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Legends Never Die: Pawns on the Board (ch. 139)
🕑 Added 2025-11-19 16:08:45 +0000 UTCThe Council had gathered, the debate had begun, and what a web of intrigue Morrigan saw from above. Threads connected to everyone in the grand hall -- those who were allies, those who had accepted bribes, those who feigned friendship even as they reached for a dagger to stab the other in the back… for a moment, it was as if she were in Constantinople all over again.
Siegfried had learned to disdain politics in that ancient empire, but he had also learned a thing or three about it's importance. Among them the necessity of appearance.
The debate hall had been specifically constructed with these kinds of conferences in mind, and to convey an image. The great throne of the Allvaldr sat elevated with the debate halls curved around his viewing. In the platform below, there were lesser thrones for the kings that Siegfried allowed to govern his kingdoms -- ten thrones were in place, each of them filled, yet the emptiness in the space designated for these thrones made it clear that one day more would be added to their number.
Then, at the lowest point, was the debate hall itself. A curved stadium where the various experts and masters of the subject that was to be debated sat, with a central stage where a lead orator would speak to the kings and his peers. In this case, it was filled with Law-Speakers from across the empire, with one of them committed to a fiery speech about one particular piece of the Codex of Laws.
It was upon that stage that she looked down upon through the eyes of a raven that she watched as the politics of the empire emerged from a planted seed.
Ten kings sat in their thrones, their expressions ranging from polite boredom to genuine interest. The two closest to the true thrones were, of course, King Haldur of Sweden and King Halfdan of Lithuania. They were known quantities to Morrigan. Halfdan was a simple sort. He genuinely loved Siegfried as much as he found Haldur annoying, and he found Haldur quite annoying. A thread of true loyalty was spun between him to Siegfried. Haldur was… hm.
The other eight thrones had been filled with much apparent deliberation, though in truth, the choices had largely been made before the last conquest had even begun.
King Hoffer of Norway was another obvious one. Astrid's father was basking in his position, but he was ultimately loyal to Siegfried through deed and by blood.
King Viggu of Sami. He was still adapting to his new life and title, finding himself in unfamiliar politics and none too happy about it. A nonfactor for years to come, if ever.
King Ihala of Finland. An unexpected deviation from their established plans, as the Jarl they had chosen to elevate was assassinated. Not necessarily by King Ihala’s hand, but in the squabble to follow, he was then one who rose the highest.
King Rurik of Novograd. An ambitious man, well-suited for smoothly taking over the territory, but less suited for the new politics of the realm. A brute and bruiser first and foremost, who had yet to encounter a problem that he couldn't solve by hitting it hard enough. In this case, it seemed he was about to hit the hay, with the way his gaze was glazed over and left vacant with boredom.
King Meelis of Estonia. A smaller kingdom, but one that was well positioned, and the same could be said for its king. A thin man with gaunt cheeks and a sharp gaze who absorbed every word uttered in the great hall like a beggar placed before a feast.
King Bretislav of Pomerania. An older man, but a wise one. A clever one. A dangerous one.
Then, lastly, King Alfric of Saxony. Due to the nature of their agreement which allowed Siegfried to sweep in with his reforms, King Widukind was forced to abdicate. In his place, Siegfried's cavalry commander assumed the throne as he was amongst the nobility of Saxony. He was loyal enough. Quietly in awe of Siegfried, but not so empty of wits that he would simply nod his head to everything that Siegfried said.
This was the first time that all the Kings of the Empire had gathered in one place, and some were playing a subtle game that was unfolding upon the debate floor. A bribe here, a whispered word there, all to stir up the Law-Speakers. To rouse them with the thought that the Codex, while it being implemented was never in question, could have a key detail here or there tweaked to their benefit at the final hours. A false hope, of course.
But that wasn't the point. The point was that a few of the kings were testing the powers that they now wielded. And soon they would learn that they could not wield them with impunity, nor without consequence as she followed the tapestry, identifying those who were behind this little piece of theater, regardless of how many steps they were removed.
It was for this that Siegfried allowed them to act. He sat in his throne, his crown upon his head and dressed in damask patterned clothing worthy of his station, watching them play their subtle games simply because it meant that he could catch them. And punish them in an equally subtle manner -- be it diplomatically, politically, or as Jill was growing fond of, by slipping them a mild poison. Just to show them that they could.
The one issue there was… Haldur.
“How bothersome,” Morrigan surmised her opinion in her true body as she reclined in a parlor. Haldur was a particularly volatile issue, as he was amongst those that were playing that subtle game, already chafing under his younger brother as if the crown adorning his head was a leash. Yet, he wasn’t entirely disloyal. There was love there. It was just intermingled with resentment, likely born from how far he had fallen into his brother's shadow.
The Greeks had a phrase that Morrigan had come to appreciate. A phrase that featured in every good story of a hero and his downfall.
The Fatal Flaw.
Siegfried's was his family. He wasn't blind to it, at least. He tried to compensate for it, even as he would allow this petty game for Haldur to vent his frustration at being the lesser brother. What Morrigan feared, however, was that when these little bouts of frustration escalated? When they became acts of defiance? Of rebellion?
She feared that Siegfried would not have the heart to take the action he must.
So, Morrigan once more asked herself the question -- would it hurt Siegfried more if she were to kill Haldur prematurely? Or to be forced to take his life with his own hands once his eldest brother proved his true nature?
And, once more, Morrigan failed to find an answer.
“Mother!” Morrigan heard and as she closed her eyes as a Raven, she opened them as a human woman. Morrigan rolled her head to the side to see the frustrated gazes of her daughters, with a twinge of worry at how thinly they thought she spread herself. In truth, she was simply too deep in thought to hear them try to wake her.
“My daughters,” Morrigan returned, sitting up, looking between Scáthach and Aífe. The twin sisters wore their blood red hair in braids, tying them off at opposite sides to differentiate themselves.
There were times when Morrigan honestly feared that she had cursed her daughters with their names. Scáthach was endlessly talented in all that she did, and while Aífe was blessed with talent herself, she wasn’t as talented. This drove her to endlessly practicing until she surpassed whatever Scáthach had achieved, which of course, sent Scáthach to outdoing Aífe merely to prove that she could. That, naturally, had Aífe practicing twice as hard to surpass her sister once more, only for the process to repeat itself like the moon chasing the sun.
The two were exactly alike, and strove to the point of madness to show that they were entirely different. As a younger woman, she had approved -- few things sharpened you like a rival. However, now she feared her daughters would grind themselves into nothing merely to prove themselves the better of the other.
“We want to become Shieldmaidens,” Aífe started before Scáthach could. As if such a thing was ever going to be in doubt. From the moment they first picked up a spear, the Norns had decided their path in life. “Aunt Astrid is ready to form the order with Lady Lagatha. It would bolster the order's reputation if Father's daughters were part of it.”
“It would convince the more doubtful men who have spirited daughters that they have a path in life,” Scáthach finished and Morrigan smiled.
She reached out with her hands, cupping her daughters’ faces. “An eloquent argument. I wonder who gave it to you?” She asked, looking into their golden eyes. It had been a true stroke of brilliance to convince them that her golden eyes allowed her to see the truth of all things. She taught her girls how to lie, but that didn’t mean she would allow dishonesty. At least not without inspired creativity and resourcefulness -- good behavior should be rewarded, after all.
The result was instantly guilty expressions. “Lady Lagatha,” the two admitted in unison.
“Tell Astrid and Lagatha you have my permission,” Morrigan said, making their expressions brighten. “And that should they attempt to manipulate me through you again, I shall flay them under the full moon and use their skulls as tea cups.”
Her girls rushed forward, throwing their arms around her, and Morrigan hugged them back. Fiercely.
They weren’t little girls anymore. They were growing into young women -- fiercely independent and stubborn young women who had their father bent around their little fingers, whether he realized it or not.
As much as Morrigan savored the embrace, she knew to let them go. “Off with you,” she said, though not unkindly. “And make sure to deliver my threat.”
“We won't! Love you, mother!” Scáthach said, entirely ignorant how dangerous of a word that was. Love. Morrigan couldn't even dream of telling Flemeth that she loved her. Aífe echoed her words with a wave and they escaped her parlor with her permission and her heart.
“I've grown soft,” Morrigan tsked under her breath. These days, even Jill was more ruthless. But, even as she shook her head at herself, Morrigan quietly admitted that she didn't entirely mind.
After ensuring that her findings were written down, Morrigan adorned herself with a black shawl and emerged from her parlor. As she did, a raven dropped onto her shoulder, while the others scattered about the palace told her where she wished to go. It had taken years of practice, but the gift that Siegfried had bestowed upon her… it felt like she had managed to fully harness its potential.
It was easier to put less of herself into the bodies of the ravens and to see through their eyes, regardless of distance. Inwardly, she doubted that she would ever equal Flemeth, but she had made great strides and she would make further strides still. The drive and ambition of her daughters was something they'd inherited from both their parents, she knew.
The ones she sought were Jasmine and Jill, both whom were sitting in another parlor discussing a recent event.
Morrigan's eyes flickered to Jasmine's stomach where a babe grew that she was not yet aware of. It made her feel a strange sort of longing that she could do without -- the urge to hold a baby in her hands that came from her flesh and blood. But she shook off that thought and instead looked at the concerned expressions they both wore.
“The letter?” Morrigan prompted, and Jill slid it to her. She had already overheard the contents, but she wished to read it with her own eyes. “How bold.”
The letter contained a demand of submission and tribute from the Khazars.
“It would seem that they didn't accept the excuse that we do not control the young blood running off to the Mediterranean,” Jasmine ventured. “And they hold us responsible for their loss in territory around the Dnieper.”
The Khazars had a loose grip on their lands, accepting tribute from given areas and largely leaving those that dwelled there a degree of independence. However, as Bulgaria retook Kiev and the areas west of the Dnieper, they had taken a portion of territory that paid the Khazar's tribute. A necessary thing if the Bulgarians were going to take Kiev and the lands that they had ruled over.
“More likely they know and don't care,” Morrigan replied. “It is not just the Franks and Romans that have had to contend with a new player on the board. Tribes and chiefdoms that have long trembled in fear of the Khazars are now drawn to us. Power draws them like a moth to a flame, and the horse lords feel their star waning.”
“They are expanding to the East, towards the Abbasids,” Jill reasoned. “That is the direction the Romans are ushering them, but they could attack. It is merely a question of whether they prize Roman gold or the chance to crush an upstart rival more.”
The latter would seem like the obvious choice, but Siegfried himself was quite the deterrent. A warrior-king who had never lost a battle and preferred fighting against impossible odds?
It was more likely that the Khazars would wait until he was weak -- be it politically, in health, or in reputation. Or, they would wait until decisive action by the Romans or Franks to divide his focus. Better easy gold than what could be a certain defeat.
“How goes their campaign to the east?” Jasmine questioned, likely worrying for her brother.
Jill looked like she had better news to tell. “Well as it can. There are many local chieftains that have found themselves subjugated or conquered. Their people are dispersed across the Khazar clans. The favored clans, at least. It will not be long before they can strike into the Abbasid heartland.”
Jasmine lips thinned, her hands wringing as they always did when she was worried.
“Shall a distraction be provided?” Morrigan questioned, bringing their attention to her. “You have cultivated a faction of traitorous intent within the Khazars?” Jill nodded slowly at that, already knowing what Morrigan intended. “In that case, t'is obvious what we should do. A succession crisis during the middle of a conquest with their armies mobilized and far out of the way for the faction you developed. That should occupy them for a time, I imagine.”
“Assassination?” Jasmine ventured, her brow furrowing with thought. “That is…”
“It will take time to arrange,” Jill replied, and Morrigan swallowed a smile. Regardless of what Siegfried said, she had clearly been an excellent influence on Jill. “We don't have anyone who could get that close.”
“Save for me,” Morrigan agreed with a drawl. “It shall be simple enough. Give him reason to come closer, and I shall skinwalk into his horse. A quick buck and stomping on his head a few times should ensure the deed is done.”
“Could you do it at Kiev?” Jill asked, already putting a plan together.
“Not from here,” Morrigan admitted. Her range had expanded greatly, but not so greatly as that. It had been for that reason she had taken to developing several web works of spies within the kingdoms that they now controlled. She couldn't be everywhere at once, nor could her ravens.
“Then we delay,” Jill decided. “Once the Council is over, a delegation shall be sent. Morrigan, you will be part of it. Turns will be met and following your departure…”
Morrigan nodded, accepting the task with ease.
If only if all of their enemies could be so easily dealt with.
…
King Ecbert was a consequential king ruling over an inconsequential kingdom -- that was the opinion Pepin had come to after a year in the petty king's court. In the realm of politics, he was a master. Always saying the right thing so that even when he told someone to go to hell, they'd thank him and look forward to the trip. He could have done quite well in Francia. And he might still, depending on how the next few years went.
His father was not a man to leave a job half finished, and the Roman Empire had once controlled half of Britannia. A duke would need to be appointed for the territory and Ecbert, with his keen mind, saw opportunity.
Just as he saw it when he arrived at his court a year ago with promises of funds and support.
“Poor boys,” King Ecbert remarked, standing next to Pepin. An indulgence as his… condition made riding on horseback quite painful. “This didn't need to happen. The outcome was quite obvious, but pride… well, it's a sin for a reason, I suppose.”
King Ecbert was a man in his mid thirties, yet he possessed a youthful vigor. His fair brown hair was swept back, curling around his ears and brushing the nape of his neck. He was handsome with a neatly groomed beard, wearing fine clothing that was adorned with enough jewelry benefiting his station. He watched the battlefield that decided the fate of the Kingdom of Sussex.
“Few sins are more dangerous. Gluttony and Lust can be tempered, but Pride? It will lead you off the edge of a cliff and leave you convinced it was your own idea,” Pepin replied, watching as the petty kingdom of Sussex breathed its last. It was a land where a hundred men was considered a formidable army. A far cry from the tens of thousands that marched with Francia.
Ecbert had the greater of the armies. Wessex wasn't a poor country in itself, but its wealth paled to the coffers of Francia and Rome. With a trickle of wealth, an amount so miniscule Pepin doubted that the record keepers had even noticed it, Wessex became what it and its peers considered wealthy. With that wealth, Ecbert attracted mercenaries to his banner in his conquest of rapid expansion.
Mercia still loomed to the North, but they were divided internally. That allowed Ecbert to swiftly conquer the petty kingdom of Cornwall, and now Sussex and Kent. East Anglia was next, and with it, the southern coast would be secure. From there, they would fortify the coast while an alliance was struck with Northumbria to surround Mercia. Their internal strife would ferment with a few well placed bribes before the kingdom would be cut in two.
At least, that was the deal struck in private. Pepin imagined that as soon as Mercia fell, the two would turn on one another.
Ecbert favored him with a glance from the corner of his eye, clever enough to hear the meaning of his words. “It does inspire one to boldness. And willful blindness, I imagine,” he admitted. Also keenly aware that he was merely a pawn on his father's board, yet still hoping that he would reach the other side to become something more. “But I suspect that, without pride, man would be rooted still, too aware of ourselves and our failings to take a single step forward."
He was reckless and opportunistic, but not blind.
“Ah,” Ecbert continued, diverting the conversation as his mercenaries crushed the hundred farm boys of Sussex, who were breaking off and running while the lord of Sussex was left hurling curses after them. “Wonderful. God has surely smiled upon us this day,” he said, making to thank the Lord.
Performatory, but convincing enough for most. With a condition such as his, Pepin has learned early how to spot liars. And those who feigned zealotry to curry favor with his father. Ecbert was an excellent liar.
“Another victory to commemorate,” Pepin remarked politely, watching as the former lord of Sussex was taken captive in what had been meant to be a valiant last stand, Pepin imagined. It was hard to appear dignified when a fisherman's net was tossed over you and you were dragged off your feet.
“The Norsemen raise… what was it, a runestone to celebrate such things?” Ecbert prompted a shift in the conversation. A reveal that he was well aware of his role as a pawn for his father.
“That is their custom. They are a festive people, obsessed with self-celebration -- they raise runestones, commission sagas, and songs,” Pepin answered. They had… danced around the issue for the past year, for lack of a better word. Ecbert knew the truth of it. He had likely always known, but he pretended ignorance, testing the waters with Pepin until he had a proper grasp of his character.
It was easy to see why his father favored Ecbert. He was not a fool. And even when he was being foolish, he was exceedingly careful.
“Sounds simply exhausting. I imagine half the things that the Wolfkissed builds are runestones from the sounds of things,” Ecbert remarked and Pepin fought a smile.
“Quite possible. Though, if you listen to what the Hollanders say, then he has rebuilt Rome in a day,” Pepin replied. The continued independence of Holland was a sore spot for his father, but it had proven to be a useful one. With the rising tensions between Scandinavia and Francia, and the, until recently, border skirmishes, trade between Saxons and Francia was non-existent. To that end, as was trade between Scandinavia and Francia.
Holland, however, was… “independent.” Officially, at least. The former Saxon King, who retired to serve Siegfried as an adviser, still held the reins of the kingdom. However loose they had gotten. Francia could not retake it without risking a war that none of them were ready to fight. Thus, Holland remained independent and had become an important center of trade between the empires. They would not trade with each other directly, so they went to Holland, bringing goods and news, and both would end up in the other's empire.
It wasn't an arrangement that would last forever. Or even very long, Pepin suspected. But it was a convenient solution to the inconvenient problem of learning what the young emperor was doing, as his court was surprisingly resilient to spies.
The answer was ruling. And ruling quite well.
He smiled every time he heard it as he knew his father had hoped that Siegfried would stumble as a king at peace.
“Oh, I can imagine,” Ecbert replied, evenly. Testingly. He decided that now was the time to ask what he really wished to speak of. “I must admit, it keeps me up at night thinking about what such a man would do to ensure his glory never fades. The gluttony of the pagans is legendary, after all. Would he really be satisfied with damp forests and frigid dirt to rule over? Or would his gaze wander in hopes of another saga and runestone?”
“I cannot be certain. I am no pagan, and I cannot claim to know their minds… but I fear your worries are of substance, King Ecbert,” Pepin replied. No surprise in the man's eyes but his lips twitched. In amusement.
Pepin imagined he must be quite bored playing petty king in a small kingdom such as this. All the more so when he had tasted the vastness of the world in his father's court. Or, at the very least, he missed having an intelligent conversation. Enough that he didn't mind his condition.
“My seneschal and son have both spoken of the possibility. They are convinced that the best solution would be to expand and fortify the eastern coast. An expensive endeavor to be sure.” Ecbert noted, watching as the lord of Sussex was dragged through the mud towards them.
“Debilitatingly so. However, my father's coffers are open to a fast and trusted friend,” Pepin replied, knowing that was to be expected. His father would turn every hill in the world into a fortress without a second thought, regardless of the cost, if there was the slightest possibility that one of them would impede Siegfried.
Ecbert wanted the funds. It was free money, after all, and it was to Pepin's understanding that few things were sweeter. But that was not all he wanted.
“It strikes me that I should pose the same question to you, Lord Pepin,” Ecbert remarked, putting a touch of emphasis on Lord. And Pepin hated how a shiver raced down his twisted spine at it. He was lord of nothing in Francia. “Your father has battled the Pagan, conversed with him -- perhaps some insight could be offered at how to best ensure that he never takes our shores?”
Pepin watched the lord as he was dragged, kicking, spitting, cursing and damning them all to the death of hell. It was quite amusing.
“Siegfried is a man who looks to the far future in all things, King Ecbert,” Pepin cautioned, deciding to impart his true thoughts. “He started as a humble farmer, and now, in but a few years, he leads an empire. He is not rash. He is not foolish. He is, perhaps, the most dangerous man that walks the Earth, as he is a man of great power yet possesses no arrogance or pride to blind him.”
Ecbert was listening intently even if the small pleasant smile never left his face.
“To fortify the coast is expected. Worse, it is something that must be done, but this will factor into his plans. One day, I suspect, he will use those very same fortresses that you have built to secure a foothold in Britannia. However, I sincerely doubt that they would ever be used on him,” Pepin continued. “He will go to the North, to Alba, and find common cause with them, and then march his armies south. Or, perhaps, he will ally himself with the Welsh or a tribe of the Eyrie. He will attack you where you are vulnerable and where you are least prepared.”
The raids would begin soon, Pepin suspected. Siegfried was building an armada according to the spies that Pepin did cultivate amongst the merchants. A fleet of strange ships. Many of the young men of the empire had departed to the Mediterranean to cause a ruckus amongst the Romans, and Siegfried would not be one to let opportunity pass him by so easily.
He would direct some of these young men, grant them a ship, and point to the west to begin raiding. To gather intelligence to be used against them in the wars to come.
“He seems to be quite the foe,” Ecbert replied, unhappy with what he heard but unsurprised. More importantly, he considered what he said carefully. To what end? Pepin would have to wait and see. “But, I believe with trusted friends and clever minds, we shall see him off. And if we don't… well, even in defeat there is opportunity.”
Pepin glanced at the petty king at the remark, wondering what exactly he meant by that, but Ecbert made no effort to explain. Instead, he threw on a practiced smile and approached the unfortunate lord as he was brought nearby. “Count Olaf! How lovely it is to see you…!”
A dangerous man to be certain, Pepin thought, and not for the first time.
The problem with chess metaphors had always been the fact that even pawns had minds of their own.
