Of Kings and Pawns

Chapter 5 - Old Enemies

The smell of ale and burning wood filled the small, dimly lit pub in a small village between Maygard and Eroman lands. Alen Eroman, son of Lord Andrei Eroman and heir to the Stakes and Stones, sat at a worn table with a half empty bottle in his hand, surrounded by his close friends. His voice was loud, his cheeks flushed from drink as he ranted about the growing tension in the central kingdoms.

"Otto Eigermann," Alen scoffed, slamming his bottle down on the table. "What a fool trying to play king in lands that no longer want him. And what does he do? Invite the North to mobilize? We all know what happens next... House Rus will march south, and where will they march first?" He waved his arm, gesturing to the village around them. "Right through Eroman lands. This very land!"

His friends murmured in agreement, nodding along to Alen's impassioned speech. But before he could continue, the door to the pub swung open with a loud creak, drawing all eyes to the entrance. In stepped Laszlo Maygard, son of Lord Istvan Maygard and heir to Hussar Hall, flanked by his own companions. The room fell silent as Laszlo's cold gaze swept across the pub, landing squarely on Alen.

"Talking big again, Eroman?" Laszlo sneered as he approached the table. "Your family always did have a talent for stirring up trouble when there's nothing to gain."

"Maygard," Alen's eyes narrowed, and he stood up, his hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. "Come to drink or to preach about how your house supports Otto's ridiculous claim?"

Laszlo let out a short laugh, stepping closer until he was almost nose to nose with Alen. "We support Otto because he's the rightful ruler, whether you like it or not. At least we don't cower behind the Franks and Brightons, groveling for their scraps while you plot to steal land from other houses."

The room tensed as Alen's friends rose to their feet, standing behind him. "We never groveled," Alen spat. "We fought for what was right, for what was ours. Your family may have backed Otto, but you're only inviting destruction. The moment Rus mobilizes, you'll be the first to fall, and then where will you be? Begging Otto for mercy while the North razes your lands?"

Laszlo's expression darkened. "Your family is no better than vultures, Alen. The bastard opportunists you are. You sided with the Franks and Brightons only because you wanted Maygard lands. And what did you get for it? Defeat. Your family was besieged by House Azpar at the Stakes and Stones, your grandfather cannibalising his own kind in hunger. You think we've forgotten? We remember... and we laugh at it."

The words were like a match thrown onto dry wood. Alen's fury exploded. "We've defeated greater foes than you, Laszlo. Don't forget whose bloodline built the central kingdoms before your house even had a name."

The tension in the pub reached its breaking point. Swords were drawn, the sound of steel scraping against leather echoing in the small space. Alen and Laszlo stood with their weapons ready, their men behind them, eager for a fight.

"You want to settle this now, Maygard?" Alen growled. "Then come and settle it!"

Laszlo's lips curled into a grin, his sword already flashing in the dim light. "Gladly."

With a roar, the two sides clashed, the pub erupting into chaos. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed, and the sounds of metal on metal filled the air. What began as a drunken fight quickly spiraled into something far more dangerous. The brawl spilled into the streets, and soon, Hussar Hall and The Stakes and Stones raised their banners and the men-at-arms joined the fray. Within hours, the small skirmish in the village had become a localized war between the two noble houses.

-o-o-o-

Far to the west, in the kingdom of Brighton, Queen Eliza Brighton stood in the open courtyard of her castle, preparing her griffin for flight. The great beast, with its sharp beak and golden feathers, shifted restlessly as her attendants strapped on its saddle. Eliza was silent, focused, her mind racing with the weight of the news King William had just delivered.

She turned as he approached her, his face lined with worry. "The clash between Maygard and Eroman grows worse by the hour," he said. "It seems Otto's claim has already begun to tear the central kingdoms apart. And now there's word that House Rus is mobilizing in response to his reappearance."

Eliza's sharp eyes narrowed, though she said nothing at first. She gently patted the griffin's neck, calming the creature. "The storm is coming," she said quietly, more to herself than to her husband. Then, looking back at William, she added, "House Rus was always going to be a threat. But it seems Otto is making things worse than I anticipated."

William nodded grimly. "It's only a matter of time before the North comes south, and if they march through the central kingdoms, it will be war on all fronts. We can't afford to ignore this, Eliza."

The queen fastened her cloak, preparing to mount her griffin. "You must be ready for what's to come, William. Within a fortnight the great council of the Old World will be held to settle such disputes. Kings, lords, and banners from every corner of the realm will be voting on the rightful ruler of the central kingdoms. If we can gather enough support, if we can outvote Otto, it might be enough to prevent House Rus' armies from marching for now."

William frowned. "And if the vote isn't enough?"

Eliza mounted her griffin with a grace that spoke to years of practice. She looked down at William, her face set in determination. "Then we prepare for the worst. If House Rus marches, we must be ready. But for now, we hope the votes from the other northern houses... Finn, Sven, Nord, even the small Baltic houses can tip the scales, they are no friends of Rus, but neither with Eigermann. House Rus won't want to march until the votes are counted."

"And if they lose the vote?" William asked.

Eliza's expression hardened. "Then the war will come sooner than we think."

With a final nod, she gave the griffin a gentle nudge, and the beast leaped into the air, its powerful wings beating against the wind as it carried her high into the sky. Below, William watched her go, a sense of dread tightening in his chest.

The world was on the edge of something dangerous-an old conflict rekindled, and the old alliances fracturing. And within a fortnight, the vote at the council would either stave off disaster or plunge them all into war once again.