few Christian controlled realms. The Swedes and Norwegians fled north to lick their wounds and prepare for further conflict. The Caliph showered the Zähringers with gifts, pleased with their ultimate success and urging others to do the same. This idea of "Personal War", as the Caliph called it, would be the last straw for the camel, soon the taifa were levying their own armies, raiding one another as well as neighboring states, putting much pressure on the Caliph to call back the dogs. Given that few Christian states still existed and Prussia's well-maintained army made it an imposing threat, the taifa preyed on weak states like Croatia, Rome and the British isles while supplementing their earnings with raids on Muslim states such as Carthage, Morocco, Egypt and Naples. At the head of these raids was an emboldened Zähringer clan, who had been dubbed "Masters of Sweden" by the Caliph and given many privileges once reserved only for the Caliph himself. But more so than petty family feuds, the Caliphate was being wedged apart by its own size and culture issues. Unlike Prussia, with its enforcement of Prussian as a lingua franca, the Caliphate allowed its people to continue to use their own languages, preventing a homogeneous culture from forming. Moreover, certain businesses were dominated by certain cultures leading to issues of organization, cooperation and sharing of resources. The rapid expansion of the Vasque, Istimari, Breton and Arab-Sicilians displaced many natives. In Spain, for example, Castilians were pushed into traditionally Leonese lands by the Istimari.
Zähringer lands in 1323 as 'Master of Sweden'.
April 9th, 1323
"Norway fell, sir... it is as you expected. Shall we ready a counter strike or are we going to bide our time a bit longer?" Árás asked. He watched Vishly for a reaction, some kind of facial twitch or jerk that would tell him that his King had heard him. But the King sat there stone-faced, thinking quietly to himself. His low, rumbling breaths measured and deliberate. Fear and paranoia gripped him, it was probably the same feeling Nomedas lived with every day until his death. His son and some merchant were challenging Butovit. How long until they had support? How long until the icy blades of assassins fell down upon him like a swarm of flies. Even his wife, she hovered outside the limits of his mind. Who could he trust? Not his nobles, not his advisors, not his son, not the merchants and the middle class. Was he alone in this world? Was he so utterly alone, forgotten on this planet, that not a soul in the universe could be trusted? Árás had asked him a question. What would he do about the Muslim defeat of Norway? He didn't know, but he definitely wasn't going to go attack the Caliphate. His enemies would rise as one and strike down the great nation of the Prussian Kings.
"Nothing. Forget it General. We move on. Scandinavia will never again taste freedom, why fret over the loss of land that was never ours to begin with?" Vishly asked rhetorically.
Árás stood there for a moment long, but Vishly returned to his cold, hard stare out a window and across the city to his new fortress where he would someday be a bit safer. It was almost two years from being complete, but it would be done soon and it would be the grandest and most powerful fortress ever built in all of Europe.
The general turned and left the room, leaving the King alone with his thoughts. The palace was quiet, almost too quiet, but it had been this way since Gunvald had reappeared as Duke of Courland-Livonia and asserted his claim to the throne. The King feared disunity and assassination. But the general didn't see any of it. He didn't see or hear these phantoms that haunted his King and Queen, and slowly he began to see them as mad. For the first time in a month, he ventured out of Memelgrád. Alone and on horseback he rode through the country side, just watching farmers working on keeping their lives together. It didn't matter to them who controlled Sweden, and for the most part it didn't matter to them if Butovit took over or if Gunvald did. Kings were Kings and for the peasants all that meant was paying taxes. So who was the best bet for him?
Árás stopped his horse as he thought about the answer. The answer was neither, given his current position. Showing any sign of siding with Gunvald would have him killed or worse. But siding with Butovit will leave him in an awkward position of having to risk his own life defeating a cause he was sympathetic to. The horse continued on, even as he lost himself deep in thought. In the long run, he had little idea which would turn out the best for Prussia, but Butovit would have to be removed from the attention of his mother and father if he was going to become anything more than just a copy of the very cancer of Prussia. The marshal stopped and looked around. He was unfamiliar with his surroundings, he had been riding too long without paying attention. He sighed and turned his horse around. The path was feint, but he thought he could make out the path he had taken. In the distance, through the trees, he saw two horsemen headed his way. They were dressed like some of Vishly's Death knights, and they had likely followed him out here when he originally left.
"Gentlemen! Good thing you followed me, I seem to have gotten lost. Have you followed the trail the whole way here?" Árás called out. He waved his hand around to get their attention and the one nodded his head, signaling with his hand to come join up with them. Árás spurred his horse on and quickly caught up with the knights, who turned around and began to lead him back to the road.
"Sir, what were you doing so far from the road?" one man asked, "If you do not mind me prying. The forests here are very dangerous."
"I am sorry, but I was day dreaming as I tried to enjoy the spring air. I lost the road as I thought about other things," Árás answered honestly, or at least as honestly as he was willing to be. The knights thought nothing of it and they continued down the road.
"We were worried that you had been sent off, so we followed you to make sure you were safe," the other said after a few minutes of silence. "We wouldn't want to lose our commander." Árás noted the subtle meaning behind those words. He gathered that at least one of them was sent after him, presumably to keep a watch on him. So, Vishly, I too am a target? The other knight seemed to pick up on it too, only briefly glancing at Árás to see his reaction. But the marshal took it all in stride, it was to be expected. The King trusted no one, not even his wife, anymore. Why would he trust his marshal? It was only to be expected. Hopefully, though, his distrust did not run too deep; hopefully Árás still had a job.
The men eventually made it to the road and quickly followed it back into town. Soon they were arriving back at the palace, a place Árás was originally going to try to avoid for a few hours. But if it kept him alive one more day, he guessed. Then again, it was one more day to earn his master's wrath. One more day to make a fatal mistake.
