Cry "Havoc!" - SS6.2 Hotseat Story Thread

This thread is for the players in the Stainless Steel – Dogs of War game to post creative writing related to the game.

This can take the form of full or partial turn write-ups, battle reports, stories or other creative writing forms inspired by the game, so long as the posts are consistent with and related to events in the game.

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM POSTING OOC IN THIS THREAD.

William surveyed the city of London, his new capitol... his new home. The Normans were a tough people, a people who took what they needed by force. And what William needed was the British Isles united under his new banner, the banner of the Kingdom of England. The Saxons were on the run, but even after the last of the Saxons were finished, he still had a long series of trials before him. The Scottish were a proud people, one who would not easily fall to his armies, a kingdom whose people were at least as tough as Williams own.... and to the west the Irish.... a people who William did not understand, did not WISH to understand. But a people that were strong and warlike none the less. William was strong man, but at the thought of all this he almost collapsed.... almost, but one did not become the king if they were not ready for the burdens.

He steeled himself, and looked to the north, to where he knew his son Rufus camped, Where he waited to march on the Saxons at York. He would crush them this William did not doubt. Then to the south, where Robert was no doubt readying the remaining Normans to cross the channel.. With the new treaty with the franks there was no reason to keep a large number of troops there. Thought of the treaty brought a smile to Williams face, he was glad Philip was seeing the sense and reason in his proposal, in the end were they not two men cut of similar stuff?? Two kings doing what’s best for there people? It was best for everyone for the Franks and Normans to stay at peace, William had every intention of holding up his end of the bargain. The thought of that made him think of his friend John, he had sent the man to France as his voice on the council and he had not disappointed him.

Everything was perfect, all was going exactly as William as hoped. When the British Isles were untied, THEN could England look outward, to the lands to the south, to the east, to the west. The Spaniards wished to reconquer Spain from the Muslims, and William doubted they would turn away England's help. William would make his people one of the greatest in the world. No matter how many men he had to kill to make it that way. But... It all hinged on Britain... It all came back to uniting the isles.... William would not fail his people.... It was their time! This was their battleground, and they planned to come out on top! Let the Scots and Irish come, they will all fall before William and his sons!
All of these thoughts comforted William as he stared out over London. Stared at the people as they lived out their lives, oblivious to the greater mechanics of their world.

Rex Francorum

Philippe. It was an odd name for a Frank. Ann of Kiev had given the name to her firstborn son, a tribute to her eastern orthodox lineage which traced itself, through the Roman Emperor Romanus II, back to the great unifier of Greece and Macedon, Philip II, father to Alexander the Great, the man who conquered the world in only ten years. It was a heavy legacy to bear, even for a King, even for a Frank.

The Franks, in centuries past, through their relations with ancient Rome, had come to rule over much of Western Europe. Clovis, Charles Martel, Charlemagne. Those were Frankish names that had carved their mark on history as brightly as any Cesar or Pericles of old. It was the Franks that had first embraced Christianity of all the people that had come from the dark forests of Germania. It was the Franks that had pushed back the Moslem hordes at Poitiers. It was the Franks that had saved the Papacy from the Lombards and Greeks and gifted the Holy Father his large estates in Italy.

Philippus Dei gratia Francorum rex. Philippe, by the grace of God, King of the Franks.

That so powerful a name would come to bear so proud a title could not be a coincidence. History was God’s favourite tool to teach the teeming multitudes that thrived on the face of His world. His work could be seen in the budding of a lilac flower, in the able craft of smiths and weavers and in the flowered verse of playwrights. But most of all, His work flowed through the deeds of the mighty that shone brightly through the ages, a testament to their will and courage, and to divine benevolence that had guided their paths.

Philippe’s achievements would have to be mighty indeed if he wished to honour his heritage.

Philippe. It was a powerful name. A name fit for the King of the Franks.

King Laszlo of the Magyar surveyed his tapestry room, searching the tapestries showing the ancient stories for a clue as to how to proceed.

Here was the Legend of the Wondrous Hind, showing the brothers Hunor and Magor being led to their new homeland by the Sea of Azov by the white hind. From Magor sprang the Magyar people, from Hunor their cousins the Huns. The theme of destiny drawing his people onwards was a long standing tradition in Magyar storytelling.

But how to distinguish the hand of destiny from simple greed? His generals urged him to make war on the errant Poles, and spoke of omens and portents foretelling victory, but how would it sit with the Holy Father? The Magyar Kingdom was a younger child in the eyes of the Papacy, and not yet a favourite..

And here to support their claims for war was the legend of the Honfoglalás, the conquest of their current homelands in the Carpathian Basin by Laszlo's ancestor the Grand Prince Arpad. The martial tradition of Arpad cast a long shadow over his dynasty of royal descendents. There he was, embroidered at the head of a wedge of mounted princes, the leaders of the fabled Seven Tribes which migrated West from the Steppes all those centuries ago.

So perhaps it was right, and in his blood, to respond to the Polish aggression with violence of his own, and seize their lands for his people?

But here as if intentionally to confuse him was the Legend of the White Horse, depicting the Magyar tribal leaders sending a gift to the Moravian King in exchange for land on which to settle. A peaceful exchange, a treaty brokered by Arpad in good faith, demonstrating that not all lands must be gained by war.

Laszlo sank back in his chair in deep reflection, pondering what course of action to take.

An Anthology of England, By John Kenneth

The English force mustered outside of Nottingham, a mighty force by all accounts. Of course I would not know anything about that would I? For I am still in France about now, as is expected by a diplomat of my King, William the Conqueror. Talking to diplomats from all the other major nations of the world, chatting up Bishops, meeting some Idiotic people, again as is to be expected of a English diplomat. Of course.... ahhhh I appear to be Rambling again, will have to cut this piece out of the finished work.
The English force was mustered outside of Nottingham, The Crown Prince Robert at its head. They made a intimidating force, with a large force of both Spear men and Archers. In only one way were they lacking, and that was Cavalry. I am not sure why in all honesty, and believe me I have tried to find out. It appears that many of our realms finest cavalrymen had returned to Normandy after the first easy victories in England, leaving Britain with nothing but the stragglers of that group. Of course William was able to muster the men back from Normandy, but the Royal Navy was far to busy to ferry the troops to England. But I digress, The army had only a small contingent of cavalry with even they being of the lightest type, with light lances and little armor.

Discounting this small slight Robert had a strong force. And It would have to be, for the Target of this army was clear enough to all of Britain. Scotland remained fiercely independent from Williams will, something he could not allow slip by him. And so The grand Army of England was assembled, and by Grand I mean haphazard and frankly, inadequate. To say it was the best England could put together was a grave slight to England herself! However, it would be enough. That is what we all thought you see, for it HAD to be enough. In a way, we were all counting on Robert. Were all dearly hoping his fathers tactical Genius had worn off on him. (a note to myself, Rewrite this part, I have called the army formidable then go off and call it haphazard and inadequate..... Not the markings of a good writer. However, thinking about it one could say that the force ISS formidable, just not formidable ENOUGH for the task at hand, and so is Inadequate. Blast it, the note is becoming almost as long as the writing itself.)

Scotland had not moved overtly to attack England, but the tension hung heavily at the northern border. Lately a small Scottish Nobleman had been riding up and down the area, seeming to be marking key villages of the English. It was something that did not go unnoticed by the English merchants in the area, and they reported back to the Garrison of Nottingham. The rest of course is simple enough to guess… however, for the slow members among you I will summarize it. (Perhaps a bit too harsh, rewrite) The English assembled a force under Robert from troops not already engaged in the English’s other operations. It met; you guessed it, outside of Nottingham, which appears to have caught us up into the beginning of my literary work. Which does beg the question why I did not simply start with the situation before focusing inwards on that one moment….. Perhaps a rewrite will be in order.

However, a barrier stood between the English and the Scottish, and it was not one made of Steel or Flesh. Ohh no, it was one far more insidious…. It was a barrier of the church, which stood poised to react harshly against any nation who made the first move against another. And it was this which stayed England’s hand. They seek an in with the Pope, a way to stave that harsh punishment. However, at the time England’s Official Diplomat was still…… making his way towards Rome, a task which had taken him a better part of 3 years. A pathetic lump of lard, this man was…. Ahhh, never mind. Suffice to say the English Diplomatic corps was still on the job. How a decent man like me ever came out of such a corrupt group I shall never…. Ahhh here I go again.
However, the hope was that England would be able to march on Scotland just as the diplomat opened contact with the pope, thus making the attack that would follow a surprise. However, if it came to that William would flirt with disaster to take down the Scottish. Of course he hoped it would not come to that.

Well, that was not so hard was it? I am not sure why these fools in the Monasteries get so much credit, I am positive by my death I will have created quite the comprehensive history of England, as it was during my life.

Alexandria, Caliphate of Al-Quds, 1084

Al-Quddin: Mohammad... Men! The newest shipment has come from the west!

Many of the men rush over to start observing the fine goods, Al-Quddin, General of the Alexandrian defensive army is busy with the European Cloth shipment, picking himself a rather large hat and placing it on his head.

Al-Quddin: Look at this! I've never seen something quite like this... I think I would look pretty good, almost fit in with the European Crews!

All of the men would laugh, and joke.

"General Al-Quddin, I doubt that you would pass as one of them."
"Yeah! I mean, look at you, You just look silly!"
"Hah, I bet 10 florins that the captain of the Merchant Fleet thinks your bad looking!"

By then, about 40 of the men had decided to all go into a bet against the General, With enough time, The General finally laughed.

Al-Quddin: If all of you are about to lose a few month's pay for over this... Fine! If I win, I obtain... 430 florins from you all! and if I lose, I will pay you all 10 florins! Now I will bring the merchant captain from Iraklion here. and I will show you!

The General would walk for a few minutes, until finding the captain. He would try to flag down the captain of the ship.

Al-Quddin: Excuse me! I must have a wo-

He could not finished due to the captain bursted out laughing at the general's outfit.

Al-Quddin: Ehh... Captain... I just need you for a second, please get rid of the Smirk, If you just tell my men that I look good... or just decent, I will pay you 50 florins... That's quite abit of personal change yeah?"

The Captain would agree and go with the general to the men.

Al-Quddin: Men! I have brought a suitable judge for this, He will decide the winner!

The Captain would say that his dress was better. Though, This would be interrupted.

Messenger boy: General Al-Quddin! A special letter from the Caliph himself!!!!

Al-Quddin: Ahh yes... This is my Promotion letter I was telling you all... What a perfect day for me, nothing can go wrong! Just won some money and now that i'm looking at the letter to know that I a-...

Al-Quddin would drop the letter and one of the men would pick it up and read it to every one.

General Al-Quddin of the Defensive army of Alexandria.
"You and your men will be shipped out as soon as you get this letter. Gather your arms, forces, and be set to set sail in the next few days to give aid to the Western Expansion army, or if worst comes to worst, give aid to our Seljuk Allies in the War against the Roman Empire. The Chance that you will ever be back in Alexandria are slim, So bring what ever personal belongings, and go... Your promotion will be decided after you complete the tasks!"

Al-Quddin: Men... Pack up, we set sail as soon as possible!

As Al-Quddin sighed, The Men start to pack, they ready their spears, their swords, and their bows... As only the Promoted generals would be sent to the Arabian Campaign, which was going as a huge success. The western though, Was a slow and with no glory, Filled with barbaric Catholics Traders that fiercely rivaled the Venician trade nation, the Kingdom of Silicia that the rumors spread that they were the source of all pirates, and that all of them had scurvy. or the over egotistical Roman Empire who were known to be imbredded enough that the children looked like beasts not men... none of these were to gain good reputation, and Al-Quddin knew that his promotion will be very long...

Laszlo was again in his tapestry room - it was fast becoming his favourite place.

This time he was not here to survey the ancient legends, but instead to inspect the newest addition to the collection: a large work depicting his son Prince Kalman in battle against the Poles at Halych.

A glorious day for the Magyar! Halych had fallen and with it the last of the Polish line. The Polish lands had fallen at last to his armies and he could look forward to a new age of peace and security in the north.

Unfortunately with this great victory had come news of much trouble to the south, where his Roman allies had found themselves invaded on two fronts by Moslem raiders.

It looked as though the Romans, that pround and ancient race, would be forced into vassalage to the Caliph of Al-Quds.

Dark days indeed for Christendom..

The Road Ahead

Bishop Ehud Nikolai Kane sat across from the old woman who simply called herself “Kamelya.” They sat like two individuals from completely separate worlds. He wore a fine silk cape, draped over an elaborate set of clothes with a fine, black hat on top. She sat with a simple brown cloak—a hood over her milky white eyes, staring blindly out into the snowy forests as the carriage continued to roll on by.

Yet, this contrast did not go unnoticed by Ehud. He looked at his clothes and to the woman, finding himself on the receiving end of a painfully apparent hypocrisy. He, the head of a church and follower of Christ, dressed more like a pompous Boyar and sitting across from a woman truly meek in her appearance. He found himself admittedly thankful she was blind, lest the shame of the situation become as apparent to her as it was to him.

His own eyes turned out the carriage window. He too began to let the cold air of the outside wash over his face.

The woman was quiet. She had been ever since Ehud sew her on the side of the road and offered to give her a ride. He was on his way to Novgorod—his home—and she said she was traveling West. She hadn’t said anything else about her destination. He didn’t need to know. He had, despite his appearance, still remembered the story about the Good Samaritan—and what kind of a person would he have been had he let this old woman travel on her own down West?

“What is your name, noble sadiq?” The old woman suddenly interrupted the silence.

The man turned to her, a little startled by her sudden question, and answered, “Ehud, miss.”

“Ahhhh,” the woman said, letting the words drift out like a slow wind. “Bishop of Novgorod. Now… I remember. Yes, I've heard of you.”

“Yes,” Ehud laughed—that kind of nervous laugh when one’s own title humbles him. “And yourself, good lady? You speak as if you are not from here.”

“I am not,” the woman said, again, letting her words drift.

“Have you traveled far?” Ehud asked.

“Oh,” the woman began, leaning back in her seat and putting her gnarled hands over her robes. “I have traveled… very far.”

“I imagine,” Ehud smiled. The kindness of the expression was lost on the blind woman, but he felt as if she could sense the sincerity in his words. He smiled again. “Perhaps from the Far East?”

“Perhaps,” the woman said. Then she seemed to go quiet again.

The silence having resurfaced, Ehud felt a little awkward. He put his hand up to his mouth and cleared his throat, again looking back out the window and tapping his finger nervously on his knee. He found himself wondering how much longer it would take to reach Novgorod. How much longer it would be until his appointment there could wait for him.

Across from him, the old woman smiled and suddenly spoke again. “Sir," she began. "May I say that you remind me of someone…”

Ehud looked back to her and grinned. “Oh, miss?”

“Yes,” the old woman nodded, returning the smile. “Two people, actually.”

“Fellows you might have met on your journeys?”

“You could say that,” the woman said, sitting up straight and placing her hands together. “But more specifically… my sons.”

“Your sons, miss?” The man asked with some surprise.

“Aye, my sons,” the woman agreed, her plastic, white eyes looking off into some foggy memory deep inside her mind. “What strong young men each of them were… and I see both of them in you.”

“Tell me about them,” Ehud said, a sweet curiosity in his voice that truly wished to know more about this strange old woman and the sons she would have birthed. He leaned back in his chair and took off his hat, running his hand between his sweaty, brown curls. Then he let out a sigh and placed his hat on the empty seat next to him. “We still have a ways to Novgorod, and I would love to hear of your boys.”

“If it pleases you, sir," the woman replied, "I will tell you of their stories.”

“It pleases me well, dear woman.”

“Then I shall begin.” The old woman said, leaning forward and momentarily flicking her wrists—sending the great sleeves of her cloak back further down her arms. Then she began to tap her fingers together, letting the two indexes click and click below her chin. Finally, she leaned back again and began her story. “My two sons were very different from each other... you see." She smiled. "The eldest’s father was a man in Transoxiana. The youngest…” The woman swallowed, a visible displeasure on her face. Then she continued, “I do not remember. Regardless, they both used to fight incessantly with one another. I remember once," she began, leaning further back, "the eldest, Toghrïl, found his brother taking a sip from the stream. He snuck up behind him and pushed him in… but not before little Nasreddîn grabbed his brother’s arm and forced him in the river with him. Both of them landed hard and were both quite badly hurt.” She smiled, the image playing almost visibly before Ehud inside the milky whites of the woman's eyes. “They had to work together to get back on shore… but once they had they continued to fight even until nightfall… even though both of them were cold, wet, and exhausted.”

The old woman laughed once and Ehud leaned forward. “What eventually happened to them, miss?”

Now, the merriment on Kamelya’s face began to fade. She sat there silent after Ehud’s question for several seconds, letting a cold wind blow between them in the cart. Finally, the woman looked up at him and continued, “Toghrïl,” she began, letting out a slow sigh, “was eventually stolen by slavers and sold to a wealthy man in Egypt. He died fighting the Western Crusaders in Egypt’s great capital... a hero to his people. Nasreddîn…” she slowly turned away to look out the carriage, the cold of the outside again briefly blowing between them and the silence there heavy once more. Finally, she continued. “He never talked much, you see… nearly mute from the day he was born. I stayed with him for awhile…” she became quiet again, but this time the outside was just as silent. “But then I had to leave him. The thing he was… was not my son and I think the real Nasreddîn died a long time ago.”

“I am sorry,” Ehud said, putting his hands over his knees and knowing little else of what to say in the face of such a story.

Then the old woman turned to him and simply smiled. “Fear not sadiq. These are merely paths in a long… long road. Suffice to say,” she batted her eyes and continued, “that I have given birth to both Angel and Demon. And that is why you remind me of both, Ehud.” She laughed, slightly twiddling her fingers together before continuing. “Because you are neither demon nor Angel; neither vile nor righteous; neither disdainful nor admirable; you are simply a man, Ehud.” She grinned. “But like my two sons ,” she leaned forward deeper—her voice becoming a whisper—her words becoming hoarse. “You… are… great. And you will change this world.” She leaned back and let the soft cushions beneath her bend under her weight. She placed her hands, relaxed, above the top of her couch and smiled at the dumbfounded Ehud across from her.

“So, you are fortune teller.”

“I know the patterns of time… how to spot them and how to predict them before their currents reach the shore.”

“That is witchcraft,” Ehud interrupted, his voice suddenly becoming very serious. “Such a thing could have you burned... were I to report you.”

The woman smiled at him from across the other end of the carriage. Ehud suddenly began to feel very uncomfortable with her sharing his cart. The cold air around him began to pick up a weight and he could feel her stare on his shoulders like he could feel the mass of his own clothes. Finally, she spoke. “But you won’t report me… will you, Ehud?”

On the other end of the carriage, Ehud said nothing—but his silence didn’t deny anything.

The woman smiled. “Do not worry, master,” the woman said. Then she threw her hand out of the carriage window and called out, “HALT!” Just like that the cart stopped and the horses on the outside began to beat their final clicks into the road’s snowy cobblestone. Then the woman turned back to Ehud and bowed, “I can make the journey from here.”

Ehud felt as if he should protest. The sun was beginning to set and the night would be even more frigid than the day. But, in truth, he wanted to see the woman go. She was beginning to make him feel very uneasy—the cold from the outside doing little to compare to the chill this woman was having on his spine. “Fare safe then… old woman.”

“Oh," Kamelya began. "I have traveled too long to know otherwise, master. Tell me,” she began. “Have you ever heard the tale of the 'Wandering Jew?’" Ehud remained silent in the face of the woman's question. The witch merely waited. Then smiled. "Perhaps that is another story I may well one day share with you, sadiq." The old woman gave one final bow before stepping out and leaping onto the ground from Ehud's carriage. Her feet pounded and cracked into the snow, making further snaps as she began to turn around and face Ehud one last time. She folded her hood up closer to her eyes—shielding herself from a new gust wind coming from down in the forest. Then she grinned one final time and nodded. "Fairwell… good Ehud. And may your wisdom serve you well." Another gust of wind picked up from between the forest's trees and snapped the old woman's robes across her face. The wind was moving in the direction of the west—the direction the woman was traveling. "You will need it… for the coming days.” Then the old woman turned around and departed.

Ehud watched her as she left, the weight of her cloak flying violently on the wind while she trekked her way through the snow and into the gray woods beyond—finally disappearing into the sounds of the forest and the thick of the fog.

Ehud turned around and looked back into the empty seat ahead of him. It felt as if her presence was still with him, but he felt relieved that she had actually gone. He closed his eyes and placed his hand out the window. “KEEP GOING!” Then the cart began to pick up again—continuing down the path and into the snowy city far into the distance.

It would be three more days until they arrived in Novgorod—three more days until he would meet with the Boyars and Vicars—three more days until everything in his Nation would change.

Had she really known? Or was this just a wandering mad woman? Only one thing was certain to Ehud... there would be many trials for Novgorod on the road ahead.

King Lazslo of the Magyar leaned hard against the railing on the balcony in the dead of night and looked out into the darkness. He was sweating and nauseous, his stomach cramping in uncomfortable contortions, his face deathly pale.

Oh God forgive me! he prayed, as he pictured the carnage he had unleashed.

He could almost hear the screams of the surprised guards as his soldiers poured through the castle gate, treacherously left open by agents for a purse of gold coin. The ugly clash of steel on steel echoed around his head, he could scent the stench of hot blood spilled on flagstones, he heard the wailing and weeping of wives, daughters and infants for their slain husbands and fathers.

He sat down heavily on the stones and grasped his head in both hands, trying to block out the nightmarish vision.

Oh what would the Pope think? How would his allies respond? In the bleak hours after midnight this decision, taken with great care and deliberation and in the most calculated pragmatism in the daylight, now seemed wanton, cruel and random.

Lazslo knew he would not sleep a wink this night. He felt on his soul the unbearable, dead, pressing weight of guilt. He was ashamed - he had fought wars before, but not like this. Not a surprise attack on a former ally - not unprovoked aggression.

He laughed bitterly to himself as he realised one thing was for sure - there would be no tapestry commissioned to commemorate this day. The Magyar bards would not sing proudly of the betrayal of the Byzantines...

Dark Clouds
Palais de la Cité, 1096

“Mon Père, hier je vous ai donné Gênes, aujourd’hui je vous offre l’Aragon et, si Dieu le veut, demain je vous apporterai Cordoue!”

Brash, bright, talented. Those were qualities that radiated from Louis, the future Francorum rex. The flamboyant greeting he gave his father upon his return from campaign, thrice victorious, gave testament to his character. His detractors tried in vain to paint him as a lazy brute, but the crowds loved a hero. Especially one whose glib tongue and glorious deeds on the battlefield were widely known to be matched in the bedchamber.

The southern provinces were pacified and the borders secured. The same could not be said of Paris’ famously beautiful young girls, but the victims were never inclined to complain, and their noble fathers relished the privileged channel it gave them to the king.

Philippe embraced his son. The boy had grown into a man, a weapon of righteousness who knew how to wield the double-edged blade of justice. He would make a great king one day.

“I am proud of you, my son. You have strengthened our crown. But you must learn patience. No king can rule the entire world. No king but the King of Heaven. Go. Rejoice in your victories. You have earned it.”

As Louis walked out of his father’s study, the King’s mood darkened. Dark clouds were on the horizon. He had not spoken word to Louis about the league of Catholic kings who had vowed to crush the Moslems or their failing to agree on a common course of action. The Shia Caliphate that ruled Jerusalem had extended its grasping hands up to Sicily, and Christendom had been powerless to intervene. Divisions plagued Europe and it seemed only the Franks stood committed to defend against the heathen.

Philippe sighed. Would it be enough? The question hung ominously in his mind, threateningly staring at him through the dark of his thoughts.

Looking back to the retreating form of his son, he smiled.

The Franks would succeed. God willed it.

Emperor Charles: Prisoner

“Aw light!” thought Charles as the prison guards threw him into the tower cell. He was not long for this world now. The change in local could only mean that an execution date had been set, and the guards wanted him high out of reach in case his followers attempted a final rescue.

One of the guards spit on Charles, saying “My only regret, Augustine, is that we have to read you your last rights; there’s no forgiveness for the likes of you, not if God’s got any sense anyway. It should be straight down to the fire with you.” The guard smirks and slams the cell door shut.

Yes Augustine, that’s what they called him; for to use his full name would be like treason to the crown. Augustine was his mother’s maiden name, but he had been born Charles Veer Augustine Heinrich, son of Annalese Augustine and the then Prince Heinrich (of course he now held the title of Kaiser). In his youth, Prince Heinrich had rebelled against his father and his title, and ran off to Italy. In that newfound freedom he met a noblewoman, Annalese Augustine, who was visiting Italy. They fell in love and soon got married. Times, however, were hard, having both left their families to live in Italy together. When Annalese got pregnant and then sick, Heinrich was forced to return to his father to beg for help. His father agreed, but he betrayed his son. As soon as Annalese reached Frankfurt, she was thrown in the dungeon and Prince Heinrich locked in his quarters. Days later, Prince Heinrich was informed that Annalese and his unborn son had died in childbirth; from that day forward Prince Heinrich became as cold and distant as his father. It was, of course, a lie. Annalese had given birth to a healthy son, Charles, but the Kaiser wishing to reunite Germany, wanted his son to marry the daughter of an influential German noble. Having little favor with the Pope, annulment seemed unlikely, so the Kaiser sentenced Annalese to death for crimes of ‘espionage against the crown’ and Charles was sent to be raised by a trusted general, far from the Palace. Charles was a curious and bright boy, and he always tried to find out more about his real family. When he came of age he joined the military, quickly rising through the ranks and gaining many supporters. Upon learning of his true heritage, he challenged his father for his right to heir of the throne. Kaiser Heinrich, pained by the reminder of old wounds, refused to see the truth and quickly brought the full weight of the Imperial military crashing down on Charles and his supporters. With his followers scattered, Charles was captured and thrown into the dungeon of an ancient Roman outpost, deep within the German forests.

For ten years, Charles had rotted in these dungeons, but now it seemed Kaiser Heinrich had finally gotten the courage to kill who he must by now realize is his own son. As Charles pulled himself into the light, which he now realized was moon beams streaming in from the small window, he could see his own hands for the first time in a long time. The years in the dungeon had not been good to Charles; his skin had become pale, almost albino white, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, with dark circles around them, and he appeared skinny and frail. As his eyes slowly adjust to the light, the moonbeams catch something shiny in the corner, attracting his eye. Charles shakily stands and walks over to it. When he bends down to pick it up, he discovers it is an old silver ring, emblazoned with a crest of ancient Rome.

“It’s a sign.” says a deep raspy voice.

Charles jumps at the unexpected intrusion; the ring dropping from his hand. “Who’s there?” Charles screams into the shadows.

In the opposite corner, an old withered hand protrudes from the shadows, holding the old ring. “A sign, young Heinrich, that with you Rome will be reborn.”

“How do you know my true identity?” Charles questions the voice in the shadows.

“Oh, I know everything about you young Heinrich. I was your mother’s guard during her stead in the palace dungeons, I helped clean you at your birth, and I carried out her death.”

“You bastard, you executed her!” Charles lunges into the shadows, but all he hits is the wall. He swings around laughing at the shadows, “You’re fast, but you’ve got nowhere to run old man!”

From the shadows across the room, where Charles had found the ring, the old man speaks “I had no choice; to disobey would have been death for me too, and the Kaiser had fabricated some convincing evidence. Of course, I knew the accusations were false, but it was enough to sway the court nobles. You are correct however, I have nowhere to run. Do with me what you will, but before you do, I beg of you to first listen to what I have to say.”

“Ok, old man, but make it quick. I have not the patience for an old mans rambling.” Charles snaps.

“I assure you, young Heinrich, I will change your view of the world. You never knew of your mother’s heritage did you? She was a Byzantine noblewoman, the last living heir to the blood-line of Constantine, the first Christian Emperor of Rome. However, with the fall of the Byzantine Empire, most believe and hope the strength of the Roman lines are gone forever, but it seems you are fated to revive the glory of Rome. This ring is a sign; you are Constantine reborn, capable of combining the strength of Rome and the Christian God into the mightiest Empire the world has ever known”

Charles, enthralled, asks “What of the Holy Roman Empire, does it not embody the spirit of Rome?”

With an edge of spite in his voice, the old man replies “Our Empire is but Rome by name only. You alone can bring the Roman spirit back to this world.”

“Yes, my father has grown decrepit in his old age, but tell me old man, how did you end up in this cell.”

“When you tried to claim your rightful place as heir, I pleaded with your father. I tried to tell him of your survival and legitimacy, but he would not see reason. He through me in his dungeon to rot, but it seems now he plans to be rid of both of us at once.” The old man pauses for a second; deep in the night a hawk screeches. Then the old man continues “He will be most displeased when he learns of our escape. Here young Heinrich, take the ring. It is important.” The old man again reaches out from the shadows, presenting Charles the old ring.

Charles reaches for it, but then hesitates. “I haven’t even seen your face; show yourself old man, then I will accept the ring!”

“You must hurry, young Heinrich; accept your destiny, take the ring!” The old man holds the ring out farther, but at that moment a commotion breaks out in the hallway.

Charles whirls around to try and make out what the disturbance is about. Shouts and fighting can be heard through the cell door. Without turning around, Charles says “Seems like you were right about our escape, old man.”

“Your escape, young Heinrich; but you’ll see me around.”

At that point the door burst open and a soldier walks in. Although scars and blood covered his face, Charles recognized him immediately; it was Lieden, his trusted second in command.

Before Charles could greet his old friend, Lieden says “We must hurry, Sir. Reinforcements are already on their way.”

“It’s about time you came.” Charles demanded

Ashamed, Lieden replies “It took time to regather your forces and find an opening, Sir.”

“I know, I know; just help the old man and let’s get out of here.”

Looking obviously confused, Lienden asks “Old man, Sir?”

Charles turns around to find the old man gone, but in the corner, near where it had originally sat, the ring again laid. As Charles bent down to pick up the old ring, he mumbled to himself “Fast indeed, old man.” Charles stood and admired the ring for a few seconds. ‘Emperor Constantine of the Northern Roman Empire,’ he liked it. It felt right somehow.

“Sir!” Lieden said impatiently.

No time now; Charles shoved the ring on his finger and with haste, followed Leiden out of the old fortress.

Emperor Charles: Ascension

After silencing the nearby forts, Charles’s armies had been instructed to wait in the forests around Frankfurt until given the signal. Within the city, twelve men, covered by robes and dressed in the guise of monks, move swiftly through the streets. Charles at the head of the pack, searches every corner and aged face, hoping to find the old man. Charles thinks to himself ‘How can I expect to find him when I have not a name or face to search for,” but Charles is drawn from his thoughts, when out of the corner of his eye he swears he sees a withered old hand waving for his attention. However, when he turns his head, he instead sees a formation of town guards heading their way. Putting his head back down, he hurries along the street.

No one questions the monks as they make their way through the palace, not until they reach the throne room. There, the head guard stops them, saying “Sorry, but you’ll have to come back later. The Kaiser is only seeing those with appointments right now.”
In one fluid motion, Charles draws his sword from beneath his robes and thrusts it through the guard’s chest. He let the guard slide off his sword; then taking off his hood, Charles says “I don’t need an appointment, it’s my throne.” As the rest of his party quickly dispatched of the other guards, Charles threw open the throne room doors and strode towards the thrones.

As he approached, he noticed that while his father’s throne stood empty, his queen’s was quite occupied. Just then, two royal guards came out of the shadows to challenge the intruder, but as soon as the first one drew his sword, he was struck in the head by an arrow. As he crashed to the ground, Lieden reloaded his bow and aimed it at the second guard. The guard quickly disarmed himself and backed out of Charles way.
Striding up to the thrones, Charles addresses the Queen, “So I take it the rumors are true, my father has fallen ill and in his stead, his whore of a wife has taken charge of the Holy Roman Empire. I suppose it was you then that ordered my death. Figures, didn’t think dear old father had it in him anyway; if he had, he would have killed me ten years ago.”

Eyes wide, horror etched in every part of her being, Queen Bertrada holds up a shaky hand; pointing at Charles, she says “You! You’re supposed to have been killed.”

“Funny thing about death, apparently it has no sway over me. You see mother- can I call you mother?” Charles leans in close to Bertrada and whispers in her ear “It seems that I am the Emperor Constantine reborn.” Charles leans back and laughs, then slaps Bertrada. He hits her hard enough to knock her out of her seat, “Now, get off my throne and out of my sight.” As she is dragged out of the throne room, Charles calls Lieden over, “Signal my forces; kill any defender who does not pledge allegiance to me.” As Lieden starts to walk out, Charles calls out to him to wait a moment, “Once the city and Palace are secure bring me my father and the local Bishop; there are going to be some changes around here.” Smiling and laughing to himself, Charles takes his place on his father’s throne.

Emperor Charles: Coronation

After the remaining garrisons in Frankfurt and the Palace surrendered, Charles goes to see his sickly father. When he enters his father’s Chambers he sees a servant leaning over his bed. “Leave my presence,” Charles says to the servant, “I need some alone time with my father.”

“Oh, young Heinrich, I could never leave your presence...you need my insight too much.” The old man turns around and presents Charles with a creepy toothless smile.

“Old man! Where have you been, and how did you get in here?”

With a glint in his eyes the old man replies, “I was never far from you, young Heinrich and you can call me Rufus, old man is no name for an emperor’s advisor.”

“Well, you’ve proved insightful so far; fine, you’re my advisor. Now get out of the way, I need my father for the coronation.” Charles moved forward towards his father, but Rufus didn’t budge.

“Young Heinrich, that would be a grave mistake. Your coronation must be an event that all of your Empire won’t soon forget. It will be the perfect time to solidify your hold on the nobles of these lands.”

“Alright old man, I’ll try it your way, for now.” To his father, Charles says “I guess we’ll have to talk later, father.” Charles spins around and marches out of his father’s chamber.


Days later, Charles sat on his throne, waiting for word from the Empires many nobles. He had had messengers dispatched to every providence within his empire to invite them to a peaceful gathering of the nobles.

Lieden enters the throne room. He walks up to the throne, bows, and then addresses Charles "Kaiser-”

Charles interruptes him, “Call me Emperor, Kaiser is an outdated term that shall remain back to my father’s age.”

Lieden binks for a second, slightly befuddled, but then restarts, “Emperor, many nobles bring their armies with them, being set on taking the Palace back by force should you not peacefully step down. The former Kaiser’s...your step brother’s are among them.”

Out of the shadows behind the throne, Rufus steps, “If I could interject for a moment, young Heinrich.” Rufus walks over to Charles; then bends down to whisper in his ear. “Although the Romans might be best known for their military might against barbarians and foreigners, they also knew when to bring that might to bear on their own people, when times called for it. I believe these times call for a show of force, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes” Charles mumbles; then he addresses Lieden “Remove everyone from the city and Palace. Fortify the armies in the nearby forts and hold the civilians there. And do not let any of the noble’s armies past. Also, set up a meeting place on a hill in front of the city and instruct the nobles to meet there. Oh, and send me the captain of the Palace’s horsemen.”


Days later, once the noble’s had gathered, Charles sat in front of them, on a platform, with the city and Palace of Frankfurt sprawled out behind him. Both his sick father and the local bishop sat at the front table with him. Charles stood to address the congregated nobles “I stand before you now as your prince, but soon I will stand before you as your Emperor. Any who stand with me now, shall be greatly rewarded later.” Most frowned, while some shouted insults, but both the Duke of Bologna and Florence stood up. “Ah, yes, my Roman brethren, come, come, join me at the front.”

One angry noble stood up and shouted “Surrender yourself now or we’ll take you by force.”

Charles just smirks, “Well if that’s the way you’re going to be.” Charles waves his sword high over his head. At that signal horsemen throughout the city of Frankfurt, carrying torches, light the city ablaze. As the nobles watch in horror at the burning of their capital, Charles just looks down at them with grim determination. Within minutes the flames are licking the sky behind Charles's pedestal. At the snap of his finger, the bishop reluctantly starts the coronation.

When it comes time for the crown the Bishop walks over to the sick Kaiser. As he reaches for the crown, the Kaiser weakly tries to grab at the Bishops arms, but he just shrugs him off and grabs the crown. Once crowned the bishop announces to the crowd “I present you Emperor Constantine of the Northern Roman Empire." The seated nobles are taken aback by the news.

Charles addresses his new subjects “For years now you have happily wallowed in this decaying Empire. As power slipped from a central leader, corruption ran wild, destabilizing what could have been the shining jewel of the world. Ten years ago, I might have been able to fix this empire, but now the rot runs through the roots and I have no choice but to remove the decay.” Charles indicates the burning city behind him, then continues “But do not despair, for beneath the ashes a strong foundation remains. I shall rebuild Frankfurt like I shall rebuild this Empire, with a spirit that has long been missing from these lands, the Roman spirit. I shall make our lands into an empire truly worthy of the Roman title. With God on our side, our Empire will be the shining jewel of the north, a treasure in the eyes of the Pope and all Europe’s People.”

Upon his finish there was an immediate applause. The glow of the fire behind him reflected in the nobles’ eyes; Charles could practically see the gold running through their minds. ‘Fools!’ he thought. All they could think of was the legendary wealth of Rome, but the gold would go into the Empire’s coffers to fuel her growth, not theirs. As long as they were willing to play along for now, however, he wouldn’t ruin their dreams. Soon his power would be consolidated and his capital rebuilt in the image of Rome. God truly must be on his side.

From the back of the crowd, he saw Rufus, looking quite pleased.

Letter from Queen Zsofia of the Magyar to her royal daughter Princess Adelhaide Arpayad, Vatican, Roma

My darling daughter,

I trust this letter finds you well and that your work for his Holiness continues to engage your interest.

I barely know how to tell you what I am about to reveal, but reveal it I must, for it is of the gravest concern to us all.

It all began when your father the King ordered the attack on the Byzantines at Scopia. He was immediately stricken with the heaviest burden of guilt. Truly we have always known him to be a man of conscience, but neither has he ever shied away from his duty or the fray when it is in the best interest of our people. On this occasion his soul seemed to be marked by the incident far more than might be considered...reasonable.

I am afraid to say he became afflicted with a terrible insomnia and it was a rare night indeed when he would retire to our chambers with me, instead sitting up until late at night in his tapestry room, studying old manuscripts and legends by candlelight. On the morrow his face would be pale and lined with worry and he would be irritable and quick to anger.

I presumed this malady would dissipate with the blessed passing of time, but it sorrows me deeply to say that it did not.

In fact he became worse, pacing the halls of the castle by night and becoming increasingly erratic in his actions and judgements by day. He spent less and less time in my presence and it seemed that when I did see him he barely seemed to recognise me, so preoccupied was he by whatever it was that troubled his mind.

As his condition worsened there sprung up around him a circle of 'advisors' eager to claim the ability to interpret his confused ramblings and openly hostile to my efforts to soothe and comfort him. They persuaded him to move his chambers to the far end of the western wing where he remained under heavy guard.

I was a virtual prisoner in the castle and was not allowed to see him - my husband of twenty five years! I began to hear rumours of Lazslo's antics - o Adelhaide I can hardly bring myself to say it, but my handmaiden told me that not a week ago he was discovered, naked in the chicken house, face painted, feathers in his hair and ordering the hens to lay!

So it seems your father has gone quite mad and there is a conspiracy among the nobles to conceal it.

But this is not the worst news - in the middle of the night, last night, it seems he slipped out of his chambers, evaded his guard and has ridden loose into the countryside! There has been no sign of him today and the nobles are searching far and wide for him.

My daughter I know not what you or I can do, but I thought you should know of these terrible events that you might at least understand should the worst happen.

I hope you are not too discomfited at the news and I miss you terribly.

Your loving mother,

Zsofia

Emperor Charles: New Constantinople

From his newly rebuilt palace, Charles looks out over New Constantinople. Many would, of course, oppose the new name at first, but soon they will come to feel as Charles did, it was the name this city was always meant to have. Frankfurt was but a place holder, waiting for the day when Rome would rise again. Examining his capital, with the triumphant colonnades and marble fountains, it was truly a home worthy of Rome.

“Young Heinrich.” Rufus intrudes, ruining Charles’s peace.

"Don't call me that," Charles barks, "I'm the Emperor now."

"Of Course, young Heinrich" Rufus replies “should you not see to the messages from the Empires allies. I assure you, they care not who sits on the throne, only that the Germanic people-I mean Roman Empire can still be counted among their friends.”

“I guess I should.” says Charles. “Some of their offers were quite intriguing...”

Emperor Charles: Story Time

From beside his father’s bed Charles reads aloud from a massive book pausing only occasionally to ask his father questions, from which he of course, expected no reply. The book was a massive volume covering the history and politics of Europe over the last ten years, the time that Charles had been lock away, separated from the happenings of the world. Apparently frustrated with what he was reading, Charles slams the book shut and addresses his father, “Did you do nothing during your time as Kaiser, Father?! There are volumes on what the Kings and Lords of Christendom have said, but their actions amount to but a few sparse pages. Muslims invading Europe; Jerusalem in heretics grasp; the slaughter of the Byzantines; Constantinople lying still in the Seljuk hands; Crusades never seen fully through; the disbanding of the Knights Templar; and a French court that has appeared in the past to be run more by the Fatimids than the French king. Father, has all of Europe failed God!” At this point Charles slams his fist on the bedside table. “Not once did you or your fellow lords and emissaries of Christ manage to take action against these affronts,” Charles calms down a bit and says, “but, sadly, that is usual of Europe. Lords disagree and squabble, never uniting or agreeing with each other, until a stronger force or a higher cause makes them sit down talk it out. But your worst offense, FATHER,” at this point Charles’s voice begins to crack with anger, as a rage boils over within him, “YOUR WORST OFFENSE FATHER, IS LETING THE TRAITORS BE! How can good Christian Rulers just look the other way when there is a blood traitor within their ranks? You, yourself have not missed it, yet you JUST LET THEM BE!” At this point Charles, takes a moment to let his anger cool down before continuing, “They who have committed so many offences against all of Christendom, yet they remain where they are, un-touched and un-treated. It appears, Father, that like your Holy Roman Empire, you have allowed rot to fester and spread like a blight throughout Christendom, and now it chokes at the very heart of Catholicism.” Charles stares into his father’s cold sick eyes for a long moment, then, turning towards the door, he yells “Guard, send for a messenger and alert the armies, they march for Venice in the morning!”

Lazslo rode through the night, desperately galloping through wood and dale, over stream and low stone wall, attempting to flee his pursuers. Every time he thought he had lost them he saw again the dark and shadowy horsemen, now behind him, now alongside him and even sometimes ahead of him, causing him to steer his panicked steed sharply to the flank and through thicket and hedgerow until the blood coursed down his face and hands from the scratches and cuts he sustained from the grasping claws of the vegetation.

In the early dawn light his horse, exhausted and unable to keep up the chase, fell heavily as he tried to jump a small brook, throwing the King who landed painfully on the rocky bank.

Jumping to his feet he drew his blade, ready to fight for his life against his mystery assailants - but thank the Lord they had disappeared. He must have finally lost them!

Tired and cold, Lazslo grabbed his saddle bags from the heaving, shivering body of his horse and found a secluded hollow in the riverbank, wrapping his ermine cloak about him to keep warm and finally stealing a few hours of sleep in the dim morning light.

Some time later he arose and found that his horse had badly broken its leg in the fall. With sorrow in his heart and a whispered prayer he put it out of its misery before trudging up the riverbank and through a field until he found a winding laneway which he followed until it met a larger road heading west.

Along this road he travelled for a few days, mostly by night to avoid detection, fearing capture by his pursuers whom he knew would be scouring the land for him.

Finally he reached a fortified outpost on the border of his Kingdom and overlooking the road to Zagreb, the Venetian city. Huddling in the bushes nearby he spent a few hours debating with himself about the correct course of action. The garrison inside would be loyal to him, surely - he was still the King after all. But what if his tormentors had reached them first and twisted their minds against him? Maybe they would be his enemies, dark in the eyes and with sharp biting teeth like his dear wife Zsophia, the Barons at court or those blasted disobedient hens....

Blast it! With a set jaw he burst from the bushes and marched towards the fort, stopping only to pull his royal crown from the saddlebag and place it upon his head before rapping loudly on the wooden gates with the pommel of his sword.

Lieden: Fear

From atop the fort’s walls, Lieden watched as Frankfurt burned. Behind him, Lieden could hear the cries of fear and screams of outrage at the atrocity that had befallen Frankfurt. Although he wanted to comfort them, he dare not turn around; for he could feel the cold stares crawling up his back as the citizens frantically waited for when he might, too, turn the torches on them. ‘Charles,’ Leiden thought, ‘what happened to you in that prison?’

Outside the fort, restless armies nervously awaited the return of their nobles. As the fires raged on, many could be seen stealing looks back at the horizons, praying not to see red glows or pillars of black spewing from the directions of their own homes.

‘How much of the Charles he new was even left in the man he brought back,’ Leiden wondered, ‘or had years of darkness and malnutrition stripped away the man he once considered his closest friend and the best hope for the Empire’s future.’

High over the carcass of the burning city a lone bird slowly circled. As Lieden watched the bird turned his direction. When it neared, it broke into a dive, heading for the base of the fort’s wall. Before hitting the ground it caught air again, and using the momentum, swooped up over the wall to gently land on Lieden’s outstretched arm. “What should I do?” Lieden asked the hawk as he brushed off soot from her beautiful feathers.

“What was that Sir?” a nearby soldier asked.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Lieden straightened up and addressed the soldier, “Gather your men and supplies. You’re to lead the citizens to Nuremburg and help to start a refugee camp there. There is no need for them to remain here.”

“Are you sure that is what the Emperor wants?” the soldier asks.

“I am your superior and you will obey my orders with haste!” Leiden snaps. “Let me worry about what Charles does and does not want.” As the soldier rushes off to comply, Lieden looks back towards the flames and wonders ‘I only hope we still want the same things old friend.’

Emperor Charles: Sins of the Mother

Charles sat on his throne, curiously watching the two men that stood in the throne room’s entrance. In hushed voices, they argued back and forth.

From beside Charles, Rufus yawns, “Maybe you should just wake me when they finally make a decision.”

“Yes, this has gone on long enough.” Charles consents. With a slam of his fist that creates a resounding thud in the chamber, Charles yells “Enough!” The two bickering men look up at Charles, surprised. Charles continues “Clearly, brothers, you have something of importance to say or you would not have come this far in the first place. Now out with it, or do you need to spend some quality time in the dungeon with mummy to help loosen your tongues?”

Apparently bringing up their mother was the wrong course of action, because with anger and determination, they stormed towards the throne. Guards moved in to stop them, but Charles waved them aside. The older of his step-brothers was the first to reach the throne, but instead of moving to throttle Charles, he stopped just short of it. While attempting to clench back his rage, he pointed a finger at Charles and said “Don’t you mention that whore in front of us ever!”

Charles was taken aback, while Rufus on the other hand perked up at the turn of events, “Interesting.”

“Ya,” the younger one chimes in, “just be glad you don’t have to share her filthy blood. She’s the one that poisoned Father.”

“Explain!” Charles harshly demands. Rufus on the other hand, is quite overjoyed by the proclamation. Like a kid in the cookie jar, Rufus eagerly ate up the news; the twist, a tasty candy he’d been lustfully longing for. Rufus leans forward, hungry for more.

The older of his step brothers speaks up again, “A few weeks after Father fell sick, She came to us, seeking our help in overthrowing our father; claiming he was too weak to rule. We assumed She was talking of the sickness, which we figured would surely pass, but after our refusal, She wouldn’t let us near the palace. About a month later I caught an assassin trying to sneak poisonous mushrooms into my food. After much ‘convincing’, he confessed to being hired by Her.”

“Well, there’s got to be lots of ‘hers’ in this empire; what makes them think their mother did it?” Rufus almost giggles.

Charles glares at Rufus for the interruption, but only shortly, for he then addresses his brothers, “Bring a sample of the mushrooms to the physicians. I shall see personally to Fathers care.” Although his step-brothers look doubtful for a second, they cede to Emperor’s decision and leave the throne room. Charles turns to Rufus, “It seems I’m going to have to have a long talk with Mother soon—maybe after this business with the Venetian heretics is done.”

Rufus just keeps grinning, “This I can’t miss.”

Emperor Charles: Sins of the Father

Beside his father’s bed, Charles impatiently waits for the physician. A moan from the bed causes him to turn around. In a sickness induced hypnotic daze, his father frantically grabs at the air, as if trying to grasp something that has drifted out of his reach. In his blind panic he screams out “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” but it is unclear to Charles whether it is because of some imagined pain or a botched attempt to form speech. The scream causes the physician to rush into the room, but by that time, his father had settled back into his restless sleep. Charles turns to the physician and demands “Well, is the poison what’s killing him?!”

The physician fidgets at Charles’s tone, but he responds “It appears so, but-“

“Is there a cure?!” Charles interrupts.

“Yes,” the physician cautiously continues, “but-“

“Then make it be so!” Charles compels.

“But Emperor,” the physician shakily protests, “with your father already so weak, there is no telling what side effects there might be; maybe even death.

“Good!” Charles sneers.

“What?” exclaims the physician.

Again Charles’s Father screams out “Aaaaaaaaaa” as he desperately claws at the air. “It’s pathetic.” Charles scoffs, “Mother hasn’t been near him in months, so obviously the poison isn’t going away on its own. I want him out of this bed one way or the other.”

The physician, clearly afraid to ask, but driven by some sort of personal duty asks “There is still the matter of you, Sire. You’re mother might have also poisoned you.”

Charles, furious, yells “Do you see me lying around like a carcass?! Now cure my father!” Trying not to portray fear, but still practically running for his life, the physician hurries out of the room.


A few weeks later, the throne room doors burst open to reveal a knight struggling with three palace guards. Disarming one of them, he makes a break for the throne. Halfway to the throne he is tackled by a throne room guard. Charles sits on his throne, laughing at the spectacle. The knight, dressed in a jumbled assortment of various suites of armor, struggled to free himself as more guards catch up to him and began to drag him out. In a last desperate act, he manages to wrest one of his arms free; he throws it out, reaching towards the Emperor, and yells “Where is my Annalese?”

The exclamation stops Charles dead in mid laugh. ‘Father?’ As Charles is ordering the guards to halt, the physician scurries in the room and up to Charles.

“I am so sorry sir, your father had been in and out of it for about a week now, but we did not think he had his strength back yet. He appears to have awoken this morning and taken my assistant by surprise. I only just found out he was missing. However the few times he has been awake all he can talk about is finding this Annalese. I apologize, Sire, but I’m afraid your father may have lost his mind.”

“Or his memory,” Rufus interjects with a smile.

Charles, too, is smiling. ‘What a convenient turn of events,’ he thinks to himself. Charles orders the guards to let go of the knight and then addresses him. “Good knight, I will help you with your quest, but first you must let my physician check you out. When we found you, you were dying from a horrible curse and have been out of it for months now. Once you are cleared and provided with proper armor, then we can talk.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” the knight gratefully thanks Charles before collapsing on the floor from exhaustion.

Mirroring Charles’s own thoughts Rufus comments “A fitting punishment, don’t you think? Too spend the rest of his life searching for the one thing he can never get back; trapped in a hellish prison of his own nightmares. Fate is so ever cruel.”

Emperor Charles: Legionnaire

Before Charles now stood the knight, for it seemed his father’s essence had forsaken this vessel. The physician said that despite his madness, he had made a full physical recovery; even seemed that he retained many of his skills including those needed to fight and command. Obviously Charles knew there were no delusions, except, of course, for the ones he would implant. With his defenses down, due to the poison, it seemed his father had been overwhelmed by his buried remorse and swept away in the aftermath. Now only a knight remained.

The knight knelt, bowed his head and addressed Charles, “Emperor, now that I am ready, I beseech you for your help on my quest. My beloved Annalese has been taken from me, but I know not where?”

‘Yes,’ Charles thought, ‘the futile quest of a dead man, and just the leash he needed for his new favorite hound. Oh how Father’s spirit must me be howling in hell right now.’ Charles smiles and addresses his knight, “My...investigators tell me that it was the Venetian heathens that ordered the curse on you. You should try the Doge of Venice; surely he would know what the Venetians had to do with you and Annalese. Unfortunately he is probably held up behind Venice’s fortifications, so I shall send you with an army to help root out the evil in that city.”

“Thank you,” exclaims the knight, “you have been so kind to me in these trying times for me. From here on out I pledge my loyalty to you great Emperor. Wherever my quest should take me, I shall always be your servant.”

‘Aim and shoot,’ Charles thinks, ‘the Venetians are no more.’ Charles pulls out his sword to bring the knight into the new order, “From this point forward you shall cease to be who you where, and shall fully embody quest and country along with the undying Roman spirit. Do you pledge this good sir?”

“I do” the knight responds.

“And do you pledge yourself to the Empire and your eternal loyalty to the Roman Emperor?”

“I do”

“Then shake off the shackles of old and stand as a knight and a defender of Rome. From henceforth you shall be known as my Legionnaire; the first knight of the new Imperial Legions.”

Legionnaire: Last Dog of Venice

Legionnaire watched as flaming stones crashed into the gates of Venice, clawing at the beast’s side; but she could not protect her dogs for long. Behind the Roman troops, a pillar of smoke choked the sky; the last reminder of Venice’s pitiful defenses. It had not taken long for the fort’s captain to break. He learned respect for Rome before his dying breath; spilling that the Doge indeed hid behind the walls Venice.


From within the walls, troops trembled at the sound of the thundering war drums of Rome. Then with a crash, the burning gates of Venice fell and panic flooded the floating city. As the smoldering gates fell, a lone knight charged through the flames and smoke, but avoiding the bewildered defenders he drove on into the heart of the city. ‘Could one demon have done all of this?’ they fearfully wonder, ‘Had the Devil himself come to punish Venice?’ Their prayers are answered, however, by the pounding of horse’s hooves and the battle cries of men, as the armies of Rome came crashing down upon them.


At this point the smoke from the burning forts outside Venice had drifted into the city, leaving it cloaked in haze. The city had succumbed to silence once the outer defenses had been overrun. When the smog had rolled in, the Doge had decided it was time to make his run for it. With his two most trusted guards beside him, he headed for a secluded dock; leaving the rest of his guards behind to cover his escape. He hoped that in the confusion of the smoke and attack, he could slip around the Roman blockade.

From in front of them, galloping hooves echo up the street. Then out of the haze a knight’s lance pierces through the guard’s chest on his left. As the Doge’s horse panics, his other guard chases after the knight. Frightened by the surprise attack and the heavy smoke filling its nostrils, the Doge’s horse rears up, throwing him off, and takes off after the already fleeing horse of his first guard. Hearing the sound of swords clashing behind him, the Doge picks himself up and starts running for his waiting ship.

A few blocks away as he nears a bridge, the Doge sees through the smoke the shadow of a horse standing upon it. ‘Praise God,’ he thinks, ‘his horse had not fully betrayed him after all.’ But as he nears the bridge the figure of a knight materializes atop the horse. The Doge froze, hoping he had not been seen.

The knight, pointing his sword at the Doge accusingly, shouts “Foul Demon, why have you cursed me and taken away my Annalese?”

As the Doge tries to back away slowly, he stammers “I know not who you are or of this Annalese.”

“Don’t lie to me Demon!” the knight shouts. Charging down the bridge, the knight jumps off his horse; tackling the Doge to the ground. Quickly recovering, the knight stands over the Doge and brings his sword level with the Doges face. “Maybe this will help your memory Demon.” The knight takes off his helmet and throws it aside, revealing his face.

“Heinrich!” the Doge stammers in surprise.

“If that was my name in my past life, it is no more. You can call me Legionnaire.” Dropping his sword, Legionnaire picks the Doge up by his collar and demands “Now tell me what you have done with my Annalese!”

‘Annalese,’ the Doge desperately thinks, ‘who is this Annalese?’ The only women the Doge knew of the Kaiser to frequent in Venice were whores. “I know not which harlot you seek, but I swear I have not touched her! Let me go and we can find her together.” the Doge pleaded to the crazed Kaiser.

However, the desperate plea outraged Legionnaire. Throwing the Doge hard to the ground, Legionnaire picks up his sword and screams “No one calls her a whore!” as he thrusts his sword up into the Doge’s chest.

As the Doge gasps for life, warm tears fall fresh upon his face. “Why,” the knight pleads, “why, couldn’t you just tell me where my beloved is?”

Fading fast the Doge asks “What has happened to you, Kais...” The Doges last words are lost as death’s grip pulls him down.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Legionnaire’s scream fills the city as he vents his anger and frustration on the Doge’s lifeless body. Somewhere in Italy, clues to Annalese’s disappearance must remain and he would scour the Venetian countryside until he found them.

Ivan the garrison commander and his two deputies shot nervous sideways glances at each other as the man who claimed to be their King sat before them in the firelight, his clothes dirty and torn and his ermine robe scattered with leaves and twigs.

Only the magnificent crown gleaming atop his head made them unsure of their initial assessment that this was some beggar of the highways come in to try to trick them out of food and water.

The man who would be Lazslo was tucking into the remains of their supper, a flagon of ale and the roasted leg of a turkey. He gnawed at the bone like a man possessed, making sure to consume every scrap of meat upon it, at last examining it carefully to ensure he had missed nothing before tossing it to the dog in the corner of the room.

Finally sated, he licked his fingers of fat and juice before turning to the men, his eyes glittering.

Right my boys, we have much work to do. Our country is beset by enemies. They have seized control of the court at Krakow and forced me to flee for my life. They have hounded me upon the highways, through forest and across brook and stream. But I have escaped them!

A triumphant look upon his face, he rose from his stool and paced the floor in front of them for a moment, before turning quickly to them with his eyes narrowed.

But how do I know I can trust you, eh? How do I know you are not their agents, spies and traitors sent to capture me? Luring me into this fort, eh, so you can lock me up again and shine the bright lights in my eyes, blinding me and clouding my thoughts...very cunning it would be too!

Ivan cleared his throat and began to speak.

Your majesty..

But he was not able to finish his thought.

With a terrible howl Lazslo drew his sword and hacked at him, beheading the poor man in one stroke. The other men, terrified, shrank back from him and held up their hands, one of them falling to his knees and pleading for his life.

These were simple peasant folk recruited by levy to serve as garrison troops on the quiet border with Venice. They had never seen action or war and certainly when sitting down to supper this evening had not expected to see the head of poor Ivan rolling about on the floor with his tongue sticking out and his eyes bulging so. Lazlo shouted at them.

"Your majesty!" That's what they call me! That's how you can tell them! How many more of you are there?!

One of the men, cowering on the dirt floor, spoke up.

Please your highness..

Lazslo cheered immediately at this and interrupted the man.

That's more like it! My good loyal boy! Now get up from there and muster the troops. We leave tonight to march on Zagreb - the den of snakes therein must be put to the sword.

Ready the siege engines and send word to my loyal troops on the southern border that we invade Venetian lands.

It's the only way to rid the world of my tormentors - cut off the serpent's head!

And you boy - find a swift steed and take a message to the new Emperor in Germany. He can find the King of the Magyar, should he need him, at his new court at Zagreb.

Konstantiniyye was a changing city. Years had passed since the latest conflict raged through the city's streets and surroundings. That conflict had also brought with it the end of the Roman Empire. The city had payed in blood and destruction for the prosperity it was enduring now. Years of Turkish rule had meant peace and prosperity, and rapid growth for the Greatest City on Earth, but it had also removed and changed most of the city's Roman heritage.

One thing, however, had not changed. The merchant quarters, markets and town squares were still lively and populated by merchants and traders from all over the world. The Seljuks controlled and taxed pretty much all trade, but craftsmen, private traders and govermental organizations were still able to make massive profits. Silk, textiles and a vast variety of exotic wares passed through the city in droves. In the years following the Seljuk overtaking of the city, and thereby its trade, a massive trade company had profited richly through aggressive and skillful textile trading. Until now, no one had considered that anything out of the ordinary.

Kemal Halepli, commander of the Seljuk 1st Army and thereby the garrison of Konstantiniyye, had marched through the city's streets with a force of more than a thousand men, headed north. In his place, Ibrahim Morali had been appointed Caliph of Konstantiniyye. He was less of a commander than Kemal, and had a smaller garrison at his command, but he worked the administration of all trade going on in the city with eagle-eyed attention. Soon, his agents were hard at work in all parts of the city. Bekin Hemedani was one of those agents, and the textile company one of his assignments.

- Just sign the papers, Magyar. Your business is not welcome in this city any more. I am overtaking this company in the name of the Sultanate of Konya, the city's Caliph Morali, and Sultan Meliksah himself. Do not resist me.

Smiling, he looked to Munir at his right side. Munir answered him with a wolfish grin, which sent shivers down even Bekin's spine. His friend had spent his life working in a different field than him. Completely different. Fate had brought them together in front of this fat and ugly Hungarian merchant. It would not smile upon the Magyar.

- But, my gentlemen, this price is outrageous. The worth of my company is hundred times greater than this, if not more. And also, I cannot make decisions like this and sign such papers by my own free will. Surely you must understand!

- Oh, we understand alright. We know how you work for the Magyar King, and that he has so beneficially allowed you to drain honest Seljuk merchants of their money. No more, Magyar rat.

Sweating, and shivering, the Magyar looked at the document in front of him. He peeked at the two visitors, and sat down heavily. Bekin chuckled to himself. The man was fat, and pretty short. He was a pathetic excuse for a man. He felt the same evil grin he had seen on Munir spreading across his face as the man dipped his quill in the ink, and signed the papers which gave the Caliph of Konstanintiniyye complete control over one of the bigger trade companies in the city, if not the region as a whole. As the Caliph's representative in these affairs, Bekin would become quite a mighty man himself. Delight filled him as he recieved the document from the bulky Magyar, rolled it up and turned to leave.

- Sires, the deal is done. Now, if you would excuse me...

Bekin silenced the merchant, put his hand on Munirs shoulder, and walked out. He did not want to witness the next part, but the sound of a muffled scream, a squishy slice and a dull thump told him more than enough. Two men he recognized as Munir's associates walked past him into the well-crafted halls of the formerly Hungarian headquarters. Bekin shrugged, and drew in the fantastic smells of the crowded market place in front of him. This was indeed a good day.

Munir waited patiently while his associate looked through the papers. Bekin was always very thorough with everything he did, and Munir guessed he wouldn't have got as far as he had without careful attention to details. The room was clearly of Byzantine design, but exotic wares and Muslim influences had warped Bekin's office into a very suitable mix of trade, history and religion. Bekin was a rich and influential man in Konstantiniyye these days, and by the Caliph's authority many lives and fates rested in his hands. Munir was aware he was just a tool in the hand of the powerful merchant and administrator, but it earned him alot of money and satisfaction so he wasn't about to complain.

- It seems this, hrrm, Heinke von Weimar, is being a bit of a thorn in the side of our administration. My dear friend, I trust you know what to do?

With one hand, he stamped his seal on a parchment before rolling it up, while he reached for a brown leather pouch with the other one. Handing them both to Munir, Bekin merely nodded and continued reading through the piles of documents on his desk. The pouch sounded and felt an aweful lot like it was filled with gold, and Munir had no reason to distrust the man in front of him. He slid the pouch and scroll inside his wide black coat, turned elegantly on the spot and soundlessly entered the darkness outside the torchlit office. He couldn't help but wonder how many gold coins changed owners in that room each day, but that was none of his business. Instinct guided his steps and soon his ears recognized unmistakeable German gruntings from buildings around him. The ornate mansion that rose towards the sky in front of him showed all too clearly where his target was. He let his hand run along the rows of knives and blades he had strapped to his belt and vest, and felt a shiver of satisfaction through his body as skin touched cold steel. Blood would be spilled this night.

Letter from Princess Adelhaide Arpayad to her royal mother Queen Zsofia of the Magyar, Royal Palace, Krakow

My dear mother,

Thank you for your letter, bleak and desperate though its message was. It caused me much grief to hear of my royal father's ailment and disappearance and I wanted for sleep for many days as I worried for him, for you and for our people. I rejoice that at least he has been found, although he now operates beyond the reach of the Court and is deprived of your counsel.

As you are aware the Pontiff was greatly angered at the King's unprovoked attack on the Venetians and has taken the step of excommunicating the Magyar, Roman and Sicilian crowns. This has made my position here at the Vatican untenable and as I write my handmaidens are packing my few belongings. I leave on the morrow.

I greatly appreciate your invitation to return to Krakow and would dearly love to see and embrace you once more, however I am most alarmed at the deterioration in our situation with the attack by the Turks and the seizure of Adrianople and Bucharest.

While I am confident my brother Kalman can defend the Kingdom against the Turkish aggressors, I feel I must do what I can to make things right myself.

So, mother, I intend to travel to Dalmatia to seek out my father and do what I can to help him. I admit I know not exactly where he be and am greatly afraid of what I may find but as his loving daughter I must try with all my resources to reach him and bring him back to us. I can only hope that some vestige of my father remains that will recognise me. Perhaps my presence alone can serve to soothe his troubled mind...

At the very least I owe it to him, to repay the years of tutelage and affection he bestowed upon me. I may very well also owe it to the Magyar and to history.

I pray that when we next meet the world is somewhat brighter for the Arpayad family and for the Magyar. I will write again when I have news.

With love,

Adelhaide

Emperor Charles: Silence of the Lambs

Charles awakes to find himself lying in the snow. Overhead the heavens silently storm, as lightning dances across the darkened skies. Despite the weather, Charles is not cold. He is protected by the thick fleece of his faith. ‘Fleece!’ Charles thinks, ‘what...’ That’s when he notices he is surrounded by lambs; a flock, and he’s part of it. As he looks about, a forest rises up around them. Beneath the thorny dead trees darkness takes hold; a darkness filled with hunger. Shadows lash out at the sheep, but they dare not venture far from their dead lands. ‘What a protector the flock must have,’ Charles assumes, ‘to keep the shadows at bay.’ As he looks around, he spots, high on a rock overlooking the pasturage, the Shepherd of the flock. Charles is ecstatic and rushes over to great their mighty protector, but the Shepherd does not notice his approach. Instead he has his head turned down and his eyes closed as if in prayer, but that illusion quickly crumbles when a soft snore escapes the Shepherd’s lips. Charles is disheartened, but he continues on nonetheless. As he rounds the boulder, he is stopped dead in his tracks. There, right behind the snoozing shepherd, is his hound; but it was not the hound that really bothered Charles, but the grizzled bone he gnawed on. Something about the scene just made Charles sick. Then he notices it; the scattered bits and pieces. A leg here, an eye there; bits and pieces of lambs! Charles is shocked, ‘They were his family, his flock! How could the Shepherd sleep? How furious he would be!’ Strong winds blow in as the storm picks up. Rage boils up within Charles. He claws the ground, digging his hooves deep into the dirt; then charges. As he makes contact, powerful horns, that he did not know he had, slam deep into the dogs side, sending him reeling. The commotion had awoken the Shepherd and he was anger, but it was not righteous anger, but the fury of an animal; a beast. He points and screams at Charles as he approaches. The heavens begin to rage in protest. Charles tries to plead reason, but the Shepherd would hear none. Lighting crackles in Charles’s eyes, blurring the scene. The Shepherd lets loose a wild screech. Thunder floods Charles’s head, drowning out his thoughts. As the Shepherd’s eyes pop and skin tears, his clothes shred apart and a wolf lunges from beneath the guise. The world fades to black, flinging Charles into emptiness. Teeth sink slowly around his throat...

Charles awakes with a start; instinctively reaching for his neck. Beads of sweat cover his face and he is panting hard, but he is alive. As the vision comes back to him, he begins to understand its message; God is angry! The shepherd’s indolence and apathy were one think, but now he has betrayed Him: choosing Satin’s pet, lashing out at God’s own people. The flock must be saved before they are all led into darkness!

With grim determination, Charles thinks ‘It appears I won’t be leaving Italy quite yet.’

Emperor Charles: Khimaira

Charles sat alone in the dark throne room of the recently conquered Rome; frustration boiling through his veins. He had been too late. The traitorous Pope had already fled the city with the majority of his armies; those left having promptly surrendered upon sighting the legions of Rome at their doorstep. Reports had been flooding in of the Papal armies ravaging the Sicilian countryside, but since his acceptance to cease hostilities with the Duke, the Pope had run to ground. The R.I.P. (Roma Intelligenza Pedinatore) had been working tirelessly to uncover his camp, but most commoners among the Italian countryside foolishly feared God’s retribution if they betrayed the Pope’s location. ‘But God pays no heed to this Pope now,” Charles thinks, “only the Devil whispers in his ear now.”

Charles slams the arm of his throne in irritation, but his rage was interrupted by a soft cough coming from the dark edge of the room. A cloaked figure steps out form the shadows into the soft moonlight that poured in from the room’s skylight, and again clears their throat.

Charles moves to call the guards, but a voice beside him softly speaks, “There will be no need for that.”

Charles turns, astonished to find Rufus standing beside him. ‘Does no one respect my solitude?” Charles wonders to himself.

Upon seeing Charles’s glare, Rufus replies, “If you were to be killed, they’d have done it before you ever knew they were there.” Charles consents and turns back to the cloaked figure to find them kneeling in front of his throne, hooded head bent low in a respectful bow.

After a long second, the figure spoke, “I hope you can forgive me for the intrusion, my Lord, but we are not the kind to meet in the light. This kind of meeting is not one appropriate for an audience.” Charles was taken aback by the gentle feminine voice that danced beneath the dark recesses of her scarlet hood. She continues “I come to you as a liaison of Khimaira.”

Charles skeptically raises an eyebrow, “You expect me to believe in some children’s story.” Charles laughs, “Khimaira, a secret criminal organization behind the rise and fall of some of the west’s most powerful and notorious empires since the times of Ancient Greece?”

The woman looks up, face still covered in shadow, as she sharply gasps and clutches her chest, suffering from an imaginary blow. “You wound me; we are not a criminal organization. Criminals are out for selfish gain, we seek to devote our lives to the betterment of humanity. We operate outside the law because we must. Most men are too short sighted to be trusted with their own future, let alone the future of humanity. But you, Charles-”

“It’s Emperor Constantine to you!” Charles interrupts.

“There is no need for show with us Charles. We will not spoil your game; quite the contrary, I am here to offer to you our service. You see, it appears we have many shared interest. Our leaders admire what you are accomplishing and wish to see it furthered.” Reaching into her cloak, she says “Recently, we received intel of a camp outside Rome, where a Cardinal of the Papacy, Pius II, was inciting revolt and speaking damnations against your fair empire. When we moved in to take him out, we discovered an encrypted map. It did not take my men long to get Pius to spill the cipher and discover that it revealed the location of the Pope’s camp.” She pulls a map out of her cloak, she says, “Careful, some of the blood may be a little wet still; my agents made a bit of a mess of Pius and his followers.”

As she hands Charles the map, he glares down at her, “And what do services such as yours cost?”

The cloaked woman stands up swiftly, insulted; or was she feigning it again? Charles couldn’t tell. Pulling back her hood, she stares at Charles, unblinking, with her pale blue eyes that seem to almost glow in the moonlight. “My dear Charles, we are not some blood thirsty assassin’s guild; our services are not for sale. As long as we share common interest, you shall retain the benefit of all our services.”

Charles ponders for a second, but then asks, “And if our interests should unalign?”

She smiles, “Then we simply disappear back into the night; just another story in a child’s book.”

“I doubt that,” Rufus mumbles beside Charles.

Choosing to ignore Rufus, Charles stands and reaches his hand out to the woman, “I do believe then, that we can find many common interests to work on.”

“Indeed,” she relies, “by the way, you can call me Ezell.”

Legionnaire: Valley of the Dead

Legionnaire laughed as arrows rained down from the heavens and tore into the Papal troops. Down in the valley, most of the Pope’s army scrambled to form a defense, while some just scrambled for cover. In the mountains surrounding the valley, Roman forces watched the slaughter as the archers let loose another volley of arrows. Legionnaire relished the massacre, but soon he was bored. The time was late and soon the sun would be slipping behind the peaks, so Legionnaire turned to the archers and ordered them to set the enemy ablaze; easier to find them in the dark this way. He watched the fire dance across the camp, but was soon bored with this too. Ordering a ceasefire, Legionnaire turns to his legions, “It’s time to send these heathens to their maker! Hell’s going to be busy tonight! Let’s send them to their maker! For Rome!”

“For Rome!” respond his troops.

“For the Emperor!” Cries Legionnaire.

“For the Emperor!” reply his troops again.

“For Annalese!” cries Legionnaire as he begins to charge down the mountain.

His troops look at each other for a second, then shrug and scream “For Annalese!” as they charge down the mountain after Legionnaire.


After the battle, Legionnaire walks through the much and carnage as he makes his way up to a small fortification where the traitorous Pope had been found hiding throughout the battle. As he reaches the entrance, the guards step aside. “Don’t waite up,” Legionnaire smiles, “this may take awhile.”


Just as the sun starts to appear over the mountains, Legionnaire emerges, wiping his hands off on his cloak. As one of the guards turns to go in, Legionnaire stops him, “You don’t want to go in there. Get some of the plebs to clean it up; actually, you better just burn it.” One of the guards runs off to grab torches. “It’s just too bad he wasn’t more forthcoming,” Legionnaire continues, “might have made it to a public execution.” Legionnaire laughs to himself. As he begins to walk away the one guard comes back with lit torches. As he passes them out and they set the small fortification on fire, Legionnaire stops and turns back to them, “Make sure to add this one’s name to the list of those who died running away in battle. Want to make sure people know he died a coward, plus it saves us the trouble of answering some awkward questions.”

As Legionnaire walked away, he couldn’t help but wonder, ‘If Annalese was not in Italy, then where to look? Where would his search take him next?’

Emperor Charles: A Mid Winter’s Night Breeze

A cold night’s breeze sends shivers down Charles’s back, stirring him from his sleep. To his surprise, he opens his eyes to find Rufus’s standing before him. Upon seeing Charles awaken, Rufus flashes his toothless grin and points to the other side of the room. “I believe you’ve got a guest,” he whispers.

Charles turns over to find one of his balcony doors wide open. Before he can get up to shut it, a gloved hand pierces the darkness, slowly closing the door. A silky female voice creeps from the shadows “Ah, Charles, I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to be less subtle in awakening you”.

As his eyes begin to adjust, the first things he sees are the pale blue rings of her eyes shimmering as they reflected the sparse moonlight that made it into the room. Then a silhouette appears, surrounding the eyes and revealing a cloaked figure standing beside the door. “Ezell,” Charles relies grumpily, “Wish I could say it was a pleasant surprise.”

Ezell, ignoring Charles’s sarcasm, says “We heard about the fine work of your father’s, in killing the traitorous Pope. Our Watcher was very impressed; said he could hear Gregorious’s screams ringing through the mountaintops. The Sphinx itself wishes to congratulate you on reuniting Catholicism under a more worthy, and cooperative, Pope.”

“The Sphinx?” Charles wonders.

“Yes,” Ezell replies, “the Sphinx is the head of the Lion Sect and the most powerful of the sect leaders. As the legends say, Khimaira is divided into three sects; the Lion, the Goat, and the Serpent. They are lead by the Sphinx, Satyr, and Echidna, respectively.”

“And what are these sects?” Charles asks.

“That’s a story for another time,” Ezell replies. “I realize my surprise visits don’t leave you with much opportunity to take advantage of our services, so tomorrow a messenger shall arrive by the name of Serrano. Keep him around as an assistant. Should you ever need to speak to me or take advantage of our services, just let him know.”

Charles frowns, “I’m not sure I like the idea of one of your assassins in my court.”

“Charles,” Ezell coolly laughs, “you assume too much. He is of the Lion sect, and simply a messenger, albeit quite a good one.”

“Fine,” Charles sighs. As Ezell turns to go, Rufus leans down to whisper a reminder in Charles’s ear. Charles stops Ezell, “I might have a need to take advantage of your services now. It has been discovered that there is an enemy agent operating here in Rome by the name of Guide Basilio. Although his people have been exiled, he still hangs around trying to peddle his cheap deals among any who might listen. I’d rather he didn’t find someone to sympathize with his cause.”

Ezell nods in understanding, then says slyly “Sweet dreams Charles.” In one fluid and graceful motion she slips out the door, closing it softly behind herself.

Emperor Charles: Seductress

With the Italian campaign concluded, Charles now sat back on his throne in New Constantinople. His new assistant Serrano stood beside him. Although he still did not trust Serrano, he had proven himself quite resourceful so far. Sitting there waiting for Ezell to show up, Charles was surprised to find that Rufus was no where to be seen; before he can ponder this further, Serrano speaks up, “It appears your new Pope is working out quite well so far.”

“It seems that way,” Charles replies, “for now he is supporting the righteous French and English conquest of the barbaric Scots and Irish. Hopefully he remains faithful to the good Catholic nations.”

Serrano smiles slightly, “I can only imagine what might happen otherwise.”

There is a soft cough, Charles looks up to find Ezell standing in front of them. “I believe you wanted to see me?”

“I feel I should start posting guards at the windows,” Charles quarries, “or would that do any good?” Ezell just stare at Charles. Charles smirks, “Well I guess it’s time for business. I have received reports of a princess of the rebel Rus sent west to spy and recruit for their cause. Her name is...what was that name again Serrano? I swear, those Rus must have a hell of a time communicating with names like this.”

“Evpraksia Novgorodskii, Sir,” Serrano provides.

“Yes,” Charles continues, “well intel indicates that she is making her way towards Italy to try and seduce my nobles. I fear with the recent peace in Italy and abroad, the promise of excitement and glory may entice my nobles. Now I don’t care how you get rid of her—kill her, scare her, sell her to some foreign lord for all I care—just make sure she is no longer a threat to the stability of my empire.”

“It shall be done,” Ezell nods, “Is there anything else you need?”

“I would like to learn more about Khimaira. I feel it is important to know more about those who I work with.”

“So be it,” Ezell replies, “I shall have Serrano provide you with some interesting reading. It isn’t exactly official, but Aleandro was a smart man. I felt really bad about having to kill him and all those monks he had copying his book, although I have no regrets at all about the fun I had with his traitorous sources. Those were some fun weeks I spent with them...” Ezell, smiling crookedly, looks up from her memories, “Ah, It seems I have gotten off subject, but there is no time for that. Khimaira only concerns itself with the future; the future is life, to deal in the past is to deal in death.”

Charles raises his eyebrow at this, but decides not to push the subject. Dismissing Ezell and Serrano, Charles lays back in his chair, lost in thought. Charles is suddenly startled by a voice behind him. Sitting up, Charles grumbles, “Rufus.”

The voice repeats, “Young Heinrich, this is no time for resting.”

“Rufus, if you wanted to know how my business with Ezell went, you should have been here,” Charles growls.

“Was I supposed to come?” Rufus asks.

“Of course not, but that doesn’t usually stop you. Plus then I wouldn’t have to fill you in.”

“There is no need to repeat what I already know,” Rufus replies,” but what is important is what’s next for the Empire. A stagnate kingdom cannot grow.”

“Obviously not,” Charles retorts, “but there are internal matters that must be taken care of first.”

Rufus smiles his big toothless grin, “Ah, Young Heinrich, you are coming along better then I could have ever imagined.”

“Great,” Charles snaps, “now leave me and let me get some peace.”

Still smiling, Rufus replies, “I could never leave you Young Heinrich, but peace on the other hand is something I can offer...for now at least”

[Charles looks at the small book he received from Serrano and starts to read]

Khimaira: History from the Shadows
By Aleandro de Pisa
(1109)

Preface
They are after me. I haven’t much longer now. For the past ten years I have dedicated myself to uncovering the truth behind the shadow organization known as Khimaira. As I got closer, I saw more and more into the sinister minds of Khimaira, but I got too close. I overturned too many stones; rustled too many leaves. What a ruckus I made! How could I have been so careless? It’s too late now; no turning back. I must finish my work, spread the word. Maybe then they’ll let me be; with the truth out, I’m no longer a threat. Maybe...

Chapter 1
As far as I can tell from the information I have gathered Khimaira predecessors started as three separate crime syndicates that each formed in the Greek city-states around 600 BC. At this period they were constantly at odds with each other; often forming and breaking alliances with the others to try and gain the upper hand. Each syndicate was structured very differently. The λιοντάρι (now the Lion) was a crime family that was based in Sparta; greatly pushed military control of smaller Greek states. The κατσίκα (the Goat) was deeply involved in Athenian mercantile and smuggling. The final syndicate, the φίδι (the serpent) was an assassin guild that offered their services to anyone with enough coin, even the other syndicates if the price was right. Whether or not they had a base of operations is unclear as their movements and actives are sporadic and spread across both Greece and Asia Minor.

Everything changed for the syndicates with the second Persian Invasion in 480 BC. As the colossal Persian army approached Greece, a ceasefire and congress was called between the three syndicates. Fearing a Persian conquest—preferring the more democratic Greek rule to that of the tyrannical Persians—they decided to band their recourses together and aid the Greek city-states. It is unclear what the fallout was after the eventual victory of the Greeks, but by 435 BC a clear struggle for control between the Lion and Goat syndicates had begun. The Serpents seemed to stay on the sidelines during much of the struggle, although there were reports of many mysterious deaths on both sides. The struggle eventually broke out into open warfare in the form of the Peloponnesian war (431 – 404 BC) with the eventual victory of Sparta, backed by the Lion, over Athens and the Goat.

Under the new leadership of the Lion, the syndicates were reorganized into Khimaira. The Lion Sect was set up as the head of Khimaira and became deeply concerned with politics. The Goat Sect flourished as its corrupt businesses spread. The Serpent Sect ran all the covert operations from spying and sabotage to assassinations. In each sect arose leaders: the Sphinx for the Lion Sect, the Satyr for the Goat Sect, and Echidna for the Serpent Sect. Through the manipulation of figures such as Alexander the Great, Khimaira’s influence spread throughout the known world.

Sometime after 200 BC Khimaira’s ambitions began to grow beyond the crime word as they sought to build a better world (at least their vision of a better world). Moving the heart of their operations to Rome, they put their full backing behind the Roman Empire. After the start of the Christian movement rifts began to form in Khimaira’s ranks as struggles between the old and new ways ensued. These struggles resulted in many great catastrophes including the Great Fire of 64 AD that resulted in the destruction of much of Rome. Around 280 AD the Christians finally overthrow the old beliefs and start a fervent campaign to turn Rome into a Christian Empire. They finally made ground in 305 AD when they turned Constantine into the first Christian Emperor, although it wasn’t till 380 AD that Theodosius I declared Christianity the sole religion of the Empire.

However, the leaders of Khimaira quickly got disheartened with the corruption of the Roman Empire. Starting in 405 AD, Khimaira began supporting barbaric groups such as the Visigoths who sacked Rome in 410 AD, which started the total decline of the Roman Empire. They also supported such groups as the Vandals who sacked Rome in 455 AD and the German Goths who defeated the Emperor Romulus Agustulus, which resulted the end of the Western Roman Empire.

After the failure of their efforts with the Roman Empire, Khimaira began to diversify their investments from helping in the start of the Catholic Church to the building up of many great Christian Empires. After Rome they decided to work more indirectly, choosing to keep their existence a secret and to disguise their involvement in most of their affairs. Only occasionally revealing their existence to those they took special interest in, like great leader such as Charlemagne.

It is hard to say what they are up to now as their current activates seem random, but continually growing by the day. It seems as if they are preparing for a major campaign, but still have not found who they want to support...

[Although the last part had been mostly inked out, Charles can still make out the words ‘tracked... spies and operations... central Germany’. ‘Waite,’ Charles thinks, ‘wasn’t this book written shortly before my escape.’ Confirming that it was, Charles decides he needs to find out what those last two paragraphs said, but he would have to be discrete. He doubted that Khimaira would be very happy about him searching around for what they had purposely kept from him.]

Letter from Princess Adelhaide Arpayad to her royal mother Queen Zsofia of the Magyar, Royal Palace, Krakow

Dearest mother,

I write, finally, with glad tidings. I have located my father King Laszlo!

The tale of my pursuit and eventual contact with my quarry is a long one so I shall spare you the intricate details...suffice it to say having received information that his Royal Highness had left Ragusa with an armed force and was heading south along the Dalmatian coast, I gained passage at Venice aboard a merchantman bound for the Greek Isles.

After several stops and gold-laced inquiries I eventually found at Dubrovnik a man who claimed to be part of the King's travelling party. It seemed that my royal father had somehow commandeered a fleet of mercenary ships which were bearing his army and siege engines towards Venetian-held Greece to join the fighting there. An invasion that he himself had sparked with his surprise attack on Ragusa and that had been carried out on his inspiration by the Magyar armies of the Balkans.

Foundering in stormy weather, the fleet had set down on the island of Mljet and this man had been sent in a small vessel to the mainland for supplies.

It did not take much to persuade him to take me to my father and on the dawn breeze I found myself at the prow of the boat leaving Dubrovnik harbour (pearl of the Adriatic indeed!) and borne on the wind towards Mljet.

I confess I was by this time thrilled with anticipation and no small measure of dread at the prospect of encountering the King in his manic state. Something about the fog on the morning waters and the stories the ancients told of this mystical isle, where Odysseus was waylaid for seven years by the nymph Calypso, made me fearful and prone to flights of fancy.

As we pulled into a small forested inlet and began to row upstream I could hear rustling in the trees on either side of the water - we were being tracked by unseen eyes. My guide grew increasingly nervous. He had said little of the King's state, averting his eyes when questioned and imploring me to 'see for myself'.

Turning a bend in the stream we opened out into a large saltwater lake in the centre of which was a small island with a monastery upon it. On the shore of the island were many men, their appearance bizarre and frightening, clothed as they were in fur, frond and leaf, for all the world like Pan's company, spirits of the forest.

The throng parted as we landed and stepped ashore. My guide disappeared and I was seized rather roughly by some sturdy fellows and more or less dragged along the beach and into the gated courtyard of the monastery.

And it was here, mother dear, that I found your husband - his clothes tattered and in ribbons, his ermine spattered and stained with all manner of mud, blood and God knows what else, bearded and filthy, sat atop a wooden stool passing judgement over a litter of mewling kittens. What nature of crime the cats had committed I was never to discover, for on seeing his daughter before him his eyes widened, he fell to his knees in front of me and embraced me around the legs, sobbing and pleading for my help.

We remained at Mljet for some time longer while I nursed him back to health. His periods of lucidity lengthened and I was able to access his reason and explain to him what had happened. I believe that he had been ready to get better and that the sight of a familiar face, someone he believed he could trust, had hurried him along.

When he was well enough to travel I commanded the fleet and army to return to the mainland. At that stage I was not certain what state our little Empire would be in, what with the absence of the King, the war on Venice and the counter-invasion by the Turks.

So it was with great relief that I learned of the peace negotiated between my brother Kalman and the Sultan of Konya and of our near-victory in Greece.

Here are the best tidings of all mother dear - I have persuaded His Majesty to return to Krakow and we are this day setting out on the long road home.

How I long to see you!

Yours with anticipation,

Adelhaide

Korkut hated the sea. He hated the stinking wood constantly swaying and creaking beneath his feet. He couldn't stand the foul taste of salty water splashing against his face. Not to mention the constant stench from ocean, man and beast. Most of all however, he hated the inactivity and sense of captivity. He felt imprisoned, and crippled.

Growing up on the endless plains of Eastern Anatolia, he had practically been born on a horse. Being of Turkic heritage, his tribe had sworn their loyalty to the powerful Sultanate of Konya, and several battles later and a few twists of fate, he, Korkut Illker of Tabriz, had found himself a trusted General of Sultan Meliksah himself.

The Sultan was famed for being a merciless man, and he demanded no less of his closest generals. Korkut had seen many of his friends die in battle, and it had hardened him. He had lost all sense of empathy, and compassion was no longer in his vocabulary.

His loyalty to the Sultan who he admired, respected and feared was near endless, but the last few years had pushed his obedience to the limit. During the Magyar-war, he had first been denied the chance to slaughter a large Hungarian force at Sofia. Just months later, the Sultan had called him back from the plains at Belgrade. All had been ready, the city would have burned within days.

And now, he found himself here. On a stupid ship, in the vast nothingness of the Mediterranean. He had left an unfinished war behind him, due to the Sultan's unexplainable will to sign a peacefire with the Magyar scum. The noble cause of this campaign did little to ease his anger, while the constant annoyances of life at sea fueled it.

Admiral Cem approached him, cautiously.

- My Lord General Illker, we are appraoching the island of Malta. It is rumoured to be controlled by the Italian nation of Sicily.

- Italians? Catholic scum, more interested in money and gold than any sense of honour, aren't they?

- Indeed sir. However, there is the question of which route to choose...

He was abruptly interrupted by a few of his sailors. One of them rushed to the men in charge.

- General, Admiral. Ships are approaching from both our front and rear. It seems they intend to block us. They are flagging a coat of arms I do not recognize, but it is definitely not the colours of peace or parley.

Swiftly pulling up his binoculars, Admiral Cem studied the Western horizon, then turned and looked over the ships rear. He slowly turned towards Korkut again.

- General, these are warships. Sicilian galleys, to be more exact. They are clearly blocking our route west, and it appears they have cut off any retreat aswell. Our dhows are more maneuverable, and more numerous, but my orders are...

- Ready the ships for battle, Admiral! I am highest in command here. Sicilian ships you say? I'll make sure they pay for this. We fight our way through, and head north. My men can shoot doves from galloping horses. Felling fat Italians from these damned vessels will be child's play. TO BATTLE MEN!

Finally. Action, conflict. Blood would be spilled on this day. Much more would flow later. The Sultan wasn't here to stop his righteous conquest this time.

Lieden: Shock

High above a grassy field a hawk silently circles. Below, what appear to be ants, form in two opposing lines on either side of the clearing. Like a lion ready to pounce, the ants stand tense and still. Despite the gathering, the hawk has eyes only for the lone marksmen standing in a tree overlooking the field. At the sight of a subtle signal the hawk lets out a piercing cry. At once the ants spring into action; formations charge, brace, and maneuver in a flurry of combat.

The sound of approaching horse hoofs pulls Lieden’s attention from the training exercise. Recognizing the heavy steps of a Royal Imperial horse, Lieden swiftly jumps out of the tree, landing beside Charles as he’s dismounting. As he greets his old friend he notices how tired and stressed Charles appears. A flutter of wings announces the return of the hawk as it swoops down to land on Lieden’s shoulder.

Noticing the bird, Charles manages to smile as he says, “I had all but forgotten of your unique call to arms in my long time locked away. Although, isn’t Anmut getting up there in years?”

“She still flies true and that’s all that matters.” Lieden replies as he strokes Anmut’s neck.

“That is good to hear. I am, however, here about a much graver business,” at this point the smile fades from Charles’s face and a heavy weight rests itself again upon his shoulders, “I have just received news that a Turkish fleet has made landfall in Southern Italy. The Sicilians fought bravely, but I’m afraid King Simon was lost in the fray. I am gathering all available troops in Italy to back the Sicilians should they require it. I need you to get there as fast as you can to organize the troops and fortify our defenses; and make sure to keep Legionnaire near, should I need him.”

“We shall move out immediately.” Noticing that Charles still has something on his mind, Lieden asks “Is there anything else you need of me?”

Grasping Lieden’s hand and pulling him into a hug, Charles whispers in his ear, “Trust no one with this. There is a certain book I am looking for and I believe a copy might reside in Italy. Should you have time I need you to look for it. When I get more information on its exact location I shall contact you.” As Charles pulls away, Lieden notices the crumpled note left in his hand. As he raises it up to read it, Charles stays his hand, saying “Not now; this place is not secure.”

Lieden is puzzled, but he slips the note into his pocket nonetheless. Before he can turn to gather his troops though, movement in the shadows a few hundred feet behind Charles makes Lieden reach for his bow, but Charles again stops him. “It is not the time for that either, she is with me...” as Charles remounts his horse he adds, “for now.”

Lieden watches as Charles rides off to meet up with the mysterious figure. Lieden watches as Charles converses with the cloaked figure, but then the figure turns sharply in his direction, pale blue eyes piercing the dark forest, like arrows aimed for Lieden’s heart. Instinctively, Lieden ducks behind a tree and a few seconds later when he ventures a look back, the figure had disappeared; melted away like a shadow into the forest depths. Over the sound of his heavy breathing and pounding heart, Lieden scrambles to gather his thoughts. Pulling the note out of his pocket and reading it, Lieden almost forgets to breath as his mind goes reeling from the shock of what is written-

Quote:

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Khimaira: History from the Shadows / By Aleandro de Pisa / 1109

---

The first thoughts he’s able to pull together are, “This can’t be!”

Emperor Charles: On the Edge

“You what!”

Ezell, unshaken, responds, “It seems the Pope’s general is quite paranoid. He had a double sleeping in his quarters.”

“So you’re telling, me” Charles roars as he paces the room, ”that not only is our message to the Pope going to look weak, but that wretched general of his still holds the title as the ruler of Rome, a title that rightfully belongs in the hands of a Roman Noble?!”

“The Pope will get the message clear enough,” Ezell calmly replies, “And titles matter little when the city is well in your possession. No one will question that.”

Still enraged, Charles yells, “We are on the brink of war with the Turks and you dare bring me news of a failure?!”

Ezell again replies calmly, “We know how much you love the theatrics, so before making his escape my agent did leave a message for the Pope, large and red, so that even he couldn’t miss it.”

“Maybe he’ll think it’s from God,” Rufus chuckles

Charles spins around in his pacing, surprised. ‘Where had he come from?’ Charles wonders, 'Hadn’t all the doors been locked? Ah, whatever, a question for another time. He was still too angry to think about that now.' Still facing away from Ezell he orders, “What have you discovered about the Turk’s invasion?”

“Other than that it appears Sicily wasn’t their intended target, not much. They are keeping tight lipped and our spies in Konstantiniyye-” Charles shoots Ezell a glare over his shoulder, “-I mean Constantinople doubt that the Sultan even knows what’s going on. As for Naples, an enemy agent has so far blocked most of our moves but we have spotted quite a few horse archer patrols around the city.”

Charles grumbles then says “Tell your men to pull back to Rome for now; at least until it is decided what is to be done about the Turks. Now leave my presence.” Charles spins around expecting to see her slithering out, but she had vanished.

When Charles turns to Rufus, Rufus just shrugs and says, “I didn’t see anything.”

Crowley: Pickling

At the French Court

A short ways from the Roman delegation, two of Crowley’s assistants talk in hushed tones amongst themselves:

“Sure glad Crowley’s sobered up, he was kind of creeping me out,” says the first assistant.

“I don’t know, “says the second, “I kind of liked him like that. I think he was actually genuinely happy.”

“I know, that’s what was so creepy” replies the first. “How does a happy man throw food and killing into a mix and come out with one big malevolent theatric?”

“Probably because it started with food-besides I thought it was a good time,” responds the second.

“What do you mean by that!” demands the first. “Oh you didn’t. Please, please don’t tell me you slipped him some of the old German dignitary’s pickled olives soaked in grain alcohol.”

“I may have,” answers the second innocently.

“There was a reason I threw those into the probably poisonous pile when we where sorting the old storehouse!” exclaims the first.

“Ah, that’s just because you’re a pansy,” deduces the second, “me and Crowley are full blooded Germans; there’s no such thing as too alcoholic.”

“They’ve been soaking here for over six years!” cries the first.

“Pfff,” the second waves it off as if it were nothing.

The first assistant starts to panic, “We’re so going to get fired when he finds out. I can’t go back to my parent’s farm, I hate farming.” Stopping in his tracks, he narrows his eyes at his buddy and points at him accusingly, “You! You did this! You’re going to get fired. I had nothing to do with it. I am out of here!” As the first assistant storms off, the second one finds himself caught in the powerful embrace of an arm around his shoulder.

Pulling the assistant close to his side, Crowley says reassuringly, “Ah, don’t worry about him, he’ll cool down and be back. You’re the one I want to talk to.”

“Oh...uh, I’m a...a really...s-sorry sir” mutters the assistant.

“Forget about that,” Crowley responds, “I see some real lucrative trade in those special pickled olives. I’ve got a business associate I want you to talk to.”

“Anything sir,” responds the assistant, “should I head down to the Merchant’s Guild now?”

Crowley smiles, “It’s not that kind of business. I’ve written down everything you need to know.” Crowley hands him the paper. “Oh, one more thing,” Crowley pulls the assistant in closer, “if you ever try something like that again, I can promise you that you won’t be fired. Too much work. It’s so much easier to replace assistants who just go missing...” Crowley allows the last word to trail off, then starts laughing. Letting the assistant go, Crowley confesses “I’m just messing with you. I don’t do it cause it’s easier, it’s actually a lot more work; I do it cause it’s fun.” Crowley walks away, leaving his assistant with the note in his hand, shaking knees, and wet pants.

Maté á Nembol was a modern hero of the Magyar. He had spent the preceding ten years fighting mad King Laszlo’s Venetian war, edging southward through the Balkans and the Greek mountains in a bloody and attritional conflict which ended, finally, with the naval invasion of Iraklion on Crete. Those years had been wild and exciting for the young general, operating without chain of command or restriction, taking risks and making bold aggressive moves in order to utterly eradicate the foe.

They had, however, taken a toll. His graying hair and worry-lined face was but the outward sign of a disquiet that penetrated him to the very marrow of his bones.

This disquiet was only accentuated now as he was forced to flee Crete in the face of an unprecedented attack by the Fatimids, whose armada had been sighted off the coast of Rhodes some weeks before and who seemed hell-bent on breaking the Magyars’ tenuous hold on Greece.

As the lumpen cog lumbered its way through the waves towards the Attican peninsula, Maté wondered what would now become of his nation, once nomads, feared and hated by the townsfolk for their derring-do and unfettered existence, now settled themselves and peering nervously over the ramparts at a new wave of horsemen from the east.

It was said that the initial moves against the Konyite Turks had been successful – that Istvan and Prince Kálman were sure to retake Bucharest and Thessalonica, pushing the enemy back to the Hellespont itself….it was also said that Laszlo himself took to the fray, long recovered from his malady and in command of his empire and his senses once more…….but while the Magyar could feel confident of at least an even chance of eventual victory against Konya, could the same be said for the hordes from Cairo and Baghdad?

Would the long-nurtured alliances with the Romans and the Rus bear fruit? Or would the tribe from the Carpathian basin finally meet their doom, their lucky run against the odds finally ended?

His dark mood was prescient. Two weeks later Maté á Nembol, modern hero of the Magyar, would be slain as the Fatimids overran Athens and slaughtered the inhabitants, razing the city and its historic monuments to the ground in an orgy of fire, bloodshed and destruction.