Chapter 1225: One’s own choice(2)
Chapter 1225: One’s own choice(2)
The brooch that fastened the monster’s cloak was a sharp, silver falcon, though its predatory silhouette might have passed for an eagle to any man who didn’t already know the identity of the butcher wearing it. Beneath the heavy wool, the morning sun caught the shimmer of chainmail, links that looked as though they hadn’t been unlaced since the first drop of blood hit the earth at the Ford.
Above the mail, the man was encased in the functional of war: greaves, gorget, gauntlets, and pauldrons. But it was the breastplate of blackened steel that drew the eye, dark as death, grim as a cardinal sin, yet still not half as dark as the man’s expression when the Prince of Oizen finally marched out from behind his walls to receive him with company.
Sorza had agonized over his own attire, eventually settling on his finest war-fitting garments. His plate was a polished gray, worked with silver and gold that formed the radiant emblem of the sun across his chest.
His helmet matched the set, save for the sun that rose like a golden cock’s crest above his brow. Compared to the Yarzat’s grim iron, Sorza’s armor was a masterpiece of labor and beauty and yet, standing there on the open plain, it felt like a peacock’s desperate boast against the silent, terrifying yawn of a tiger.
He could see the toll of the butchery written on the Prince of Yarzat’s face. A clean bandage covered his right ear, the only scar the monster had seemingly kept from a field where thousands had hungered for his head. His armor had not fared half so well. Scratches and dents marred the blackened surface wherever Sorza looked. Most galling was the left greave, which sat above the heel with a noticeable chunk missing, a twin to the man’s severed ear.
Sorza was no fool; he knew the Prince of Yarzat could have had the plate refitted or replaced a dozen times in the two weeks since the battle. Leaving it battered was a choice. It was theater. It was designed to overwhelm him with the physical proof of a man who walked through hell and found it wanting.
It might have worked, too, were it not for the other sight that greeted Sorza when he finally raised his eyes.
It wasn’t just the sheer, suffocating number of the host, though he noted with a sinking heart that the army seemed a quarter larger than it had been before the battle had even began. He would have puzzled over where the man had found so many fresh blades if the answer wasn’t flapping mockingly in the wind directly above his head. He was forced to lift his visor to ensure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
He would have preferred blindness to that sight .
As there, dancing in the wake of the Yarzat Falcon, were the banners of many lors ,some of who were supposed to be his bulwark.
He saw everything, and far too much of it. He saw hounds, birds in all manner of deformities and colors; he saw tools of war, swords, hammers, and shields flapping mockingly in the wind. He even saw the colors of the House of Duresa, vibrant and true.
How had they managed to raise such forces in so short a time? Had they been hoarding these men while the front lines bled? A flare of white-hot anger morphed his features before he reigned it in with a practiced, painful effort. He had been forced to empty dozens of villages to feed the waves of men sent against the gray walls of the Bastion; if they had such numbers at hand, why had they let him drown in the mud?
"Have you resolved to speak, or are you going to stare endlessly at my ranks?"
The first words belonged to Alpheo. They were as chilling and cold as the look in his eyes.
"No, I have come to talk," Sorza said, fighting to keep his voice from betraying the tremors in his gut.His armor clinked as he shifted his posture.
"Then do."
"We come here in peace. We lower our arms until our truce is done. The Five bid us truth, and we abide by it," Sorza recited. After a heartbeat, Alpheo echoed the ritualistic vow. Both men stared at each other for a tense moment before Alpheo’s eyes darted toward Sorza’s company, lingering briefly on the prince’s mother before settling on the priest.
"I would not expect to find..." Alpheo began, his gaze narrowing as it landed on the holy man. "A man of the star in this business. Is he supposed to pray for us while we speak?"
The priest, as if awoken from a trance, piped up. "My name is Ols, directly anointed by His Holiness Gregor III as Ecclesiast for the princedom of Oizen". The star of the Five gods, the All-Knower, the Weaver, the Warrior, the Sea-God, and the Father Protector, swayed from the golden cane he held, a staff that stretched from the dirt all the way above his head.
An Ecclesiast.
Alpheo had one of those at his own court, but the man received little more than lip service. These men presumed to give counsel, and Alpheo usually thanked them before promptly ignoring them. He could not suffer men whose master was another, and he could only guess to whom that man penned his secret letters. Still, he couldn’t bloody well send a man of the cloth away , so he simply played the annual tithe to the church and be done with him.
The only other kindness he had allowed him was to mentor the prince’s son in the matter of religion, something that had very little sway on his own lad, as the prince was happy to constate.
"It begs the question of why you are here, then," Alpheo spoke through cracked, dry lips. "As ’welcome’ as a man of the star always is."
"To pray that the All-Knower grants the princes the wisdom to find peace," Ols replied.
"You may pray then," Alpheo said flatly. "Though I doubt it will do much good." He turned his attention to the woman. "As for my lady? I do not believe I have had the honor."
"I believe I do," she said, offering a nod that was far too stiff to be a proper bow. "There is not a soul in the South who does not know of you."
"And am I to be pleased by that knowledge, Lady....?"
"Menna. Princess-mother to His Grace of Oizen, and widow to the late Prince Shameleik," she answered firmly.
So she is the wife of the man Egil killed, Alpheo thought as she gave her a quick gaze. She seemed like an austerious woman.
"I shall pose to you the same question I asked Father Ols," Alpheo said.
"Sometimes a woman’s wit is needed when men are too hard of mind to see common ground," Menna replied. "I hope you will not think this above me."
Alpheo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "I think it will be rather hard to find any ground at all between us, Lady. But if you wish to waste your breath on the endeavor... well, you are your own mistress. I certainly do not presume to say anything of your skill; should my wife hear me saying anything demeaning of a woman’s mind, she’d have my head."
"A smart woman, Your Grace," Menna noted dryly.
"That she is. Capable of squeezing kindness out of a man’s heart too, given my presence here. But enough of that.’’ He turned to Sorza ’’ I don’t imagine I need to acquaint you with my men? They are the same as they were last time you saw them. Your army grew quite well-acquainted with them at the Ford." The Prince spoke with a lazy wave of his hand toward the steel-clad nightmare behind him.
Sorza’s eyes scanned the front rank. "I see the Lord of Epietoli still marches beneath your banner."
"Alongside," Merelao corrected, his voice a sharp blade in the cold wind. His blond hair whipped about his face, and strangely, his usual mocking smile was absent. He looked at the Prince of Oizen with eyes of flint. "And do not presume to speak to me as an equal. I gave you that respect at the Ford, thinking the rumors of your incompetence were wrong. I was disappointed to find the truth in them. Do not even attempt to demean my presence here; I am most eager to finish what I started".
"This is not your war, Kakunian," Sorza spat back. "As I recall, your own uncle waits for you in Kakunia with a throne to dispute".
"They’ll wait," Merelao replied, his voice dripping with bored malice. "This seems far more entertaining for the moment".
Sorza’s mount shifted, sensing the tension. He realized Merelao was a lost cause and turned back to the sight that truly made his blood boil. "I see many a lord’s banner behind you, Alpheo. Many that were, and are, my own."
"Past own," Alpheo corrected, the words landing like the heavy stones they threw at the wall of the Bastions. "They are now mine."
"Be that as it may. Where are they? I would like to pose some questions to my ’loyal’ vassals."
"Too embarrassed to face you, perhaps?" Alpheo mused,"Or perhaps they simply find the sight of you tiresome. Have no care for them; it is with me you shall converse. I am growing weary of this dance. If we are to make a way with words, then let us do it now. If not, let our swords be our orators , and we can see whose steel has the sharper tongue."