Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[GeneralHankerchief]

Somewhere in the Swiss Alps, 1330

Alexander Luther, cold, hungry, and alone, was continuing his desperate flight from the city of Bern which had begun around a week ago. He had no idea where he was, although he gathered that it was somewhere northeast of the city since that was the direction he had fled in, and he was concerned about putting as many miles as possible between him and that apocalyptic death match he had seen.

It was the first battle he had seen up close, and he was terrified.

Really, he had no choice to see it up close, as there was nowhere for Dietrich von Dassel to put him that was safe. He had requested being hidden in a church, or a nice house, but Dietrich had insisted that Luther ride with him.

"The safest point in the battle will be by my side," he said to Luther before the fighting had begun. "I am not so foolish as to throw this escort's life away, and besides, if all does not go well they will surely find you in the city and kill you. At least you have a chance of fleeing with me."

Luther reluctantly agreed, and became witness to Dietrich riding around desperately, cursing, grinning, cheering, and barking out orders left and right at a rapid-fire pace, becoming more and more agitated as the battle progressed. He was clearly in his element, but Luther could only concentrate on staying on his mount.

He wished he had a mount now. Navigating through the rough forest of the Alps was difficult for a fine soldier in the prime of his life. He was a professional theologian who was well past his best years.

So, mostly, he trusted his faith to see him through this period of trial. How could it not? After all, he had already been spared by the Lord twice at the Battle of Bern. How could he be wrong after twice escaping death?

The first escape was right after Dietrich had made the decision to sally out of the city, the city that he had professed to defend and let Hans impale himself on for years now. He was clearly agitated about it, and was also the most indecisive that Luther had ever seen him. When he finally made the decision though, he followed it through, ordering the northern and western walls abandoned.

After the Sergeants had left, the peasant uprising had sprung, bogging down two full regiments of crossbowmen. Luther had looked at Dietrich, who simply pointed at the peasants, eyes blazing with fury. Before he knew it the escort was charging, himself included, right into the fray. And that was when the terror began.

He found himself, although admittedly in armor, surrounded by enemies, people that wanted to kill him. And one man came close, spotting him, dagger ready, eyes fixed on Luther's horse's soft underbelly...

...and then, out of nowhere, a sword emerged from the man's neck, sending him slumping to the ground instantly. Luther breathed a sigh of relief.

The battle and those peasants were certainly terrifying, but Luther prayed that he would come across one of them now, any friendly farmer or goat herder that would give him a proper meal and a proper bed. He wouldn't even have to give them his name, because helping out a person in need was the good Christian thing to do.

No such peasants could be seen, however, and he simply stumbled on, uphill of course, and there was not a break in the monotony of rocks, trees, and grass anywhere, no sign of humans ever having set their eyes upon this place. Oh sure, there was the occasional wildlife, but he was truly alone.

During his trek, Luther had a lot of time to think. He pondered his life, his career, his teachings, and mostly, the memories of what had happened in the final moments north of the city, which would stay with him forever, for even a week after his numbing journey, they still stood out vividly.

There was Hans's last stand, and although the loyalists north of the city had no hope of winning they were still frightfully successful, charging and charging again, rolling over Dietrich's poor infantry. The rebel commander that he had followed from Ragusa to Durazzo to Bologna to Florence to Innsbruck, and finally to Bern, had watched helplessly as every charge whittled away his chances of winning the battle. He remained calm, however, and watchful, even throwing his helmet to get a better view of the situation.

Suddenly, he saw an opening and roared for his escort to charge, and they did in a last-ditch attempt to win the day and destroy Hans. Luck was with them, for the Duke of Swabia was caught in the open and pulverized by a lance, unhorsing him and knocking him senseless. After that stroke of luck the loyalist infantry had simply given up, and all that remained alive on the field were Hans (now Dietrich's personal prisoner), Luther, and a handful of his escort. There was a brief moment of calm in the terror.

Then, someone pointed out the dreaded sight - two hundred-strong cavalry, out of the western gate, heading directly for the survivors.

"Dietrich," Luther cried, "The battle is lost! We must flee now to save ourselves."

Dietrich said nothing, simply wearing a twisted grin on his face and staring at Hans, who was beginning to come to. "No," he said, "It is a draw." And with that, his eyes now shining brightly, still grinning, he took his sword and quickly decapitated Hans the Mighty, Duke of Swabia, ex-Chancellor of the Reich, last survivor of the First Crusade, Possessor of the Holy Grail, and grandson of Kaiser Heinrich.

"I have done what I set out to do," he said as the enemy cavalry thundered closer. "I have avenged Jens Hummel and killed Hans. Jan von Hamburg and his retinue are nowhere to be found in this charge. My guess is that they all fell to my Gothic Knights in the center of town. That impetuous fool."

The rest of the escort simply stared at him. Dietrich continued talking. "I have done what I set out to do," he said again. "The loyalists are without leaders. Who cares if Bern falls?"

The cavalry drew closer. "Come, let us ride." And they did, but it was hopeless, and Dietrich saw this quickly. Luther could only watch as the rebel commander turned around, faced the incoming charge with his arms open wide, and took the lance blow directly in the chest from the Teuton that had ignored the white flag being raised. Luther could only watch as the Teuton dismounted and bashed Dietrich's helmetless head again and again in a fit of anger, bright red blood pouring out from a thousand different angles.

He took it as his cue to leave as he silently shed his armor and began his trek through the Alps as the rest of Dietrich's comrades and Jan's cavalry ignored him, focusing on the fourth and final fallen leader. This was his second escape.

Although was it a true escape? After all, he had not yet found shelter; he was still a prisoner of the Alps. If he did, it might very well be a Catholic knight waiting for him, a Catholic Knight that knew his face and knew all that Luther and von Dassel were responsible for.

He decided that it was best if he kept on moving and embraced what fate the Lord had in mind for him.

[deguerra]

Ludwig von Böhmen

Somewhere near the Polish-Bohemian Border:

There had been a satisfying look of shock on the Pole’s face, Ludwig reminisced as he tried to clean the sickly sweet blood of his sword and robes. Still, that look burned into his conscience. It was important that the man had been surprised, important that he had not had the chance to scream, important that nobody knew. That did not have to mean it felt right.

Muttering a short prayer for the dead man, perhaps a little for himself too, he made his way back to Heinrich, who was watching the horses a little way up the gentle slope. Despite the short man being some years older than him, Ludwig had always felt better in his presence than in that of the boys his age. Their poorly hidden greed in the presence of a noble’s son sickened him.

It was not as though he had anything to give, any favours to grant, any rewards to dish out. His family’s holdings comprised no more than three villages and a slightly oversized farmhouse which his father chose to label ‘castle’. Ludwig often found himself wondering why the Poles even bothered with them.

“He is dead”. Heinrich seldom asked questions. Where in that Silesian farmer’s skull did he pull such cold hardness from? “You had to do it, Ludwig. He would have warned the others. I would have done it, but you are stronger than I”. That was a lie. The little man had the strength of bear, and the cunning of a viper. And sometimes the tongue too. “Because I am too lazy to walk.” That had been Heinrich’s answer to Ludwig’s father’s question of why he chose to ride with his son. Even the old man had been hard-pressed not to smile at such audacity.

Grinning grimly, he re-mounted. Coming out of the little forest at the top of the hill, he risked a glance over the rim to the Pole’s camp. It was empty. Startled, he spurred his horse on, down into the shadow of the valley, Heinrich yelling something behind him. Where had they gone?

“…a trap!”, he heard Heinrich coming up behind him. “Nonsense my friend, they did not know anyone was there to trap. But where did they go?” Still looking at the trees around him suspiciously, Heinrich dismounted and headed towards the remains of a fire. Kicking at the ashes with one lazy boot, he said: “Judging from this, I’d say they’ve been gone at least…”. A thunderous roar went up in the distance, hitting the valley in a few seconds and bouncing off the walls to grow so deafening that it made the horses rear, with Ludwig struggling to keep from being dismounted. Even before he was in complete control of his mount, he raced off towards the ‘castle’.

He could smell the smoke even before he saw it. His father had insisted on keeping a storage of blackpowder, had insisted it was the way of the future. Arriving at the crest of a little rise, Ludwig saw that the entire complex was ablaze, not individual little fires, but one huge snarling monster. A lone figure was stumbling away from the complex. Ludwig dashed to intercept him, just as he heard Heinrich gasp as he too reached the crest.

It was Tomasz, a stableman in his father’s employ, with a love for horses only matched by a love for drink. He gave a start as Ludwig came into his blurred vision, then recognition marked his face and he slumped into the tall grass. In a firm little voice that belied his outward distress he said: “They are dead, Herr. All of them. Those the Poles did not surprise were torn apart when those fools set fire to the powder storage. I don’t think any of those made it out either. Your father was wounded by a Polish lance. He gave Johann this for you. I took it off Johann’s body. Or what was left of it.”

The sentences came out abruptly and breathlessly. When he finished he held up a charred bit of paper. Ludwig took it, knowing what it was. His father’s prized possession. To him it had represented the reward for years of grovelling, of building up favours and alliances, of bowing his head and doing the will of the mighty. Beside him, Tomasz collapsed into the grass and Heinrich rushed to close his dead eyes.

Ludwig looked back at the burning castle. The shock of the moment had not hit him, would not hit him for a while yet. But a realisation dawned on him, that his future here was over. This land could not be held, not while the Empire was busy fighting itself too much to care about its people. His father had been wrong, and now he had paid the price.

He looked again at the paper in his hand, studying it as if he was seeing it for the first time. Was this his future? Service under a rebel, true, but also under a man who respected his people, who looked out for and cared for his lands. A small bit of his conscience reminded him of his loyalty to the Empire. He told it to burn in hell, and turned his horse towards the west.

[Zim]

Jan looked uncomfortable in the sumptuous working space provided for him, so unlike his training headquarters back in Staufen. He had been in Antwerp a scant few days. Upon his entrance his soldiers had kept the crowds away from him, but he knew he wa unpopular. The Flemish quarters were peaceful enough, but the Danish quarters, the larger of the two, had been brutally sacked when Hummel had first taken it.

"Sir?"

"Huh?" Jan exclaimed, broken out of his revery by the attendant he summoned earlier. "Take all of this down" he said, "Citizens of Antwerp, I know the recent years have been difficult. Especially for our Danish residents. Much ire as been directed rightfully at those of us that conquered the city. Things needed were done, but they were also horrible things. Many of you likely resent me as a symbol of Prinz Hummel. However, circumstances beyond all of our control must drive us together, or they will destroy us."

"The French even now besiege our sister city of Bruges. They command a mighty host. They will easily take it, and then they will then immediately bear down on us. Our only hope is to meet them outside Bruges, or stop them on their way here. However, we lack the troops to face them. This is where I must call on you."

"I need any able bodied man, Flemish or Danish, that possesses training and weaponry to assemble as a volunteer force to defeat the French host. I cannot afford to pay anything beyond what can be scavenged from the bodies of our dead foes, but this is a battle for our very survival. I promise this, that forces raised will only be used to fight this French army. Danish volunteers will not be forced to fight their countrymen, only the French. The volunteer force will be immediately disbanded once Bruges can be secured, or if that is impossible, after any army threatening Antwep is destroyed. Anti-discrimination laws concerning the Danish citizens of the city will be passed, regardless of whether any forces are raised. We are all in this trouble together, and must face it as equals and comrades".

"I know this is a difficult request, but these are difficult times. I have little to offer and know that you owe me no obligation. I can only beg you to do it for the good of the city. I beseech you, in the name of God and all that is holy, join me in the defense of our city!"

"Sign it in the name of Jan von der Pfalz, Count of Antwerp", Jan commanded, "and have it read in every church, every open forum and market place, and every public house in the city".

"Yes, sir", the aid replied, leaving to accomplish the task.

I hope this works, or the Duchy of Flanders might be shortlived, Jan thought. Whatever happened, though, I won't let Antwerp fall without a fight!