Legends Never Die: Plans within Plans (ch. 150) (Patreon)

The rest of the feast passed without incident, but also without progress. Ragnar did what he could to monopolize the conversation with Astolfo, who seemed to be the one of the pair who could speak Gaelic. However, the language barrier was proving to be quite the hurdle when Magnus and Harald both made their way to the lower tables to get a feel for the clans and factions. There were a handful of people who could translate, but the need for one stifled the flow of a conversation. 

When the feast came to a close long into the night, and all parties retreated into their quarters, it was clear that they needed a new strategy. Something that transcended words to convey the message that they were trying to get across. And the best way to do that was to show them. 

“This is the place, then?” Ragnar asked, looking out at the sea of tents. The clans had come in force to make sure that their voice was heard in the discussions, but so many had arrived that not all could stay within the city. There simply wasn't enough room, and that was true for the clans as it was the Roman party, as it was their five hundred bodyguards. 

Like in the hall, Ragnar could practically see that the clans were divided. In a way, it was almost color-coordinated with one predominant color in their attire or tents that declared their allegiance to one faction or another. Factions that Ragnar didn't yet understand. However, he intended to, and it was clear that those clans were too cautious or uncertain to make a move one way or the other. Content to observe for a time before making a decision. 

So, it only made sense to put on a show. 

“This is the place,” Ove agreed, looking out at the stretch of rocky flatland. “In a few days' time, when the clans meet up like this, there will be games and contests. I'm sure that the competition will be fierce this year as they'll want to show off their strength.” Meaning that his idea wasn't exactly unique, but how he intended to implement it might be. 

“It'll do. We'll start small and scale up,” Ragnar decided, giving the nod, and ten of his bodyguards marched forward in full armor, carrying dulled axes and shields. They set the squares before they began to duel. The sound carried over the field as wood smashed against wood, steel catching against steel. 

Father only accepted exceptional warriors for the family's royal guard. Men who had proven themselves loyal and were tested in battle. They had earned full suits of armor, if not in the Conquest, then in the years spent in the Mediterranean. So, all of them fought well, far above what one would expect from a common soldier. 

And people took notice. The sound drew some attention on the fringes of the camps, men stopping to glance their way and watching the duels, which didn’t last long. When they broke apart, and ten more stepped forward to enter the square, that gave some of the watchers a chance to break away to spread the word. By the third set of duels, a small crowd had amassed. They had the Clan's attention. 

What came next was predictable enough. 

Pushing through the crowd, armed warriors made themselves known, belting out challenges. They didn't share a language, but they didn't need to. His bodyguards looked to him and he gave the nod, allowing the challenges to pass. The Picts were eager to prove themselves against their armored opponents, the crowd cheering for them. 

They were fine fighters, that much Ragnar could freely acknowledge. It was just that his bodyguards were better, and none of the Picts had ever faced a so heavily armored foe before. Most wore chainmail, if that. Quite a few made the challenge bare-chested, symbols drawn upon their bodies in woad to protect them from injury. How they reacted to their loss depended wildly, with some going red in the face with rage and humiliation. Others, however, were quick to share a laugh with the victor. 

‘Red.’ The more good-natured warriors tended to wear red. An indication of what kind of relations that faction was looking for. “Who do those wearing red represent?” Ragnar asked Ove in Arabic, watching as another wave of contestants arrived, eager to prove themselves. The crowd had really started growing by this point, people naturally drifting towards the crowd just to see what the fuss was.

“King Causantín’s enemies,” Ove answered quietly. “Clan MacCrag and their affiliates. They aren't exactly natural allies for us, but our interests do overlap to a degree.” Meaning that they were less interested in an alliance and more interested in ousting the king? A bit disappointing, but they could still use that.

“Their strength?" He questioned, knowing that there was an opportunity before them. But would it be worth alienating the king so early in their visit by openly speaking with his enemies?

“Considerable. They're currently mollified with his reign with the betrothal between the king's eldest son and the eldest daughter of Clan MacCrag's leader,” he informed, knowing exactly what Ragnar was thinking. Odds are, he had the same thought much earlier. If he hadn’t, then Ove would be severely lacking as a diplomat, and Father wouldn't have trusted him with the task in the first place. 

“A betrothal?” He asked, not sure what could be done with the information. Yet, at least. Only noting that a betrothal was far less final than a marriage. 

“The king's eldest son is six years old,” Ove answered. “The daughter is fifteen, I believe.” That was a dangerous disparity in ages. By the time that the prince would be old enough to sire an heir, his wife could be old enough to make carrying a child even more dangerous than it already was, if she could conceive at all. “The betrothal was a compromise to forestall a rebellion.” 

“Over what?” Ragnar asked, and Ove chuckled. 

“The wrongdoings of their ancestors on both sides.” Meaning that they barely needed a reason to rebel. It also explained why they would be so open with their intentions. It was possible that they were open to an alliance, but it was more likely that they were doing so to twist the king's arm a bit. 

‘This is why Father wiped the slate clean.’ Father talked openly that he expected the politics to one day become the same petty games that he witnessed in Rome, but Ragnar hadn't been entirely sure what he meant by that until now. Back home, his father held absolute authority.  His word was law. Here, it was a game. One of petty wagers and pettier rewards. 

“And the green?” Ragnar continued, looking to a pair of duels that were fairing better that most, but only because they fought with more desperation. They had something to prove.

“The King's own clan and supporters,” Ove supplied. “They are in the majority in terms of the balance of power, but the alliances between minor clans can shift like the tide. Some are dissatisfied with King Causantín’s rule, but they won't change their position unless offered a suitable reward.” That was to be expected, but then Ove continued. “A reward that may be worth offering, my prince, as most of his supporters worship their old gods, even if King Causantín himself is a Christian.” 

Which would explain their dissatisfaction. “A recent convert?” 

“Relatively. He has blended enough of their traditions with Christian doctrine that he is tolerable to both sides.” That was impressive. Extremely so. “As for the Blues and the Blacks? They are largely unaligned, but do not share what political power they possess due to internal rivalries with another clan, usually which sees them excluded from larger factions.” 

It was the same factionalism that Father expected to take shape one day. Possibly even during his reign. Kingdoms finding common cause with others, be it economic, military, or diplomatic, and forming factions within the empire. Father called it unavoidable. That power attracts power, and those with it will seek out more to increase their already high standing. However, because Father already saw so far ahead into the future, Ragnar knew how to best use the clumsy factions to their advantage. 

“After this, I expect there will be outreach from the minor clans,” Ragnar voiced lowly. They still spoke in Arabic, but there was a nagging worry that they could still be overheard. “Let us give them a common cause. Flatter them, but make no promises.” 

Ove saw his plan, “Leverage then?” 

“I want to force King Causantín’s hand. Or, make him feel like it is forced.” Ragnar admitted. “I'd rather not cause a civil war or anything like it, but we need to know his leanings. One way or another.” To that, Ove offered a silent nod and Ragnar detected approval in his expression with a small curling of his lips. 

Another test passed, then. 

The next bout of duels ended, and Ragnar felt the shift in the air when the next guests arrived. He anticipated it every step of the way, but he couldn't claim that his heart didn't lurch in his chest when the Romans arrived. Paladins Astolfo and Bradamante arrived with a dozen similarly armed warriors, all wearing similar plate armor to the Paladins.

Astolfo glanced his way and smiled, “We heard there was some competition going on! Mind if we get in on it?” He asked, and Astolfo was very hard to read. Ragnar felt that way during their conversation. He was so casual and easy going that it was almost easy to dismiss him, but Ragnar suspected he saw and heard and understood more than most would assume. 

“Of course, Paladin Astolfo,” Ragnar accepted, knowing the nature of the spars had changed. Now it was less impressing the Picts with their skill at arms and more about showing them who were the greater warriors. “The spars are to first blood. We don't want to seriously harm anyone, much less kill them.” 

To that, Astolfo offered an enthusiastic thumbs up, speaking to his charges in Frankish, before half of them marched forward, finding their opponent on the field. His men looked to him, and he offered what felt like an authoritative nod. He raised up a hand as fighters entered the square, and when all were ready, he dropped the hand. 

Instantly, it was clear that the spars were of a different nature than the ones amongst each other or the Picts. There had been desperation and hard fighting, but his bodyguards and the Romans were fighting each other like they were trying to kill each other. Each blow delivered carried deliberate intent -- the rules were to first blood, but they fought to make that first blood a decapitation or worse.

Ragnar clenched his hands, watching the warriors struggle against one another. The bouts were fast, at least, because of how violently they fought. A gap in a guard saw a mailed fist racing forward to slam into a helmeted head, sending a spray of blood from the warrior that went down. Or how another cried out when an axe slammed down on a gap in their armor hard enough to snap a bone in two. 

He had hoped for a more conclusive outcome, but when the bouts ended within a minute, the tally was three victories for them and three for the Romans. 

It was then that Bradamante stepped forward, and Astolfo clapped. “Oh? You're pretty fired up, Bradamante! Anyone feel brave enough to challenge a Paladin of Charlemagne?” He asked, and the crowd that had gathered watched with measuring eyes. Judging.

They were almost dismissive. The Picts had their own share of women warriors, but they didn't look like Bradamante. She… even with her expression set into utter indifference, she was beautiful. The kind of beauty that Ragnar felt the stories of men waging wars over a woman made a bit more sense now. She looked more like a queen than she did a warrior. 

But, she entered a square and planted her spearbutt into the dirt, waiting for an opponent. She didn't have to wait long as one of his bodyguards approached with a hand axe and shield in hand. Bradamante shifted her stance, accepting him as an opponent, before Ragnar raised his hand again. 

By the time he lowered it, the match was over. 

‘Fast.’ Bradamante moved with an inhuman speed and grace, spinning her spear in her hands with a sharp twirl before delivering a pinpoint-accurate thrust to the chainmail underneath his swordarm, and it found purchase through the chain links. Then, as if it were easy, Bradamante withdrew the spear almost too fast to follow before spinning it sharply in her palm before returning to the exact same pose. The bodyguard dropped to a knee, almost unsure what happened to him before he felt the pain. 

The reaction could be felt through the crowd like a stone dropped into a still lake. It was a display of absolute domination. A complete one-sided fight. A showing of strength that wouldn't be soon forgotten. 

And it was entirely accounted for. 

“A fine display,” Ragnar praised, forcing a smile onto his face. “Forgive my rudeness, but would you welcome a second challenge? A warrior can hardly call himself as much if their heart wasn't moved by that display.” 

Bradamante looked at him sharply, and based on her gaze, she knew exactly what he was doing. In this contest of strength to show the Picts who they should fear more, a fight like that would be final. But he was the son of Siegfried, the Allvaldr. If anyone was capable of matching such a display, then it would be him. 

What's more, he was young. Very young. If he won, then he had bested a monstrously powerful warrior that would no doubt earn a saga that would never be forgotten. If he lost, however? It was all the same. His age gave him an allowance that wouldn't be granted to her. He was young, just a boy, and so long as he put on a good showing? The talk of the city would be how Prince Ragar fought so well for his age, now the one-sided domination that the Romans displayed. 

“... Very well,” Bradamante voiced, offering a shallow nod, and Ragnar accepted an offered shield before drawing his sword. An axe would be too short, and even with a spear, she would have the advantage on reach. Something in the middle would do best, and a sword was the best tool for the job.

His bodyguards began to beat their shields and stomping their feet to show their approval. Magnus made himself known by raising a hand high before dropping it sharply, beginning the bout. 

Witnessing her speed from afar had been one thing, but it was something else entirely to have that spear thrust at him almost too fast to see. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Father had not bestowed upon him that Blessing, then he would suffer the same lightning-quick defeat. But he had, and because of it, Ragnar knew exactly when the spear would be thrust and where, letting him raise his shield to catch the spearhead and knock it off course before he lunged forward with his blade. He attempted to drive it into the mail beneath her arm, only for Bradamante to shift ever so slightly so the blade skidded off her armor harmlessly.

Bradamante reset, retreating a half step and choking up on the shaft of the spear before hacking down at the side of his head. He could barely see the attack from his helm, and all the actions flowed together in the span of a second. She was faster than he by a wide margin. More experienced too. Yet, he was able to react even before she made her next move, and that let him react in time to tilt his head out of the way of a blow he could barely see and counter with a thrust of his sword that Bradamante effortlessly side stepped before countering with the butt of her spear that Ragnar blocked with his shield. 

It felt like he was fighting Father. After he received his Blessings, Ragnar had felt invincible. He was talented with swords, spears, and axes, but he was simply too young and not yet grown to close the gap with his father's veterans, much less his father himself. But with the Blessing, that gap had closed and reopened with him as the better. It had been an intoxicating feeling.

One that Father ruthlessly crushed by sparring with him and revealing just how gentle he had always been in all the spars that Ragnar thought were grueling battles he barely survived. That confidence has been ground into the dirt with not a trace of it to be found as Father delivered a pointed message that he took great care to engrave into his bones -- that Ragnar was better than most, but not all. And he was currently fighting one of the few that could defeat him and challenge his father. 

The crowd roared with approval at the rapid exchange, likely thinking they were evenly matched. 

“You are your father's son,” Bradamante acknowledged before delivering three rapid thrusts, and as each one was blocked by his shield, he fully expected them to punch through the planks of wood. 

“When most say that, they mean it as a compliment,” Ragnar replied, trying to keep the strain out of his voice before he stepped forward, going for a thrust, only for his blade to be batted away and he had to narrowly dodge a counter swipe. “Is that the case now?” 

“You don't fight like him. You lack the same speed and strength,” she remarked, and that was painfully true. The Blessings had made him faster and stronger to the point that he couldn't even compare himself to how he was before them. But the gap between him and Father was the difference between the ground and the sun. “But Siegfried is no coward and he's entirely too smart. That part of you reminds me of him.” 

So it was a compliment. Just one delivered as an insult. 

“My Emperor has one regret in his life,” Bradamante continued as they went through a rapid exchange of attacks and counters. An exchange that Ragnar couldn't tell if he won or lost. “That he did not slay your father when he had the chance when he was your age. Before he could grow into the man he's become. So I wonder… would I not regret slaying you here and now?” 

The question was delivered dispassionately, as if it were a remark about the weather. Yet they had Ragnar's heart lurching in his chest and his kind racing as he perked his shield to block a blow with less grace, a burst of fear tightening his muscles. Had he miscalculated? 

He assumed that Bradamante wouldn't try such a thing, regardless of what grudge she might harbor for his father. He assumed that if she killed him here and now, it would lead to a war that neither of their people was prepared for. His father would take vengeance across all of Rome, destroying the newly resurgent empire even if it meant that their newly born one was destroyed in the process. 

Ragnar grit his teeth; the attacks from the impossibly fast spear seemed heavier. As if they were turned from blows that could wound into attacks that could kill. He could withdraw from the bout. It may undercut whatever image that he started to craft with the Picts, but that was preferable to dying here. Or… or was it a bluff? A tactic to get into his head? To make him doubt? 

‘I am my father's son,’ Ragnar told himself. Reminded himself. He was a prince. There were expectations of him that he had to meet. Surrendering wouldn't just mar his own image, but the image of his father and his empire. And if it was a choice between death and shame… 

The choice was obvious. 

Swallowing his fear, Ragnar lashed out, stepping forward to deliver a thrust of his blade and accepting whatever happened next. 

What he didn't expect was for Bradamante to drop down, kicking his leg out from underneath him and making him fall flat on his back. He caught a flash of movement, and even as his heart lurched in his chest, he knew that the spearhead would stop short at his throat. There was a very loud silence as the match ended, everyone wondering if she would complete the thrust.

Bradamante almost seemed uncertain of it herself before a small sigh escaped her. “As I said. You are your father's son,” she acknowledged before stepping back and only then did Ragnar realize he had been holding his breath. 

‘She baited me into attacking. Not surrendering.’ Shame at the loss flowed through him, even if he had expected it. Not because he expected to win, but because he had fallen into her trap and allowed himself to be tricked. Father would be disappointed with him, and that cut him to the bone. 

Ragnar sat up and was momentarily surprised by a hand being extended down to him. Bradamante looked down at him without any warmth, but no hostility. Hesitating just a second, he accepted the hand and was pulled to his feet. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he inclined his head to her. “My father’s caution of the Paladins is well earned,” he acknowledged. 

“Some more than others, Prince Ragnar,” Bradamante replied with a small nod of her head, before she walked out of the ring. It was only then that the cheering came once it was clear that they weren’t about to witness the start of a war. Ragnar’s gaze lingered on the woman before turning away, walking to the others. 

Hands patted him on the back, approving of the show even if he lost. Shrugging off his helmet, he approached the water wagon and accepted a ladle. The bout hadn’t lasted too long, but he worked up a sweat-

“You really thought you were going to die, didn’t you?” A girl's voice remarked just before she revealed herself, draping her arms over the sides of the wagon. The first thing that he noticed was that she was speaking accented norse… and the second was her red hair. The same girl that he noticed during their arrival, the one with the bow. 

He looked at her for a moment, wondering why she would suddenly approach him and what she could possibly have to gain. “Done pretending that you can’t understand Norse?”

“No point to. You princelings are the only ones having conversations worth listening to, and now you only speak to each other in gibberish.” She replied with the same brazen honesty that he recognized in his sisters. 

“Arabic,” Ragnar corrected before taking a sip from the ladle. “And some would consider it rude to listen in on private conversations in the first place.”

“Would those same people consider it rude to ferment rebellion in another kingdom?” She replied, making Ragnar reconsider her in that moment. She was sharp. Her mind as sharp as her tongue. The words were made to sound like an idle remark but they were a pointed retort. 

“... I would imagine so,” Ragnar replied, his tone cautious. 

The girl hummed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “The clans aren’t sure what to make of you. You or your empire,” she told him outright, and that made him feel more wary than reassured. “We’re more similar than different, and we don’t have the oceans of bad blood with you like we would the Romans or the Southerners. But no one likes having their hand forced. So, I wanted to ask you… were you really willing to throw your life away here? For what?” 

For a moment, Ragnar wasn’t even sure how to start answering the question. So he bought himself a moment to finish the ladle of water, letting him think for a few seconds on how best to answer. He didn’t know the girl’s name, but he did know that she was connected to Lucas, and he in turn was connected to the Reds. Meaning that it was likely that anything he said would make it back to them, and that could decide which way they leaned. 

“My father has a vision,” Ragnar began slowly. “A land without hunger. Without disease. Where the lowest and most wretched can find purpose and prosperity. He seeks to remake the world, it almost feels like.” Her eyes narrowed with a touch of disbelief and suspicion. 

So, he pointed towards the city. “If my father were here, he’d tear the city down to the foundations and remake it. He’d build roads with a gentle slope to them so rain water would flow to the gutters, and in turn they would find their way into cisterns beneath the city. Sewers would be dug so people wouldn’t need to throw their waste into the dirt streets. Buildings would be remade so that they would remain warm in the coldest of winters and cold in the hottest of summers.”

His finger shifted towards the rocky crags and mountains surrounding the city. “The soil here is rough, but he would use what he learned in Greece to build hillside gardens. Irrigation systems could be built to ensure that they are always watered in layers, decreasing the amount of labor maintaining the farms need, while more food means healthier people.”

Now the suspicion gave way to curiosity, and he lowered his hand, offering her a smile. “My father has already begun the process in our homeland. It’ll be the labor of a generation to achieve, and it’ll be the work of generations to maintain, but it’ll be worth it.” 

“Huh,” the girl remarked, and that was a lackluster response. Enough so that he wondered if he had bungled the interaction, especially when she pulled away from the wagon and began to leave. He half expected some parting words, but she really was just walking away. 

“What’s your name?” He asked her, and that made her stop. She she glanced over her shoulder, there was a sly smile on her face that he didn’t know what to make of. 

“Maeve,” Maeve introduced herself. “I’ll be seeing you, Ragnar Siegfriedson.” 

And for the life of him, Ragnar couldn’t tell if that was a promise or a threat.