Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[Tamur]

Fritz paced back and forth in front of his unit commanders, lips tight and staring at the ground. Then he began speaking.

"Men, we have been together through many battles, many miserable winter campaigns against the Poles and the Danes. But Ansehelm, as you know, has asked that I be stripped of my command."

"We know this, Count," piped up one of the younger commanders. "You told us months ago. Why bring it up again? The men are growing tired of all the talk."

"Talk!" Fritz stopped and shouted, waving his long arms about wildly. "It's no longer talk! Dieter is at Ansehelm's table this very moment asking why he has no army!"

The commander shrank back a bit into the group.

Fritz went on, half to himself. "And you all knows I will not give up my command..."

[econ21]

This story was written by TinCow

Rome, 1318

His legs ached from hours of standing, but he refused to sit. The only rest Johannes Tockler would allow himself to take was a few short minutes of leaning against the stone wall of the gatehouse. In a way, he considered the soreness and fatigue to be the mark of honorable service. Several of the other guards mocked him for it. They would snicker at his unbending vigil and one man, Ladislaus, liked to kick dung on his boots when his shift was over. Johannes did not care; they were slothful cretins and knew nothing of pride.

Figures were moving in the distance. Johannes raised his hand and squinted into the mid-day sun. Purple cloaks flickered around the edges of the men, marking them as Byzantines. The second man in line raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, two-note blast; their typical method of announcing a prominent diplomat on an official visit. Johannes straightened up, his chin held high, in a posture of Roman formality. Grumbles and the scrape of metal sounded from his right, where the other guards were hastily assuming their positions.

In truth, the event was not unusual. The ambassador had taken an immediate liking to the ‘Cathedral of Sin’ in Florence. It was unusual for him not to spend a week there each month. Even the recent unrest had not diminished his taste of Bavarian pleasures. Johannes wondered momentarily whether allof the ambassador’s ‘formal entries’ were announced with a warhorn.

The processional arrived a few moments later. It was easily three times the size of the ambassador’s normal guard. The Byzantine captain, Kostas Philanthropenos, stopped by the gatehouse, while his column filed through. He turned to Johannes and saluted

“Sergeant Tockler, it makes me sad to see you standing such a post,” he said in thickly accented German. “Surely your talents would be better used elsewhere.”

Johannes smiled. Despite the arrogant attitude the Byzantine emitted, he liked Kostas. “I thank you for the compliment, but we are short on manpower these days. The recent… difficulties… with the Imperial Treasury have caused many men to desert their posts.”

Kostas frowned. “Yes, this business with Empress Theodora is most unpleasant. Shameful, really. It is an insult to the honor of Byzantium. We are not a nation of thieves.” The captain shrugged and clapped Johannes on the shoulder. “But at least they have managed to find enough gold to pay you, my friend.”

The German shook his head. “No, I have not been paid for many months. My salary is enough to keep ten more guards employed and a score of hands is worth far more than my pair, no matter what you think about my merits. Besides, food and lodging are still provided by the barracks and I need little else.”

“Ah, an altruist to the core.” Captain Philanthropenos sighed and shook his head. “As I said, you should be elsewhere today.”

“If I were, I would not have had the pleasure of your company; and that would have been a loss I would have sorely missed.” Both men laughed heartily. Johannes was genuinely grateful for the compliment. A life of duty and virtue was a reward in and of itself, there was little enough of either in the Reich in recent years, but knowing that his actions were acknowledged as such by others brought warmth to his heart. He knew his father would have been proud of him.

The Tockler family had been shepherds for generations. They owned a small farm in the northern foothills of the Odenwald and had passed it down from father to son for as long as anyone could remember. Johannes’ own father had been the ninth generation of Tocklers to work the land, and he had talked often of how proud he was to pass on a legacy to his own children. Much of the surrounding land was owned by Baron von Adelmann, who lived in Weinheim, two days ride to the east. Unlike those men, the Tockler land was a freehold, a highly unusual privilege for a peasant family.

The Tockler men had told their children for generations about how that privilege had been bestowed on them by the Kaiser himself. As a boy of 16, the progenitor Tockler had saved Conrad II’s life during the defeat at Vienna in 1030. Three Hungarian knights had cut their way through the Kaiser’s bodyguard. All that stood in their way was a single levied peasant boy with a rusty spear. Instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and held off the knights for several minutes. When the rest of the Kaiser’s guard finally broke through, they found two bloodied Hungarians dragging away a third, who was mortally wounded. The boy himself stood unharmed in front of the Kaiser, his spear broken, but still leveled at the enemy.

In gratitude, Conrad II had bought the title to the Tockler farm from their feudal Baron and bestowed it on the boy. From that day on, the Tocklers had been vassals to no man, and had survived and prospered by the sweat of their brow. Johannes himself had been named after his famous ancestor, and as the eldest son he had been destined to inherit the family land from birth. Yet, the life of a shepherd had never sat well with Johannes. When he was 14, his father had taken him to sell wool in the market in Weinheim. On the road they had been passed by a contingent of Teutonic Knights from nearby Frankfurt. They were riding south, to Venice, where they would take a ship for Outremer.

Johannes never forgot the sight of their white surcoats, shining steel armor, and powerful warhorses. For months afterwards, he could think of nothing else. Yet he was shamed by the thoughts and prayed for forgiveness each night. He knew that his duty was to his family and the farm, but he could not shake the thought that he was destined for something greater, something more important. The guilt he felt over this was unbearable and he cried himself to sleep on more than one occasion.

One night, three months later, his father took him aside after dinner. “Johan, you are a man now. It is time for you to begin your life.” With that, he had handed him a long, wrapped bundle. Inside, Johannes had found a finely crafted sword and scabbard, its polished steel shining in the candlelight. He had been so overwhelmed with emotion that he had simply stared at it, mouth agape. His father simply smiled. “I know you do not want to be a farmer and a shepherd. There is no shame in that. Our family was founded upon the virtuous actions of a soldier. Now it is your turn. Take this sword and go forth into the world. Protect the innocent, punish the wicked, and above all live with pride. God will guide your hand.”

The next morning, a squire in the service of Baron von Adelmann came to take him to Weinheim. He served the Baron for a time, and then made his way to the Frankfurt, the old Imperial capital. In 1261 Johannes joined up with a small group of Teutons who were on their way to Outremer, in response to the Pope’s call for the Third Crusade to recapture Jerusalem. They journeyed over land to Venice, and from there took ship to the citadel at Acre. He was spotted by an Imperial recruiter within moments of disembarking and joined a regiment of armored spearmen in Karl Zirn’s army. After Jerusalem was recaptured, he transferred to a unit under Jan von Hamburg’s command and followed him for many years. Even at such a young age, the future King of Outremer was a shining example of chivalry and duty. Inspired by his example, Johannes quickly gained a reputation for bravery and, above all, honor.

He held the line, unflinching, against the Mongols on the day that King Salier had fallen. His unwavering stance rallied his terrified men and allowed for an orderly withdrawal from what would otherwise have been a complete rout. For his actions that day, he was promoted to Sergeant. He served in King Jan’s armies for the next ten years; never the most skilled fighter, but always the first into battle and the last to leave it. His men loved him for it.

Then, on a trip to Antioch, he met a young girl, fresh off the boat from Venice. She was from Prague and had accompanied her parents on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Fate and dysentery had taken them from her off the coast of Cyprus, and she had been abandoned in the streets of the teeming city. Johannes saw her wandering the streets, hungry and dirty. He took her in and, for a time, they were happy. She gave birth to a daughter, the light of his life, but the plague visited the city two years later and neither was spared. Devastated by the loss of his wife and child, Johannes had left Outremer and returned to the Reich. He had gone straight to the Imperial capital of Rome and, with the aid of a letter from King Jan himself, was welcomed into the city guard, where he had been ever since. He found pride in his station and it showed in his work. Rome was the seat of the Kaiser and a Holy City in its own right. There was no better way for him to spend the remaining years of his life than serving in its defense.

Johannes looked at Kostas and his face darkened. “I have heard rumors that Byzantine armies are marching on Bologna. Is there any truth to this?” The Captain’s eyes narrowed, but before he could reply a scream came from up above. Johannes looked up, but his vision was impaired by the bright sun overhead. He raised his hand to block the light, and saw a glimpse of a large object falling through the air in front of him. It was the body of one of the guards on the gate ramparts.

He reached for his sword, the same blade his father had given him so many years before. The scabbard was heavily worn and the grip had been replaced three times, yet Johannes still polished it until the blade gleamed bright. “To arms! To arms!” He cried, and turned towards Kostas. “You must get to safety! There are men inside the…”

The cold steel of a dagger pierced his throat and severed his windpipe, cutting off his words with a bloody gurgle. Johannes grasped at his neck, but his fingers could not stop the surge of blood that spewed forth. As he sank to the ground, he stared wide-eyed into the face of Kostas. “I am sorry, my friend. You should not have been here today.”

It took several minutes for Sergeant Johannes Tockler to bleed to death by the gates of Rome. It was long enough to see the vanguard of the Byzantine armies pass through the open portcullis.

[TinCow]

The echoing sounds of fifty simultaneous conversations mixed together into a low roar. Had it not been for the tapestries hung on every wall of the massive hall, even shouting into a neighbor’s ear would have been futile.

“ORDER! ORDER!”

The Count of Toulouse was vigorously banging a steel gauntlet on the table.

“ORDER! ORDER!”

It took a good two minutes for the din to die down, but he kept pounding until every last voice was silent. The last crash echoed ominously around the room; suddenly out of place in the quiet hall.

“Are we in agreement then?” the Count asked. Several voices rose at once, but the Count raised his gauntlet and the speakers stopped in mid-sentence. “One at a time, please.” He gestured to the Polish delegation to his left. Sicily, Venice, Hungary, Poland, and Denmark had all answered the French call for a diplomatic conference in Toulouse. Only Spain had declined to send a representative. They had lost little to the Holy Roman Empire and were apparently more concerned with the Moors and Africa. Of the remaining Catholic nations of the world, only England, Scotland, and Portugal had not been invited to the meeting. The first remained stubbornly allied to Reich, while the second was essentially powerless. Portugal had simply offended the French too often to allow for reconciliation, even under the present circumstances.

The head Polish diplomat rose and cleared his throat. “Poland agrees. There is no better time to strike at the Reich than now. They are destroying themselves from within. They have murdered their own Kaiser, made enemies of their Byzantine allies, received excommunication from the Pope despite their complete control of the College of Cardinals, and there are even sparks of civil war. With the loss of Rome, they are politically divided and vulnerable in all areas.”

“The Reich’s main strength has always been its centralized government and the Electors reluctance to violate their so-called Charter. They are now burning it like so much kindling. If we strike them hard and fast from all sides, they will not be able to cope.”

A sullen looking man from the Venetian delegation rose. “Venice also agrees, but we must not forget that it is this Lutheran heresy that must be suppressed first and foremost. While the Reich’s armies endanger our lives, their protection of this blasphemous movement risks our very souls! This is an alliance of true Christian nations and it is our duty unto God to see that these heretics are completely destroyed. There is a reason that the Byzantines and Russians were not invited to this meeting, let alone the Mohammedans. We are taking up the Sword of Christ against the enemies of God! Wherever they are encountered, their cities should be burned and their peoples put to death. There is only one way to deal with Lutherans, and that is to send them to meet the Devil they worship!”

At that remark, the room once again exploded into conversation. The Count banged his gauntlet several times before silence was restored. “We are not here to debate the reasons behind the Roman collapse nor the treatment of its conquered peoples. We are here to agree to a Catholic Alliance against the Holy Roman Empire! Where have discussed this for three days, already. There is one question, and one question only, that remains to be agreed upon: Do we agree to a temporary cessation of all hostilities between our nations and focus all of our combined armies against our common enemy?” A murmur of agreement went around the room. In turn, the representatives from Sicily, Hungary, and Denmark stood and proclaimed their agreement to the plan.

“Very well then,” said the Count of Toulouse. “Today marks the formation of the Catholic Alliance. For the next twenty years, all French, Danish, Sicilian, Venetian, Polish, and Hungarian armies will be tasked with the destruction of the Holy Roman Empire and the reclamation of our lost territories. No member of the Catholic Alliance will attack another, even if a state of war exists between them. This we swear unto God.”The hall once again erupted into a chaos of sound. The Count of Toulouse sat down and sighed heavily. One of the French diplomats approached him. “My Lord, do you truly believe this Alliance will hold?”

The Count snorted and shook his head. “Never, just look at them now.” He gestured sarcastically at the room of arguing men. “No, sooner or later blood will be spilt on a field of battle and it will once again be as it always has been. Still, we will be united for a time. Perhaps that will be enough.” He stood and walked towards a window facing east: towards the Reich. “I do not envy any Roman soldier today. The best any of them can hope for is a quick death. Even now their noblemen do not understand the full consequences of their errors. They bicker amongst themselves and scramble to hold on to pieces of a shattered empire. We will teach them what it is to know fear.”

[AussieGiant]

ROME 1320

Arnold's Household Guard were fighting a brutal rear guard action down to the Docks.

The Byzantines knew they had one of the Reich's Dukes in a precarious position and we throwing everything they had at the Austrian Regiment in order to capture or kill their quarry.

Striding through the chaos Duke Arnold could be seen issuing orders and barking at the men to fill a gap here or lend his sword to assist soldiers that needed it.

"It's seems our visit to the Diet was not the best idea Priest"

The Dukes Priest was wide eyed, glancing in every direction he was trying to avoid being struck down or run over by a horse while at the same time stay as close as possible to the Duke who was a clear place of safety.

"My lord, I'm petrified!! We need to get on that ship now!!"

His plea was met with a grunt of acknowledgment from Arnold.

"BANE, where are my orders?"

The Dread Knight was engaged in a fierce dual with a very large Byzantine.

"Grom has them."

Without breaking his concentration at the Duke's question, Bane turned his wrist expertly parrying the blow and counter attacking with a vicious cut which left the Byzantine with no leg below the knee.

Turning to face his Duke now that his opponent was screaming in pain and no longer a danger, Bane scanned the melee.

"Grom!! Where are the Duke's orders?"

The huge Barbarian was on the other side of the street holding a fully armored man above his head. Realising he was being summoned, he swiftly turned and threw the man a clear ten feet down an alley which was about to be overrun. The impact and chaos that followed allowed the Duke's men to dispatch the remaining Byzantines and continue the withdrawal.

Jogging over Grom pulled out a small satchel. Handing them to the Duke he said; "Can I get back to the fight my lord?"

Checking each man's name and the Austrian seal was correct and accounted for, the Duke finally looked up and gave a nod.

With that Grom charged off with a blood curdling screaming.

Shaking his head in amazement Arnold looked at his Priest.

"I really think he enjoys it when the pressure is on and the situation is tense."

Without waiting for an answer Arnold bellowed: "Szcepanski!! Get the messenger riders ready!! I need 10 of them!!"

At that moment there was a rumble rising about the clamour of battle.

From the up the street one of the Duke's men screamed: “Heavy Cavalry!!!”

A moment later the entire company was crushed in a solid wave of horse, armour and purple banners.

“Christ almighty.” The Duke voice was clearly concerned as he drew his sword and charged into the fray.

His first thrust took a horseman clean under his helm, the second stroke cut through a horseman's leg just above the knee, his third swing decapitated an unhorsed rider as he was attempting to stand.

The last Bane saw of his Duke was his black obsidian armour disappearing in a shower of blood, horse flesh and blood soaked purple.

[Warluster]

Normandy,1316, German France.

Athalwolf von Salza was seated in a large tent, he always gave himself to rest after a long battle. Especially when his enemy was a fellow Swabian. The sound of shuffling made him turn around from cleaning his sword. It was a aide from his bodyguard.
"Sir, a man requesting your attendance." Athalwolf stoodbuckling the sword and a pistol, engraved with a tiger streching down its barrel.
Outside the tent, stood the man. He wore blue, and had a strange goatee.
"Mon Count, I am honored to be here. I bring news from afar." said the man, his voice coated in a French accent. Athalwolf cared not, he had a Civil War to deal with, and was busy writing a letter to Duke Hans. He montioned, though, for the man to continue.
"Rome has fallen Monsieour. The Greeks have come from the north, and Northern italy is certian to fall afterwards." said the man quickly, not a glance of care crossing his face.
"What is this blasphemy! Rome, fall? How could the Holy City fall? I shall have you arrested!" declared Athalwolf, some of his Imperial Knights drawing swords.
"Listen mon Count, the Kaiser has declared every man for himself!"
"Is this the only reason you come? Could not I be told by others, not a Frenchmen?" He asked.
"No mon friend, Ibring news from the von Salza family, in Spain." said the man, there was moments of stunned silence, then-
"In Spain, what are my family there for? Are they not in Dijon?" asked Athalwolf, sheathing his sword, a pouzzled look cracked over his face.
"Do you not know sire? Late Emperor Jobst's parents." said the man, he continued,"I come from them, we have heard mcuh of you, and eagerly await your visit."

1318,Toledo, Spain.

Toledo was alive that day, as was every other city in the Spanish Empire. Quite unlike the German Empire. Athawlolf and his entourage were rapidly approaching the walled city, sun scorching them in their full plate armor. Athalwolf was listening to a report read out by one of his aides,
"...and from that point on, the Diet Speaker closed the Diet, and declared every man for himself." finished the aide, looking up at his Count.
No one spoke, but awaited the call.
"Leroy contar?" yelled a man in Spanish, whilst men saluted and peasents bowed. Athalwolf was confused, he was German Nobility, not Spanish or French.
"It is Count von Salza!" roared back a Knight, and flags were raised with a strandard of the von Salza family. Athalwolf entered, with trumpets playing. People milled around the back of his escort, watching closely. But they continued through the city, until they stood before a large mansion, with beautiful gardens surrounding it.
"Wait here." He ordered the escort, entering th place. At the door waited the same French man from Normandy, now known to be a French Musketeer.
"Mon lord, please enter. Count Leroy awaits, with news from his son." Atahwlwolf entered, the room was light and cool, opening up with views of the city. There were stairs in front of him and rooms either side. A very old man hobbled up to Athalwolf, who towered over him.
"Eh? Mon son?" inquired the man, squitned at the German Count.
"No mon Lord, this is Jobst's son, Athalwolf von Salza." The odl man groaned,
"Its le roi you silly bugger, mon family name! What is this german names, von Salza? You come not from Salza! But from our lands of Rheims!" stated the man.
"Non, we come from the Swabian Lands of Dijon. I heard it from the Kaiser himself..." The old man walked away, followed by Athalwolf.
"You are not, mon friend. Do you not know? I am Jobst von Salza's father! He sadly, was adopted into those German lands..." Athalwolf stared in shock, then started to leave.
"Where are you going, mon Count Leroy?" asked the man.
"I am NOT COunt Leroy! I AM COUNT VON SALZA!" roared AThalwolf, he kicked down the door, briskly leaving. He mounted his horse, his appearance suprising his escort.
"Hurry up you buggers! We leave for Swabia!" A man galloped forth from the mansions stables, it was the Frenchman. His company though, was not protested, and the escort of Imperial Knights and Athawolf left the city, sadly watched by Duke Leroy of France. He knew it was to happen, and only hoped his planned actions worked.

[GeneralHankerchief]

1320

Kaiser Elberhard's announcement of the fall of Rome, while the first official mention of the event, was not anywhere near being the first acknowledgement - nor was it the most-talked about.

That honor fell to a voice, a voice that made itself heard throughout the known world, as soon as the Byzantines stormed the city, captured the Imperial Diet and Palace, and declared victory. A loud scream, a yell that was simultaneously in fury and frustration, anguish and agony, boomed throughout the city, the surrounding areas, and most of the world.

In Rome, the citizens being executed mistook it for the cry of their fellow people in pain and for help. The Byzantines doing the killing took the yell as an omen, as in maybe they had crossed holy ground and weren't supposed to go further, or that someone was disapproving of their executions in general. But, when no lightning struck, they continued their spree, although slightly unnerved.

In Florence, it took Dietrich von Dassel and Alexander Luther, who were arguing about the merits of the "Cathedral of Sin" by surprise. Luther, after pausing and looking around, crossed himself and began muttering. Dietrich also looked around, lost in thought, wondering how such a yell could reach the capital of Bavaria and Kaiser Heinrich's former "watchtower over Rome." He looked around some more and excused himself, heading for the Cathedral to take his mind off of the unholy scream.

The yell spread throughout the heartlands of the Reich, both those which were gone and those that still called themselves Imperial. The majority of the people, lacking proper knowledge of what triggered the noise, figured only that something terrible had happened and this was just a very bad omen.

It made its way through the east of Europe, where it similarly unnerved the thousands of Byzantine soldiers, wondering if something had gone terribly wrong in Rome. It crossed over Anatolia, causing a great wave of prayer, and eventually made its way to Outremer.

In Jerusalem, the new Pope, Lambertus, heard the scream and shuddered. It was a familiar voice to all Popes, a one that they all feared, or at least all of them since Gregory. It was a voice back from the dead, a voice that knew something had gone wrong and had expressed its emotions so loudly that it had crossed over into the mortal realm.

Similarly, Kaiser Elberhard heard the voice and recognized it at once, instantly realizing in that moment why his father, Henry, had moved the crown away from his family. After the initial shock, he calmed somewhat, maybe even hopefully thinking that it wasn't his fault, that he never should have been Kaiser in the first place, that his family was cursed.

The majority of the Electors, spread out from Caen to Antioch, from Thorn to Ajaccio, did not know exactly where the voice came from or who owned it. Not even Hans, the oldest of them, knew, for by the time he was old enough to have a memory the owner of the voice had already had a falling-out with his father. Those people that knew people that knew the owner, those that still had a second-degree connection, those that had heard firsthand accounts of the owner, knew where it came from and shuddered, for even in death the voice possessed all of the emotion and force that it did in life, and it was clear to all that the voice was displeased, to say the least.

The scream echoed throughout the world, the very past of the Holy Roman Empire screaming in pain and agony, screaming at the fate that was befalling his precious city, his precious Reich. It was to be a sign of things to come.

[Cecil XIX]

Prague, 1320

Filled with a new sense of purpose, Edmund Becker marches toward the center of Prague. Upon his arrival, he spot a great crowd ready to listen to his speech. Slowly but surely, he begins. It is his first time speaking publically in Czech.

"My fellow Bohemians! Currently, the Reich is in a time of crisis. Our enemies surround us, lawlessness breaks out amongst the people, and electors war amongst themselves instead of working together. Well, none of that will happen here!

Bohemia has been a part of the Reich for nearly one hundred and fifty years. It has always been a peaceful place, a place far away from war where the men and woman have been able to enjoy the protection that the Reich offers. I say to you now that will not change! This county will not fall as long as I am alive, I assure you!

I call upon every able-bodied peasant in Bohemia to report to Prague’s City Watch, and every noble infused with a martial spirit to make himself known in the Council Chambers! Together we need fear no enemy, for when the people from all walks of life unite in the defense of their homelands there is no enemy alive that can stop them!"

After much cheering, he steps down and returns to the Council Chambers thinking to himself.

"With a little luck, we just might pull this off."

[OverKnight]

Antioch, 1320

In the newly rebuilt Church in the newly retaken capital of Outremer a solitary figure knelt in prayer. The Priest had given his blessing an hour ago and the other parishioners had shuffled out, yet Matthias stayed. He was troubled and he sought solace in this place, it reminded him of another Shrine he had prayed in long ago under similar grim circumstances. But this Church was not consecrated to Saint Maximillian, that Chapel most likely had been pulled down by the Greeks, and this place was not Adana, still under their heel, and this time he had no comfort. If God heard him, he sent no sign.

No doubt there were a few who found Matthias's piety at odds with his reputation. The King, perhaps, or the Kaiser, and only the Lord knew what the smallfolk thought, but he was a religious man and they did not truly know him. Jan was a proponent of the New Testament, a man of mercy and forgiveness, of turning the other cheek. Matthias, well, he took strength and guidance from the Old Testament. The Germans were the new Chosen People, following the Will of God in return for His protection and guidance.

The Reich, however, had fallen out of the Covenant. The mad Kaiser Siegfried had attempted to rebuild the Tower of Babel, to work against God's plan, and the Reich, despite Matthias's attempts to stop it, had been laid low. Matthias had fought on, enduring his time in the Lion's Den and striking where he could at his enemies, but the task before him, of bringing the Reich back to its primacy, or even just its survival, was daunting. The Empire had survived treachery, constant attack, interdiction and Mongols from the Steppe, but it had fallen to the only enemy that could stop it, the Reich itself.

How could Adana be returned to the light, or the Reich restored and brought back to the Grace of God? Matthias did not know, and so he knelt in a strange Church, seeking guidance. His heart fell as the silence encompassed him.

"Chancellor Matthias?"

Matthias looked up, a man stood before him holding a long wooden box. He had seen better days, his clothes were in rags and hung loosely. Despite his bedraggled state, he carried himself as a fighting man, a dagger hung at his hip. He seemed familiar.

"I haven't been Chancellor for twenty years, young man, and I'm barely a Count, but yes I am he. And you are?"

"Adalric, Sir, I was a soldier at Adana, before the. . .transfer. Been bouncing around Outremer since. It's good you made it out of Caesarea, my Lord. We all thought you were dead. Most of the lads left for home. I stayed in Antioch, untill I got booted out by those damned Greeks. Seemed they had a thing against Bavarians, after things went bad. We should have know you were alive. . ."

The soldier trailed off awkwardly. Matthias stood and put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's not your fault Adalric, I got myself captured. I should have stayed in Adana."

The man brightened and spoke up, "Adana, that's just it. That's why I wanted to find you. I've got something from Adana for you. Grabbed it before those damned Greeks took the place. I hid it here, but I only just got back. . ."

Matthias nodded and looked at the box with curiosity.

"These are chaotic times Adalric, we all do the best we can. Why don't you show me what you brought?"

Adalric smiled sheepishly and put the box down on a pew.

"Yeah, as I was saying, I took it from Adana, from St. Maximillian's Chapel, before they could get their hands on it. It felt wrong opening up King Salier's tomb like that but. . .I couldn't let them have it, Unified Church or not."

Matthias opened the box. Wrapped in cloth within it was a sword and scabbard. He gasped, "My God, is this. . .?"

Adalric nodded, happy, "Yes my Lord, Saint Maximillian's sword itself. The sword that cut through metal without a scratch, that killed that heathen General, that King Salier took with him to his last battle, poor bastard."

Matthias unsheathed the sword and raised it with reverence. After he had retrieved King Salier's head from Kitbuqa the Wrathful he had found his body and looted possessions, including the sword, and interred them in the Chapel of Adana next to his fellow Bavarian Crusader, St. Maximillian. Of course some said there was a stronger relation between them than nationality, but the Church frowned on that particular rumor.

Matthias thought that the sword, along with everything else, had been lost with Adana, but here was the Sword of the Saint delivered to him in his hour of need. Here was a sign, a talisman of hope and an instrument of God's Vengeance upon His enemies.

Matthias ran his thumb along the blade and pulled it back with a exclamation. A bit of blood shone on it. After all those years, the sword was still sharp.

"You have done well, Adalric, I would be honored if you joined my retinue."

The soldier nodded, tears in his eyes, "A Bavarian should have it, my Lord. The Count of Adana should use it."

Matthias raised the sword to the light poring through the windows of the Church. Gazing up at it, there was a grim set to his features, but a new fire burned in his eyes.

"Yes Adalric, you have the right of it. The Sword will be used, for God, St. Maximillian and the Reich. We will have restoration and, the Lord willing, revenge!"