An Angel Called Eternity

The Field Rat's Banquet - Lykourgos XII: Behind the Plate and Mail

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 himslef 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.
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.
Rejoice.