This is a really interesting story. I like the format as is, throwing my two bits into the question you were asking earlier.
Eagles of the Steppe - A Kievan Rus AAR
- Thread starter Taiisatai64
- Start date
-
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
I hated Gleb at first sight as soon as I opened the game
It's just that name... "Gleb"... ew. I made a mistake when I made him stupid, my original plan was for him to be bitter, lonely and good with numbers while Roman was the "favored child". I honestly don't know how I managed to change my idea so much! Ah, but the widow is 26, and in the prime of mature beauty, grieving the unfortunate early death of her beloved husband. We'll see what Gleb thinks of her, hey?
Good, good. It was basically a rhetorical question, I wasn't going to change unless the response was an overwhelming negative! I like to give the illusion of choice
The First Battle of the Crossing of the Dvina
They had been just a day’s ride from the ford when the pagan scouts had finally spotted them. That had been the pushing point, the decider; would the pagan take this as a threat, and try to push across the ford, scattering aside the meager resistance on the other bank; or would they array themselves in a defensive formation, and wait for Vseslav’s forces to arrive?
Thankfully, they had chosen the latter, and Vseslav hoped that this would be their worst mistake.
Now, Vseslav sat upon his horse atop a small hillock on the very edge of the forest. Behind him, the dense undergrowth concealed the weakness of his army, while he himself was surrounded by only an honor guard of mail-armored light horse.
Before him ran the placid waters of the Dvina, broadened across a great flat expanse where the riverbed had expanded outwards and risen upwards to form a ford. Over four hundred feet from bank to bank, the ford was tiring to cross at the best of times, but during a battle, it would be murder. It was also the only crossing for miles in either direction.
The pagan had formed up his forces to one side of the ford, where the ground was raised on a slight incline that allowed him to form up his archers behind the infantry without hampering their accuracy. His left flank, the one against the river, was dominated by two hundred or so light cavalry, ready to sweep down upon anyone foolish enough to try and cross the ford to join the battle on the other side. That dashed Vseslav’s hopes of joining up with his men on the other side of the ford, or of having them join up with his forces.
The other side of the crossing was dominated by a thin line of temporary earthworks, small ditches and barricades, and nests of sharpened stakes. They had probably placed caltrops in the water as well, hoping to foul the enemy as they charged across, which put another hole in his plans. He could see the cold winter sunlight glinting off bared steel from behind the earthworks, and let out a small sigh of relief that that they were still present.
But perhaps the worst part was the sheer size of the enemy army. His scouts had not been exaggerating when they put the number at over a thousand, most of it infantry - both light and heavy - and light cavalry. He himself had only four hundred men with him, all of which were lightly armored conscripts and mounted skirmishers, the only respectable cavalry being the mailed light horse that made up his honor guard. The respectable part of his forces, those hundred-or-so soldiers who made up the honor guards and castle garrisons of his lords, the professional troops, he had left behind with the supply wagons, three days behind him.
This also added to his dilemma. Without supplies, his army would go hungry; they had only brought enough food for the journey and perhaps an extra day, the maximum amount they could drag along with them and hope to attain enough speed to reach the crossing in time.
“Signal the men to advance and draw up in ranks,” he said to the signalman beside him.
*******
Trifon stared across the crossing with eyes squinted against the sunlight glaring off the surface of the river and snow. The river had thawed early this year - it was only February - and Trifon was not pleased with this.
He watched with an unsettled stomach as the signalman beside Vseslav blew three short notes on his horn, the signal for Vseslav’s men to form up in ranks, and he almost vomited when he saw the size of Vseslav’s forces. That tiny army didn’t stand a chance against the pagan forces.
Slamming his fist against the earthwork battlement with a choked roar of frustration, he turned to the Daugavian commander beside him, a weak-jawed, watery-eyed man by the name of Petr.
“Caltrops?! CALTROPS?!” he roared, in a way that should have been comical coming from him if not for the fact that, as Petr was horribly aware, he could have this no-chinned, pale-skinned worm flayed and hung out to dry at a word.
“Y-yes, my lord Bishop,” Petr stammered, the apple in his throat bobbing up and down with distress, “We thought… we thought it would help our defense…”
“OF COURSE IT WOULD!” Trifon screamed, his voice rising to a squeaky pitch, “but didn’t you think to leave a path open across the ford? No?!”
“No, m-my lord…” Petr muttered.
Trifon slammed his fist into the earthwork again, feeling the skin on his knuckles break and blood begin to trickle down his fingers. He didn’t care.
Across the river, Vseslav was making his plans with absolutely no idea that across the river a force of six hundred allies was marshaled and ready, blocked only by the foolishness of a single Daugavian commander.
*******
Skirmish.
That was Vseslav’s first thought. His only hope of winning against, or at the least delaying, the pagan army was to skirmish against them, and try and draw out individual elements of the enemy army. Except his forces only possessed roughly fifty men capable of handling a bow and they had only a limited supply of arrows. How was he meant to draw out and divide the enemy with fifty men?
Still, he had to try. In a resigned force, he shouted an order to the signalman, and his forces began a steady advance. He remained where he was, atop the same hillock, so as to maintain a view of the battlefield. Another shout, and the signalman raised a red flag and waved it twice in quick succession. Moments later, his archers were breaking rank, rushing forward with bow in hand, an arrow to the string and ready to draw.
The first volley came from the enemy, cutting down several of his archers before they could even get in range, and the second as well, but when the third volley of arrows darkened the sky, his archers were finally within range and taking cover. He watched as they began to pepper the enemy ranks with irregular flights of arrows, but not enough of the enemy was falling; most hid behind shields or knelt so as to form a smaller target.
This was not going well at all.
*******
Petr was hardly thinking at all, at that time. His mind was gibbering with fear, a fear he could barely keep from escaping his throat in whines and whimpers that would utterly humiliate him before this dwarf.
His hands were clenched, white-knuckled, on the earthen battlement as he watched Vseslav’s archers rushing forwards, watched as what seemed like far too many of them were cut down in the first two volleys of pagan arrows until they were in cover, returning fire, while behind them to the rest of Vseslav’s men were steadily advancing.
He also watched as the pagan cavalry broke ranks and came thundering down upon those archers, snow churning up behind their hooves, while most of Vseslav’s men remained too far away to intervene. And a whimper finally escaped his throat when he saw the archers cut down in a flurry of snow, hooves and steel while Vseslav’s infantry and cavalry could do nothing but watch.
He actually screamed when Trifon grabbed his arm, screamed as if he knew what was about to happen as Trifon impaled him through the heart with the dagger.
******
Trifon threw the blood-covered dagger to the ground with disgust, a scowl spread across his face. There was nothing he hated more than stupidity and cowardice. A shaking ran up his arm, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the pang of guilt that ran through his heart when he thought of what he had just done.
Turning, he gave the signal to the captain he had appointed to lead the southern levies which he had force-marched to the crossing with such speed. Caltrops or not, he was getting his men across that ford. He had to.
******
Vseslav watched with horror as everything came crashing down.
His archers had been swept aside with callous brutality by that cavalry charge, but it had not halted and wheeled around as he had expected. Instead, the cavalry line had just kept on riding, straight towards the infantry that comprised the center of his advancing forces. His own cavalry then broke ranks to intercept them, and the entire line devolved into chaos just as the pagan infantry began their own charge.
Snow and blood seemed to cover the melee below him in a red mist, making it almost impossible for him to see exactly what was going on, but he knew it would be a slaughter. His only chance was to enter the melee himself, and try and rally his troops so as to execute an orderly withdrawal.
Drawing his sword, he flung his mount into a charge with a roar of bestial fury, his honor guard spurring along beside him, churning up snow behind them. And so he wasn’t watching the battle as the forces on the other side of the crossing began their advance across the river, carefully picking their way between caltrop spikes and treacherously deep patches to make their way to the other side of the river. But neither did the pagan commander, personally entrenched as he was in the sprawling melee.
Vseslav came crashing in upon the collapsed left flank, sending the pagan savages sprawling. His blade flashed out, severing a monstrously huge man’s head from his shoulders. His vision dimmed, and he became frenzied with a manic kind of bloodlust.
It seemed like hours later when he came out of it, but it could have been merely minutes or even seconds for all he knew. It had been ten years since he last felt the rush of battle, and it overcame him, forcing all thoughts of strategy and planning out of his head.
When it did finally leave him, it left him with a suddenness that sent his head spinning. He had lost his horse somewhere in the battle, and cut off the heavy cloak when it became a burden and almost tripped him. His face and arms were covered in blood, his or someone else’s, Vseslav could not have said.
With deep breaths, he returned himself to calmness. There was something wrong here, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.
Then it hit him. The sounds of battle had faded, and were far off, muted by distance. Looking around, he saw not only innumerable corpses, but also men, working their way through the butchery, picking over the bodies like vultures for anything of value. His own men.
The battle was won… but how?
******
His question was answered at dusk, the sun sinking below the horizon in a vivid display of reds and oranges. In the distance a storm was brewing, flickers of lightning visible among jet-black clouds, and thunder rolling through the air.
He had returned to camp an hour before, escorted by the remainder of his honor guard, who had stayed with him throughout the entire battle. Of the original thirty, only twelve remained, and over half of these were wounded.
He had been briefly checked over by a harried-looking surgeon, who had told him that, amazingly, he had suffered no wounds whatsoever, before hurrying off to attend to those who had been wounded.
Now he was sitting across from Trifon, the last man he had expected to see here, as Trifon explained to him the reinforcements that had been drawn up from the south, and told him about how they had crossed the ford and hit the pagans from behind, turning the tide of battle and sending the undisciplined hordes into a full scale rout.
This was a draining update to write, I have to say! 2000 words, and an action scene never-the-less (I hate writing action scenes, I always seem to do them badly!), but I hope you enjoyed it
I do feel the ending was a bit sloppy, and I wasn't too sure over Trifon's murder of the craven Captain Petr. It was mean't as an indicator of just how frustrated and angry he was, but I'm not too sure it was in keeping with his character. Let me know what you think.No, no it was good. As a Trifon fan, I'm glad to see that the dwarf had the guts to do what was necessary.
As for the action scenes, they really aren't bad. Keep at it, you're doing well, both in playing ( I guess ) and writing ( that, I'm sure of ).
As for the action scenes, they really aren't bad. Keep at it, you're doing well, both in playing ( I guess ) and writing ( that, I'm sure of ).
and again the painting of a polish victory, it's great there is no greater one
Last edited:
and again the painting of a polish victory, it's great there is no greater one
Lol, it was the best 'battle' picture I could find
Wow. Whenever I try to write well, I come here to cry at how poor my stuff is in comparison. Well done indeed.
12,000 word mark! Drinks all round, hey?
New update should be posted by tomorrow at the latest. I want to improve my writing efficiency, at this rate I'm posting up two, maybe three updates a week when I would much rather be churning out four or five, at the same level of quality, especially at this early stage of the story. I can't wait for Vseslav to die and we can get into the real action
And thank you for all the support, I have to say I'm quite surprised and very happy
New update should be posted by tomorrow at the latest. I want to improve my writing efficiency, at this rate I'm posting up two, maybe three updates a week when I would much rather be churning out four or five, at the same level of quality, especially at this early stage of the story. I can't wait for Vseslav to die and we can get into the real action
And thank you for all the support, I have to say I'm quite surprised and very happy
Excellent start.
I'm not so sure I like Roman he seems a bit easily manipulated and very green despite his ambition. Still rooting for him, because you being stuck with a guy named Gleb wouldn't be fun! Still I am curious to see what direction that side of the plot goes in.
Those pagan lands should provide you some nice new territory for when your ready to make a play on Rus larger.
I'm not so sure I like Roman he seems a bit easily manipulated and very green despite his ambition. Still rooting for him, because you being stuck with a guy named Gleb wouldn't be fun! Still I am curious to see what direction that side of the plot goes in.
Those pagan lands should provide you some nice new territory for when your ready to make a play on Rus larger.
Cheers to good and frequent updates. Rooting for Gleb, if there's anyone who deserves Rus and has the strength and mind to become a warlord, it's him.
Goddamn spammers! You make me so angry!
Today, I asked my colleagues at the university if they had ever heard of Gleb Vseslavovich Rurikovich. They gave me looks of confused annoyance, as if wondering why I, a normally so quiet and unobtrusive member of the Academia, were bothering them with such silly questions, and replied ”Not specifically, no, which Czar was he?” to which I then replied ”None, he was a Duke, the Duke of Polotsk.” at which point they would look at me with even more confusion than ever before making some excuse and hastening away.
It is with great sorrow that I realize to what extent the chroniclers and historians in the employ of the University of Kiev have fallen. I spent most of the day searching through the library, and came across no references to the early days of the Duchy. I am left to conclude that the documents that have been provided to me by this mysterious stranger are true, as I cannot attain any evidence to the contrary. Unfortunately, nor can I attain any evidence supporting this.
Queries for Vseslav upon the automated machine that handles the archiving of the library revealed over a hundred results for works centered upon the hero of the revolution, but very few results regarding the other Vseslav’s in our national history.
I cannot help but feel that something is amiss here.
Trifon wasn’t getting much sleep.
That much Vseslav could tell at a glance. The man had deep shadows under his impish eyes, and a bleary gaze that seemed to take in nothing at all. Not just that, he was shaking on his feet as if the ground were moving beneath him, weaving back and forth even while standing still. Vseslav attributed his obvious exhaustion to the stress of military life.
Vseslav motioned Trifon over and offered him a seat. They were in his private tent, a paradoxically “Spartanly lavish” affair; augustly large and sparsely decorated, but decorated in just such a way, with just the right quality and type of item, that made him appear to be a rich, powerful man without seeming overly lavish. It was a constant battleground between his need to impress the common soldier with his lack of possessions and willingness to suffer the hardships of battle, and his need to appear powerful before the nobility and delegations from other parts of the world while still travelling, a battleground that Vseslav enjoyed personally overseeing.
Trifon took a seat in a well-made yet simple ebony chair, across from him, placing the fireplace between them, trying to hide the haunted and guilty look in his eyes from his old friend. There was no real need, for after that first glance that had revealed the depths of how tired Trifon was, Vseslav had set to nervously inspecting his hands. He was not a man giving to open admissions of wrong-doing, or to apologizing for his actions, but in this, he felt he owed Trifon something. Which in truth, he did.
“Trifon, my old friend,” he began, “I have not treated you as well as I should lately. I… am sorry. I should have listened to you, but I never would have thought that these pagan scum could…” he let out an explosive sigh, and raised his eyes to Trifon’s face, “You understand, don’t you? For decades, they have raided over the border, carrying away crops and livestock, burning and slaughtering. How was I to know that they were capable of such organization? I… I would likely be dead if not for you, Trifon.”
Trifon sat quietly for a short time, until Vseslav thought that perhaps he had dozed off, when he suddenly stirred and turned a slightly haunted visage towards Vseslav.
“There is no need for thanks, Vseslav,” a shadow of a grin spreading across his face as he weakly waved his hand, as if to say ’it was nothing, truly’, “not until we’ve finally hunted down these scum and put them to the sword.”
That gave Vseslav pause. It was true, undeniably, that they had not won the war until they had done so. They had been chasing the fleeing survivors of the Battle of the Crossing for days now, after being reinforced by a further two hundred men from the north, bringing their numbers up to nearly nine hundred once again. The casualties from the battle of the crossing had been surprisingly few, if hundreds of brave men could be considered “few”, although almost all the archers had been butchered during the battle, and over half the light cavalry had been slaughtered after a foolhardy ([i Although some would say brave[/i]) charge into a schiltrom of pagan conscripts wielding sharpened poles and rusty billhooks, near the end of the battle itself.
The pagan forces had been confident of victory, and had tried to overwhelm Vseslav’s forces with sheer weight of numbers more than anything. They had had no more idea of the reinforcements awaiting across the river than Vseslav himself, and so had fallen straight into the unintentional trap created by Trifon. If they had not, the losses would have been far higher, perhaps for both sides. Instead, they had broken almost as soon as Trifon’s seven hundred men had touched their flanks, breaking apart and fleeing in all directions. Those who had stood their ground were struck down, and many of those who ran were ridden down by the hundreds of remaining light horse.
Now they had to catch the four-hundred-or-so men who had managed to escape, before they could move on into Tartu, and begin their conquest of the province.
The banks of the river Dvina, where Vseslav led his army in pursuit of the fleeing pagan forces.
Gleb leaned over the parchment on the table before him with studious care, his brow creased into a frown of concentration as he carefully inked the numbers onto it in a beautifully neat hand.
Ivan leaned over his shoulder, nodding absent-mindedly with a pleased expression on his face. Although sometimes he wondered where this marvelous talent for numbers and incredible memory had sprung from in this otherwise dull-witted and bullishly honest boy, he never doubted that it was a gift from God himself… and more than partly due to his skills and patience as the boy’s guardian and teacher.
Although he felt a certain affection for the boy, he could never help but feel that he was an unappreciated part of his life, and utterly disregarded by Vseslav. Where Yaropolk was granted titles and cities, and Trifon was lauded upon by his old friend Vseslav and given even more Bishoprics and entitlements and money, what did he, Ivan, the man who had turned this dull-witted bull of a boy into a just and honest master mathematician and steward, get for his efforts? Nothing!
It made Ivan sick to his stomach, truly it did. But he was too weak-willed and uncertain to ever do anything about it, other than complain. And complain he did, day and night, to any man, woman or child who would listen who he believed wouldn’t carry his tales back to Vseslav or one of his followers.
Of course, like many compulsive complainers, he really didn’t know how to hold his tongue back and keep his tales from reaching the wrong ears, and so, inevitably, his complaining made its way back to Yaropolk himself, where most rumors ended up, deposited upon his desk in a neatly-written report composed by one of his literate eyes-and-ears. This was how Yaropolk knew of his weakness, and knew just how to gather his support to Roman’s banner.
Of course, at this time, Ivan knew absolutely nothing about any of this. As far as he was concerned, life was progressing as it normally did, with the afternoon wasted teaching Gleb sums that he already knew by heart, and drilling him on situations that could, possibly, be encountered by a Ducal steward – or the Duke himself, as Gleb was one day destined to be – while the stench of Gleb’s sweat, produced during his morning drills with the arms master, drifted upwards to offend Ivan’s nose.
25th of February, 1963
Today, I asked my colleagues at the university if they had ever heard of Gleb Vseslavovich Rurikovich. They gave me looks of confused annoyance, as if wondering why I, a normally so quiet and unobtrusive member of the Academia, were bothering them with such silly questions, and replied ”Not specifically, no, which Czar was he?” to which I then replied ”None, he was a Duke, the Duke of Polotsk.” at which point they would look at me with even more confusion than ever before making some excuse and hastening away.
It is with great sorrow that I realize to what extent the chroniclers and historians in the employ of the University of Kiev have fallen. I spent most of the day searching through the library, and came across no references to the early days of the Duchy. I am left to conclude that the documents that have been provided to me by this mysterious stranger are true, as I cannot attain any evidence to the contrary. Unfortunately, nor can I attain any evidence supporting this.
Queries for Vseslav upon the automated machine that handles the archiving of the library revealed over a hundred results for works centered upon the hero of the revolution, but very few results regarding the other Vseslav’s in our national history.
I cannot help but feel that something is amiss here.
That much Vseslav could tell at a glance. The man had deep shadows under his impish eyes, and a bleary gaze that seemed to take in nothing at all. Not just that, he was shaking on his feet as if the ground were moving beneath him, weaving back and forth even while standing still. Vseslav attributed his obvious exhaustion to the stress of military life.
Vseslav motioned Trifon over and offered him a seat. They were in his private tent, a paradoxically “Spartanly lavish” affair; augustly large and sparsely decorated, but decorated in just such a way, with just the right quality and type of item, that made him appear to be a rich, powerful man without seeming overly lavish. It was a constant battleground between his need to impress the common soldier with his lack of possessions and willingness to suffer the hardships of battle, and his need to appear powerful before the nobility and delegations from other parts of the world while still travelling, a battleground that Vseslav enjoyed personally overseeing.
Trifon took a seat in a well-made yet simple ebony chair, across from him, placing the fireplace between them, trying to hide the haunted and guilty look in his eyes from his old friend. There was no real need, for after that first glance that had revealed the depths of how tired Trifon was, Vseslav had set to nervously inspecting his hands. He was not a man giving to open admissions of wrong-doing, or to apologizing for his actions, but in this, he felt he owed Trifon something. Which in truth, he did.
“Trifon, my old friend,” he began, “I have not treated you as well as I should lately. I… am sorry. I should have listened to you, but I never would have thought that these pagan scum could…” he let out an explosive sigh, and raised his eyes to Trifon’s face, “You understand, don’t you? For decades, they have raided over the border, carrying away crops and livestock, burning and slaughtering. How was I to know that they were capable of such organization? I… I would likely be dead if not for you, Trifon.”
Trifon sat quietly for a short time, until Vseslav thought that perhaps he had dozed off, when he suddenly stirred and turned a slightly haunted visage towards Vseslav.
“There is no need for thanks, Vseslav,” a shadow of a grin spreading across his face as he weakly waved his hand, as if to say ’it was nothing, truly’, “not until we’ve finally hunted down these scum and put them to the sword.”
That gave Vseslav pause. It was true, undeniably, that they had not won the war until they had done so. They had been chasing the fleeing survivors of the Battle of the Crossing for days now, after being reinforced by a further two hundred men from the north, bringing their numbers up to nearly nine hundred once again. The casualties from the battle of the crossing had been surprisingly few, if hundreds of brave men could be considered “few”, although almost all the archers had been butchered during the battle, and over half the light cavalry had been slaughtered after a foolhardy ([i Although some would say brave[/i]) charge into a schiltrom of pagan conscripts wielding sharpened poles and rusty billhooks, near the end of the battle itself.
The pagan forces had been confident of victory, and had tried to overwhelm Vseslav’s forces with sheer weight of numbers more than anything. They had had no more idea of the reinforcements awaiting across the river than Vseslav himself, and so had fallen straight into the unintentional trap created by Trifon. If they had not, the losses would have been far higher, perhaps for both sides. Instead, they had broken almost as soon as Trifon’s seven hundred men had touched their flanks, breaking apart and fleeing in all directions. Those who had stood their ground were struck down, and many of those who ran were ridden down by the hundreds of remaining light horse.
Now they had to catch the four-hundred-or-so men who had managed to escape, before they could move on into Tartu, and begin their conquest of the province.
The banks of the river Dvina, where Vseslav led his army in pursuit of the fleeing pagan forces.
*******
Gleb leaned over the parchment on the table before him with studious care, his brow creased into a frown of concentration as he carefully inked the numbers onto it in a beautifully neat hand.
Ivan leaned over his shoulder, nodding absent-mindedly with a pleased expression on his face. Although sometimes he wondered where this marvelous talent for numbers and incredible memory had sprung from in this otherwise dull-witted and bullishly honest boy, he never doubted that it was a gift from God himself… and more than partly due to his skills and patience as the boy’s guardian and teacher.
Although he felt a certain affection for the boy, he could never help but feel that he was an unappreciated part of his life, and utterly disregarded by Vseslav. Where Yaropolk was granted titles and cities, and Trifon was lauded upon by his old friend Vseslav and given even more Bishoprics and entitlements and money, what did he, Ivan, the man who had turned this dull-witted bull of a boy into a just and honest master mathematician and steward, get for his efforts? Nothing!
It made Ivan sick to his stomach, truly it did. But he was too weak-willed and uncertain to ever do anything about it, other than complain. And complain he did, day and night, to any man, woman or child who would listen who he believed wouldn’t carry his tales back to Vseslav or one of his followers.
Of course, like many compulsive complainers, he really didn’t know how to hold his tongue back and keep his tales from reaching the wrong ears, and so, inevitably, his complaining made its way back to Yaropolk himself, where most rumors ended up, deposited upon his desk in a neatly-written report composed by one of his literate eyes-and-ears. This was how Yaropolk knew of his weakness, and knew just how to gather his support to Roman’s banner.
Of course, at this time, Ivan knew absolutely nothing about any of this. As far as he was concerned, life was progressing as it normally did, with the afternoon wasted teaching Gleb sums that he already knew by heart, and drilling him on situations that could, possibly, be encountered by a Ducal steward – or the Duke himself, as Gleb was one day destined to be – while the stench of Gleb’s sweat, produced during his morning drills with the arms master, drifted upwards to offend Ivan’s nose.
In the future please do not respond to the adbots or post about them. Just report them and carry on. No need to contribute to their spam.
A great read so far and, I have to say, one of the best narratives I've seen in a while. I think you should stay true to the form you've been working so far. Narrative AAR's with deep characters is a great thing, but not everyone seem to have the patience needed to read the long chapters, however I think you'll just have to consider this their loss and not yours, for you are doing a great job so far.
I would if I knew where the report button was
Yes, that's what I thought as well. And thank you
I would if I knew where the report button was
Send a pm to a moderator. Preferably one that is online.
Ah, fair enough. Why the lack of an in-built report button though? Server limitations?
It appears Vselav's shortsightedness in doling out his lands may come back to bite his heir- excellent stuff!
It had arrived by mounted courier just today, part of a package of reports almost as thick as those that Yaropolk received.
Trifon had distrusted Yaropolk the moment he laid eyes upon him. He was a weasel of a man, with a disreputable look, who always seemed to be there if he was needed, but also if he wasn’t wanted at all. He had a stake in almost every criminal activity throughout the Duchy, ”too keep an eye on them”, he claimed.
In short, Trifon had seen straight through Yaropolk. The man pretended to loyalty, but beneath the show of obsequious politeness and loyalty he was an oily snake who would do anything to garner more power to himself. Several times he had urged Vseslav to remove him from the position of Spymaster, but Vseslav could not look beyond the results that Yaropolk was producing, and so he had remained, until finally he had established an unrivaled spy network throughout the Duchy, and a skeletal framework of one throughout the entire Rus, and removing him from the position would result in the destruction of his work. Not just that, but Yaropolk had also gathered a firm group of friends from amongst the nobility, especially the burghers, and removing him from office would disgruntle far too many to make it worthwhile… at least from Vseslav’s point of view.
Thus, Trifon had built up a network of his own spies and informants, his own eyes-and-ears, to keep watch upon Yaropolk and his network. He had even subverted several of Yaropolk’s own men, an endeavor which had been surprisingly more difficult than Trifon had suspected. Through this network, he now knew almost as much as Yaropolk himself did at any moment, but his lack of natural ability at intrigue held him back from using this network properly or usurping Yaropolk’s position, for despite his questionable moral code and loyalty, Yaropolk did do many things for the betterment of the duchy.
Still, this information on Ivan was simple to interpret, even to Trifon; he simply had to act before Yaropolk had a chance to, and the simplest way to do so would be to grant Ivan a title at earliest convenience.
This was something Trifon would have preferred to act on at earliest convenience; although Vseslav possessed no titles with which he was willing to part, a promise of land after the conquest of Tartu would have been sufficient to soothe Ivan’s wounded pride. Unfortunately, this would have to be delayed by the time it would take the courier to find Vseslav, and then ride back to Polotsk.
They had been on the road for nearly a month now, since Vseslav had assigned Trifon as regent over the county of Polotsk in his absence. Trifon had departed at once, chuckling quietly as he contemplated the reaction that the lesser nobility in Polotsk would have when they learned that they were going to be obeying the commands of the cherub.
However, his eagerness to be on his way was now costing the Duchy, even if only in a minor way.
Trifon frowned, wondering whether Vseslav had caught the pagan scum that had evaded them for nearly six weeks now, and hoping the courier would be able to find him quickly.
******
Vseslav straightened up, his back creaking as the bones of his spine protested this mistreatment. He was getting too old for this.
He wiped his blade on a tall oak tree next to him, leaving a long streak of dark red on the white bark, and then turned around, surveying the destruction around him.
The air was filled with thick, coal-black smoke, billowing around him in great gusts of wind. Smoke and flame, roaring up around him, turning the trees into billowing pillars of smoke and shadow, while outlines of men slipped through them like phantoms, ghosts of battle, with cruel steel bared and glinting in their hands.
They had come upon them unawares. Vseslav had underestimated the depth of knowledge that the pagans held of the forests that thickly populated the province, and they had slipped past his scouts and watchmen without as much as a whisper of their presence. Then they had set the world ablaze.
Around him were the corpses of his honor guard, riddled with arrows and throwing spears. Some looked to still be alive, but he doubted that would last much longer. He was lucky to still be alive; very lucky. They had struck hard and fast, and he had been the focus of their attack. Fire arrows and javelins had come hurtling from the undergrowth, and the next thing he knew he on the ground with his horse dead just a foot from where he had been thrown when it violently reared up in pain and fear.
A rustle in the undergrowth behind him gave him warning, and he spun around, sword flashing as he parried the blow that came at him with the force of a landslide. His arms numbed with the contact, a jolt running through his entire body, and his riposte was slow and clumsy, but fortunately for him, so was his opponent. The point of his blade drove straight through an impressive hunk of beard and rammed into the thickly muscled neck beneath, and the giant man who had mere moments before been trying to take his head off crumpled like a pierced wineskin.
Looking around again, Vseslav squinted his eyes against the glare from the flames. The phantoms in the smoke were fighting now, the clash of steel on steel echoing through the woods. Searching with a slightly frantic intensity, Vseslav finally spotted a group of soldiers huddled up in a tight knot, wearing what appeared to be tabards with the ensign of Polotsk upon them. With a sigh of relief, Vseslav set off at a trot towards them.
The longsword used by Vseslav in combat, it was later used as the ancestral blade of his branch of the Rurikovich family. The hilt has been retooled multiple times in the past, most recently during the 1950s, while the blade was restored three times, once in the 1400s, a second time during the 1600s, and a third time in the late 1800s.
*******
Vseslav’s mailed boot hit the ground with a sloshas it sunk into the thick, mud-like concoction of ash and melted snow, slipping into it up to the ankle. With a few soothing words to his horse, he turned away and trudged the short distance to where Marshal Iziaslav was talking with several captains.
Around him, the scene was a bleak one. The fires had finally died down, a process helped by the falling snow, just an hour before, and what had once been a thickly-wooded forest was now a thick mass of skeletal, blackened stumps. Ash and sparks drifted through the air, and every breath was thick with smoke and the stench of burnt flesh and death.
One of the captains motioned towards Vseslav, and Iziaslav turned around, a grim expression on his thin face. The man had a reputation as hedonistic and avaricious, and there was certainly something about his eyes that suggested wrongness, but he was a fine fighter and confident martial commander, and Vseslav made no claims to being a pious man, so he could forgive him his debauchery as long as he remained loyal to the Duchy.
“My lord,” Iziaslav said as way of greeting, his voice slightly choked from the stench upon the air. Vseslav nodded back calmly.
“Report, Iziaslav,” he commanded when Iziaslav hesitated.
“My lord, I am unsure how many were killed in this attack. We… estimate at least two hundred casualties. The enemy, meanwhile, suffered just as many – if not more. I believe this was a last ditch assault, perhaps an attempt upon your life in the hope that your death would cause enough confusion to…”
Vseslav nodded again, this time more vigorously, “Yes, Izia. I believe you are right. This confirms my suspicions… you know that my entire honor guard was killed in the initial assault, yes?”
Iziaslav blanched, his face turning a sickly shade of white, “But my lord… you are lucky to be alive, if this is true, I…”
Vseslav waved it off impatiently, turning his attention to a soot-stained map laid out on a small camp table, “Yes, Izia, I know. How long do you believe we must wait before we continue the march? We must press on for the border and lay siege to Fellin as soon as possible, before they can muster more resistance.”
“At least a day, maybe more. My lord, are you sure it is wise to push on against Fellin? We have barely enough men to surround the castle, if we were to wait, perhaps Captain Ljubomir will catch up to our column. We could…”
Vseslav frowned, his eyes flashing with icy anger, “Izia, what part of ’before they can muster more resistance’ do you not understand? Get the men ready to march as soon as possible. I do not want to linger in this ashen graveyard.”
Fellin Castle, the current target of Vseslav’s invasion into Tartu, which resides on the edge of the border between Tartu and Daugava.
I apologize for taking so long to post this update, real life intervened in the form of family visits, bad moods and other miscellaneous annoyances. Once again, I hope you enjoy!