Gust

A Crow's ambition

Common people said, if one stood atop Blackcrow’s Pillar, the massive tower most signifying the city of Scaldingport, which was built at the heights of the Patience Plateau; he could see, on a clear day, both Toe and Tongue, the two thin peninsulas that hugged the famous Veer’s Gulf. The safest natural harbor in the Scalding Sea.

Scolars on the other hand offer, Gust thought, fingers tapping the stone parapet and square jaw clenching, making the scar he had there more pronounced; it was Toe Peninsula people were seeing each time, reflected over the waters, due to the presence of atmospheric vapors.

Or some other blasted crap.

Gust didn’t believe any of them. People lied as much as they breathed and Scolars were people as well, too weak to work the fields.

Or pick up a blasted blade.

He pushed back from the tower’s parapet, hearing boots approaching behind him. Crossing his gloved arms over his chest, right where the big silver crow was engraved on his black polished chestplate, he turned to face the robed Issir approaching him. Mael stood out of sword’s reach and frowned, deep dark-skin a pale white, where his old neck injury was; looking about the empty uppermost of the Tower.

“You’ve sent the guards down,” He noted, voice appreciative.

“Don’t want a man standing behind me, with a blade,” Gust replied brusquely.

“Your father’s man.”

“Exactly.”

Mael, now in his late forties, but still impressive physically, chainmail worn under the grey Disciple of Tyeus robes, almost as tall as Gust and even heavier, pulled his lips back showing him his teeth.

“Don’t antagonize the man, in his own castle,” He said simply. “And show up in time, when you’re called by your Lord.”

“Sure. Has uncle arrived?” Gust replied.

“As I explained,” Mael droned. “They’re expecting you.”

Scaldingport’s castle main hall, an elongated room ending where the Lord’s throne stood, was mostly empty. Well-lit by the many candleholders, placed on the four rectangular tables by its walls, it needed a moment for any visitor to orientate himself. The room had no windows, but the unreachable crow’s hole, a small opening at the wall behind the throne and it reminded Gust of the insides of a mausoleum. Old swords and shields hanging from its old walls, a couple of black crows flapping their wings, mixed in.

The tomb’s owner, Lord Ruud De Weer, a man in his late sixties, clad in a dark blue and expensive velvet doublet, under a polished chainmail shirt tied at the front, raised a white brow seeing them enter. His gaunt face, sunken black eyes and sickly thin beard, somehow masquerading his real strength. Tall and wiry, he could still wield a sword, the last of his generation still living, fighting and fucking, as the man frequently and shamelessly boasted.

“Here he is then,” His father announced, voice grating on his nerves. “The pride of Scaldingport, our greatest joy and hope. Fucking late as always, but at least he made it this time. Right, Lord Treasurer?”

Lord Mikkel De Weer, his younger brother by twenty years and the High Treasurer of Kaltha, gave a small nod of agreement to his words. Shorter and fuller, well-shaved, long hair oiled and brushed back, he had his father’s eyes and a sharp mind for numbers. Gust noticed without surprise, he was the only man in the room, without a single piece of armour on.

“What was it then?” Lord Ruud asked and seeing he wasn’t going to answer, opting to find a seat across from him and next to his uncle, in the table they’d set near the throne, he added. “By all means, have some of my wine son, take your fucking time.”

Gust drained his silver cup before answering him.

“As you well know, I couldn’t travel,” His father raised his brows in fake surprise. “I was recovering from a hurt leg, in Colle.”

The city of Colle was his meaning.

“You got that at Whitenail Peaks.” Lord Ruud noted, pouring himself a cup of wine. Hand still steady, but for a minor tremor at the end, probably an act on his part.

“Yes, it was unfortunate, a boar unhorsed me.”

“Lots of them over there most folk say, good hunt probably,” His father agreed, tasting the wine with a grimace. “Other’s will argue, attempting a hunt with a tourney looming is foolhardy, hmm? What do you say, Lord Treasurer? Have you fallen asleep on us?”

Lord Mikkel cleared his throat, before answering.

“It wasn’t a smart decision on Sir Gust’s part.”

Right, Gust thought. Fuck you too, uncle.

“Hah! There it is then, another one thinks the same thing, my son,” His father continued theatrically, “Eh, what’s done is done. We’ve all been young once. Your brother was there after all. Fought brave, but lost in the blasted final. Among other things, them being the Princess hand, cunt and tits, he lost his fucking eye too,” He barely hold a chuckle in, before adding more serious. “That darn fool! Right, Lord Brother?”

“He fell for the Cofol’s trick, brother.” His uncle replied calmly.

Lord Ruud, smacked his lips and stared at his cup of wine for a moment. Gust knew, there was meaning in the charade, a reason he called for them to come in Scaldingport. Ruud De Weer, rarely left the city, held no public office for years now and avoided meeting with more than one person at a time. He liked to rule from afar. Those who survive until the end, he frequently said, when Gust was young, will dictate my son, who the heroes and who the cowards were. No one will be able to contradict their version of history. You know why?

They will all be dead, Gust thought, just as his father answered.

“Antoon, insulted us twice in his young tenure as High King,” Lord Ruud started, no theatrics this time and Gust stooped to listen. “First he picked that skinny Van Durren cunt to be his Queen, a fucking disaster.” The girl being his father’s favorite prospect for Gust slipping his mind. “Then he goes ahead and offers his sister as a prize, manages to hand her over to a blasted Cofol of all fucking things, your idiot brother maimed in the process.”

“King Alistair lost a son,” Gust pointed, keeping his cool and changing the subject somewhat, not that he cared for that pompous Sir Ralph over his brother, but you count everything on the scale, before the chest is closed.

“He did, must’ve hit him right hard,” Lord Ruud agreed, malice in his voice. “Still, you are right, another mistake.”

“Antoon is a fool,” That was the King’s own High Treasurer, his priorities clear.

“He shouldn’t lead Kaltha,” Lord Ruud continued. “He’s dragging us in a war with the Khanate. The first Division ordered to gather in Caspo O’ Bor. Under Joep Van Durren, Lord of Badum. Heard word, the second is coming from Midlanor, under Lord Anker.”

“The Est Ravn’s agreed to this?” Asked Gust surprised.

“Who knows?” His father stared at both of them for a moment. “Everyone wants to gain more, than what he has. War can bring a lot of gains, if you’re on the right side. It can also ruin you and yours.”

“It is a defensive move, according to him,” Lord Mikel explained, being present in the High King’s council, he’d more knowledge on the matter.

“Bah! Defensive move my arse!” His father snarled, hitting his hand on the table. “The Khan will see it differently. I would! Then he will send an army to crash him, gain Raoz in the process.”

“It’s not that easy to break into Rida,” Gust countered. “And with reinforcements, I don’t see the Khan winning easy. He’ll have to cross the desert to reinforce his own armies by land, with winter coming and the northern routes closed, no other ports facing the Shallow Sea… as I said, not easy at all.”

It was the reason the Cofols had stayed on the other side of Eplas continent for so many years. Distances were too great and the routes a horror to travel on. Elements and rebel warbands roaming the desert uncontrolled, for the most part.

“War isn’t about winning,” His father insisted. “Antoon can’t fight the Khan alone, he will need the Issir Lords backing him and the other two kingdoms falling in line.”

“You think they won’t?” Gust asked, refilling his empty cup, interest piqued. “King Alistair lost a son to the Cofols. Knowing his reputation and the strength of his rule, the whole of Regia will rise, if he calls for revenge. If Regia goes to war, Lesia will follow.”

“Which is why Antoon, made the move. Also the reason, I believe something else is brewing in the background and that fucking snake is hiding it,” Lord Ruud replied. “I know you don’t like reading son. Hunting and jousting, is preferable to a young man. Fucking as well, the latter I enjoy immensely myself, I admit.”

Gust gulped down slowly, trying to keep his tempers checked, the latter was the reason his late mother, took her own life, when he was only five. “But let me tell you about us Issirs,” His father continued undaunted, nasty smirk on his wrinkled face. “We were pirates once, aye… ye won’t hear that talked about in any Lord’s place or ball. Issirian noble men and women, hah! All lies. Read your Histories son. We lived off plunder and rape. Killing things. Taking what another man had. We relished in it. It was fucking glorious.”

He paused, old eyes shining with excitement, before continuing with equal fervor. “Lorians? Pfft… were bloodthirsty brigands, the whole darn lot of them. You think the Cofols are bad? Hah! All men are. Women too, right cunts. Whoring is in their blood. If a war breaks out, it won’t be pretty and it won’t go away. Nah, it won’t go away,” He took a big breath and another sip from his cup, ending his tirade.

Gust cleared his throat, with a glance at his silent uncle.

“Do you think, we should stay out?” He asked his father, not getting his meaning.

“We can’t,” Came his reply. “I don’t have the fucking time and I don’t trust you younger lads not to mess it up.”

“So what do you suggest? What do we do?” Gust asked grinding his teeth, the insult cutting deep.

Lord Ruud turned his eyes to the wall, over the banners and shields, where a couple of crows were watching them. Small beady eyes, full of wisdom and malice.

“We do as crows do, the world over,” His father replied, gleam still in his eyes. “Watch them kill each other and feed on their corpses.”