Basil watched with a growing sense of awe, and a fair bit of confusion, as more than three-quarters of the host assembled outside the camp’s wooden walls. He felt small amidst the forest of spears, his eyes tracking the various banners that snapped in the morning breeze.
He recognized the silver star of the Lord of Helvius and the black stag of the gioduroli; he knew the stag well, for they were currently treading upon the very lands that house called ho. Then there were the Herculian standards: the Bloody Fist of Aligulae and the Sword of Aesontia. These were the heavyweights of the annexed south, houses that had possessed the wisdom to deny the last Herculian prince his folly against Alpheo and saw wisdom in sworning to his mother.
They were the strongest of the new vassals, yet Basil watched them with a wary eye.
Even further back, he spotted the "humbled" ones, the banners of lords who had risen against his father nine years ago and been thoroughly broken within three months. He saw the black raven of Lord Niketas and the white pigeon of the Lord of Aratum. They marched now under the falcon’s shadow, though Basil wondered how much of their loyalty was iron and how much was rely fear.
From the chatter he’d picked up near the cookfires, he knew this massive wing of the army was striking out toward the East. They were heading for the Bastion, he had only heard of it and saw so drawings from his father’s office, though even for those it seems forebearing.
That, it seed, was where his father intended to break the back of the League. But that left a haunting question: What did his father plan to do with the small, splintered force that remained?
Basil didn’t ask. He was a snotty brat in his father’s eyes at the best of tis, and he had no desire to prove him right by pestering the Prince for explanations. He knew that in war, as in life, the answer usually arrived in the form of a hard lesson. He could get his own information by observing.
He walked along the edge of the departing host, noticing the sharp contrast in the ranks. These weren’t the formidable, synchronized lines of the Crown’s standing legions. Most of these were the lords’ levies. They were unruly and loud, a patchwork of n who held spears and shields but lacked the soul of a soldier.
Most wore chainmail, likely the spoils of his father’s past victories that the lords had hoarded in their own warehouses, but they lacked the polish of the Third Legion, who stood at the head of the column like a wall of living steel.
Uncle Asag had been given command of the host, and he held no doubt that he would repay his father’s trust on the back of Oizenians, Kakunians, Ezvanians and those damned Habadians.
Basil watched the ssy ranks of his mother’s sworn vassals and felt a pang of doubt. How much do these levies hold the legions back? he wondered. What could we accomplish if the whole army were made of n who knew how to stay silent in the rain?Instead of grumbling about being wet?
He kept those thoughts tucked away. He wasn’t a fool. He knew why the lords kept their own armies; it was the only thing that stopped the Crown from stripping them of their titles and lands. To change that system would an a civil war that would turn the whole of Yarzat into a graveyard.
It would be no Northern rebellion, like that of nine years ago, it would be a total bloodbath that would last years, as each lord would fight to the last man and to the last castle before they let the Crown take away their influence.
He shook his head, clearing away the dark politics, and began to search the sea of silk for a specific banner. After ten minutes of dodging horses and cursing footn, he found it.
Rising high above the rest was the Silver Wolf of Bracum. And there, sitting atop a warhorse that looked like it had been carved out of a thundercloud, was the Finger-Keeper himself.
Even before Basil could find the words to announce himself, the old lord turned in his saddle with the suddenness of a hawk, as if he had sensed the boy’s presence from leagues away.
"Ah!" Xanthios let out a booming laugh that shook the silver wolf emblem on his chest. "I thought the day was fine enough already, but look at this! How much clearer the sky seems now that the Prince’s own son has co to bid farewell. You’ve no idea how much that warms these old bones! ’’Out of everyone in here, there wasn’t anyone half as happy as the Lord of Bracum, who apparetly treated war as his personal plaything ’’Off to the bloody road I go....tell , little prince, does this servant have your blessing?"
Basil hesitated. His father had always praised Xanthios in private for his terrifying straightforwardness. From any other man, those words would have been the greasy flattery of a courtier, but the Wolf of Bracum was different. The man couldn’t lie to save his own boots; if he said he was pleased, he was truly pleased.
"You have the blessing of the whole of Yarzat, my lord," Basil said, bowing his head respectfully. "What use would a boy’s blessing be in comparison?"
Xanthios smiled, a genuine, toothy expression. "Your father told you were humble and smart. You’ve no idea how rare that is, lad. Most people just love the sound of their own voices until their ears bleed.
And stubborn, too! Stubborn enough to defy the Prince and hide in a grain cart." He chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting in a pan. "I’d like to say you were just like when I was a boy, but I was as dumb as a loaf of bread back then. The only thing we truly have in common is a hard head." He rapped his knuckles against his snowy hair. "We mules must stick together, eh?"
"I would gladly take your friendship, my lord," Basil replied, his voice growing a bit more serious. "Though, if you would permit it, I have a question I’ve been wanting to ask."
"Ask away, young lad. And answer will be given."
"Why did you aid ?" Basil looked up into the veteran’s weathered face. "Even my own uncles wouldn’t speak for . You were the most adamant that I should stay. I am thankful, truly, but I want to know why."
The Lord’s eyes bore down on Basil, sharp and searching. For a long mont, the only sound was the jingle of horse harness and the distant shouting of sergeants.
"Apologies for answering a question with another, but forgive this once," Xanthios said softly. "Look at , boy. What is it that you see?"
Basil’s mind whirled. Is it a trick? "I see a loyal servant to the crown," he began cautiously. "A stalwart brother to my mother’s house, and a warrior whose na makes the South tremble."
Xanthios let out a dry, pearly smile. "I thank Your Grace for the kind words. But what you see is an old man. An old man very near his end."
A somber mood seed to fall over the pair, but the Lord of Bracum continued as if he didn’t care for the gloom. "People always tell you they pray for you to reach a ripe old age. Damn those people! I hate being old.
I feel my joints creak like a rusted gate, and my back kills every morning. I can feel my muscles deflating and my strength leaving bit by bloody-damn bit.And I am powerless to stop it.
I know that in three years, I won’t even be able to lift my axe, which I already find too heavy."
A flash of genuine sadness crossed his face before it hardened back into iron. "I’ve spent my whole life plunging steel into n’s necks. My happiest monts were born in the mud and the fray.
Ah....how sad! You cannot add days to your life, but is it not worthwhile to add so life to your day?I lived through these words all my life, hence I would not be so dissapointed if my end would be at close hand.
I always thought I’d die in a breach, but lately, I’ve feared I’ll die in a bed, shivering, coughing, with the pitiful eyes of my family watching fade away." He spat into the dirt. "Fuck that. I’m not going out like a snuffed candle. I am the servant of of Wrath; I gave him my life, and I’ll give him my end."
He leaned down from his saddle, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "When I heard of the insults the League delivered to your father, I knew this was it. If I am to die, I’ll do it with craven’s blood on my lips, charging for the man who gave this land a spine, and when I am done charging againg and again, until my deeds are off to the sands.
Your father is a great man, the greatest I’ve known, but he is a father, and fathers are blinded by their love. He wanted to send you ho to keep you safe, but I knew that would be a mistake."
Xanthios reached out fromand gripped Basil’s shoulder with a hand that felt like a stone vice. "The future is coming, lad, and it holds tis darker than any song can describe. Your father won’t always be there to shield you. If you are to lead us one day, you cannot learn about the world from the safety of a palace. You need to see the muck. You need to see how n die and why they choose to do it.
I spoke for you because it is better for Yarzat that Alpheo’s son is ready to see the truth through his own eyes, rather than through a window."
He let go of Basil’s shoulder and straightened his back, the Silver Wolf banner snapping proudly in the wind above him.
"Stay close to your father, Basil. Watch him. But don’t just watch the Prince; watch the n. You must understand the true cost of the crown you’ll one day wear. I’ve seen enough fathers spoil their children until they’ve rotted from the inside out. Do you know the result? They grow up to be spineless cowards who would gladly plunge their entire domain into the fire for a mont’s pleasure."
He looked down at the boy, his gaze softening just a fraction. "Luckily, you aren’t cut from that cloth. Five be praised for that. But you are still green, boy. You are a sprout in a field about to be trampled by iron boots."
The old lord sighed, a sound like a distant landslide. "I won’t be there to see you take up the mantle. You can thank or curse the gods for that, as you see fit. The best I can do now is give you the ans to sort yourself out. So, as I said: look and learn."
At that mont, the lord who was whispered to be mad, the man who had spent a lifeti clutching his brother’s severed finger in a box, appeared to Basil as the wisest man in the world.
"And please," Xanthios added, a spark returning to his eyes, "light a candle for and Lord Asag. We shall find our joy soon enough, bathing in the blood of cravens. The next ti I lay eyes on you, I shall present you with an axe so rusted with enemy blood you won’t recognize the steel."
Basil nodded, feeling the weight of the man’s words settle in his chest. "I’ll gladly light two candles for you, my lord. One for your victory, and one for your safe return."
Xanthios let out a short, bark-like laugh, his chest swelling up. "As generous as your father,"
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