NationStates Jolt Archive

Part 1: Demons

He stood on the ridge, a rock amid the surging sea of humanity, the roar of the cannons ringing in his ears, mingling with the blood curdling shrieks resonating from a million sets of vocal chords. The sky flashed blood red with every explosion as jet engines screamed overhead. All around him scarred Generian standards surged towards the distant coastline, driven like dead souls before the furies in the direction of a retreating enemy. The blood rushed in his veins, as if part of the senseless cacophony, and he tilted his head back and roared like an animal, his saber held aloft, visible to the men that rushed around him.

His eyes seemed to glow red, reflecting the flames that stood out everywhere along the coastline as he lowered his head. With deliberate and measured step he moved forward, a goliath amid the others. Machine guns roared ahead of him, in hastily fortified Yaforite positions, bullets tearing into the rapidly advancing Generian ranks. He urged the men forward, Praetorians and regulars alike, all surging towards the rocky Buchianan coastline.

“That’s it boys! Drive the bastards back to the sea!” he heard an officer shout somewhere off to his right, the call echoed by a great bellowing Praetorian warcry, in turn answered by a burst of Yaforite artillery fire. He continued to stalk forward, saber held above his head. Over the din he shouted, clear as day:

“You heard him! Forward! Avenge your mother Generia!”

Their faces turned to him, the great warrior prince, brother to the Emperor, standing fearsome in their midst, defiant against the enemy, sword aloft, face full of battle. As one, that section of the line surged forward, over the scarred countryside, towards the hastily dug Yaforite trenches and the fortified hillsides. They fell in droves, their corpses forming a footpath for the men behind them, guns blazing, sabers waving, standards flying in the hot wind of battle, the stars and the moon blocked out by the clouds of smoke from the blazing fire.

He went with them, riding the human wave, feeling as if he were flying. He felt something slam into his right shoulder, but did not stop, and kept his sword held high, ready to come down on the first enemy face he saw. The Generians poured into the trenches and tore into their enemies. He leapt over a low wall, and saw below him a face so blackened with soot that every feature was indistinguishable save for a pair of piercing blue eyes. With a fury known only to men in the heart of battle, he thrust his saber into that blackened face, unleashing an animal roar that resounded across the battlefield.

----

Rurik bolted up, whipping the long, curved knife out from under his pillow, and thrusting its edge against the throat of the silhouette that stood beside his bed. With a note of whispered panic, the silhouette responded.

“My lord, its me.”

Rurik sniffed the air, and studied the vague features, before withdrawing the blade. His bodyguard was a tall, thin man that some often confused with a butler. Looks, however, were deceiving, and Ivan Iljiek, the former Praetorian Captain, was one of few men the warrior prince trusted with his life.

“It’s time, my lord.”

Rurik grunted and in the pre-dawn darkness he got out of bed. The bodyguard turned and left the room while Rurik dressed. He moved slowly towards the chest at the far end of the room, between a pair of tall windows, and with care opened the locks that kept it sealed. Like a father cradling a new child he lifted his saber from its place and strapped it to his waist. He lumbered towards the door and out into the hall.

“Is he out there?”

“He is, my lord.”

“Then let’s get this over with.”

They moved through the cold marble hallways of the small Dedovka river palace, making their way out into the courtyard where a gray light illuminated a group of a dozen others. At the far end of the courtyard, separated from the others, a man in faded black and red overcoat waited. Rurik shot a fiery glance towards the figure that was not returned. He spoke to his bodyguard without breaking his gaze.

“Where is my brother?”

“The Emperor decline attendance.”

Rurik grunted, steam emanating from his nostrils as he did so. Removing the heavy bearskin coat he had thrown over his shoulders to reveal the sword at his side, he spoke: “let’s finish this.”

Seeing this, the rest of the apparent spectators moved to the side, leaving only Rurik, his bodyguard, the other man, and a fourth individual standing in the center of the courtyard. Iljiek and the fourth man approached each other and shook hands.


“His highness will accept no apology, and will demand satisfaction.”

The other man nodded.

“The challenge?”

“A duel of sabers.”

“To first blood?”

“To the death.”

The two men returned to opposite sides, where Rurik and the other man waited. The second man had by now removed his overcoat. He was a tall man, young, and handsome in a traditionally Generian way. He was a nobleman from his looks, and would have been recognized as a well liked man, charismatic and charming. His name was Alexander Vielsk. His offense was between himself and the prince. The duel to compensate for the insult in question, however, was a public affair.

The seconds moved to the side, and Rurik and Alexander faced each other. For the first time the younger man made eye contact with the prince. He had avoided it before as a gesture of respect for royal blood, but now that they faced each other in the arena, such formalities vanished. They were equals now, and all that mattered was how they handled their blades.

Rurik drew first, and charged his quarry. All that could be heard was the sound of his heavy footfalls on the light snow that covered the grass. It was early spring, but it was not uncommon for snow to fall through late April in this part of Generia.

He lunged, but his quarry executed a weak parry and whirled out of the way of Rurik’s sword. The Prince recovered and brought his saber to bear on his foe’s throat. Alexander deflected the blow, and jumped back, squaring off against his enemy. Rurik lunged again, and once more the blow was blocked. His eyes full of rage, his brought the saber back over his right shoulder and swung it with all his might at his quarry, who raised his own sword to block the crushing blow, and was sent reeling backwards. Rurik did not miss the opportunity and charged his disoriented foe, who frantically raised his weapon to counter.

Rurik knocked the blade aside, and threw his whole mass into his enemy’s chest, knocking him several yards back onto the ground. Rurik approached his fallen quarry slowly, saber at his side, but every muscle tensed. Alexander squirmed, struggling to find his bearings and get to his feet. As he came upon him, Rurik saw an animal terror in the young nobleman’s eyes, and heard his own blood pounding against the sides of his skull. Alexander struggled to throw in a frantic thrust at Rurik’s lower abdomen, but with a single swipe, the Generian prince knocked the blade from his hand, slashing the man’s hand in the process. Alexander cried out in pain and clutched his bleeding hand, shifting his gaze from his wound to the gargantuan mass standing over him.

“That’s enough, brother! You’ve made your point.”

Rurik turned his head to where the voice had come, but saw nothing. All was a blur except for the prey beneath his feet, even the countenance of his brother, Emperor Kazatmiru of Generia. He turned his eyes back on his enemy, and flipped the saber in his hands, holding it like a dagger. He raised it high above his head, and with both hands and all the strength he had, he drove it home into his enemy’s heart. His last gasp echoed around the silent courtyard, his eyes opening wide, an expression of shock on his face, and he was gone. The blade hummed as Rurik withdrew it from his foe’s trunk, and clanged as he tossed it to the ground.

He turned on the crowd of spectator’s, looking at them uninterestedly, and stalked off towards the palace. Kazatmiru watched his brother disappear inside, and then turned his gaze on the dead man, whose blood was just now staining the fresh snow. With a heavy sigh he turned and went back inside.

Colonel Vladimir Stretayanovic took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke drifted from the corners of his mouth and nostrils, and floated upwards to wreath his scarred face. With his one eye, he watched uninterestedly as a young man, head shaved, torso bare, was dragged from a squat wooden building by a pair of large Imperial Regulars. A tattoo of a wolf’s head on his chest showed that he was or had once been among their ranks. His face was bruised, and his chest and back were marked by poorly treated gashes. Despite his condition, he struggled ferociously against the two men who led him, and as they approached the Colonel, thrust him forward into the mud and snow. The man made to get to his feet, but a blow from a rifle butt put him back in his place.

Colonel Stretayanovic drew again on the cigarette, before flicking the butt away, where it lay fuming in the snow. With his one eye, he studied the man before him. In a low voice, not menacing, but with a cold politesse that was enough to freeze the blood in one’s veins, he addressed the man plainly.

“Why are you here?”

The man did not respond, but eyed the officer with hatred. The Colonel repeated the question. This time the man offered a reply.

“You’re a murderer.”

The Colonel was silent, his gaze unchanged. The man continued.

“We’re all murderers. This war is madness.”

One of the soldiers behind him kicked him in the back of the head, forcing his face once again into the mud.

“He’s a deserter, sir. Like the others.”

The Colonel looked casually at a series of three frozen corpses lying fifty yards away, as of yet unburied. In the distance an artillery piece had opened fire, breaking the quiet of the early morning. A few miles away lay the front, where the Generian and Yaforite armies faced each other, entrenched, waiting as they had waited for the past eight months.

“Name?”

The same soldier answered.

“Corporal Vasilly Iliek. Alberian.”

The addition of the man’s ethnicity at the end was not necessary, but to a pure Generian officer, this was often a deciding factor.

“Corporal Iliek, you are a deserter and a traitor to your country and your Emperor.”

“Fuck you!”

The man spat and pronounced the curse before another blow from a rifle butt knocked him once more to his place in the snow. Colonel Stretayanovic took a cigarette case from the pocket of his overcoat, and placed the last one between his lips. Taking his time, he removed his lighter from the same pocket, flicked it, and touched it to the end of his smoke, drawing deeply. Replacing the case and the lighter, he turned towards the southern sky, where over the ridge the men of his command were preparing themselves for a new assault on the Yaforite lines. Thousands would die today. It was a surety like no other.

With a single motion his hand shot to the holster at his hip, withdrew a 9mm automatic, cocked it, and brought it to bear on the man’s head. Instinctively and without hesitation he pulled the trigger.

--------------

Vladimir Stretayanovic lay the straight razor down on the filthy bathroom sink. The war was over, and Sofia was a city of scars. Through the window he could see a statue of Alexei The Great, standing lopsided on a pedestal shattered by tank shells during the month long battle for the city that had ended a year ago today. Outside the old boarding house where the Generian military man had been instructed to take a room, horns honked and engines roared as the city’s denizens went about their business. It was a city that had undergone a massive, and a rapid campaign of reconstruction. The battle had shattered 60% of the city’s infrastructure. In a year, 55% of that damage had been repaired.

Stretayanovic had never liked Sofia. It was a beautiful city in some places, but the ones he knew from his youth were anything but. As soon as the Yaforites had left, the gangs and the cartels had returned to take their rightful places. There was a lot of money to be made selling the surplus stock that the two clashing armies had left behind, out in the open, and the military garrison that was overseeing the reconstruction had been pitiably ineffective in stopping the arms wholesalers from indulging in their orgy.

But none of this was his concern. He was a military man, and he was here on business, like so many of his comrades. In the next room, the phone had begun to ring. Taking one last look in the mirror, he ran his fingers over the black socket where his left eye should have been, and grabbed the glass prosthetic from where it sat in a tray on the sink. Popping it into the socket, he walked out into the room and picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Good morning Colonel. I hope your stay hasn’t been too uncomfortable.”

“I’ve experienced worse.”

“I’m sure of it. Now, you were called here to meet with a Mr. Cac of Imperial Military Intelligence, if I recall.”

“That is what I was told.”

“There’s a car waiting outside. Good day, Colonel.”

He put the receiver back on the hook. Taking a cigarette from an old, rusted case on the dresser, he placed it in his mouth and lit it. He put on his uniform shirt, and a pair of freshly polished black boots, before heading towards the door, grabbing his green Imperial Army issue overcoat and hat, and stepping out into the hallway. He made his way down the stairs, and stepped out into the cold, exhaust choked air. As promised, a car waited for him, a black sedan, unmarked, windows tinted. Standard conveyance of the Generian clandestine services, and a common sight these days in the strongholds of the Imperium. Tossing his cigarette into the storm drain, he walked over to the car and got in.

tag

Emperor Kazatmiru, sovereign lord of the Generic Empire and her dominions, paced back and forth over the stone floor of the sitting room. Smoke trailed from a cigarette held between the fingers of the right hand. A second man slumped in a leather armchair by a large fireplace.

“This can’t continue. Your brother’s personal disputes are threatening the stability of the court. They threaten your own image.”

The only reply was the steady sound of Kazatmiru’s shoes falling on the floor as he paced.

“Something has to be done. The man is not fit to stay here. Rurik is a barbarian.”

Kazatmiru halted as he reached the windows, and his gaze roamed the roving hillsides beyond.

“No, he is a soldier.”

“That may be so, but his place is in the field. He has no enemies here, so he makes them.”

“He has his uses, Varus.”

“Yes, but let him use his talents for the good of the Empire. Let him fight Generia’s enemies, not make his own.”

Kazatmiru took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Unfortunately, Generia has no enemies at the moment.”

“Generia has always had enemies, and always will.”

Kazatmiru resumed his pacing, slower than before, his eyes trained on the floor.

“I had hoped to keep him here for a time. The war took its toll on him, though he will deny it. Now, however, it seems we have little choice. There is a project that I think may suit him. Something to keep his interests occupied.”

“I think it a wise decision, your grace.”

Kazatmiru nodded, more to himself than to anyone else.

Colonel Stretayanovic watched the gray city rush before the tinted windows, and resisted the urge to light his last cigarette. Looking towards the driver’s seat he saw only his own reflection in the retractable two-way mirror that separated the rear of the car from the front. He felt ill at ease, and did his best not to show it, though he imagined this apprehension was common with anyone who had to deal with the Generian clandestine services. They were a frightening group, especially to the Generian brass, who had rarely trusted, and never liked the spies, no matter which boss they worked for; but it brought some comfort to the Generian brass to know that each agency competed with most or all of the others, and as such, rarely worked together.

It was this problem that had plagued Generian intelligence for years under the Alexian Emperors. Because an agent could rarely trust anyone, even in his own agency, or government, he often developed a sense of independence and autonomy that was both a blessing and a curse for the Empire. Agents formed themselves into small groups, operating more or less independently of each other, with more loyalty to their handler than to the Emperor. It was a system that had made possible both lethal blows to Generia’s enemies, and periods of internal strife and stability that were still talked about with a shiver and a grim look. However, the status quo in this world of shadows and lies had also created some of the best agents in the business, and fortunately, some of them still called Kazatmiru their king of kings.

Captain Ilyk Czenko, military intelligence, was one of these men. He had served a dedicated twenty years in the service, and had the secret distinction of being the only man in the intelligence world the Imperial Court trusted. His loyalty had of course been improved by the small fortune he had made from gray area arms deals to various regional cartels that the Generian government had turned a blind eye to, but loyalty bought was better than none at all.

It was this man that Colonel Stretayanovic stepped out of the car with the intention of seeing. In the narrow, dark, rancid smelling alley where the sedan halted and a limousine waited, Stretayanovic came face to face with Czenko, who shook his hand, nodded, and gestured silently to the other car. Stretayanovic got into the back, followed by Czenko, who sat across from him. The military intelligence man poured himself a drink from a bottle of Black Death vodka, and then offered one to the man who technically outranked him.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you, Colonel. Your reputation precedes you.”

“I wish I could say the same, but I’m afraid your reputation is invisible, at least to me.”

“As it should be,” replied the spook, sipping from his glass.

Czenko’s hair, that had once been a deep shade of brown, was graying rapidly. His face, clean shaven, bore wrinkles that seemed to be due more to stress than to excessive age. Stretayanovic judged him to be about his own age, in his mid-forties, and wondered why, if the man was as important as he judged he was, he had never been promoted past the rank of Captain. He suspected it had something to do with the visibility that came with higher rank, and satisfied himself with this conclusion and that the military intelligence division was a strange bunch, who were best left unquestioned. Czenko finished his drink and placed the glass back in the small minibar built into the side of the limousine.

“I’m not a man to spend a long time on a subject, so I’ll get to the point, Colonel. A week ago you were contacted by my people about a special assignment, and told that if you were interested you were to come to Sofia.. You are here now, so obviously you are interested.”

Stretayanovic noticed that his counterpart’s gaze fixed itself directly on his one good eye. Either he was very adept at spotting the false nature of the prosthetic, or someone had previously informed him of the Colonel’s unfortunate injury.

“I can see why, judging from the events of the past year. It’s always sad when an officer as decorated and talented as yourself finds himself tied up in the bureaucracy associated with the politician.”

Czenko was referring to the internal hearings that had been publicly commissioned following the end of the war to satisfy the terms of the peace treaty by investigating perceived war crimes, and those responsible. They were essentially big, loud kangaroo courts, with a lot of talking, and few guilty sentences, if any at all. Stretayanovic had found himself caught in this particular web when a group of subordinated had been brought forward on charges of unlawful treatment of prisoners.

In actuality, it had been Stretayanovic himself who had executed the three bound Yaforites on that cold January morning, revenge for the reported execution of a Generian prisoner, but the court knew better than to bring a man such as Stretayanovic directly into the proceedings. He had been a war hero ever since his defense of Ntac island at the start of the war had been blown into an epic tale of valor in the face of overwhelming odds at a truth and reconciliation hearing at the Istanbul peace accords, and since the more truthful accounts of his daring feats on the lines during the winter months and his defensive actions at Sofia had leaked into the Generian Free Press.

Still, the affair with his subordinated had left his hands tied, and kept him away from any real command for nearly a full year, while his name had faded into the obscurity so many others had fallen into after the initial fervor of victory had died down and the process of reconstruction had begun.

“It’s a mess is what it is,” replied the one-eyed Colonel.

“Yes, a mess indeed, which is why I thought you would be sure to jump at an opportunity to get out of it all, and back where you belong. Alas, I’m not here to give you back your old command of the 32nd battalion, but I think that what I can offer will appeal to you nonetheless.”

“I’m listening.”

Czenko withdrew a pair of cigars from the pocket of his long gray overcoat and offered one to Stretayanovic, who took it and pocketed it.

“I’ll remind you before I continue that what I’m about to tell you is given in the strictest confidence, and to break that confidence would be considered a case of high treason, of which I am certain you are more than aware of the punishment. As you are sitting here in this limousine, I assume that you are prepared to undertake the assignment I mentioned, but all the same, if your interest has faded at all, and you wish to hear no more of this, then I ask you to get out of the car, and my people will take you back to your hotel, from where you may return to your business.”

Stretayanovic did not budge. Czenko removed a box of long matches from his coat pocket, and struck one against his shoe, which he proceeded to touch to the end of his cigar, and draw deeply. As the bitter-sweet smell of burning tobacco filled the car, he continued.

“As you are no doubt aware, the Generian Clandestine Services have been plagued for as long as anyone can remember by both scandal and incompetence.”

Stretayanovic had never considered the spooks incompetent, and in fact rather would have feared them for being too good at what they did, but he judged the Captain’s reasoning to stem from personal feelings rather than objective analysis of the agencies as a whole. He simply nodded.

“Throughout the years, I have found myself in a shrinking company of agents of the various services who treasure their country over their own personal and financial security. As such is the case, I am one of very few men the Emperor can and does continue to trust, in his own intelligence agency, and therefore, he has approached me, though not personally, with information on a certain project that will begin in three days.”

Stretayanovic was silent, listening with rapt attention.

“In three days, the Emperor, along with myself and several other trustworthy individuals will begin a campaign to cleanse the various agencies of those who have been deemed a threat to the internal stability of the Empire, and in the process begin the construction of a new agency that will be directly responsible to Kazatmiru, and will cover all areas of intelligence, with exception to the duties of the secret police, which will remain under the control of the Civil Enforcement bureau, though attached to this new agency.”

Czenko paused to draw on his cigar. He continued more slowly than before.

“Let me ask you this, Colonel, do you remember the Imperial Black Guard?”

In truth it was a name Stretayanovic had not heard in a very long time, and like to every other Generian who had enlisted as a regular, a name that existed as little more than a rumor. Also in truth, it was the name of Generia’s most well kept secret, a special forces division in charge of the tasks no one could ever risk being made public or official. In the past years, the name had disappeared from the general consciousness, as the unit had disappeared from service. Or so it had seemed to everyone save roughly a dozen men who knew the truth.

“I have heard the name, but attached to nothing more than soldier’s legend and rumor.”

“I imagined as much. Well, I can end your suspense here. The Black Guard is, well, was, real, and chances are what you have heard about them in the form of rumor, is the truth. They are worthy of the shivers that they send down spines at every whispered mention of their name, for through them, Generia has done things that we dare not speak of, even in secret, among those who already know the truth.”

“You say ‘was’. What became of them?”

“The unit was disbanded, officially unofficially, four years ago. They were deemed unnecessary during the Junta’s reign of terror, and many of their numbers were hunted down and executed in secret.”

“From what you’re saying, that may not have been such a tragedy.”

“Perhaps to some, but to the friends of Emperor Kazatmiru, their loss was one to weep over. Though they were her bastard sons, Generia’s Black Guard were also her most loyal. Every member would spend eternity in the depths of hell rather than turn himself against his king. That is why they are the few we can trust now.”

“So there were survivors?”

“Yes, a handful.”

“How does this concern me.”

“They are to be your command in the operation we are about to undertake.”

Stretayanovic frowned as the gears turned in his mind.

“Why me?”

“Because you should have been one of them. You recognize war as what it is, Colonel. You aren’t afraid to treat your enemy as an enemy, and you hold Generia above all others. You will be able to do the job you are to be given with no doubts and finish it with a clean conscience.”

“And my job is to murder my countrymen?”

“The men you will murder are not your countrymen. They are traitors, and you will make sure they die traitors’ deaths, Colonel. With the men of your command, and the cooperation of myself and my contacts, you will hunt down and eliminate the individuals I instruct you to, spies who have taken too much liberty in their dealings, and in the process bitten the hand that feeds them. When this is over, you will be rewarded for your patriotism.”

Stretayanovic leaned forward.

“How?”

Czenko smiled as he drew on his cigar.

“Handsomely. With a place in the new order, our new confederacy of shadow patriots, who will do the bidding of their Emperor, and bring Mother Generia to her rightful place in the sun. The tides are changing upon the world stage, Colonel. Make no mistake, this Empire will ride them straight to the top, and you and I will guide it as Kazatmiru’s eyes and ears.”

Stretayanovic’s expression did not change. His eye roamed the face of the spy who had just revealed to him Generia’s darkest secrets, and yet shown the light at the end of a tunnel. He knew not how long, nor how twisted this tunnel was, yet he could feel in his bones the potential at the end of it.

Czenko extended his hand.

“Will you join me? In the name of Kazatmiru, and in the name of Generia, will you join me?”

Stretayanovic inhaled deeply, and shook his hand.

“And would it make you a murderer to say you didn’t regret it? Would it take something more? An ounce of truth to kill the lying voice in your ear, or a gallon of lies to drown the truthful one? Do you want truth? Do you even know what it is? Truth is perception, isn’t it? You’ve said so yourself. Then where is the room left over for lies? You killed him, Varus, didn’t you? You killed him and betrayed his nation after breaking bread in his house. What is truth? Truth is simply perception…”

Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei started up in bed, sweat streaming down his face, gasping for breath. Everywhere he turned in the dark room he could see shadows of a nameless face that had haunted the nightmare from which he had awoken. The ringing in his ears took on the silken qualities of a man’s voice that he could always just place, but never exactly.

He put his feet on the cold wood floor, and reached for the bottle beside his bed. Taking away the cap, he put it to his lips and let the sweet scented narcotic flow down his gullet. In an instant, the face was gone, and his head was spinning. He closed his eyes and fell back on the bed.

----------------------

Rurik paced back and forth on the balcony as he had done 100 times that night. An empty bottle of Black Death vodka rested on the railing of the balcony, beside a slowly burning cigar balancing precariously on the ledge. The warrior prince mouthed words to himself as the cool night air drifted lazily over him beside the sound of the Dedovka river flowing below.

Try as he might, he could not get the face of the man he had slain that day to leave him. Every time his mind rested, it appeared, as lifelike as if it’s owner’s heart was still beating, though Rurik knew it wasn’t. He has taken extra care to make sure of that.

In the bedchamber to which the balcony was attached, he could hear the soft breathing of a young woman. He could feel her warm breath on his neck, feel her soft body against him, but with every breath it was also as if a knife was being thrust into him, for he could hear as well the slow pounding of the dead man’s heart. It was some time before he realized that the girl in the next room was sobbing, and he turned his head slightly as he paused from his pacing to watch her through a pair of red drapes, flowing in the wind.

She was young. Nineteen years or so, he had placed her, and her youth only seemed to enhance her attractiveness. She was from the south, the border region just north of that old rebel province, Buchiana, and that particular ethnicity was visible in her features. While in the men, Buchianan blood hooked the nose and narrowed the eyes, it had a very different effect in the women of that region, tending to define, and at the same time soften the features to a fine beauty in the perfect specimens. This one was not a full blood Buchianan, though. That much was evident from the flowing red hair that betrayed, of all things, Alberian heritage and northern blood. Rurik noted that she lacked the temperament common to that race in her interactions, seeming instead timid, and shy. Her brother, on the other hand had today, in the struggle for his life, shown the fervor that came with his ethnicity.

He had met her during the war, had quite literally plucked her from the clutches of a Yaforite soldier. She was his prize, and the Generian prince had killed her would-be master, thus taking her for himself. That was nearly two years ago. Her brother was a farmer by trade, a soldier by necessity. He had at first opened his home to the Yaforites, as being partially Buchianan, he harbored resentment towards his northern countrymen. However, his sister’s treatment at their hands had caused him to shift his loyalties, and when the charge came that drove them from the land, he led the fourteenth Battalion of Buchianan volunteers.

He was popular at court, to which he had come as the guest of the Emperor, to be decorated for his service, and in which he earned a place on the seat of a reconstruction council for his native region, a place he held until this day, upon which he was murdered.

Despite this, he was not well known, and not much was known about him, personally, for he was a guarded man, and just as this was the case, so it also was that no one would know that it was he, and not the Generian warrior prince, who had issued the challenge that led eventually to his untimely demise.

It was this secret fact, among other things, that the Prince contemplated as he resumed his pacing, to the sounds of his mistress’s soft sobbing in the next room, over a photograph of her dead brother.

Ambassador Abd-Al-Latif al Onur al Najib bin Musa,was recently appointed by Sultan Suleiman al Bashir II to become the Adviser to Emperor of Generia. Its all part of the plan set forth by the Sultan to help and guide his allies of Generia to become a true superpower with total and compete control over its unstable elements. The only person for the job of advising Emperor Kazatmiru to make the right choices during this key time, was no other then Ambassador Musa, who was about 50 years old, a veteran of the late Sultan Mustafa bin Asad Jihads, a retired Colonel of the most infamous intel agency in the KLM, the High Guard, which he spent 20 years of his life as High Guard agent, as for the last 10 years of his life, he serve as a Vizier in the House of Viziers, which he retired recently and now was appointed his current job .He was man of Turkish-Arab-Persian-Armenian background, he is happily married for 30 years to women from the KLM Eurasian dominion region of Georgia. Together they had two sons and one daughter, both their sons are currently in the Imperial Black Guards, the elite corp. assign to protect the Sultan himself, and their daughter is currently studying at Medical School to become a doctor. But that’s enough about the Ambassador personal life, wouldn’t you say?

The Ambassador stood at 5’8 ft, he kept in shape, his skin was lightly tanned, salt and pepper hair and he had blight green eyes was most profound feature of his. He was dress in a black business suit, and he wore a black Fez, a symbol that he was veteran of past wars and Jihads for KLM. He stood silently at the waiting room in the Emperor Court waiting for a guard to come and take to him to see the Emperor; he came alone and unharmed. He spoke fluent Arabic, Turkish, Persian, Russian, English and most recently Generian.

It would not be a simply palace guard who came to greet this newcomer from an old Generian ally, but instead the Emperor Kazatmiru himself. Wearing the traditional long red ceremonial jacket of the Alexian dynasty, emblazoned with the Generian seal, and with a newly lit cigarette trailing from the corner of his mouth, he was at once the depiction of the formal and informal, the emblem of Generian tradition coupled with his father, the Emperor Antonius’s nonchalance.

The Emperor was a man of only 22 years, and it showed in his features, well defined in the typical Alexian fashion. He had a long, slender nose, and a pair of blue eyes that were deeper than they were sharp, betraying a mind more inclined to consider than to speak or act directly. His hair was long, jet black, and tied in a knot near the neck so that the rest of the length fell down to a spot between the shoulder blades, as was the custom of the Generian nobility. He was neither short, not particularly tall, standing at a square 6 foot, and was a thin man, but broad shouldered, and muscled, though not to an exception.

He wore a sword at his hip, a rather plain blade with a somewhat decorated hilt in a somewhat decorated scabbard. Both were heirlooms of the Alexian family, having belonged to the man who would become the Emperor Alexei when he was but a General in the Generian Armed Forces.

Kazatmiru was the third eldest son of the late Emperor Antonius, whose name was remember far and wide with deep respect and admiration. His elder brothers, Antonius’s only other sons, were Alexias and Rurik. Nine younger sisters rounded out the dozen of Antonius’s offspring.

He was not himself a public figure in Generia, preferring to remain behind the walls of the various Imperial palaces, and to allow the man who had served as his father’s advisor, and was by relation his second cousin, Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei, to handle the face to face official affairs of business in his stead, but it would be a mistake to assume that therefore his hand did not play a role in every detail of the turning of the Generian Imperial Government’s gears.

He strode now with a certain natural grace that was unique to him, and with a natural and welcoming smile upon his features, as he extended his hand to the man who had been sent to serve as his advisor.

“Ambassador Musa, it is my pleasure to welcome you to Generia.”

The Ambassador his head slightly out of respect to the Emperor and he began to speak in the Emperor native tongue

“Indeed, Let this be the start of a productive relationship between us, I am only here to advise you and I promise you…. you shall always hear the truth from me, no matter what.”

Emperor Kazatmiru offered his own bow at the man’s words.

“It pleases me to hear such an oath. It is far too seldom that a man speaks the truth without a silver lining around a man of power.”

He looked around, and gestured towards the open door to a sitting room just off the main hall,

“Accompany me to a more comfortable place to converse.”

As the two men stepped into the room, Kazatmiru continued:

“I have no illusions, these days, Ambassador. If you can learn one thing from Generian history it is that someone, somewhere is always plotting to stab you in the back. Ignore this fact, and you won’t last long in Generian politics.”

He took a seat in a comfortable armchair and invited his guest to take a seat in an identical chair across from him. A pair of large windows overlooked the Dedovka river flowing over the rocks below. A well dressed servant brought in a tray with two large cups filled with black Ismerian coffee. Kazatmiru took one and continued, his voice calm, but with a certain tragic undertone.

“People have been plotting against me since before I even rose to the throne, Ambassador. People I called my friends, my countrymen, my brothers even. There are few who remain loyal when the prospect of power and influence is thrown into the equation. Those are the real currencies here, not gold or silver.”

He paused for a minute, then continued.

“And when they are loyal, they’re incompetent.”

Kazatmiru sighed a bit as he sat back in the chair.

”Yesterday morning my brother killed a man. Oh, it was a legal killing of course, a matter of honor. The other man fought bravely in a duel he accepted, and he died for it. It was the product of his own foolishness. He should have known better than to accept Rurik’s challenge. Still, this makes the 6th man of my court who has been killed by my brother in the year that he’s been here. I can’t afford to have it continue, and so now I have to send my brother away from me to take up some foreign assignment.”

Kazatmiru looked directly into his new advisor’s green eyes, and said in a solemn voice:

“This man is my brother, ambassador. My father’s son. The boy I played at wooden swords with as a child, in my father’s house, and yet I can’t afford to keep him around because he isn’t popular with the sycophants who inhabit this place.”

Kazatmiru’s tone was one of anger, now.

“He’s been loyal to me, and to this Empire since the day he could stand, and he’s done more for both than any of them will or could ever hope to.”

He shook his head, closed his eyes, and inhaled.

“Forgive me, ambassador. I ramble.”

Instantly, he seemed to snap out of it, and his eyes resumed their distant contemplative gaze, yet the ambassador could certainly feel as if Kazatmiru was looking straight into him with those unfocused blue orbs. He went on in an even tone.

“Generia will soon be a very different place. My family, this dynasty that my grandfather built has for too long struggled to maintain an even hold. The Empire has for too long suffered from instability due not to the people’s will to see it prosper and achieve true grandeur, but from the people’s servants’, the Imperial government and the armed forces, fighting amongst themselves. That changes today, for in the coming months I will settle all family business. I will make sure that the truly loyal are rewarded while those who spread the seed of instability are punished, and that seed is uprooted forever.”

A fire seemed to blaze in the distant reaches of those deep blue eyes, and it may very well have been Kazatmiru’s own burning heart as he spoke.

“I am young, but I am not naïve, and I am not shy. I will not back away from what needs to be done. I know what the consequences of this will be, and I know that many men will suffer fates that I would wish upon no man if I did not shoulder the burden I carry now. But what needs to be done will be done, and it will be done by my hand, and the hands of those who are loyal to me. When this consolidation of power has finished, Generia will have only one Emperor, one man who drives her, and controls her fate, be it for the better or worse. Ambassador Musa, will you help me do this? Will you help me finish this ugly work that I am about to begin, so that Generia’s star may shine for a thousand more years?”

The Ambassador face was deadpan; he didn’t show any of feeling for him it unbecoming of ambassador with his profession as the Emperor Adviser. He took a moment to think out what the Emperor had just told him, and then he took a deep breath and spoke his opinion

“ I shall guide you to make the right choices for your beloved empire, its funny in way…your predicament reminds much of the early days of Sultan Mustafa bin Asad and Sultan Suleiman al Bashir II, both had to do a lot of effort to stabilize their place in the Imperium… both had to do quite a few things in the grey area for the greater good, as we say back home, its means one must be willing to do whatever it takes to get to one goals…no matter what the cost are …its for the greater good of ones state, there is no right or wrong per say when its comes to greater good…you must be willing to cross that fine line for your own empire sake…don’t tell your emotion cloud your judgment…don’t ever make a policy change rashly…never such a thing…just because your angry got the better of you for the moment…”

He paused for moment and took a sip of his coffee and continues

“Your brother Rurik is great warrior for your cause…yet he is not a man of peace, he is a man of war…its unfitting to make him stay in the palace and allow his sword to rust…he needs to go fore out in the world and conquer new lands in name of empire…that is his gift to your nation, he is warrior and great general, just given him a army and he’ll give you a empire made out of blood and sweat…. Also I must make a note of this…to stabilize your beloved nation…you must purge it of its unwanted elements by any means necessary…but remember this…you spoke of rivalries within your government…you can stabilize it to a point…yet they will always exist to a point, but its your duty to keep such rivalries under control for your nations own good.”

The rows of clean-shaven faces that looked to him from either side were primarily young, in their twenties to early thirties. For some reason, Stretayanovic found himself surprised by this, halfway expecting to be confronted by a room of his own contemporaries. From what Czenko had told him of the Black Guard, it seemed to him somehow strange and absurd that men in their early twenties would be capable of such actions as were required by the Black Guard’s raison d’etre. He had no doubts, however, that the men assembled before him were killers to the core. If what Czenko had told him was indeed the truth, these men had had to do great and terrible things to stay alive until this particular moment.

He spent a moment analyzing their faces, 70 or so if he estimated correctly, standing shoulder to shoulder, six rows deep. It was a large room to be sure, bare save for a simple, old white board on the far right wall with a large, old wooden table in front of it. There were no chairs, and every man stood at attention, looking straight ahead, clad in simple black uniforms, bare save for the Generian flag on each man’s right upper forearm.

Stretayanovic had donned that same black uniform shortly before, being told as it was handed to him that he would wear it until he either died, or the Emperor himself called for the unit to be disbanded. The Colonel wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that statement yet, but in any event, he found the new garb lighter and more comfortable than his old army officer’s uniform.

Stretayanovic waved his hand and spoke in his usual cultured, smooth-as-death manner:

“At ease, gentlemen.”

As one, they fell out of their at-attention stances with a mighty “clump.”

“Gentlemen, my name is Colonel Vladimir Stretayanovic. I have been ordered by his grace, the Emperor Kazatmiru-“

At the mention of the sovereign’s name every man in eerie unison brought the first of his right hand over his heart with a thump, and then let their arms return to their previous positions. Stretayanovic, caught a bit off guard by this ritual, continued after a brief pause.

“-to take command of this unit, the 1st Generian Imperial Black Guard Unit. As your commander, my assignment is to carry out Operation: Black Death, which over the next several months see the internal enemies of the Empire hunted down and surgically eliminated.”

Not a single facial expression change, nor did a single man budge at these words. They simply stared straight ahead, eyes focused, but at the same time vacant and distant. Stretayanovic got the feeling though that they were robotically digesting every word he spoke. The Colonel, himself showing no expression, continued.”

“With the help of an intelligence task force formed from the most loyal members of the various agencies, we will be able to track down every name on a list of 232 men the Emperor himself has ordered us to clandestinely punish for their various high crimes against Generia.”

The Colonel’s one good eye roved over the faces before him, searching their eyes for some sign of humanity.”

“We are to act in secret, gentlemen. Our operation is to remain invisible to both the public eye and the probing suspicions of possibly disloyal members of the government and armed services. Operations will be carried out at night as often as possible, by small teams. Witnesses, civilian or otherwise, will have to be dealt with lethally. We cannot risk word of this getting out, lest we place the Emperor-“

again the silent salute came at the mention of the sovereign. This time Stretayanovic was unfazed and continued without interruption.

“-in a challenging or dangerous predicament. If it comes down to it, secrecy is more valuable than the life of any man in this room, including my own. Act to preserve it at all costs. Speed is also a factor. We have been given a deadline of exactly 3 months to find and complete the operation on every one of those 232 names. We will be successful. We must be successful.”

Stretayanovic spoke the last lines with sharp precision, similar to the swift cracks of a high powered rifle. He added in a loud voice:

“For Generia! For God!”

and was answered:

“For the Emperor!”