NationStates Jolt Archive

Vere Veritas
Waldenburger Exiled Theater Group
December 18th 2011

http://i148.photobucket.com/albums/s30/lordmango3/Lucifersigil.jpg

For the first time on the worldwide stage the Exiled Waldenburger Theater group wishes to present the works of Playwright Count Friedrich Drebben, famous actor and writer. He, like his players are no longer welcome in their home country, and their works are considered heretical in the language they were penned. So we great pleasure we bring you the most famous work of Dark Empire, Vere Veritas, the building of the Waldenburger Church and It’s Future. There will be a short intermission after each act but we assure you, you will not feel compelled to leave your seats. Without further ado the Dark Empire of Waldenburg!

Overture: Mozart Requiem Mass (http://heim.ifi.uio.no/~bryhni/vak/mozart98_mp3/01_Requiem.mp3)




Act I Scene I
Content Piece: Dies Irae (http://heim.ifi.uio.no/~bryhni/vak/mozart98_mp3/02_Dies_Irae.mp3)

In Revision


OOC This is my story thread to explain the rise of the Church, which I always picture as slightly mystical, so wouldn't want to pull most of this in an Rp. There will be at least two more acts, so under no circumstances post anything. If there is anything you know where I live and would most gladly hear what any critics have to say.

Act II Scene I*

Overture:Gloria Excelsis Deo (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/Gloria06/05%20Gloria%20in%20excelsis%20Deo.mp3)


Content Piece:Qui Sedes (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/Gloria06/13%20Qui%20sedes.mp3)


The circle had formed again, and though the day grew even later the sun’s light had intensified with the end of the day. Every detail of every robe was visible including a few embarrassing stains, always accounted for by previous owners, they were old robes. Eight men, for they were most certainly men, stood in a wide circle around a mosaic of the Prophet Ceno worked into the floor in yellows and golds. To hide their faces every member of the circle stood face down and arms tucked into sleeves. A shaft of light arced down from a high skylight and gleamed off dark black stone that seemed it should not be gleamed off. It seemed the conversation had been somewhat heated as the air nearly stung with what had been said, and fried between collective stares.

“…Perhaps on the lighter side there is a way forward. Tensions have been building for some time and it is perhaps time to move forward with another episode. I understand the Principality of Jagaro has annexed a patch of territory our dear Emperor has had his eyes of for some time. Other nations, all of Europe really, will jump at the first sign of movement, the interests of the Church are at stake so they will go for the throat at the first inclination of weakness or hint that we can be beaten.”

“The Emperor is a strange little man, he will not authorize any expansions of the Empire now. Even if we did manage to pass this through and have it signed, we cannot be assured that Europe will attack us, or indeed if we will be defeated. Stranger things have happened in the past.” One hooded robe nodded its head at a statue of Emperor Henry III, whose mane streamed imperiously in a false wind behind an all too accurate equestrian head.

“The difference between the past and now,” again there seemed to be one man seated on a high chair elevated on a dais above the rest of the be robbed figures his garb slightly finer and much better kept, “is the fact the past has happened. We have had a thousand years to study these works, a thousands years of quiet study. I believe that we can understand now the power that had been granted us and fully use it. If I may dare propose; I suggest we experiment.” The word hung on the air like chilly ice, ramming a cone of ambition and lust for power down every back. With it however mingled the butterfly of fear, flitting from man to man.

“We do not know enough!”

“Unreliable sources, perverted saints!”

“Against God!”

“There at least I have solace for you." The voice cut in sharply, "For if we did not have the book, then we would not have been destined to have it, and since we are in possession of it, all our actions must certainly be guided by Divine Mandate. For are not our lives mandated by God, according to his Divine plan?” There were some angry mumbles from the robes, as the well-dressed master slowly descended the steps of his rise to stand in the shaft of light his robes still covering him excellently.

One hood rolled slightly and said rather spitefully, “Been thinking on that one for awhile have you?”

“Quite so,” came back the response cold as ice. “Come now gentleman, come do, we have the knowledge and the capabilities to expand the Church further then it ever has. If we fail the world shall now of our defeat for it shall, if we are forced to annihilation, we shall take them down with us! At worst we can win, and defeat should come naturally, there is no flaw to the plan.”

“I could perhaps pose the suggestion to several members of the Senate, that we should not tolerate the annexation.” The circle considered this before another member cautiously raised a hand.

“I know a man, who would be most interested to hear of our plan, not in it’s entirety of course, but he will niggle, and though at seemingly apparent cross purposes, will in fact serve the cross.” In so much as a hood could look proud, it did and jittered a small amount with silent snickering. “There are servants of the government, and of the Church that will gladly, if unwittingly serve us. Most for their own satisfaction or for some personal vendetta, but they need not see everything.”

“But if the Church should find out..”

“We would have our ears ripped off, and then promptly be nailed to the doors of St, Michaels.” Waldenburg had heard of attempted Lutheranism, and had scoffed at the idea. If you really wanted to get your point across you hammered your opponent to a door, set fire to his house, and stole his cattle. “And if we should succeed?” The question was left hanging. There didn’t need to be an answer, power, it seemed was worth the risks.

The Grand Master motioned to a small table beside his chair where an array of small rings lay, each one of black hematite and silver, with a few rubies picked along the edges. They were small and looked almost malevolent. “If we are to move forward, the bonds of secrecy must be broken, not that I personally, and I imagine most of you, have not guessed a majority of the people on this council, but these shall identify us as the true servants. Until such time as we meet again, take them and wear them, and prepare. Contact what help you may, for we shall need all that we can get. The road is clear, not without bumps of course, but the path has been made apparent. Go with God my brothers, and awake on a new day.” The group departed in eight different directions, through identical doors. A small silver tray was now vacant of rings, and all left to fill the silence of the room was the wafting of dust and shafting of light.

------

Letter to Emperor Wyatt Von Waldenburg III
Your acts of aggression and naval provocation have been noticed, time and time again. Let it be known that any attempt to take over the province of Ravenland without the explicit agreement and consent of Jagaro will be regarded as an act of war.

Let it be known that the entire fleet of the Illar is prepared, and that, unlike our neighbors to the south and east, we are able to send your ragged excuse for a fleet to the bottom of the ocean at the first sign of trouble.

However, as always, we are willing to negotiate an agreement, one where Waldenburg could show their good faith, in one-way or another.
Marquis Marias, Lord Envoy to Waldenburg

Imperial Response From: His Highness Prince Felix von Waldenburg
To: The Illarian Empire

We truly hope that this can be resolved legally without hostilities breaking out. However we will also not stand for this challenge to our authority and expansion in the area, by what we consider a non-regional government. A conference is to be held on the situation in Incognita, we as a party of the talks invite a delegate from the Illarian Empire to watch the proceedings. A war between our nations would be unfortunate; something to be avoided at all costs.

Signed:
His Highness Prince Felix Von Waldenburg


“Your majesty I beg you please reconsider the offer,” Rupert Fry jogged along beside His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg III, who, for his age, could mount an incredible amount of speed. “Felix is perfect for the job, there is no possibility of failure and he shall surely uphold the dignity of the Empire.”

“Yes he will,” the Emperor answered lightly as he began to climb the steps of the Imperial senate house, which stood wide and squat in the Imperial capital of Blünderburg where marble was more common then dirt and anything without gold leaf looked simply tacky. “That is what I am afraid of. Damn arrogant blundering is not what I want, and though the boy has promise, diplomacy is not one of his virtues. As Foreign Minister I shall certainly take your advice into account, but Felix von Waldenburg does not have the faculties of your office.”

On the top step the men paused and the Emperor looked tensely about the great entrance doors, “Perhaps we should use the side doors, I always feel uncomfortable when being brought through the front. Come Rupert don’t sulk, we shall have work for you I’m sure, if these fools are allowed even a second of free speech! Thank God for the inalienalbe rights of tyrants,” the old man laughed and began to creep along the left of the building heading for the open doors, of the servants entrance. “If this nuisance is to continue and we do go to war, Felix will be needed here, he may be no diplomat but he certainly could manage a pugilist.” The Emperor, whose marine guards silently kept pace, entered open the servants entrance nodding amiably to several people he passed, who all stopped amazed to see the veritable ruler of the continent stepping through their cloakroom.

“The Imperial Navy can hold for years should it need to, but we need a loud voice on the ground or we’d be wiped across the floor with a surprising efficiency, at any rate I highly suspect the senators are only going through a phase. They were like this when naming those national holidays, forty years ago, Glory Day and so forth, they did have their fun. Those were the days back when I could finish a sentence without forgetting the beginning, and when you were in patent Foreign Ministry diapers.” The Emperor paused for a moment looking slightly lost before selecting a direction apparently at random and pushing open a side door. “Better days perhaps. But now we have things to attend, if you would begin drafting my letter to the Illarian Emperor, I should be home by midnight, if it was done then I would be most grateful.” With a wrinkled and pruned hand the Emperor shooed Rupert Fry off, who seemed reluctant to leave, and hobbled through a set of gilded doors into the Imperial box.


“…An unlawful annexation, constituting a threat to Waldenburg, and its Empire. Your majesty, the Senate and Church demand that something be done, we will not stand idol as our Empire collapses around our head. Jagaro has gone too far, I am sure that this is intended as a direct affront to Waldenburg, we will have nothing less then Groddenburg, Ravenland, as they call it, and an apology.” Senator and Bishop Ramsfield stepped down from the podium; all around him members of the Serene Senate were jumping to their feet and calling for immediate action. Hundreds of rather old men rasping out calls for war. Usually the senate was divided on such issue and with such division the Empire had been allowed to run smoothly, if autocratically, under the pruned hands of the emperor.

“Imminences please, quiet. We will vote on the matter shortly, but now I need silence!” Bellowed the speaker, a young, nervous man who wore a robe trailing behind him several feet more then necessary. “The Emperor and Crown Prince have come to discuss the mater, they assure us that we can find a logical solution that will benefit all parties.” He smashed his hand against the speaker’s chair and again shouted for the cacophony, which had changed to more of a random shouting match, to stop. After awhile it did, with the senators carefully returning to their seats, and acting as it was all perfectly natural.

“An excellent display gentleman,” Wyatt von Waldenburg III hobbled out of a public viewing box and up a small set of stairs to a heavily embellished box bearing the Imperial Seal and more gold then was strictly necessary. “All of this over a little friendly competition? The fact of the matter is that it is perfectly legal…” he paused waiting for the uproar, but apparently none was forth coming. “We will be alone if we must challenge this, if not indeed against every nation of the world. By international law their annexation, though rude, is perfectly legal. We must accept that sometimes plans must be altered and bloodshed is not the easiest way to achieve our goals. My son Felix also wishes to address this body, and I believe is here today.”

“Indeed I do.” The voice came from across the room, in what was originally intended to be the opposition box provided there was any, now they kept the voting boxes there when they weren’t in use. “Surely our Empire will not be foiled by a island, which must search, with both hands, for their navy? We are the greatest Empire on Earth,” Felix von Waldenburg said this quite assuredly, no one would contradict him openly on the Senate floor in front of the entire Empire. “We will act like it. War alone brings up to their highest tension all human energies and imposes the stamp of nobility upon the peoples who have the courage to make it. No one can question our nobility, no one can question our power, it is our divine duty to steer all nations onto the one true path. One nation, one God, all peoples of the world acting as one!” he waved his hands to several Cardinals who began to murmur amongst themselves, and Felix’s voice grew in power and it became a deep rich gold filling the room, almost flowing through the air.

“This is what the future holds, this is how the dice shall fall. Waldenburg, gentlemen, the Great Empire, will expand from horizon to horizon and into heaven itself. We cannot stop; this is our fight, either we back down and stab destiny in the back or accept responsibility for the world. And we begin here, here at home, hopefully bloodshed will not be necessary but we shall answer with whatever means to ensure the continuation of the world, under one glorious Empire.” The room could no longer take the patriotic fervor and exploded again, the Emperor forgotten, and their cheers directed to the incredible lies that were being rained upon them form the Opposition stand.

As one the Bishops chanted for the vote though in the end it would come down to Imperial approval. Wyatt von Waldenburg could not fight it, though still in silence he watched the rows of holy men with war in their eyes. The only people who looked mildly worried in the room was the speaker, and two marines on the side of him, both parties would really be the ones to deal with the stresses of war.

The vote took time, two fights broke out, and a Bishop's index finger was taken off when the marines tried to separate the groups, bayonets still drawn. Chairs were overturned and at some point a small fire was started in the beard of the Senate Minority leader.

“Before I read the votes does his Majesty have something to say at this point?” The Speaker enquired hopefully hinting with his eyes that the word “Glorious” should be mentioned as many times as possible, in congress with the word “peace.”

“At ninety years old, I have said my entire life that we shall be consumed by war in the end. Not by an aggressor, but in our own house, by our own children. Not far away on an island paradise, but in the frigid waters of the north, where the blood will fertilize our crops. Vote now if you must, I will sign your will, but remember how by conversation you ended the world I knew and created another one. It seems that my place is already being filled.” His words were not quite the plan the Speaker had been hoping for, and his eyes darkened as the Emperor fell back into a chair the marines had rushed forward.

“This Divine Senate, in presence of the Royal family, and his Majesty the Emperor, has decreed by a vote of 614 to 91 that the Nation of Jagaro shall be dealt with, and concurs that it’s annexations are illegal. The province shall at least be partially turned over to the Empire by whatever means His Majesty sees fit.” The Speaker finished adding power to his voice in the way of the High court Judges. This time the cheering was much more refined, all the Senators standing and clapping politely, they bowed to the Emperor, his son, then the speaker and departed with a wave of the speaker.

Things progressed quickly that day; messengers flew out of the Imperial palaces blushing with the excitement of those inside. In a grand wave the excitement began to flow over the country, “It will be war!” This was however Waldenburg, and there was no dancing in the streets or even a joyous parade, police still roamed the streets looking for those who dared show any emotion, there was however an undeniable energy to the air. Officers and diplomats arrived in the Palace and then fanned out of it busily talking with one another in small huddled groups and striding heads down to other meeting places. Parks of the city were thronged with meandering officers so tight one could barely feed the ducks, and occasionally were knocked off the scenic paths by the Interior minister and a horde of secretaries who blundered by.

Prince Felix von Waldenburg strolled quietly around the Imperial gardens humming gently to himself, and occasionally stopped to ponder a floral display. He perhaps wisely had avoided mingling with the public so early. His speech had by all means gone well, and he was especially proud of “Human Energies” of course the idea had not been his but the delivery was perfect. A lot of things were not the young princes ideas but that, at least in his mind, was part of his genius, how useful was a language without the larynx? A bed of roses brought the young prince’s mind back to the present and their pungent aroma was somewhat negated by the smell of sweat coming from somewhere behind him.

“Good afternoon Rupert.” Felix slowly twirled a rose and sniffed gently at it, it certainly was more aromatic then the Waldenburger foreign minister, who had admittedly lost nearly a hundred pounds recently but still stank permanently of crusted sweat.

“Your highness,” the voice was somewhat shocked at how the Royal family always knew it was him but still servile and secretive. “You spoke well today, it was most convincing.”

“Thank you, although it sounds, you were not convinced?”

“If it were so easy! May I walk with you?”

“If you feel up to it.” The Prince began at a brisk pace towards the royal lake, which covered nearly a square acre in the rear of the palace and was pleasantly dotted with cypress trees, and peacocks that looked all too stationary. To his surprise the Foreign minister kept an easy pace at his side.” How went things in China if I may ask?”

The Foreign minister snorted and brushed some lint of his jacket, “We won the court’s favor, the eunuchs were easily won over, but the Emperor seems to be a thinker. He believes that Christianity may pervert their pagan ways, rather prophetic of the man perhaps, but he is on a matchbox throne. Something to think about in the future maybe, but not the subject I came to speak with you on to today, if I may speak plainly?”

“We all,” The Prince spoke imperiously throwing the rose into the lake, which he had crested gently earlier and came to a slower pace near a small winding gravel path, where a duck tried to eat it, “are hanging over the precipice of sedition, please tie up the day.”

“You spoke excellently today, truly, worthy of the great orators of the Church, and it is of the Church that I wish to speak with you. Things are perhaps not as they should be; there are things that slip into godlessness that we must not allow. There are moderates in our very own government.”

“They are quite plain to see, and though I do not approve of them we can hardly do anything about them short of setting fire to their Caucus which isn’t worth the matches.” The Prince’s boots stomped over to a small ornate bench by the lake and gently collapsed His Highness into the chair, which positioned him overlooking the lake and viewing the setting sun. “You may sit.” Rupert Fry did so cautiously, preparing if necessary to jump up at a moment’s notice it seemed.

“There are aspects in even the highest element of government that threaten the ways of the Church and our Imperial way of life. I speak of your father.” For a moment silence reigned through the park before the foreign minister foolishly tried to fill the gap. “There are a great many of us in the Imperial circles, most of the cabinet, would support any claims for the throne that you made. In times of hardship we need a strong Emperor someone strong like you, someone who can see the bigger picture, the necessities of the Church and state. Your father, though a loved ruler, cannot deliver these things, if we are to move forward it must be on a track of steel.”

Felix rose hand on sword and eyes bursting with rage, “You Dare Sir!” Medals jangled on Felix’s chest and his spurs spun with indignity. “You would appeal to me over the head of my Emperor and Father? You speak treason as you pray for strong government? I am sorely tempted to cut you down where you sit, service to the Empire or not.” The Crown Prince withdrew his hand from his sword, which did nothing to reduce his menace, “never speak such things again, I shall not be your puppet. This Empire will not bend to my personal desires; will not waver in the face of my petty greed. Though I desire the Imperial throne more then anything, I dream only of it, I will not usurp my father for the position. Take you pleading elsewhere for I grow tired of your supplications, we will never speak of this again.” The Prince gave a short bow from the neck, relying on the old Waldenburger phrase; “rudeness in worse then murder” then strode off stiffly, pausing only for a moment to kick a peacock.

Fry sighed gently as the youth blundered away, the boy was arrogant, pompous but loyal it seemed, and not as dumb as he looked, always a dangerous combination. There were other ways to accomplish Fry’s goals however, and this thought cheered the man slightly, although only as much as possible after the main plan has failed. With another sigh the foreign minister pulled from an inside jacket pocket a small book, bound in leather, ancient and carefully preserved, he opened to a bookmark and began to read. Before he could make more then a page he felt something out of place, a shift in the air that suggested someone was behind him, and a faint smell of sugared peaches, “Your Majesty!”

“Ah,” Wyatt von Waldenburg looked a little crestfallen and lowered his cane from the stride he was about to take, “How do you always know it is me.”

“Couldn’t say sir.”

“Probably not,” The Emperor collapsed on the garden bench and patted the seat again where Rupert had just been sitting. “My father always had even his most crumbling ministers stand before him, demanding a strait back and stiff chest. I always thought I wanted to be like him, rule a country with an iron dignity and divine grace, but now I find what I really want is a nap at around noon and something warm to drink.” He chuckled softly, which startled a flight of larks out of their nest in a nearby Cypress tree. “I’ve ruled for seventy years and never demanded anything of my country, except that they act decently towards each other. This however is modern times I am told and decency is no longer favored.” A momentary pause followed, which Rupert almost began to fill but was cut short by his monarch. “This is my old ruler speech and if you say anything to ruin it, by heaven you will be getting a swift cane to the ass.” The pair sat in silence for awhile, each of their minds racing to stay ahead of the other, the rest of their anatomies simply watching the ducks.

“My son.” Two wrinkled hands came together in the stance of mock prayer, “what shall I do with him? It seems I have nothing to lose now; I am committed to war, which unsurprisingly will be unpopular, after the first buzz. If we win he should not be allowed the power, and if we lose he should not be allowed the responsibility.” Two zeppelins buzzed overhead making conversation impossible for the moment and blowing the small green leaves in torrents around the two men. When it had passed the Emperor’s eyes were moist, and his lips waggled most distressingly.

“Your Majesty?” Rupert asked tentatively finally tucking the book into his pocket, judging the time to be right for a lack of inconvenient questions.

“There are a great many things I regret, a great many things I would have done differently. We live in the best way that we can, and then we die. Would you do an old man a favor, I hope an old friend a favor? There are so many things I could ask for now, practically anything the mind could imagine, but I ask you Mr. Fry for only one thing. Heap one more sin upon my weary head.” He gave a tight little smile, tears stilling filling his eyes, and he laid plans for his empire.

Imperial Message From: His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg III
To: His Excellency The Tyrant of Incognita

After deliberations on the consequences and decisions of my senate and indeed my own office, I wish to announce that my son Felix von Waldenburg will attend this conference to reshape Europe and act as emperor and fulfill the duties and positions of states there in. His Highness shall act as full Imperial ambassador and representative with the full backing of the Senate and Imperial family to act as foreign head of state for the Empire. Please extend him every courtesy, and honor of that of Emperor of Waldenburgers. I pray that these meetings shall better the world and we may forget this whole mess before we meet again. The best of luck to you, God be with you.

Signed:
His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg III

The Zeppelin, hugely gilded and refined with massive Imperial eagles and sweeping vestments gracefully lifted from the ground of the Imperial Aerodrome. Two escorts, and a wing of biplanes met it over the Imperial city, which was thronged with citizens to catch a glimpse of the spectacle, the Crown Prince leaving the country, to give those Johnny Foreigners a jolly good seeing to! Military units lined the streets and offered salutes as the shadow passed over their command posts. Military, and civilian bands alike struck up, military marches, pomp, and finery for the Heir Apparent. Some citizens even set off fireworks, which as they spent the night in the cells under Waldenburg Penal Code 17a, which read “Don’t be a Damn fool.” reflected on as not a good idea.

The Imperial family had gathered and said rather cold good byes to their son, brother, nephew or cousin, whom they all feared in a low grade way. Even to his friends and cohorts he was something of an enigma. At time the Crown Prince could be a suave gentleman and sophisticate, on others he was a roaring fool.

Feeling now of cold sweat, and low grade the terror the aerodrome lay empty except for a few mechanics, the Emperor who was to slow to move and too genial to demand attention, and Rupert Fry who nearly hung on his arm now.

“And you think that it will work?”

“If it does not then there are other ways.”
------
The pen dipped slowly and splattered lightly as the Emperor shakily signed another message. He had gotten out of the habit of reading them years ago and you just signed whatever was pushed in front of him. It most likely was to a little duchy he had never heard of or, condolences to his sister’s hairdresser on the loss of her favorite cat.

“What time is it Simon?” he asked yawning as he rubbed his eyes and slid out of his office chair and knocking his withering knees into the hard wood of the desk.

“About 2:00 AM sir, the Empress has asked if you’re coming to bed or working again?” Simon Hurrzur was the speaker of the Senate and had gravitated into the Emperors advisory council as of late. He stood swaying gently, now clad in his old naval uniform, which was custom for retired officers.

“Bed, I think tonight,” the Emperor said and began walking out of the double doors towards one of the palaces innumerably, long passage ways. As he walked through the door the gas lamps on either side flickered, electricity had never been installed in the Imperial palace, it would simply be to hard to run electric cables through thousands of tons of marble and precious artwork without damaging the building.

“Herbert what do you think of my son’s intentions? How will Waldenburg stand should war break out?” The Emperor asked as he mounted the first tier of stairs leading to the Imperial apartments. A very small entourage had gathered behind him Simon, Herbert Venner of the foreign Office and Heinrich Albemier, minister of intelligence.

“I really could not say, Europe looks fairly well divided, no neighbor will challenge the great powers. Germany would certainly dare not attack us, its colonies would starve, their famous armies incapable of reaching us. If there is to be a war it will be fairly easy for us to maintain ground. Our army is well dug in, and the navy prepared to repel any attacks. Our colonies I am afraid for though, we’d need most of the fleet operating here. At this moment it could go wither way.” Venner like many in the Waldenburg government had developed a paunch at about the age of 21, and was wheezing heavily by the time they reach the final floor.

The Emperor saluted a group of Divine Legionaries who were patrolling up and down the corridor. “Well this is apparently my stop, good evening to you, sleep well.” He turned his back away from the group and hobbled for the door, fumbling with the handle already, it never seemed to open but this time it seemed as though it was locked. When he stopped rattling the door knob, and started to listen he caught the last end of what might be a grunt or what simply might have been a intake of breathe. He turned sharply, and by sheer luck his walking stick caught and diverted the fall of a rifle butt towards his fragile head, coming from the hands of a Divine Legionnaire.

Albemier of Information was already lying in a pool of blood, which spread out from his body and began leafing down the stairs. The other two advisors had also been bayoneted and were either dead or dying. Wyatt von Waldenburg stayed on this for only a second, his mind wandered back to his days taking fencing, practically at saber point with his mother standing scowling behind the instructor, he pulled one lesson from the past at this point and brought his metal sheaved cane up and across the man’s face ending with the brutal tip dislocating the man’s nose, bruising and blood quickly welling up on the soldiers face. He spun to meet the next one who had slowly moved into a decorative alcove. A mad thrust was blocked with a rifle butt, and the Emperor’s vision blurred as the third man bashed his head in with a bust of St. Paul.

His Majesty woke one last time he was being dragged towards the stairs from under the arms, which before he fell unconscious again noticed were sweating, he hadn’t broken a sweat for years.

“Well that’s done. 10,000 well earned, shall we yell for help now?”

“No, we have orders that the Empress goes too. No drama for her though just slit her throat. Come on, should be easy.”

* As contributed to by Hyperspatial Travel, from which a letter was copied under the guise of the Illarian Empire. Mentioned also the Incognitans (Terror Incognita)

Act II Scene II

Content Piece: Pie Jesu (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/Requiem/CP04%20Pie%20Jesu.mp3)

The zeppelin flowed gracefully towards the ground, it’s tail bearing the Imperial Eagle of Waldenburg and it’s basket the Royal Arms. Incognita had offered an Airship, but Felix von Waldenburg had shunned that idea and instead landed in a fully armed military airship, bandied about with Imperial finery. Technically not fully armed, the bombs hadn’t been brought along and the two machine guns were in he storage locker, but it still was an act of defiance. Felix von Waldenburg had never been very popular; his acts of high handedness had won him the same passion in hate that his father received in love. The graying over of the day hand probably not brightened anyone’s moods; on occasion a gust of wind would carry a puff of mist or dew across one’s field of sight and dampen the eyebrows. On occasion lightning without thunder could be seen darting around the background of the sky.

The zeppelin’s stairs swung down, clacking metallically into place. Despite the grey weather the finery of Zeppelin had not been dulled, it’s gold embroidery and braid only amplified by a layer of high altitude moisture, glistening as if freshly born, and spattered in blood. With a small trumpet fanfare from within the zeppelin the Imperial Prince stepped off daintily onto foreign soil, his escorts followed, they were, like him dark eyed and cruel looking. “I have arrived, we may begin this Conference.” He spoke to no one in particular, but his words caught and pulled in an Incognitan aide, who glanced disapprovingly at the Crown Prince.

"I suppose you would be Crown Prince Felix, the Waldenburger" the aide sniffed, his disdain too practiced to be effectively pinned down, and thus nigh impossible to act against. “I’m afraid we cannot Prince Edward of Jagaro has not arrived yet.

“That is unacceptable, one does not demand nobles of Imperial blood to tramp halfway across the continent for a light chat with some sort of lackey. Such august blood flames at the impertinence of your little nation.” The Prince’s disdain was all to brazen and caused a small vein to stand out on the foreign aides neck, who carefully took a few inhalations to clear his mind of royalty. With a meaningful glance he nodded his head to a group of Incognitan marines standing some distance off, who returned the nod and scampered forward ropes and associated mooring tools in hand. "Since you've brought your own airship, we are afraid we must make certain of fair play. As for the conference no delegate from Jagaro has arrived as of yet, the conference would be a little one sided.”

“It would be anyway, there is a legitimate and proper decorum for nations, and these rules have been thrown aside by this upstart island, Jagaro.” The Prince amply gesturing with his hands began to inspect the yard, striding from ornate pillar, to scenic pagoda, or stopping for an elongated stare into the eyes of a foreign marine.


"They have agreed to come, but have not yet arrived." The aide called out rather feebly as he tried to cease the Prince’s investigative actions. While tucking a lose strand of hair behind and ear and trying not to shoot his guest dead the aide called again, more forcefully this time, “Your Highness allow me to show you to your quarters, it may be some time. The Tyrant however wishes very much to meet you.” This curtailed and further movements and brought Felix to a stand still, he nodded slightly and followed the aide through a, what he thought of as, a rather poorly designed palace. Through many unornamented waiting salons the two walked occasionally picking up hangers on for a moment, until they in turn melted into the wall, or fell away into another room.

A polished, cherry door was pushed aside revealing a room of lucent light, gleaming brilliantly off crystal from the sideboard, crystal from the chandelier, and the enamel smile of Prince Edward, the Prince of Jagaro who rose and gave a slight bow. “We do apologize, I arrived only moments ago, and if I am correct on the affairs of our host’s hospitality offered the same cordial as you were about to receive.” A small flute appeared in Felix’s hand and he was steered, without being touched into a large chair on the left hand of the table.

“May I present His Highness Prince Felix von Waldenburg, of the same." An elderly man who would be considered spry were he not already rounding the table at a quick step pace and dipping his hand to the prince in deference, “I am John McGrath, Tyrant of Incognita, This is Mister Higgens of Bautzen, this is Mr. Allutius of the Illarian Empire,” a tall looking man unfolded from a shadow and offered a short formal bow. He was dressed, as the others were most patently not, in simple black clothes suggesting more a public defense lawyer then a minister of state. Looming above the others he stared down with cold impassive eyes that seemed to probe every memory, and aspect of your life. “And of course His Highness Prince Edward of the Sovereign State of Jagaro,” the word Sovereign had been stretched out and emphasized to ensure the full meaning of the word could be contemplated.

“Now gentlemen let us commend ourselves to our stations.” the Tyrant rounded the table and placed two petite hands on the wooden back of a chair and lovingly caressed it, his fingers tracing out the intertwining roses and emblazoned sun. "Gentlemen! This is a most important moment. We have the chance here, now, to solve this problem without bloodshed."

He paused for a moment closing his eyes and smirking faintly, imperceptible to even the keenest study of life. "It is perfectly understandable that Jagaro, needing room to expand, lighted upon the nearest land not part of a sovereign nation. It is equally natural that Waldenburg should consider the territory to be their own, given how long they have controlled Scandinavia, though they have never laid claim to it till now."
Here he looked at both the Jagaran Crown Prince, and the Waldenburger.
"We will not have this childish squabble over a frozen northern wasteland bringing war to this continent. War is a vital tool in statecraft, of that there is no doubt; but pursuing it over aims that are not worthwhile is rank stupidity and will swiftly bankrupt your nations.
Waldenburg we know to be on the verge of bankruptcy in any case - what interest rates are being demanded on your bonds now? Do you even know, or do you leave that to your lackeys?
Jagaro, your state finances will swiftly be stretched by even limited conflict, and you do not wish to rely too heavily on larger 'friends', for they often demand a high price for their assistance."

McGrath now felt that he had said almost enough. He was expecting that being spoken to in this way would drive Felix to explode, and saw no reason that Edward would be any different. The inherent Problem with royalty, they tended to get this inflated sense of themselves. “So, neither of you wants a war, no matter what you think; you have no idea what consequences will follow, but I can guarantee they are not favorable to either of you.”

“As a result, Waldenburg will have to offer more than one territory in North America for the province you want; but Jagaro will have to be less greedy in demanding almost the entire territory established by Waldenburg's sweat and toil in the New World. There is allotment of greed, a consortium of pettiness, and a capacity of vile intent that must be filled, and though I am a proponent of peace, I am no supporter of either crowned heads. I shall depart for the moment, knowing that the keystone of relations have been laid.” McGrath beaming hugely began to sweep out, a pair of waiters holding open the doors at the north end of the room.

Felix von Waldenburg leaned forward in his chair, taking in the Tyrant’s words with a look suggesting that his counterpart was extemporizing on the subject of murder and rape as the main agenda for the meeting. "How dare you sir," he said with inflections on sir, his lip had begun to twitch most noticeably. "How dare you imply that we are nearly bankrupt. Our currency can hardly be counted, as our wealth lies in our citizens, citizens willing to uphold the honor of their Empire and of it's gracious line. The day they need money to defend their Empire from such unfair treatment, such acts of unprecedented corruption and greed, is the day that all men's hearts fail. We are the greatest and most noble of people and the day the world forgets it they will be reminded most emphatically." the Crown Prince was standing now fists pressed against the table muscles from long hours of military training easily standing out from his pressed green jacket.

He lowered himself still looking as though pistols-at-dawn was not a notion far removed from his mind. "You are correct on one thing your Excellency," he nodded to the Tyrant’s exit, his voice again turning cold. "There will be no petty squabble, there will be acceptance. Jagaro will remove its claim or it will have its claim removed along with its pride. This meeting severely tries my patience, there is no need for such a noble council to be brought together to discuss the actions of one rogue nation, who actively tries to subvert and avoid our authority. Authority issued directly from God to guide his people. If this council cannot see that then I am merely wasting my time, there are infinitely more important things the Empire would have me do."

At last the Prince relaxed, wondering if the Tyrant would accept a duel, in his mind he had no doubt he would win. Honor was on his side. His marines were picturing nearly the same image, Felix would win, he had built himself a shell of honor, but he was also incredibly pragmatic, if there was even a slight chance of losing he'd set fire to the building and surrounding village.

"Jagaro will have one province in exchange for Ravenland,” he spat the foreign word for the demographically Waldenburger province, “or it shall have nothing. In respect for Prince Edward, we will remove certain clauses, that we are unsure we would gain from such moves, or indeed the office of Prince of Jagaro would do poorly to associate with." Usually at this point he would have stormed from the room, but he had developed a strange friendship with Rupert Fry the Foreign Minister, the sweating behemoth had rubbed off on him slightly and he felt that departing in such a rush would win no support. The Prince wondered for a moment, only for that moment did uncertainty flash across his face on the uncertainties of future, but it was soon replaced with Imperial dignity and even more Imperial irritation.

When silence again reigned, its monocracy would be cut short by the democracy of a thousand voices, and the room exploded into sound, each national representative in discussion. Prince Edward had risen to his feet and was gesturing madly, and yelling on what ‘God intended’ the two foreigners not directly involved were speaking an entirely different language in the corner, and despite that still managing at least a stentorian tirade. Only four men left alone in a room and they already were screaming at one another, and what made it slightly worse was the fact that each one had at least one hundred thousand men willing to die for whatever was said in this room.

As the noise echoed down the palace halls, McGrath, who was comfortably listening to the shouting match through a listening tube, although even that was casting water to the sea, laughed madly and took from his pocket a small scrap of paper. He then proceeded to perform the mystic, “where the hell did I put that pen” ritual until he eventually came up with a half mangled pencil and scribbled quickly on his scrap. After a few erasing a waiter was called over, who had been chosen to break up diplomacy with a tray of prawn canapés and pastries, which in diplomatic circles is more effective then nuclear disarmament. A small piece of white paper was tucked neatly between a Bismarck and a custard and taken on a stiff arm into the room where the diplomats paused, every last one of them being caught out in a display of bad manners.

Some sort of truce had been declared, and three out of the four men mixed pleasantly enough, exchanging what little news that wasn’t classified and nibbling on proffered bread products. Felix however sat dourly until the waiter who made quite a bit of busy effort to remove Champaign flutes handed the Prince a scrap of white paper. When opened, in the Tyrant’s neat hand, a short scrawled message could be read, and a jovial signature woven to the bottom of the page.

I read your face in there, and I know you were thinking of challenging me to a duel. Well boy, the great line of Waldenburg has clearly lost its virtues in you; you lack the sense required to instantly discard such a foolish option, and having thought of it you lack the balls to carry it out.
I still hope you can gather the sense to extract yourself, and your nation, from the impending catastrophe if you continue this course, but I've long since given up on expecting such a benign outcome.
If you find your sense, you'll complete the negotiations; if you find your balls, you'll complete your life in a duel. If you find neither, you'll keep seething in an ever-smaller corner.
Regards,
John

Upon reading the hastily scrawled note Felix slowly folded it with care, tucking it into his jacket. The Tyrant was a perceptive man, but the thought had only crossed his mind for a moment, it seemed to be a major point in Waldenburg that death should follow all insult. He carefully scratched a note as other official began a more refined shouting match with a waiter over the staleness of a Danish.

Your Excellency your words shame only yourself, can you compose yourself with the dignity that your office and title demand? If I should challenge you it would be you who lack the balls sir, there is no sport in such a challenge. I would accept, however your words convince me that such a duel would prove as honorable as the slaughter of a child and slightly less challenging. In Waldenburg however such a proposal is in fact a heresy, one that the people would not stomach. We shall see what the evening brings and indeed tomorrow shall be all the more glorious for the Infinite Waldenburg Empire, and of course Incognita.

His Highness Prince Felix Von Waldenburg

When he was finished he waved to one of his disarmed marines, who had now entered the room to see if they needed to, as Felix put it from time to time, “deal out some pain,” to find the Tyrant and present the note. He ached to challenge the man, however now was not the time; perhaps once Prince Edward had spoken he would have his fun. Before the meeting could be called back to any sort of order, Walter Higgens of the Bautzonian delegation stood, giving a short nod to the Illarian, and he too pressed his fists on the table leaning forward and staring down Felix. In scathing tones with disdain hanging off every word he spoke slowly to the Prince occasionally thumping the table lightly with his fist for emphasis.

"You stupid boy, you will learn diplomacy or I will personally have you escorted from the room and a diplomat with some sense can take your place! Now, you will not be making demands here, that was made clear with the invitation to a negotiation which is supposed to be going on right now. I will repeat that one more time and you will, hopefully, remember it; there will be no demands made by you to Prince Edward or any other member of this body. I wouldn't have believed it possible for someone to be as tactless as you, one would have thought that your father would have had you taught something of diplomacy; you foolish child. Or are you too spoiled to realize that you just turned the ruler of the only country represented in this body who sees your "demand" as holding legitimate value against you. Well, My Lord, I am afraid that you will have to learn tact to get your way in this body, you shall also have to learn to control your temper and treat all those in this room with you as your equals as representatives of these countries. If you cannot do that now I suggest that you leave this negotiations to those who can and will do these things and go home to play warmonger while sucking on your mothers tit!"

If looks could kill, the representative of Bautzen would be nailed to the wall by his ankles, under the furious stare of the Crown Prince, and even that was friendly compared to the seven circles of hell being specially reserved for this instigator.

"My Father sir is a fool. He believes a bicameral senate is a delicious and mysterious delicacy from the mid east. His majesty has given me power at these romp proceedings, to hear out your baseless requests, your insinuations, and your lies. It has become apparent to me that tact is a virtue long lost to this world, as you gentlemen seem indisposed to show even the smallest amount of courtesy to your guests. We stated our situation, and we were called "bullies" and "childish" for having a shred of national pride."

"It is apparent after such accusations that this body is not capable of discerning the truth when it is presented to you in manuscript form. Waldenburg withdraws from these proceedings on the grounds that this is merely a rally for Jagaro, a mere verbal bashing of Waldenburg." Rupert Fry would have hurried out of the room if he had been there, he would have noticed political suicide, and would have distanced himself. The Prince nearly spat at the moderators, and hands began to convulse as he looked for something to disembowel Walter Higgens with.

"Sirs the honor of Waldenburg has been blatantly smeared, there will be retribution. Firstly against the man who would bring such filth into the presence of such noble lords and kings." He turned to Walter Higgens now almost shaking with rage. "Sir in the face of all the world I challenge you to combat to regain the honor of Waldenburg, to defeat the villainy which so befouls the world sir. I challenge you to die on my blade. Will you accept and die as a man or will you hide behind your taunts and insults disgracing your nation as well as yourself?"

Minister Higgens paled for a moment before slowly, at the speeds of continental drift, he burst into rolls of laughter. It took some time for him to speak again and even then it was interspersed with cruel laughter.

"You pompous fool. You foolish, little bastard. I’m sure that you have no idea that you just broke the laws of Incognita, and technically the sentence for such a crime is death. You, My Lord (a phrase which he almost spat at the young man it was so filled with loathing), are a pompous fool who has no desire to do what is good for his people but merely attempts to expand his influence by means of war, all for the sake of 'honor.' Your father may be a fool, but if he is a fool then you sir, have the intelligence of a rather stupid rock. I do hope that the authorities apprehend you as your nation truly could live without your thickheaded stupidity. So I decline your 'noble' (again filled with loathing) request for a duel on the grounds that surely I a mere upstart peasant could never think to engage you in battle. Now Prince I believe you should go, and should your father wish to continue these negotiations he can send a diplomat and not his stupid, spoiled brat of a son. "

McGrath had, through his distanced vantage point, heard quite enough, though Waldenburg may have merit in their claims, if they sent such an idiot to perform the work of diplomats then could the Waldenburgers really be worthy to rule additional land. Though the Tyrant felt oddly about the hole affair he did not allow himself a moments pause, and with a confident stride threw open the doors of the conference chamber.
"Felix von Waldenburg, Crown Prince of Waldenburg! Were you not a diplomat, you would now stand charged with conspiracy to murder under the Dueling, Prohibition Of, Act of 1805. That charge would carry the ultimate penalty, being hanged by the neck until dead. All present are called to stand witness to such. Within the law, there are two ways to avoid this. One retract your challenge, apologize fully and completely for making it, and complete your legitimate business - in this case the negotiations.
Two, I may choose to take up the position of the challenged party, or name a proxy to do so, select weapons and name a time and place. Now, despite any personal feelings I might have, I still believe Waldenburg has a fair case to be heard by this body. If you will apologize to Mr. Higgens, then we can continue the negotiations. If not, well, you must challenge me or leave this country forthwith. You may be assured in the case of a duel, I will instruct the government to let your prosecution slip, but I will be unable to force obedience to my will if I die. You may equally be assured the choice of weapons will not favor you."

“Oh I say!” Mr. Allutius, the tall Illarian stood and cocked his head at a delicate angle, suggesting introspection or toothache. “Do not diplomats carry immunity, how can you enforce the death penalty for the upholding of one’s personal honor under such international terms? It seems I was mistaken in my earlier assessment of the delegations, and by your actions are forced to concur with His Highness Prince Felix von Waldenburg. The Illarian Empire demands you lift all ultimatums on the prince or my government shall be forced to take appropriate action.” Small, black, gloved hands were folded in front of the diplomat and soft eyes stared inquisitively at the Tyrant, who looked slightly baffled for a moment.

“I believe,” John said quietly as if laboring under the possibility of being wrong, “That we work at different threads of the same suit. His Highness does carry diplomatic immunity, and that is why we offer the opportunity for him to either, apologize, or leave the country in favor of another diplomatic envoy from his Empire. As I believe Mr. Higgens will not except the duel?” The question was left hanging.

“That is correct sir. Surely I am too lowly to fight the mighty Prince at any rate? My honor is composed of the dignity of my office and the benefices of my government, I am a man of service not rapacity.”

Mr. Allutius carefully picked a snifter of brandy off the low table now, which now was strewn with papers and discarded pens. The room focused on him as he gently swirled the alcohol, which commanded the attention of the room and tinged around the rim most proficiently in its intended purpose. The liquid stopped its osculation and the Illarian threw it down his throat and spoke to the Tyrant with his eyes on Felix, “Oh, well then kill the little bastard.” He set the glass on the table with a glassy thump, “If no one has any objections I shall moderate.”

Felix drew his sword slowly, allowing for the maximum metallic sliding and carefully measured it at eye level towards Prince Edward. “It is perhaps strange that we have abandoned the purpose of our original cause and come, through a round about route, to death threats between moderators and the moderated. I believe I stand vivified in my original sentiments of bias, however as It should seem I would do the world a kindness my killing one more mindless drone, I shall do so. John I accept most hardily your proxy. Now how shall we endeavor to end our lives? With what device shall we complete your destiny? I have an additional saber if you have need of one.”

"Well gentlemen, this is most unfortunate. I hope that Waldenburg will not take its lack of a Crown Prince too hard. I admit my knowledge of the succession is patchy; who is the heir on your death, Felix?" In any case, as you have given forth the challenge, and having exercised my prerogative, granted in the Dueling Act of 1805, I believe by immemorial tradition I have choice of weapons. I choose halberds."

At this he grinned wolfishly; the one thing he was likely to have more experience of than Felix, and a weapon that depended more on technique than raw speed. And just about up-close-and-personal enough that Felix wouldn't decline it as not fit for a real man, for John McGrath, twenty years of fighting the outlandish weapon was worth more then all the sweet nights of youth now. "As my second, I name Major Hines, of my personal guard.
I accept the Illarian delegate as officiator.”

"Halbalbards?" Felix asked mispronouncing it intentionally while laughing uproariously. "But surely sir that is not a weapon of gentlemen? It is not a weapon of Imperial merit, indeed I believe the only weapons for an Imperial duel are swords, and again owing to ancient custom 10 fold warrior of the liege's choosing armed with, slings and pikes." He laughed again, remembering the old text, and it's clauses on bloodletting and prayers. “I believe however we may wave certain rights of Waldenburger dueling here, I shall look forward to the event most delightedly.” Felix offered a well-crafted grin back; it was perhaps a little misleading in the circumstances. He hadn't trained with a halberd ever and thought the idea rather crude, and hugely unfitting for such highborn, but as always the Prince could not lose, and the tools of his enemies defeat were rather unimportant. "Well as this is rather surprising I choose Captain Hanner of my marine guard as my double." Once when he was young he had thrown the ceremonial spears of the Guards, and was always said to have a wicked accuracy, but other then that pikes had never been that much of a standby in Waldenburg.

"As for succession my brother Andre would take the Heir apparent position, he is a man of little ambition, more interested in leisure then statesmanship." he paused momentarily, losing his train of thought before returning to his sneer of disdain. "My I suggest a neutral territory for our duel, I believe in the circumstances," he moved his eyes to the carefully worded challenge of the Tyrant still on the table, "that would be best for both parties. However as the challenged party it is your choice where our blood shall be spilled."

“Indeed it is,” and we shall do where the world shall see, on the front lawn.” John had lost some of his self-assured manner but still maintained a cocky swagger. “We shall meet in, oh two hours, I should not wish your attire to cause any rumors of disadvantage to your person, and once you have dressed we shall finish what God has started. Until then,” he bowed formally in more an insulting way then that of respect and again flew out taking the waiters, who had watched red faced through the whole affair.

“Good look gentlemen, though I would have hoped for the Prince to withdraw his challenge, I am beyond words to show my wishes and hope, that through one another’s blood you shall have some satisfaction.” Mr. Higgens departed nearly on the arm of the Illarian; they seemed to have become friends through the short interchange over the table.

Two men left standing alone in a darkening room, the oil lamps had not been replenished, and a shadow began tearing at the neat and gaudy corners of the room. Prince Edward of Jagaro detached himself from one and with a friendly hand patted Felix on the shoulder, and the with the other grabbed a Madera from the sideboard. “Though I despise everything you stand for, your country, and your composure, I must say that you have done the right thing. Our crowns are becoming heavier everyday, weighted down with the circling vultures of democracy, and though if I had but one sword I would see you dead, I do not and therefore wish you luck. “A glass was taken to his lips and as his face was covered with it Felix, though he debated the subject for the rest of his life, could have sworn the liquid was tinted slightly red at eye level. As it was lowered there was not even a pigment of red, just a dark green and a twinkle. “Let us see what the day holds, get on your highness, and show them of what metal you are cast.”

--

The prince's jacket had changed, going from the fripperies of office to a somber black coat over a traditional white shirt. Though hid did not plan for anything like this to happen the jacket would protect him slightly and allow him to tangle his opponents weapon should he have a bungled lunge, he severely doubted the Tyrant would miss once in the flow of his attacks. Anyway as he fluffed down the frilly sleeves of his jacket he slowly flipped through a martial book on the use of long handle weapons. Like most things in Waldenburg it was incredibly out of date, it's main use taught how to pull a man off a horse and decapitate him in less than ten seconds.

"Captain Hanner are you prepared?" The Prince inquired mildly as he started advancing fencing style across the suite in the airship still holding the book open to page six.

"Yes Highness,” the captain stood muscular and squat, filling a door lintel, looming over the tiny study. "A guard of honor will escort you to dueling grounds with sabers only, that should allow for the rouse to work more effectively, should we need it of course. And two riflemen have been placed nearby, there are gaps in security but really it is quite tight, it will be a one in ten chance they hit but it will probably be enough. Another riflemen is in the airship, along with the machine gun crew though both are to remain out of sight." Hanner waited to see if this effected the Prince, it seemed not to have, as he finished a rather complicated advance and lunge combination.

"Oh yes that will be excellent, should something go wrong." He appeared satisfied at his condition and signaled for Hanner to leave, when he had done so, the Prince reach for a Cigar box, and flipping open the lid removed a pair of silver embossed pistols, both tiny, but capable of firing the nearest equivalent to grapeshot available to small caliber weapons. He carefully tucked them into his sleeves, and after closing the door to his study he was handed his saber, which he would carry for ceremonial purposes and it would look better, if he "disarmed" in front of the Tyrant.

Of all the weapons in the zeppelin the machine guns were the most peculiar, one was a cheap knock off and mounted on the zeppelin, the other was a sleek work of art, something obviously made by people who assumed machinery made more then noise. One machine gun, hopefully with subtle changes in design could be exactly identical to a machine gun of Bautzen's famous industry. It wouldn't be enough to start a war in seconds but it would raise believable doubts especially as a representative of the country was here. Felix meandered away from it, unwittingly preparing for his plans, and those of a great many other people to come to fruition.

--

A setting sun had melted away the clouds and misty overture of the day, and had made for a pleasant evening. The duel was to be fought in a small patch of green between the rolling acres of the Tyrant’s private gardens. A scent of roses and lilac hung heavy on the spring air, and a small crowd had gathered to watch the duel or the century, they sat nonplused on blankets and occasionally removed small wrapped packages from picnic hampers beside them.

Felix gently stepped down from the zeppelin; his honor Guard had already formed around him, each carrying one of the Imperial flags, eagles blazing on a field of green, in different stages of crushing enemies. There were six guards, Captain Hanner, still in uniform, and Felix; the group made a defensive ring around the Prince and approached at what was known as procession speed, each one keeping timed footsteps. Once the lawn was reached, Felix laid down his saber on the edge of the lawn; carefully he motioned his guards to take up position behind him; he had carefully planned it so his victory would be made facing north towards Waldenburg. "Are we prepared Mr. Allutius, I believe the time is upon us?"

The moderator stood in an old fashion frock coat, which Felix had not seen him wearing before, it seemed the man had come prepared for the duel. Mr. Higgens, Prince Edward, and several hangers on, along with a hand full of guards were stationed around the field and bowed as each combatant took the field. Hanner trailed his Prince, as Major Hines hovered respectively, both extended their hands toward the other double and shook cordially. Virtuous rectitude satisfied each of the combatants was handed one of the wicked weapons from an Incognitan page, they were well balanced and razor sharp.

Felix fingered the long shaft and tested the edge gently; it was indeed a weapon of honor if it was that sharp. He prepared himself in the way the book has suggested, pike facing down held under arm like a hunting rifle. If the Tyrant suddenly felt inclined to fight the duel from horseback Felix would be the one laughing. As it was he licked his dry lips and looked towards his zeppelin, and it's reassuring banners of Imperial finery. He probably looked a fool but it was indeed him who would be laughing at the end of the day.

"Mr. Allutius are we all present? Everyone seems to be here and our weapons are indelibly sharp, on your word."

The officiator raised a small black handerkerchief, on which the world hung, then with a subdued movement it fell, sweeping downward on the expectations of the crowd. “Commence,” the Illarian yelled in a cold-blooded tone, which suggested he would enjoy the sight of grown men hack each other to ribbons.

The starting word seemed to fill the silent green as the two combatants faced one another prepared for their last battles. On all sides, at a respective distance, spectators made a loose line as they settled in for a pleasant event. Guards stood picketed around the ground with a heavy concentration around the two combatants.

Felix took the opportunity of the last syllable of "Commence" to bring his halberd down in a wide arc attempting to remove a good deal of the Tyrant's hips. The parry was lazy and well practiced with the Tyrant smiling absent mindedly as he perfectly blocked another three wild and fast attacks. The old man's creaky body made the perfect contrast to his arms as they blurred around like windmills forcing Felix back.

Though the Crown Prince was no halberd expert he was a natural born fighter and for the circumstances was holding quite well. Felix was only 3 meters from his guards before the Tyrant made his attack, till now it had merely been a game, a swift hack across the neck from the Tyrant changed all that as Felix's clumsy parry brought the tip of the Tyrant's halberd into his arm where it drew a light line of blood. "Not yet Excellency honor demands more," he answered to a bemused look from the old man.

As the battle raged in the green another body hit the ground in the rose beds, three guards had been lurking in the flowers, each had been expecting attack but they had not been expecting a knife in the back, their bodies falling onto benches, pillars, and the Posies respectively. Now three men, slightly bloodied, had taken there place all standing around one small clump of ground as close to the duel as possible.

"That ought to about do it; pass over the bipod." One of them said as he remained standing and spoke out of the corner of the mouth. "Right give it a second and we've made ourselves a fortune, and a title." He chuckled as he finished and smiled towards the battle, he never really enjoyed his job, perhaps it was time to find one in Waldenburg.

The halberds had lost some speed; both belligerents had been banking on a much shorter action. Felix lost control of his weapon and smashed it low against the ground, and sparks flashed all around the fighters. The Crown Prince rolled dodging a thrust and came back wheezing, "You'll have me by fatigue or by blood soon your Excellency!" He wheezed jovially smiling at his enemy, hopefully putting the icing on the cake, which still was in the making.

There was no shout from the flowerbed there was no exaltation of breath, there was however a rain of bullets that began to tear through the Waldenburger flag bearers who had their backs turned to the machine gun. Captain Hanner who was leaning against his spare halberd took seven bullets to the chest and collapsed spurting blood onto Mr. Higgens. The other guards had similar fates each taking a multitude of bullets that otherwise would have hit the Prince and the Tyrant. Felix was already on the ground, bullets racing over his head, he could hear the sickly sucking of metal hitting flesh and the screams of the observers who had been in the way of the fire.

After around ten seconds the machine gun stopped and there were several retorts of rifle cracking, the death rattles of the wounded. One lone Waldenburg riflemen was laying out inaccurate fire as three figures streaked away from the rose beds, pistols killing anyone they came across, they ran east towards a small forest, supposedly where safety awaited, there would be no such luck. Felix rose and looked about the carnage, the Prince clutching at his own shirt, which was now covered in blood where a stray fragment of metal had hit him, marginally dampening his shirt with blood. "Kill the bastards Waldenburgers, kill them! They have injured your Prince, they Have injured his Honor Kill them!" The infuriated prince yelled at his zeppelin, and gave quite meaningful looks to the other nationalities’ guards. He then rushed to the Tyrant to see if his honor would need saving any more.

Three men, three Waldenburger guards began a quality apocalyptic charge, boots thundering across the ground, rifles tucked into shoulders and slinging lead at the three disappearing figures. The rose beds flew by in a flash and a small, open patch of ground separated the small forest from the rest of the compound. There the three could take not cover, and the anger charged bullets of Waldenburger rifles dropped them in rapid succession. A trio of Incognitan guards dashed from a nearby pagoda and after wasting a large amount of time circumnavigating an ornamental trout pond, came within ten feet of the wounded assailants. Without any word to the contrary the Waldenburger rifleman laid down a further four shots killing one of the Incognitans and sending the rest to the ground in fear. A small battle was fought for control of the bodies, before a admonishing yell reverberated from the dueling square, “Waldenburgers cease!” Felix had raised his saber in the air and, a small dot of reflected light put an end to the gunfire on the green, where a second group of guards had joined the fight. Within second the wounded were recovered and the assailants between the arms of several Incognitans still screaming and shouting defiance, were dragged away.

“Close save there John?” Felix had suddenly become convivial and extended a bloody hand to the Tyrant that had become slightly bloodier as he had moved from his honor guard checking for any living. They had all been his friends, during childhood Wyatt von Waldenburg III had always encouraged “Stimulating young minds” and at knife point Felix had grown up in the arms of kitchen boys. Despite his disdain for the lower classes they had maintained a friendship and when serving national service had been selected for Felix’s guard. He now seemed friendless, as all but one of his guard was dead. His plight only continued as John slapped the proffered hand away and rose avenging.

“Don’t think I am not privy to what has happened here! Do not think the wool can be pulled down over my eyes! You did this, I know it as I know myself!” The Tyrant stared down at the bloodied corpse of the Illarian ambassador who was quite obviously dead with nearly half his head removed. Mr. Higgens had not fared much better and was twitching slightly on the ground blood saturating his clothing. Tiny bullet holes had scored several columns and for some unexplained reason a garden shed was on fire behind them. “You would have your men pervert the justice you so readily deserve? And if they are complicat, which they apparently are, then your entire nation has no more honor then yourself. Murderer, butcher! These meetings are over, Incognita expels you, you are a Persona non Grata and deserve nothing but flames. And that sir is what you shall have. You have no friends, and should you continue here you will be hung for a list of crimes as lengthy as merits your acts of bloodletting”

“Excellency, you again shame only yourself.” Felix finally retracted his extended hand and attempted to squeeze some blood from his jacket.

“Give me none of your reason, your reason has already taken enough life and if I am not very much mistaken has not yet had due. Take your prerogative of murder elsewhere for we shall not tolerate such monsters to walk under our skies!” John waved his hands for a few guards who stood anxiously nearby. “Assist his Highness with his wounded, they leave within the hour. Allow him the full respect of an Emperor, for if I have gained nothing today I shall recall the nefarious and malignant will of nobility, and their so called honor.”

“You speak falsely Excellency, but I shall obey your wishes, it seems there is little for me here, as always nothing but danger and malice. There is someone present here who wishes me dead, and your security could not bar them exit, my suspicions arise. “

“If we were to include a list of suspects of those who wished you dead,” the Tyrant spoke remorsefully, grasping at a suddenly weary brow, “the whole world would be on trial. “Just go.” Felix offered a strict bow and began to oversee the loading of his zeppelin. The prisoners, whom death had been promised were lead away to an Incognitan cell, never to see the light of day again.

Within the hour Felix was gone, the banners adorning his airship stripped in deference to those who had perished. He was seen away from the country by a light rain, which pattered soothingly against the canvas of the WIS Ark of Heaven as it soared with the angels, under the silent watch of dead kings according to legend their eyes of flaming gas. The stars though shone additionally bright above the low clouds and Felix watched contentedly out of the widow as the massive rotary engines pushed them slowly home. It had been slightly vexatious to be shot, and most disturbing to have his marines cut down. Still it had gone rather well, not actually well, but there had been no chance of failure, at least in his eyes although in several other staring eyes, now arranged above him the world had just taken the plunge towards evil. He was alive, healthy and nearly home, slowly the Crown Prince, Margrave of Blünderburg and Divine Marshall drifted with the rocking motion of his zeppelin to sleep head pressed to the hardwood of his desk.

--

Rumor, mixed occasionally with twists of truth spread through the country jumping from ear to ear and planting the seed of dismay in every mind. From the Imperial halls cut from the finest marble, imported from the taxes of a thousand years, rumors spread as oil in water, beautifully, inexorably and ready to catch flame. Wyatt von Waldenburg III, the convivial monarch, champion of the people, Hierophant of heaven was dead, his son nearly killed while on a diplomatic mission and skies ready to gobble the Empire up. Were such things as regicide, murder, realpolitik and foreign intrigue true? Of course they were, godless heathens planned the lot, they wait for our empire to crumble.

The aerodrome, which in a figurative sense still hung with the scent of Wyatt von Waldenburg and his lunch of various soft fruits, had this time been lined with black clad mourners, the Emperor and Empress laid out in ceremonial robes and placed reverentially in plain wooden boxes as per their will. Divine Legionaries wore the dark black uniforms of solemnity and stood ready over the Imperial family in mourning. When Felix’s party came out of the airship, carrying their wounded and dead the two worlds collided and, began to ferment into something more dangerous, something more potent then rumor.

The Prince Imperial, as he would now be termed till the crown graced his head, paused halfway triumphant down his swaying staircase, and noting the garb crossed himself hesitantly. An distant uncle approached him and placed a clammy hand on the boy’s shoulder. This moment in time was remembered as no one spoke for the longest time, and all that could be heard at all were the soft click of heels, a few tears and the drifting restrain of Pie Jesu, floating across the entire palace compound. Melissa von Waldenburg, the Imperial families last daughter was one of the few that would brave Felix and ran to his arms, which opened like a flower at his sister’s approach. They stood there for some time, cradling each other against the evils of the world, what had Waldenburg done to deserve this? Two sets of tears mingled on their cheeks and the Princess’ body shook with silent convulsions. “We’ll kill everyone one of them, every last one.” Carefully the two rocked as around them filed by hundreds of mourners and guards reaching out desperate hands to graze the soft, pine boxes and take with them a fragment of the past.

For the longest time they were alone, brother and sister, the world could weave it’s intrigue, and plot, could tie up the hours of light with wickedness, and still they would be there taking comfort from what little could be given. “Don’t cry, take comfort for they are with the angels now. And they shall have a great deal of company very soon.” The Prince stood taking his sister’s hand, which felt as weak as a kittens grip and guided her quietly to the Cenobiarch, the nominal had of the Church, who stood garbed in black robes ornamented with a red cross and a belt of roses.

“Your Imminence we have great and mighty works to perform. Make me a king, and rend me a sword of Holy steel, for the world has yet to meet our sorrow, has yet to make the acquaintance of our malevolence. Look into my eyes and see the fires or hell, no one cheats me, no one wrongs me.”

--

“Do you swear to faithfully uphold and defend the name of Waldenburg and her Holy Church so long as you bear the title of Emperor?”

“I promise to uphold the sovereignty and territories of the Waldenburg Empire and, and serve it’s people till my dying day.” Felix spoke in a whisper that filled the cathedral; it reverberated off the blank faces of staring angels, and saints who watched beatifically on their new Emperor. The crown, a metal affair that had been improvised in about a quarter hour for a king sometime in the 1100’s, was lowered slowly onto the anxious head. It was simply a circlet of tarnished silver, it had been set with sapphires later, and the odd religious symbol had been carved in on the side. All the pageantry swum in a sea of incense that billowed from the chanting monks or from ornate braziers tucked into the marble of the walls. Grenadier guards lined the vestibule and raised their swords in salute to their new Emperor. From the crowd there however four faces which bared no ignoring or disrespect, those of the Prophets Ceno, Michael, Waldenburg, the first Emperor, and St. Ossury. They alone of the audience stood fifty meters high, and on their backs supported the ceiling of the cathedral. From their mouths oil fires cast a marry dancing flicker to the room, and ominously cast back a dark glimmer from the ruby eyes of their counterparts.

“God Save His Majesty!” The crowd all shouted at once, as the choir broke out singing his praise, and Zadok the Priest shook the rafters till sheets of dust cascaded into the glowing sunlight through the windows portraying the indefinite slaughter of infidels.


Heads bowed as the Emperor proceeded down the, purple carpet thrown out for him, a train of six Earls held his long ermine trimmed robe. By tradition every noble, somewhere only slightly fewer than 5,000, would swear loyalty to the Emperor, this however had been waved away today. In fact the procession down the high domed hall was remarkably fast, regal waving never ending between subjects. It would have been slightly undignified if any of the assembled nobles were not throwing their attentions to not making one mistake in the centuries old coronation.

Hundreds of noble faces bobbed as Felix strode by, they knew that this new one was trouble, but if handled right trouble that would be someone else’s. The Archbishops started to file after with swarms of lesser priests, if one bomb exploded here the entire Empire would collapse within the day, without an Iron fist of an Emperor or at least the slightly fragrant glove of the Archbishop, revolution would flare up before the last bodies fell.

Act II Scene III

Content Piece: Hark the Herald Angels (http://www2.noticiasdot.com/publicaciones/2004/especiales2004/nadal/seccions/musica_midi/mp3/The_Washington_Choru-Hark__The_Herald_Angels_S.mp3)

Long pillared halls lined with nothing more then stone greeted Felix as he jogged away from his coronation, there were other things to attend then the post coronation parties, or indeed the right of Notra Patrichi, his absolute whim over everyone in the country. St. Michael’s Cathedral, basilica of the Church was perhaps the largest building in the world and it had taken him days during his youth to memorize it’s many twisted passages and, a good few of it’s secret ones.

“Sir, this way.” A Divine Legionnaire motioned for him from an arbitrary point in the wall, “General Forsabben is ready and the document is prepared.” As he left the roaring throng behind inside the cathedral he discarded his robe in an anteroom and jogged up a flight of stairs to the Archbishop’s office. Several men shot to their feet, very creakily, they were old men, men who were prepared to protect the “Waldenburger way of life” which for them meant piles of money, but for those under them meant sleeping in a pile of mud and attempting to eat rocks.

“Your Majesty, it is a pleasure I look forward to serving you, and my divisions look forward to be at the fray.” General Forsabben started to pull off his white gloves and laid his command baton over a large map of the world. Beside it was a smaller more detailed map displaying the North Sea and the dominions of the nations therein.

“Thank you general,” Felix smiled tiredly and flopped himself in a chair, “Coronations do so take it out of you.”

“We wouldn’t know.” There was a polite titter of laughter that the Emperor did not join in, but remained stoic as he surveyed the world, and with a hungrier eye that of his own Empire.

“What is your plan general?”

“Your majesty,” Forsabben picked up a small pointer and began to weave patterns around the table, “We begin after the declaration of war, of course, with three divisions of cavalry clearing an invasion path, rounding up citizens taking out ambushes, spotting, that sort of thing. Hopefully by then the main body of Jagaro’s army will be found, and with the application of 70,000 men should be driven to the sea. Our navy simply completes the blockade either shelling them into oblivion or starving them out, depending on the disposition of the commander. I doubt Jagaro will continue on an aggressive path and that should wrap up the war. “General William Forsabben stopped as the old man took in the look on young Emperor’s face, which managed fiery and tired at the same moment.

“And how long will this take?”

“Well mobilization of the outer armies takes much longer then the army of Blünderburg, all of their men mostly come out of villages and farms, our army here is a stones throw away. Maybe 15 days and we’ll be at full strength across the Empire, and the navy is already mobilized. Possibly four, five months to achieve an unconditional surrender of Jagaro.”

“General we do not have time, a note was delivered today,” as all official communiqués in the Empire, it was removed rather crumpled from an aide’s pocket, and again from Felix’s own. “Declaring Bautzen’s intent to protect the world against injustice.” Felix sniffed meaningfully and threw down the note, “We can only assume the world stands behind them. Especially with the fact that the Incognitans are now publicly disclaiming my guilt for the duel and it’s accompanying murders. It seems we are to be the world’s scapegoats.”

“Then surely sir this has gone far enough? True or not we cannot fight the world and win, we cannot stand against a Europe united.”

“By numbers we cannot no, we however have been preparing and we shall wash across the unprepared and strike at the knees of the giant. Waldenburg has sat idol for too long, let us flex our muscle. The plan suggested by General Forsabben is in theory perfect however not fast enough, if our enemies are allowed to fortify in Groddenburg our navies will be useless. If Norway is taken, our border is 68 kilometers, which will be updated once war is declared, believe me. Do you believe Wolfenstien is going to attack us? No word has been heard out of that dark Empire for many years, I doubt they will concern themselves. Speed and surprise shall be the order of the hour, if me must fight, then fight now. We shall hash out an attack plan now.” The Generals looked sickened but the Admirals delighted, more chances for looting, and as the night rain began to rattle against the stained windows the officers took a cumulative breath.

An Admiral who had only temporarily quit the room for the call of nature, retuned to a table of smiling faces. “Admiral Kennedy?” The Emperor asked sweetly, “Would you do something for us? What are your feelings on say, mustard gas?”


“As of today June 11th, in the year of our lord 1916, The Most Divine and Illustrious Empire of Waldenburgers shall endeavor to and actively pursue a state of war upon the nation of Jagaro for it’s failure to comply with ultimatums issued by our government, and His Highness then Prince Felix, and in complicity with the scandal involving the Tyrant’s duel, and the murders there with associated. Waldenburger units shall proceed to attack any military or civilian target that is deemed a threat to the safety and security of the Empire and the region. Prince Edwards’s government has been deemed a threat to humanity, and the livelihood of the region, which we officially declare from this point a Waldenburger Hegemony.

Since the annexation of Groddenburg, by Prince’s Edwards government, its position has constituted a threat to the Waldenburg Empire, one that sadly must be dealt with in this way. It seems the world is against us, as sad events at the recent peace conference confirm Waldenburg shall not survive unless it bears itself to its weapons and arms it’s doves against a sea of hawks. There shall be no surrender, there shall be only victory and whence the victory comes we shall embrace to our hearts that we have done the necessary work, the work which God has ordained for us to perform. Any nation who stands against us shall fall; all those who bear arms against us shall be cut down. The more we sweat in peace the less we must bleed in war, and Waldenburg has sweated, it’s people a loyal and devout populace who shall fight to the bitter end. Once Groddenburg has been retaken we shall again commit ourselves to the peace process, and hope for a settlement. Deus Volt, God wills us victory.”


Signed: By the Grace of God His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Felix von Waldenburg I, Council of the Serene Senate, Margrave of Blünderburg, Count of Trant, Count of Breildbreadershiem, Count of Golldon, Earl of Ribe, Grand Duke of Strienlikstern, Lord of the Oceans, Supreme Commander of Imperial all Forces, Grand Master of the Order of the Heron, Grand Master of the Order of the Kraken, Viceroy of the Americas and of Asia, Voice of Heaven, and Commander of the Faithful.

On yellowing telegraph paper the message was delivered to consulates across the world where Waldenburgers were already stuffing their faces and asking nonchalantly, “What secret documents?” Not that Waldenburg had much of a foreign service, and it was made slightly smaller when the Ambassador to Jagaro was killed by a mob outside his consulate as he was departing the country. As the man had tried to slip out the back door with a small police escort a mob of about a thousand grabbed him, attached lead weights to his legs, and threw him into the sea. There was retaliation; Felix had forty of Jagaro’s diplomatic staff burned alive, and their children enslaved in the West Indies. In retaliation thirty fishermen were killed and their organs sent back with their catch. After one atrocity there was hardly need of reason for another, and the conflict spiraled upward until the world could watch no more.

In defense of Jagaro and of the law; in retribution, for what we now know to have been a Waldenburger attack on our soil; in support of our allies.
For all these reasons, Incognitia now considers herself to be in a state of war with Waldenburg. All Waldenburgers in Incognitia, or in Egypt, will be permitted to leave Incognitia if they begin at once; and if necessary provided with transport to a neutral power. We will be withdrawing our diplomatic representation from Waldenburg, and Incognitia Airlines are terminating their routes to Waldenburg for the duration of hostilities. All Incognitians in Waldenburg are called upon to leave forthwith we state now that we expect Waldenburg to respect Incognitian citizens in their country, as we are respecting Waldenburger citizens in ours. Any Waldenburger naval ships discovered by elements of the Incognitian Fleet are now subject to destruction, restricted only by the normal rules of war. Any Waldenburger merchant ships discovered, even in international waters, by elements of the Fleet, will be subject to inspection for war materiel, and compulsory purchase of their cargos.

Arriving in a plain brown envelope the declaration was placed reverentially on the Emperor’s desk, it was followed by two others, Illar’s and Bautzen’s, it seemed Felix would kill them all or face the same end in his efforts. Europe, its far-flung colonies, and it seemed every breathing being under the sky was to be at war with Waldenburg. Though most would feel the bight of hardship, hardly any would cross blades in the frozen north, or burning deserts of Waldenburg. A war against an enemy that could not be seen, could not be comprehended, and bolstered by its sense of fanatical nationalism, could not be defeated.

The day and a night passed slowly by as Waldenburger officers again began the strange waltz of war, contracting on the capital then slowly filling the streets with chatter and bluster. Felix, when granted a moment from his own wrangling could watch out the French windows his army preparing. Hundreds of boots crashed by nearly every hour and their thumping had pounded out the sweet scent of magnolia whose leaves had fallen during the nights rain, and which now coalesced with the unfamiliar smell of horses and sweating men to waft something more pleasant then flowers and more industrial then labor, the fair fragrance of fracas fighting. As his thoughts contemplated his lack of sleep, senses not two days old picked up a squeak of floorboards outside the room, and those senses told him he should be seated, regally.

The Emperor did not run but sauntered quickly to his desk, which had been aggrandized from his father’s shabby affair and now dominated half a wall with Gothic carvings and inscription. Carefully he slid behind it and affixed a look of distant distraction to his face.

“Good morning Minister” the doors swung open on the white gloves of a contingent from the innumerably large staff of butlers, “ I trust you sleep well, our debates last night certainly wore me down?” Felix did not rise as the new minister of Information; Alexander Parsons entered the room and bowed from the waist to the seated figure.

“Well enough, your majesty.” Parsons faltered he had a slight lisp which gave him a general humorous aura, which he well made up for by having two men executed since breakfast. “Why have I been called?”

“Ah, not a man to mess about are you?” Felix set down a steaming cup with a tiny chink upon a waiting saucer. He wasn’t entirely sure where it had come from, the butlers were better then spies, but at least it was hot, “As you probably may have guessed, by being there, we are at war with Jagaro, and probably the world. This is not a war we can win by using only our fists, every weapon in our arsenal must be deployed, even the naughty ones, we must not fear retribution for we are the bringers of retribution. Do you follow?”

“Not specifically, but generally, yes Majesty.”

“Incognita declared war on us this morning, this you probably know. If not Waldenburg would demand a better minister.” Felix stood and walked to the picture window again the magnolias lining the grand drive of the city were soaked with rain and even now police and soldiers were out in numbers, generally for the purpose of smashing small breakable items, and hassling shop keepers, as was custom during times of war. Apparently they had moved on from general hustling. “They ask for the basic package, their citizens are to be respected, their ships allowed get away time, that sort of thing. As a caring and respectful nation we will do so immediately, pack them up and send them home. However as devious, low bastards we shall return them home with a little more then they bargained for.” Parsons still looked confused, so Felix sighed and turned his full attention to the man.

“This morning I was having a word with Dr. Hellozor at the Imperial Free Hospital, he says there are so many things that can happen on long ocean voyages, things that are regrettable to us all. “ Still nothing from the information minister, “Oh God man, give them smallpox infected blankets feed them warm nourishing soup packed to the brim with vitamins, minerals, and Burkholderia pseudomallei!”

“You want them poisoned sir?”

“More then that, I want them infected, six Imperial freighters, shall take a load of three thousand refugees back to Bautzen and Incognita, we’ll brand them trouble makers and show them out of the country, Incognita will probably understand and is probably replying in kind. As they leave, hand them blankets and cups of soup, they shall spread our greatest weapon, and not one of our own must die. Now do you understand?”

“Sir,” Parson’s dull expression turned to one of great joy, if this was because of his understanding or the fact he was allowed to have his hand at millions of citizens, he did a poor job of concealing it.

“I’ll allow you to work out the details but we’ve already started rounding up people to load the ships, they should depart soon. On your way out have a word with Dr. Hellozor he is a wealth of information, which you may find vital in the matter of sea voyages.” Parsons with a quick bow rushed out of the room already mumbling under his breath and calculating odds, and in all likelihood death rates. Felix was again left alone, his genius was becoming more and more localized, ministers were becoming hungry for war and used all their whiles in it’s pursuit. He was left little time to ponder the matter, as his door seemed to be eternally rotating, ushering in gentleman, lord or officer with frightening speed.

“Your Majesty, you look strained,” Forsabben entered, his bicorn hat tucked delicately under a perfectly pressed sleeve. Without a bow or gesture he sat casually, relaxing in the comfortable office chair.

“Indeed so, I never believed there could be a position of Deputy Secretary to the Junior Minister of the Fisheries, and yet there is, and he wishes to speak to me. It really can be too much.” Felix responded and began to pour two glasses of Scotch from a decanter from a small sideboard, “I’m afraid I have no ice, good scotch without ice, unwise perhaps but I’m afraid I can no longer contain myself with tea.”

“On the matter of containing yourself at least I have,” the General paused and chomped his teeth a few times and wanly smiled, “um, news. As I’m sure you remember, there was a marriage arranged for you at birth.”

The Prince passed over a small tumbler and slowly swirled his own glass, “Obviously I do not remember specifics, but I do recall some generalities. Catherine Saxewiltin Blünder and so on and so on.”

“Saxewiltin Blünder Mardenburge, yes, yes apparently she is here.” The General who had been married for nearly thirty years knew exactly what the Emperor was feeling, and patted him gently on the wrist. “It’s not so bad, although when it is an Empress perhaps instead of drapes it’s palaces, still could be worse. It’s something you are supposed to be, a stigma which as Emperor you must fulfill.” Protocol was flapping as loose as the general’s lip, but of course the Emperor had turned a ghostly pale and stared blankly at the patting hand not registering the sedition at all.

“The wedding is…”

“By tradition not for six months, you may of course postpone it, indefinitely in fact, but again,”

“In that case perhaps, I can bare it, perhaps I shall come to love her and all that trite.”

“As I recall,” the familiar glaze of recollection crusted the General’s face, “your late mother was a minor countess before she married your late father, God rest their majesties, and their engagement was only two weeks long, and of course there was the pregnancies. That was something that keep the country on the edge every nine months, another king or another disaster.”

A chilly edge suddenly returned to the Emperor’s voice some line had been crossed, “I assume you did not enter the Imperial office to discuss my late mother’s ovaries and the various actions there associated. My marriage is of little concern. My war however is a greater matter, our war. I assume that is truly why you came?”

“Ah yes,” the General had noted the frostiness and had quickly withdrawn his hand, “ on the issue of being strained, ah yes. I have to report on the readiness of our armies, the Illarians and correct in the assumption that we are indeed under manned, outgunned and in all manners outclassed. If we are to fight a prolonged war we shall have to do it from a hole in the ground and on plunder.” The General removed from his jacket and few sheaves of paper and put them reverentially on the side of the desk, where the Emperor did not throw them a glance.

Felix leaned forward, his elbows clumping onto the hardwood, his head leaning a foot away from his general, “One does not need a rifle on their shoulder to die Forsabben.”

“Your majesty I don’t”

“Shhh…. General there are a great many things you do not understand, nor need to. There are a great many things our soldiers do not need to understand, for theirs is not to wonder why and all that, all they need to know is how to die, which I believe is very easy to pick up. Your faculty, general, is to win battles, that of the soldier is to die and kill. Blood becomes and murder comes out. General you will take those men, and throw them against the enemy, and if enough survive they will take the country. There is a natural unity to be preserved, and, that of nature can be wronged temporarily, but in the fullness of time will strike back and with vengeance. Emperor to general, general to soldier, soldier to nation, and nation to Emperor, that is how it must be. So general take your army, take your inadequate army and march north. You provide the war, and God shall provide the miracle.” Felix spoke his speech in low cold tones extenuating his voice every time the general attempted to speak. He ended both fists pressed on the table and as the general stared into the green eyes, he swore for the rest of his life that there was something wrong with that stare. Not insanity, though there would be plenty later, it was a lack of something although perhaps it had always been vacant. The evil that is greatest is that which has become accustomed and indistinct.


Forsabben Takes Limgrader
Thursday July 15th, 1916

General Wilhelm Forsabben today marched at the head of the 1st Blünderburg Heavy Infantry into the fortress of Limgrader, the key strong point of Jagaro’s defenses. After six days of pitch combat it was found that the main gate into the fortress had in fact been blown open in the first day of fighting by a rolling artillery barrage.

It was an amazing victory, as the fortress was expected to stand for weeks if not months, however Jagaro’s Colonel Svenson Morsiam capitulated after the destruction of his magazine, and a sashay on his gatehouse, along with several gas attacks. Fourteen infantry divisions from the local Blünderburg military station lead the assault on the sixth day, which demolished the enemy magazine and captured six captains of Jagaro’s High Command. The following officers have been awarded Imperial service medals and will receive them in a ceremony on the 25th in St. Michael’s Cathedral:

His Excellency Count Wilhelm Forsabben; County of Limgrader
Lt. General Sir Arthur Greshim; Order of the Imperial Heron (OIH)
Colonel Sir Anthony Brevitt; Order of the Kraken (INS)
Captain Harold Hanner; Cross of Gallantry (MGA)
Captain Peter Hanner; Cross of Gallantry (MGA)
Sergeant Graham Spater; Gallant Action Cross (WA)

Of course the true action of the battle took place on the fourth day when an enemy relief column attempted to break through a thin line of Waldenburger riflemen who patrolled a small slice of hill to the north of the fortress. Seven hundred enemy cavalry attempted to break the lines of only fifty men, under the command of Captain Peter Hanner, and his brother the Captain Harold Hanner. As they were attacked both captains were awakened from bed and with their sabers and pistols, and still in dressing gowns, held back the enemy cavalry until a Waldenburger unit arrived with enough force to form a counter attack.

If that were not enough both men, still dressed in night attire, and with great risk of personal safety, lead a counter charge under the barrels of the fortresses’ artillery and routed the enemies’ cavalry, capturing nearly seventy men. Their commanding officer reports that he has “…never seen such bravery and dedication, from any serving officer.” The captains would have been promoted were it not for the fact they were improperly dressed for the action, as clearly stated in regulations “all military maneuvers or actions must take place in uniform, or shall be consider, irregular and underhanded activity not befitting a soldier of the Empire.” Their commanding officer, Colonel Chumly Wentpotten, has according to his own words, “Smacked those fellows on the wrist and told them not to be so naughty, should straiten them out in jig time.” We are thankful to the captains however they acted, in whatever dress, in this first real victory of the Great Northern War.

However we must question the wisdom of some actions taken part in by Imperial troops. Most noticeably the use of mustard gas on the fort’s garrison and as some reports suggest on civilian population centers. So far those are rumors and confirmed by neither parties, and we highly advise against sedition and will report any acts overheard to the due authorities.

Continued P. 5
The Waldenburger, Evening Addition



The Miracle of St. Mary’s
Monday August 17th 1916

Word has just reached the Imperial Forward Base in Trippenburg of Sergeant Eldred McFarlane and his squad, recently separated from the Army Group III some weeks ago in the fighting around Limgrader. His squad of fifteen men has been separated from support for nearly three weeks, gone without standard food or ammunition for all this time. The Sergeant took brave leadership of the squad after Captain Downing Patrin was killed in a surprise ambush by an Incognitan forward guard unit, which must have slipped through the naval blockade. The squad, from the Ever Victorious Third Army, took refuge in the Abbey of St. Mary, a small Gothic Nunnery in the foothills of the Ibblesguarder mountain chain.

For three days the squad held off three hundred infantry who attempted to take the tiny building, and though rifle ammunition ran out the first day, several squad members armed themselves with kitchen utensils and fought around the gatehouse with ferocity. Luckily the enemy had no artillery, it seems the Incognitan forward guard did not conceive to bring any with them, and the building, though peppered with rifle fire remained undamaged for days. It is unclear why such a concentration of enemy soldiers was around the Nunnery but simply by being there the enemy attracted the attention of a roving division of the Third Army Group, which swiftly routed the enemy.

When Waldenburger troops finally entered the courtyard, to the sight of a dozen bloodied faces peering out at them they nearly opened fire themselves. Sergeant McFarlane however took to the courtyard; jacket dyed red through days of blood, and in his hand a dripping clever. Captain Howard Mortenson who found the detachment was quoted is saying, “Dr. Crippen I presume?” When the bloodied sergeant offered is salute. Naturally the sergeant would have been promoted, however he was improperly dressed and not using standard military weaponry at the time. None the less he is now Sir Eldred McFarlane (OIH) and his squad have all been returned home for a well earned week of rest.

On searching and reviewing the bodies at St. Mary’s it seems that the squad killed over one hundred of the enemy, although Doctor Evan Bernard of the Imperial Free Hospital has theorized that in fact the enemy soldiers are suffering from mild cases of Small Pox and inflammations of the chest. His views are largely dismissed however by the scientific community, whom at least all agree that the victories achieved as of late are miraculous. And as Bishop Henry Ramsfield puts it, “We are the blessed of God and can do no wrong. Let them bring their armies and we shall cast them down, God ordains it. Deus Volt!” It would seem the Holy Church has yet again chosen the right path by its senate debates, and we may all sleep safely under the hand of the Blessed Virgin tonight! A mass will be held tomorrow in St. Michael’s Cathedral for those casualties so far suffered.

Continued P. 5
The Waldenburger, Evening Addition



Trippenburg Saved From Enemy Advance
Monday October 7th, 1916


As Imperial troops continue to advance into Groddenburg, scoring victory after victory it came as no shock when Illarian troops finally landed near Trippenburg, and in a last desperate attempt to foil our war effort. Twelve enemy regiments slipped through the Imperial blockade on the fifth and pressed on to shore where they quickly unloaded, and scuttled their landing craft.

Only forty miles away His Majesty the Emperor was reviewing the war from the forward command base. It was the Illarian goal to capture him and quickly bring us to our knees, however they were foiled by an act of God! With lightning speed the Illarians marched up country and within the day had Trippenburg surrounded, ready to pounce on four hundred officers and orderlies. It seemed as if his majesty would be capture or killed, and when the advance began he was quoted saying to Wilhelm Forsabben, “Sharpen your sword Forsabben, we shall be needing it.”

For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Trippenburg it is a small town, recently abandoned, perched on a small series of hills created by silt deposits from the two rivers, which separate the town from the rest of the world. These are slow rivers and had frozen over within the last two days. The Illarians, ignorant of mountain climates, apparently did not know this and their officers lead a slow charge over the ice flow. Was it a stroke of luck or act of God, which lead to the tremendous victory? Emperor Felix suggests God himself watched the little frozen battlefield and as the Illarians charged their boots went right threw the ice, others fell right into the river and were dead within minutes. In an attempt to encircle the town, the enemy division had spread out thinly and has assaulted the city from all directions, all which were “frozen over.” However brought about nearly two thousand died, some of those Illarians made it into the city and were killed in the streets and others simply were washed away.

The attempt for the day was ended and the Illarians set to work building pontoons swiftly from groves of pine trees in the nearby foothills. According to His Majesty, “they made swift work but did not finish before nightfall. And if one wishes to imagine crossing a freezing river at night, on a rickety wooden construct, while under fire then one would consider their plight.” The attack was postponed till the next morning, and by then it was too late for the Illarians. For they had devastated the country quite enough, a brisk wind coupled with the extensive trees they had cut down to build their shelters, pontoons and fires brought down a greater vengeance then that of the our Emperor. It is again theorized that the heat from the fires, along with the deforestation of the foothills, and warm weather lead to the avalanche that swept out of the foothills. Traveling nearly forty miles an hour the wall of snow impacted the camp, the rivers, and indeed the town. Luckily for His Majesty was within the stone town hall, as were his staff.

When the snow had settled only a very few Illarians were not buried underneath, but now there was a bridge into the city. Felix was not attacked, but instead lead the attack! Taking his four hundred men and charging south, cutting down concussed Illarians. It was over it minutes.

Continued P. 5, 6
The Waldenburger Evening Addition



“Good evening and God bless you all. It is with great fondness that I welcome another Christmas, a beginning to our new life. And as a gift to my country I wish to present the province of Groddenburg now fully secured from our enemies, and being purged of evil and excess even now. We have achieved victory so inexorably that our enemies flee at the very hint or sighting of our troops. It is however not on glory of which I wish to speak with you tonight; it is in fact our plight that has so marred this joyous holiday. Indeed so, plight in our hour of greatness, and for all intents in purposes could be our apocalypse, the sword to cut our great knot of unity.

I have pondered the question for many weeks and have laid a course of action out under royal prerogative. It is our only option to avert disaster, which though shrouded is made more pungent and repulsive by its stench and looming problematic qualities. We will be bankrupt before the end of the year, despite the loot brought in by our brave soldiers; there shall be major shortages within the next month. To that extent I have cut the budget. The Office and Holy Station of the Cenobiarch of the Holy Church has officially been cut from the civil list. Without the vast expenditures of the offices of the Holy Church we can survive at above normal levels of prosperity, and indeed with our gains arrive ahead of the game when this war is ended. It was neither an easy decision nor a rushed one. However to fulfill the need of spiritual head of state I shall officially add the title of Cenobiarch to those held by the Imperial family. His Imminence Cardinal Heinrich Major has been ordered into retirement at the abbey of St. Joseph, where he shall remain until he chooses his own path. Other then this minor change of role the Church shall continue to function, and will continue to commend us to God, will continue to serve this world of men. Gloria Pax Waldenburger, Deus Volt! And now the Empress and I shall sing Hark the Herald Angels with the Blünderburg Light Orchestral Stage Band and the choir of St. Ceno’s Cathedral.”

Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

Christ by highest heaven adored
Christ the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come
Offspring of a Virgin's womb
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate Deity
Pleased as man with man to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings
Risen with healing in His wings
Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"


How ironic the words, some prophetic and tragic in the same murmur, each admonishing and praising with indelible softness on the follies of the world; for when the mirror is held to life, no image is seen other then that looking back. No other words spoken by unseen administrators, there would be always only one set of lips moving. And how blind Waldenburg was that night, for they sang with the Emperor, and as his voice carried thinly across the medium of radio the entire nation rose in song. Even if the dream would melt away in the morning, if all illusion were swept away in one foul night, then for this moment at least they all sang as one.

In great swathes the candles were lit over the country as Midnight struck each province, proclaiming the birth of Christ, Prince of Peace, on whose throne sat a more belligerent prince. Merrily the country twinkled, jolly, little flames culling the night away, driving away all darkness in the face of humanity. If humanity could only see it’s face it would not only drive away the night and affliction, but also drive itself to madness. The mirror cannot lie, the book cannot mislead, the song not be misung but the hand that grinds, pens or plays may conduct their own private symphony. Alone against the world the country ignited a greater flame, and sung as one with the very soul echoing with light arpeggios and melodic unity. And all that they see or seem is but a dream within a dream.


“How lucky for me then that men do not think, or at least do not without a paper to tell them of what they believe.” Felix surveyed from a fine, chestnut warhorse the enemy army arrayed on a nameless salt flat some miles from the Imperial capital. The Emperor’s coat was trimmed with fine furs and lightly grazed his neck protecting him from the stiff wind whipping about the four horse party. Binoculars were held to his eyes and he casually roved them over the twinkling campfires of the enemy army.

“How many General?” the Emperor dropped the glasses onto their string around his neck and turned to Wilhelm Forsabben, who was trying with little success to keep his horse from prancing around to keep warm against the light snow which was falling.

“I would estimate two hundred thousand, with artillery trains and from what my scouts tell me air support somewhere around here. They will have some trouble cross the flats though; it should perhaps buy us some time. Perhaps it is time to…”

“Time is of little use when there are none to abide by it,” The Emperor’s horse gave a little whiny and trotted it’s feet excitedly as behind him the two horses of his banner bearers also began to cavort around tiny paddock.” And the Imperial army is at what strength?”

“Around Blünderburg we have fifty thousand men, maybe another two thousand if we can rally some deserters, and arm the monks of St. Ceno, who have, I must say, turned out rather well.”

“Not nearly enough for preventing a siege of Blünderburg, ‘I must say’. And though I was depending on the Imperial navy’s assistance they seem to be bottled on at Saxewirrtunburg and are out of fuel according to most accounts.” Slowly, as if detached from the situation the Emperor spurred his horse back towards the bulk of Blünderburg under its mountain shield. Only one side was naturally protected and the other side of the city relied on a river and a small wall erected before the conception of an elastic defense was even considered. “How Wilhelm have we fallen so far, so fast?”

The general pondered the question for a while, occasionally giving his horse a distracted thump with his riding crop. “I think sir that when the Cenobiarch was dismissed and seven hundred monks set fire to the Navy’s Magazine. Or possibly when the Bishop of Scant defected with four divisions. Either one of those times could have been it. However it did I must pass some comment of the swiftness our defeat is being brought about, only three months ago, the country was singing as one and on top of the world.”

“They say,” Felix’s voice acquired a far away pitch and for the first time in months he smiled properly which to the contrary of it’s implied actions, did not help the General, “It was an act of God for seizing what did not belong to me. Apparently the Cenobiarch is more fit then I to rule the hearts of men. I did it for the best you know, had to think of the big picture.” Two Waldenburger riflemen appeared over a rise, as they huddled against a tree, new uniforms had not arrived and they still wore the summer campaign jackets, and short leggings. “Patrols have been cut gentleman,” The Emperor passed by regaining his calm demeanor,” return to Blünderburg, recover your squads, and inform all civilians you meet on the way, we retire to the fortress, our capital. They wouldn’t dare attack us there.” The two men were all too happy to leave, and saluted coldly before trotting off at the fastest speed their frozen muscles would allow.

“General if you would be so good as to bring to the city all the supplies you can lay hands on. The Illarians and Incognitans will not dare pass the city with out army in it, and therefore cannot proceed south and take the rest of the country. They also will not shell us, nor gas us, they have the ‘higher morale ground’,” the Prince spat which was unwise of a cantering horse and through a round about way a flag bearer was wiping royal saliva from his common face.

As a black cloud of smog, which failed to penetrate the grounds of the Imperial Palace, the city of Blünderburg loomed ahead; it’s many cathedral bells already beginning to ring up a huge clanging cacophony. Industry had blossomed out of the heart of the city, and since the war the blast furnaces had been belching smoke like there would be no tomorrow and because of a more efficient propaganda system most were convinced there wouldn’t be.

“Majesty perhaps we should evacuate to the Redoubt, the mountain fortresses, we could hold there indefinitely. If you recall your history a campaign of two years was needed to take a single fortress there, that was without automatic weapons on the defense sir.”

“General,” the horses had come to the main highway leading to the city which was thronged with confused citizens dragging entire hay stacks or leading herds of cows, “I will not run, history shall look on me kindly as despite this set back I still intend to write it. Defend this city general, eventually our enemy shall grow weary and return home, and I believe we are overdue for a miracle.”

Act II Scene IV

Content Piece: Felix's Tears (http://gustave.club.fr/Musiques/Aux_Champs.mp3)

Thinly, in a single wispy line the pipe smoke drifted into the air curling and wavering in sudden susurrations of air or sharp vacuums suddenly sucking away all paths of travel. The Emperor had been wrong in one respect; the enemy had shelled them and did so with a ferocious avarice, hungrily gobbling up land to the rolling barrage. Sergeant Eldred hardly seemed to notice as he sat companionably on the city’s wall and puffed reminiscently on his pipe. Strangely it was the safest place in the city now, for though the enemy could lob shells from great distances, the Waldenburgers had packed the city full of linear artillery, and any attempt to demolish the wall from a strait shot would be suicidal.

So citizens and soldiers alike had come to the wall and sat on it conversing and occasionally watching the more interesting projectile arc over the wall and explode within the city. So far the shelling had been localized to the industrial sector of the city and nearly all work had shut down, all available men were either given a rifle or a shovel and told to serve the country from there.

“Eldred?” An officer, done up in battle dress and fiddling with a ridding crop under one arm, came up the stairs of the battlements holding in his other hand two mugs. “In this whole damn war you smoke more then anything,” a peaked cap was nodded at an oil fire rapidly spreading through the already burnt out industrial district. “Should be careful with that thing, could signal enemy artillery.”

“Hanner!” The Sergeant rose to his feet and clumsily saluted, being only brought back into the stance of officer and NCO by another shell exploding somewhere to the south. “Permission to sit and chat politely Sah!”

“Granted Sergeant, I’ve brought you lunch, or at least a cup of stagnant water which could be called soup in a bad light, and it seems we have a perfect day for that.” Hanner, still balancing his mugs, sat and handed one to the sergeant who also returned to the stone wall and took the proffered cup.

“I was,” both men didn’t make eye contact or even attempt to do so, both of them had been soldiers for far too long and knew the movements, “sad to hear about your brother. I killed a few extra for him.”

“Not your fault,” except for the far away explosions, screaming, claxons, and desperate signing, silence reigned on the wall. “Incognitan bastards, it was their fault and they’ve bloody burned for it. But who am I kidding, we each have seen enough battlefields to know that whatever revenge I can give personally is not worth an hour of fighting us!” The moment was thankfully over and each man could return to their own thoughts.

After some time in which each man considered the value of soup and the general stupidity of peasants, when posed with incoming fire, Eldred carefully offered sheepishly, “They’re going to storm us today.”

“Oh, how do you figure that?” The Captain sounded amused and carefully placed his cup down on the wall before turning a wan smile to the sergeant, and intertwining his fingers amongst this graying sideburns, “Please do tell, we could have used you at Håbstabben.”

“Well if I had eaten more then stagnant water and tobacco, don’t ask, or had the energy to start something I would allude to the mystical powers of the NCO or comment on an old soldier’s natural feelings. I would but my only feeling is hunger, so it’s right over there.” Eldred pointed one sausage like finger into the light fog, from which occasionally could be seen the flame of artillery, or heard the crack of a cannon.

“I don’t see anything,” the Captain said playfully as he peered out onto the plains surrounding the city.

“Exactly, they usually have a regiment or two snooping around the corners of the forest trying to look inconspicuous, sentries and pickets, that sort of thing, none there today.”

With a metallic pop the Captain opened up a spyglass and did a more articulate survey, noting every detail to his sergeant in an exited mumble. “It’s probably nothing, small pox again as a favorite,” the Captain laughed airily and clicked is device back into place, “Can you believe that nonsense? Small pox in this day and age it is almost frightening that they are doctors.”

“Should we mention this to the Home Defense Office?” Eldred asked, niggling at the small amount of hesitancy in his superior’s voice.

“Oh God no. If there were to be an attack the most effective way to stop it would be to start a massive ring of fire around the city built on pyres of the paperwork the Home Guard manufacture in times if trouble. If it would not burn it would at least stupefy, and by then we would be halfway back up the continent.” Wildly the Captain shook his fist first at where the enemy was supposed to be, then at a passing civilian and finally a flock of geese, which was making an ad hock flight path above the city. “You Bastards!”

“Come now Captain what have geese ever done to you?” both men, bored of conflict forgot their problems instantly and burst into laughter. “I think that, since I haven’t actually been assigned a watch since St. Mary’s, mine’s officially over. I know a decent pub where a knighthood still means something.”

“Oh yes congratulations on that, Sir Eldred, very flashy.”

“And Sir Hanner of course!”

“I saved the night gown, I’ll have it framed for you.” The Captain offered his arm jovially and the Sergeant took it with a wink, and a quick step the two men walked off literally clinging to each other’s arm and saluting passerby’s with a rogue wink and waggle of the tongue. As the two debauched the night away, uproariously drinking round after round, there were more serious plans afoot then where the next drink would come from, but for one more day let it be tomorrow, let the worry be found at the end of this one more glass.

“Breaching charges sergeant?”

“Here Sir, already wired.”

Low murmuring came from the looming base of the rough wall, which through the day had been covered with a light frost and had been slicked down as civilians, deprived of adequate plumbing as of late, tossed their leavings over the wall. It was quite a primitive method of waste disposal, but easy and added slightly to the defenses of the city. A more practical advantage would have been guards who did not fall asleep within minutes of being posted, as the young man on the wall had done.

“Right sir, oh blast, I just put my foot in it.”

“It will scrape of lovely when it dries, come on; don’t want to be caught without an umbrella when this explodes, eh?” The voices at the base of the wall seemed to be moving off, and though the young man on the wall could sleep through artillery barrages the faint movement of air awoke him and with a start he rose and spotted the figures jogging away from the parapets. “Oh Shit! Guard to Arms! Guar…” He did not finish his call, as the wall blossomed into a flower of flame and launched him, half the wall, and nearly half of the gatehouse seventy yards backwards into the city. There were no explosives that could do that, none to breach ten feet of stone in one blast, but the evidence of one’s eyes always outweighs the scientifically charged evidence no matter how improbable. Bodies lay strewn like paper dolls about the wreckage, some of them screaming about lost appendages, and the more able going to look for them. It seemed the wall was only breached in one place, which even with this newfound power would only allow the Incognitans a tiny foothold in the massive city.

China rattled against cupboards, the mantel clock fell to the floor with a huge clang and started to chime, a butler who had been hiding in the lee of a hat stand, for no obvious reason, was shaken by the rumble. The entire imperial palace had felt the crash and maids were busy looking out windows and feeling a gentle rain of sewage, and blood descend upon their outstretched heads. Screaming began somewhere, as did rifle fire and the renewed roar of several cannons. Felix who had till very recently been sitting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, pencil in hand, editing the newspaper for any hints that Waldenburg was in fact loosing the war, looked up. So far he had crossed out the section of the enemy army around the city, and instead penciled in a section on gardening. So far the Emperor’s tips on growing begonias had gone down quite well, and the city seemed to be buying into it in the greatest extent possible.

Now, however as the gilded wall shook Felix put down his pencil in a storm and stood, angrily shouting to no one in particular, “Ah, this will be the terrific duel to the death, between the mad Emperor and forces of freedom? Well I must say they have terrible timing for the cliché, it’s not even midnight. Forsom,” He waved to the butler, “fetch my luggage, and my sword, alert all ministers of state to come to the palace, and then find your family. Go!” The Butler scampered out of the room as Felix sat and looked at the clutter of his desk. His fingers came up against his face arched, tapping on his front teeth with the graphite stained nubs of his fingernails. At any second the walls could breach and a hundred thousand angry foreigners could be inside his palace, he groped for thought, waving one arm distractedly, “Raping people, eating heathen food.” He mumbled to himself, it was perhaps the first time he could look defeat in the eye, and even then it seemed a far away concern.

Slowly, at the speed of snowfall, the Emperor began to shuffle the papers on his desk, carefully stacking them in this tray or another, and sliding pens into their decorative cases. He even took the paperweight off his desk and filed it in a distant cabinet under ‘W’. When a cursory inspection was performed it appeared the Emperor had not taken into accountant a small, leather bound book kept in the writing tray, he easily spotted the place where it should fit within the bookshelf. In a single stride he was to the book and flipping through it’s worn pages, for a moment he considered dropping it into his bag, but then recalled it would be fitting for him to have a bible instead, so he slipped in into the shelf, and gently rubbed some dust of the top. With one last sigh he grabbed a valise from his desk and slowly left the room turning out the lights, and as he went, leaving a small note in the ‘In Tray.’

The halls of the imperial palace echoed and reflected the sights and sounds of his imperial city being slowly snuffed out. In a sentimental fit Felix pulled open a set of French doors unto a small balcony, on the room adjoining his study, supposedly for any children the Emperor may choose to have, and stepped out onto the nursery balcony. Like nearly everything else in the building it was made of marble and cool to the touch, especially now.

A zephyr, slightly warmer than was customary for this time of year had sprung up and slowly rippled the white satin and lace curtains around the doors. In seemed Hell had chosen for it’s expansion Blünderburg, and the night sky was clearly lit by mortar fire, and occasionally bursts from those awful new flamethrowers as they incinerated an alley or torched a house. The benign wind brought to him a scent of magnolia, mingled with putrid oil. It seemed though as if this was simply minor, for he could plainly see his forces, or at least their semaphore lights, and it seemed the enemy would be cordoned off very quickly and simply butchered in their tiny corner of the city. In the same manner however, where one may sleep through artillery bombardment, or remain oblivious to the obvious there was something wrong about the sky, something darker and more portentous to it than even blood, red moons or, flaming pentagrams.

“The Air hums it’s excitement,” Felix smiled happily and leaned back onto the glass doors slowly staring at what began as a dark cloud, then through the acclimatizing of his eyes became a zeppelin, long, black and sleek with only a faint running light to discern it from the night sky. Apparently someone in the artillery core had a similar inclination, or possibly too much to drink, either was probable, and one shell skimmed upward from the River Artillery Bank into the haze of darkness. With divine precision the shell connected on the observation box of one of the zeppelins and within seconds anyone looking at the night sky would have their eyes seared by the tremendous explosion as the limp carcass of a zeppelin came thundering through the skies dragging flame, metal, and screaming men behind it. Steel wretched as it hit the ground, barely missing the Cathedral of St. Michael’s by yards, and slamming to a rest in a side alley. For that moment, in the now illuminated sky the sheer quantity of the attack force became apparent, there were at least a hundred zeppelins in the skies each now underlit by the tremendous flame of the city.

Electricity had been dicey at the best of times in the capital city, and now it flickered on and off lighting city block, or buildings, singularly and occasionally simply feeding the streetlights, which had a nasty tendency to explode on such occasions. Conditions and supply of electricity worried those fighting in the streets or, on the River’s artillery bank very little now.

--

“Oh the Hell you will!” A rifle butt jammed upwards and caught the Incognitan on the face cracking his chin swiftly and throwing him to the ground; blood spattering the cobbles of the street now turned battlefield. All around Sergeant Eldred men from both empires were smashing the enemies’ respective heads in with rifle butts or eviscerating stomachs with bayonets, and by the screams, having a very good time of it. He would have liked to say it had been an elegant charge and flanking maneuver but in actuality the two squads had simply run into each other on an unnamed street corner and had it out. Three of his men had caught pistol rounds to the chest before Hanner had vaulted a litter bin and cut down the opposing officer with his saber and leapt into the thick of the Incognitans screaming revenge. Something must have protected him as he again leapt out a few seconds later three men dead at his feet, and the saber weaving a mad path into the hustle.

“Sergeant! On the wall!” Hanner was yelling and again charging through the throng, hacking and slicing at anything that paused him about his insane course, most of who were already dead or on his side. Eldred dived to the ground as a rifleman appeared over his head and tried to slash at his neck, which was no longer present; and in turn the Incognitan took a saber to the chest and collapsed at the same moment as his last comrade in the street took a ballistic corporal to the neck. “I believe that is all of them, here sergeant.” The Captain extended an arm to help his friend up, and retracted it to wipe the blood off, then extended it again.

“Hellish night sir.” Eldred grunted as he was lifted to creaky knees; he at least was a bit hung-over and had his suspicions of Hanner who was swaying on the spot and occasionally reciting numbers and letters to himself as well.

“Don’t need to tell me, I was there,” the saber was sheathed and, the two could finally consider their surroundings, and shrug of their coats at the sudden warm breeze, and heat of battle. Admittedly after even a few minutes of battle the senses shut down anything unnecessary to survival, temperature recognition was one of the first to go, but now everything came flooding back. “Did you however see the zeppelins, above the palace? Quite a few of them, seems the Imperial Air Force will be in for a challenge.”

“Then should we not be there, trying to protect the emperor?” The Sergeant again seemed to be walking off on a tangent and the Captain gave his disapproval all too clear undertones.

“The emperor is not the country, we have orders to defend this wall, and until someone takes my sword, or my will, then I shall be standing here against the invader. And though I have always liked you Eldred I will have you shot if you move from your post, do not think kindly on me for at the end of the day I am a soldier, not a friend. Come on I saw some of the Divine Legion go through this way.” In a laconic night the squad jogged along down a crowded street where there seemed to be one intended direction of the movement, towards the action on the wall, and hundreds of figures began melting out of the haze and into a loose battle line, twenty abreast.

Civilian militias, armed with whatever was hung over the fireplace, or in the kitchen marched in thick waves towards the various fronts, eyes set and determined. This was the paramount weapon of the imperial arsenal, devotion and fear. For a thousand generations it had been bred and unleashed on occasion to erect a defense stronger then any army could mount, for Waldenburg was an army and when, like at this point it’s nature and being were threatened, they stood as one, silently moving towards death, hopefully someone else’s.

After nearly ten minutes of struggling through the crowd the squad burst through onto the main thoroughfare of the city, which lead in one grand avenue from the imperial palace to the outskirts of the city. Here the sounds of battle became more organized, and it sounded like soldiers had articulate officers, still the battle was not yet in sight.

“Well Sergeant, it seems this is when we learn of what we are made,”

“Meat,” Eldred said glumly as he began to sharpen his bayonet by dragging it across the wall as the squad passed.

“I should very much like to shake you by the hand once more.” Hanner ignored his friend; a gloved hand was extended and shaken silently. The squad was now huddled against a alley wall where on the other side the true battle was raging.” On my signal, we’ll advance,” a small metallic whistle was inserted into the man’s mouth, and the bloody saber rose above his head. Before the little warble had had it’s infancy a more delightful sound filled the street, that of marching boots coming from the direction of the imperial palace.

Framed against flaming magnolias a host of black shapes approached; some carrying banners but most carrying double bladed axes, branding irons, long lengths of chain, and long thin blades slightly curved and by rumor, razor sharp. Inquisitors, the dark guard, finally out in the light, smelled sweeter and more desperate than their cold demeanor had ever suggested. At the core of the formation the shiny black boots of the Divine Legion tromped, their fine yellow capes whipping up fallen debris, and glowing like the morning sun. As the multitude neared the battle they broke into a trot, weapons shaking and rattling with every quickstep. Then banners flying, the first rank was around the corner driving all other part time soldiers off the highway, and charging into the fray axes raised and swinging; already screaming was roaring up from the enemies assumed position.

One face in the crowd, a pointed one, turned in it’s charge and slowed, a branding iron glowing with the symbol of the Church grasped in it’s black, gloved hand. From it’s black hood a reflective, mechanical face stared at Eldred and his squad, it was connected by a tube into his frock that occasionally gave off a mechanical wheeze. Two dark circles, twice the size of eyes gleamed on the light of the fires and looked more alien and hideous than the assembled armies besieging the city, where the eyes should have been. In a nasal drone the black hood whistled,

“Run. Live what life you can, we have had our own and many others.” The squad did not need telling twice and the enlisted men rushed away in a torrent. As the hooded head turned something began to spread from the street, a haze of greenish smoke that burned oily when it came in contact with the fires of either the lamps or the burning trees.

Hesitantly Eldred and Hanner joined their squad in running incredibly fast away from the battle. Slightly later screams of pain began to drown out all other sounds including that of the fervent singing, of what was obvious even from here, of the masked Divine Legion, the disguised inquisitor. Both men fled down the streets, now vacant of life, and clambered onto a section of still intact wall, where they panted for breath.

“The empire is over,” Hanner panted, still wheezing from the relatively short jog, his lungs seemed to burn with the effort of even this. “At least from here the burning sky, flaming palaces, and toppling of statues will look all the more impressive. I promised myself I’d never ask,” he smiled at his companion, “would you lie with me?”

“Hanner! I have children!”

“Don’t be naughty, just here!” Still panting the two collapsed onto the chilly battlement causeway of the wall and watched another zeppelin burst into flames above the Imperial city.

Acrid smoke billowed from one of the engines as the one and only Waldenburger combat zeppelin began a graceful decent towards the ground, it’s starboard engine ablaze. The WIS Major Harkonen’s demise did not phase it at all from firing salvo after salvo after salvo of rockets, each one streaking across the air, and if the crews were accurate bursting on the hide of an opposing zeppelin. Twin machine guns cut streaks through the night, long shafts splitting the sky in two clearly defined halves. The Incognitans seemed to have also abandoned stealth and were now strafing the ground with chain guns, mostly focusing their attempts on the imperial gardens where anti aircraft guns had been built. Exotic shrubbery and delicate flowers were ripped from the ground and tossed into the air, as the airships pounded the ground free of resistance. The battle was not without opposition however and patches of flame in the city marked the twisted carcasses of zeppelins.

Waldenburger biplanes had joined the fight although they admittedly were still unarmed with machine guns and simply danced around the zeppelins firing handguns, or on the orders of the Emperor, ramming strait into the grey frames. In rapid succession the zeppelins, now fully illuminated and obvious, were silencing the guns on the far bank of the river.

Felix could not stop staring from his little balcony he watched his air force slowly crumble, and his capitol burn in distressing quick time. The marble balustrade felt cold under his hands and he began to breath heavily and clutch his throat in shock and panic.

“Why? Did I not do your will? I would have built the greatest empire ever, all to you!” The emperor screamed now towards the sky, where a smattering of stars had begun to twinkle, the smoke and disturbance of nature seemed to allow for nature to wreak havoc with her children. “Was my life not enough..” a flaming zeppelin, taken down by a hand thrown bomb from a Waldenburger pilot descended past the window, twenty feet from Felix and fell another three floors before being nearly winked out in the ornamental lake. It’s oil spread across the placid surface burning even the water it seemed, and setting fire to the dangling branches of the Cypress trees.

“Your Majesty! They are loading the zeppelin, hurry!” A butler clutching a roll of dresses had spotted the emperor, and had turned a hurried face to him, beckoning with a silk covered hand. “The zeppelins are dropping troops, the monks of St. Ronald are holding the courtyard, but they are monks!” He stressed the word insinuating that simply closing the gate would have been a more effective means of barring entry.

“I think,” Felix rubbed his hand longingly on the marble columns of the lintel, and spoke hardly keeping the tears out of his voice, “I will stay here, do my people this one last favor. Watch and remember how we died, for we will all die, all for the empire. Don’t wait up for me.”

With bad grace the butler threw down his load of dresses and stormed across the nursery to the balcony and laid an iron grip on the Emperor’s wrist. “The Hell you will! And don’t flatter yourself, people have a lot better things to die for than an Empire.” Sternly the grip was increased and the livid butler began to drag his sovereign inexorably across the floor, “your nation does not need remembering, it needs preserving. If your father was here,” the nursery walls faded away and long, marble corridors flew by in dizzying regularity, “he would give you a smack, or he would if he weren’t already on the zeppelin and half way across the world, or he would if we were in this blasted war.” With a stomp of boots the two were facing an anxious looking pilot who was currently organizing the loading of a footlocker with ammunition and other lumps of metal that Felix could not be forced to recognize. “One emperor just as requested.”

“Fine, fine, just fine, see if you can’t find another pint of oil, we’ve run out again, please?” Quickly the pilot handed Felix a small canister, “The crown jewels, the scepter and orbs are already aboard the zeppelin. Now if you would be so good as to follow that rather buff man with half a face, there’s a good chap.” For the first time in his life there seemed to be no one catering to the Emperor, and no one waiting for orders, he was not the subject of attention. In a panoply of swirling action hundreds of figures wove around him, all to the backdrop of gilded walls, and elegant furniture. A rough hand was lain heavily on his shoulder and Felix turned to stare at a grizzled old man who had been slightly more grizzled tonight as blood ran down an open wound on his head.

“I will take care of you,” his accent was rough, not the usual low class whine or the aristocratic drone, this man was from the colonies, a foreigner, as close to a slave as was legally allowed, and still loyal. With a huge amount of force the hand propelled him through a door, and into the warm night made ever warmer by the flaming zeppelins.

Two men, in Incognitan uniforms, half burned charged at him from the churning mass that was now the duck pond, and slashed at his with bayonets. Even though the attacks were clumsy Felix’s guard tossed the emperor to the ground and stood legs apart waiting for the two men. As the first one approached he sidestepped, grabbed the bayonet, threw it to the ground and with one had ripped out the attackers Adam’s apple leaving him to collapse briefly to the ground spurting blood and vomit. The second man slowed his charge, he was not that badly concussed, but for him it was to late and the hand was already around his head, and with the ease of throwing a pen the escort tossed the Incognitan against the stone wall of the palace and seemed to take some small amount of pleasure out of the sound of snapping bones. Limply the body crumpled into a heap.

All around the Imperial Gardens, as Felix stood he could see destruction and death. Members of the household cavalry were strewn about the finely clipped hedgerows and lawn, which now resembled a gardener’s private hell. Through it the two hustled, once dodging a hail of gunfire, but always moving towards the still untouched bulk of the Imperial aerodrome. Inside a hum of life could be heard and the pilot arrived right behind Felix dressed in flying leathers.

Another slim hand reached out of a milling crowd and slid down the arm of Felix’s jacket. The grasp was weak and plaintive, begging for something to be done.

With mad eyes the emperor turned on his new assailant and noticed for the first time pleasant features of his fiancé. Catherine was not conventionally beautiful but certainly was handsome, the perfect face for putting on coins, imperious yet good-natured, a matronly empress in the making.

“Later Catherine, much later,” with that the Emperor turned his back and steeled himself, walking purposefully up the rickety gang plank and entering the sparsely furnished lounge. Most of the ministers of state and a total of seven bishops stood or sat in varying poses of disorder and sorrow. “We are aboard, and if we are awaiting no one else.”

“Surely sir,” the pilot asked as he walked past suddenly developing a firm loyalty in the presence of two heavily armed Divine Legionaries and a majority of the government, “the empress?”

“Will be much safer not cavorting around the country with her insane husband. We are not actually married yet, I would hate to die thinking that she dies with me. If we await no one else, let us create an Empire anew, this locale loses it’s attractions by the minute.”

“Yes sir,” the general clamor returned and mooring cables were tossed away by the outside crew who now had to duck and cover from incoming enemy riflemen, that laid down thankfully inaccurate fire on the docking crews. Giving a hurried lurch the engines roared to life; the huge propeller blades cutting the air magnificently and driving back the wet sheets that were kept over the zeppelin in foul weather. Clanking and rattling now the roof pulled back, on well-oiled winches the sky opened before the last imperial zeppelin, a thankfully enemy free vista lay in front of them.

It would perhaps have been noted as a great salmon leaping into the sky, but to more contemporary observers it was only a non descript lump of hydrogen, to some however the style of the thing mattered. So the great silver fish of the zeppelin rose out of the hanger and took wind on an updraft, being pulled upward quickly. As all passengers are naturally drawn when entering a flying machine of any variety, the passengers gathered at the windows most looking out for enemy zeppelins, but a few had eyes only for their vanishing home. Felix was one of them and watched his fiancé, who starred upward with a horrified fascination, Her arms, clad in elbow length gloves rested against her chest, and like his sister had done not a year ago, she rocked gently trying to ease away uncertainty and fear. Around her the deck hands were putting up a fight for the hanger, and as bullets whizzed by her head the empress simply stared at her vanishing future, tears slowly crawling down her patrician cheeks.

Those cheeks were not alone in their laments as a set in the sky was also damp. As the city burned around him casting silhouettes into the airship, and as chain guns strafed the streets, and as mustard gas leak down the Imperial Avenue, as the Magnolias and Cypress burned, as bodies mounted around the palace, the dynasty ended as Felix began to weep mellow tears, and shook with pent up passion. His hands were gripped around a brass banister and he leaned on it for support, looking down through an open picture window and weeping for all that he had done, and could have done. His ministers slowly backed away from him leaving the one figure crouched and enfeebled against the destruction of war, and his burning dynasty. All imperial glory, all act and charade of superiority and dignity had left the boy and he sobbed with the rhythm of the engines. Now though there was no one to cradle, no one to comfort, for the emperor may have no such device, or aide, he alone must act in defense of the realm, he alone had to bare the weight of the crown.

Suddenly he went rigid and he stood back as straight as a knife, still sniffling and moaning on occasion the emperor departed the room fiddling with the latch of the study door, before slowly slipping behind an ornate frame and door, which clicked shut, and locked itself. Luckily the enemies were busy keeping all Waldenburger fighters at bay or were already landing troops, nothing could touch the fleeing zeppelin, and it seemed it’s passengers were quite safe for the evening.

Felix’s study shone only with moonlight and the reflected fires of the city, which illuminated the small room well enough to show Rupert Fry, the foreign minister, casually sitting in a high backed, leather, arm chair purposefully swirling a snifter of brandy in meaty hands. He seemed oblivious to the moods of Felix or even of his entry into the room, but stared pensively, with a far away smile out of the window. Unusual for the man, he wore all black, a long black frock coat, black trousers and a black traveling cloak, attached around the neck with a small silver clasp of a small star or sun. When it seemed he could deny his emperor no longer he lazily turned his head and gave Felix the most probing stare of the emperor’s short life.


“Am I so fallible?” The Emperor slipped into the chair opposite of the Foreign minister, clutching his face between his hands and moaning out his laments. His eyes were still bloodshot and very wild, not actually focusing on the minister but searching the room as if for something he had put down only a moment ago.

“Am I so prone to error? By my actions alone can I bring down an empire? Have my faults and misfortunes returned to haunt me, and render my empire, my people lame? Can there be so much sorrow; can there be so much pain? Will it haunt me, drive and compel me to more error? Even now I gibber error such that falsehood becomes me, and rips from me my name and dignity, my name, bearing, and line. Can one man bear such torment; can a crown weigh down the soul as it does mine? Can it, Rupert can it? I spat fire, brandished right, justice and truth, as the hammers of my will and have forged only this, my ultimate end and the tears of an emperor?

From flames the soul is purified, but I have not had the luck to be shrived, the great uncertainty has come for me, and the guilt of losing my people, and the shame of disgracing my house shall be my irons binding me forever to such misery. I tried to hammer and bend things that were not meant to be bent, and from such materials I have only hammered out my own doom and misfortune. The die is cast, the metal set, the forge cold, and the finished work is terror and the sorrow of a dying world. Will humanity judge me, as God will; will they look with kind eyes for all that I would have done? Will sweet laurels rest upon my head as that of the hero, or shall I be condemned by those who write the histories?” For the first time in the monologue in looked as if the Emperor expected an answer.

Squeaking, the chair did not answer immediately but studied the amber libation it was so readily gulping down. “God cannot do anything men cannot.” There was some further swirling in which Felix waited impatiently eyes streaming for an answer. “The pen is indeed mightier then the sword, and sharper in the right hands. For this night’s work you shall be called a monster, a butcher, a warmonger and a coward. History shall not look kindly on you, and nor shall it cast it’s glance towards me. For though I, like you, have performed a valuable service, there is no morale scale on which to judge it and, the greater good will not be measured, for people yet are not so farsighted, or indeed once providence attained, so grateful.”

“I do not follow Rupert?”

“No, Felix I suspect you do not. You have created great things, works that could have lasted a lifetime, and if successful would have created an empire so vast and powerful as to swallow the world. Such a service to humanity to build a home for the blind but yet not cure blindness. You feed the problem, you let the malignant carcinogen linger and grow feeding off the weak and the defenseless, while all the while it establish itself as the benefactor of attentions.”

“Rupert speak openly, my comprehension escaped me some time ago.”

“And with your people and with your temples, and with their riches. There in you’re your contribution, and commitment to your subjects, your final act. Though a more repugnant act could not be found then the atrocities of war, it has expedient ends. Millions have died but billions will live free from the ashes of the old. Your Church burns with the ignorance, pettiness, stupidity, foolishness and arrogance of its priests and followers being immolated on the ground even now. Every life, however base is worthy of living free with the truth to guide them. I hate religion; I hate God. Have you seen what the zealots will do in the name of God? Have you smelt the smoke, and felt the ash whirl around you as the soul is purified? I have traveled, unlike most in this government, and have seen the world over, what the voices in the night can do to men. Those that die seem to have been the lucky ones, as when you stare into the heart of madness it stares right back boy, and it does not give an inch, and is already probing your soul for the little infractions and petty guilt that it can feed it’s addiction of hate on. Then you feed it, and pray it does not devour you first, and everyday, you are thankful, for it is not you on the stake, everyday it is not you under the knife, until the day it is.


This government has used the word of God, so distorted not to rip from the cancer all untainted flesh till only the cancer remains. In one respect your Church, your God, and your base urges have it right, we must open the eyes with fire. So do not weep for your lost Empire, rejoice for your newfound people have finally opened their eyes and seen the fires of hell, and give praise when they open their hearts and find that they lived through those fires everyday. Then be thankful, when they only kill you. That sir is what I think of your foul religion and your feeble entreaties weak ears, and what you would do to this world, were you given half a chance. That is what I think of your histories.”

“Why Rupert” The Church has always been good to us, to you?”

“Who am I in the face of a nation? Are you so blind as not to remember the truth, you ‘gibbered error’ for you entire life, in your twilight open your eyes and look,” he pointed out the widow where the flaming city was now a haze. “Can you not see it? New scriptures slowly being penned, those of reason, those of love, logic, feeling, empathy, intelligence, friendship, and tolerance, they will fill the untold libraries of men’s mind for those are the words that need not be written down. Yes the Church was kind, it was kind to the part of us that hates our neighbor, that hates what is different and fears what we do not understand. If we were to be wiped out by the wrath of God right now, and I burn in Hell for millennia, which I see as entirely reasonable, for the murders I have committed, then I should do so with a smile and a laugh and remember, always remember how being free feels. It is the most Divine thing more arcane to understand then paradox-shrouded enigma, and this new faith, faith in man, and his workings, is the greatest blessing.”

“You tired to have me killed to steer us to war, to slaughter?”

“Oh no Felix, no, that was not I. For this hate, the manufactured disgust also infected your father, a most affable man, a kind man who believed as I do that there are greater evils then the devil that constantly assault us, was infected by the this hate. I did not pull the trigger, your father did, he believed you unfit to rule, he hated you for what you were. It turns out the old man was rather prophetic, in reflection it seems he spoke only truth. He pulled the trigger, perhaps wisely, perhaps not, but I insured that the bullets missed your body and instead bloodied your honor and dignity. There however the plan was not complete, you still were the Crown Prince and that would not do. Several of the Divine Legion remedied the problem, however expensive, they brought you to the throne embittered, and shamed. There was one course open to you, that which your ‘nature’ and ‘dignity’ demanded. To fulfill my goals, thousands died and thousands more will need to, from this appalling empire. You are still so young, but I hope you understand. I hope you understand what has been done.”

Felix rose now, flame coming to his cheeks and a pistol appearing in his grip, which shook slightly as he pointed the weapon at the sitting figure, “I am not so young as to not recognize your lies. You preach kindness and love over the bodies of an emperor, and that of an entire nation? Do not tell me such things, do not tell me my father, the most compassionate man to whom all loyalty was due, attempted to murder his own son.”

“Felix,” the foreign minister unfolded from his chair and finally impressed on Felix that he had never been fat, merely rotund and heavily armored. He easily brushed aside the pistol, which was held in an ever-weakening hand, “If you have learned nothing from your short life, learn that God does not want prayers, or penitent sons, he demands more so much more. More then we can ever give, and some, including your were required to pay that ultimate price.” With that the Foreign Minister wrapped two huge arms about the suddenly weak frame of Felix. Felix simply cried, and shook against the shoulder of his foreign minister.

The pistol appeared in the emperor’s left hand and fired once, blowing strait through a startled Rupert Fry. Another shot followed and the minister was on the ground one arm outstretched in pleading or reconciliation, there was no one to consider such details as Felix had tried his tears and his face now sat rough against the gilded features of the study.

“You’re right Rupert,” he leaned down whispering loudly and coldly over the groans of Rupert, “God demands more. He demands your blood, your blood now, he demands obedience, such little things, such little favors to grant. So die knowing that all you have done is added blood to hate, which is by far a more potent mixture. The Church will live on, it cannot be killed, fear will always live, and hate will always be they’re waiting to be used, just as your truth is. I live for a greater truth though, that which will unite all kingdoms of men. Laugh this off.” The Emperor fired four more times, killing the sobbing foreign minister outright, and mangling his corpse. This was not enough as Felix turned the pistol around and started beating the face of his friend with the butt of the pistol until he was spattered with blood, and all of Rupert’s teeth were scattered about the floor.”

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty, gunshots!” There came a wild knock at the door which was of course locked. Felix, in his usual stride, leapt to the door and pulled it open sticking his bloodied head outside. His mad eyes roved over the waiting faces.

“It is no matter, a minor theological debate, which I am happy to say I have won. Make for… Hazergrind, yes Hazergrind. Nearly invincible if I remember my history

Act II Scene V

Content Piece: Et Terra In Pax (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/gloria/mG2%20Et%20in%20terra%20pax.mp3)

Raining blood the corpse plummeted out of sight, it’s limbs dangling and flopping in the intense winds. Frost had already formed on Mr. Fry’s face; his sightless eyes stared at the zeppelin he had been so ungraciously pushed from. Life had long since departed and when the body impacted a highly placed snow bank the powdered snow exploded around the carcass in a five-meter tall pillar blossoming into the air.

When it had settled Rupert Fry lay partially covered in the snow and true to his word, on his frozen face a joyous smile was frozen. Though there were simply gums beneath and the face was beaten and bloodied, he had died smiling against the whole world; he had defended himself with only a smile.

“Benefactus Patra Deus.” A Bishop clad entirely in white closed the boarding hatch and crossed himself before hanging his head. His hands were stained with blood, and his fine robes were dotted with it. Others gathered around him were also bowing their heads and crossing shaking chests. No one had actually liked Rupert Fry; he had been too underhanded, although most were distressed as his corpse was ingloriously pushed out of a zeppelin into God knows where.

Felix had at least regained some of his composure and sat smugly in the burgundy, leather armchair Fry had so recently occupied. Sardonically he began to clap, a long slow pounding that is the dread of every public speaker and is assured a rebuke once it has neared completion. “Yes Gentlemen, say what prayers you may. Rupert is going to hell.” Felix jumped from his seat merrily and clapped a hand on the nearest Bishop’s shoulder, “Your Imminence from which canton do you hail?”

“St. Michael’s your Majesty.”

“St. Michael’s really? A local boy, hardly surprising really hah! So what should we do now? It seems the only use I have is to kill ministers of state and bring war to millions. So what does my Bishop suggest?”

Looking nervous the man toyed with the red sash around his waist and made several false starts before he could speak, “Perhaps sir we should run to the mountains, and rebuild the Imperial line, then gather support from the mountain clans, and resist the invader.”

“Capital!” The Emperor flung his arms out, “It seems we have obtained the mountains, and If I not very much mistaken that last bump was our landing or, possibly we have made more contact with our destination then strictly necessary!” He burst out laughing surrounded by bemused or terrified faces, each taking turns to shuffle as far away from their sovereign as possible. “We will wait in the mountains as the country slowly atrophies! I can see why we won the war!” His joviality disappeared as his left hand came spinning around and connected with the face of the unlucky Bishop spinning him off his feet and sprawling him on to the desk.

“God will not wait,” he had surreptitiously turned his ring stone down earlier, and now under the guise of rubbing some life back into his hand, turned it face up again. “There is so little we can do, for our kingdom now, so we shall start again here at Hazergrind!” He flung his arms wide just at the pilot entered with the words “We’re here,” on his lips. The man stopped rubbed some condensation off his flying leathers and backed out of the room, bumping into the massive bulk of the man who had seen Felix out of the palace the day before. He stood nearly two meters tall folded and bent in the doorway to encompass his full frame within the tiny door of the smallish airship.

“Trouble Sarhhh?” The man’s voice was deep and low still, and this time more menacing then when he had simply killed two men, now it had undertones and currents of subtlety and guile.

“No,” Felix waved happily his ring back in place, “No Anton, there is no trouble, please allow the pilot through so we may stretch our legs, and see this fortress that so vexed an Emperor.” Sing songily the Emperor pranced about the room gathering up his possessions and shrugging on his riding coat. “Come gentleman,” he extended a hand to the Bishop who seemed to be unconscious or simply to shocked to move. “Anton help him through the door, and help him around.” The Giant nodded and hoisted the Bishop onto his back without so much as a groan or grunt and nodded to the Emperor.

Snow crunched under foot as the party left the zeppelin, and puffed it’s way up a small rise that gave off even more mysterious crunches under the polished boots of the party. Their breath hung in the air, great clouds of it accumulated around the parties head’s as the air was so thin and the hike so arduous. Anton still had a Bishop over his back and was occasionally humming under his breath with the apparent ease of wandering up mountainsides.

Once a small rise, on the nearly vertical hill, had been crested the ancient fortress of Hazergrind loomed out of a weathered set of rock spires. It’s crenellations and tower had it seemed faced the years well, and though stones, all the lead roofing, and all of the shingles were missing it still appeared stable and livable. As the party approached the walls, bodies became apparent on the ground, which was sheltered here in the lee of the fortress from snowfall or the wind.

“Jesus!” A Divine Legionnaire had turned a wall with a confident stride and ended face to face with a well-preserved body, nailed to the wall by a ballista bolt, and amazingly well preserved. It seemed the liquids in his body had been drained but other then that suggested a well-kept mortician came by once a day to stretch the face and reapply the rouge; his hand had frozen around the hilt of sword, which was equally well preserved although slightly rusted around the blade.

The gates too still hung as they had a thousand years ago, slightly off their hinges and charred with fire. Entirely unexplainable the ground under the doors still felt hot to the touch, and was completely devoid of any frost. Felix stood on that spot framed between the black iron of the gates where humble, and haughty saints faces still peered out through centuries of mold and decay.

“Gentleman, I have no stirring words for you, so I shall give you practical ones. Our home is ashes, but our faith is alive, and no one shall take that away. We begin here. If your graces the bishops would be so good as to take the Divine Legionaries and scout the area for villages or some means to support ourselves, offer then whatever we have. The rest of us shall stay here and clear out this fortress and again make it strong.” He stepped down, quite shocking his subordinates who were expecting a long speech on the rights of man no matter how they reacted or stood ready.

In a welcome haze the men spread out to their appointed tasks the Bishops gathering what food there was and spreading out in different directions, walking blessedly down the hill with their guard jogging along behind. Minister of state began with ancient battle flags to clean the char off the gate and gather together the more hazardous weaponry lying around. Men who had never lifted a broom in their lives reacted quickly and efficiently to household chores.

Anton would however not be saddled with minor labor but instead gravitated to Felix as the young Emperor began to gaze up around the walls and fiddle with the less ominous looking doors.

“This place is so changing, charged with history, in the way of the Cathedral or the palace.” He was speaking to himself but Anton heard and nodded his head with a sound of clicking joints and disturbing snapping noises.

“They tell stories of this place, in Granzimmerburg, the old men who,” he waved his hand distractedly, he had put his Bishop down against a wall under a blanket some time ago, “remember things. They tell story about how men resist God, story about woman falling from tower and, revenge.”

The Emperor had frozen one foot hanging in the air, and shoulders squared. After a moment he delicately placed a hand up to his left cheek reflectively, he spoke in a far away tone and gently caressed his cheek, “Old men, can be very articulate, and good for the crops of course.”

“Sarhh?”

“Nothing,” the hand was pulled down, “nothing I just felt… Nothing, strange mountain winds.” Felix laughed bitterly and began to descend a small staircase, that was cut from the stone, and for some strange reason was devoid of ice which had delayed his entry into the other rooms. Carefully he stepped down the stairs not wanting Anton to see his face or the look of horror there upon. With a sudden stop the stairs lead to a thick iron door, which hung slightly ajar. “Anton,” Felix motioned with his head that the man should come forward and open the door. Happily Anton positioned himself near the door and wrenched at the one of the handles of the door that stood slightly away from the lintel. With a great pull for which the man’s muscles bulged through his coat, the door screamed the scream of tortured metal but did not budge. Another pull and the same result. Felix raised his hand, “Don’t I think I can fit through, you I’m afraid won’t.” He stopped and patted the giant on the wrist before sucking in his stomach and sliding through the open door.

Once inside it seemed strangely well-lit room, a few stones had fallen away in odd places and a bleak sunlight filtered in. It was some sort of wine cellar, or crypt by the look of the devilishly figures painted on the wall in various stages of drinking and debauching. Gothic pillars flowed out of the ceiling, which had some strange green tints that either suggested mold or some moisture saturated paint. Most of it seemed to be lying in cakes on the floor, and left an unpleasant odor of must and decay to the room where the spiders held their court.

It seems that the room had had it’s purpose as tucked away in a corner was a still fresh looking chair, in red fabrics and dark wood. It did not look too imperious but cast a aura of power, that could emanate from such men as his father who had the power to rip countries apart but never did so, but quietly sat and smiled, and apparently knew how much even his son was worth dead. On the seat of the chair lay a small silver box inlaid with sapphires and dust. Almost malevolently in beckoned him forward as light twinkled off the tiny jewels and it seemed to vibrate in excitement. His feet lead on as his mouth fell open; whatever the world had planned, this was it.

As his feet carried him forward the crusty path of the wine cellar turned to that of the royal gardens, a small neat path that meandered through the grounds of the palace. Trees, flowers and grass lined the path, and from some distance off the Crown Prince, for his father was standing beside the track and motioning with his arm to ‘go’, and Felix could only stare and continue forward. When he extended an arm to his father though his hand passed through the outstretched, wrinkled appendage of his father, and in it’s place was a much more frightening visage. A three armed devil giving back a darker smile that was not evil, as Felix would have suspected simply haughty and amused. The demons hair flowed around it in great sheets and hid most of its humanoid body.

Turning, Felix watched, as his palace turned to the burning core of Blünderburg, neat path still running down its center and scattered with leaves, and occasional flower petals. Smoke and flame alighted on every surface of the city incinerating even steel, and even it seemed the sky. Pillaring a burst of flame erupted from the city and moved into the sky pulling the clouds to it and though Felix could not be sure, he felt winking out every life in his dear city.

“You Fool!”

Blünderburg disappeared and in its place a lone figure in the garden, hunched over a small vial. As details faded in it became the Cenobiarch, as he was the only man who could wear his wild hair and plain smock and hunch with the dignity of a Prince. For it was a prince in the garden and it slowly toyed with a vial of something before it turned mad eyes towards Felix and roared with a primitive howl that drew out for what seemed like forever. Screeching up and down the scale to the point where Felix had to clap his hands over his ears. As if in protest the vines and branches of the garden reared up grabbed the limbs and face of the figure that continued to scream as his mouth was stuffed with foliage. A prolonged period of struggle followed, where the vines slowly ripped the skin from the face and the flesh from the arms and legs. In triumph the branches tossed the skin to the ground where it settled in great folds before blossoming up into two figures lying on top of one another and rutting on the garden ground in passion, rhythmically bouncing off one another.

They were undoubtedly engrossed and as Felix passed the lower creature turned its face towards the Prince and gazed at the young Royal still working at its goal. It was his own face, Felix von Waldenburg lying on the floor, and that of the other, the figure which he was so preoccupied with that of Rupert Fry, fat and sweating arms wrapped around Felix’s doppelganger.

“Do you not see it? Are you so blind as all the others?”

Felix did not wish to see and turned his head throwing up a hand to shield his eyes from the depravity of the garden ground, the sight to his left was no better. A row of ghostly faces, all dripping with blood and in some cases disfigured, and horribly maimed. Stretching off into the distance, with no visible end in sight, Felix began to run. As row upon row, mile upon mile passed it became apparent the faces were that of soldiers disembodied from their earthly remains, and in their last minutes. General Forsabben’s unlucky head was perched on I pike the blade of which ran through an open mouth, the blood ruining the finely trimmed mustache. Only there did Felix stop, he had passed thousands, and this was the only friend in a friendless place, the Crown Prince extended a hand towards the shimmering image of Forsabben’s head. “Blood shall rise, and murder come out!” It screamed through the pike in its mouth the suddenness of which threw Felix from his feet. In rising voices the other faces joined in screaming “Murder come out!” at the top of their corporeal lungs.

Pounding, the screeching continued until Felix’s miserable head could not take another sound and he fell to the ground weeping on a surprisingly warm floor, head clutched between arms and whimpering for it to stop, and miraculously it did. Not instantly Forsabben paused, then his army began to take up the que one by one down the line, the Waldenburger army fell silent until there was only one more voice, filling this pseudo cavern with a simple tune, not a scream, but a little childish ditty. It was an old song that even Felix remembered one about how the devil would get, if you strayed, one about fear of evil, one about all the pain that could be inflicted on those who deserved it.

Along with the reprieve in noise a soft hand descended and found Felix’s face, the long nails brushing the unshaven whiskers and patting the tear soaked face for an immeasurable amount of time. When the Crown Prince could open his eyes and look at his comforter he found her a sad looking woman who smiled faintly and encouragingly to the prone Prince. While forever patting rhythmically to the little nursery rhyme.

“Have you performed enough mighty works? Are you ready to rise and forget your past, that which has made you what you are? Live and forget us, forget yourself.” The women’s hand was retracted and her face began to fluctuate between that of Catherine, a tear stained and powdered face, to another more noble veneer, another women, less elegant but more commanding and fierce. The cheeks were the same, high, and proud, and so were the eyes, dark blue, the blue of the north seas and sapphires. With a slow hiss of air the woman burst into flames her pale skin slowly dripping away like candle wax to leave the two eyes, gleaming all the more brilliant in the flames of the fires. Finally with a pop and the end of the song the two eyes morphed into two sapphires sitting calmly within the silver box set so imperiously upon the chair.

Trembling Felix extended his hands and grappled with the latch, clicking it in and out of place until the box opened on tarnished hinges. It was a decidedly lack luster end, as the lid flipped open there was only a book, leather bound and disused. It was familiar but the Prince could not place it, and with shaking hands picked it up slowly and hugged it to his chest.

On watery legs Felix stood and hobbled out of the room too shocked to open the book, which he did not comprehend. The wine cellar flew by in a flash and on the same flush of weakness he was carried outside past Anton, who yelled when he saw his master and flung himself back crossing himself with huge, meaty hands. The display seemed to go unnoticed as Felix drifted by and then strolled into the main courtyard where his ministers of state screamed when he approached and fled to all corners of the wall, a very few of them being chased up a flight of stairs to the main gatehouse where Felix finally stopped book in hand, and mind ablaze. The ministers on being questioned later could not identify why they had been so frightened, and why they had run nearly a quarter of a mile in some cases to escape their dread. This now did not matter to Felix; his mind was elsewhere, wherever his body was. Though his body from this vantage he could clearly see all the mountaintops and the haze of flame that had to be his capital, everything under the world all that should have been his.

Clanging and booming over the small rise directly below him a army approached, not a modern one, and not a very big one, but all the more terrific in it’s intensity and undisciplined ranks. Every man, woman and child of the army held a spear and, wore a pointed helmet on which was set an edelweiss flower, glowing all the more brilliant now as the sun began to cut through the permanent fog of the mountains. As one the army stopped, genuflected, and then knelled to their Emperor who still blankly caressed the world with his gaze. As if on the strings of a puppet the Emperor held up the book, and to massive cheers waved it erratically above his head. There was a series of mumblings before the Emperor, and Crown Prince, and Cenobiarch raised he voice and bellowed, “Kingdom of Heaven, Dominion of Souls, and Command of Hearts! A greater kingdom then that which we leave behind will be created today. Build it here,” he tapped his heart with the book, “build it where it can never be taken nor defiled.”

--

“Well I do believe that is the end of it, a rather good show all around.” Gone were the ancient robes and more potent signs of anonymous power to be replaced with a bright sunny greenhouse like room and eight comfortable looking chairs, positioned in an informal circle with a bubbling fountain in the shape of a dolphin at its center. All faces were perfectly uncovered and sunlight showed every feature of every face perfectly and in full detail. A few waiters padded gently through the enclosed gardens bearing trays of drinks, or with spray bottle for some of the more sickly looking plants.

“Rather,” another man said, there were still no names in this circle. “I can’t help though thinking of what happened to Fry, probably burned alive in the palace. Despite everything I rather liked the man, or at least the way he thought in which he was being clever while being used. It was quite amusing; he was always so hungry.”

“I know what you mean, and how quickly he divulged everything, he even knew we were Cardinals.”

“And it seems,” from one man, tall and imposing with a frizzle of white hair bursting from under his miter, “we are still cardinals. Rather more powerful Cardinals, if we were to look at the matter reflectively. Did I not say we could trust the power given to us?”

“Yes your Imminence, but it did cost us. I admit, this regency is an admirable touch, to the Bishop of Scant.” All present heartily raised their glasses, “If the old codger had not defected when he had we might have won the war, and if that were not enough he convinced the Illarians we are a caring Church who had been under a despotic monarch. If I were not looking through the glass half empty I would be laughing. The cost was too high, these are affairs above our head.”

“In the same way buying land costs us, or purchasing food is too high your imminence, each shall have a greater reward in a very short order. Did you not hear the riots in St. Anthony’s Square? Did you see the two million people rebuilding the Imperial palace stone by stone? Oh, yes your Graces we have done something better then merely sustain ourselves. You know it as well as I.”

“Then what shall be our end game? While the Church may stronger, it is smaller and the country occupied.”

“Occupied by occupiers who eventually will become unoccupied and then go home, and we will go with them, I know the Illarian soldiers respect what Waldenburger men could perform in battle, and I know they respect us. Fear us perhaps, but respect us definitely. If we go with them they will convert and slowly tear away our enemies, and it shall be another mandate of Heaven for our rule. Every turn of the great game brings us closer to our ultimate end of victory, and if I may be so crass, we may not win without the lose of a few pawns.”

“As you say of course, I am perhaps too delighted, simply to be alive, or to rebel against such confident words.”

“Good, good man. Waiter,” the leader of the group snapped his fingers and a black coated butler brought forward a glass of some alcohol that had not been prohibited by the occupiers, which fit in a very tight category of libations. “Have any of you heard of television? One of the Illarian officers tried to explain it to me, radio but with pictures.”

“Wouldn’t work, couldn’t really see the pictures on the radio, could you.”

“Probably not, but those in the colonies have yet to see what has become of our capital, what the pagan and the heretic are capable of doing, perhaps it is a medium we should attempt to utilize.”

“Are you always thinking about work?”

“Is ‘Work’, always the ultimate paradox? Labor or pleasure, an infinitely difficult choice for me, can they not be the same thing just this once?

“Not in our business, your Grace.”

Closing Piece: Pax Waldenburger (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/gloria/mG3%20Adoramus%20te.mp3)

Act III Scene I

Overture: Oggi a Betlmme (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/Cn05-mp3/pms10-Oggi%20a%20Betlemme%20.mp3)

Content Piece: Confusiatis (http://heim.ifi.uio.no/~bryhni/vak/mozart98_mp3/06_Confutatis.mp3)


Shame burnt more then the irons he had been submitted to for weeks. Though they had left his face and body charred they had emblazoned a deeper meaning and power that without such a rude awakening would have continued it’s smolder, now it burned furiously behind the a crumbling barrier of the body. His scars were not so bad, his pain not so terrible, but his shame would still remain when all the tears had dried away, and even after that name and idea would remain.

Steam rose is waving tendrils off the sweating body as it pulled itself up off the cliff and unto flat ground, where the snow melted around him as he sucked down the frozen air. It had been a very long climb, one of many legs of a very long and dangerous journey, made so by the Imperial gunships that scouted the fields, or the tromping boots of the Divine Legion who would smash down doors when he had put his head down for a wink of sleep. The climber had killed when he had to in those situations, quite often, and although he did not take any joy in the ending of life, he did file away the little details of the kills, how the jugular had bled or the thrust was parried. The man melting in the snow was no coinsure of pain, did not enjoy its many perverted pleasures, but rather a scientist who wishes to understand the hows and whys. Nearly two months had passed since the fresh scars had been added to his chest and his body beaten raw by those less cultured in their tastes. A long time to ponder, the past, and the future, to consider the infinities of possibility finally opened by nominal freedom, or at least those presented by the inhibiting qualities of a bounty of three million Reichmarks on one’s head.

Sluggishly the man reached into his belt, which held up a non descript tunic that just screamed a message of poverty and namelessness, and felt for his pride, and the calling of his labors. A small book hung there from an even smaller piece of twine. It had been a passing fancy of his as he had fled before the Divine Legion during his escape and his outstretched and steadying hand had caught one book slightly out of place off a shelf and simply held onto it. It had not been a conscious effort, and he should have dropped it to make his departure speedier but his body would not let the book fall away. And when he had escaped the basilica, and had nothing to occupy his time he had opened it randomly in the middle and begin to read. Several minutes later he flipped to the beginning and read again, his eyes growing brighter as the words flowed into his mind and whirled about his fragile head. As days passed and as the man ran at night, and when he should of slept, he read, cover to cover, his little impulse crackling again and again with the hurried turning of the pages. It was such a glorious thing, it message and wording flowing off the page till the mind too crackled with excitement and the sun burned on a different horizon altogether.


The man had read in his school days odes to great heroes, the speeches of defiant Bishops, beautiful sonnets, plays and even foreign literature, now, before this simple hand, which splashed ink across the page on occasion, all those great works became swill, and the scribbling of children. Now though he had time to reflect on those, marginally happy days, and did so while staring up into a clear sky for some time and contemplating all that had lead him here.

“….The court, under the direction of His Imminence the Cenobiarch finds you guilty of attempted murder, acts unbefitting of a High Inquisitor, assault with a deadly weapon, cruel harassment, detainment of a minor, and heresy against the Holy Church. For these crimes you shall be put under the maximum sentence of the law, death by torture and fire.” The gavel banged sealing the ultimatum and, the courtroom filled with a hushed whisper before the stentorian, and rich tones of the High Judge again commanded the room, “Do you have any final words?”

Shackled and chained between two sturdy members of the Divine Legion the defendant stood to the hissing of the amassed audience. A look of confusion and misunderstanding blanketed his face; as if he could not even consider that there was a trial for his crimes, but rise he did and with a faint jingle genuflected to the cross hung temporarily on the wall. He was a stick thin man, built like an emaciated bird, and hunched at the shoulders, to bring into sight the massive dome of his head where unkempt white hair sprawled in every direction. “I did it for the good of the Holy Church.”

“No Sir!” The judged boomed back leaning over the banister of the box his hammer menacing the defendant, “you did it out of impulse and practice. He was the damn postman, not even a man, just some boy who delivered the mail, and you killed him!”

“I purified him, a service which I have had some practice in, as your Honor states, for which I nightly rejoice for the souls I’ve helped into the other world.”

“And for what did you help him into the other world for? Did he make to much noise in disturbing your nap, crumple one to many envelopes? For what sins suffer the mailman?”

“Blasphemy, heresy..”

“Do not, do not go there sir! Do not kill the messenger, and if we have learned nothing here today do not kill the messenger in the saloon of the Cenobiarch, thirty feet away from where His Imminence was taking lunch! However these crimes are dressed, or disguised it is too late and you shall be relaxed for your ‘piety.’ A shame High Inquisitor for you have performed great services in the protection of the Church. Perhaps though, you could write a book now in your early retirement, I’m sure whatever words you endorse shall be a bestseller. Bailiff fulfill the sentence, allow the high inquisitor home.”

Smoke billowed in a well-organized way and pulled out through large ventilation wells. The pits of the inquisition had changed over the years, and now instead of a dark chamber under some mountain, although in truth it was a dark chamber under a mountain, there was now a viewing area for school groups and a small café that did a booming business. Some of the more interesting executions were even televised, and the products the curriculum for most Sunday schools, it was important for the children to see what happened to bad boys and girls, to see the Church kill the bad men, and women, and bad boys and girls that seemed to parade in a never ending queue towards Heaven from the pits. To burn away the sin, and leave only the naked soul ready to be judged was the greatest service offered by the Dark Guard, and it seemed their hobby.

Only the main command building could be seen, in the poor lighting. It was built into the wall, carved out of stone and perfectly sound proofed against the ministrations of the more zealous members of the clergy. Pits and cells spread out for nearly a square kilometer lit by only the occasional bare bulb from the ceiling, and no one other then the High Inquisitor know the number of prisoners kept in the row upon row of storage systems.

A group of school children meandered in the way they do along the glass lined viewing balcony and watched the goings on of the most invisible arm of the Church. Only one man was currently receiving the attentions of the inquisitors, actually quite a large group seemed to be around the slab, and occasionally roared with laughter or slapped each other on the back. On the slab a man was shackled spread eagle, with blood dripping away from his chest and down onto the marble floor where well chiseled, and precise trenches lead to the sewers by a comparatively complex system. The system was in place and although the people came and went, it was either laugh at your situation or go insane.

“Do you remember Howard? Used to work somewhere down in Thumbscrews, or one of those. He used to have the strangest way of twiddling the Ninth Tenths Pratley, do you remember sir? Always trying to impress you.” One hood chatted casually as it even more casually and quite without noticing what it was doing, sharpened a series of ever lengthening knives.

“Was he,” the prone figure asked through clenched teeth, “the one who always came in early and brought the thermoses of coco? My mind sort of wanders now a days.”

“Can’t say I recall any of that,” another hood interjected, cutting the first off, and waving a branding iron absent mindedly, “but I do remember a certain young inquisitor who always came early to impress High Inquisitor Gorham, back in the day. Worked to, the lucky bastard.”

“Henry? Have you been working for me this whole time? I thought they put you out to pasture years ago?”

“Ha, you thought you did! But no it’s been thirty years in the Experimental division, thirty years behind the poker sir, and still inquiring with the best of them.”

The chained figured snorted either in laughter or distaste it was impossible to tell, “Not quite. Things have slipped, I should have paid more attention, my fault in a way, but my left hand is loose you should be better, and the chains around my feet are practically hanging off AHHH!” One hooded robe had produced a lemon and was slowly crushing it over the wounds, dribbling the juice down into the puss filled crevices.

“You, don’t have to tell me,” cackled the voice of the older inquisitor, “not like the old days at all. All these young people… Ah but listen to me, rambling on when we should be giving you the old, blood and vinegar speech, not like it used to be. Well anyway, two hours to your execution, so we will just leave you to stew.” The inquisitors began to file out of the torture chamber still chatting socially and all offering the bound high inquisitor a pat on his nonburned shoulder and a bit of encouragment.

“But my chains are..”

“Oh don’t worry about that, we’ll be sending a novice around in, oh about an hour to tighten it up, and he’ll be refreshing your sand. See you around sir. Be seeing you around.” The door clicked shut the heavy latch not making it’s usual clap of thunder, but sounded as if it had been propped open with a key, or just simply left dangling. The school group too had gone away and the only person watching the room was a legless man nailed to the opposite wall who occasionally would burst out laughing, or start speaking in what the bound man recognized as anagrams. No help there probably. So the man waited for three hours in the cell occasionally rattling his chains out of some sort of instinct, and always waiting for the promised novice.

When, even down here, the Basilica bells began to chime midnight the bound man finally sat up, and undid his chains, winding them neatly and stacking them in a corner. Without anything to do, the prisoner set to polishing the knives of his own blood and slotted them into their little sheathes, before going to sit back down on the slab. His wounds were not too terrible, and as usual were made to impress the crowds for his execution tomorrow. The wounds around his ribs were probably the worst and even they were not so deep, although the salt and sand crusting them did burn a little.

One knife twiddled in the man’s fingers for a moment and expertly fell into his hand. To the normal man the choice would be easy but to any Waldenburger it would be hard to disobey the Church, the chains weren’t even necessary. In one moment though, the prisoner had made his choice, he had seen thousands die by the stake, and had personally relaxed hundreds of people and did not look forward to being burned alive. With one explosive jump he was off the table and bursting through the door knife in hand and legs pumping. It was a tangle of corridors but the High Inquisitor knew every one and knew every turn. Some distance through a Divine Legionnaire was waiting leaning on the wall, on guard duty and toying with his rifle. In a slick move and without stopping the prisoner had a knife across the man’s stomach and stuck into the guard’s ribs in one fluid movement without stopping.

In a pool of blood the guard clicked on his radio and began to yell disconcertingly; the message was clear even though the words were rambling and incoherent. The prisoner did not stop, and arrived after a series of twisting corridors to the glassed observation corridor, which would lead to a nunnery then to a kitchen and then to an ossuary and from there into the sewers. Provided his clearance hadn’t been revoked, and he supremely doubted it had, he could not only escape but makes things very difficult for anyone attempting to follow him. Legs whirring the small man thundered through the observation corridor and pounded past a novice who had stuck his head around a door. A moment later the novice fell, a large red line appearing on his neck, the prisoner was obviously going for broke in the department of treason. Hurried feet were already pounding after the fleeing figure, and a few bullets shattered the glass panes as the Divine Legion began to lay down inaccurate fire.

The prisoner was no where even close enough to be threatened by the bullets, he was already in the nunnery and yelling madly for the indignant sisters to get out of his way, and motioning with the knife that should they fail to do so it would not be for the best. They did so and like massive crows, their robe, flapping, the nuns formed a gauntlet around the fleeing figure, which provided quite a block to the door where six members of the Divine Legion were attempting to push through the confused and menacing women.

“High Inquisitor!” One bellowed and raised his rifle, firing two neat shots through the crowd, their finesse only ruined by the woman they hit in their flight. She collapsed with a soft thump in a suddenly silent room, the bullets had taken her in the neck, and her fellow sisters had rushed to her side, and were attempting to comfort the dying women. The High Inquisitor, experienced in such matters as running from armed police, although usually on the other end, did not pause to see what the silence was about and continued into the nunneries’ kitchens, which served as the eating place for nearly a thousand of the various monastic orders.

It blessedly was nearly empty except for an almost impossibly old woman tending a pot, one wrinkled and hooked hand wrapping around a ladle and stirring to an internal rhythm. As the prisoner passed she nodded without raising her bewimpled head. Her neck creaked most disturbingly as did her knees as she bobbed a little curtsey. The spoon never stopped moving, and neither did the prisoner, though in his distraction he had bumped his furiously moving shins against a table, which had put him off his stride for a moment. Still moving, backwards this time, he bowed slightly to the women and held out his fingers in blessing. She seemed not to notice his gestures or his eventual departure, but as the prisoner continued into the ossuary he heard the unmistakable sound of screams as if a pot of boiling water had been tipped bodily onto six rushing soldiers.

As all ossuaries are, this one was filled with bones, dusty and spoke of a history far more arcane then the rotting flesh and moldy bones suggested. This was of course no tomb for Bishops, probably just some Sister Superior’s and maybe an abbot, their positions in life as revered by the higher clergy as they were now, their bones piling beside the spice cupboard. It was not a very big room, and like all things in the Basilica had probably been intended for something else, as even the newer nunneries had been state run brothels before their conversions. The doctrine of the Church, in respect to other’s then itself, had always been give until it hurts, and if one cannot give then one should work, at whatever profession one is best suited to. Hundreds of women had made their livings there for centuries and if the sounds were correct, they would bar no interruption of tradition.

Pausing for only a moment the prisoner stopped, his fingers grazing one skull labeled in the cramped hand of ancient quill writing, and by far too dusty and molded to read. It, like the room, had a certain energy to it, especially with it’s blank sockets staring almost intently on the scrolls and books across from the ossuary, which recorded the lives and deeds of those interred.

“And thus conscience does make cowards of us all,” with time that could not be spared the prisoner stopped, obviously the soldiers were having problems with the nuns and their burning faces, but even so, the prisoner should have run. “Would you urge me to an undiscovered country, or to grunt away the sweat of a weary life? Would you perchance like to inquire on the matters of my merit or spurn my office?” He waited for a moment, “I thought not.” He slotted the skull back into place, and for the first time began to feel some excitement of escaping from the Inquisition, which even he had to admit had a very romantic air about it.

“It is said,” the prisoner began to jog as the sounds of soldiers became more organized, “that it is better by far to die then live on your knees, that no agony is worse then that of slavery. You shall find sir, as I am no doubt you are aware, that this is said by men who are alive.” Behind him a saber flashed and the Divine Legion was quite close and gaining speed. Deftly, with the intelligence that comes of having one’s life endangered, the prisoner’ arm flew out and started tumbling the books from the shelves, and occasionally reaching out to fling a skull backwards at his following cohort. As the outstretched hand rattled books from the shelves, it’s fingers, as if guided externally wrapped themselves tightly around a small leather bound book, and refused to let go. The prisoner brought the book to his face still running, and examined the little cover and resignedly sighed. This was not for any reasons relating to the book, but more to do with the ending of the passage at the base of a ladder which if he tried to begin climbing at this point he would be shot down before he reached the second wrung. With a sudden and graceful turn the High Inquisitor ended his mad dash, back against the far wall, and a jaunty smile covering his face.

“Have you gentlemen ever considered the possibilities presented in fleeing?” He asked gaily, “Denying the Valkryie her premature dues? She is reimbursed in a currency much higher then we are prepared to pay, especially since our civilization’s zenith has crested runic circles and blood sacrifice by a millennium. Yet from the outside is the globe so large, or the price so high? Is the sky so all encompassing when viewed from an elevation higher then that of others? Are we truly so advanced, or is our glory as mercurial as the shifting winds and changing skies that view us with such despair and anguish.” The Prisoner spoke fluently talking to the face of each baffled and bemused guard.

“We’re going to gut you like a clam old man.” One said, angrily raising his rifle, and activating the laser scope.

“Come I’m hardly thirty, but if the case is in your favor, then indulge an old man. Can I not, before death, reminisce with Death, can we not share our old stories. I have sent thousands his way, and indeed he shall no doubt pay me in kind for all that I have done for him, but think not of my impending death, death which I am sure you fine gentlemen shall deliver without ado, but that of the death of more inane being then even the illusion of my senility can conjure. Is the mortal coil so weighty that everyone wishes to shrug it off as soon as conveniently possible? And how quickly I moderate, for yesterday I rambled of sin, when in the distance of three hundred meters my old convictions have sweated away! Will your steely hearts not be tempered? Let an old man go, what threat can I pose to you, you with all your shiny weapons.” The guards suddenly took a great interest in their shiny weapons all raising them at once, and taking a steep away from the old man.

“Are our ideals so backwards, our paragons lacking such transcendent qualities as to fail the country which they are embellished with? Is the Cenobiarch such a friend, he does not command the will of God; he is not even his voice. Can you, as all the others, be so blind, against the great work, do you not in your endeavors to fulfill said paragon witness the most distressing deficiencies in those who seek to command it? He who cannot not soil his hands with evil blood shall find all his labors winked out in an instant, and his ideals the discarded rubbish of lore.

I rendered a greater service to God then you would ever dream, I set those people free, oh yes through blood and fire and death, but I set them free. Duty, Honor, and Faith are your call signs but who am I? You stand to the rotten ideals; bear the shield for ignorance and weakness, and all the while preach a love greater then that plutonic love between even us now, a love to God. It is not that which our God demands, but a greater love, one which may be fulfilled only by the pound of flesh, the labors of one’s life and even Queen Mab’s realm’s produce, every waking moment’s labors. Can you render him one service in your life, can you let me free, so that in his name the work may continue. The Church is corrupt, they imprison me, they allow me free, and it would seem they recapture me. If the screams of a million worlds does not startle you from the dream, if the last sigh of the last angel does not wake your from this nightmare, then please as least be efficient in your mediocrity, and kill me.”

“We swore an oath, and we intend to keep it, will you come quietly or do we have to go and fetch a flame thrower? The carpet will really never be the same. Your words may be pretty but they fall of deaf ears.”

“So I imagined. I shall come, quietly,”

“To late,” one guard mumbled behind his HUD display.

“I am afraid your guns are more potent then my tongue.” The High Inquisitor dropped his shoulders in submission and allowed the guards to grab him by the wrists. “It is a shame I’m already sentenced to burn.” The group began to manhandle him out, pulling at his clothing; they apparently had neglected to bring a set of restraints with them. As the small party reentered the ossuary proper, the prisoner, who was seized by the wrist cast his glance to the mysterious skull that had so inspired him earlier. The prisoner nodded his head to it deeply and with respect that was quite out of place to the bones of a dead stranger.

“Pay homage good gentlemen we walk in the shadow of the unmoderated saints,” The guards turned their heads slightly, “if you remember nothing of me, remember those who died in then name of a impenitent and weary world.” The torture knife whirled out of the prisoner’s sleeve and slit the wrists of two of the guards in a single slash; their assault rifles flew from their intended targets.

In a wide and clumsy arc the knife was pulled through the neck of the leading corporal who was killed instantly. A rifle was fired somewhere but it failed to hit and the prisoner was too hyped on adrenaline to even realize the shot, and had already slit one mans stomach open with the back hand of his original slash. The third man fell quite as easily, his rifle being knocked away by a small leather bound book that appeared in the prisoner’s hands and then spun out of the man’s hands. The knife was only a few nanoseconds behind it, and already dripping blood took the last victim.

With a thump the last body fell, all dead or at least wounded enough so it would hardly matter in a few moments. In the fashion of naturalists attempting computer science, the prisoner picked up a rifle, by the barrel and studied it critically. With a sigh he discarded it and apologetically undid the hip holster on the corporal for his pistol, which he seemed equally unaccustomed to, but strapped it inexpertly to his waist.

Drifting in but modified by glass and stone the sounds of pursuit began their inexorable rumble down the halls. Still wheezing from torture, physical exertion, pitched knife fighting with Imperial Special Forces, and literary cogitation the prisoner pulled himself up the ladder rather shakily, the book tucked under his chin for the moment. He knew where the tunnels lead, out into the Imperial gardens next door near the ornamental lake, by means of the sewers, a very unfortunate run through open terrain where a blood stained cassock may cause some comment. He would have to hide in the hedgerows until a gardener came along.” He ended the thought, he did not enjoy killing, did it when he had to and said a prayer for every soul he sent off. Within moments he was gone, leaving only a small trickle of blood and an aroma of sweat.

Moments later the Divine Legion arrived, and with military efficiency smashed into the Ossuary and with sense unaccustomed to military men did not rush it but, twisted a fiber optic camera around the corner until the operator gave the all clear. Shiny boots blew up sheets of dust as two full tactical squads then began their rush into the room; red laser points dancing on the opposite wall, and monosyllabic commands giving the all clear at different stages. Once the squad was sure there was no possibility of surprise attack they whistled out the door, where two more Divine Legionnaires, stood with an excited looking Bishop.

“Permission to pursue sir?” A sergeant asked form behind a riot helmet as the Bishop carefully and above all slowly entered the room.”

“Of course do so. But first alert palace security, and inform Colonel Smyth to activate the perimeter defense. Then follow, carefully, we have enough blood today, barring perhaps a small amount but, yes do so.” The Bishop flung his hand up, shooing the squad in general who looked confused for a moment before the radio operator could get a command and confirmation out. As the soldiers filed out up the ladder to leave the Bishop alone, His Grace was totally transfixed by a spot on the wall, that appeared to contain nothing more then dust and cobwebs on a shelf indented for biographies. For a moment he looked horrified, absolutely and utterly terrified, but then in a manner suggesting divine intervention his rectos turned slowly to a faint smile. Absent mindedly, his left hand flew to his right and began to fondly stroke the ruby encrusted ring, that contrary to all clerical finery, and military gear this ring looked totally accustomed to dark cellars and dead bodies…

The memory was an easy one to call up; the bodies were his first that had not been restrained with faith or chains. It happened gardeners had been thick on the ground, and to no surprise the guards were quite inefficient at their jobs, and wrecked every flowerbed other then the one the prisoner had been hiding in. He had said a little prayer for that instance, and said a slightly more elaborate prayer for the gardener, whose day had already been terrible, and was made slightly worse when a spade shot out of a rose bed and cut his throat. From there it had been easy, the country was big, and the people mundane and unassuming. The Ibblesguarder Mountain chain had also been an obvious choice, millions of places to hide, where no one would be to intent to look, or risk freezing in to close an examination.

“Speaking of freezing,” with creaky legs the man hoisted himself out of the snow drift which had mostly melted, revealing that the man had in fact been resting on a bent helmet with the early Divine Legion crest rusted into the brim. His bones creaked terribly as he stood and began to hobble uphill, he was no old man, but resting suddenly after such an exertion had perhaps been unwise and the man’s legs were cramping terribly. Like all those before, he plugged on, occasionally pausing to shiver, the sun was already setting, and a light wind was picking up, and up here it froze the sweat streaked clothes to the walker with a vicious tenacity.

Inch by inch his dainty feet picked their way up the mountainside, and in even smaller increments he started to hum under his breath. It was an oddity of the man that he could, given the opportunity, sing all four parts of the choral scale from soprano to bass, but here is seemed appropriate to hum, a tune that came back from his childhood, in all truth mostly tuneless, and with gaps in the middle but a memory he had not repressed and therefore a great treasure. He reflected even more when his feet slipped out from under him and his chin sharply collided with the semi frozen ground that perhaps memories were meant for the past. As he pulled himself up, his eyes slowly roved up the features and torso of a mountain clansmen staring down over a rifle, with his head cocked.

“And what,” the mountain man asked carefully, as if drawing up the language from a dictionary, although surprisingly his accent was cosmopolitan and aristocratic, “do you want? Most people come up hear to gawk at us, or try to make documentaries, although that’s stopped now, mostly.”

“Um, people are attempting to kill me down on the plains, it seems I may have taken a wrong turn somewhere down there, as they seem to still be actively engaging in that occupation up here..”

“Oh, a refugee, of course do come up,” the rifle was lowered and a heavily gloved was extended towards the still prone traveler. “I don’t know why but quite a few think this is the place to come, and frankly we welcome them. It’s nice to have company that has more problems then us. Oh please we won’t kill you and throw you into our Kœbett as the stories so actively point out, it makes for very tricking cooking unless you what your doing.” Resignedly the mountain man pulled up the traveler, and led him over the rise that the man’s feet had been so unprepared for.

It seems the ground around it had been very well tended to and under a small blanketing of snow a small set of stairs had been carved, out of marble of all things, and made the unpleasant journey much easier. And, though the traveler knew what was one the other side of the hill, he was still amazed by the bulk of Hazergrind fortress. It seemed to have been spruced up, at least in comparison to the one picture the mountain clans had allowed to escape the nearly inaccessible peak. Mountain clansmen stood at attention under rippling banners on a proud walkway leading to the charred iron gates. Cultivated rows of edelweiss flanked the path, along with the guards, and now that he noticed several monks poking their heads out from behind a pillar or buttress.

“I was under the assumption that the fortress had been abandoned and was only occasionally lived in by mad old hermits.”

“You would be correct in such an assumption,” the mountain man did not stop although vaguely did acknowledge a rather better dressed clansmen at the gate, who tipped his hat in acknowledgement. “Just a few more steps.” The courtyard was busy with people, women and children carrying covered baskets and speaking to each other is hushed voices, as their husbands and fathers stood to attention of the walls or flanking each door. Two double doors, inlaid with precious wood swung open, and the two men entered a long dark room, with Gothic pillars that flowed gracefully from the ceiling. Torches burned regularly in brackets set on the wall that wavered with displaced air of the swift passage of the two to another pair of open doors that seemed newer and more elegant than any of the ancient wood or steel affairs they had passed so far.

“Bow, and be respectful.” The mountain man nodded to two other’s on the door, they returned the nod and slipped on a pair of white gloves. With newly aggrandized hands the two doors swung open into a well-lit study, where a carved desk loomed over one end of the room, and bookshelves covered the rest of the room. Strangely for underground, for they probably were underground, although the traveler couldn’t be sure, birds chirped outside huge, picture windows from which natural light flooded. Off on the left side of the room was a small semicircle of eight chairs along with a scattering of desks, there seemed to be figures in the chair but they did not seem to be moving.

“Who is this then? Who is this bloody man?” Something from behind the desk spoke, although it couldn’t possibly human. The voice was so raspy, so dusty, as if created by lungs operating on created air, still it had a sort of power, a tone that reminded the listener of a nurse or school teacher who in a very specialized way was more frightening then the more mundane sort of warlord or even the least sedentary vampire.

“A refugee again sir, from the lowlands.” The mountain man was bowing hugely and in a fashion that seemed out of place for a six foot muscle bound half barbarian dressed in furs and leather.

“Fine,” the voice rasped again, “you may leave, and see if you can’t get the birds change key, they don’t know it’s nighttime, again.”

“Sir,” the escort departed after nodding to a chair and mouthing ‘when told’ to his guest before slowly padding out of the room.

“A refugee, well I cannot say it is unaccustomed, we get a few what were you running away from? Speaking of running I know it is not an easy trip up the mountain you must be tired please sit, I have recently gained a deep respect for those who can move above a crawl.”

“Thank you, sir.” The traveler sat hesitantly, sitting in the comfortable, burgundy arm chair as if it might try to grab him. “The inquisition wanted to burn me alive, as they usually do.”

“So,” the figure behind the desk had raised it’s head and it’s awful features became more apparent, the skin lay in folds around the face and looked as it were only held on in certain places as an afterthought by a rather forgetful, cosmetic surgeon, “I may assume you are against the Church?”

“If it were so easy! No, I’m afraid the Church is against me. It could take some explaining, but I am, or was the High Inquisitor, and personal attaché to the Cenobiarch. I suppose I could not press you to be uninterested in that story, it can become so tedious after one or two tellings.”

From behind the desk a hallow laughed seemed to cause the speaker pain, “Not for the world. What is your name, it shall make the story so much more personable?”

“It is Felix sir, Felix Albemier.” The High Inquisitor relished the name, it was the only thing, besides his convictions, which now seemed slightly undefined, that he could call his own.

“Your grandfather then was Heinrich Albemier, minister of Information to His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg III, your grandmother, if this is the case was Gertrude, heiress to the fief of the County of Andale. I held your father in my arms when he was born you know.”

“Who are you,” Felix rolled his head uncomfortably as if there was something in the back of his mind that was trying to get out.

“Though we lack the correct atmosphere for dramatic epiphany, I am Felix von Waldenburg, Crown Prince of the Waldenburg Empire. This however can wait, I am not interested in the fawning and shocked looks you will give me, instead give me a little shock and awe, how did the High Inquisitor justify being relaxed?” The High Inquisitor leaned back, he wasn’t all too amazed, there had been so many stories about how the prince had escaped his death and was hiding somewhere to make a comeback, no one simply cared, it seemed like the old man could hardly move. Resignedly Felix began to tell the Crown Prince his story, trying as best he could to elongate it and make it more eloquent for the Prince’s ears. It took a great deal of time to recount his trial, escape, and hiding, he skipped over the book except for when it had physical ramifications, the Prince would probably not have been interested anyway.

“You were on good terms with the Cenobiarch?” The Prince asked, a jeweled hand propping up a sagging chin.

“As much as was proper, I would not have put myself forward. However as it seems all the rules have been shattered, could I inquire as to why you still refer to yourself as Crown Prince, if I recall you were in fact crowned Emperor.”

“Force of habit possibly, but mostly it is for the good of the country, who wants an old codger such as myself on the throne when we already have an Emperor. I am a hundred and twenty four, I’ve seen the passing of two centuries, and the singular anomaly of an empress reigning, I have had a long, and dare I say, good life.”

“Good life?” Felix stood astounded, there had grown to be an informal air to the room, they both seemed each to have found a confidant in the other and had thrown away the usual formalities. “Your Highness, have you been receiving the news up here?”

“Yes, heresy abounds, and all that. You mentioned in your story. There are many things to put right, but I have had my say, I had a chance at the Empire, at blood and conquest unremitting, and I failed. There are many enemies that still require a more pernicious hand, more then I could ever summon here. I fought in the name of God, it turns out I fought on the wrong side. But come I bore you, let us not discuss old histories, as you say I am an old man in an ivory tower, you are being quite selfish. Come join me for dinner it would be an honor to dine with a member of the clergy again, it’s been around fifty years since I had an equal to speak to. I believe we are having some of that excellent native soup.” On two walking sticks the Emperor pushed himself up, as if he were not on speaking terms with the ground, and hobbled heavily around his desk.

“The mountain men built this place for me, to make it seem more like the Imperial Palace, but they say Hell is other people so until know they have only had it half right.” The Crown Prince motioned with a stick and continued at an abhorredly slow pace so that that the High Inquisitor had to stop every four steps or so for the Crown Prince to gain some ground.

It seemed the constructive ingenuity of the mountain men had run out halfway down the corridors, as most of the halls were rough black stone, occasionally illuminated by electric light bulbs in admittedly ornate brackets. It was quite a stretch but the Crown Prince took it all in a steady gait, slowly tottering eventually to another of the innumerable sets of double doors that plagued official Waldenburg. Two frock-coated waiters flanked the door, and with well-oiled precision opened it as their prince approached and each bobbed dutiful bows.

“Please sit anywhere.” With a veined the Crown Prince waved around the room, and at a massive table, which could have seated nearly two hundred, and was set with china and crystal. “Again to bring the old comforts of home.” Chair upon chair stretched away from the high table’s head, and as Felix’s eyes became more accustomed, to the gleam that suggests the light is of a very high quality and gleaming off a great deal of precious metals, there stood hugging the walls nearly four score waiters in black, frock coats and white gloves. They hovered on the wall and when the Prince had lowered himself into a chair they began to move with frightening swiftness, bringing forward dozens of small dishes, or tearing bottles off a sideboard and flitting from glass to glass, every glass.

“They fill every glass, according to Imperial custom, I can’t help thinking that they reuse most of it, as most of the champagne in quite dry.” Felix had sat himself directly to the right of the Crown Prince and now took the moment when a waiter was filling his glass and laying the second napkin to study his host. Though age and, he would not use the term hard living, a life of stress and worry had wrinkled the face to a nearly unnatural amount, there was still a steely flame to the eyes, and his posture still hinted of ancient commands and great power. As his skin nearly fell from his bones his bones were too proud to sink, or conform to even age. “You don’t have an answer?”

“What,” Felix asked, being pulled back from reverie, as a waiter placed a small bowl of sweet smelling soup on a gilded china plate in front of him.

“I asked how your family held up through the occupation and new ‘modern’ Church?” The Prince tucked into his soup in the fashion that even Princes couldn’t combat, in the fashion of old men where the objective is to stick as much in your mouth as possible, and hopefully splatter any neighbors with it.

“There is a rumor in fact that you had my Grandfather killed, Heinrich Albemier the former Minster of Information?”

“I never did,” the Prince did not pause in his eating but spoke magnificently between mouthfuls. “Our government was rife with strife and traitors, there were good men who did terrible things in the name of what they believed. Good men walked with the devil everyday, until they could not longer stand the whisperings and were consumed by them, and then they were heard no more. I heard voices too of course; I thought them of greater and more divine origins than my subordinates, but the amplifications of my hubris seemed to have made a more sweet refrain, one which sounded more heavenly then that of the truth, we were not meant to define God, we were not meant to meddle. How is your family?”

“They fell out of grace with the Church, after the March Revolution, they attempted to put an Emperor back on the throne, tried to reinstate the practice of tithing. Admittedly tithing was still in practice however its produce was placed in merchant banks throughout the Empire, and originally used to repay the Illarian occupiers. My father was killed by the Divine Legion when they stormed Scant, and retook the Bishop’s Palace; I suppose you know about that? In an offering to save the family I was given to the Church, the Dark Guard, and I took on the role of scholarship Inquisitor; my mother was taken in the Cathedral of Ibblestern later that year. Our lands and property were converted into a Cardinal’s palace later. Not all too well your highness.”

Small salads were placed in front of them now, and the conversations paused as waiters circulated with pepper grinders and unconditionally ground pepper over the salads, and the owner’s be damned. Somewhere in the compound a violin struck up and with the acoustics of the stone, each note carried hauntingly in through the light wells. The birds began an evening chirp that, while bothersome, was pleasant.

“It is a shame, your Grandfather was a cleaver man, and your father an adorable child. But what Felix are you, merely a masked killer?”

“Before I ran, I had my faith, faith that iron could have been bent around, and everyday I hammered it out and sharpened it on the sins of others. Everyday I burned away the evils of the world and fought the devil, I suppose I too was wrong.”

“Who is the saner man, he who blindly follows or he who blindly leads?”

“I know where this is going your highness, my faith is not all gone.”

“Faith in what?” The Prince raised his voice slightly and coughed with the effort, “When I sat upon the throne, our soldiers battled on every location on the planet for the glory of God. Now we don’t fight on the field stealing glory from death’s jaws himself, but in banks, and we have been reduced to the international equivalent of stealing pens from the service counters of the world, and we are not only proud about it but we are smug! How many of our Churches are only filled on Christmas? How many priests preach from palaces?”

“The Inquisition…”

The Prince slammed his fork into the long, mahogany table where it failed to stick, “Is worthless, when commanded by men who will, at the drop of a coin, not wipe from the earth all those carcinogens of society! You’ve seen what I speak of, how many Jews were brought to you, how many Muslims needed purifying? There should have been none! The Inquisition should not exist, is our faith so weak that those absurd religions need be burned?”

“God is a god of kindness, he would see these people relaxed for the good of their souls.”

“Is our faith so weak that we need to convert anyone? Has the apple fallen so far from the tree of God? Or has it been already picked up and is being enjoyed? I was once mislead by a man, a good man, and with his intents cities burned and the Church almost died. He wanted to kill religion, wanted to end the song, the song that unified a country. His madness was far greater then that which he pretended to fight. Felix, it is over the caviar that such lines are written. More blood is spilled over the pudding then over long dead treaties, ancient words, or patriotic ideals. Sane men will sit down and in their wicked minds plot, such things as to kill a country. You think as he did, in circles, ‘we kill to set free’. The truth Felix will set them free. You took an oath, every day to serve God, and protect his Church on earth. If it were God’s Church it wouldn’t need protecting.” Albemier sat back twiddling his work gently in his hand. Despite his calm demeanor, seeing a supposedly dead prince, the book had opened his eyes, and this seemed right and proper.

“Felix,” the Crown Prince toyed with a piece of beef on the end of his fork, twirling it gently in front of his still imperious eyes, “I’m going to need you to kill some people.”

Act III Scene II

Content Piece: Viola Quintet K 516 (http://qcpages.qc.cuny.edu/~howe/Freshman/Mozart%20Viola%20Quintet%20K%20516%20I.mp3)

“The situation has changed, things have become more difficult, and the variables are shifting from the original plan. We must increase our payment to Two hundred million Reichmarks in silver of course. Our services sir, are well worth it and there will be no lose ends. Our services are assured and there will be no connections to you or your organization, we apologize for the change but things happen.” The note was crumpled slowly and considerately in the gloved hands, and tossed gently to the floor. The action brought no attention as around the man thousands sat in awed to the performance taking place on the gilded stage, or like him were to busy trying to cover up their own espionage, and intrigue to be concerned with anyone else.


Opulence and swirling satin dresses dazzled the audience as the orchestra fashioned the pounding music of the score as if oblivious to the gaudy array of colors and elegant footwork pouring of the stage. The portrayal of Cenodoxus thundered up and down gallery as the chorus sang the good doctor back to life. The red plush curtains framed the priest’s tribulations as his friend rose from the slab and, through a series of quick movements began a shaky waltz with the figure of Death whose scythe cut elegant swathes through the air, and had apparently come from nowhere. In hundreds of rows the audience sat, eyes glued to the first performance of the season. A cast of hundreds wove elegant patterns on the massive stage.

Nearly hiding the glory of the player arching, woods and crenulations graced the ceiling where cedar and carved elm in the fashion of a baronial hall. Dragons and boars clashed on imported wood as the morality of man clashed with mortality below. Imperial eyes though cast an even more magisterial glance from the gilded, imperial box where the Emperor dominated the scene even more then monologues and theatricals presented by the Imperial Players Group.

It was not, for all intents and purposes, the play for which most of the audience had arrived but for the Emperor and the social opportunities presented by wearing a tiara. Notes swam across the crowd as elegant hands tossed them from Duchess to Admiral, and back again. Such communiqués were usually thick of the ground by the end of the performance and swept up by the janitorial staff once the Canapé Diplomacy had completed it overtures, and left it’s unsavory coverings for the lower class to haul away. One man in the audience seemed not interested in his own musings and sat idly watching the stage, hand propped on the chair’s arm and supporting his chin, he seemed to actually be engrossed in the mediocre performance and detestably Church edited plot lines. As the real world spun around him in the gloved hands of the aristocracy, this man alone could afford to contemplate only the fictional aspects of the archetypal fantasy, and mirror held up to life.

“And for that they hate you,” Felix’s neighbors gave him strange looks, but of course several rows behind the watcher Felix wasn’t paying attention, and his blackened mind toyed with the idea of Two Hundred million, had a more enamored target. Who watches the watcher, but another watcher? The thought toyed around the dark mind, for an amount of time, carefully totaling the amounts needed, the escalations of danger that could be present, and apparent. If indeed he was worth two hundred million then perhaps, he was worth more alive. Still logic knows no greater enemy then hate.

Felix, turned his head gracefully, his long neck arching and his eyes sweeping the various boxes till they alighted on a brilliant clerical choir dress, red and white, tall and slender, a vivid conflict to the conflict of below. This man, so imperiously filling his chair, did not need battle for power or wealth like those below, but sat confident in the assurance of influential magnates begging for audience and admission, and of his total prerogative over he himself chose to pursue. Felix waited a moment before the Cardinal turned a cold and questioning eye to his counterpart in the stalls, and raised one sleek eyebrow.

For a moment the two held eye contact, before Felix gave slow and deliberate nod, that took many seconds to complete and left no question as to the intended meaning. This slight gesture across a crowded room was worth more then a written contract and would hold more sway then the Divine Right of Kings, or of Voltaire’s stirring calls to action, this was a greater enticement to action then a life time of hot meals and civil rights.

Jauntily Felix turned for once to watch the play, it was somewhere near the end, and some Valkyries were dashing across the stage; though if pressed none of the audience would be able to particularly remember if this was actually part of the act or simply a dramatic ad lib added in last minute by unimaginative Church editors with too much time on their hands. Still Felix, quite contrary to his nature, began to conduct along with his nominal counterpart and with one finger traced the beat across a few pages, as his own agents began a frantic scrabble somewhere in the lobby.

As a mezzo-soprano was sharply entering the range of dust falling from the roof a set of the theaters double doors burst open at the rear. The sudden interruption cracked the voice, but did not stop it’s trembling ascent, and despite the interruption drew no attention from the audience, but concentrated their attentions on the soloist and her warbling voice. Into the room burst four hooded figures dressed in black, their pointed heads bobbing to a quick march that ate up the length of the aisles within seconds. Their leader held a pot of incense dangling from a golden chain, and proudly flourished the St. George’s cross embroidered on his tunic in a not very ironic red. Behind him a further three marched on thick, purple carpets one holding a crosier, which softly clicked with every step and by design of the theater could carry across the entire room, the other two marched arms folded into sleeves and heads lowered in respect.

Within a few moments the party reached the watcher, who was the only person present who had turned to see the door opening, and now looked hugely shocked. “What is this? Can’t you see them?” His voice began to escalate in pitch, as he scrambled from his seat and started to back down the aisle towards the stage. “Why?” He sunk to his knees around row six and looked with pleading eyes towards the patrons beside him, who all seemed to be suddenly engrossed with the play. The male patrons sat, legs folded and fingers tented, the women daintily perched themselves on the seats and held opera glasses to apparently uncaring eyes.

“The..” he was not allowed to finish as a crosier cut short his pleas with a quick bash across the face that sent a few teeth spinning off into the front row where they caused not even a ripple of movement. In strong hands the two unburdened inquisitors gathered up the now prone watcher and began to bodily drag the man behind their leader who began an even faster retreat from the great hall pulling their limp burden to absolutely no comment.

In comparison to their arrival, their exit was remarkably soft, hinting only at their departure by a soft click of the latch and a mumble coming from the other side of door in from the lobby. As if by a social magic the room, after a respectable pause began to flow with life again, as elegant heads turned and began to buzz with a excitement of conversation. Not about the man who had been dragged out, they knew the score there, when a man was dragged from a public place it was done so under the power of someone who felt confident that they could get away with what is generally considered the penultimate faux pas. Though no one said it, all present’s conversations had returned to what they had been speaking off before, most of the assembled patrons could guess that the culprit sat fingers tented, in a box robes spaying chrysanthemum style around his slippered feet. It was generally considered bad manners to accuse anyone of any crime publicly, and in the same circles where a nod was a good as a contract, it was much better for such social controversy to be solved by backroom murder or the interchangeable variables that run hand in hand with the dark alley.

Consensus was however, by the end of the play that had only been around the corner at the time of the interruption anyway, that heads would role for nights’ work, as the Emperor stormed furiously out into the lobby assorted gentry formed a gauntlet around him, trying to be noticed without incurring specific wrath. Two other figures however remained in the empty theater as the last patrons filed out but before the janitors entered. For the longest time they didn’t say anything but simply scowled at one another, in the Cardinal’s private box.

“Chocolate Felix?” With a gloved hand the cardinal lazily indicated a tray of dark chocolates, which seemed more gold foil then chocolate. It was considered impolite to cut immediately to the chase before the blood could be washed from the carpet.

“No thank you,” Felix carefully glanced around the drapes to see in there was anyone watching; the light was growing dimmer and the box was one of the last well-lit areas in the theater.

“Don’t worry, no one will notice, they haven’t before, as I am sure you know.”

“Yes your Imminence no one has ever seen through your little charade, your secrets are perfectly safe, and indelibly hidden.”

“Quite so Felix, but now the night goes on, could I perhaps press you to making the payment?”

The former High Inquisitor sighed theatrically and reached for his belt pulling out, instead of a credit chip of possibly a sack of jewels as the Cardinal expected, the little man removed a small book from his cassock. “Could I perhaps interest you in taking payment in this, it is worth so much more then anything I could give otherwise.” Extending a hand and frowning slightly the Cardinal slowly flipped through the book till he came to a page in the middle, which looked no different then all of the others. It seemed though that the clergyman had frozen in fear, little beads of sweat began to run off his head and his frown turned to an awestruck stare of disbelief.

“Ho.Ha.” he tried to say through a perfect ‘O’ of a mouth, before he could finish however a nerve must have been touched in his head because he took his skirts in one hand and began a mad dash out the door and down the hall screaming incoherently. Felix, to frowned, it’s not as if he had even threatened the man, but with a resigned step the man pulled his pistol from a small hip holster, and scooped up the book. He too began to run his legs once again rushing down carpeted halls, his eyes fixed on the screaming cardinal.
--

A small group of foreigners, and refugees could however dispense with the Emperor’s appearance in the lobby and sat calmly around a small coffee table enjoying a few pastries sold by a concessions woman, who was also inconspicuously trying to sell the Emperor a jam roll. Even she could not resist the aura of power from the man, as he attempted to leave the building.

“Hell of an out of date country. Do they always speak in reverse semantics?” One asked quizzically over a Bismarck. His feet were up on the table in a manner that if he had been an internal denizen would have had his feet cut off in about two minutes.

“From what I have seen, and heard yes, they do indeed.” Another man chuckled softly, “and such fat women, dreary songs, and uncomfortable seats. And now that I actually think about it, awful pastry, shall we go I don’t know how long I can stand this whole thing, out the side alley, It will be the devil getting a taxi for all the carriages.” The three men nodded and carefully slipped out of the lobby, which had cooled down moderately as a few Divine Legionnaires had sauntered it, submachine guns limply dangling from shoulders. As per some strange universal building code the side alley of the theater, in comparison to the rest of the building, was simply cinder blocks and had strange inexplicable damp patches on the wall that even the architect would be unable to explain away.

The three foreigners clicked the side door shut and breathed a sigh of relief; it was a good deal better to be in a cramped alley with strange damp patches, then within three hundred meters of a Cardinal. Unfortunately for them they had chosen the wrong alley.

Robes billowing around his feet a cardinal came dashing around the corner, the puddle of rainwater exploding around his hurrying feet. Red skirts flying he cleared the three men, opening a hole in them with his gloved hand and sheer momentum.

“Oh no your Grace, not this evening!” A calm voice stated from around the alley’s corner, where another priest seemed to be holding a pistol, in calm hands. The three men dived for the ground just as the second man shot, the bullet easily taking the Cardinal in the back, and throwing the now limp clergymen onto a discarded pallet and a few old tires. His miter slowly taking in water in another puddle in tassels floating aimlessly in the filling pool. “Gentlemen, good evening to you,” the second man bowed and came out of the shadow, and tucked the pistol into the simply cord belt of his cassock. “I suppose you are all welled versed in your Shakespeare?”

“Indeed we are,” one man stated nervously.

The gunman smiled lopsidedly, “then shall I tell you about the proverbial brief candle, and how by the merest chance it can flicker out?” With a lightning fast movement the pistol was out of his belt and leveled at the leading man’s head. “We are all players I am afraid, and this is just another part.” The gun fired three times never missing, each bullet cleanly ending the men’s lives. No one would notice, these three, foreigners were killed all the time; the Cardinal though was a priority target and would only increase the bounty of Felix’s head. The man would be picked clean within the hour by scavengers, especially the nice ruby ring which glittered dully in the dark light of the alley.

Albemier slipped the gun back into his robe, and with a small knife hidden about his person walked to a crate in the alley and pried it open, revealing a long coat that quite well covered the blood stains on his own clothes. It was long and uncomfortable especially for this summer night, but it was better then being nailed upside down to public architecture. The High Inquisitor stepped out of the alley and into the world, it had been such an easy kill, he had made a few since the Prince had recruited him two months ago. Mostly his targets had been corrupt abbots, or heretics, that could hardly see him or welcomed the relief of finally being put out of whatever misery they were in. This was different, this feeling. The Cardinal had been a terrible man, and Felix for once felt a small ounce of pride from his killing.

His feet, like they had when he had walked the streets in the night so many years ago under his pointed, guided him perfectly through the throng of people moving up and down the Imperial Boulevard, the elite denizens of the Empire out for a night of spending and social intercourse. The Magnolias had turned out beautifully again this year, their pink blossoms crushed under carriage wheels and pedestrians, permeated the air with a thick, sweet haze. The oil lamps of the stores and the magnolias made a pleasant atmosphere, and the perfumes and colognes of the hundreds of the upper class made all the more aromatic. For the first time in his living memory Felix was happy, his face attempted a smile that wasn’t scornful or mocking, and attempted to maintain it for about two minutes more then was strictly necessary. He was so overcome by his newfound euphoria he allowed himself to purchase a magazine, admittedly one known for telling grisly war stories of the Divine Legion’s latest campaign smashing this heathen or another, but it was a step forward.

Music from a dance hall poured into the street and for once the Empire seemed to be alive in it’s own dominion. Felix walked through the lights complacently, once even bumping into a colonel of the Divine Legion and apologizing breezily before, heading off in a new direction. There wasn’t a particular spot he was headed to; the Prince always contacted him through a set of bankers and investors, radomly spread across the city. It had come slightly as a shock that the Prince was not living off the land in his icy fortress, but instead had quite extensive bank accounts and foreign investments in markets stretching from water, to slaves, and then back to merchant banking.

Without noticing the High Inquisitor bumped into another figure dressed in customary tailcoat and waistcoat who gave him a strange look and his white gloves pushing the High Inquisitor back into the crowd. Felix felt hurt by this, he had only run into the man, he looked down suddenly realizing what had happened, and the small white piece of paper that was now pinned to his lapel, with the diamond ended pin. It sparkled against the gaudy lights, and suddenly the High Inquisitor felt very cold, and like an edgy cat backed into the nearest alley he could find sat a few steps up on a fire escape to the Imperial Mercantile Bank. With clammy hands he began to slowly unfold the letter; he was ashamed that someone could so easily have taken advantage of him, although relived that it had been for such a trivial thing.

“We offer our congratulations for tonight’s work. We have been watching your exploits for sometime, and must confess a certain amount of apprehension as to the direction of your talents. It has taken some time for us to put together the pieces of your past but we believe that we know who you are, and know that you would not turn down the offer we are about to give you. Death, misery, blood, horror, we offer all of it the opportunity for greatness and revenge against those who have wronged you. Our organization has been shrouded in mystery for a thousand years, and in that time we have built a considerable track record, on which you can assist. Together our goals can be successfully concluded, I of course can say no more in this letter, but if you are interested, all you must do is walk the lonely desert. We are waiting in St. Peter’s Church. Come.” It was printed in small letters, on thin white paper that seemed to be made of some sort of glutton and spoke depths about this organization.

Felix stood on the steps and slowly climbed down his hands barely grazing the steel banister. It had indeed been a most interesting night, but he feared that if he received one more secretive note he would have to do something out of character. Again he smiled and rounded the corner of the alley back into the thinning crowd on the streets, where he almost immediately bumped into a chief cashier of the Imperial Mercantile Bank.

“Felix! Oh God! You scared me, are you smiling?” The man was rotund and plump and dressed all in black, which did not suit his rosy completion.

“Most to my satisfaction as would be apparent.”

“Fine fine I don’t want to ask why, I know about the whole inquisitor deal so I just won’t ask,” the mad threw up two hands and waved away and forthcoming explanation. “The prince wants to speak with you, another brutal slaughter for the good of a mad old hermit living out of his secret fortress, it really could reduce a man to tears, if the prince didn’t represent ten percent of our capital.”

Mr. Remsiddle, I will be busy,” the letter was crumpled up and placed in a pocket, “I will be out of the cities for sometime, if the His Highness wishes to speak with me, he shall have to wait. I won’t be too long.” The High Inquisitor turned without hearing the startled rebuke and walked into the warm night. Overhead an Imperial gunship swept the area with spotlights and reflected back the light of the street on the snarling Imperial Eagle emblazoned off the side. It did reflect so much light as Felix teeth, as lightning struck a third time and the man smiled, it would be a most interesting vacation apparently.

--

“Come” One word echoed thousands of times over the years, the demanding termination of one’s own life, the end of personal freedom. Still if work was to make you free then it was the hidden blessing of the world. Albemier walked, an oak staff pushing aside sand in little rivulets that built up at the base of the dune. Deserts were of second nature to Waldenburgers, they had made there home in this one and built an Empire there. Felix plodded through it stepping over the occasional deadly or poisonous animal with an air of preoccupation and aloofness. ‘There was a song about the desert. The children used to sing it, sing it and believe it.”

The words were lost to Felix; children’s songs did not capture his mind well when he was attending to business. He had mostly been on the run for the last two years, hiding in the mountains, meeting mad old hermits and subsequently befriending them, or killing them depending on the insanity. Hermits were one of the few sorts of people Felix did not view as weak, morally and physically now. On a mountaintop the mind cleared and all delusions fell away.

“You must cross is all alone.” He whispered the chorus; despite his best efforts his repressed childhood was coming through. Indigent orphans clamoring about which vocation they had been selected for, by the government’s hand. Still he trudged eyes never turning down. The High Inquisitor thought he had achieved a position of great service, to weed out the weak in service of the Church. God’s own hand, to reap down the corrupt and virulent plague of weakness, falsehood and ignorance.

“At the other end you’ll find justice, not a deed or thought forgot.” Of course they had had other plans, not to God’s glory but their own. Bishops preaching of poverty from palaces of silver, monks sleeping in silk sheets. Hypocrisy and lies were worse then the heretical and blasphemous tripe spouted by the peasants. To find evil one had to cast your hand to those closest, no one is safe, no one can feel the end coming not of life or of the insipid evil that is as good as death, and can just as easily rip the world apart.

“There’s no one to cross it for you. Alone.” Albemier had always walked alone; he and perhaps these few, this mysterious group hidden in the desert, were the keys to heaven. The answering call of a hundred billion screams, souls unable to break the mortal coil. Too much to hope for? Probably, but it was better then stealing sheep in the mountains and hiding from ever circling Imperial Gunships.

St. Peter’s Church honed into view, by Waldenburger metropolitan scale is was a chapel. As the walker approached it became a fresco of the Pagan religion, wolves and children…the paint was too faded to make it out completely. The whole area smelled of dried blood, ash, and human decay, High Inquisitors had a very excellent nose for this sort of thing, and the more interesting scents were carefully catalogued for future use.

His bones almost clicking to a slow stop Felix approached the door and wrapped on it with his stick “I am a tired old man, who has just walked a desert, this had better be worth it or by heaven, you will know exactly what the phrase grumpy old men implies. ”Albemier rapped on the door politely with his staff before pushing it open. At least Pagan’s were forward about what they were up to; they did not hide behind shrouds of piety and poverty.

On lovingly rusted hinges the doors swung open, pulled aside by a single man, who looked totally out of place by giving Felix a small friendly smile and with one finger pushing his small spectacles back up his nose. “Felix we obviously were expecting you. What an awful phrase!” Smiling as if against all odds the small man motioned for the High Inquisitor to follow him into the church.

“No one has ever turned down and offer so we, have to say it. Hmm I still get lost, this way!” With a carefree hand the little man continued to guide Albemier eventually to the small rectory of the main alter. Around a small wooden table, six or seven others sat in mild conversation, ranging from it seemed discussions of Tolstoy’s unaccredited work to the problems of getting blood out of silk. They seemed, like Felix, to be sophisticated killers, and the various weapons strapped expertly to bandoliers, belts and hidden about their person in strange ways impressed even Felix.

“Ah Albemier, we heard all about your exploits with the Cardinal, and the hermit of Bandera, very well handled I thought.” One man equally friendly as the one, who had opened the door, extended a warm shaking hand. “I’m Mirek. Don’t have a last name, I don’t know why, and have never had friends long enough to acquire a nickname, unless you count ‘heathen bastard’, but I don’t.” He talked fast with a Hebrew accent and babbled on as if he had known Felix all his life. The others joined him in greetings, and were generally warm and friendly, and were comparing scars before the little man rushed to a small lectern and politely coughed until the crowd had settled and returned to their rickety chairs.

“Good morning everyone. Today we welcome Felix Albemier, former High Inquisitor who dispatched the Cardinal Mortius a few days ago, very well done from what we understand.”

“Very well,” a man gave a little wave in Felix’s direction and held up a diamond headed pin, “We understand you are also in contact with the Crown Prince, very well to do then.”

Felix gasped a bit before remembering with such ease he had been picked out of the crowd, “On occasion his highness contacts me to perform certain tasks, sometimes they concur with my personal feelings. sometimes they do not.” He shrugged noncommittally. “It is a purpose which is better than hiding away from one’s enemies.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the pin bearing man, said vaguely, “hiding has its advantages especially when it does more damage than fighting.” Again the room went into a sort of convivial murmur and before the little man could cough out; the men around the table were discussing, ‘ol’ Shakum and how he ran through ten Divine Legionaries back in the good old days.’ As Felix began to see through their infinite energy, he began to realize they were all old men, spindly but no less dangerous for it, and when he looked even closer all seemed to be wielding a variety of illegal weapons.

“Excuse me,” Felix walked to the front of the room, and with more drama then was necessary peered at the speaker, and then to the room in general. “Who are you all? What do you do here?”

For a moment he seemed to have foxed the table, before Mirek raised a hand tentatively, “how do you mean?”

“What is you do to be separated from the world by such pagan austerity, is it so dangerous and secretive?”

“Well we kill people, quite a few, and often, and important, and noisily. If we weren’t secretive then what really is the point? Perhaps we should lay down newspapers on our rounds to keep the stain off the floor? I find when handing out tasteless acts of aggression it is best to keep our vicinity as tidy as possible for any secret sects as yet unknown to the world, who happen to be using the place after us? I know I become most insatiably vexed when my secret robes of the Grand Pajama are mired up to the ankles in blood. What do you think we are? I don’t intend to sound rude, but we know the Prince and we know the ‘Truth’ about a great many things, what do you think we are?” The word truth had unpleasant and direct inflections molded unto that suggested these rather pleasant old men, hand their hands caked in blood and that the truth was more frightening than even that.

“Alright,” Felix asked patiently,” Then answer me who and why, surely you can give that if you brought me here.”

“Let me,” the short man at the lectern nervously pushed his glasses up again and clear his throat nervously. “My name is Arthur Temper,”

“Wait,” Felix interrupted, “Arthur the Short, Temper?”

“Don’t be common Felix, but yes that was me, and I must say you could have made a better job of pursuing me, it took me five minutes to outwit those Dark Guards of yours. Anyway away from me personally, we never have acquired a name.” Arthur waved his hand vaguely around the room and the various bloody frescoes on the walls, “That is essentially untrue over all. We have been called the Sanctus Frater, The Divine Arm, the First Spear, that whole genre, but none of them seem fitting. For the longest time we have operated from this church, eradicating elements of society that drag the rest down, we are balancing the scales some would say. In the same way everyday people don’t have a word for the smell of sweat on a Tuesday, we have never needed a name, it has just always been. We have always killed people, thousands of people over the generations, some rich or poor, it does not matter so long as the elements necessary to keep society in general alive and healthy are kept in balance.”

“And what are these elements?”

“Fear,” the answer came quickly as if the question had been expected. “All governments use it in different fashions even if their goal is to destroy it. Do you know what turns people to religion Felix? Do you know what compels them?”

“A longing to be pure, and work to a greater purpose,” Felix answered back as if reading the reply off a card.

“No, it is pain, that compels them. When the world drops away and all that remains of the fractious and jocund day is a bang and a whimper, most people will simply turn to the wall and sink to their knees. A precious few though, a select handful will turn that fear inside them and meld it around an ideal until the idea burns, until it burns! That is where it is born, forget rapture, forget saintly patronage, or martyred messiahs, they hold no power. Who can return to pain once they have felt purpose and meaning? The soul feels it’s worth when it can turn away from the wall, and grasp at something deeper, and hold onto it in fear of going back.”

“And that is what you all believe?”

“It does not matter what we believe merely what we do. I’m sure you know how many miracles assisted those under your knife? In the end you became more messiah and prophet than any heavenly host could manage. In the end they feared nothing, you did that for them, they could have whispered through raw lips they recanted and would serve God, but in the end they died like so many others, obviously without fear. I do not know yet which is the blessing.”

“So,” Felix spat onto the floor, which apparently shocked some of the more formal members in the room. “You’re nothing but atheists.”

Mirek leaned forward a bit placing two veined hands on the table and clenching them gently around a small wad of papers, “Enlightened agnostics thank you so very much, we believe that bad things happen to bad people, and if they don’t we make them. We have no delusions about ourselves and highly suspect that if there is a hell we will be first on the glowing poker, but in the mean time what we believe does not define us but rather what we are. So be quiet and be a good inquisitor and listen to Arthur.” Felix stared open mouthed at Mirek, whom he thought to be more of the amiable lump person, although it was not for his rebuke; it was for something else. Though the papers in the man’s hand had no distinguishing markings, they seemed all too familiar and with must be the feeling of being sucked into a black hole Felix found himself being dragged down into the convictions of the men. They shared something, and apparently had had some luck in understanding it’s flaming message.

With a quick flick Felix’s eyes were back on Arthur who looked only slightly vexed with the interruption, “What do you want of me?” The High Inquisitor asked resignedly finally slouching down into one of the empty chairs surrounding the table. “What do you want me to do?”

“Bring Waldenburg hope, bring them fear. We need you to kill a few people, some people you may know.”

“Who then?”

“Not so much who as what. It is a strange concept with which we work, but we wish you to remove from the act the Council of Bishops entirely, preferably in one piece. They are becoming difficult.”

Despite his earlier fascination the reality of what they wanted hit him, and his mouth dropped open. “The Council of Bishops? The Council in St. Michael’s Cathedral? The best guarded, best attended gathering of scholars and holy men? The most powerful men in the world in respect to the loyalty and devotion they can summon with the wave of a gloved hand? I shall just minuet in the arm of a Bishop, smiling my face to eight regiments of the Divine Legion, and flashing a identity that will be checked at least a dozen times.” He paused suddenly filling with an internal light, obviously something had hit him, and his speech had slowed in the last syllables of his dialogue. He slowly looked down the manuscript now resting on the table forlornly

“My face… Who looks the devil in the eye? Who could dare contemplate the infinites of evil there, when one’s life composed of sin, mired in the ignominies of a ruined society can look in the eyes of the devil and asked for his consequences. Guilt, sin, death are better mistresses by far, then any roguish by night ardor brought on silent wings. I am the devil.” He paraphrased Faust clumsily, forgetting his usual elegance for a tongue flashing speed.

“But why should I do this for you? What merits such a jump and leap of faith?”

Arthur shrugged his little, hunched shoulders, “Because you want to, it will give you purpose,” he sneered. “If you think the Church is corrupt then this is ideal. Anyway the Prince will ask you to do the same thing is time. Consider this your opening job, we hate to sound clichéd but we don’t exist until you have completed this one simple thing for us. If you fail you will not hear from us again, but if you succeed we will always be your brothers. Could we offer you some refreshment before you go? It is a long trip.”

Though Felix stood calmly as if actually considering the offer, inside he shook with rage, whose only manifestation was a small pulsing vein on the side of his head, that was neatly masked by his frizzled hair. “No thank you. I shall keep your suggestion in mind, although what you ask is against nature. The prince chooses his targets with care and consultation, they are corrupt evil men, and when they are killed the world is better for it. What shall be achieved by mass slaughter?”

“Mass hope Felix. Please don’t ask me to show you the door, I’ll get terribly lost.” With a dismissive wave from Arthur and a general murmur along the lines of ‘good luck’ from the table they seemed to have switched the High Inquisitor off. His rage subsided though, and with a formal bow he slowly walked out of the room, which watched him like a hawk through the door, which clicked softly shut behind him. The High Inquisitor, a master of listening at doors made all the notions of leaving the building but hung onto the handle, he was sure not making any noise.

“Do you think it wise to turn him off so? He is armed and arrogant, he is a priest.” The voice floated in from the room, Albemier could not make it out, it had been one of the few who hadn’t really contributed to the short visit.

“And what are priests good at Simon? Listening at doors.” Though the pitch of the comment did not change it seemed the comment was directly fired at Felix and he could feel hard eyes almost burning him through the door. For the first time in his life fear entered the High Inquisitor and, still silently he began to run through the enclosed hallways and corridors of the chapel. At every corner demons, blood speckling their mouths leered back at him, and frozen to the wall danced a dance of happy glee. At every corner the wolves jumped at him, spitting aside their younger dishes for a more mature pallet. It was however a small church and the desert sun came as a relief as he burst out of the vestibule into the warm sun. For a moment the High Inquisitor stood panting, taking in deep breathes of calm, still air, and if one swift movement switched panting to striding.

In large steps Felix cleared the ironwork fence of the church and followed his footprints over the sand dunes, this time around paying much more attention to where he put his feet. Like before he could not concentrate on his footing and his mind flew through the meeting noting with unusual scarcity of detail the conversation. Again for the first time they seemed to have been leading instead of him and everywhere Felix’s mind turned the book was there, waving a little red flag.

“Felix!” Someone bellowed from the churchyard and waved a small object in tiny pale hands. Quickly Albemier changed his direction and dashed back, to within spitting distance of Mirek who waved a satellite phone vaguely in the air. “Call for you, go ahead and keep the phone if you don’t have one, all the numbers are on the back. It’s damn handy if you don’t have one. The little star shaped button to take the call. And, ah, good luck Felix, we don’t mean to sound so harsh back there. We have cruel jobs, but we all live the best way we can.” The man extended an arm and patted Felix’ shoulder before turning and heading back through the church door and with only a hint of subtlety locked the door behind him.

“Felix?” The voice was weak but recognizable as the prince.

“Your highness?”

“You shouldn’t run off like that, Mr. Rimsiddle yearly killed himself out of excitement, which was quite the sight.”

“My apologies, it seemed the most advantageous course of action, to rid us of a possible competitor or enemy.”

“You shouldn’t mix with those people, I know them because I must, or they admittedly would kill me, but they will bring you no good. They will kill simply for the pleasure of doing so; in you I have always admired the opposite tendency.”

“And yet you have something contradictory to tell me?”

For a moment the phone buzzed with static before the prince came back even weaker than before, “how do you know?” For a single moment Felix felt vindicated, alive and hugely shocked. Someone else knew his great secret, and could obviously interpret it better than he.

“The tone of your voice, and the nature of who you are. But humor me, what is it you wish me to do?”

“This really isn’t fair you know, I am always so permanently disadvantaged I don’t know why I just don’t give and live in a hole.”

“You already do sir. What was it again?” Felix asked patiently, seeing through the prince’s attempts to sideline the conversation.

“Well I know you have always been a servant of God, and would do anything in defense of his name. I would hold you to that. For there are a great many wrongs with the world, and though it is true we need look no farther then the mirror to see those guilty, someone holds the mirror. To be quite plain I want you to kill the Cenobiarch, and disrupt the Council of Bishops. Once they are removed I shall reveal myself, finally come out of hiding, and make the church fufil its oath. I, unlike our dear emperor, am not afraid of losing power and shall block any attempts by uncouth, and unfit men from become the next Cenobiarch. We will have a pure Church, and the world shall meet our malevolence, and make acquaintance of..” the prince paused and began to laugh in a wheeze slowly hacking his way through half a minute . “Sorry, it is all just too exciting. Felix do it for me, do it for God, you know my heart is on the benefit of all mankind, and that we shall only prosper for it. “

“Very well.”

“What?”

“I said I would do it, if you could make arrangements I shall need a few items.”

“Just like that you agree to kill the hierarchy of the Church?”

“I can see why we won the battle of Blünderburg sir,” Felix said stiffly, “you aren’t very good at negotiating, and tip your cards far to far, but that is what we will need, become your father.” The phone clicked off as the Prince began to loudly protest, but was wise enough not to call the number back.

More slowly this time Felix began to head away, it wasn’t to far to where he had landed, or more accurately crashed, and the wings seemed like a highly replaceable part. It seemed there was more than one person watching events and taking notes. It was the greatest joiner Felix could have with those old men, in a pagan church, they too had read the book and understood, at least it looked as though they understood, as they spoke the truth so readily. It seemed as though they understood, and with the fire that had once ripped his mind apart and driven new thoughts, supposedly evil thoughts, into his devotion, he prepared himself for what had to be done.

Act III Scene III

Content Piece: Salve Regina
(http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/Cn05-mp3/pms15-Salve%20Regina.mp3)
The Hills Surrounding the Imperial Capital of Streinlikstern

“Someone far more clever them our bishops designed this place.” Two men, hands stuffed in jacket pockets looked up at the huge silver dome of St. Michael’s Cathedral, Basilica of the Church, seat of the Cenobiarch the looming centerpiece to an otherwise dismally colored city. Like a jewel it glittered, the tallest building in a sky otherwise dominated by smog. Entire blocks of 15th century housing had been demolished so a long avenue could stretch from the suburbs of the city to the ironwork gates of God’s own home. Sunlight, reflected off the snow tipped peaks of the mountains to the south, illuminated the dome at all hours of the day, flaunting the wealth and power of the Church. “Here we are and here we stay,” it had been so for centuries.

“No more brilliant, no more feeble. The mere continuation of the grand uncertainty, the probing question of commitments and livelihood, gone unanswered by bishops and builders alike. By building a monument they embolden an idea, an idea of weakness, to feed the evil of weakness and error is all they have designed.” There was a pause, one man had pulled that out as if prepared, in a high voice he rasped it out speaking as though even here the Inquisition could come. A speech so eloquent not in form but in delivery, as fit for the famous orators of the old Church. A warm breeze off the High Desert to the north reminded them of their duty. Usually it was a burning bowl down in the valley, where the Imperial capital, of Streinlikstern and just to the north Blünderburg sat, on which they looked, today though it was slightly chilly, with a stiff wind rippling the Imperial banners lining most streets where the capital of Streinlikstern opened like a not-to-pleasing flower. No matter what the architects did they could never remove the smoke laden factories, the dismal slums, the scent of poverty.

“Time to get on though, it’s a bit of a walk down you know. Damn me if I remember the path though. Somewhere over there yes?”

“I was laboring under the apprehension that you knew the way Trevor?”

“I suspect it doesn’t matter, one foot wrong and we’ll be down two hundred feet in no time.” The two picked an arbitrary direction and set off, they had plenty of time, their work had already been completed. To watch the deed which they had planned would be worth more then the roof of St. Michael’s though.

Despite the grand schemes of the architect, you could never take Waldenburg out of the city. Once out of the suburbs the city turned into a uniform grey, as smog from the factories mixed with a constant breeze of the desert, and huge clouds of pollution filled the streets. A man could approach you and stay hidden at twenty feet before the curtain lifted. It often was a helpful attribute in the Empire. The streets were lined with the homeless, occasionally offering their dirt-encrusted hands to the two men, as the pair gently strolled down the avenues of the Imperial capital, where people bustled and cars packed the streets adding more and more noise pollution and confusion. Despite the packed streets most of the people kept a wide berth around the two strolling figures, and when forced to cross in front of them winced and smiled their way past. On occasion Dark Guards, Inquisitorial guards, would pass wearing the traditional high pointed hoods, with the more modern addition of an assault rifle strapped to their shoulders.

“Petri Verus, Identification please,” a dark hood swung to the two men, its black eye sockets staring them down. It had appeared out of any alley to their left, and startled the larger of the two men.

“Naturally,” Felix began to pat his pockets theatrically, and motioned for his companion to do the same, “but may I draw you attention to a more pressing matter which my companion and I were just about to attend?” Given a slight inclination of the hood, the skinnier of the pair continued. “So you see we posses some of the faculties of the Church, my cassock would hint of my clerical bearing yes? If my credentials are sufficient in their very being I suggest you look heavenwards, where certain building ramifications stress restrictions to their limits within the lines of carnal knowledge and display.”

The hood cocked slightly and looked to the taller man who whispered, “There is a naked woman hanging out of a window. Look up.”

So much as a hood could look scandalized it managed, and flung upward looking for the offender. All he saw was the glittering roof of his beloved Church, and all he felt was the tiny stiletto knife puncture his newly exposed neck. The blood, after a certain working of the blade, expelled at nearly a right angle hardly getting a drop on either the murders’ or the victim’s precious clothing.

“You,” the skinny one motioned to a nearly naked boy of about thirteen, and his family who had watched the whole thing impassively. “Take what ever you can from this body and may God be with you.” He blessed the boy and quickly slipped out of his clothing, tucking the robe in a pocket of his new suit. It hurt him to give the urchins any sort of charity, but it was that or be revealed.

“In demon skins we do the angels work. The ever-lasting ennoblement of the works of the Divine cumulizied in one point in time, the righteous revenge on the decadent, the heart of moral weakness ripped out and revealed to the world, as the throbbing lifeline of our once noble spiritual guardians. There are precious few decent man in this metropolis, only a few worthy to sit in endless salvation, to inhume the evil, to end its iron grip on the world is our greatest task.” His face, with its clumps of hair looked partially mad, his eyes never standing still but searching the street. “I wore these robe before, the darkness blinded me. As a don them again I become enlightened, the true work has begun.” He slid the hood down with what he believed was a dramatic air. “Time to light a candle. Or whatever that damn silly quote is.” The gate would open for them now, no one with one shred of brain looked into a hooded robe for identification.

The two again began to stroll along occasionally exchanging a greeting with another bobbing hood. The taller of the two, called Trevor walked head bowed, his robes looking far more demure. Out of the corner of his mouth his whispered, “Alright the prince, has a gunship and a company of mountain men waiting at the water processing plant. The bombs have already been set and two snipers are waiting in the bell tower of St. Mary’s to cover your… Bless you my son!” The two passed a little child with his hands outstretched. “Retreat. Should the Cenobiarch escape we, I should say you, have orders to kill him on sight and in any means necessary.”

“Yes thank you Trevor. Don’t bore me with my own details, it’s only a few thousand guards, and death by torture should we fail, relax.

“You're quite insane Felix.”

“No I just ate really,” he said distantly. He had eyes only for the Cathedral bursting from the city, and ears only for the warbling notes of the High Mass already beginning.

St. Michael’s Cathedral Strienlikstern

Red robes blossomed around the curtseying figures, huge splays of brilliant cloth, spreading rose blossoms on the floor. Mitered heads tipping subservience to the one strolling figure, his eyes fixed on an elaborate alter ahead. The sheer opulence of the hall dwarfed any of it occupants, cardinals looked naked when put against one of it’s walls. Pillars, eighty feet high, entirely in marble, with gold fretwork supported a domed ceiling where the entire battle of the Pearly Gates was depicted. St. Michael dominated the center, swinging the sword of God, the Archangel dealt out death as demons fell in every direction around. It total there were ten thousand named angels and demons in the picture, each of their eyes picked out in sapphires our rubies. The stations-of-the-cross which occupied the far wall was crafted rosewood and set with gold, pearls and sapphires. It was the greatest hall man could build, and when the uninitiated entered it they began to understand the scope of the Church.

Gloria rebounded off the massive silver statues of the saints which were set in niches on the wall and who cast their benefactions over the hall. The room’s worth could have feed nearly two million of the starving indigent outside for a year, with the constant motif of Goldsmiths Insanity. Strangely though it’s building had been approved by an overwhelming majority two centuries earlier, such was the power of the Church. Clerical men would always dominate the mind; an Empire built in the soul. A dominium, which no foreigner could take, nor comprehend, a Divine power watched over the Waldenburg Empire in the form of its unshakable belief.

His Imminence Harold the Cardinal Thousis, Cenobiarch of the Holy Waldenburger Church passed the final row of bobbing Bishops, his robe was some considerable feet behind him supported by ten liveried servant boys. The Bishops, who had yet to sit, turned to face him and give a final bow, the Council was in session. A choir of hundreds, mixed their voices to perfection and their sweet refrain pounded the smirking figure to the high alter where a plain, wood chair sat. It looked so out of placed, so common against the wealth of the room, and that made it all the more threatening and commanding. Sheets of light out of twenty-meter tall, stained glass, windows lit the chair brilliantly and when the Cenobiarch sat in it his eyes burned devilishly bright, and as the choir wound down he stood, the red robes of state billowing around him.

“Before we begin,” the cavernous room carried the stentorian voice of the Cenobiarch to even greater volumes, “I believe a quick prayer is in order, especially for our men serving against the Maldorians.” The assembled knew what a quick prayer was, twenty minutes minimum.

“Bendictus Spiritus Devin Eptine,” the words rent a gaping blackness in Felix’s heart, he sat in the Monks gallery above, not for the men he was going to kill but the beauty, which he was to disrupt, a fine speech even from tainted lips had beauty. ‘Still the plan goes well.’ The Bishops were sweating after the first fifteen minutes, the Holy Men had never been that keen on physical exercise, and most of them were well into their seventies and could not manage the prolonged spells on their feet. Time slowed for Felix, despite his standard calm demeanor he was nervous.

“No power can stop us. We are Waldenburgers, we are the chosen of God and we shall triumph in this life and the next. Ut Deus Palma. Please be seated so we may begin.” The room gave an imperceptible collective sigh and sank to the ornate pews, newly refurbished for the Council. Felix let out his own sigh; he has studied the customs of the Council for hours and had got it absolutely right.

An ornate statuette of St. Ambrose removed half the grand alter with the explosion. Wafted up on a cloud of smoke miters fluttered down, their tassels streaming behind them like poorly designed and constructed snowflakes. As the Bishops had pressed their weights to the bench simultaneous explosions had rocked the hall, seemingly from all over the grand room, all intended to cause maximum damage and casualties. The bomb had removed a good deal of the hall, turning once six foot, muscular members of the Divine Legion into bloody ribbons strewn about the floor and groaning. Wood splinters and debris had caused more casualties in the galleries, monks rolled on the ground around Felix, who sat as composed as a still picture, staring out with a faint smile over the Council Hall. Mona Lisa’s smile looked like a tremendous image of pain compared to the all-knowing, smirk of Felix Albemier. The senior clergy has certainly not escaped and the few that were alive tottered about in semi concussion and screaming when they ran into one another.

“To work,” Felix said softly, pulling a small knife from his robe. “Your Imminence!” He shouted in a baritone voice that barred no interruption. Harold Thousis did not seem to have grasped what had happened yet, his expression showed of mix of disgust and concern. Should he yell at them for being lazy or summon the guards? The cry from the minstrel gallery shocked him back to life, and he turned eyes red to the Monks gallery. He was only slightly wounded; he had dodged a silver Agnus Dei, and had been saved from wood shrapnel by his ostentatious robe. Still he bled slightly from his left arm, and shook where he stood.

“My regards Cenobiarch!” A giggling monk shouted before throwing a fine bladed knife in a perfect line, the Cenobiarch’s neck would soon be opened up, and the Church overthrown. A bejeweled hand flew to his neck, palm out, and the knife buried itself in the hilt to the Cenobiarch’s hand. Thousis gave a slight grunt of pain turned to his old friend turned assassin. “Felix, you always were to good. An amateur’s throw probably would have fallen short and taken me in the stomach, a perfect shot is too easy to block. How are you by the way?”

“Keeping you Imminence.” Another knife flew from his hand, the Cenobiarch bashed it away with an alter piece, and sent it clattering across the marble floor.

“Glad to here it. I understand you’ve been on the run, stealing sheep and hiding in hedgerows all very exciting.’

“Quite so,” his last throwing knife punctured the silver, serving dish the Cardinal had been protecting his head with. It was lowered, and knife examined it, it seemed incredibly old with ancient letters emblazoned on it in bronze and most noticeably indelibly sharp. On inspection of the gallery, Felix had fled leaving only a faint scent of what was alter described by the poetical members of the Church, brimstone. The Cenobiarch shook his head, reached for his staff and set out at a light jog discarding his robe as he ran. There were two ways out of the Monk’s gallery and a professional would not take the obvious one.

A hallow thud marked the falling of the last Divine Legion Guard, they had been good swordsmen, just not good enough. Felix pulled the rapier out of the Sergeant’s eye and wiped it on the blood red sash on the man’s waist. There had been three of them having a quiet smoke out of the way; in the one place they thought they would be unseen. In this tunnel the sound was dampened by the rows of old scrolls, deemed to valuable to throw away but too dull to read. The resting place of dusty words written by even dustier men greedily swallowed the heavy breathing of the surviving combatant.

“Trevor, come out I can see you hiding, I might add not very well.” Felix swung his blade around and pointed it at the Trevor’s heart or where he assumed it to be behind one of the bookcases. “There is a special circle of hell reserved for traitors, on which I dare say will grow slightly more crowded after my work. Was I a fool to trust you? The Prince thought you would make an admirable assistant. Placing in you the unseeing trust of a newborn to your many faculties, that if I say so, does not include concealment. Should I have my petty revenge and satisfy my base urges or allow you a more merciful path?”

“You are insane this wasn’t supposed to work, you would’ve broken under torture, and the prince would have been revealed, I did it for the best, these men should have killed you, but they were of my mind as well. You are insane!” The shadow whispered from behind its shelf.

Though their eyes did meet Felix could feel the pleading in Trevor’s heart, as it beat against his rapier. “Go with God.” This time the blood splattered everywhere flecking Felix’s face with the sweet claret of mankind.

“Some would call that mercy, which was it in your choosing?” Harold Thousis stepped out from behind a pillar to face Felix who calmly bowed and readied his sword.

“My base impulses I dare say are quite a bit more personal then those of lesser pallets. IF I had chosen my preference we would not be able to stand for intestinal juices. But my being, is hardly important. Why have you ventured here? For an epic duel to the death with your former secretary? Hardly the stock of legends and something I would have put below your Grace. How are you armed? Is this merely a distraction while seven hooded members of the Inquisition lunge at me from behind?”

“I would say something dramatic about coming with God but I’m afraid no one would write it down. So I brought a sword instead.” The Cenobiarch lifted the top off his white staff, producing a fine silvery blade, of excellent workmanship and of course razor sharp. “By account of some of the more old guard priests it is transfused with demon’s blood, once have stabbing some Duke of Hell. I personally have my doubts on that, but it is sharp.”

With a faint smile the Cenobiarch gave a flying lunge, slashing down at neck level. The attack was easily blocked and the two stared at each other eye to eye for a moment. Then as if some communal agreement had been made they both leapt back and began to spin ornate patterns in the air, blades smashing together, in near invisible skirmishes. Most of the time not even connecting but performing feint after feint, in an attempt to confuse the other.

“Why did you come back?”

“Did I ever leave?”

“Yes.” Sparks exploded in the darkness, creating a white flash of light, which illuminated the pupils of the Cenobiarch turning red. “You were dragged away from that bloody child, that child with half a face. The one who had done nothing, the one who delivered the post, the one you tortured in my outer office. Do you recall Felix?”

“For a human to live without sin is impossible, very contradictory in nature, can the bird refrain from flying can the sea end it’s perpetual motion? No, and neither can we do nothing. Once I have completed my mission, this work set out for the chosen of the world I shall take my own life, and undoubtedly find a place in Hell. Along with the others I have sent there and a few others I have worked with. I have no illusions on that score, but evil must be combated with something worse, or victory is uncertain. Do not take the moral high ground for you know it is lacking, and you undeserving.”

“You haven’t changed at all.” The Cenobiarch snarled something in old Moldovan, an excellent language for cursing. From behind his miter a small disc of light started to appear, brightening the darkness around the two combatants.

“Do not attempt to cow me with your mechanical tricks. I was present at their installation they are no miracle. Halos, changing pupils, they thought that would fool anyone? ” In one clashing movement both swords met in midair and locked against each other, it would be a killing blow if the Cenobiarch backed away.

“Felix, is it not a miracle?” The Cenobiarch lifted his left hand and backed handed his former Personal Inquisitor across the face. Normally this would have thrown them back into combat, however the Cenobiarch had failed to remove the throwing knife from his palm. Its blade, made of blackened steel was sharp, very sharp, and cut Felix’s left cheek open leaving two flopping halves. Again blood spurted into the musty room, sprinkling over the unread documents. Felix jumped back unlocking his rapier, still thinking though he brought it down on the Cardinal thigh’s cutting a deep gash. After some general stumbling about and half-hearted feints they faced off again.

“It seems we are at an impasse, too wounded to continue, and to proud to run. Will we both die here do you think?” The Cenobiarch dragged himself into enguard position, sword extended.

“Pide ist a shin,” Felix held his mouth tenderly his capacities in his prided speech were somewhat disabled. “I hast no shin!” He screamed, fleeing down the passage, with a billow of his robes and a trail of blood. Thousis tried to follow, tried a jog at least, but the wound to his leg throbbed with every step, so he contented himself with making a tourniquet and passing out.

Two Days Later:

“Your Imminence? Sir we have your soup,” Thousis’ eyes opened to the pleasantly plump face of some sort of novice with a steaming bowl. “The Bishop Andrews and Prince Andre von Waldenburg of the Divine Legion.” The novice reverentially placed the soup on a side table before bowing his way out of the room. Thousis sat up rubbing his eyes; he had been moved from his usual Spartan room to the Grand Solarium in one of the towers. Bay windows funneled in sun, and a warm breeze.

“Yes gentlemen?” He asked wincing with the effort of sitting up.

“You Imminence.” The prince gave a hugely formal salute, “I thought it prudent to report to you as soon as you were able to receive it. The Divine Legion and police have so far been unable to find Albemier,” he said the name carefully as if the word could set his Cenobiarch into a furious rampage. “Two squads were lost when we came across a group of Muslims in Peddler Street, they put up stiff resistance and set fire to the brewery. Additionally a gunship was downed near the Imperial Palace, with Archduke Conrad Brittle onboard.”

“Never heard of the man.”

“I suspect not, he was only recently granted a titular holding in the colonial possessions. His wife was with him, and their children.” Andre von Waldenburg, hardly eighteen had changed incredibly. Before he had been a pompous prat who relied on austere dress and highhanded remarks to seem superior, now how ever he had tempered and stood serenely comfortable with his position. Two months earlier he had been a terrified youth, sent to round up and torture Muslims; he had succeeded, and now held himself as a seasoned general.

“And what of the Council?”

Andrews, a barrel like man with facial hair to impress any Emparh loving general spoke in the rough-hewn accent of the mountains. It took seconds for the man to warm up his voice purring to life like a well-made car, “We’ve got a body count. 119 dead, 206 wounded and that’s in the senior clergy alone. We’ve also discovered how he managed the attack, pressure sensors, the weight of two hundred sitting Bishops set off the bomb. The pews were recently refurbished, by Hewitt and Sons in Blünderburg, it was probably then that they were tampered with.”

“I assume they were punished?”

“Hewitt was held upside down in a vat of boiling furniture varnish, Sons are in detention. I doubt it was them however, they seemed vastly incapable of anything not involving wood.”

“I don’t suspect them either, but it would look terrible to allow them off with this. Have their factory seized, the workers deported, and the family decimated. Em…Do we have any idea where the sensors come from?”

“Unfortunately sir they could have come from a fast food joint, a mansion gate or commercial electronics. The only variable we have is the weight and that can be changed depending on the device. Albemier is still in practice I note?”

“It would appear so, more so then I certainly. “ The Cenobiarch pulled himself up and critically studied the soup, “Do you think it has any of those clam things in it?”

“Probably not your Imminence.”

“Even so Albemier has to be found. Obviously he is guilty of murder, treason, sedition and a numerous range of other crimes. He also has in his possession certain items of tentative value to the Church that could pose a risk to our organization should it become open to the public.”

“I thought his mission was to kill you?” Andrews did an amazing perplexed look, in which his massive eyebrows went up, chin down, and pulled his head back two inches. It would have put the crustiest admiral to shame.

“This time it was, but before that, when he was first tried and nearly executed he took a very valuable item from the library. The Book, the old one that must never leave the basilica.” He spoke the last words in whisper, ashamed perhaps.

At first Andrews went through a range of expression before settling on outraged.” You damn fool!” The Bishop shouted, and Thousis could only hang his head and sigh, “You told no one of this? The greatest treasure of the Church and you didn’t care to mention it to the Divine Legion?”

“What would they have done?” One man sitting in this bed seemed as far away from the snarling tiger of two days earlier as was humanly possible.

“March around in shiny boots and damn well be active! I shall go put out the word, discreetly, an issue the reclamation orders. If we do not retrieve,” he waved his hand in the air and frothed, “it, you know what will happen?” Thousis nodded slowly, the implications of this all was to clear he could hear the bell tolling for him…

“You Imminence,” the Bishop bowed furiously and turned on his heel almost muttering against his superior, who now looked ready to die. Alone again the Cardinal attempted a bite of soup, it of course had gone cold. In his tower, sit by sunlight the Church experienced it darkest hour. It was a treasure they had guarded safely for hundreds of years, and it had been taken, and God knew and probably endured the heresy of being read.

“Look upon my works and despair, nothing beside me remains.” Along in his tower with the endless desert stretching to the North, the sands enclosed him boundless and bare.

http://i148.photobucket.com/albums/s30/lordmango3/seal.gif

A great catastrophe has shaken the Church. A cataclysmic event as yet unseen in modern history, that has unfortunately taken place. As private sources confirm, the Council of Bishops was violently attacked by former High Inquisitor Felix Albemier and at least one assistant. The nature of the attack suggests that outside help was the deciding factor of the attack.

At least 227 have died in this attack including many members of the senior clergy. Harold the Cardinal Thousis apparently dueled with Albemier and received a cut to the leg while doing so. The Cenobiarch inflicted a wound to the man’s left cheek before the coward ran. Anyone that comes in contact with an opened left cheek should contact the police immediately for his arrest. On the subject of arrests, the Holy Church along with the Imperial Government has issued a bounty for his capture. Anyone who captures, or provides information leading to the capture of High Inquisitor Felix Albemier shall be given a reward of Three Trillion USD and their weight in silver. His Imminence the Cenobiarch has also stipulated that Albemier must be brought in alive, and with one item: Small leather book, about his person.

Martial law will be declared in the interim of the emergency. The regiments will be called up and will be policing the street for possible hostiles, and lawbreakers. It is believed that Inquisitor Felix is in league with an unknown group, with similarly unknown purposes bound to destroy the Holy Church. They are quite obviously skilled to carry out such a bold attack, and we suggest that no one attempts to fight or detain any suspected members without police backup. Any information on this group, which leads to it’s enlightening, shall be granted One Hundred Billion USD for services to the Imperial Government. A list of the casualties of the attack and of Albemier’s description can been seen below as well. God Bless us all.


Signed:
His Highness Prince Andre von Waldenburg Divine Marshal

The smoke of oil fires cast a patina to the sky that normal pollution usually failed at. In a way it was a beautiful thing, a sort of rainbow heralding the end of some storm. Of course hundreds of years ago anyone with enough poetic inclination to make such a comparison who did not wear a miter had their hearts ripped out and shown to them under the banner of “It’s Just not Right.” Still a storm passed and a moderately new day began.

Felix Albemier walked a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands. His dress, still of an Inquisitor and a busy looking scrap of paper afforded him the greatest disguise in the universe. After a short walk through the passage he arrived in an outer study, and had merely picked up a clipboard. No one argues with a clipboard, no matter who is carrying it, and the greatest diplomatic secretive maneuvers of all time have been carried out behind one. Smoke was pouring up from the Cathedral and around the grounds where the Divine Legion would be taking proactive revenge on anyone nearby. Already he could hear the rumbling of APC’s smashing through and over the cars parked along the Grand Avenue leading to the Church.

The Inquisitor was a bit concerned over his failure to kill the Cenobiarch, his prime target, head of the Church, and oppressor of millions. Combat between the two had been satisfying despite the scratch inflicted on him. His feet began to follow his old night walks, on which he had always remembered feeling so fulfilled, and his victims feathery light. The meandering path took him secretly from back street to back street, pressing through crowds of gawkers, who peered with a halfhearted interest at the burning cathedral.

“All enemies of the Cenobiarch Die!” A voice screamed at the end of the road, which Felix had been proceeding down. Eight mounted members of the Divine Legion, yellow cloaks billowing behind double-breasted uniforms, raised their sabers and began a trot down the street. After fifty feet they broke into a canter and lowered sabers, picking targets out of a screaming crowd, mostly the elderly displaced by poverty were cut down in bloody swathes and in seconds after the materialization of the Divine Legion. Felix couldn’t even imagine what was happening on the larger streets, if eight elite troopers were sent for an ally, the boulevards must be packed with bodies.

Suddenly realization hit he was in front of the entire crowd who now packed the street in the attempt to get away. Even with the hood he would probably be killed, and there was certainly nowhere to run against a solid wall of fleeing people.

“Damnii,” he lisped, reaching for a throwing knife. Knives left scattered around the halls of the Cathedral and in it’s various members. Foiled in his attempts he pulled out his crossbow and the much-hated Glock 22 pistol. Slightly more skilled with the bow, the Inquisitor fired a devilish little dart into the forehead of the commanding Sergeant. He toppled forward dead on contact, his body thumping to the ground in an almost unheard of way in the Imperial city. Someone dared stand up to the Divine Legion in our street?

No time to ponder such things, the Legionaries were still in a canter and getting closer, sabers pointed down, sunlight glinting off bloodied points. The pistol was raised and fired three times, all shots fired from a hand that regretted the inhumanity of killing at such a distance, with such an inhuman device. A horse, by sheer luck was wounded in the forward leg toppling its rider into the paving bricks at high speed, and mashing his face most distressingly. The tight alley allowed little maneuvering space for the massive horses, and they had to be reigned in or collapse in a heap.

Tossing away the gun the Inquisitor ran forward drawing his rapier, Inquisitors robes flapping around him he jumped taking the stance of Absoltum Dominium, the martial style of the Church. One saber came to block his charge; Felix ignored it, simply running his rapier into it and with his momentum pushing it into the defenders neck and opening him like a clam. Stabbing across as he ran he stabbed a rider in-between the ribs and threw him from his horse. Landing slightly behind the slowly disintegrating cavalry line, he killed two more with wild sweeps left and right. Only two left, both dismounted and circling him, as best they could through a stream of milling horses. Using this Felix smacked a few with the flat of his sword and sent them running towards the two. Taken aback both were killed without even raising their blades, the rapier taking their necks cleanly and leaving them to puddle their surprise still tangible on their lips.

“Don’t you demon, one more step and I’ll shoot.” A poorly clothed young woman held the pistol the Inquisitor had tossed away, shaking with the effort, she trembled with nervous defiance. “More of them will come and they’ll reward me.”

“They have becoame more your Goud’s then you can imagine,” he tossed the rapier into his hand, and threw it javelin style threw the women’s chest. A short sword appeared in his hand as he walked forward, poking the wounded. “You will tell no one I waas here.” He collected he weapons the crowd stayed wordlessly, staring to the end. The High Inquisitors gunfire would not be heard; there were already spurts of it from around the city, some of it obviously the booming of quick fire cannons.

With a limp he set off south, there was no way he could make it to the mountains with his face in this condition, the blood splattering his robe. A way station, one of the small chapels built by the Inquisition to house supplies and victims waiting transfer. Felix’s eyes closed; he remembered the long walks, through the dark; victims screaming and thrashing, nothing had changed it seemed. There was even the screaming, long bouts and torrents of it from different sections of the city. Insanity spread faster then fire, and soon the city would be rife with it

A cellar door banged open with a kick, St. Tristan’s Chapel, by the looks of it was still in use. Even so sheets of dust cascaded off the door as he opened it. A cell phone and a few objects lay on the table, most of them were personal effects and of little use to the Inquisitor. Still he pawed through the items hopelessly searching for something to dull the throbbing pain on his cheek. Small chance though. The Inquisitors, as a whole were not known for making their visitors comfortable.

“At least the armory will be stocked,” Felix mumbled and hurried of to a side passage. The name chapel was slightly misleading for the place; it had more restraints and knives then saints. The armory itself looked as though it had been picked clean before he arrived, the Guard must be out in the insanity. Still Felix pulled a few ill kept knives, and with a hateful sigh an MP-5 from the tiny pile. He began to feel a bit woozy as he pocketed an ancient and dangerous looking hand grenade, and with a smile his head hit the stone floor, and only bounced once.

Saints and martyrs wheeled above Felix, forever immortalized by the peeling paint of long forgotten hands. When one feels their death is imminent, or when they are immobilized the mind begins picking up details it never would have perceived before. Tiny bared teeth marred otherwise angelic saints, long bladed knives appeared in angels hands, then faded from memory, as not actually having been there. Felix was dying, his cut to the face had not been grievous but there were no medical supplies, and even with a muscular spasm of the mouth blood would gush out and stain his robe. He lay on the only bed in the place, which he had pulled himself to from the floor, in a sequence of events he couldn’t quite remember, watching the portrayal of Inquisitorial heroes; they seemed to speak to him in the delirium. In melodious and haunting tones his vocational ancestors spoke to him, through paint and time. “Really, really insane.” Felix passed out.

A bottle of whiskey under the alter.
Thread and needle in the grey crate
Clothes in the prisoner’s room
Food under the stairs.

As floating hoods danced about in the supple reaches of the former inquisitors mind, he screamed himself awake, blood slipping down his left cheek. The room was the same, slightly darker perhaps but the same statuettes and frescoes adorned the wall. ‘Time to leave, must find help.” Without apparent welcome a thought nudged it’s way into the High Inquisitors mind, ‘Check under the alter.’ This was an unusual occurrence, the Inquisitor always knew from whence his thoughts came. Still he picked himself off the bed and across the floor with an injured’s speed to the alter where he dropped to his knees, oddly displacing a worn down cobblestone.

Underneath was a very dusty, and very old bottle of vintage still in the prime of it’s life. A dream had directed him to a bottle of whiskey? Where else were the items? He tried to remember, picking snatches of the dream out of his fading memory. He followed what he thought, and found several items he could have sworn were not there before. Still fortuitous, magic, God’s own work or not, he set to work.

The first needle’s puncture hurt barely at all, adding only a sharper throb to the already nonstop agony of the whole ordeal, the thread slowly closed his mouth. He stood serenely pulling the thread though his injured cheek, gasping only when he took a sip of whiskey to sterilize the wound. In the nature of self-surgery his eyes became fixed on the cross, tarnished with age and ill care anything to keep the mind off the pain. Still the tiny face representing the messiah stared back, never endingly suffering the ills of the worlds. Felix’s resolved hardened, and with a scowl on his face he gulped down a mouthful whiskey finishing his attempt at doctoring.

Packing in his old clothes and the surprisingly fresh food, he crossed himself before the alter, mumbling a small generic prayer for success before kicking open the cellar like door into the streets. Hitherto, on his way down and in the times between his unconsciousness, it had been a dark night, mist and pollution dancing for control of the city streets, but now morning slowly pulled up from the east. Dragging with it the problems of concealment. Still to early to worry about that, it was best to start the morning with something warm, a pleasant conversation or someone to kill. With the MP-5 slung over his shoulder and the robes of the Inquisitor tight across his back, Felix set out at a trot feeling the infinities of possibility in the city. Strienlikstern was his.

Few people were about this time of day mostly criminals and Police were the only to function this early, and Felix’s first victim stood out brightening under the new sun and tucked under a store awning. Lance Constable Ryan Pelt did not much care for the Imperial Guard but stomached it for not having his family investigated. Mostly when possible he took early morning patrols, to sleep in one of the parks or simply to have some time to think. A gust of wind interrupted his warm and pleasant thoughts of young women, dropping small change near air ducts, while improperly dressed. Cardinals had even invaded his mind, dulling his once rabid fantasies, to what was described in the rest of the world at large as “1920’s Porn,”. Still where could wind come from here?

“At the cessation of life, it is said that angels clad in the shrouds and trappings of the Divine come to earth bearing gifts and never ending glory to the righteous. The corrupt and wicked get a whole myriad of drastically different things. My coming here however is not to inform you of the possibility of letting God into your sundry existence but of to bring up a moral and spiritual dilemma which has been bothering me for some time.” A small blade had pricked the lance constable’s neck, drawing a tiny bead of blood. Ryan had been on the job long enough not to turn to face his assailant who have mover remarkably quietly and with amazing grace.

“Does a collapsing constable make a noise if no one cares?” The knife entered his throat, missing the major arteries, and puncturing the trachea. The lance constable would not bleed to death in a minute but slowly have his lungs fill with blood over the course of ten minutes. Felix caught the gurgling body. “Do not be mistaken in this, you die for a cause, a lifetime of veneration will sing you to your rest. Once the Church is brought down, and I may assure you that it shall be, a constable will be praised more than the Cenobiarch, and his hegemony of pompous playboys.” The body was dragged into a dumpster near a fast food restaurant, someone would fine him soon. In the lid he carved a short and again generic prayer. He perhaps was becoming too involved in his killings, but the feeling of power, and purpose again made him as close to giddy as was possible after months of wandering.

“And in the daylight we are made enlightened,” the morning was till young; he would have all day to feed his growing hunger for blood. Not just a hunger for blood though, he began to enjoy his work but still thought of it as work, something to be achieved, and not enjoyed. From the omniscient point of the view the line was ever growing thinner

Act III Scene IV

Content Piece: Condor Pasa (http://www.coralesangaudenzio.it/Audio/Misa%20Criolla/1%20Condor%20pasa.mp3)


The bloody walls of St. Tristan’s had abraded Felix’s precarious good mood, leaving was the work of a moment, grabbing the few possessions he had and packing them into a satchel that had belonged to one of his victims. Civilians still forewent the streets, preferring not to be slaughtered by the Divine Legion. It was incredibly easy to hide, from the occasional patrol; they stayed in the center of the street and did not venture into easily ambushed alleys. The Inquisitor robes wouldn’t last much longer, soon enough the police and military would completely take over and a hood would not be able to secure his anonymity but for now he was free to wander the city.

Wandering though was not the High Inquisitors intent, he had an ambition, an avidity to assail the abode of the asinine and apocryphal assistants of an outmoded and apostolistic ecclesiasts. His mind had begun to settle somewhat his usual stoic and impassive philosophy returning after his failure at the Basilica. Still work to do work to do. Felix had wandered Streinlikstern for quite some time, he had a need, and therefore the Chapel of St. Caprum came as a great relief. With the application of one boot to the door, the old wood latch came undone and the rotted wooded flung open to reveal a monk, head bowed in prayer. Felix took some amount of pleasure in walking as loudly as he liked to the man’s back slowly wrapping piano wires around his fingers, and grinning aimlessly underneath his pointed hood.

With a final gasp to his God the monk fell, beads breaking and scattering across the floor. Order of Jerusalem by the looks of it, and he had been strong for having such a tiny frame. Other then this one man, and another two prisoners, who as they were, chained to the wall, were no problem to dispatch, the chapel was again empty. Relief was hard to come by, when being chased up and down the capital, fighting to the death duels with your former employer left very little time for proper nutrition. With a tight clench though and several minutes seeking it relief was achieved with a sigh.

Felix rearranged his robe and sorted through his bag, his weapons most definitely refraining from gleaming in the twinkling light of one lit candle. This chapel had the same basic layout of that before, slightly larger but with the basic fang-mounted archangels snarling down at the heresies placed under them. Night was setting in again, the day had been fruitful in learning of things on the outside, and perhaps Felix had been reckless carving his bloody swath across the city, although it would only assist his ultimate goal of killing the Cenobiarch, it had perhaps been a bit over the top. It frightened people as was obvious, and began separating them into clearly defined factions, those against the Church and those who could cry “All Enemies of the Cenobiarch Die” with moral impunity.

His thoughts had dwelled on that issue for quite some time as he flitted about the streets, and alleys. To attack with impunity, was the greatest attack, or to attack by someone else’s means was even greater, although the issue of morality had haunted him several times not least when he had killed another three policemen. Was it wrong, and what was wrong? Without the more stringent restrictions of the clergy hanging over him Felix’s mind began to wheel about from saint to sinner, after every street corner, a fear flickered in him about what could go wrong, both physically and on the more vast and unforgiving spiritual plane. There was good to be done in the world of course, but the good seemed so faint and mercurial to have decisions based off of. There had been conflicting messages from his inspirations, but they had all wanted one thing; for Felix to kill, kill their enemies, and they all seemed to think it would bring about the age of halcyon, where peace and unity would reign for ten thousand, thousand years. When Felix had taken a breather at around noon, and sat comfortable on the roof of the Imperial Mercantile Bank, cradling a constable’s lunch so recently liberated from the police force, he aimlessly watched the soldiers arrayed around St. Michael’s. It was a considerable amount, on division strength, with artillery and aerial support. The thin bread allowed for a small trickle of grease from a pork sandwich to dribble onto his already grubby robe. Back in the day of his nightly service to the Church, his robes getting dirty or stained was hardly a concern but now, he had no laundry or means of becoming the starched, wage slave he was supposed to be impersonating.

The day wore slowly on, and Felix did not feel like moving out of the warm sun that bathed the roof, on the street he knew it was sweltering hot, but up here a playful breeze kept the temperature down. Still it had been hours since the last of his whiskey has disappeared and his lips smacked subconsciously for water, but did nothing to pursue his ends. Everyone wanted something, the Church wanted one god above all, the Prince wanted peace, and the old men had wanted stability, Felix at the moment wanted only answers and water. On one elbow he propped himself up lazily the wind rippling his hair, as the sun once again began to pull behind the horizon, he had spent hours of the roof, and was amazed by two things, one being why he had not had his extremities removed by a Divine Legion Sniper, and the second on how slowly his brain moved at some moments. For the moment Felix gave into hedonism and on creaky legs first to find a water fountain then to find a chemist, and hopefully through a fairly round about route, find some deeper necessities.

After a more eventful afternoon than had been expected, his plan was almost ready to be expanded upon. There had been for the longest time a ban on pouring chemicals into the toilet, or sink, and anyone caught doing so would face severe punishments, probably not as severe as warranted by the crimes Felix had committed in order to obtain said chemicals, but never the less plucked a small string of guilt within the High Inquisitor.


Water Processing Plant East Strienlikstern

Unimaginative workers tallied the water flow charts and placidly scrutinized the waste being collected. Most of the process of water reclamation was automated, attempting to spare as many citizens as possible the knowledge that their drinking water had once been home to someone else’s dinner. In the desert one does what one can to stay alive, and if that meant digesting the dregs of the next mans sphincter then it trousers down everyone. Still it was considered impolite to discuss water reclamation, even though it was an honored job, one that Waldenburg could not last a week without, there were never employee of the months. It was again early morning, the shifts were changing, foremen nodded off, the computers ran this place and they merely occupied the desk. From all corners it was an excellent job.

Waste and more goldfish then could be counted flowed out of thousands of tubes into underground reservoirs, which then funneled through a larger tube into the processing station. For the sake of decency it was placed as far away from the city center as convenience allowed. Mostly it was an unconsidered placed, never bothered by inspectors or the police. Tonight though it would change, a tiny stream of garishly colored chemicals speed under the ground. In a more metaphoric sense it was the hurled spear of God, in the more mundane it was slowly growing more colorful.

Command Point Claxon

“Commander!” The scream was being repeated up and down the lines, ranging in pitch and timbre. Smoke and fire, no steam rose out of the corner of the city, huge wafts of it accompanied by the roar of air raid sirens and the faint murmur of follow up explosions. A few of the brighter officers had begun working out distances and wind speeds; the conclusion was not one that brooked contemplation. Soldiers stared up at the sky knitting their eyebrows in confusion, shouldn’t the attack be here?

“This is Divine Marshall Andre von Waldenburg, we have confirmed attacks on a water processing plant, near the south of the Imperial Capital has been hit by some sort of high explosive. It would seem the plant has been effectively reduced to rubble. Assailant still unknown, possibly Albemier, possible Maldorian surprise attack, move orders have been issued. The complexities and level of attack suggest that could pose a major threat to the city. Two divisions, currently stationed around St. Michael’s will be moved into battle lines stretching from the Grand Avenue to the Cathedral of St. Ambrose. General Thompson then shall then lead the general advance, detain everyone on the streets. The are will be cordoned off by another three divisions of the Divine Legion by day break.” The hand held radio crackled, and Commander Peterson robbed his hands together in an attempt to stay warm.

“More reports to come,” The Divine Marshall crackled out for the last time, his petulant voice spurring frosty APC’s to begin a crawl through the city streets. Cars would normally be a problem but any that were out were given a minute to evacuate, or be squished under the steel treads. With bayonets fixed the divisions formed a battle line, screamed into movement by the sergeants. With breath hanging in the air they left the police and whatever guards could be spared from inside.

“You think Merrick I’ll have any luck?” Peterson had broke down and told his remaining officers about the diversion.

“I’m starting to half believe he will, if these fools march off with bayonets to catch one man in the wrong place then, perhaps eight will catch him in the right one. I can’t say I care though, it would be enough to get home.” He blew into his hands, “where is that damn wind we get all day?”

“Oh shit oh shit,” a Divine Legionary performed the most awkward run in the history of jogging down moonlight corridors, to be stalked by men in possession of blood soaked daggers. His progress was troubled by the man’s piety at every painting or crucifix he bobbed a small bow and continued to run. If he was to die, and he was sure he was, a few additional genuflections could only help things. A light tapping behind him made him turn bloodshot eyes to the billowing curtains surrounding the alcove of some statue, where the perceived footsteps of death glided. A very slight breeze caused the man to rush the curtains, taking them in what could be chest height with his bayoneted rifle. Several hundred meters behind his squad had been exterminated by what, at the moment he could only define as a soft wind.

“Oh God,” with a boot stomping turn, Felix now faced him a rifle between the two, and naval sword draining his blood. The gaping chest wound would cause some problems with the inheritor of the uniform but this certainly wasn’t the soldier’s, he slipped slowly to the floor greased in his own blood.

“How shall I accost his Imminence tonight I wonder? To the throat, or the bowels?” Felix glanced down at his feet as if the floor were merely a layer of gossamer of which he perched. Below, was the familiar pits of the Inquisition, ahead the Cenobairch all tucked up snuggly in bed. “Perhaps both, but a little confusion can’t hurt things.” The nearest stairway down was well guarded by a pair of gossiping nuns. The nearest staircase down was then slick with the blood of two nuns, it would take and army to kill the rest but Felix could find an army.

Egregious sounds of exquisite tortures, filtered up through high vaulted stone passageways, reverberating off intricate pep holes. To Felix Albemier, his petite feet making only a minimal scraping pattered down the twisting stone stairway. Technically, according to all building plans it did not exist, nowhere had any builder made mention to these pits, suitingly the entrance would be hidden inside another staircase in the basement labeled on a amateur map “Experimental Theology.” Intoxicating memories of purpose and power flooded Felix’s mind. Why had he left?

“They were wrong.” His words, though said in a whisper echoed up and down the staircase, extenuated and made louder by stone funnels until through a round about root via several Bishop’s spines rattled the smaller bells on the Cathedral’s bell tower.

“Nostrum Severus Livor Sentio”, and the double doors, appearing as more a portal then a mere doorway, how long had it been there? Its motto-slashed wood of the door, every generation carved again by the pious reminding the world “Our Stern Chastisement Feel.” The whip of God, the flaming poker of the soul, the doors acting as a palisade against conventional morality and religious teachings of the world above, beyond was an entirely different kingdom never spoken of.

Felix entered with a happy whistle, it wouldn’t be heard over the inventive lacerations below, and if by chance he was overheard it was quite common, at least in his tenure as High Inquisitor to enter a room with a jaunty smile. Felix, when in charge had always been a stickler for tradition, flickering torches and the chanting of monks were quite common, it seemed much more appropriate and loosened the lips of any victims. Flickering florescent light’s had replaced his beloved torches, illuminating what looked like a natural cavern, with more precise walls hacked out when the stone masons could find the time. Its sheer scale was enormous, the light’s only cast gloom where there should have been utter darkness.

Vast rows of cages, cast in steel and hacked out of stone created long, unbending lines of prisons akin to city blocks. Every one hundred meters or so a darker shadow signaled that a shallow row of steps lead to an even deeper pit where the Inquisitors probed very deeply indeed, out of some moaning and even a bit of giggling could be heard. Just to the left of Felix’s position was the High Inquisitors Compound, the only proper building in a stone city. Floodlights, blasting clean white light cast a lambent glow upon massive banners, nearly sixty feet in length, and woven out of fine silks. The Imperial arms, the double-headed eagle, bedecked in jewels trampling the enemies of state, the Church’s Holy Hierophant, the Cross intersected by the Divine Spear circled by a crown of thorns. Lastly and in the shadows of the others the arms and banner of the Inquisition. Cast on white linen the Eagle, head beset with a halo and a victim under talon and another in beak. Behind the eagle an audience of the archangels and God cluster granting their benefaction the Inquisition. The Spartan grey of the building conflicted hugely with the banners of silk and their Imperial finery. Hooded guards brandishing assault rifles line the ramps approaching the High Inquisitor’s office.

Felix turned to his left and began a solemn stroll, occasionally glancing to the condemned, towards the burning hub of the underworld. A silhouetted Inquisitor held up a halting hand, “Until we have Albemier off the streets we need identification for all personnel. Tertiary will do for now, seeing as it’s going.”

“Isn’t the identity of the masked in it’s a self explanatory paradox? Besides the more obvious costmary classification of friend or foe I have neither as I am both in one, condescend of your greatest fears and hopes.”

Guarding was not the strong suit of the Inquisition and the hood looked temporarily perplexed by this definition. A gloved hand removed the veil revealing a tousle of blonde hair and a massive smile. “Felix! Your Grace! I knew,.. the High Inquisitor knew you’d come back. There are those of us who feel that things should be handled more radically. Oh, it’s good to see you back, all these lights eh?”

Felix was taken aback to a slight degree; he had been expecting to be taken in chains to the office, “an ambience lost certainly.”

“Quite so your Grace. Oh come with me please there are some people in the office that you have to meet. By the way my names Etteron, I was here on your last day sir, but they told me the stories and showed me the statue of course.” Etteron turned on his heel strolling off and calling to other guards, “Felix is back!” The cry went up all over the underworld, some of the prisoners remembered his earlier brand of pious certainty and began bashing their bars, and yelling. Stalagmites rattled with the cacophony of the jubilations of former employees and the cries of earlier heretics. Albemier wore a faint smile as he passed a statue of himself robes rippling, sword in one hand, demon in other. No royal reception, no Cenobiarch had received such an admissible admittance to any finer hall. Berobed guards dipped curtsies like the Cardinal’s above. A Council of Bishops in the dark, in a different world where ones’ vices became virtues in service to God, and the dark a grander opulence then the marble pillars and ostentatious halls of above.

“Through here sir. Though I imagine you remember all too well, we’ll just have to figure out what to do with you. We assure you though as long as you keep away from the upperworld your welcome here.

Two wide doors banged open, the handles probably scoring light marks in the door. “If I were the sort of man you must be,” Felix said quietly as he entered reading the nameplate on the High Inquisitor’s desk, “at this point in time I would have removed any hints of your position before your predecessor walks in from the dead.” Gone was the old mahogany desk with its lion head’s legs and walls covered in ancient works on theology and science. Now it hosted a few machines ticking and purring and a press wood desk on which a ledger was sitting. A bland faced man sat behind it pen in hand scrutinizing Felix’s face. His office was of course entirely sound proof, the door closed with a little shudder heralding a very personal hell for those within.

“Felix, I sent some men to help…” The replacement High Inquisitor stood and tried to shield himself behind his clipboard and an upheld pen. “It was not my fault they came after you.”

Albemier walked casually forward drawing his knife, “I have not returned here for the benefit of myself, or under the influence of those upstairs. Revenge and retribution are not the adages to my character, which I pride myself, and in that spirit I shall not take action against you Thomas. It is Thomas yes?” The man nodded relieved, but also weary of the still drawn knife.

“Well I’m honestly relieved, you frightened my there. How are you?” Thomas Jerrison spoke slowly and carefully not wishing to allow his former superior a change in heart.

“You misunderstand me sir,” out of the robe Felix drew his compact pistol bow. “In my travels and meditations I have learned a great deal, my horizons have been expanded as they say. The complexities of civil and religious justice should not be decided in the dark, beneath the senses, and sight of a great and noble people. Fallacy is the greatest sin, to lie is to lead the world into weakness. As High Inquisitor I demanded unseeing and complete obedience. I do not seek revenge on you Thomas; I do however desire retribution on the office. Ideals and humanity perhaps do not mix all to well. I am sorry Thomas I truly am.” A steely blue dart lacerated the jugular of Jerrison, spinning him around and collapsing him against a fiberglass window, which thumped dully as the man’s bulk hit the pane.

From his body Felix plucked a three-pronged key, much different from the huge iron affair he used to carry around. Under the desk a small button was pressed, a mechanic whirr began someway off; the generator was online and producing. It was as it had always been, tradition, at least some traditions were hard to kick. With massive and all encompassing strides Felix took to the door the door; bashing it open and waggling the key at the guard, “I’ve got a little initiation to perform, it’s seems my skills are in some doubt?” They both shared a small laugh, and the guard followed to the control room, a small bunker under the Office spliced with the electric appliances of modern law enforcement.

Doors, hermitically sealed, slid open on a palm scan given by Felix’s companion. This was however the termination of his services, as Felix slit his chest open with a backhanded slash. Albemier slid behind the doors as they slid shut, already scanning the room for the three pronged slot, the grand gate control. Each section had it’s own gate key, about two hundred and fifty in each block, given to a lower ranked Inquisitor that could open a specific or all gates in his section. From inside he could open all gates, or just one, releasing his army. With an electronic thrum and clicking the key was accepted and the computer began uploading the block names and offenses. Thousands of entries scrolled across the page, all of them hidden away from the world’s eyes. With the ease of practice, Felix opened the correct programs, his mouse hovering over the release button.

“And the truth shall make you free,,” the words again boomed out over cells, as claxons nearly drowned out even Felix’s magnified voice, and inside the box the former High Inquisitor allowed himself a faint smile.. He flipped off the microphone and pressed the button, which was followed by thousands of clanking doors being pulled back. Usually if this were to happen anyone in the room could activate the internal security systems, a haze of phosphorus would sprinkle down burning everything on the cavern floor. Usually the amount of men on duty could keep down any rebellion in the Pits, but with the reign of terror of Albemier above more were needed on the streets. Usually no one could find his or her way in, and any Waldenburger that did, would not disobey the Church. Albemier though did so with a permanent, fixed, faint smile, the prisoners, no matter how badly outgunned could find weapons, lots and lots of weapons. The premise of the Inquisitions existence was in the collection and utilization of such weapons. It was a wonderful thought, why had the Church, an organization meant for the ruling of souls had been given the security duties of half the country. Protocols for nuclear attack were to pray, assassins to excommunicate. Before a very short time ago Waldenburg had never been heard by even the smallest fraction of the world, its defenses mirrored that excellently.

A thumping from the glass paneled door brought him back from joyous revelry three men, unhooded, were banging on the walls giving the universal “what the hell” look. Each of them held a small devilish pistol, the privately designed automatic .22, a rioters nightmare. Usually not enough to kill but if aimed properly could inflict so much pain that the heart would stop anyway. Felix returned it and waved for them to come through, showing both his hands as empty.

“What the hell is happening everyone’s getting armed? We’ve lost contact with three sectors?” The leader, small with black hair marched up to Felix pausing when he saw who he was. “Your Grace,” he came to approximate attention “what happened?"

“The occurrences that lead up to this point are somewhat beyond me seeing as my absence from employment. I could not accurately relay the course of events, I entered as the claxons began.” Again this seemed to pass muster. Inquisitors believing Felix a hero could not hear a word against him, and so hardly even listened to what he was saying, but simply the tone of voice in which it was said.

“Yeah but weren’t you with the commander just..” With snake like speed the MP-5 was out of Felix’s baggy sleeve, spraying the room with lead and dropping all three after a slight interval. He threw the gun away, not used to grabbing additional ammo, he had forgotten to do so, and it would be useless now. Instead he liberated two of the pistols and tucked them neatly into his many-pocketed robe. The sounds of battle did not filter through, shrieks of the dying and burst of machine gun fire failed to filter through the high glass windows. Still Felix would find somewhere to watch, he couldn’t fight his way up alone and there were few exits.

A high vaulted room, commonly called the Music Room where the seven-foot tall hooded killers took ballroom dancing lessons over vistas of excruciating torture, offered an excellent vantage of the battle below. Little bursts of automatic fire could be seen from here and thousands of sparkles in the dark were the glint of revolution. In a few minutes the Divine Legion would probably storm the area, but a fleeing hood would gather little attention in comparison to the mutilated faces of rebellion below. Even then the battle would be unclear. A little time and Felix could have another try at the Cenobiarch.

The Imperial Review, crashing cymbals and the pizzicato strikes of the xylophone roared around the stadium. Thousands of boots smashing in beat to the Empire’s song. A once green field was muddy with a light drizzle that had been rammed into the ground by the emphatic cadence of an army on parade. Banners rippled in a light breeze, the Divine Legion was on parade and its pomposity would not be spoiled by even rain.

A crowd of specifically chosen fans roared themselves into frenzy as every new regiment took the field. So far the hunt on Albemeir had turned up scare clues and more distressingly nearly one million witnesses so far, though the deluge abated when two men had been nailed upside down to the Prophet’s gate. The message had been clear enough.

In a corrective measure the Divine Legion put on a massive show of military strength, slaughtering nearly three thousand civilians on a random rampage through the city, and now parading about for the Emperor and his staff. His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg IV sat demurely in the Imperial pavilion, gilded in silver and draped with the Imperial banner. Beside him in a trundle bed, the blankets permeated with condensation the Cenobiarch snored away, his leg had taken badly to the penicillin and his fever had only gone up.

“Hrmph..” Thousis woke with a start; a salute of cannon fire had roused him from his siesta. “Have I missed the cavalry?”

“No,” the Emperor sighed patting the head of Government and his supposedly power grubbing, red robe wearing, machinating enemy absentmindedly on the hand, “I think that was the ‘His Imminence’s 105th Heavy Rifles’, we’ve got an hour or two left. How are you?”

“Frankly a bit surprised. Any member of your family fifty years ago would have cut my throat, crowd or not.” The Cenobiarch pulled himself up and peered over the box, some sort of armored regiment. “We have come along way.”

“Honestly I was tempted, anything to get out of here, I think my legs have fallen asleep.”

“Oh you poor man.” Both men stifled a chuckle and held their face in a noble and commanding expression. Despite a nearly scripted public dislike they often could not help but enjoy the other’s company. When tradition demanded they bellow at one another from opposite a desk or pulpit they usually sat down and had a quiet chat, occasionally ending in a game of chess or a walk through the gardens. For centuries the two figures had to be at each other’s throats to prevent their own from being slit, these new methods of government seemed an age of halcyon in comparison to the blood reigns of the earlier tyrants.

“Is this really going to have any effect on Albemier or his comrades?” The Cenobiarch asked lazily as he attempted to brush some water off his blankets.

“Well it scares the hell out of me.” The two men sat for a gloomy moment, the answer of course hung above their heads in shiny letters, and hung on their every doubtful word.

“At least it gets people off the street. I’ve had the Divine Marshall reminded about such displays of public vengeance by the way, I hope that was not overstepping the boundaries of any unwritten social rule.”

“No,” a veined hand went up and waved the cardinal’s admissions away, “the boy needs the direction. His mother and I try everything, we bought him that battleship, but he just keeps at it.”

“Are you taking any of this seriously?”

“It does not matter how I take it, it’s serious either way, so not really no.”

“Surely, you have a little more respect for me than that?”

“Of course I don’t, and don’t call me Shirley.”

The Cenobiarch smiled and cooked his head slightly towards his friend for the first time in their conversation, ”How long have you been waiting for that one?”

“Since slightly before the Second World War, or possibly the Fourth Grey War, I can’t recall.”

“You are going to hell your majesty, and that is a promise.”

“It’ll be just like old times then. I'll be able toosee the whole family again, especially Patricia, we always wanted to ask what happened there.”

An aroma of armor polish announced the presence of a Logistical Member of the Divine Legion, carrying a sheet of paper and looking terrified. He could be executed and sent to hell for a faux pax in the present company, which always puts a spring in the step. In light of this he gave off a salute that seemed to pull him slightly off the ground in his eagerness to please. The two older men shared a smile and the Cenobiarch accepted a proffered piece of paper, perusing it with a stoic manner. “It seems your majesty shall have more company than just your dear great aunt, they’ve found Felix.”

--

It had taken nearly twenty minutes, for the bloody slaughter of the inquisition guards. The battle had been a slaughter, at half their strength and without override codes from the High Inquisitors key, no internal security could be raised, and the Inquisitors were no match for half crazed rioters, armed with knives and revenge. Only the Grand Office remained, its large, imperious banners being ripped down, and a mob hammering at the doors. Wounded inquisitors held them firm firing when they could out of any orifice on the building. However sheer weight and manpower would open the doors it time, and the fact shown on everyone’s face.

Felix had believed the Inquisitors would run, scamper up the stairs, and he would join them when the fleeing started. This was not the case, as several prisoners had already taken that way up, and were probably storming the lower levels already. Flashes of light still indicated a running battle below, the Pits it seemed were in rebel hands. With an indecisive manner he walked to the bodies outside the control room, it seemed by several dents in the door that more had attempted entrance but had been denied, carefully, using the hood of one of his victims he dabbed a cross in blood across his chest.

Now moving with the skill of the killer, Felix glided through the hallways, most of them were empty, a few wounded paid him no mind and the rest were at the windows or doorways. Padding to the grand atrium, the low granite ceiling reflecting an unpleasant glimmer into the eyes of feverishly praying Inquisitors, Felix pondered them. They were armed to an extent mostly assault rifles and swords. The mob outside was massive, and flowed back into the darkness in huge waves; most of them were missing limbs, fingers, or as was the Waldenburger specialty, the face. It was an old method in which the, skin was peeled off layer by layer, and the usually salt came into the process somewhere. Most of them held knives or chains but they screamed so hauntingly that most of the Inquisitors were shaking, their robes jittery along sweaty bodies.

Felix considered a witty condemnation before their death but decided against it. With tiger like speed he exploded off the stairs killing four Inquisitors with sweeps of his rapier. The doors, whose locks were constructed along the lines of this sort of thing being impossible, were giving way. Felix did not take time to consider this and cut down another two Inquisitors who had reluctantly raised their rifles. With his left hand he removed from his belt the automatic pistol, spraying down one side of the hall with the tiny bullets. One assault rifle was trained on him, and fired ineffectively; the High Inquisitor never stayed stationary and had back flipped towards the unwounded section hacking about with his rapier. Sabers were brought up to parry him, but the Inquisition school had been very old guard, not considering weapon with both a pointed tip and blade in the hands of a skilled opponent ever to be a threat. Within another thirty seconds of battle the entire guard were either dead or wounded, most of them writhing on the ground.

“And the truth shall make you free!” Felix flipped off the internal microphone, from which he had uttered his hopeful and true alibi to the mob outside. Undoing several of the more archaic locks Felix jumped back allowing the mob some elbow room on the lines of hacking at everything, prepared himself for them. As the doors burst in he offered a rakish bow, his bloody rapier and pile of bodies said everything that needed to be said. The mob hallway through blood curdling scream paused shaking its chains at half their enemy’s dead.

“There are more upstairs,” Felix barked changing his voice to a more clipped tone. “Once you are done with them we must go higher, take the Cenobiarch, and the Canoarch, the High cardinal and the Palatius all of them will burn for what they have done. Work quickly, for though we shall die tonight, we have been dying for the last decade. Do what must be done. Let us die knowing that we have done some good.” There was no cheer, there was no great call, and there was just a general movement in different directions. With angel like grace, about a hundred or so prisoners moved into the Office fanning out and arming. The other thousands, a black swath waiting on the steps and in the darkness below, moved at a motion from an approximate leader. They picked up speed gathering people and weapons from the floor and breaking around the doors to the upperworld.

Within minutes the first wave was in the lower levels breaking the minor resistance offered by half senile nuns and shut in cooks. Felix however walked patiently upwards following the trail of bodies and screams, as the Divine Legion poured down he would go up. The main level was the furthest the passage went, and from there it would be a stroll to the Cenobiarch’s tower.

It was in fact a prolonged jog, which took nearly six minutes, twelve false turns, two nuns and several bullets, until Felix finally panted up the last flight of stairs, and as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he found he was not to the Cenobiarch’s tower but rather in the grand convocation hall, the massive pillared entrance to the even greater knave of St. Michael’s cathedral. Prisoners seemed to have colonized even this part of the building and were moving quickly through the whole cathedral. Screams and gunfire could still be heard from below, but they were growing less intense and much further apart, although every decibel must have terrified the senior clergy above.

Felix trotted through the great room, occasionally nodding to prisoners, who seemed, after everything, their flesh, freedom, and thought had been taken away their memory remained. Strangely though they did not smash or break the relics scattered about the place, did not tear down the ornate statues or smash the alter, and as Felix passed the open doors of the great knave he saw at least three dozen of the prisoners kneeling in prayer. It was an oddity of the nation, but it was perhaps best not to ask, always better not to ask.

With a slight sigh at the prospect of more stairs, Felix mounted the great spiraling staircase that would lead to the Church’s solarium, where formality was somewhat in question and the view of the country took the breath away. The stairs were broad and well lit in a flickering electric bulb sort of way, which seemed to flicker on in off in a rhythmic fashion that might suggest thousands of soldiers pouring towards the basilica, or poor infrastructure, but the mind had a way to wrong off with the idea. With a slight lump gathering in his throat Felix reached the top of the stairs and looked at the very large carved wooden door, it looked above all things, strong and immovable, but with the slightest brush they flew open unto the solarium of the Cenobiarch, which was, as expected not empty.

“Felix, I know you have heard this recently, but we have been expecting you.” The room was dark, no internal lights were on although a small fire died in an ornate fireplace across the room and searchlights from below, apparently a curfew had been ordered, occasionally illuminated the room in a ghostly and none to pleasing manner. The moon also added it’s gentle touch, it was another oddity in the country usually the smog blocked out most of it’s light but up here, it was full and large, like Felix had never seen. Some of the windows were open and a warm breeze occasionally whispered through the fine stained glass; the sounds of far off cavalry divisions and marching boots also gave the room a slightly militarized feel.

A figure unfolded itself gracefully from a chair and with hands at sides dipped a low courtesy, “It is an honor.” The man was tall and not overly dressed, and his robes did not drag along the floor in a two-meter swath like some of the more zealous bishops. “Please take a seat,” he motioned towards a high backed, red embroidered chair near the window, one identical to seven others in the room. And as Felix’s eyes adjusted again, were all occupied by smiling figures, who looked entirely too genial and welcoming. “Could I perhaps interest you in cognac, vintage?”

“I would prefer answers.”

The man sighed and returned to his seat, “Then why did you come to a church?”

Act III Scene V


Content Piece: Moonlight Sonata (http://doctorjoe.net/classical/Moonlight%20Sonata.mp3)

The circle of chairs was silent for a moment as somewhere outside a screamed by and the resulting explosion rattled the windowpanes. “They go to so much trouble for you, it’s not as if you were even within a kilometer radius of that last one, but I suppose it keeps them from anything dangerous.” The robed man returned to his seat, and with a friendly smile waved to the open chair, “please do, this isn’t a trial.”

Deliberately Felix sat down in the chair, and very openly he rested his rapier across his knees, his fingers occasionally would brush the hilt absent-mindedly but his eyes never left the seated men. “You knew I would come here, how?”

There was a general amiable puttering from the darkened circle before one chair spoke up, “You aren’t so ghost like. You have really been talking with the wrong people, the prince, the church, and who knows you may still have some heat stroke?” Another chuckle came from the chairs.

“How do you know about these things?”

“We are the Church it is our job to know.”

“So understanding what answer may come, let me make that clear, what are you doing?”

“Ah yes, how quickly we have our minds wander, if you ask me senility should make those horsemen a quintet, God knows I fear age more than starvation, in this day and age. I am, well, we will not use names tonight, so call me, I have always had a taste for the Macabre, so call Despair.” Despair arched his eyebrows playfully and made a small slashing motion in the air. “I do apologize, I perhaps ruin the solemnity of the moment, I can however not control myself, one sip of sherry and I’m usually out like a light.”

“You are,” Felix motioned to the others behind Despair, “unlike any senior clergy I have ever seen before.”

“What makes you think we are senior clergy?”

“A number of reasons, most notably you are in the Cenobiarch’s private solarium, secondly you are all wearing robes, and rings, and that man in the back has his fingers tented. I beg you pardon, as well, but I grow exceptionally tired of this.”

“…Well spotted I suppose. Yes we are indeed senior clergy, not so high, not as high as you would imagine probably, but over the years we have had some sway some great sway indeed. Like those gentlemen in the desert,” Despair held up hand to silence Felix, “we belong to a group extending deep into annals of time to the point it no longer matters how old we are. If you look back however far we were there, although we were perhaps not always so genial or as forward. Over the last century we have made ourselves known to the Cenobiarch at least, and a few chosen others, only a handful in the country, or the planet know of our work. And a good thing to for we have always been a somewhat touchy subject. We are in fact the department of Experimental Theology.”

“I have never heard of that.”

“Success!” Despair threw up his hands, showering those behind him with the dregs of his glass. “I had hoped that was the case, as it was our intended goal to hide our general information from the public. However we have always acted in the defense of the Church, we have unfortunately, been forced to keep our actions secret due to it’s associated vulgarities.”

“You do not know how many people have told me that in the last month.”

“Thirty three if you count all those in the desert, the Prince, Mr. Remsiddle, and his assistant who listens to all of his calls.” Despair folded his hands gently in his lap, and almost kept the smirk off his face. “We are in fact one in the same.”

“Why, aren’t you servants of the Cenobiarch?”

“Have you ever wondered, or thought about the nature of belief? Have you ever delved for a deeper meaning to the mundane articulation of ‘truth’? The winner of the war ultimately pens the truth, and as infallibility is a tough habit to kick, and we do not intend to do so. Look at belief for a moment and see, do not just open your eyes but gaze with your heart. What on this sphere of a 35,000 mile diameter, nitrogen rich, twenty three degree spinning world that orbits around a stationary star would convince you to believe in what you cannot see, and what cannot not effect you?

It is a fickle matter, to open the soul I mean, and once you are inside and see what devotion and faith can be bred in a man, you need no other weapon. That is what we have always done, and will never stop doing, not until the soul feel’s it real worth. I protect men from themselves Felix What would they believe if they had no God, what would they take it upon themselves to do? A great majority of humanity should not be trusted with life, and yet they go on living. And before the soul of man flowers we must keep it in fear of tomorrow, so it blooms grow internally and make the fear ever sweeter. You do not understand, you cannot understand, even I do not understand, but every morning as I gaze out of this window unto the world I see my work. Do you know what it is like to be surrounded by miracles everyday of your life, one feels truly blessed to be alive and in conference with the music and harmonies of the spheres, of which there will never be an equal. Every crime I see, and ever little twinge of guilt brings we closer to rapture, every petty sin I give life to, makes the passion of the cross burn ever fiercer.

There are men, good men, perfectly willing to give their life to what they will never see, and by definition not understand, and there are those who must perform the more terrible and arcane matters that shape and give meaning to our life. What is a fish without the sea, what is a bird without the air, the hammer without the nail, the heavens without the stars, all those things are man without the guiding light of a soul. That is why with every breath I take I endeavor to bring fear to the world, so that we may turn together, so those with fear may have their anguish burned away by a brighter awakening. There was a time when all men looked to the Church for guidance, when all their hearts worked for the betterment of one goal, all their efforts and labors were placed hopefully forward in the hope of salvation. We were once one nation, we once all sang as one people, and for at least that night we were content. Man cannot be trusted, man cannot be good, but man can be happy.”

The monologue had continued for sometime, and though riveting, Felix could not keep his attention away from the window where he could plainly see armored cars moving up the street and full infantry divisions plodding along behind them. Like water down the streets they poured banners and finery dulled by the hour, and the speed at which they moved, which for such large a unit was incredibly quickly.

“Felix, there is no God. God is dead,” Despair, said it quite calmly his little gloves folded neatly in his lap and a sad little smile of his face.

“What?” Felix stood the rapier slicing through the air and being brought to bear two inches from the Bishop’s face, “You will not sir, you go further than the rest of your ilk, you deny that which gives you power over little people, and places you here,” he flung open his hands indicating the tower. “Do not condemn the Divine, for in the end he shall have his day, and you shall have yours.”

“Why Felix? Is walking on water so difficult when walking on ice is only a few degrees away? Is not five, so closely related to 5,000 that an act of miracle would be just an act of charity? Oh no, believe not in Gods Felix, believe in men, for in our minds lie more power than omnipotency can achieve no dare think of. In our minds we are prepared to create such things as entities that watch over us from the cradle to the grave and give us points afterwards, that is human invention, that is the pinnacle of our glory! And when all our halls our silent, the idea will still remain, that our path was set before us and now we face our deserved ends. We did it for the best; to spare humanity from it’s self. With such power at its hands theocracy is the least of humanities worries.

God provides, he provides, meaning, hope, fear, unconditional love, a firm hand and the Dominion of Souls. What is the question of reality, when everyday you see his miracles being worked by everyone? I, my subordinates, have made every man woman and child divine, every rock and tree under the sun rings with holy zeal, and reflects back to sky the power which makes us one nation, one united people against the world.”

“You condemn God, and are willing to speak of miracles, how many times have I heard this, and always it ended in blood.”

“Is it not worth it? Whatever religion had done, it has compelled a thousand generations to act decently towards one another, and is that so horrible in comparison to what man may dream of? What is a little blood, our savior gave us his, to forever remind those below that it was about blood, about all labors and the last breath of the body should be devoted solely to the betterment man. Can you give your blood, should it come to it, would you give your blood to embolden an idea, or give strength to your brother? As I look at the conviction in your eyes and the glint of your soul, I see that you would, in a second. We made you Felix, do not mistake us. God create man and earth and all the wonders there upon, but it with us, the tool of his desire that man was forged, and it is said the bible was perhaps a bit more metaphorical than some would like. For the longest time we have shaped events, doctored letters, books, scriptures,” the man paused and sank back in his chair apparently drained.

“It did not take much,” the Bishop continued wearily, “In Waldenburger Latin, water and wine are only one letter apart. Blood and water are not all the different either, and when it came to it, blood was easier to lay hands on. For a millennium we have had the right man killed at the right moment for the right reasons. It became easy after awhile and we could console ourselves later that it was for the greater good, and it always was you know, always someone must die for the greater good. And then the years flew by, and every so often we would shake the world, shake the world to make people hand on ever more tightly.

Take your dear Prince Felix, his father was a great man, called the convivial monarch by most, saw the problems of the people and changed the world so the problems would become opportunity. His son was not like that he was a fool. So we mussed our hands a bit more, and had the dear Emperor killed, by the Divine Legion, putting Felix luckily on a shaking throne, and with his own assassination attempt later that week, it was forgone conclusion that the world should again know fear. And fear there was, but in the beginning we were lauded as heroes, and every battle we fought was a personal triumph for God, where eventually so many laurels wove about our head, that the end was inevitable. I can claim no hand in that, for it was simple probability and superior tactics that eventually won the enemy their day. And we were occupied by the foreign despoiler, and it only takes a study of people in general to see that nationalism comes at the oddest times.

“But you read the Book! You’ve seen the truth!” Felix finally screamed, waving his sword in the air and slicing off a swath of the curtains. Despair raised an eyebrow and turned his head quizzically to a man sitting behind him who whispered quickly into his ear and passed a small book forward.

“You mean,” Despair asked heavily, “the diary of Wyatt von Waldenburg, statesmen prophet, hero, and saint?”

“Yes, you have read it, I can see it there. I can see the power of it reflecting in your eyes, did you not heed it’s message?”

“It was a diary Felix, it spoke of the man’s journey across the burning northern dessert, inspirational yes of course, but certainly not the vessel of all power, it gave us dear insights of the workings of the mind of course, and was the basis of this Council but the ideas have been embellished to the point where they have become unnecessary.”

“The truth will never be unnecessary, it will always have its day, along with God, the God whom you so fervently disavow.”


“Do not mistake me, there may be an all powerful being upon an Opal Throne somewhere in the heavens, it is a big galaxy, and such possibilities are all within the bounds of the miracle of life, but as of yet we are safe from rapture. As of yet we have felt no pressure from the Divine to stop creating an Empire is his name. There is a throne apart Felix, apart from the Cenobiarch’s wooden chair, apart from the Imperial Throne, and it is ours, we are it’s regents and the entity that sits on it greater than all of us one we shall never comprehend no matter the inspiration. I say this not to impress you but to ask you the greatest question, the question that has so far spared you from the Divine Legion.” Despair stood the robes billowing around him and his voice losing even more of its power, now Felix could see him he was quite a young man, though like himself, the years seemed to hang heavily on the small frame.

“Felix, will you join us, for the greater good? You will learn the truth, you will see strength and with you, we shall become unstoppable. It is not an easy question but you struggled with for years, under the hood, what is right and what is wrong, in the end of the day however it is choice Felix that shall decide, it has always been a choice. How ill you choose, will you unite the world, of die in this room Felix?” The last phrase hung on the air as the room tensed, waiting for the answer. The fire gave a loud pop as a log shifted, and the light grew temporarily stronger. Felix’s sword arm shot out the rapier whistling through the air, and with mechanical precision stabbed through the whole stair scattering stuffing about the floor.

“I’m sorry Felix,” Despair’s hand was on his shoulder, as the man calmly walked towards him from the fireplace, about two meters from where Felix had tried to stab him,” that was the wrong answer. Go with God dear friend.” The hand was retracted and the figure slid back into the shadows and seemed to vanish along with the chairs, although if the high Inquisitor squinted he could make out the fold of a robe here, or the dome of head, but every time he tried to walk towards it, the hint would disappear and be replaced by more darkness.

“Damn you!” Felix screamed waving his sword around in the darkness.

“We have been, for such a long time.” The answer was hardly a whisper and gave no indication of direction. The scream had however given Felix’s position away and as he continued to slash at the drapery, he began to hear boots upon the stairs and military grunts as the inevitable Divine Legion squad poured up the stairs. As Felix began to listen he could hear gunfire from downstairs, which strangely sounded as if it was a two-sided battle instead of the slaughter the Divine Legion had probably been expecting. The door burst open, quite literally, the Divine Legion were taking no risks and woods shards peppered the room ripping apart the still intact chairs, and sending massive three inch long slivers flying past Felix’s head and putting them an inch into the soft marble of the fireplace.

“Oh yes, oh yes gentlemen, a sweet evening to you. “ Felix’s rapier swung by his hips and rose slowly as he fast walked across the room. His face had turned to a hawkish anger, and his lips had curled up, and a very few of the Divine Legion, there were about a dozen, recalled the strange things Felix could do with a door hinge.

“Take him alive!” The soldiers did not rush forward but some of them reached for their swords, and the rest checked their bayonets were on firmly, “Get him!” The striding High Inquisitor walked ever closer his eyes riveting the men to the spot, and with more flourish than necessary Felix raised his sword.

“And as we say In the Inquisition…Good bye.” The sword swung to the right and shattered a stained glass window of St. Ceno, with the point of the blade. Even more unexpectedly the high inquisitor smiled, and somersaulted himself out of the window, robes billowing out behind him as he plunged done, word arm first. As he plummeted past a Imperial Guship spiraled upwards the rotating blades only missing him by feet, and the Imperial eagle blazed on the sides leering at him as he continued down It was some twenty stories to the ground, and Felix had very little time to angle himself back towards the bulk of the basilica, and more importantly to one of the massive, arched flying buttresses that adorned the nave of the building. Taking the hem of his robe he extended it as far from his body, took aim and closed his eyes.

With a sickening thump and a lance of pain in his leg, Felix opened his eyes to see that his had been slightly to the left, and the spire of the flying buttress had removed a small portion of his shin including a chunk of bone that would shortly be raining down on the gardens below. But more importantly his robe had caught in several decorative spires of the buttress and he hung suspended from them for a moment before the impracticality of hanging from a piece of cloth hit him, and he scrambled upright, panting on a small ledge halfway down the buttress, and precariously placed on the wall. Through a window placed below him he could see surging figures and gunfire flashing in the nave of the cathedral.

Not wasting any time, Felix started to heaved himself down. Progress was slow, as his leg throbbed rather sharply if it was moved quickly and, the ornamental spikes did not for quite some distance, luckily the Divine Legion were not shooting although he could see a few dozen waiting with drawn swords about thirty meters below.

“Come on Felix,” a voice rang up from below,” give it up, we have thirty armed men down here and several tanks hiding somewhere, you don’t stand a chance and, if you go up I’ll just call in a gunship. Just drop your weapon and come peacefully, you’ve already caused enough trouble.” The ground was rapidly coming into detail, Felix, despite his leg, was making excellent time and the faces on the ground were becoming clear as people. “Oh come on! We could just shoot you, you know! Give up!” Still Felix lowered himself, resolutely not saying a word, until he was about six feet from the ground where he lightly slide down the remaining distance and looked into the eyes of Prince Andre von Waldenburg, who sat rather tiredly upon a horse, and as was custom wore a massive cavalry cloak and a feathered helmet. Above all things he looked tired and the saber he held noticeably drooped. “How about it will so come with us?”

Felix’s own sword came up, weaving slightly, “No.”

“Please?”

“No”

“Oh very well Felix, forward the legion, take him alive.” Andre von Waldenburg flipped his saber down and began to trot his horse around his men, who were advancing carefully some of them wielding sabers, bayonets, batons or tazers, all of which seemed to have been heavily used. They did not advance as if they were attacking a single man but as if they were attempting to flank a massive and dangerous enemy force, and kept throwing glances back to their commander. Felix on the other hand wove on the spot and his weapon hung in the air, he was bleeding profusely, but the situation put them off the situation.

The first Legionaries stepped up the little hillock around the building on which was standing and lunged forward with their weapons, each one whistling through the air in the belief that they would meet little resistance. Felix’s rapier seemed to act of it’s own accord as it spun up, and twirled a rifle from one man’s hands and opened a thin line of blood on his neck. The others were similarly blocked and in a bloody hail the rapier twisted from one man to the other, flinging away weapons and inflicting tiny but precise wounds on each of his attackers that slowly left them bleeding on the ground.

“You’d think to kill me,” Felix began to walk forward slowly still weaving subconscious patterns in the air, his rapier throwing down men on either side of him. His eyes were faint and slightly tearing, even though he was smiling, and most disconcertingly striding casually towards the Divine Marshall who was becoming more and more startled at the inability of the Hammer of Heresy, the Arbiter of Sin’s inability to kill one old man. “I for one have had it up to here,” the rapier cleanly severed a Divine Legionaries’ from his body leaving the torso to crumple down in an every growing pile. “Is it worth it your highness, is the last sigh of a desperate world worth it? It is said that, you can take away everything from a man, his land, his wealth, his love, but you cannot take the sky. Your highness does not need to, for the sky is already his to define. Liberty, equality and fraternity, are all excellent things but in time blow away, for me and all men, and at heart we are angry men very angry men!” Two more men died is a lightning flick, and suddenly there were no more between the prince and his inquisitor.

“Felix!” From the fold of a cavalry cloak the prince drew a Luger pistol and aimed it at Felix who laughed slightly and continued to advance. “Don’t come a step closer, I am a crack shot.”

“I have no doubt you are, but the bullet will not make it home, the game will not end. I am as much a pawn as you. Although perhaps pawn is too elegant and misleading a word for the situation. For it was never a two-sided match, never an even competition against good and evil, but like the true master’s games always one sided. The true masters do not fight an opponent; they surrender to the opponent and allow him to play himself. We, your highness, are not pawns we’re set cards in a complicated and infinite game of solitaire.” As Felix stepped within two meters of the horse, the Prince began to shoot, accurately too, perfectly snapping off shot after shot.

Felix turned around nonplussed and found the double doors of the cathedral opening in front of a hoard of half faced prisoners, some still clattering with shackles and manacles. The Prince was picking of the leaders with deadly efficiency and dropping them at one hundred yards with shots right through the temple that flung their corpses back into the crowd.

Taking advantage of the moment, Felix flipped himself into a shrubbery where he huddled for some time. The fighting raged around the front doors for some time as new divisions were brought in, and Felix even heard some artillery shells whistle into the Basilica’s grounds. After ten minutes or so in the bushes Felix stood up and risked a dash from his hiding place to an ornamental trout pond that had received some damage, and where an amiable, old cook was hiding along with two children, an inquisitor who nodded cordially to Felix as he slipped down into the ankle deep water.

“Good morning sir.” The Inquisitor grabbed the brim of his hood respectfully and made a furtive glance over the side of the ponds. “We were just about to make a run for it over to that pavilion over there, then slip out through the nunnery of St. Geraldine. You in sir, it hasn’t taken much structural damage yet, and I haven’t seen a flaming nun run past for nearly an hour, the danger has died down we think. You up for it sir?”

“Yes” Felix said slowly, “I have to be some where very soon, in fact. Can’t keep important people waiting. On three?”

With a thundering the double door banged open fragile and priceless wood splintering on contact with the marble walls. The room had changed surprisingly little, except for the centerpiece, which had acquired a sprig of holly, and a red and white stocking cap. Like his table the Prince Felix sat demurely reading a paper over a steaming bowl of soup, his back nearly hunching him into the bowl, and as always he sat not at the head of the table, but in the chair he must have sat in for nearly a century.

“Good morning Inquisitor. Happy Christmas, have a peppermint, they clear the sinuses excellently.” With a wrinkled hand the newspaper was folded, and out of the corner of his eye the high inquisitor noticed the date, 1967, and in a second could understand how the prince lived his life.

“You lied to me,” the inquisitor said as he sat and pulled a, “you said those men in the dessert were evil, and killed only for the fun of it. It seems they are our brothers the world over.”

The Prince snorted and put his spoon down, motioning behind him for one of his waiters to help him up. “Lie, such a demonstrative word, so elegant and yet straightforward to the point of overuse. I did not lie Felix, I did a great many things but I did not lie. Walk with me please I have something to show you. Anton?”

“Sah?” the butler asked raspily.

“See that a footbath is set out in the guest suite, Felix will no doubt be tired from his journey .I do wish you a happy Christmas whatever the circumstances, I feel so blessed to be alive, especially now. The sun never sets on me.” He laughed as his waiter slowly toddled off his, back only slightly less crocked than his masters’.

“Then what did you do your highness, what did you, and your bishops, and your old men do?”

“They are not mine, believe me in that, I hate them with a passion, but what we have always done, over our millennia is present the truth in a different way. The truth may be that God does not exist, but the idea of God certainly does, and that in itself is the truth. The real truth, the Vere Veritas."

Act III Scene VI

Content Piece: Agnus Dei (http://heim.ifi.uio.no/~bryhni/vak/mozart98_mp3/12_Agnus_Dei.mp3)

Pillared halls, which Felix had never seen loomed out of the inescapable darkness of the halls, and for the first time it was impressed on him just how large the prince’s dominion was. It must have stretched for miles under the mountain; domains filled with old men, old men who from their marbled halls ruled the world. And what halls, they were no dingy, dark halls mired in ancient dust but well lit, at least at ground level, and flowing upwards into the infinitely high roof of the sky.

“It took them ages to carve this, they still are in some of the more far flung hallways. At least my kingdom is always expanding, inch by inch.” The Prince’s back had straightened, or at least did whenever he would pass one of the innumerable tail coated waiters that flitted from alcove to alcove about their arcane duties, known to only a select handful.

“Don’t change the subject.” Felix shot back angrily as he strutted beside his namesake, and tired to convey the fact he was furious to all the passing servile shadows. “You spoke of the truth, the real truth. What have you done?”

“I? I am a hermit. I have about as much sway as a rather lethargic and asthmatic parish priest; it was not a clandestine group of killers that has so shifted the country. Men with such romanticism left in them are usually killed when they attempt to pull their rapiers on men with guns,” the prince gave Felix a sharp look and turned back to walking, which lead him after a reflective silence to a small set of double doors, that unlike the rest of the halls looked old and perfectly in place. They however opened into an enormous room that would have put the nave of St. Michael’s to shame in its simplicity. Unlike the austere halls of the cathedral there was no great alter, or scattering of pews, but simple carved stone walls that extended upwards into the black sky. A massive mosaic on the floor portrayed something, although it was far to dark to make it out and the scale made it impossible to tell what it was intended to be. “This I’m afraid was here before I came, back in the early days there was a heretical group here that spent a good deal of time holed up in the mountains, and spent a great deal of time carving this from a natural cave.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“In the large metaphorical sense or, in the to this room way?”

“Why this room, there is nowhere to sit, and it rather drains…” The high inquisitor stopped as he words were sucked into the cave and strangely no echo came back.

“There at least I can help,” the prince clapped his hands twice in a rather arthritic way, and after a moment two chairs were pushed forward by white gloved hands. As quickly as they had arrived they slid back into the shadows, and without a sound became part of the background for even Felix’s keen eyes. “Please sit,” the prince took one of the chairs, both part of a matching set, red plush and tall, made of dark wood that suggested power in the way no underground cave could suggest.

Both men stared at each other for a moment and slowly from elsewhere they heard a generator purr to life and weak electric bulbs on the wall lit the room to the bare minimum of comfortable light.

“Where shall I begin?”

“The war, how did you lose? How was that beneficial for Christendom?”

“Ah, do you have to sprinkle sand in old wounds? But no, I was not thinking of Christendom in the long run, nor as my father would have said was thinking at all. There is a great amount of things I do not understand of those days, I was so young, which is rather ironic, as I have spent over half my life an old man. A young, stupid boy, to and old, sentimental man and the only thing that has changed is the amount of sunlight I get,” the prince broke down into a long string of coughs that hacked on for sometime. “As the war began, it was a straightforward affair, the objective was to win, glory and land for the Empire, and at first it seemed as if we could not lose. I remember those brilliant nights in Blünderburg, the parties we had, and the parades as victorious regiment after victorious regiment paraded down the Grand Avenue, their boots crushing those precious magnolia.

Every battle was a victory and there was nothing that could stop our, our enemies could not break us but then it seemed as if God himself lanced our destiny of conquest. In the fervor of victory, it seemed right to unite crown and miter into one body, and I received a great mount of support for the move from those within the church, military, and civil service. Christmas, oh what is it, 95 years ago, we were the most powerful country on the planet, and I the unyielding hierophant of knowledge, defender of the faith, and bearer of heaven. Then, as it always wills the dream faded away to be replaced by a more stark and frightening reality, the tides had turned and it seemed God had abandoned his servants. Perhaps it was statistical probability, perhaps it was simple lack of judgment, both are more believable than few old bishops running the world from jeweled cathedra’s but slowly the power slipped away, and the parties and regiments became more scarce. Of course that simply could be the truth it was hardly a secret when the monks of St. Bernard set fire to the Naval dockyards, the navy, and then themselves in the approximate order. Clandestine or not, it was unwise.

Things proceeded downhill until Christendom could be measured by streets, and its only relics were it’s dead martyrs, of which we had a good supply. There was nothing arcane about the war, I’m afraid; there at least it was straightforward. The battle of Blünderburg fallowed shortly after, and we lost, the monarchy to be replaced by a constitutional theocracy, whatever the hell that was supposed to be. The Cenobiarch was reinstated, and because he had been dismissed by me, the madman, was given the regency of the country until the next emperor was crowned.”

“Your son?” Felix asked transfixed.

“No, of course not. I met my wife two days before the battle, and admittedly thought she was part of the drapery for the first thirty-six hours, and I only 'met' her as we left. She did the right thing in having a son, she continued the line, she was a good wife, not that we were ever actually married. My father had arranged the marriage when I was young and told rather graphic stories humph…”

Felix remembered something and leaned forward in the chair, which creaked ever so slightly, “Who killed your father?”

“Rupert Fry, the foreign minister, believed that our faith should be placed in man and not in Gods, or in that which we cannot comprehend. I killed him later to forestall your next question, threw him out of my zeppelin when he confessed to me. He said he had done it for the greater good, had done it for the truth of the matter and that his actions would make him a greater saint than those who tried to unite the world. He did it for the truth, he did it for this.” With a lazy flick a small leather bound book landed between the two men, and slid neatly across the floor, raising a small column of dust. “Such a troubling volume.”

But,” Felix held up a finger as he reached to snatch it from the ground, “it spoke of the truth, and only of the truth, and the beauty inherent.”

“And so the Church gave you the truth is it so hard to believe? If religion has done nothing it has made, you and I what we are, it has given us morals, and aspirations of greatness. How many murders were committed in Waldenburg last year? Two that is how many. Is fear so terrible when it binds all men together, are you contrary to the idea that heaven creates a greater morale equalizer than anything you care to name?”

“How many people had to die for this promise of salvation?”

“Millions upon million, as an inquisitor I should expect the image is more vivid for you. Was it not worth it should not a few die, to preserve the greater good? It is all blood in the end Felix, even for those religions not willing to admit, it and it shall always come to the question, with us or against us. They were guilty, as you watched them die I’m sure you know, either in their solemn piety or screams of agony they died, guilty men. For they were made and fashioned as imperfect vessels, and by nature sin, you believed that before Felix, what do you believe now, it is the most important thing you know?”

“I feel that…” the inquisitor paused and tried to gather his thoughts, and when he spoke again it was slowly and carefully, “that perhaps, we could have done better, we could have been so much more.”

“Have you seen the world? There, in your belief lies the problem, as all that you think, or what you believe is the product of the Church’s autocratic predominance over your mind. Wherever you go, there will be that little voice telling you what you do is evil. We are products of our society and we will always mirror that no matter how things change. The truth shall not help you, truly the truth is out there, but the lies are already in your head. I’ve seen this empire turn from greatest empire of the world and light of human ascendancy to a backwater dreaming of its former glory, and you don’t think we could ‘do better?’”

“I meant as a people, as a species.”

“Better than what? This Church has shaped and defined the species so that the best we can ever do is live decently and hope for the promised afterlife that awaits those who followed the truth.”

“You read the diary your highness, of your great umpteenth grandfather. It contradicts everything about the man that the Church tells us, it tells no stories of prophets and angels, or of miracles, but of a statesmen who killed burned more people than incense.”

The Prince nodded into the darkness from where they had come and looked back at Felix, ”He fit right it with all the other’s then. Felix, let me say this one last time, the only miracles are those of human creation. How impressed would you be if the Church was based on a personality cult around a rather gruff man, who did not even speak the local’s language? Prophet’s speak the word of God, and if there is no god to speak then are we not all prophets? Look upon the world and tell me how evil it is, look upon you’re church and banish it, but it is your mother and your father, your first and last glimpse of the world. We are the Kingdom of Heaven, it is attained, in us.”

With a mechanical scraping from somewhere in the darkness Felix began to hear the sound of rushing water, and after a moment the loud hum of a generator. Flickering with the effort the rest of the massive cavern was lit to the standards of above ground humans, which seemed to put the prince off his stride. The walls were still simple but had a thin line carved in them that spiraled upwards, giving the looker a feeling of being inside a massive and poorly designed corkscrew.

“It does take them awhile to bring the generator online. There are rivers under the mountains, I have always been something of an environmentalist, and damming them seems efficient.” The prince motioned for Felix to bring his chair to the prince’s side, and turn it out to look into a sudden pit that had loomed out of what Felix had presumed was floor space that now rushed with the sounds of far off water.

“When I first came here,” the prince continued in a whisper “the mountain men came out of their ancestral homes to pledge fealty to their emperor, and serve him and his empire away from the sky. At first my ministers and I plotted, we plotted for a glorious comeback, riding our white stallions up the steps of the palace and placing our rings for the Cenobiarch to kiss. At first we began a terror campaign in the hills to breed discontent amongst the peasants, make them leave the church and seek protection elsewhere. We even tried ‘vampires’ who was the junior minister of trade under in evening dress and with springed shoes. How we plotted then, how we intended, but al our machinations died, as the Empire began to prosper, and despite the glory of our past, things moved on. What was an empire when you could not have the cash to enforce your will? Piety and power have become unprofitable, and unfashionable in this new world of ours, where a cathedra is only the means to an ends. Soon we began to see, as my ministers began to die of extended age, that there was no place in the world left for us, and that another emperor would ruin his intended throne. Our attempts to breed discontent ceased, until, like a army so long ago, a bishop came to visit me, and offered me something that was worth more than the world to me. I would not rule again, but I could have dominion returned to my fortress, and hope to my heart. The Church gave me hope, which saved me, they have given me everything that I am, and everything my children will become.

From this chair I could pick out any soul at random and judge it, and from here I could snuff it out, and return fear to the doctrine of the Church. They had done so for centuries they told me, they said it always worked out for the best and that small lives must be sacrificed for the greater ones. It was to an extent true, but then I learned that truth, like beauty is only held to the extent of its owner, and like beauty can be ruined with the faintest alterations.

Always they wanted more blood, and I obliged them for many years, sending men like yourself to die for the express purpose of killing and then dying. It was a vicious cycle perhaps, but one that I ultimately saw as necessary.”

“What of the old men in the desert, they seemed very different?”

“You have undoubtedly heard of antipopes? Well if you know anything the head of any organization has only the power given to him by his subordinates, they were the antibishops. They were the longer arm of our little circle, and could strike outside the country, they wanted to get to you first, they realize skill, but you turned them down. I can’t imagine you did so for loyalty to the home country, but you made the right choice there. Old men should act like old men and that is all I have to say about that. They would kill outside of Waldenburg, for the same fear, but there was no establishment to put faith in, and the fear there did no good. They were cruel men, crueler than even I must seem.”

Felix leaned back in his chair, a few of the pieces finally clicking into place, “You wished me to kill the Cenobiarch, to have one of your own bishops put in power, making an easier transition for you back to a more mundane power?”

“Of course not, weren’t you listening? Old men are not fit to rule the destinies of their children, I never intended you to kill the Hierophant of Heaven; I expected you to rejoin the church or die. The Cenobiarch was out of the cathedral review troops, with the Emperor, possibly the tightest security on the planet was erected around him, and even if he had been in the basilica, you would not have been able to kill him. My colleagues had a word with you, they failed, and then the guards failed to kill you, and then you failed to realize the truth that you were not meant to be a villain. Your killing was meant to be done in the light, you were meant to be an inquisitor again, and that is the truth.”

“The Vere Veritas?” Felix spat.

“Yes, the truth. “ For a long moment the two sat silently not daring to make eye contact or attempt to speak, all that they could do for the moment was listen to the rushing water. “I loved my father you know. Some people say I tired to have him killed, say I did have him killed. I didn’t of course, he was too kind a man.”

“You didn’t have him killed, like you didn’t have me killed? Something like that?”

“I suppose I deserve no sympathy, a life full of sin deserves nothing more than punish, but you would have traded uncertainty for purpose, direction and happiness, and is that not worth it in the end? My father was a hero to his people and died as such, ignorance makes him a martyr to the infidel in the eyes of his people, and the truth can only hurt at this point. You see that don’t you, you see how the world, the world which we have created, as defined by our felicitous obtuseness would shatter down to be replaced by the dubious advantages of a more truthful hell. We need lies Felix, we need them to cushion us from reality which is more frightening than your inquisition could ever be. Entire nations have gone to their death, including ours, though it is still in the making, singing the praises of God. What if Felix, the dream ended and human energy was released? It is said one pair of hands at work has more effect than a million at prayer. You will find that should such a portion of humanity be relieved of their pretenses, which so comfort them, there will be a great deal of wringing hands, that have naught to do but fret and worry, and over time the worry shall again turn to hate. Forgive for loving Felix, my father, my country and my world. There is no evil in what I have done, it is a mercy, to humanity at large, a mercy Felix.”

Anton clattered back into the room and stood some five feet behind his prince’s chair. The two-seated men could again not find words and stared off into space eagerly awaiting the next thought to strike them. It would take some time, but there was never silence, as both their minds whirred away, making connections hundreds of years old, and inferences based on seconds old knowledge.

“The Cenobiarch, is one of your group? Is that why he was not in his tower?” Felix asked lazily, almost as if the point did not matter.

“No,” the prince responded sighing, “He knows of our ideals, he has also read the diary, and realizes that the less he knows on the subject the happier he shall be. He is not a bright man in the usual meaning of the word but he is wise beyond the years of his office. We could do worse than him for a leader.”

“How could we do worse than a man who denies the medium of his power, and spreads ignorance as a tool of control? It is what I battled against all my life, at the commands of the very man who spread it!”

“I believe my great, great, great, great granduncle was a horse…. But I can see the situation perplexes, and you are right the world needs changing. Who among us has such power as to compose nations with the stomping of his feet? Who alive can claim primacy over the over the will of God, and the word of his prophet’s? Who left dares define what should not be given voice to, and hatch the seeds of a more terrible retribution? A great power waits in man’s heart Felix, a most benign and elegant force that with the application of the most anemic will may topple all that is made. Is that what the world needs, does it need change so badly, that we are willing to sacrifice today for the promise of tomorrow, will we forsake hope of the endless tomorrow, for another grey day under the harsh sun?”

“The truth is important, the truth will make us free.” Felix stood, unfolding himself to his full height, which he had not managed for quite some time, as he had lived a life of concealment up till recently. “I am not convinced, by your little beliefs, I am not swayed by your disapproval of the Divine. I however am moved to tears by what, you have done, how in the name of Holy Church you corrupt the word of God, this books,” he grabbed his own copy and flung in on the ground between the two, “speaks that there was no inspiration, no voices in the head, it is wrong.” With a flick of Felix’s arm the book was thrown into the river. “In the name of…” Felix faltered for a moment, “God, I arrest you on charges of sedition, murder, apostasy, heresy, witchcraft, treason, sodomy, and impersonating a prophet of the Lord.”

“Sodomy?” The prince also rose to his feet and anger suddenly entered his voice, “Fry was dead, he had been so for nearly a week!”

“What?”

“You think…” the prince fumed opening and shutting his mouth as he fumbled for words, “We can spread the word of God by being kind, you think singing another dreary song, and showing up for mass is what it is about? Is Christmas what it is about? You are wrong! I have seen the world wither without a firm hand, and we shall not have it with the truth! The truth will set us free, yes it will, but once we are free what shall we do? The chains that bind us are longer and more resistant than we could hope to understand. You would let man die alone and apart from fellow man, would you take away humanities hope?”

“I would give the truth, and then a choice. If their faith is so weak to be shaken by a book then it is faith not worth having, Your highness, come with me, and help me change the world, or I shall take you.”

“You want change?” the prince slumped in his chair and patted the other one, “then watch us change it.” Slowly Felix returned to his seat but his hand was on his sword and holy zeal burned in his eyes, at the first moment he would gut his prince. “Anton, radio it up its time, the generators should have had ample time.” The butler nodded and lumbered away to a respectful distance where he touched his ear and began mumbling. “I have not been completely without purpose here,” the prince continued, “I have over the past century collected quite a few things. Mostly pieces of art, books, jewels, but a few more precious things, a few things that will serve more purpose then anything on the rocks.”

Off in pit that was the river, a loud metallic scraping could be heard, and a sliver of light appeared in the black wall of the cavern revealing a sterile, white room beyond, where white-coated men ran with preoccupied efficiency.

“Over the years I met, in some early travels, a rather nice doctor form the former Empire, and we began to discuss nuclear engineering, and though it made no sense to me at the time, it became clear with time, and now, well with the shape of the world that it might be entertaining to posses the destroyer of worlds. I found one.” The door had continued to open to reveal a slim metallic tube connected to the wall through a series of tubes that seemed to be feeding fuel and coolant to the missile.

“This is the world Felix, we can no longer place our trust in men, books, or love, in the end they may all be corrupted, but this above all things can be trusted, man may forget it time how to worship and respect, but it shall never forget steel.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“You see Waldenburg’s missile shields were constructed with the express purpose of deflecting missiles from the outside, here that is not an issue. I aim to misbehave Felix. So sit with me and watch the construction of hell, see how fast man forgets love.”

“You intend to shoot that at us?” The rapier was out and leveled at the prince’s neck, who turned his head slightly and gave it a disapproving stare.

“It won’t matter Felix, kill me if you wish, it won’t change anything except Anton will gamely attempt to throw you into the gorge, he does have his fun. But sit Felix, watch hell, or have we watched it everyday? Hmmmm… We shall have something to compare it to.” And as the prince finished speaking claxons began to roar under the ground with a long forlorn wail, that echoed back upon the stonewalls and began to intermix with themselves. To add to the roar, there were the yells of men as they began to clear the missile bay, which soon was empty, except for the hollow voice of an automated countdown.

Screamingly the missile began a ponderous lift up shooting upward, through untold thousands of meters of mountain, and no doubt sparkling like a salmon in the clear sky away from the pollution of the cities, and mist of the mountains. And with no doubt it screamed down, only two hundred miles away on the unsuspecting heads of the strong in faith, toiling away under the ever feared but never expected apocalypse. Suddenly the mountain chamber was full of sound and a voice rasped out, “Aslama um malak Yawm al-Qīyāmah! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!” The voice screamed, again and again, before there was again silence. Not the silence of a lack of noise but of forced silence, when all air and hope of noise has been drained away. Then as the sound of far away thunder the explosion filled the room and rumbled on for some time, and shaking plaster dust of the ceiling.

“Why?” Felix sobbed his emotional control again disappearing.

“Because Felix I love God, and should this be my last memory I shall always look upon it with a smile and a laugh and remember how it felt to be have purpose. To transcend the mendacity of life, to stop living and begin reigning over my nation. I am your Emperor, if you admit it or not it makes no difference, for I will be judged far greater in centuries yet to come, and you shall be nothing. In the end Felix, we are all angry men, and though I have seemed composed and resigned, I will be damned if I die common!”

The High Inquisitor backed away his sword suddenly coming up to protect his face and he began to moan, “but you killed so many, God would never ordain you as Emperor, you are no regent of heaven, you are a fraud!”

“Be careful sir!”

“Liar, fraud!”

“You will watch your tongue, for soon, I shall ride back into Blünderburg, admittedly on an orthopedic saddle, and with many rest stops, but by God I shall be your Emperor and you shall kiss my ring, and pay homage. You are prepared to believe in God, but I say now, believe in me, in the end of this day we shall see which is more feared. Kiss it.” A gem encrusted ring, mostly of dark ruby and silver was thrust forward, and gleamed ominously in the half-light. “Pay your respects.”

“May this my prayer aid mankind The path of right and worth to find;” The rapier swept through the air and through only the tiniest fraction of an inch missed opening up the prince’s skull as he rose from his chair. “I am no hero, and have no mighty deeds to my name, but the worth of merit is not in glory sire, it is in doing. And away from the hell, which you have constructed, from the place where a hero is needed most, I find myself.” The sword swept up this time again completely missing the arrant monarch. “But I will be damned if you leave here and have another crown placed upon your head. This is the way it ends highness, no more hiding!” Felix began to lunge at the man who was no where near his sword but already tottering off into the darkness and calling for his servant.

“Anton a sword! Quickly” A small streak of silvery material was tossed out of the darkness and was caught inexpertly by the prince who turned just in time to dissuade Felix from another full charge.

“You can barely stand your highness, you honestly believe you shall be able to fight me?”

For a moment the prince did not answer but instead weighed the sword delicately in his shaking hands, then with all the suddenness of a tiger leapt from a standing position sword raised at Felix. The prince glided through the air robes aerodynamically swirling behind him, and sword point already hacking at heart level. In a panic Felix raised his sword and smashed the blade aside sending the prince nominally with it, and even though he landed on his feet he looked injured.

“The hand does not so readily forget what the mind would cast away Felix.” With another burst of speed the old man had slid forward and brought his rapier down in a huge arc around Felix’s neck, which was again parried sloppily. The High Inquisitor began to swing back, feinting and lunging but all to little effect as the prince seemed far to slow to ever be in the right place at the right moment. It is always said that a trained fighter hates fighting an amateur, as they have no idea what they will do, and while a Parry Quatra linear attack may be impressive it is nothing in comparison to a stab to the stomach. Felix’s blade whirred around and the two slide lethargically up and down the rough hew floor exchanging lightning blows.

Air raid sirens could be heard blaring from outside, and their low wail added a horrible scream to the battle. As the two disengaged for a moment Felix panted over to his chair, and leaned on his rapier, and nodded to his opponent. The prince had no such sympathies and within a second he was toddling across the floor. “Won’t you give up, you can’t win!” Felix shouted as the old man wheezed forwards. “Give up!” The prince’s sword raised and sliced half of the back of the chair, in an explosion of feathers.

Felix screamed and with one leg shoved the armchair into the prince, it slid well on the slightly damp floor, and threw the prince to the ground. Following through with his action the Inquisitor slid along the floor behind the chair feet scrabbling on the ground, and rapier pointed at the pinned prince’s heart. There was no defense for the man, and for a moment Felix believed it, one crucial moment which he should not have, and as he dashed forward, his opponent’s rapier raised and punctured through his left shoulder, flipping Felix of his run and unto the floor, in a pool of blood.

“You see,” the prince wheezed, “I am destined for greater things.” He raised his hand and gently pressed his rings to Felix’s sobbing lips. “look into their hearts Felix, they deserved death, you saw that everyday under your hood, what had changed? Could my words rattle you so much. Was God worth it-“ an iron grip shot out and grabbed the prince around a stick thin arm. “Felix?” There was no response but the pressure began to increase and with a grunt of effort Felix raised himself to his knees, and with tiny movements began to drag his monarch behind him “Felix, what will you accomplish by killing me, I am not the last, nor the most powerful, but I am the one prepared to change. Help me Felix, help me save the world!”

Pleas and threats fell on deaf ears as the two inched slowly towards the edge, the prince for all his previous adeptness could raise only the opposition of a sedated kitten, and by inches he was dragged to the churning and thundering that marked the underground river. “Please Felix, don’t, don’t I don’t want to die this way, let me live! I want to see the sky again, I want to hear and feel the wind! Not here Felix, don’t let me die, not now, not when I am so close.” His pleas became incoherent as he broke into long heavy tears, “My father… Can’t you at love me?” Felix’s hand bushed a small pebble over the edge of the pit and turned his head, a wind had risen from somewhere and had whipped up his frizzy hair. He slowly drew a cross on his head and reached out to do the same with his namesake, and then began to smile, “I do.”

He gave a weak shrug at his own cliché and slowly rolled off the edge, holding the prince’s hand even harder until he heard bone splinter, and then with a scream the prince was being dragged across the rest of the floor pulling dust and pebbles with him, and before he could reach the crescendo of his scream they were in freefall and staring down, at the roiling black waters below. They fell together wind wiping about their robes, and condensation gathering on their eyebrows.

Slowly, as if under water the prince turned his head, which had become serene, and whispered to his murderer, a whisper that should not have carried but did, “You know what she said at the end, she who died like us? Live and forget, it was the kindest blessing.” Still plummeting downward their fall would take some time, and for all their lives they would remember it with a laugh and a smile and say it was the apex of their humanity, and the culmination of their aspirations. If the planet was snuffed out in an instant and all the world was made silent at a go, they would be content, for it is in the maliciousness of man to forget, and to forever deny the future to their progeny.

Closing Piece: Song to the Moon (http://www.tornadohills.com/donna/donna/classical%20-%20Dvorak-%20Song%20to%20the%20Moon.mp3)

Act IV Scene I

Opening Piece: And He shall Purify (http://www.dalant.co.kr/song/mp3/AVE%20MARIA/and%20he%20shall%20purify.mp3)

Content Piece: Lacrimosa (http://heim.ifi.uio.no/~bryhni/vak/mozart98_mp3/07_Lacrimosa.mp3)


Rubber jackboots kicked through the wreckage with an irreverence that seemed out of place to the death that was scattered carelessly around them. It had been, as it was intended to be, a surprise, and Blünderburg, the silver heart of the empire now bubbled and seethed in the crater of it’s former glory. The Divine Legion whose numbers were considerably depleted, or at least rather concussed, walked through it all, bright yellow cloaks contrasting with the mundane gray of once opulent buildings. It was a strange night, it had taken hours to cool to the point where anyone could survive without cover within a mile of the epicenter, and now, despite the late hour, there was light, an ugly, hazy, orange glow that seemed to come from everywhere and yet nowhere. Stars shone above in the sky, but all around fires outshone their former celestial superiors. Miles upon miles of concrete had been blown over, and their components had been blown with them to light up other sectors of the city in fire as well.

Fires twinkled away across the city and ravaged city block after city block, adding to the already stale air a crisp smell, fresh pine, and burning resin. Everywhere under foot ashes, debris, and bodies lay where they had fallen, and after so long of trudging through it all the shock of another body completely wore away, and what few survivors wandered about the broken city only gave a pitiful grunt when they came to a friend of relative before moving on.

“Over here,” a weak hand was stuck up through a twisted girder and waved about pathetically until a Divine Legionnaire noticed it and scrambled over a pile of bricks to the small depression. As the man grew closer he could see the formerly neat gloves on the hands and the charred ring.

“Oh God,” the Legionnaire muttered and keyed his radio on to call for help,” we’ll have you out in a minute your grace, if you could just brace yourself,” the Divine Legionnaire grunted in pain but after straining, managed to move the girder far enough so the priest could wiggle his way out of the glowing wreckage and sit up. Little indentations on his skin and burns hinted he had been pressed up against superheated rock, and been folded rather painfully between two slabs of burning concrete. Half his face was charred off, and only hung on in a flaky gray ash. As a light wind blew up small pieces of his cheeks fluttered off his face and into the dead city.

“It looks,” the voice was still intact despite the pain, and had acquired what was probably a note of lividity, “like I owe you my life, thank you.”

“Think nothing of it your grace.” The Legionnaire bowed and made as if to walk away, from the little priest, who would probably not survive the day.

“Not your Grace, your Imminence actually.” The priest, the Cenobiarch, held his hand up to the burnt side of his face and crumpled his cheek away, slowly flicking the ask to the air and watching as it zipped and dived away between the twisted wreckage of the city. Once proud buildings stories high were reduced to flaming steel skeletons that screamed in their prolonged collapse.

“My father told me a story once, one that his father had told him.” The Cenobiarch began to speak in a far away tone that still did nothing to hide the anger in his voice, “Once before those trees burned,” he waved his hands in the direction of the Imperial Avenue, where a flicker of light hinted the magnolia trees lining the street were once again on fire. Their sweet flowers again mixing with the broken city. “A long time ago an enemy came to break us, and break the church, they succeeded and we were cowed. But the trees grew again, and the flowers bloomed again. And around them the city, and empire blossomed again. We will never die corporal, we will never stop.” The Cenobiarch rounded on the man and stuck his face into his subordinates, “We are compelled by God, his word guides us and leads us. There is nothing our enemies can summon that will halt his directives, let them gibber their error, let them pray to their idols, it shall not help them in the end." Little crisped hands clasped on the front of an even filthier robe.

As the Cenobiarch again turned he walked off into where his temple used to stand, but now lay around his feet, again in flame. The entire design of the Church had relied on vaulted ceilings and flowing pillars that while beautiful relied on one another for support, and now the follies of the baroque period crumbled and steamed under his feet. Alter ware had melted, and pillars had fallen, great windows and relics had been turned to ashes and splinters within seconds. Now the finery of the Church relied entirely on what could be summoned by their members, and it at that moment, this moment when it's precious relics had been smashed and it's hierarchy decimated, seemed to burn brighter than all the fire of the sun. Alone of all treasures of the Church there still stood the four statues of the prophets, their silver arms holding up a dome that now lay on their feet. Heat and fire had lit the oil in their massive meter wide mouths and little droplets rained down on the floor framing the Cenobiarch against what were once the great Convocation doors. Ruby eyes dared Thousis to move, dared him to stand, and dared him to fight. Against a red sky the Cenobiarch studied what remained of his world, and as the brisk wind wiped his face he raised one withered hand to his cheek, and let the fingers deftly touch it. For a moment if felt whole, for a moment, it was soft again, and for a moment he could not find words.

“Corporal, bring me an army, get me my legions!" He spoke softly but with a hint of deadly command, "We won’t stop, nothing can stop us. I shall stomp my feet and Islam shall shatter down! Their false god shall shatter down, and break into our deserts. Bring me an army, we are going to kill them, we are going to kill them all.” For the last time Thousis turned, he would turn later, and speak fire and brimstone and live a long life but he would never be a man, God demanded much more of him, more than he could give and the name was cast aside for something greater, but he turned to stare down his new Legion, one man, one spark of life was all he needed and for a moment his frayed robes were blizzard white, and the Staff of the Prophet’s was in his hands, “We are going to kill them, we are going to kill them all.”

And far away across the city the sentiment grew flickering from soul to soul with an unfortunate speed for though there were no ears to listen or mouths to speak, the drumbeat of war raised a cadence in every heart, as the greater power once again summoned the faithful to him. It was perhaps slow in fourthcoming, and the heart was slow to react; it was slow to cast aside it's pallor of sorrow and raise a more bloody cloak. But in time it would.

“What’s it mean?” A young man asked as the seven our eight survivors huddled in what used to be the Mercantile Bank, it's formerly brilliant facade mostly charred black, only occasionally revealing a patch of marble where the bodies had sheltered it from the explosion. The group stood listening to a transistor radio trying it’s best to revive Christmas spirit. It was repeating the same message over and over and though they had been listening for hours none had ever heard the words.

“I don’t know, I don’t speak Latin. Sounds familiar though.” They stared out of what used to be a window at the swirling papers and bonds that used to be the banks precious assets but now represented only so much kindling.

“I do,” a slim hand was raised from behind the counter where one of the survivors had wandered off to be alone with himself and for the last hour had huddled behind the front desk knees tucked up to his chest, slowly rocking back and forth. He approached and slowly wiped the tears from his eyes with the edge of his robe, which was smattered with blood and soiled beyond belief, “Et in Terra Pax ad Homnibus,” he gave a weak smile and brushed away another tear, “peace on earth and good will to men.”

And in the end there was peace, although good will ran short, a enemy can be beaten but never trusted. And as all the prophets predicted the world dissolved in one day, all the glory of mankind was suddenly snuffed out, into a reign of violence, before the sun had fallen even once. It would take a thousand years for the goal to be achieved but the die was cast so long ago, and the path was made clear before there was a walker to attempt it.

All pretenses had dropped away in a moment and mankind stood naked and ashamed, ready for the final judgment, but there too fallacy must be dropped, and all that we knew betrays us. For within the heart of the most somnolent priests smolders the fires of war, and within the oldest man the memory of long summer nights is still alive, the dreams of every dog to be wolf, and every cat to be a lion. But as the world falls away and a new sun rises it seems all that we see or seem was but a dream within a dream.

Closing Piece: Laudate Domino (http://andrea-boesen.de/laudate.mp3)

OOC Almost Done now.

The audience patently did not rise to it’s feet, a great wave of jubilation of shared feeling did not spread through the gathered gentry like wild fire, and as the soprano, red in the face, finally collapsed into silence the room fell silent. The chorus, and the orchestra hardly noticed the cessation of noise and as their blistered fingers finally fell away from the strings, and the conductor tossed aside another broken baton. Drebben had spared the musicians no and with the final note it was over and there was one more part to fill.

In a susurrating wave the applause spread from somewhere near the rear of the seat, ringing from gloved hands in a polite way that implied neither approval or disapproval, but signified that it was at last over and the audience now played it’s role. And with that it was finished and stiff legs slowly walked out into the warm summer air of Panrevenburg, the only spot on the world where the exiles could speak freely, where the Cenobiarch need never here of these little heretical trifles.

As be feathered, gentry left slowly by the doors they shared, for one moment, a group moment, and though they said nothing, they all felt something, something as indescribable as the feeling of a fading dream, but for the moment they were of one mind. And then it ended.

Contributors:

Nationstates:

Text, Dialogue, Characters, Ideas, and themes donated by:
Hyperspatial Travel: The Illarian Empire, Act II Scene I-V
Terror Incognita: The Incognitans, Act II Scene I-V
Bautzen (Deceased): Bautzonians, Act II Scene I-V

Characters donated by:
Jagaro: Prince Edward of Jagaro Act II Scene I and II
Hyperspatial Travel: Mr. Alutius Act II Scene I and II
Bautzen: Walter Higgens Act II Scene I and II
Terror Incognita: The Tyrant Act II Scene I an II

Text and Theme taken From:
http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=538567
http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=12641807#post12641807


Themes donated by:
Jenrak: Sons of Sagacity, Act III Scene I-VI, and Act IV Scene I

RL Work:
William Blake: “A Dream Within a Dream” Act II Scene II, Act IV Scene I

Winston Churchill: (As quoted by Prince Felix) Act II Scene III “History Shall look kindly on me, as I yet intend to right it”
Benito Mussolini: (As quoted by Prine Felix) Act II Scene I "War alone brings up to their highest tension all human energies and imposes the stamp of nobility upon the peoples who have the courage to make it."

Percy Shelly’s Ozymandias: (Quoted All Various Acts and Scenes, Various sections)

Music:
The Choir of Gambolo Church (PV) Italy
The Choir of Boston University
The Berlin National Choir
The Vienna Boy’s Choir
The Choir of the University of Oslo
(Orchestral Pieces Hotlinked from Previous Sources and original location cannot be determined.)