Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[Ituralde]

Prague, 1228:

Willellda sat in front of the large fireplace, a crumbled piece of parchment in her hand, tears were rolling down her cheeks as she watched the flickering flames in front of her. Gunhilde, her trusted midwife was standing behind her and had laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I am sorry, mistress! It seems there is no end to the suffering of our family. First Ehrhart dies, then your husband leaves you and now this grim news from the East."

Willellda shakes herself out of her reverie, takes a final look at the parchment in her hand and then defiantly throws it into the flames. It takes her some time to tear away her gaze from the flames licking at the letter, which had told her of Leopold's demise.

"These are dark times Gunhilde. Very dark. Send for my son will you. He has to know, I will tell him everything. Hurry!"

"Are you sure this is wise, mistress? After all he has done for us?"

"He deserves to know, now go and bring him here, and send for Contzel and Niesenn too!"

____________________________________

This is a coop story between Ituralde and Cecil XIX


Thunder rolled overhead as Sigismund von Mahren entered the Council Chambers in Prague. His mother Willellda had wanted him to come and as he entered the Great Hall he could see three women clad in black huddled around the sole fireplace, the fire banked so that the warmth hardly penetrated the large room and the light was subdued. There were his two sisters Contzel and Niesenn along with his mother Willellda. His mother's eyes were red from tears while his sisters wore a glum determination on their faces. As soon as Willellda lays her eyes on Sigismund she storms forward and grasps him in her arms.

"Oh you have come, my son! You have come, what grief has befallen our family! Why do the Gods curse us so?" She clings on to her son, silently sobbing.

Sigismund returned his mother's embrace, and let her cry in his arms. His brother's death had been a terrible blow to the family, but with his mother in hysterics and his fathers descent into drink he felt an obligation to keep a stiff upper lip.

"There there, mother. Ehrhart's in a better place now. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to cry like this, and neither would I or father."

At the mention of Sigismund's father Willellda lets out another stifled moan. "It's just not... it's just not right. First your brother dies and then they take away your father!" She manages inbetween sobs, still clinging on to Sigismund's shoulder.

Contzel and Niesenn share embarrassed looks as they see their mother reduced to tears, clinging on to their brother, as though he were the only thing that kept her upright. At the same time, they seem to be casting expectant looks towards Sigismund, as though they knew something he didn't.

"He's a soldier, mother." Sigismund replied. "I too would dearly like for us to all be together again, but he and I have our duties to the Reich."

With a final shudder, Willellda seems to draw herself together, and slightly more composed she moves away from her now eldest son. "A foolish old soldier, he was." she states with contempt on her face. She looks at Sigismund sternly: "Don't you think you can run off and get yourself killed in some foolish battle, my boy!"

Sigismund takes a step back, aghast at the words that have come out of his mother's mouth. "M-mother! There was nothing foolish about that battle! And you can't blame father for Erhart's death, or Erhart himself for that matter! Father is even more distraught than you are, because he blames himself as well!"

Willellda looks at her son with a puzzled expression on her face and slowly the realization dawns on her, she raises her hand to cup his cheek, stroking it slightly. "My poor boy, it's not your brother I was talking about, although he should have known better. I was referring to Leopold, your father." She smiles at him reassuringly.

Should Sigismund look up at his sisters he will see an apologetic look on Contze's face. Niesenn on the other hand shows a mishievous grin, just as if this had been some rather good prank, like the ones she used to play on him in their childhood.

Sigismund's face is blank for a moment, then it explodes. "WHAT?!? Duke Leopold is my father?!?"

She gently strokes his cheek once more: "Oh don't be upset my poor boy, you should have figured it out by now. Why do you think Jonas left us, after Ehrhart died? Why do you think Leopold was so eager to have you become an Austrian noble? His blood runs through your veins. That's why I called you here. Now that he is dead, you deserve to know." She gives him a comforting look, waiting for his next reaction.

"How did this happen?" Sigismund responds. "You were married to father, and Leopold was married as well! And what of Ehrhart? He became part of House Austria as well!"

Willellda chuckles lightly. "You have much to learn, my boy! We were both married, but we were also in love. Why do you think Leopold only fathered two children, stopping after he had his heir? He did his marital duty and nothing more. Your father was away on Crusade anyways, he didn't care. At least Leopold had the decency to take his wife with him to Outremere."

She shakes a little bit once more and stifles a sigh, as the emotions well up in her once again. "As for your brother. He was a fool like Jonas, but he was needed too. To make you an Austrian noble. How would it have looked if only you were to become part of the Austrian nobility." She dabs at her cheeks with a handkerchief where tears have welled up.

"No, he did it for you, for his first son, to serve the House he loved so much, he gave his life for it." She lowers her head and a low sobbing can be heard.

Contze looks slightly ashamed from Sigismund to her mother, while Niesenn still somehow managed to find the whole situation amusing.

For a moment Sigismunds just stands, shoulders slumped and looking at the floor. Then he straightens himself out and turns to leave.

"I can't stay here anymore. I must speak with my father."

Willellda grabs her son by her sleeve and turns him around again as he tries to leave. She looks infuriated: "Haven't you listened to me? Your father is dead! Jonas has left us, he doesn't want anything to do with us! You are Leopolds son, you can't change that by running away now. Don't you realize the implications, my little boy? You are his eldest son, his true heir. That Arnold is nothing against you, nothing!"

Willellda stares at her son exasperated, once again tears are welling up in her eyes.

At this Sigismunds expression suddenly mirrors his mother's earlier rage. "No, this changes nothing! I am Sigismund von Mahren! Even if it is Leopold's blood that flows through my veins, Jonas von Mahren was the one who raised me! Even when he was off saving the Holy Land, he sent Erhart and me letters on how to behave like a true knight! Brother and I cherished those letters dearly, and no son of Leopold could have ever received something so precious. Now you ask me to usurp the man I have sworn fealty to, and call another man my forebear? I will not betray my duke, and I will not abandon my father!"

Sigismund turns around and walks away, muttering to himself. "A trueborn son, not a bastard, deserves to be Duke."

[econ21]

Night time, at camp on the road to Mosul, 1240


“I knew you would come back.” Henry murmured, staring at the black cloaked figure in the shadows. The figure bowed gently.

“Is it time?” Henry asked faintly, but he knew the answer already. The strength was leaving his body. He had a high fever and his bed was drenched with sweat.

“You always were a disappointment, Henry.” said the figure. Henry’s mind felt numbed and in his stupor he could not tell if the harsh voice of the intruder was that of his pagan magician or his father. “You came all this way to the East. You could have established an Empire from the Pyrenees to Alexandria. And what did you do? Gave Jerusalem to a jumped up priest and tried to block all further expansion. This is not the destiny of the Reich. This is a mere interruption. And it must end.”

Henry closed his eyes. “You are wrong, Kolar …” he started, but the words would not come.

The intruder limped out of the shadows and continued vindictively: “You have just lived long enough to see it start to unravel. The true nature of the Reich is re-asserting itself. Ambitious young men are replacing the foolish and dying old guard. They strain at the restraints you seek to impose on them and soon will break free. Ulrich Hummel’s election confirms it. You tried to use all your influence to stop him, but you failed.”

The figure stepped back. “But you do not know the extent of your failure. Do you think I work alone?”

Henry was gasping for breath. “Hashshashins…”

“Yes, yes, I use the Hashshashins on occasion. They were the ones who supplied that nice cake you ate this evening, by the way. That talented Syrian cook you hired?” the figure smiled: “A mean chef by day, but one of their master assassins by night”.

The intruder paused and continued on his aside, as if he had all the time in the world: “You would not believe how hard it was to persuade the Old Man of the Mountains to authorise your assassination. He actually thought he owed you a favour for defeating the Horse Lords. The Mongols have done a more effective job of clamping down on the cult than ever you or the Egyptians did. But now the Horse Lords are back and anyway, I convinced the Old Man that the crusaders were the true long term threat.”

The dark figure reigned himself in and turned back to Henry: “But no, when I referred to my partners, I did not mean the Hashshashins. I no more work with them than I work with my horse or my servant. I use them and in return I pay them their exorbitant fees. No, I speak not of the Hashshashins but rather of my associates - a group of like minded men, who work behind the scenes directing the future of this Reich you so foolishly believe you rule. We have done rather well during your inattentive rule - we have the ear of the future Kaiser and the current Chancellor. There is nothing you or your pathetic Charter Amendments can do to stop us now.”

Henry tried to lift himself out of bed, but succeeded only in temporarily raising himself before he collapsed back down. His eyelids started to flutter, as he saw the dark figure leaning over him. What will they say after am I dead? wondered Henry. When the Reich burns?

The intruder sat down beside Henry’s bed. “You made a mistake letting me go, taking your eye off your opponent.” he whispered. “I won’t make the same mistake. But I will repay your kindness. I will stay with you until the end.”

The dark figure held Henry’s hand. Henry looked at long gnarled fingers clasping his own in revulsion, but was powerless to pull back.

“The toxin used by the Hashshashins is very rare and leaves no traces. As far as the rest of the Reich will know, you passed away peacefully in your sleep. Which, after a fashion, is the truth, I suppose.”

The wry smile on intruder’s face was the last thing Henry ever saw. He closed his eyes, not knowing if the dark figure by his side was real, a fevered hallucination or a demon, come to escort him to the next world.

*****

During the night, Henry’s shieldbearer had slept heavily, with unusually vivid dreams which he could not shake. In one, he saw a tall, black cloaked figure leave the Kaiser’s tent, followed dutifully by Henry’s devoted dog, Ernest. When the shieldbearer awoke in the morning, he found Henry had passed away in the night, but his dog was no where to be seen. Fearful of the appearance of negligence, the shieldbearer told no one of his dream. Ernest the dog was never found.

[GeneralHankerchief]

Eastern Mediterranean Sea, 1240

Three AM. Conrad Salier woke up, sweating, after approximately forty-five minutes of sleep. He groaned. That feeling was back again. He made his way up to the ship's deck, staggering. Silently praising the Lord that he didn't stumble or fall, he leaned over the ship's side and vomited. Not for the first time that night. Seasickness combined with hashish withdrawal did not make for a fun extended sea voyage back to Damascus.

He silently returned to his quarters, feeling only slightly better. The feeling that he needed to vomit was gone (for the moment), but now he had to deal with that unpleasant acidic aftertaste currently present in his mouth. He climbed into bed, at first trying to sleep, and later simply contemplating. It was evident that sleep would not come. Conrad sighed.

While it was still affected by withdrawal and lack of sleep, Conrad found his mind to be clearer than it had been in years. This "awakening" of sorts had led him to discover certain unpleasant details. Firstly, Ulrich Hummel, perennial election loser and Diet pariah (he had one time taken the entire Swabian Household Army and gone through half of France on an unconstitutional rampage) had somehow ascended to the position of Chancellor. Although Hummel was Count of Acre, Conrad would sooner entrust Outremer's security to an Egyptian. At least they would leave everything untouched.

The other problem that Conrad had awoken to was the unfortunate shift of power that was taking place in the Diet. On the out was his greatest ally and fellow lover of religion, Kaiser Henry. The Kaiser, with his increasing authority, had managed almost singlehandedly to continue the implementation of pro-Papal policies with the death of the Old Guard. Taking his place, a dearth of brash, young Electors who grew up under the aftermath of Kaiser Heinrich had risen in the Diet. The incoming Kaiser, Jobst von Salza, was no friend of religion (he had attacked an army on Crusade, no matter what the report had said). And his daughter was reportedly engaged to Lothar Steffin, who openly stated he cared little for Outremer or Kaiser Henry.

When the Kaiser died, the Old Guard would die with him, leaving only Conrad to uphold its principles and beliefs. Sure, Matthias Steffin was promising, but he was overshadowed by his brother. To put it simply, Conrad's faction, for the first time in decades, was outnumbered. The question was, how would he prevent the worst?

It never went through Conrad's mind that he was on the wrong side. Of course I am right, he thought. How can one be wrong when he sides with the Lord? Obviously people would see the wisdom in time. Hummel might be a bumbling Chancellor. With his style of running things, there would be discontent.

Do I point it out? No, he decided. He would still be outnumbered. People knew him, knew his devotion to religion, knew his former hashish problems. They would take it for what it was - deliberately laying the blame on all that might go wrong on the Chancellor in order to recruit more people to his side.

No, he decided. Stay silent, watch, wait, pray. God would see that everything would go right in the end. The values of the Old Guard would remain in the Reich; this was just a relaxed period. Conrad would let events run their course and not endanger them by rocking the boat too much.

Rocking the boat, ugh. At the thought, the feeling to vomit returned and Conrad staggered out of bed once again. It would be a long night, but there was much to do. He was glad to be rid of the hashish so that he could get some actual work done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damascus

The headquarters of the hashish cartel was inconspicuously located, probably not a surprising fact. Even though the sale of the drug was legal, the cartel realized that secrecy was always best. The headquarters were in the residential sector of the city, more appropriately under the residential sector. A lone house, indistinguishable from the others aside from the fact that it appeared to be abandoned, was the sole means of entering or exiting the underground complex. Once inside, assuming the person was allowed entry by the sizeable amount of guards, one would be privy to a series of large, connected rooms that contained delivery transcripts, the hashish itself, a large amount of florins, and the offices of the higher-ups in the cartel. It was in one of these offices where Abdullah, the mustachioed man with slick hair and dark eyes was discussing a series of events, both fortunate and unfortunate, to his fellow members of the cartel.

"So, it seems that we are facing a return to illegalization. Is that correct?"

"The Byzantine government has officially requested that Outremer illegalize the drug, yes," said Theofilos, one of the few Greeks represented in the cartel. He was nothing like the ancient, proud Iannis that Conrad met in Rome.

"And, judging by Salier's outburst in the Diet and that old fool's visit, it seems likely that this will occur once he lands in Damascus," said Hamid, the big man with the beard.

Abdullah looked around to Theofilos. "Do you agree?" He was met with a nod. He turned to the only man who did not speak, Achmed, who was a huge bear of a man and a mute. Achmed also nodded. Abdullah sighed.

"Outremer is becoming filled up with dirty Catholics and Germans. We could not take a hit like criminalization. It wouldn't be like last time."

"I agree," Hamid said.

"Then we should take steps to ensure that criminalization does not occur. The time has come to act, gentlemen. I have received word that Kaiser Henry is dead. That fool Jobst will be taking over, he does not care for Outremer. Hummel is Chancellor, but is not fully committed. The rest of the Diet couldn't care less what happens out here. Hamid, Achmed, prepare your men. We strike Salier when he least expects it. Kaiser Jobst places one of his followers as King, allows us to continue sale of hashish, we stay rich."

Hamid looked slightly discontented. "Assassinate Salier? Is that the smartest move? What if they come after us."

Abdullah laughed. "They won't care, Hamid! Haven't you heard? Henry is dead, Hummel's Chancellor. Salier is in the minority now. Nobody will care about him."

The three men nodded and departed, plotting on how to bring Conrad's newly-meaningful life to an abrupt end.

[TinCow]

“Back for more, are ye?” Adelman snorted and spat on the ground. “I hear they call you the ‘Count of Florence’ or something equally ridiculous these days.” He eyed Lothar Steffen coolly. “You still look like a spoiled pup to me. The ‘Count of Flatulence,’ perhaps.”

“I may still be young, but I have learned a great deal since last we trained together. It is unwise of you to underestimate me,” the Bavarian noble deadpanned.

“Underestimate you? For the love of… you go and win yourself a few minor battles and you think yourself a master now? By the Devil’s Tits, I swear I never thought it was possible for you to get even more arrogant than you were before you left.” Adelman popped his jaw; an act that somehow managing to convey immense disdain.

Lothar Steffen paced across the room to a rack of practice swords. He traced his fingers along the hilts of half a dozen, before he found one he liked. With a deft movement he lifted it, feeling the balance. He flipped it back and forth between his hands and swung it in smooth arcs. Satisfied with the results he turned back to face the weapons master. “Perhaps you should give me another lesson in humility.”

Adelman stared at the Bavarian for a moment, then laughed. “Now? You’re not even armored! Even with the dulled edge, you’d take such a drubbing that your father would have my head on a pike!”

Lothar shrugged and lifted a round wooden shield propped against the nearby wall. “Is this better? I would not want to put you at too much of a disadvantage. It would not be… ah, what is that word… chivalrous.” He looked his old trainer in the eye. “Or perhaps you are simply a coward.”

There was no verbal response, but none was needed. Adelman lifted his sword high, bringing the hilt in line with his right shoulder. He held it two-handed, his fingers flexing slightly to achieve the perfect grip. Lothar could see his opponent’s weight shift as he adjusted his stance. Adelman’s body angled backwards, narrowing his exposed front. The shieldless man was preparing for a rush; a brutal direct assault on his opponent that was designed to overwhelm and subdue through sheer force.

In response, Lothar slipped his hand more firmly into the leather straps of the shield. He held it lightly on his left, prepared to bring it up in front of him at a moment’s notice. The training yard was inundated with the silent expectation of combat. Several long moments passed as both men stared into each other’s eyes, in an effort to shake the other’s confidence; victory before the fight had even begun.

Lothar grinned. Adelman charged.

The speed with which the huge man moved was startling. Lothar himself could barely move that fast without armor, and he was half Adelman’s age. The intensity in the man’s eyes was disturbing to behold. Had Lothar not experienced such an expression dozens of times before, he might have broken at the sight. It was a berserker’s charge, being wielded by a man who never yielded to rage. Cold, calculating, and deadly. There was no way to deflect, dodge, or riposte. One could only endure and hope to survive. Lothar braced himself and raised his shield to meet the oncoming blow.

Adelman swung his sword down with every ounce of strength he could summon. Rarely had he put as much effort into a single blow as he did at that moment. It was a stroke that would split a man in two in a real battle, and even with the blunted practice weapon it could seriously maim. The sound of the impact was so slight, the opposition to his blade so weak, that at first he thought he had smashed the eldest son of the Duke to the ground. It took him a moment to realize that Lothar was still standing, unphased by the blow. A loud clattering sound came from his right. It took him a moment to realize that his blade had sheered cleanly from the hilt. A moment after that he noticed the sharpened dagger at his throat.

“You taught me well, Adelman.” Lothar cocked his head, the tip of his dagger drawing a drop of blood from his opponent’s throat. “Never fight a battle that you cannot win. Those are your words, not mine. I will never best you in even combat, so I will not engage in even combat.” He nodded towards the hilt still clutched in Adelman’s hand. There, clearly visible in the afternoon light, were fine marks spanning three-quarters of the width of the blade. The tool used to file through the hardened steel must have been incredibly narrow, to keep the split imperceptible to casual inspection. “I have learned a new lesson since the last time you trained me; Exitus acta probat.”

Adelman smiled broadly, then let out a hearty laugh. “Perhaps you are not the dummkopf you were when last we met. Very well, then…” He touched the dagger gently, moving it away from his throat, and bowed deeply. “I yield, my Lord.”

Triumph glittered in Lothar’s eyes. “Do not forget it.” In a flash, his dagger whipped out and sliced deeply into Adelman’s cheek. Blood poured in sheets down the side of the man’s face. He raised his hand to the gash, but was greeted with a boot to the chest. Adelman fell backwards in a sprawl. “That is for your many years of disrespect. If you ever fail to address me in the proper manner again, I’ll have your head.” The Count of Florence bowed.