NationStates Jolt Archive

Agnus Dei (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/19e06.wma)

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.

"Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace."


By Imperial tradition, no more than eighty thousand men could participate in any victory parade, and it was generally agreed that the war, so much as it had been, was quite low key and only a small throng had shown up for a mounted parade down the Imperial Avenue. Colonel Dench, along with the Bishop Throm lead the column of the Divine Legion, bright in parade uniform, yellow dampened down with a spring rain. It was entirely uncustomary for so much rain even at this time of year, and tiny drops spattered down the ceremonial helmet of the colonel and ran down his cloak. Though he took the salute of a battalion of the Serene Legion at attention, his eyes were weary and glazed over.

Somewhere across the river a few saluting guns fired off a volley, and then, as boots thundered to a halt before the Imperial Palace. On a gold lined balcony the Emperor gave a little wave, which honored and dismissed the column with a wave. Within time the units drifted back to their barracks, it was but the beginning of a very long day and another war. Within the courtyard two figures remained gently trotting their horses about the cobbled yard.

“I will be made an Archbishop.” Throm said as if embarrassed about the fact. His hand seemed entirely too stiff and was tucked slightly into the tack amongst his horse.

“What is your first name Throm?” The response was straight back and stated as if no previous comment had been made.

“What? It’s Nicola; I’m sure I told you at some point.”

“No, no.” The horse trotted through the open gate and into the dregs of the parade, “You never did you know.”
--

Almost horizontal rain thundered across the sky and whipped leaves from the sparse trees. A hand fumbled in a coat pocket to pull out a set of unused keys and stuffed them haphazardly into a lock. It had been many months since the door had been opened and its hinges gave a groan of protest. There were no bouquets of flowers or little cards hinting at the little parties, which would provide the little opportunities for the little advancements. There was just a whistling wind and a large stack of mail to go through.

Corridor after corridor passed under sullen steps; despite the general unkempt look of the house it was large and lordly portraits of patrician veneers stared down in haughty distain. After taking a flight of stairs a well used easy chair, positioned in front of a beaten and stained computer, was occupied, and the computer flicked on. It took minutes for the monster to warm up and pop up the well known Waldenburger Authorized Internet Usage Logo, which was implanted on all government computers.

Night was drawing in quickly, and the shiver of the wind through ancient walls wrapped around the room. This was very peculiar, usually a warm wind, late sun and moisture level on which matches could be struck was the normal situation. Not tonight though and the commercial farmers up and down the Strein Delta were surely out dancing with joy, not so for some others, and in the city itself even the general bustle of the Night Police and the war time air patrols seems to have died.

With shaking fingers, be it from the chill wind or from a different source a word was typed into the search box, “Hegemon,” At the usual speed of the Waldenburger Internet, which allowed a martini to be made and limes sliced, thousands of hits popped up. Most of them were simply tabloid journalism. “The Hegemon ate my babies!” “Gay, Transvestite, Terrorist takes the Throne!” Or the more distressing sort of website that featured heavily on the Virgin Mary and had embedded hymns which couldn’t be stopped no matter how repeatedly the back button was struck.

Eventually after nearly a half an hour of increasingly frustrating searching a simple page came up, a mere list, thousands of words long but only words, simple and in plain typed text. After a quick scan of the page it became apparent that it was indeed valid, and verified in the duller paragraphs as original. A printer, equally stained and awkward began to spit papers at a teeth-grinding speed. A figure, hunched with weariness stretch its legs before a great bay window outside of which lightening forked across the sky, illuminating at every blow the great silver dome of the Basilica of St. Michael which shone so resplendent even in the flickering light of the present. It was beautiful; so beautiful.
--

“Commander!” A harried aide bellowed, “We just lost the WIS Thunderer and survivors are…” he touched his ear and mouthed to himself, “not activating the reactor. No combat readiness, Second Battle Group is reporting failure to activate.” Aides and officers bustled around a large table and one after another removed models, made naturally of silver from the board. Gothic forces had been wiping the sea, and though a most valiant attempt had been made by the Third Fleet with its delaying action thousands of Waldenburger bodies littered the ocean floor, and made testament to the conviction of Vice Admiral Opplant who had promised blood before the campaign had begun.

In little clusters analysts were shouting into headsets, and pounding the tables as news was relayed in bursts and chatters. Apparently the battle was going rather sourly; of course it would do; Waldenburger vessels were outnumbered by hundred and hundreds to one and sheer numbers and apparently tactics were winning out in the end. Such a situation breed in the air a sentiment of rage and it was evident on their faces as ship after ship flew out of the battle.

Prince Ruprecht, as senior military analyst and recently in the public eye sat quietly speaking into a headset and twirling a pencil. He himself had been in a few last stands before and recognized the immediate exigency with a pragmatic gloom. A figure stood behind him checking off on a clipboards as the Prince spoke. Colonel Dench had been decorated heavily by the Emperor and a few private organizations, and his chest hung heavy with medals. Though he had not received a promotion, as he had never fought against an enemy in an official fashion, he had become military attaché to the Prince and stood dully to attention behind him ticking and scribbling down figures and instructions.

The task was not an onerous one and Dench’s eyes wandered about the room picking out his counterparts about the room, standing in tight groups or behind similar men and doing some trivial task.

“Colonel,” the Prince stuck a piece of paper torn out of a notebook and waved it at his aide, “take this to Brigadier Stoffer and then find me Maritime Prisoners Act. Yes?” His aide took the piece of paper and strode out on to the main floor of the Eastern Theater Command and Communications Center which so far had felt the brunt of the war effort in associated scurry and in generating sufficient paperwork to cow even the most vast rainforests.

After some scrambling Dench arrived at a very similar looking desk where a staff officer was shouting out numbers to a all to young looking aide de cam, and thumping the table on occasion. “Brigadier!” A slight nod of the head suggested he had found the right man. The paper was passed down , and scanned quickly. “How is your wife general?” Colonel Dench knew the answer all to well, he had read the papers like everyone else, and he had heard the Night Police arrive that very night. All sound stopped in a little pool around the desk where the brigadier turned his head slightly to muffled screams from within his headset when the numbers were no longer being relayed.

“Return to your post Colonel.” The rage was palpable on his lips and his left eye ticked gently as Dench smiled and saluted.
--

Still grey; still wet. Night poured down upon Streinlikstern like tar; coats were shrugged off, and then reapplied when a sticky rain oozed through the sky and muddled the world. There were a few men still drifting out of the Command Center; the battle had ended some hours ago with a sullen report and righteous anger. No news had been heard on prisoners or reinforcements from allied powers, and generally the fleet had been written off, which meant some considerable time at the office for those involved.

Tails billowing General Stoffer nodded to the doorman, whom was an old friend from some arcane and rarely spoken of war, flipped up his collar and bundled into the night. A separate figure detached itself from a column, and after sometime came to the side of the brigadier and tapped him on the shoulder. “I apologize for speaking so…. tactlessly this afternoon. I pray you will forgive me?”

Stoffer was an elderly man, a bull of a man who fit himself into a suit every morning and seemed to contain a jingoistic rage behind a constantly moving mustache, “It is no matter. I realize you could not have known. Terrible night yes?”

“It has its moments I suppose. Tell me general if I may ask, I realized my mistake sometime later and discovered the truth about your wife, bless her soul, how was she taken?”

There was a considerable time of silence as little splash recorded the pace of the two men across a cobbled square, “She,” he spoke slowly, “had friends. Barronian friends from the embassy, and though the Inquisition couldn’t touch them, they wound whatever they wanted, whatever they got out of her. I am consoled; she is in heaven now.” There was not a lot that could be said on the part of Dench who just wrapped a comforting arm around Stoffer and continued to walk until they reached his modest apartment tucked up against the wall of the Imperial Office of Motorcars.

“Tell me general, could I get you a drink? If you are not otherwise engaged this evening, I think I may have a few words for you?”
--

Music rolled up and over the box. Opera glasses amongst the audience twinkled a series of unknown messages to the chorus on stage, which was pouring its heart into a version of Die Zauberfloatte that had been so rigorously edited by the Church that it bore no resemblance to the original plot, and for some inexplicable reason Valkyries were charging up and down the stage with some vigor.

For some inexplicable reason this was the third night it had been entirely sold out. Of course no one, not a signal person within the audience had come for a great penchant for music or for brilliant performance; most of the cast was well acquainted to this and some were only half dressed in costume. Only the wealthy could afford a night at the opera, and in such a fashion every man women and child sitting amongst the red velvet seats was there for their own personal benefit, whether it be through patronage, or a simple place to connive; the Imperial Opera House was home to a thousand plots and a thousand thus from stemming.

Cardinal Henry Indu, so recently of the Imperial Republic of Greston had come to keep a close eye on Cardinal Joseph Razmitty sitting across the theater and talking ever so quietly to a young man who occasionally darted into view. Henry had learned a few things about traitors in his time in Greston, and a few things of sabotage.

Apart for some moderate help from the Cenobiarch he had orchestrated most of the attacks and had viciousness down to an art form, whereas his opponent was perhaps a talented amateur, however in the morning he would have to have a word with him and see just what Razmitty remember about a certain night before the war, a certain party and a certain conversation which he may now regret.


His opponent knew nothing, “Alright for some perhaps.” A champagne flute was ferried to his lips by red-gloved hands and the last few drops trickled into his throat. “Filliment,” a small monk sat in a chair beside him nodding his head in an entirely obtuse fashion to the music, “will you freshen up our drinks?”

“Of course your Imminence, I’ll ring for the waiter.” A small cloth rope was pulled which would sound a bell to summon a rather hassled looking man down the hall to come to the box and take drink orders. The opera showed no sign of stopping and the air was only begin to fill with the fruits of the evening.

The Rev. Thomas Shmidt smiled to himself as he walked down a well-lit hallway, the sound of singing growing slowly louder as he made his way towards the theater of the Imperial Opera House. Shmidt was wearing a waiter's uniform, and carrying a tray of drinks.

Getting into the country had been surprisingly easy despite the heightened state of war that Waldenburg was now in, he had only needed to shove a few thousand reichmarks into the hands of a Serene Legion officer and had been waved through. He laughed to himself now thinking about the bribe. I am glad of such petty corruption, for it has enabled me to destroy an evil far greater.

Still amused by this observation, Shmidt casually stepped into a small bathroom, locking the door behind him. Laying the tray of drinks on the sink counter, he picked up a large duffle bag that was lying in the corner, and which he had placed there earlier. A few moments later, he was dressed in his usual attire. Next out of the bag came the three pieces of his cross, which he quickly assembled. Finally were drawn a pair of automatic handguns, which he checked before placing them in holsters under his coat.

Moments later Shmidt opened a door into the theater, and made his way onto the long walkway to the booth where Cardinal Indu was seated.

_________________________________________________________________


Six Days Previous:

Thomas Shmidt sighed mournfully, looking at the boxes that now occupied the Hegemon's old office. Lord Sumguy's personal belongings were being packed away, as the government prepared to store the Hegemon's belongings safely until his son reached the age of adulthood. Shmidt had come to look through some old documents, looking for anything of importance to the League. He searched through the bottom drawer of the Hegemon's desk, taking out papers and sorting them into piles. As he picked up the last one, the bottom of the drawer moved slightly under his hand. Curious, he pried the board up. Under it was a small diary, worn and dusty. Shmdit picked it up, and opened it to the first page.

The first entry was dated nearly twenty-five years previous, and was in the handwriting of the late Hegemon. It described a somewhat uneventful day, the young man expressing his hope that he would be ordained soon. In the middle of the page the pen trailed off, and three lines later began again in different handwriting, using archaic grammar and sentence structure. Shmidt turned the page. The same writing continued, and as the Reverend kept turning pages it became apparent that this single strange entry took up the entire book. Shmidt would turn a few pages, glancing at the page for a few seconds before continuing to flip throught he book, a growing expression that was a mix of confusion, fear, and awe on his face. He skipped forty pages, stopping near the end, and read two lines: And the shepherd will die, struck down by the bullet of a maddened assassin upon the very advent of peace. This shall herald the coming of the great conflict.

Shmidt let the book drop from his hands, as terror and realization gripped him. "My God." he whispered, stumbling backwards and staring at the diary. "What were you?"

_________________________________________________________________

The Reverend paused before the door to the box in which the Cardinal was sitting and patted his coat where he had a photocopy of the book, tracing his fingers along the cross-shaped pendant on a chain around his neck. "In your name, O LORD, the wicked of this world shall see justice." he whispered to himself, and opened the door.

"About time," Cardinal Indu snapped as the door finally clicked open on lovingly oiled hinges, "how long does it take to open a bottle." For at least a moment the Cardinal's eyes were trained on the stage where one of the chorus members was having some slight slippage of her clothing. A slight intake of breath however, and years of paranoia induced by nearly three decades in the Church made him turn an eye to the door.

It was apparent, by dress, by stature, by stance, and most importantly by armament that this man was no waiter. Filliment, a smallish monk, whose main vocations were shuffling and stacking paper, rose to his feet and braced himself in what he thought was a fighting stance, arms raised and weaving in the air.

Indu was slower to his feet and creaked at the knee as he rose from his chair, the empty champagne flute being tossed into the audience below. "Who are you? Sagacity? I thought we dealt with your type when Albemier bled out. I was there when Retirun opened the first artery, and I had the pleasure of being there when he broke. Will you lead as sad and trivial life as he did, convinced and utterly devoted to a book? If you think you are in any fashion more durable than he you are sadly mistaken. I've seen enough action, seen enough men to know when they will collapse. And you, my son, have the look of a screamer about you." Indu, though elderly, stood in a much more relaxed and realistic pose, though he was unarmed he smiled slightly at the interloper and extended a beringed hand as if beckoning the man forward.

Shmidt smiled, his eyes shining with fervor. "Sagacity? You think me one of those pathetic wretches? You are mistaken, Cardinal. I am but a humble servant of the Almighty, executor of the Lord's justice to the wicked and corrupt. The League, I am afraid, does not smile upon they who would murder in the name of God." He swung his cross, striking Filliment in the back of his head with the handle, knocking the monk unconcsious.

"I am the Reverend Thomas Shmidt," He said, stepping over the monk and walking toward the Cardinal as blades appeared out of the end of his cross. "and you are a pretender of the faith."

With blinding speed he struck, driving the end of his cross into Indu's chest, the end of it coming out of the man's back and blood splattered onto the floor behind him. "Go now," Shmidt whispered into the dying man's ear as he pushed the Cardinal closer to the edge of the box, zeal shining in his eyes as he smiled. "get thee to thy master in hell."

He threw Indu out of the box, watching as the man fell to the floor below. As a hush came over the crowd Shmidt smirked. "Strike terror into their hearts, O Lord, that the nations may know they are but men." he said, looking around at the shocked faces of the audience, his words echoing around the hall.

Shmidt turned and ran back to the door out of the box, opening it and sprinting down the walkway. Hopefully he would be back to the kitchens before anyone was able to catch him.

Infelcie Sempre (http://pub.paran.com/closedform/AndreasScholl-Ah-chi.mp3)

Filliment went down as a tree, collapsing strait down with a mechanical precession brought upon by such a masterful strike. Indu barely flicked an eye that way but began to back slightly towards the lip of the box, and falter slightly in his step. “You wouldn’t? You can’t you stupid boy; this is above you, have you yet to grasp sacrifice?” His back struck the box and a few audience members began to peer up at the unfolding drama.

“There is no deceit in death,” Indu began to yell to raise some attention, “Offer in thy glory my lord my life, in thy service, and thy name, takith.” It had been intended to be a blood-curdling scream of defiance but between parched lips it was only a croak, and then a blade was through him, splattering his scarlet robes and even more violent shade.

His form, for he was not yet a body, was lifted bodily over the edge of the balcony and hurled into the audience where blood spattered on a few of the more impressionable members of the audience who broke into wild hysterics and began striking about at anything that moved.
--

Colonel Dench sat with a growing expression of anxiety and worry on his face. He had rented out a box for the evening for the very reason of those more advanced on the social ladder, for yet more climbing. Brigadier General Stoffer had accompanied him and stood perched uncomfortably on a chair between Colonel Dench and the Lady Dench, the colonel’s sister, who was some years his junior, and for had been invited for the evening as a convenient cover and perhaps a tactful match for later.

“I do not know why you constantly bring us here, the music is awful, the plot is predictable, and the seats are uncomfortable.” Stoffer complained softly, the acoustics of the ceiling could carry such whispers directly to the stage if left unchecked. He did not seem entirely at lose though, over the evening his chair had been moving slowly towards Lady Dench, and his already red face was filling with blood.

“The opera is class, any way, everyone else is here. We should do everything within our power to ingratiate ourselves to those senior to us.” What was intended was left hanging but all three nodded slightly. “I believe the Abbot of Thint is here as well, and I have been meaning to pay my respects for some time.” Again a nod drifted around the box, and their collective eyes drifted out over the theater to pick up a few white robes amongst the sea of evening dress.

“What was that?” Lady Dench asked delicately as she dropped a pair of opera glasses from her eyes and scanned the back of the box nervously.

“What?”

“A thump. If it is not too forward I would suggest it came from the door sir,” she nodded to her brother who instinctively drew a small hold out pistol from his uniform and returned the nod. And now that they were all listening for it, they heard it again, a thump and then a scream. Then as if on queue, the entire audience began to roar. All three chairs in the box hit the floor at the same time as all three occupants threw themselves to the wall out of site of below. “Keep her safe Stoffer.” Dench sniffed slightly, gripped the doorknob for a second, then shoved it outward with some force. Outside was a motionless stretch of red velvet carpet and gilt laden walls, with not a motion or movement.

As if a propelled by steam pistons a figure, which appeared to be carrying a large cross over one shoulder as it ran, exploded down the hallway dashing to where the kitchens were located. He was sprinting far faster than the legs of Colonel Dench could ever manage, but it was the base instinct of any armed man in authority to chase an armed man who was running away, and before a second neuron could fire the colonel was dashing behind. Doors passed in a dizzy spin of colors and emerging heads, whose questions were dissipated to the wind.

When at last it felt as though his lungs were about to burst, Dench raised his pistol and fired a wild shot in the direction of his quarry, where it shattered a wall fixture, “In the name of the Emperor!” He tried to finish but merely wheezed out a ‘stop’ which he reinforced with another bullet that went wild and shattered most of a chandelier. “I will,” Dench panted, “kill you.”
--

In the manner of one who had learned the score some years ago and no longer cared what the audience thought; the conductor of the opera continued to slice the air with his baton. Most of the orchestra had fallen off the staff but the bloodshot eyes of the conductor kept at least a weak tempo up.

“Sir,” a violinist, who was not needed for some time, approached the podium and gently tugged at the man’s tails, “Cardinal Indu has just been killed and the assassin is escaping.”

“What? What? Really,” a slight glance behind him seemed to confirm the story, “something in minor then.” Without missing a beat the timing was switched a soprano pushed her way to the front of the stage, where a spotlight was trained upon the figure. A smattering of the orchestra began to pick up the new time of screaming and again the opera was playing.

Shmidt stopped as the second bullet struck a chandelier, ramming his cross into the floor and whirling around, both pistols drawn. When he saw who had been chasing him, he smiled. "Colonel Dench. I had a feeling that I would meet you again soon." He slipped the handguns back into their holsters. "In men such as you at least, there is hope."

"Heard that did you?" Slowly his breath was recovering and his gun shook far less now. "Do not attempt to aspire to me through such a memory; you sully it with your actions. His Excellencies body is hardly cooled and you wish to use his works for that," he gestured with his thumb to the theater where pronounced screaming was dying off to general rambling.

"No." Dench took a few steps forward, "I will have none of this and you will come with me, and God will have mercy on you, and then you will burn. Tonight," his drew his pistol and approached with an arm outstretched till they were only about two feet apart, "has not been a good night. The Divine Legion is even now pounding up the stairs behind me, and they will have no such conscious to plead to."

"The man I killed today," Shmidt said, walking forward until the pistol was pressed against his chest. "was a murderer and a fiend. His position as Cardinal was a mockery to our faith and a danger to humanity, I had to kill him to prevent him from doing further harm. Can you honestly say that a man who slaughtered his own congregation merely because they were of the wrong nationality was anything but a monster? Such men cannot be allowed to spread evil in the name of God, and you know that, which is why you are not going to shoot me, and you are not going to arrest me." He was looking straight into Dench's eyes, his smile gone. "For you are not an abomination like the late Cardinal."

"If you think, for a moment that a stare and a hard word will dissuade me from my duty then you are sadly mistaken. I have looked into far deeper depths and seen the devil himself stare back." He tried to pull the trigger but a little voice in his head urged him to continue. "I read the reports," he said more quietly. "In some cases I was there when they were written." With a muscular memory all to it's own the Colonel's hand began to shake and he felt and uncharacteristic feeling, quite like the torch which had so long ago been shoved into his hand, and he had done his 'duty'

"I," he stuttered and began to drop his gun ever so slightly, "Wanted to say something, to do anything, abort the action ram our plane into a mountain. But you can't, you can't say it." His face has gone white, and his eyes were glazing over in some long lost memory. "There comes a time when," the thundering of boots was becoming apparent and a few shouted commands could be heard, "you simply do not want to see the pain anymore, and worse than that do not want to see the pleasure in it, the Church. And at that time... You just stop." He faltered again and slumped, "the Divine Legion will be here in a few seconds. Maybe you can make it outside before they searched the kitchens; God knows I can't stop you, maybe only he can. Just run and be gone and be thankful you are not amongst the damned."

Shmidt smiled as one who has just witnessed something they considered beautiful and wonderful. "I knew he was right in choosing you." He said, taking out the copy of the diary that he had been carrying with him and stuffign it into a pocket of Dench's coat. "The writings of the Hegemon." He said, turning back to his cross. he wrenched it out of the floor, twisting it as the blades that were jutting out of it folded back inside. He then swung it, striking Dench in the head and knocking him over. As the first Legionnaires came into view he turned and ran, dashing for the kitchen door.

As he ran through the kitchens, bullets whizzed by him. He ducked around a corner, waiting for his pursuers to catch up. As the first came into view he swung his cross.

Several moments later Shmidt stood, two empty pistols in his hands, dead Legionnaires surrounding him. He stood for a moment, panting. That was a lot harder than I expected. He thought, looking at one of the dead soldiers. The way they threw themselves at me, such courage and willingess to sacrifice themselves, it is a pity they were on the wrong side. He bent down to close the guard eyes, before standing up and continuing through the kitchens. Behind counters the kitchen staff that had not already fled cowered, hiding from Shmidt. He exited the building through the staff entrance, dissappearing down an alley as he made his way to an old abandoned building where he had stashed some clean clothes.

New Scenes of Joy (http://www.valeriodistefano.com/mp3/lieberson/09-Theodora%20-%20New%20scenes%20of%20joy%20-%20Lorraine%20Hunt%20Lieberson.mp3)

“What need of we to have our sins expunged? In what capacity is any entity capable of removing our transgressions? How many, in the name of salvation, have pled for even a quantum of solace? When one is pushed, pushed to the edge, and left on the very cusp of death only to be assured of salvation or death is it only then that must question their faith? Throughout your life, from the cradle to you grave, from conception to the ultimate end there will be but one certainty filling your mind, The wicked are punished, the meek glorified, that which is dark within you enlightened. And then there is the mind apart, that which cannot, through the course of its existence allow such a fallacy of action and intent. A dichotomy and paragon of words to serve none other than the devil himself.

But there is a third mind, one which assures the other two, one which must protect and defend the others; a mind which must comfort and deny. It allows the minor tortures of the flesh to exist for the penultimate rescue and liberation of the soul from its mortal cage. And it must, in the name of preservation, say nothing of the spiraling flames, and never speak of the desperation of man. For it commits not to soul or reason, but to the pure animal instinct of survival, and should the hurled spear or swung sword support such an ends then humanity takes its part in the preservation of the one against the whole.

That is the mind apart, the mind of fear, which speaks not of voices in our head or passions within our heart but to the arm and to the hatred, which no matter our nature swims below a thin veil of illusion within us.

We must in consequence study humanity and its components, and in such overrule the part of us, which speaks of fear, or of hate, and so readily urges the world to violence. It is human nature; we are animals and must kill or be killed. To become men we cast such shackles aside. “[/CENTER]

An Excerpt from the Journal of The Hegemon


“You took quite a wallop to the head. You’re lucky you survived; you’re also lucky you aren’t in the Divine Legion, it’s been a bad day for them thus far.” A pair of spectacles perched upon a rotund nose seemed to speak in a pleasant enough voice as a pair of scissors cut some bandages away from Colonel Dench’s forehead. “There we are. I’m afraid you’ll look like a soft-boiled egg for a few months, but you still have a head. Whoever hit you gave you quite a precise blow, no brain damage I’m sure, but we'll send you in for a CAT scan anyway.”

“I thought,” Dench tried to rise but his head turned a blistering pinpoint of pain and he fell back against the slab, “the Church had banned those?”

“This is the Chapel of St. Sansal; we are in the Church. You guess? Would you like any tea; I think I have some somewhere.” The figure, which as it departed, hove into view and appeared to be a quite pleasantly dressed man of the Pallonian minority which ha emigrated to the Empire before the collapse of the Littorol family. Their skin was generally tan and they spoke slowly, in an entirely relaxed way, which put most Waldenburgers who view speech as words to be hammered together off their step.

“What is the date?” Dench asked as he slumped up the medical bed into at least a sitting position.

“April the third.” A chink of cup on saucer reminded the colonel how thirsty he was, and when the tea arrived he slammed it down his throat in one gulp. “It is a lucky thing I made a whole pot.” The cup disappeared again and from somewhere around the small infirmary more chinking came. With the hunger memories came flying back, though it had only been an evening since his head had been smashed in, the last events were blurred; one however stuck out. With a speed that might of startled the doctor Dench’s hand shot to his coat pocket and grab a wad of paper, which aided his recovery more than any medicine.

“You are a Pallonian,” Dench stated flatly as the doctor disentangled himself from a sterile curtain and replaced the steaming cup.

“Yes,” he sat primly on a stool beside the bed, “What gives it away?” They both laughed.

“What though possessed you to come here? The war I assume?”

“The Pallonian Civil War? I’ve seen worse here I’m afraid. In Paloni we called a war ten months of random shelling, parliamentary disagreement and air raids a catastrophe. It would appear here having a member of the Council of Bishops and eight Divine Legionaries being killed at the opera barely make the news. No, war has little to do with my profession. The motto of my old college, Unde adiumentum subico opus, ‘Where help is needed most,’ gives me a clear indication of the need of my services.”

There was a lot to be heard in the tone of voice, to anyone listening it could very well be a gentle statement on the many enemies that surround Waldenburg and the willingness of the one man to make himself useful, or it could contain a more hidden view. A gentle touch to the eyes suggested the later.

Dench left the subject alone for the moment though, “I do not believe I caught your name?”

“No,” a bright smile, “Nikola Daquan, PHD, MD, VCB, OMT at your service.”

“You are licensed to practice phrenology? “

“No that’s ONT, although I could write a book from where I’m sitting. Don’t bother introducing yourself, Colonel Dench, military attaché to Prince Ruprecht. I hear they plan on giving you a medal for last night’s work.”

“Bah. He escaped. I’ll be happy if I make it out with legs to stand on.”

“Indeed.” Nikola smiled and withdrew from his pocket a tin of biscuits, which he popped open and mulled them over for a moment before passing them out. For some time they chew and slurped till the doctor raised his head slightly and gave a weak smile, “My grandmother was killed when the Empire bombed Wittenschau.”

The colonel’s mind raced. He vaguely remembered the operation some six years previous where a flight of bombers had secured the boarder by annihilating almost everything that moved within ten miles of the line. It had been called a preemptive defense, and it was only learned later that most of the ‘soldiers’ massing on the border had been refugees waiting to pour over to safety. “I’m sorry.”

Nikola ignored this, as people often do when laying out their problems, “I realize, as a doctor, so many people are killed in these tragedies, it is improbable someone is not robbed of their family but one can never expect it. I don’t know why she was trying to cross over, we had a long string of relatives in less war torn parts of the country where she would have been more than safe, but something possessed her to seek out the ultimate security.” Like most peoples of the former Waldenburger Empire, Paloni was a strictly Catholic population, although their views were generally considerably moderated by distance and culture from those of the Basilica of St. Michaels. “I went through your pockets.” He held up a calming hand, “you were bleeding on everything. I put it all back. But I could not hope but notice one thing, in fact your hand was clenched around it in what we in the medical profession call a ‘death grip.’ I read it.”

For such a simple sentence it took a great deal of time to sink in and for the ramifications to be felt. “Now I know I am an excellent doctor; there is little which escapes my eye or my scalpel, and someday I will be recognized for that. What is your calling Colonel?”

“In nature as in me there is a more secret volition than that which meets the eye.” Any commonality or mutual feeling in the room had vanished in a moment, and both men were now testing the other. “It is perhaps to die in service that is my ultimate calling.”

“In what service?”

“As you, to humanity.”

“Outside, even now, the dark guard and your army are scouring the city for your mystery assassin. On occasion you can even hear the tanks. They serve humanity as well I am told."

“Not for long doctor not for so much longer.”

Propter Veritaem (http://music.jnu.edu.cn/MPfiles/MP1/Anci/GREGOR1/18%20Propter%20Veritatem,%20gradual.mp3)

“And in the name of the Holy Father, his Son, and the Holy Spirit we do confer upon thee the rank and duties of Archbishop of Rudyt, primate of the Holy Church patriarch of the Cathedral of St. Stephen and Defender of the Faith. Adixious..” Sound reverberated from the great-pillared halls of the Convocation chamber where the Cenobiarch, in simple white robes conferred upon his newest prince of the Church his pallium and miter. Throm knelt in a meter long pool of light, which lanced gracefully from a great stained pane of St. Ceno placing the Crown of Thorns upon the head of the first Emperor.

It was by ancient custom anyone could attend these events, however only a few desultory shadows haunted the mews and only the columns of chanting monks made much contribution to the atmosphere. And in a moment and a twinkling of the eye is was over, and also according to ancient tradition the onlookers filled out to leave the temporal and spiritual head of the Church alone with his servant. For sometime they simply eyed each other, each subconsciously waiting for the click of the sides doors.

“You have preformed a great service to the Church. The League is shattered, the Hegemon is dead, the Holy Citadel is strengthened” Bells began to clang out the hour elsewhere amongst the cathedral as Harold Thousis, the Cenobiarch, picked up his staff and motioned for Throm to follow. “I have need of such diligent servants; experienced bishops are difficult… to attain in this day and age, and though Dr. Retirun has his uses they are secret backdoor uses which I would hesitate to present them to the world. And with the most unfortunate passing of Cardinal Indu, may God rest his soul, there is a certain lack amongst the Church hierarchy of administrative heads.” A long set of spiral stairs was leading inexorably upward.

“I believe,” the Cenobiarch spoke over his shoulder as he pushed open a set of plain wood doors which entirely failed to prepared any enterer for the grandeur of the room which was so heavily decorated with gold and silver the weak light which was pouring in from high windows was almost blinding. Throm had never been in this room and his neck craned up to confirm the rumors, and indeed at the pinnacle of the room a ceiling of black marble, luminous in its contrast, and upon that picked out with pearls and silver filigree the entirety of the heavens . Oddly, for the room was considerably old, Earth sat placed in the middle a radiant emerald molded with sapphire. “You served as a prelate under then Bishop Indu? And indeed if I recall correctly were instrumental in the overthrow of the Deranged Priests of Ur?”

“They were not all that deranged, but yes your Imminence.”

“Indeed but their gassing spared many thousands of Imperial soldiers their lives. It was a wise decision and though some would say,” he head nodded in looking for a word, “morally grey, the ultimate ends of such a choice were quite practical. And again and again you have proven yourself worthy of such comment and elevation. So I wish to propose something to, and you need not accept directly or for fear of reprisal in a negative response but please consider my words. We stand at a troubling intersect, the War of the Grand Alliance behind us, and another is but rearing its head over the horizon. Paloni is in rebellion again, our clergy are being assassinated under our very nose, public opinion is against us as it is against he plague, and need I continue? There is a special need for men such as you, men without hesitation or leniency in which dictating the will of the Church to the people. My time is nearly over,”

“Surely,” the Cenobiarch held up a hand to stop the outburst.

He continued in a tired voice, “I have some years left but I have sat in the White Throne for thirty years, longer than any contemporary Cenobiarch, and I realize if I am not dying I thoroughly deserve to be. I am not buried yet Your Grace however one must see to his progeny before the end. So I must ask you, in defense of the Church and all we hold dear, will you take up the cross? Within the basement of this Cathedral, and within the Holy Basilicas across the seas resides a body of men, a legion not divine or serene, but a Dark Legion, one for the enforcement of noble ends. It acts independently of the Church and of the Army and indeed of myself.”

The archbishop grappled with his robes for sometime, “To what ends?”

“The crushing of revolutionary and heretical elements in whatever way you see fit. Of course to limit such powers you are few in numbers, however you are free of oversight, and of meddling eyes. Of course we will have men amongst your ranks to insure loyalty, however…” The Cenobiarch trailed off and his eyes wandered around the room to wall fixtures.

“Your Imminence,” it was a defining moment, and Throm stood shaking to bow from the waste, “It would be an honor."

The room was near pitch-black as Shmidt sat motionless, listening to the sounds of soldiers marching around outside. The building had once been a diner, but had been abandoned some time ago. Now the interior was in near complete darkness, broken only by tiny rays of light that shone through the boards that covered the windows. Shmidt sat at the bottom of a flight of stairs, motionless as he listened to the footsteps of Divine Legionnaires as they searched the city for him. He had entered the building by carefully removing the boards from a window the day before, replacing them once he had gone inside so that there was no change in the building's appearance from the outside. Beside the door and several windows explosive charges had been set, the detonators in Shmidt's pocket. He sat, his cross laying over his lap as he pondered the contents of the book he ahd given Dench, simultaneously listening for soldiers. As he heard a group of footsteps grow closer, he tensed slightly and began watching the windows and door intently.

One day had gone by in a flurry and rage had followed upset and the Imperial Army and the Divine Legion were once again combing the city for rebels. The situation was reminiscent of the Troubles some years ago when one similar terrorist had lead to the deaths of thousands and a dramatic overhaul of the system. Unlike before citizens were herded away from streets being searched and streets sealed with armor to prevent, what is know in military circles as 'the bucket and mop routine.

A small detachment of the Divine Legion, out for blood in retribution of their brothers scoured the streets and bustled with a strutting anger. The streets alongside the Imperial Opera House were barely considered for search parties; it was generally considered foolish to look in the first place you lost a dangerous terrorist on the almost assured basis that he would not be there.

A platoon had never the less assigned to the street and were peering in windows and shaking doorknobs up and down the avenue. Baron Plumly, a distant cousin of a distant cousin to the Emperor, and thus below such labor studied the graceful curvature to the street and made several notes as his men reported back to him. "Thank you Corporal." Some officer who he would remember the name of in half a minute, handed him some note which he glanced over slightly. "What?"

"Are we moving or are we going through every house?" The corporal asked.

"You know the orders, the Cenobiarch wishes this done properly, and though this hardly looks like a den of sedition." Plumly shrugged his shoulders and patted his pockets for the box of cigars which he kept about his person for such assignments. Finding one he leaned back against a wall. A sharp sensation stung his back and he jerked forward. Upon looking a lone nail stuck from a series of boards hammered at angles over the windows of a nondescript building that seemed entirely run down. No one knew exactly why it was a requirement to hammer large angular pieces of wood across open orifices, but that was life. "Blasted nail," he rubbed some life into his back irritably. Then as if some cosmic force had hit him, and the implications of this fired a neuron in his brain.

"Forward the Legion!" Plumly Screamed and almost knocked his corporal over. From across the street soldiers began to scramble forward. "Why is there a nail on the outside?" He scrabbled as his belt for a saber which he drew and handed to his adjutant. "Corporal," the man looked astonished, "pry that open. Platoon ready arms!" With a hesitant step the corporal advanced and rammed the saber between two boards and began to pry.

Shmidt sighed as he listened to the man shouting. I kenw I should have gotten shorter nails. Ah well, I suppose it cant be avoided now. He took the detonator out of his pocket and turned a small key on it. The charges that had been placed near the openings to the outside beeped once.

Explosions ripped into the street outside as large portions of the building were destroyed. bits of nail and boards were sprayed outward as most of the bottom floor was transforemd into a fireball. Shmidt stood up, sheilding his eyes for a moment against the sudden light. As the initial blast ended, smoke and debris hung in the air, obscuring the area as scattered small fires burned. Shmidt calmly brushed a bit of plaster off of his shoulder, and took a pair of earplugs out of his ears. He could hear a ringing even so, and the force of the blast had nearly knocked him over despite his having been sheilded by the stairway. He picked up his cross, and silently made his way to one of the now gaping holes in the building's wall. He began down the street, still keeping as quiet as possible.

Bodies were thrown like paper dolls in the face of a hurricane and the closer Legionnaires hit the street with a disconcerting splatting. Nails and splinters, up to a foot long had buried themselves in men and buildings. A few of the more luckless soldiers had even been set on fire, and they ran screaming about the street with a mental clarity that escaped some of the other guardsmen. Baron Plumly had been spared by being behind one of those under him who had a considerable length of wood protruding from his eye.

"Legion," he stumbled around a bit before his focus settled on a white figure darting out of the gutted building. A pistol was raised to eye height and fired at one of the many spiraling figures running from the scene. A few of the bullets seemed to get close and shattered windows along the path the man ran.

"Legion," a few standing men had regained their balance and were rubbing their heads, "to horse." Plumly mumbled. In a dull haze, and with painstaking slowness, the seven remaining men clattered to the end of the street where a few mounts stood skittishly and a open topped jeep idled. Plumly keyed on his radio and paused for a moment forgetting exactly how speech worked, "Um... We need reinforcements, by the Opera House um.. 27th Lancers should do." And Plumly waved a finger around, "Gunships! lots of gunships!" The radio died and the baron nodded to the driver of the jeep who after a few false starts found the accelerator.

Shmdit ran now down a street, heading south through the city. As he ran, he heard the faint sound of helicopter blades in the distance, and frowned. After two minutes of running he slowed, looking behind him to ensure that no pursuers were visible. Seeing that there were none, he approached a house, knocking on the door.

The bishop Jonathan Green had been sitting in his kitchen, sipping coffee, when he heard a faint knock on his door. he walked to the door, opening it slightly. "They found you then?" He whispered, upon seeing who had knocked.

"Yes." Shmidt said impatiently. "Let me in, I dont know if they are pursuing me or not."

"Alright, get in here." Green said, opening the door wider so that SHmdit could enter. "Still lugging that old cross around I see." He continued, locking the door behind him.

"It is my penance." Shmidt replied with a slightly mournful tone.

"Well it wont help you be inconspicuous." The bishop said, leading Shmidt further into the house.

The travel of the platoon was erratic, a few of the horses, on insane promptings from their riders would on occasionally smash into glass fronted stores in reaction to a faintly glimpsed reflection. When it became clear that no assassin was forthcoming the riders would simply urge their horses through the windows and back into the street, saber or pistols loosening the glass. Up ahead there was a thoroughfare, one leading to St. Patris Square, and the other leading south, eventually to the river, where the townhouses of the wealthy clustered.

In a reduced frame of mind Plumly waved the convoy south. Overtime, or as the two or three most concussed members fell of their horses, the party began to regain higher brain functions.

This part of town was known, rather colloquially as the 'Mitered Boulevard', and was home to most of the Abbot nephews and relatives of the Church, who had through osmosis come to this second best amongst the elite. Heads poked out of doors, and a few robes were evident as bemused faces either stared down the approaching jeep or keenly inspected the clouds of smoke billowing about four blocks north. This street however ended, in a pleasant sweep of oak trees at the river's edge.

"Ughh." The baron slapped his head meaningfully; though he would never say, and never harbored feelings of doubt about the Church, their presence always muddled investigation. Either by their willingness to arrest practically anything that moved or by an airy disregard for simple forensic rules, and often the Night Police were interrupted by a elderly Bishop wandering about a crimes scene, reading any papers that took their fancy and then wandering out. "Cor-" he paused remembering, "Private. The lancers will be here soon. We can't order anything without search warrants. So go door to door and ask if anyone saw anything strange." Overhead the whirl of helicopter blades and a sparkling searchlight suggested that High Command was taking this very seriously. "Order cordons off on the streets. No body goes thorugh without proper identification. And though I know this won't do anything, put a request to the Church so we may begin searching these houses." He paused in his speech and nodded reverentially to the head of Bishop sticking from a neat timber door frame, "Your Grace, Good evening. Have you seen anything suspicious lately?"

"Well there was an explosion..." The man's tone clearly suggested that this was not his problem and he had no intent of doing anything.

"Can we have a look around your house?" The door slammed without another word leaving a Plumly amongst the tattered remnants of his former squad. "For the moment keep observations." He waved his hand irratably to a gathering crowd of soldiers and policemen.

“So by what are our chains broken? Of indeed are they ever shattered? Are they merely reformed to more elegant social standards or do they retain the brutal iron of before? Men say they want freedom, justice equality and liberty, but what they need is truth. A truth to guide them, to lead them, to comfort them and in time to burry them. Justice may last only a day, equality for a certain measure of social mobility but a measured truth may last a lifetime.

Speak to man about God and of heavenly hierophants and he is cowed in the face of their glory, speak of demons and terrible hellfire and they will bend at the knee. With the truth, with one noble truth may break all lies asunder and shake the world to its roots. Light a fire upon a man’s flesh for your convictions and he burns in the moment, light his soul on fire and he burns for eternity. There is a smoldering flame in all men to push aside the darkness, and it is constantly in battle with those who would extinguish it with a hotter flame. And though the lies are softer on the ears it is the truth that must be maintained and guarded underground and away from those ears, which for so long have grown accustomed to the darkness.

Then there is the peddler of truth….”

And Excerpt From the Journal of the Hegemon

Lacy curtains billowed about the open windows as wimpled nuns wound their way through the cloisters occasionally stopping at a bedside and rearranging linens or feeling foreheads. It had been three days since Dench had been moved from the Church’s private hospital to this more public one, and placed in a nearly empty ward. Beds stretched for meters along the airy room where midday sun spilled in and cast a pleasant shadow of the shady trees directly outside.

“Colonel,” the prioress, a woman of some considerable proportions that wore the cassock of her order with a heavy duty belt around her middle, “you have a few visitors. Dr. Daquan is amongst them.” Three men were already sauntering down the long avenue created by the sick beds and nodded their heads to the few sisters tending to the infirm.

“Charlotte,” Dr. Daquan, in his normal debonair demeanor approached and pressed a bouquet of the spindly desert lilac into her hands, “It has been too long.” He wrapped his arms around the women, who besides her vows blushed slightly.

“It has only been about sixteen hours doctor.” She mumbled. It was perfectly clear that the flowers would grow wild over most of the desert, and indeed did, but she would always find a vase for them.

“An eternity,” Daquan bowed; his tailcoat bobbed slightly and his smile caused a deeper blush on the part of the prioress. After a certain amount of smiling the prioress demurely walked away leaving Dench and his three visitors alone. After a great deal of shuffling some chairs were assembled and Brigadier Stoffer, Dr. Daquan and an unknown man, whom wore a military uniform, rested within a foot of the colonel.

“And what was that doctor?” Dench asked and raised an eyebrow at the back of the retreating prioress.

“I cannot help it,” the Doctor removed a clipboard from an attaché case, and clicked open a pen, “she reminds me of my grandmother. This,” he nodded to the unknown man, “is Captain Lindly, Stoffers aide de camp. He is with us.” There was some shaking of hands and general greetings.

“I believe,” Stoffer started at his usual booming volume, and then at a rapid hand signal from Dench quieted to as close to a whisper as the man could handle, “ you said there were some papers you wanted to show us. You left us rather abruptly at the opera house.”

“Of course,” Dench whispered and reached into a pocket. It was no longer the original that was passed up, but a meticulous copy made by Daquan some nights earlier; the original was locked in a wall safe in Daquan’s house. It took nearly twenty minutes for them to read through it the first time and nearly a half hour for the second time. There was no rush, and somewhere outside a bird began to sing a chirping song.

“The Hegemon wrote this?” Stoffer asked after awhile.

“I believe so. The man who hit me said ‘he was right in choosing you.’” Dench responded softly

“Did the Hegemon ever visit Waldenburg or the Empire?”

“Not to my knowledge. And I studied this in depth before seeking you out General. At the peace signing there was something…” Dench waved his hands around looking for the word, “clairvoyant about him. He knew a treaty would be signed, and he knew he was about to die. And he knows…” he pointed to the papers in the General’s hands, “how it ends.”

“I’m not taken in,” Captain Lindly scoffed, “I came because the Brigadier said there was something to this. So far all I hear is coincidence and conjecture. The ”

“That is it!” Dench slapped his hand against the bed, “the Hegemon does not say ‘do not believe in God’ he says believe in men first. In what we are capable and we should never ever bow to the ‘desperation of man.”

“You want to ride to revolution behind this?” Lindly asked incredulously, “It is correct; it’s rhetoric, and though I, and the country are ready for change we won’t find it in this. The Church is corrupt, it is evil; I know more than most, but this cannot change anything.”

“Is it revolution Colonel?” Stoffer asked quietly, “Do we speak of revolution?”

The room, in a sense of foreboding grew quiet, the birds ceased to chirp, the creak of bed springs ceased, though no one could hear the conversation the world polarized around it. “We do.”

“So, you are the peddler of truth?” Lindly asked snidely.

“No. I am a soldier.”

A movement of air suggested that a figure had moved into range and the creak of leather broke the silence of the room, “and I,” the prioress appeared from behind a set of curtains in movement so silent for a women of her size that the group sat dumbfounded around the bed, “have very good ears. I could not help,” she blushed again, “but overhear. Perhaps I can help?”

Viatictum in Domino (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/20a12.wma)

“In that time, in that place, there was a great agony and discord amongst nations. On the edge of desert and in the souls of men; all peoples walked in a great darkness. In their midst walked a prophet, a chosen one of God, and through their agony he saw a great light. Its meaning was not revealed, and he was told to search the world for its source. He walked amongst the deserts and the seas of sand and could not find the great light. As his life came to a close, and death sat ready to sting, his heart could no longer strain through such wickedness, which infected man. He took four and twenty sinners to the Great Mountain and made his great light.”

The Book of Ceno 1:1

Cold stone steps spiraled down, tier after tier, through basements so disused and uncared for quite a large bat population had arisen and flourished only to be eventually wiped out by the increasing populations of wolves. Two stoic members of the Inquisition had seen him down the first thirteen floors, now however he was left to forge forward on his own with only a lantern and a niggling sense of claustrophobia. He was told that floors below this were from the first basilica built some two thousand years earlier, that had once dominated a small hill but now was under so much dirt and the new Basilica.

“Sir,” a whispered carried for miles underground it seemed and for a moment Throm, in full regalia, had to pause and stare at the darkness for the shape to be revealed as a small friar dressed in an almost entirely black robe huddled underneath an arch. “Here Your Grace.” Throm rushed down the remaining steps to the man, and had to restrain himself from grasping the man. “Your office awaits you.”

Pressing at a nondescript brick in the wall, oiled latches sprang up and on a gentle pull the door swung open under the archway.

“Shouldn’t,” Throm asked as he stepped through into a well-lit room where fluorescent bulbs hung over a linoleum floor, “there be some dark inscription above the doorway?”

“There is Your Grace,” the man said mildly.

“Oh, I didn’t see anything.”

“Exactly sir.” A plain, but ultimately thick steel door was swung open to a room, which matched the sterile interior of the foyer. Every piece of furniture was white plastic, barring a small wooden cross hung on the far wall. “Your office sir. There is a button on the desk should you need anything.” The man made as if to leave, but a restraining hand from Throm pulled him back.

“I didn’t catch your name?”

“No you did not. It is Anthony sir.”

“And where is everybody else? All I have seen so far is plastic walls, yourself, and my office. I was told there were nearly ten thousand men in this department.”

“Ten thousand three hundred and six, including yourself. Eighty percent are overseas at the moment, pulling our assets out of Greston and rearranging what we have left in Barronia. The rest of the staff is in the offices behind and down the hall. I shall arrange a tour after lunch.”

“Capital.” Throm’s hand shot out again as it caught Anthony before he could leave again, “What is first on our agenda?”

“Your Grace?” Anthony asked, his eyebrows knitting in perplexity.

“Surely there is something that needs my attention?”

“What would you like to need your attention your Grace?”

Jonathan Green walked down the stairway to his basement, carrying a tray of food. This basement was not dark or damp, but had been made into a small library. Bookshelves lined the walls, and several lamps provided ample light for the room. In the center was a rug with a large and comfy looking chair on it. Green placed the tray down on a small table next to the chair, and walked to one of the bookcases, lifting up a corner and with considerable effort moving it away from the wall. he pushed at the wall behind it, which gave way to reveal another small room.

Shmidt smiled as the bishop entered, and tore into the food that was placed before him. "So," he asked, "Are they still searching for me with the same fervor they have been thus far?"

"It appears so." Green said, taking half a sandwich and biting into it. "They were gonna try and search the houses here, though I doubt they will get approval from the church to do so. I recommend you stay here for a bit longer until things have died down in this area, then I'll see what I can do to get you out of the country."

"Why Jonathan," Shmdit said, smiling, "whoever said I intended to leave Waldenburg?"

OOC: follow up coming soon

Walks silently about the world and sees the depravity so developed and pronounced it has changed men. There will always be bad men, but these bad men turn others for fear of reprisal and fear of the unknown. It is no longer enough. It is no longer sufficient to oppose them in the mind, or by silent deed. So in the time of need a prophet will arise; he will not carry the word of God, but the word of man to his fellow brothers. His is a holy man, but he is no man of God, he is a man of devotion, but he has never worn a cassock, he is a cleric but he does not wear a collar. It is perhaps sometimes impossible to speak the truth so such men must on occasion carrying it with them as they carry the sword.

It is said that first then there was nothing, and then there was light; this is true, but it did not occur in the past but it is in the making on every field and home. And when it comes, oh rapturous days, open your eyes o’ people of the earth and shout for, a prophet walks amongst you, and with his arrival do all evils fall away. And those we thought so saintly upon wooden thrones are revealed in a true light and fall away with the old world. Peddler of truths, soldier of the King, reader of true writ, arise.

Weep tyrants and despots, corrupters of men, defilers of the soul my brother comes!

Excerpt of the Journal of The Hegemon


“Of course we must be candid, but we can certainly not recruit members by osmosis and hearsay.” Daquan shook his head and slapped the table irritably and looked down to the center chair where Dench sat, toying with his ring. The hospital had become a great resource and through a few rummages the group had found an old boardroom, now disused and thick with cobwebs. A few chairs had been moved in, but the lights remained switched off. Prioress Charlotte Duban had organized the meeting and Brigadier Stoffer, his aide, Daquan and obviously Dench and his sister were arranged around a circular table with a few trifles scattered across the table.

“My sisters,” the Prioress stated mildly, “can be relied upon.”

“And how many are there? How many may be relied upon?” Daquan snapped back.

“We, by tradition do not have dialogue with the Cenobiarch or the hierarchy, more accurately they do not speak with us; we are entirely autonomous and we speak freely amongst ourselves. We have in the past discussed options on this issue, especially during the Troubles. We patched up many of the victims, and…”

“What was left of them, yes, as did I. Are your sisters the revolutionary types though? Can they storm barricades or fight street to street with their teeth against the Divine Legion?”

“No, we have sworn away from all violence.” Charlotte said calmly, “But all prisoners who are not convicted by the Inquisition pass through our hospice. Every ‘enemy of the Church’ will be funneled through our wards and perhaps will be amenable to a little treason when we hold the bandages?” There was a few moments of silence; it was an ancient tradition that the Inquisition, when not finding its victims guilty gave them a shilling, a hot meal, and any medical attention which they needed. Usually few were ever removed from the pits of the Inquisition but those that were often needed some considerable attention and the various hospitable orders were often doing some considerably business.

“How many,” Lady Dench, from behind a small paper fan asked timidly, “were admitted last week?”

“Thirty seven. We have well over two hundred in the wards. At a word we could have a word with them, and the other sisterly orders. It may not seem like it Colonel, but we do travel; we are some of the few. I have friends in some of the territories and acquaintances across the Old Empire; they sit not so timidly under the throne of the Cenobiarch.”

“ I too,” Lady Dench continued, “before the troubles spent much of my time abroad. In Paloni, at the conservatories, before the Ausbachs back, the entire region is a hotbed of sedition, or at least it was. I shall send a few letters and see if the mentality has remained. On the matter of resources however we shall be little use. The family lost all of its titles and estates some years before the Sixth Grey War, and though we retained the house and the right of arms we are living on my brother’s salary.”

“We have our army,” Lindly, from Stoffer’s side scoffed, “perhaps we should worry about provisioning it later? When we have more than six members? Should we not be planning our revolutionary activities? How far do we intend to extend ourselves?”

All heads instinctively turned to Dench who bite his lip at the sudden wave of attention, “General Stoffer what is your exact department? I understand you were needed in some capacity at the first Battle of the Western Seas? Why?”

“Um.. Marine Liaison to the Third Fleet. Why?

“And what exactly do you do?”

“See that my marines are being taken care of while aboard ship, seeing they get everything they need all that.”

“Could you say distribute a pamphlet to the ships departing for war?”

“Not while retaining my head in its current place no.” Stoffer snorted at the very implication of the idea. “I thought we were going to blow something up.”

“If we do we are simply another terrorist group, if we wish to talk then we are worthy of being listened to. How many men are on your staff?”

“Twenty three, including myself, and the paper carriers.”

“Is your second in command trust worthy?” Dench seemed to be leading up to something and the occupants of the room spent some time flicking their eyes between the two speakers.

“Absolutely.”

“Would he see that pamphlets were distributed, and more importantly would he disappear if we could assure him safety in Paloni should he do so?”

Stoffer nodded to himself then turned his head to Lindly who was growing paler by the moment, “Would you Captain? For me, the Empire and hard baked treacle?”

“General, it is my entire career on the line, I can never come back to the Empire.”

“You’re already a traitor,” the General placed his hands above the table in a conciliatory manner, “will you do it?”

“Yes General. Yes I will."

“And it was the birth of the Church; the coalescent advent of God into earthy and temporal mandate. It was the beginning of civilization and the end of uncertainty.”

The Book of Ceno 1:2

The office of Liaison to the Third Fleet was nearly empty at this time of night; Lindly had wasted little time in ordering, through a foreign printer, three hundred thousand pamphlets and via a printing work in the nunnery had produced a small van’s load of tightly packed envelopes. Likewise Brigadier Stoffer had taken little time in announcing his vacation to the high command; before tonight he had never bothered to take one he calculated he was due approximately three consecutive years in leave and had no problems arranging a furlough. After hurriedly packing a small valise he had met his second on the steps of his home.

“This is very brave of you Lindly; We’ll have plane tickets for your transport to Paloni waiting under the name of Albert Thurgman. You will be flown to Wittenschau, I know I know, war zone, but it was the closest. There you will meet Daquan’s brother, his is considerably devout so tell him nothing, but he will drive you to meet me in Throppe.” Stoffer shook his aide’s hand solemnly and slipped into his grasp a sleek cavalry pistol. Lindly didn’t say anything but rather saluted crisply and turned his back away towards the idling van.
--

“Captain?” A clerk asked as the front doors of Third Fleet Headquarters banged open and Lindly strode in. “What are you doing here so late?”

“Is the fleet still docked?” the tone was dark and sullen suggesting at any moment that the captain could snap into a fit of rage.

“Yes sir. Till tomorrow morning. Where is General Stoffer?”

“He’s gone on holiday, not sure when he’ll be back but I have the floor till then. So no better time than the present; get a few of your mates in here; there’s a van load of pamphlets out there get them to the logistics dockside. Latest news of religion,” he responded to probing eyes and then nodded his head to the door, “now private.” The work was painstaking Lindly imagined, struggling under the overstuffed boxes, where the tightly folded leaflets would occasionally drift to the floor and a few confused minutes would be needed to pick them up.

Captain Lindly watched all of this with mounting tension; it was nearly three o’ clock and still the work dragged on, box after box rolled through the office. “How many are left?” The captains snapped at a laden corporal traveling towards the small tram, which took War Ministry propaganda keyside. “Sent the first train ahead; could have put more on but didn’t want to risk them flying everywhere.”

“Good thinking. Put this one on and then we are all owed a night of sleep. Report at ten hundred tomorrow of course.” Lindly stood and stretched, his legs creaking from the movement.

Air movements he thought later, bloody air movements. As he stood one of the thousand or so pamphlets drifted to the ground and unlike all the others burst its fine wax seal. With a sigh, and a strangled growl from Captain Lindly, the corporal let down the box to reach down and pick up the paper. His eyes must have caught a paragraph as they stayed locked there for sometime, and moved down the page. Lindly however wasted little time and had pulled the cavalry pistol from his holster, and just as the corporal was looking up in astonishment, fired a round straight through his chest. Running now, the captain grabbed the box and dashed to where the last tram, nearly full was preparing to depart. Two soldiers, hands hovering at holsters poked their heads from around the a wall and for their troubles received a few bullets to the chest and ballistic captain rushing past them. Luckily the tram was automated and all the captain had to do was slap the last box inside and pull the lever. Its arrival had already been wired ahead and hopefully it would be loaded onto the warships with the minimum amount of bother.

“Thurgman,” he whispered to himself again and again as he stacked the bodies in a discreet corner and generally tidied up the room. It was only two hours till the plane left and his car had been left at home tonight. At a nonchalant walk the captain headed for the doors and began to flip off the lights. With a creak the great front doors open; and outside was smiling member of the Divine Legion who was just about to knock.
--

“Did he talk Inquisitor?” Archbishop Thom had been roused from his bed when a white faced and perpetual awake member of the Dark Legion flicked into his sterile plastic room. Apparently there had been some sort of rebellious officer caught after a triple homicide and this demanded his attention. At first he had dismissed it, but then after a few moments of hearing the excuses had order the Experimental Theology department to the dungeons.

“Yes sir,” an elderly gentleman snapped off a pair of latex gloves and tossed them expertly into a trashcan. “Told us everything; we believe.”

“And what does that entail?”

“He, by an order of underground mystics, was ordered to hand out several hundred thousand anti-Church pamphlets to the fleet. It had not been intended for him to shoot his former staff however they had discovered the plot midway through and needed to be dealt. Our security cameras of course caught it all and we dispatched a company. Oh, the man’s name is Captain Lindley, of Brigadier Stoffer’s staff.”

“Where is Brigadier Stoffer have we spoken with him?”

“No your Grace. We left a phone message for him at his hotel in Paloni. He left sometime ago for Throppe on Tyne, his only vacation in a decade I’m lead to believe. Do to the amount of curses thrown at Brigadier Stoffer we feel he is not a part of this.”

“How can you be so sure?” Throm asked as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

“Sir,” the inquisitor nodded to the room from which he just left, “though it is impossible to pick the truth from a man’s head we can make his head such a shell of pain, that it is the very epitome of suffering, if he does not break we will either not break him or we have the truth. Have you heard of neuromodulation?”

“Yes.” Throm thought back to Bad Amberg where he had apathetically sat through the screaming, “Very. I concur. Did he mention any others? Fellow conspirators?”

“Not by name Your Grace. He says they are a small group with no names and no faces; this is quite common for this sort of underground movement. Their threat level has been ranked rather lowly and we doubt they are of any substantial threat. We are reporting that 270,000 of their pamphlets have been destroyed or handed over. We doubt, with the size of the van the Captain was using, that there could be many more.”

“Excellent.” Throm gentled elbowed aside the inquisitor and proceeded towards the room. “Is he of any more use? Is he conscious?”

“We’ve taken from him what we can. He is awake now, but I cannot promise for how much longer.”

A tiny bed from which a dazzling line of tubes hung filled the center of an airy cell from which monastic life was usually directed. In the bed a figure, who looked perfectly normal, as if he had not been through the most hellish torture that man could devise, sat clasping his hands so tightly they were turning a disconcerting blue color. A head shifted in the bed and the eyes flickered open to view Archbishop Throm as he navigated his way through the swirl of medical machinery. A finger extended to the Archbishop and with painful slowness beckoned him forward.

“It’s dark you know. The world.” Lindly whispered from his hospital bed, “and in all of this you’ve come to kill me.”

“Oh, no captain. Quite on the contrary’ we are going to give you medal.”

“Oh?” The voice was tired and entirely defeated, “which one?”

“The purple heart.” Throm drew from his robe a small elegant silver pistol and fired it once through Lindly’s head; scattering his brains to the wall and onto the white sheets. The restrictions on killing had been lifting upon his elevation and it was with a certain amount of apathetic efficiency that the pistol was recovered and placed in a sleeve of the robe.

“Master Inquisitor! The body is yours. If you will call my staff together we will put a stop to this before it becomes any further engrained. We search the Captain’s house tonight; if he has any family they are arrested as well. Go through his last recorded phone messages and arrest everybody; salesmen to his dear old grandmother. I want this crushed.”

Brigadier General Stoffer gently smoothed down his military uniform; in retrospect he probably should have packed different attire, and though most of the people were Palonian in origin the few Grestonians on staff stared awestruck at the uniform and occasionally dropped various objects in shock. It was not a popular uniform around the world, even in the capital he had seen some of the foreign stories and though most of them were blown out of proportion they seemed generally accurate.

“Would you go away!” The brigadier general snapped an elderly butler who was trying inconspicuously to put a fireplace poker through the back of his neck. “After a judicial amount of prodding with his riding crop Stoffer was left alone with his thought and the ticking of a clock which fit the décor of the old Palonian Empire, monstrous and marginally frightening.

Throughout the course of the day, after having a relaxing walk through a pleasant causeway, where heavily armed security forces seemed to stand behind every tree, he would check on his phone messages at the hotel. They were pilling in from staff members, senior clergy, military officers, and their messages ranged from the calm and sedated to the gibbering and incoherent. There were confusing reports; some said Lindly had escaped after butchering three guards, and others reported that one elderly woman apprehended the man with the clever use of a flag and a small amount of twine. He took all these with a grain of salt; they all suggested however something had gone wrong if he had been called so quickly.

Now he sat in a stuffy waiting salon before which he would be thrown in front of the local representative of the Imperial Republic, a Thomas Wintour. Before arriving the Brigadier had riffled through a copy of the local notables and had read a fairly brief and unexciting recall of the man’s life. Still he was whom the General had to deal with, and in the green uniform of the Empire, his chest heavy with medals to a hated crown the man stood and marched to the door. Stoffer knocked heavily on it twice and opened the door, carefully through, as not to incur the wraith of a myriad of defenses that he had witnessed all day.

“Mr. Wintour. Your Excellency.” He saluted crisply to a figure behind the hulking form of what must be a desk from the Imperial age because ships could not be dragged up stairs, “I spoke with you earlier this morning on the phone, but I perhaps have some business you would be interested in hearing.”

"The shipment of rifles shells has arrived. The Waldenburger Armed Forces seem to like supplying a large amount of our supplies. What should I do with the shipment?"

"Put it down in the wine cellar with the rest-", the man was interrupted as the brigadier general opened the door to the study and introduced himself.

The man, Thomas Wintour, was sitting in an old, red, leather chair in front of the Imperial Age desk of his. The back of the chair was facing the door, Thomas was facing the unlit fire place and was skimming over a shipping order. The order, however, was not paid for by Thomas Wintour, but by the Empire of Waldenburg, it was just one of many shipments that Thomas Wintour had taken off of the Church's hand.

Mr. Wintour gave his assistant a quick glance, the man understood his order and exited the room.

"Ah, Mr. Stoffer, I've been waiting," Thomas didn't take the time to turn the chair around.

After an akward moment of silence, Thomas spinned his chair around so that he was facing a tall, square jawed man wearing the attire of a dead man. According to the unsightly uniform the man was a Brigadier General.

Thomas Wintour, unlike any other Grestonian, simply nodded the thought of a man wearing such a uniform off. He lifted his hand to signify what it was he was saying.

"Ah, the Waldenburg Army. I served two years in the Serene League; I headed up a section of the legion that fought in the Bad Letzburg Valley. But, Mr. Stoffer, I digress. What is it you have to bring to my attention, sir?"

Wintour leaned back in his chair and awaited an answer.

Letzburg? Wasn't that about the Amberg Conference and Stoffer pushed the thought to the back of his mind and wriggled his mustache in preparation for speech.

"Well... Sir... You served with the Serene Legion for two years, and in that time you must have.. noticed certain discrepancies about soldiers, certain facts and modes belief. Despite what I had would have you believe we are a people of intense faith, but that faith is," a riding crop cut through the air while Stoffer sought for words, "lacking. We are not all bishops Mr. Wintour, and though I myself was in the room when the reports of the bombing of Easen were coming in; I am no murder. In Waldenburg, there is an ancient saying, one which our Cenobiarch trots out quite often 'Where there is Darkness we must take the most light.' Greston was given such light, the Lux Aeterna, Light Forever. It suffered for but a day; there are people who have felt the radiance for three thousand years, and it has become so much a part of them that an external force must act upon them.

For some reason or another there are those who contrive to use this for their advantage, and those are the men which you and I, soldiers of the field must fear; the men who think not of their brothers and soldiers as people, but as items to further their own agenda. I come here with no plan, or doctrine of attack, but I must ask...." This was the moment in which Stoffer would discover the true nature of the Grestonian government. It was quite common for nations to forget such atrocities overnight, and in the morning link armies with their once enemies for a second round, but there were some acts that were inexcusable.

"Mr. Wintour, we have three percent of the army, and forty million civilians," the General easily lied, enlarging the group by thousands of times, "who are not like... bishops. You must understand, I cannot be so forward in this, it is a matter of great... secrecy. I trust you understand me? And trust you understand the importance? Is there anything that can be done? I can return the favor in small ways, little bits of information, a word in the right ear perhaps?"

Wintour was awestruck, he was completely moved by the idea of Waldenburgers revolting against their church, especially such a large amount. But however much it had impacted him was impossible to tell, he was unwavered and didn't show a hint as to what he was thinking. Quickly, just as sullenly as it happened, he relaxed inside and placed his elbows on his desk. He rested his chin in his heads and started digging through his mind what to say.

"A friend is one who has the same enemies as you have."

Wintour nodded and started on again, "Imagine for a moment, Mr. Stoffer, a governmentless nation. The normalities and hostilities of every day life gone for the formalities of others being better are gone. The need to over organize and militarize everything will be gone. It would be true peace, Mr. Stoffer."

Wintour paused for a moment, he took in a breathe and breathed back out. He opened up one of his drawers and pulled out a few files of paper.

"Think back to your Waldenburg, sir. The Church (am I correct?) is one of your leading powers, the Cenobiarch at the top. He almost tops the king. What if, someone of my stature, or yours infact, was to take that position and demilitarize the church until it is no longer the monstorous, violent group it is now."

Wintour shuffled the papers and moved them so Stoffer can see. They were ORBATs of hundreds of willing men and volunteers, charts of equipment and diagrams of plans to attack and survive battles in areas of Waldenburg.

"Take a moment and inhale all this information, Mr. Stoffer. What if I was to tell you, I am not a government official you think you are speaking to. In fact I am far from such a position. I am, in many nations, considered a terrorist. Personally, I call my self a freedom fighter. I know you came to Throppe on this day to speak to the Grestonian Government and to get their suppourt for your revolt against the Cenobiarch. I can personally tell you they would swat your proposal away, they would shoot your idea down. That is why I gave you this address, that is why I have taken care of every ambassador and politician in the area. Let's just say there will be a ball that the governor must attend back in Easen."

It was Stoffer's turn to be awestruck, the man was not as good as concealing it as Wintour.

"Sir, Mr. Stoffer, I am the man that is nessecary for you to take down the Cenobiarch. It is unnecessary go off making false numbers as to who suppourts you. I have been chosen, I am here for a reason, and my reason is to topple the Church. Every man on this list," Wintour paused to pass Stoffer a report of soldiers names, "is every man meant for the cause. Every soul on that list will be the next Cenobiarch. It is not Greston helping you, nor is it terrorist, it is fate. Leave the work to me, Mr. Stoffer, and the Cenobiarch shall fall."

Wintour leaned back in his chair and smiled.

Brigadier Stoffer’s face, to more experienced readers, had two expressions which sufficed to express so many of his emotions. Shock, awe, anger, excitement, anxiety were all shown by a drawing in of the chin a wriggle of the mustache. “How could you possibly know that? Who are you? We’ve only met twice and yet… Thank you. Thank you sir. I…” Stoffer, who usually prided himself a steady resolve and general loudness was reduced to stuttering.

“So first I must make a concession to you I feel. You of course remember the Republic of Paloni? Your bloodthirsty neighbor next door? I am not here, I am not telling you this but where do you think all those B-1bombers came from? An empire does not just overthrow itself Mr. Wintour; the Waldenburg Empire has been providing the weapons for the revolutions. And if you say have a few armed skiffs here,” he slipped down a piece of white paper with a few hastily scrawled scribbles, “by about nine tonight. A freighter, the Corinthian, shall be passing, unguarded. Tanks, Mr. Wintour tanks, do with them what you wish but I must in consciousness of my heart give this to you. Fight for your freedom; you give us the ability to fight for ours. May I speak freely in this city and this country? And when may I see the men and supplies, and brief the, on the situation?”

"Are you sure that there would be so much support?" Shmidt asked, taking a bite out of a sandwich.

"Yes." Green replied sitting across form Shmidt and looking over the photocopied pages of the book before him. "The League's resources in the Waldenburg Empire are few, so our own ability to impact the situation will be very limited, but I feel that such an uprising would be very possible. The most effective thing we mgiht be able to do would to be to secretly distribute this text, for it may prove an effective catalyst for an upheaval."

"Well, I am, one step ahead of you then, Jonathan." Shmidt said, smiling. "I have already begun to do so."

"Really, to whom?"

"Colonel Dench, perhaps you ahve heard of him?"

Green smiled. "Dench? I have heard." Green leaned back. "Yes, a good choice." He sat for a moment lost in thought, looking with a faint expression worry at the papers before him. "Could he really have been what this book suggests, Thomas?"

Shmidt put the sandwich down. "The more I think about it, the more I feel foolish for having not seen it earlier."

"So you do beleive it." Green said.

"Oh, it's not a matter of beleif." Shmidt replied. "I have simply found no other possible explanation, given what I have witnessed."

Comfort Ye My People (http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~artin/Music/Messiah/Part1/02%20-%20Comfort%20ye,%20my%20people.mp3)

“Alone amongst the desert he stands, looking not for enlightenment or prophecy but to stare upon the face God and meet Him eye for eye. His love, he alone amongst the desert is the redemption of the world not through the fires of Inquisition or on placating knee bent but through a gentle embrace. Love between brothers will topple the thrones of kings, and send the Old World crashing down faster than through retribution in kind.

There is an old story, told amongst the religions of the world; a man will go into the desert and wander for months without water or relief. Then, when the situation is at its most dire, he shall receive epiphany, and the voice and hand of God shall guide the walker to his ultimate end.

Go to the desert those whom seek answers; look upon the face of God look at it; stare at and contemplate His infinities. The peddler of truth shall and he shall see Him for the truth; not omnipotent, not omnipresent, not a cathedral, or a face amongst the cloud, or ceremony, or tradition, but as the spark of love in every heart. And in that spark we are sustained.

Take the air, take the sun, and when the pain has consumed you, open your eyes. See. See, and realize the pain had never accumulated; this is only the moment in which you realize you walked a desert everyday.

Your enemy stands with three thousand years of darkness, hunger, and powerful writ; and you, the greatest prophet, must face it with only a smile. Have mercy on them my brother; they are weak in the face of God; grant them peace. “

Excerpt from the Journal of The Hegemon

Stars. Millions of them spread across a sky so vast and unadorned that they could have spread forever. Several miles north of where the sprawling Streinlikstern finally gave up on outward expansion the light simply faded, and a few miles after that the High Desert set it. Three thousand miles to the sea, uninterrupted by noise, or light or humanity. So many thousands of miles spreading onward an onward in an uncaring

“You never really notice it’s there until you actually go out and look for it.” Colonel Dench sat, with his head turned skyward, in the rear of an appropriated staff car. Upon hearing of Captain Lindly’s demise, and reading the official story this morning, which included a small black and white photograph and two sentences of background, Dr. Daquan and the Colonel had arranged a staff car and left their respective work early.

“He didn’t talk.” Daquan said quietly.

“So many stars, so much space.” Dench paused and realized he was now nibbling at a thread, which his companion did not share. “No. We would have been dead if he had. But he is dead. And God knows what will happen to Stoffer.”

“He obviously cannot report back; Paloni is a safe place though.” The Doctor shook his head a few times, “barring the revolution, counter revolution, and Cultural Apartheid that is.”

“So what have we accomplished with Lindly’s death? Are we any closer to winning any sort of victory?”

“I hear,” Daquan replied softly, “that they, the sailors, aboard the ships are handing back the pamphlets to their officers for destruction. Bet you they won’t get them all.”

“I suppose not. However that was most of my savings to print those. I can’t afford another and even if we pool our money, I assume we cannot make another hundred thousand?” Dench raised an eyebrow questioningly and turned to the Doctor.

“Maybe a few thousand, but yes there is little chance we can do it again, and security will be much tighter. We cannot throw men away so readily as some.” If the two stopped they could vaguely hear the machinery and industry of Streinlikstern, grinding away as it did every hour of the day and night. If one were to turn their head from where they sat they would look to a hazy and unholy glow emanating from the capital of the Empire.

“They say,” Dench spoke even more softly, pulling into the Doctor’s side, “there is a tribe of wild men still living in the High Desert. They were never even Christianized but somehow they live in the harshest place in the world. Have never seen the sea or a city or heard of war, or terrorism. I wonder house easy it would be to join them.”

“We’re going to have to kill some people aren’t we Colonel?”

“I believe so.”

“How?”

“For the moment we cannot assume that General Stoffer will succeed. We have him confirmed landed in Paloni but that is the extent of it. We cannot depend on any foreign aide, however badly it is needed. We must act with autonomy and..” he trailed off. “This is not supposed to be how it is done.” Dench slammed the door shut as he departed the car. Sand parted around his boots as he stomped several meters ahead and folded his arms. “The Hegemon did not want this. He said there wouldn’t have to be a war, love indeed.” Daquan couldn’t dissuade him with anything he could say he was sure so he merely slipped lower into his seat. Without turning Dench continued, “We have nine men, besides the five of us, now. In two days we should have fifteen and that will be enough. We are going to kill the Palatinus at High Mass tomorrow.”

“The Palatinus?” Daquan knotted his eyebrows in confusion, “I have never heard of the man. Some sort of errand boy for the Cenobiarch?”

“Generally speaking. He is the official records keeper of the Church, and depending on the See, seventh in line for the Holy Throne. There should be no clerical duties however he is retiring from the post in a week and is giving this last homily as a send off. He is a very old man.”

“And how,” Daquan asked peevishly, “is this righteous retribution? He sounds like an paper pusher.”

“Well,” a faraway tone took Dench, “he wrote most of the Cenobiarch’s proclamations. Including Lux Aeterna, with Cardinal Indu’s passing he is the last, besides the Cenobiarch involved in the planning or execution of the plan. His death in not our only motive of course; while he is giving his service Sister Charlotte will enter his rooms and gather his mantum, miter and crosier, along with a seventeenth century copy of the original Book of Ceno; it is worth a fortune.”

“And how will we be doing all of this? How do we know all those items will be in his rooms?”

“One of our more recent members of the movement was ah,” if had not been so hot the Doctor could have sworn the Colonel had blushed slightly, “a special friend of the Palatinus. She had a great deal of time to study the room. As for the rest; you will see.”

And ye, the destroyers of sin, you will be the sacrificial lambs. Shy not away from peril, but give your blood without hesitation, for through your sacrifice shall the sowers of fear become known. Strike down these deceivers, that he who brings truth may not be hindered by their wickedness. Ultimately, even the beast among you shall give his blood for the good of mankind.
-Excerpt from the journal of the Hegemon

Amelia Henderson stood, leaning against a building, her brother Isaac beside her as the two casually watched a building across the street. Her cellphone rang, to her surprise, and she picked it up on the third ring. "Hello?"

Thomas Shmidt smiled. "you had me worried there for a moment, Emmy, you are usually quicker to answer your phone."

"I'm still somewhat tired, sir. My brother insisted we meet early this morning, I didn't have a chance to get any coffee before we started work."

Shmidt chuckled. "Always an early riser, he is. So, have you located Michael?"

"Not yet, sir. We were able to get his location to within a few blocks yesterday, but he escaped us."

"How unfortunate. We must find him, I am sure that the 'beast' among us can be none but him."

"Yes sir, I will inform you of any developments." Amelia said. "Also, the rest have read the text, and all of us have seen it to be true."

"Good. That is all. Goodbye."

Shmidt hung up the phone, and began looked at the deacon's robes that were hanging beside his bed. Those are not going to be comfortable.

The People that Walkith in Darkness (http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~artin/Music/Messiah/Part1/11%20-%20The%20people%20that%20walked%20in%20darkness.mp3)

“And a cadence of piety beat to life in every heart and on sorrowing wings the Church rose to its place in every mind and soul. In a great gathering Ceno lead his followers to the old temple and cast down their idols and priests. He proclaimed to them ‘this is the new order, the way and will of God, kneel to your lord or be cast down.’”

The Book of Ceno 1:3

Great bronze bells summoned the faithful to pray, with great timbre and force they called to the city and proclaimed yet another Sunday. All across the Waldenburger world billion of devotees would kneel if deference to their God and his Mother Church. This was to be the last mass of the aging Palatinus, who at eighty-seven had lost more of the wicked sharpness that was needed to survive in the Church in any high ranking position.

With a geriatrically good natured face he waved to approaching parishioners who, in their robes of state and fine suits approached the Great Chapel of St. Ambrose where the more learned of the Church gave their lectures and services.

“Holy father.” Archbishop Throm gently took the man’s hand as he approached and kissed the ring, “it is a pleasure.” He waved to men behind, dressed in severe black robes to go ahead, “it was with great sadness I heard of your retiring. The abbey though, I hear, has its advantages.”

“Thank you Denis.” He smiled vaguely and waved the Archbishop through into the great hall. It was, as all chapels of the Church, was intended to take the breath out of any approaching person and entirely cow them. The ceiling stretched off into infinity where angels fought with demons some hundred feet above, and cherubs heavy with guilt lauded their attempts.

Pew after pew was already full, however a special bench had been set-aside for the clergy which filled in every so often. After a quick miter count Throm found he was the most senior official here; apparently the old man did not deserve such a turn out as had been suggested. With a aggressive elbow a seat was opened for the Archbishop who slide in gratefully and shot a look of daggers at the elderly abbot who looked affronted by the loss of his three or four seats to this new comer. People were still flooding into the chapel and it seemed as if it would be some time before the old man at the door could be convinced that he should begin, and by definition end.
--

Like an overstuffed raven Sister Charlotte floated down a marbled hallway with a large wicker basket under her arms. She hummed under her breath and that and her heels clacking away was the only sound barring the great jarring of bells and faraway choirs. She had seen multiple Divine Legionaries since entering the Great Apartments, the area where the less well endowed of the Church, those who could not or did not have summerhouses stayed. It was an old rule known to all men and most guards; never disrupt any woman with a domestic chore lest she saddle you with it as well, and if that woman happens to be a nun run the other direction.

Most of the wing’s occupants were off at their masses and only the occasional nun could be seen wandering the halls with baskets of laundry or other implements of domestic servitude. Most of them were plants and if needed could cover Charlotte’s retreat.

After a long walk through pillared halls a hard wood door and plaque proclaimed the occupant to be ‘Dr. Thaddeus Richards, Palatinus and Bishop of the Holy Church VMV.’ This was no unusual tradition, and though general work was forbidden on this day, it usually did not apply to women or for that matter bar clean robes for Monday.

A few raps on the door, and a calm silence saw a slim ring of keys produced from the pocket of the robe and slipped into the door. Inside it was like any room of the area, tasteless. Baroque woodwork, and gilt covered most open space where elaborate furniture could not be stuck. In a sign of the more elderly clothes lay strewn around the floor and a few drawers were still open. With a sigh the Prioress rooted around the room picking up the occasional sock or shirt and stuffing it into her basket for the look of the thing.

There was a glass case at the end of the room, which, unlike the rest of the room, was immaculately clean contained the Palatinus’ choir dress, the official miter of office, and a crosier of some age. Beside it, nestled amongst a reel of cotton sat a great treasure, a copy of the original Book of Ceno, the holiest of the books in the Testaments, and founding article of the Church. It was priceless for the jewels set into the cover, and for sentimental value it could have purchased a small country.

There was of course a key for the cabinet, but Charlotte did not have it. So with a few side steps and apologetic look she grabbed a cheery little snow globe, proclaiming that it hoped the owner would have the very best of Christmases, and delicately smashed the cabinet open at waist height. For a moment she waited for the sounds of righteous indignation but apparently none was forthcoming. With suddenly trembling hands she reached through and opened the doors from within. And there were the items she was supposed to take, the miter, the matum, the crosier and the book all of which she stuffed into her washing basket.

“A few more minutes..” she mumbled under her breath as she stared down at her spartan and state provided wrist watch. It had all been so easy; she must have done laundry thousands of times and no one had cared. It was perhaps so inconceivable that a sane Waldenburger would dream of harassing the Church that they simply had not allowed for the consideration.

“Three, two, one…” she bolted for the front door or the room and opened it swiftly without pausing for a moment. Outside Charlotte heard the slamming open and close of dozens of doors as her sisters wandered out of nearly every apartment on the floor. In a strange way this made the woman smile as she wandered back to her quarters.
--

With a tussle of robes and generally shuffling of feet the ceremony began; the deacons chanted their chants; the alter boys shrived the alter, and the audience stood as the Palatinus entered with a beam on his face. “Before we begin, allow me to say a short prayer. It has been sometime since I have done this but allow me this last one.” Heads bowed across the room, and hands clasped as the old man searched his memory for appropriate words.

“I have lived a very long time,” his voice was wavering and the ability to raise it above a whisper seemed to have left him, “and served the Church most of this time. Now, in retrospect I can look upon you and say that it is a life well spent. To know that all of you, all of my people, and brothers are secure against the foreigner, against the demons which plague the feeble religions and against the little snares of the world. Look to God, look to him in all things and you shall find he looks down at you. He grants you peace for you are weak, and despite the actions of life, He will grant you mercy. I may look upon these furtive days in peace now. I am neared my God and he calls me home. Let my, your, sins dissolve away. For that is the Glory of God.” He paused and seemed to have finished his rambling speech.

Throm, like the rest of the audience recited the last sentence back to the old man before sitting. One man, a few rows to the left of the Archbishop was rather slow in doing so and had his eyes locked, and his head cocked at a strange and thoughtful angle.

“Colonel Dench?” Throm whispered to himself before shrugging. He certainly should and could be here. The thought was shoved to the rear of his mind as the Palatinus cracked open the Holy Bible and began the gospel.

It was the same as used at thousands of such speeches, praising the end and promising resurrection. Throm tuned most of it out and only by luck managed to rise with the rest of the congregation.

“Nomine patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti, Veni Lux beo ab.” It drew on an on. If Throm recalled the ceremony the old man now had to light a single candle to burn at the head of the alter and represent the singular and potent force of God. On tottering legs and with the aide of a sub-deacon the Palatinus found what looked to be an industrial grade fire starter and applied the light to the waxy tip of the candle. After an amount of time the flame caught and then speed down the stalk of the candle with alarming swiftness and loud crackling.

“Your Grace!” Throm was on his feet robes billowing around him but it was far too late for the old man to move, and the candle exploded outward with a dull thump and shower of wax. It was clear within moments both the sub-deacon and the Palatinus were quite dead; live people usually had more of a head.

Hundreds of people were already on their feet and accelerating away from the alter; fine garments and accessories were tossed aside in a attempt for more speed. Figures fled or hid under benches until there were only two left in the first few rows.

“Colonel Dench.” Archbishop Throm nodded wearily.

“Nikola.” The man replied back.

Green and Shmidt sat, watching Dench and Throm from several rows behind. "My my,", Green said in their native language, leaning closer to his companion. "You seem to have started a fad."

"Indeed." Shmidt said. "This means that he has some sort of well-organised group. Good."

They sat until the noise of the fleeing crowd had died away somewhat, then Shmidt stood up, letting a hymnal fall off his lap. It hit the floor with a loud clapping noise, and he bent over to pick the book up.

The sound of a falling hymnal, now the only one in the room echoed around the statues and windows of the chapel. Two remaining figures say a few pews back. It was quite a strange to see the two, where so many thousands had been, to sit calmly after such an attack.

"Who is that?" Dench whispered to the Archbisop in Waldenburger Lain and nodded his head to the two. "I haven't seen them before."

"On the left," Nikola replied, "Is Bishop Green. A convert from Smugaia, has been here for fifteen years. And the other I assume is his deacon. And what do you think of the situation Dench?"

"Why are they still here, so calmly after the rest had left?" Though the words were spoken calmly enough Dench was terrified within. The last words of the Palatinus has struck home in some way; their meaning had been rambled and disjointed but the little voice spoke volumes not so apparent. His hands trembled as he shifted them about his pockets and coat.

"Exactly." With Throm in the lead both men walked back the few rows separating them, "Your Grace Bishop Green. Would you come with me for a moment I have a few questions? Colonel Dench shall keep your deacon entertained. In the corner please Your Grace." When the senior clergy had gone Colonel Dench had his first look at the deacon who smiled broadly at him. "I suppose," Dench gawked at the man, "I have you to thank for my head," he pointed to the scar, "and its contents." He patted an internal pocket.

"You do indeed." Shmidt replied quietly, putting his hand on Dench's back and elading him towards the exit. He looked at the other two retreating figures, worry evident on his face now. "Oh dear, I beleive that Green may now be a suspect. He was one of the few men we had here, losing him would be most unfortunate."

"What is it you wish to ask me, your Grace?" Green said as he walked beside Throm. "I do hope I may be of assistance."

"I'm afraid he most likely will take the fall for this. Most unfortunately this is not the right time to be a foreigner. Why are you here?" Dench whispered this as from the opening and closing of various doors and the shrill of approaching whistles the Divine Legion was securing the scene. "What are we supposed to do? What does he" Dench motioned vaguely, "want? We have men gathering, and supplies, but no direction. This was wrong; I realize that know. We do not need to kill old men to accomplish our goals; he did not deserve this." The body was still warm and scattered over a large portion of the floor and opposing walls. "There must be a better way?"
--

"Green isn't it? Bishop Green from Smugaia?" Throm walked casually along side the man as he worded just how to insinuate the crimes the man had undoubtedly committed. "I understand that is a land of Muslims, Homosexuals and other such degredants. Luckily you are here, alone with me. After it all. Bishop Green. What do you have to say to that?"

"I am afraid, Colonel, that with this nation in it's current state, a non-violent revolution won't be possible." Shmidt said in a slightly morunful tone. "In our own revolution, we did not wish for any blood to be spilled. Yet soon we came to realize that such wishes were unrealistic, and that for the greater good, some blood must be shed." He sighed. "You are right though, killing one old man will do little. To truly bring about change, to light the flame of revolution, there must be a spark. For us it was the outlawing of organized religion and the massaccres of protesters that followed. Unfortunately I don't think you can wait around for your government or church to provide an adequate catalyst, you must provide it yourself," Now Shmidt smirked, "or we could provide one for you."

"Aye, it is such a place now." Green replied bitterly. "But once it was not so. A number of years ago, there was hope for the "holy empire"." He said, sneering with disgust at the nation's title. "I fought in the revolution, in a faction known as the Sons of the Empire. Heretics, saracens, and sodomizers would not have been tolerated in our empire as we sought to make it. Our "holy empire" woudl have been a true bastion of righteousness and of the true faith, but unfortunately we were destroyed." As he spoke, Green seemed to be growing slowly angrier. "We and the Abrahamic League both fought the government,a nd were able to bring it down. Yet once the old regime had fallen, the League turned on us, butchering us by the hundreds of thousands." The bishop now eminated an aura of suppressed fury. "I witnessed the maddened, bloodthirsty fanatics they called "executioners" slaughter my brothers, as the streets of every city ran with our blood. The Hegemon," He said, spitting out the title as though it were poison, "hunted us like vermin. After several years as a resistance fighter I was forced to flee the country, and that is how i found myself in Waldenburg Empire, truly one of the few havens left for the faithful. I am infinitely grateful for this stalwart rock of a nation, steadfast in righteousness against a sea of wickedness and heresy."

He smield. "But I am sure you do not wish to hear me ramble on about the glory that could have been for my homeland."

I Know that My Redeemer Liveth (http://www.elizabethparcells.com/Music/In%20Concert/I%20know%20that%20my%20Redeemer.mp3)

“There was great jubilation amongst the Kingdoms of the earth as they rose through shadow of darkness and saw their ancient chains broken. Great temples and pagan gods fell in one night and awakening there was a newly created people baked in the fires of their passions and steeled of their God; the one true Lord our God.”

The Book of Ceno 1:4

“Apparently,” pairs of boots began to clatter of distant stairs as the Divine Legion thundered into the chapel, “not. If we strike at them again innocents will die. They will take their revenge without leniency or direction. This was a mistake and tens of thousands of people will pay for it. This has happened before during the Troubles, back with Albemier and his lot. He never killed more than one hundred people and yet nearly twenty thousand died. If you think this time it will be any different then you are mistaken.” Doors burst open and Legionaries burst in with full tactical gear and rifles lowered. They fanned out before eventually disgorging and officer to inspect the remains of the Palatinus. “We are gathering support across the Empire and will be prepared for another action, be it violent or not, within the week. We have no more time, but I should like to see you again.” Dench stood and made as if to walk away towards a small ring gathering around Bishop Green, but turned back, “preferably during the day.”

It was a matter of moments to reach the gathering circle of people where there seemed to be a rather heated debate taking place. “Oh no,” Throm was saying to Green who looked terrible shocked and hugely affronted, “I would quite like to hear your ramblings, Your Grace. At length. Corporal,” he nodded to a soldier, “arrest this man and take him to the Pits. Do you think Bishop Green we are so blind? That we cannot see beyond your thin fallacy? We are granted an inner light to detect such lies. We know,” Throm went out on a limb at random, “of your little contacts and little crimes. They meant nothing to us until this day; this is murder, and we fully intend to repay you in kind. Corporal.”

With no apparent struggle three soldiers looped their arms around the man and began to drag him towards a side door.

“Colonel,” it was evident on Throm’s voice that he was at least moderately amused with the situation and he almost purred, “what of our deacon friend?”

“Him? Terrified sir. He does not understand what is going on, I can say with all assuredness he had nothing to do with this murder.”

“Yes,” a careful eye was flung to the figure still sitting amongst the pews, “probably. If you give me a moment Colonel I have business to attend to; we shall compare notes later.”
--

Sterile plastic walls stretched as far as the eye could see, and the only contrast against the whole room was the dark black robe of a member of the Dark Legion and the flash of his tools. Special grates in the floor and the liberal use of a small hose had quite taken care of most of the blood, and quite to his calling the torturer had been quite neat with the incisions and the Bishop’s robes hardly seemed to be torn or bloodied at all. Straps shook violently again and again as the knife descended for pass after pass but there was never any screaming and so much as could be told from the face, only a stoic resolve.

“Archbishop,” the torturer nodded as he splashed a glass of water onto a white chair where a prisoner was bent doubled backwards around and iron bar, “he is trying to say something.” Throm pulled closer and uncrossed his arms; he had stood stoically for the last half hour about two meters behind the chair and had needed to contain himself several times from being sick. He had seen plenty of executions, but actual graphic torture was quite a new experience and some locations being probed by the knife bore some sympathetic value for the man.

“Well Bishop Green are we ready to talk? Are we ready to spill our guts Your Grace? This is where men like you die, traitors Your Grace traitors and heretics. They will all come,” some color was returning to Throm’s face and his voice had nearly stopped shaking, “and be relaxed. This is your mortal fate, redeem your soul and be uplifted Your Grace.”

Green laughed, a mirthless, bitter laugh that was stopped suddenly as he coughed on his own blood. "You pathetic, bloodthirsty fools." He said, smiling wildly. "Your wickedness will be your own doom. So has the prophet forseen. Even now, the destroyers of sin move to elminate your corruption." He was still laughing as he spoke. "The angels of death have marked you, archbishop, soon enough you willn pay for your crimes agaisnt God's children. Your church was foolish to underestimate us, and now is the time for your defiled structure, your wicked rule to end. Do what you will to me, but I shall submit to no man who would serve the Devil in trappings of righteousness."

__________________________________________________________________________

Two days previous:
The man known as Michael Johnson stood calmly in the elevator, wearing a calm smile as the machine slowly made it's way up nine floors. His clothing was covered in dried blood, yet his skin and hair were perfectly clean. He whistled a tune as he waited, and as the doors opened walked out. He made his way a short distance down the hall of the old apartment building until he reached the door he was looking for. He drew a silenced pistol, shooting the lock several times and kicking the door open before walking inside.

"Who's there?!" a voice shouted, and a man came into view from another room, holding a hammer. He dropped it as he saw what the intruder held in hsi own hand. He backed away, recognizing the logo of the Abrahamic League in one of the few spots on Johnson's clothing not stained red. "The League? Why are you here? I've done no wrong!" He said, alarm and fear making his tone unnaturally high.

"Oh, is that so?" Johnson asked, chuckling as he advanced on the man. "You've done no wrong, have you?" He grabbed the man's collar, throwing him onto a coffe table, putting his foot on his victim's chest as the latter tried to get back up. "Think back, fifteen years ago. Think of the young boy that you abandoned. Think of the child that you left to die in the street, who you ignored as he pleaded outside your door for days, who you did not even look at as he pleaded for food from you in an alley, half starved and in nought but rags." He bent down, bringing his face closer to the man's. "What's wrong? Don't you recognize your own son?"

The man's eyes went wide with horror as he struggled to breath, the weight of the foot on his chest making hsi breath's short and pained. "Arthur?" He gasped, "is that you?"

Johnson struck him with the butt of his pistol, knocking the old man's jaw loose. "My name is not Arthur!" He roared, but quickly gained control of hismelf again, and pressed the gun agaisnt his father's forehead. "No, that boy is dead. I am Michael, exterminator of the vermin that inhabit this earth, and I ahve come to remove the taint of your existence."

He bent down, kissing the man's cheeck, and pulled the trigger.

_____________________________________________________________________

Amelia Henderson slowly made her way through the sixth district of Sumguaia to an old apartment building. As she did, a number of white-robed figures converged simultaneously on the building. She entered, and stepped into an elevator, three of these figures behind her. "Are we sure it's him?"

"We are." The man said, with a smile that would have been handsome had his face not been horribly scarred by a number of gash wounds. "We tracked him down to apartment 9-D in this building, It's where his father lives, though he is likely dead now." He continued, his smile fading.

"I see." Amelia said, frowning.

As they opened the door to the apartment, they were greeted with the stench of rotting flesh. dried blood covered the floor, and someone had written the words sins of the father in the midst of it. As the door opened further and light spread into the apartment a body became visible, sprawled over a coffee table. Another figure sat in a corner, giggling madly.

"So you found me." It said, pointing a handgun at Amelia and standing up. "It took you quite some time."

"We have executioners on every floor of this building." The woman replied, stepping forward. "And more in the street below. An attempt to escape would be useless."

"Would it?" Johnson asked, smiling, and stepping forward as well. "Then why not just kill me? what is stopping you?"

"Oh, nothing would please me more, Michael," Ms. Henderson replied. "But we need your help."

Johnson laughed. "You want my help?! Why on earth would I help you, and what with?"

"We need you to kill a great many people ina very short period of time, Michael." Amealia replied calmly, showing no emotion.

"Do you now? Well why didnt you just say so in the first place?" Johnson giggled again. "I would be more than happy to oblige, my dear lady."

Adante 'Les petits riens' (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/25b12.wma)

“There was no man, bar one, who dare stand in the face of God and in great numbers the heathen did convert and be baptized. To this one man, the last great pagan lord an army gathered of those who refused to surrender their old ways, and false gods. Ceno, in response to their rebellion and ignorance, cast his ears to the vastness of the firmament and opened his ears to God. “

The Book of Ceno 1:5

For a moment Throm considered the man bound to the chair and cocked his head at an odd angle as if to study him better. “You are a strange little man Green. Whence and what are you? You are no priest, and what the hand so readily casts aside the mind does not forget; yet it is gone from you.” As if dismissing the room in general and the man is specific the Archbishop began to stride away from the hall, “We will not kill you, at least your heart will still beat, and your brain still function, however you shall wish for all your miserable existence to die. There is out greatest victory Your Grace, the triumph of the dead over the living, our victory over death. Keep him alive as long as possible James, perhaps he will wish to talk later.”

Out in the plastic lined halls of the Dark Legion offices one brown robed monk stood to attention and fell in behind the Archbishop as he continued towards his office. “Your Grace a letter has arrived from the Cenobiarch commending you on the arrest and wondering if a statement has been made.

“Yes,” a door was closed and the two figures arranged themselves accordingly around a white plastic desk, “he said he had acted under influence from operatives within Muslim militant groups and was ordered to kill more of the hierarchy when the opportunity expressed itself however was apprehended by our valiant actions. Take a memo to the office of the Serene Legion suggested an increase in random audio sweeps, just to be proactive.”

“I shall do so immediately sir however I am ordered to deliver one further assignment to you. Chiffon, or silk?”

“I don’t understand?”

“For the party sir. Within three days the Waldenburger Legion ships out for the east and the Church will be entertaining some of the senior officers to a ball and dinner. Your Grace must of course come.”
--

With a tired thud the plane set down and after a gentle coast had pulled smoothly to the boarding gate where a small crowd was waiting. As the usual rituals of boarding passes and security sweeps were made a anxious hush and tension pulled over the group huddled by the boarding ramp; it was not everyway a plane was allowed through from war torn Paloni and families were finally reunited, sons returned to fathers from campaigns in the field. When at last the pressurized door swung open opposing waves of people dashed for one another and embraced hugely. One figure through apparently had no one to welcome him and trundling a hand cart piled high with luggage he elbowed his way through the press of people and into the concourse of the airport. All around him people went about their business with if not smiles, then at least a content countenance, and had purpose and direction. Of course Brigadier Stoffer has as well but his military uniform drew too many eyes and he felt entirely uncomfortable, and the news of his aides death weighed heavily upon him.

A slight tug on his left arm encouraged him to turn slightly and a figure wearing a greasy black suit nodded slightly to him, “The Colonel wishes to know how your vacation in Paloni went,” the man held up a hand on which a gold ring glittered dully.

“It was…” Stoffer began before remembering himself, “enlightening. I met many old friends, and made some new ones. I was however quite saddened to hear of Captain Lindley’s death and betrayal.”

“Indeed,” the figure began to slide back amongst the crowd, which eagerly swallowed him up, but his voice still carried, “it is more distressing how even the most loyal men will turn from the mother Church. You return to a much different Empire, General. Give my regards to the colonel. The man was finally swallowed up by a gaggle of Rodensian pilgrims and when the swarm cleared he was gone, perhaps a figure amongst the crowd, but evaporated into it.

Outside a staff car was waiting, its antiquated engine purred as a corporal opened the door for the General and waggled his eyebrows slightly at his superior. After he had seen his luggage into the back he slipped into the side door to nearly sit upon a figure in black gossamer and crinoline. A veil was lifted to reveal a pale and nervous face. “General Stoffer!”

“Lady Dench?” Stoffer was slightly affronted and more than slightly pleased to find her waiting for him. “What is it?”

As a furtive look around that would have certainly drawn attention to itself had anyone been watching, “We killed him!” It came out in a gasp as if the statement had been held back for some time.

“Who did we kill?”

“The Palatinus, Bishop Green, we’ve killed them both! My brother said we had to, that it was the only way to advance our cause!”

“Was it?” Stoffer asked calmly.

“You don’t object? No one we know died, but….” The revelation seemed to repulse her slightly.

“Then say no more about it. Your brother is learning, we best let him learn on his own. It was a successful operation, the old fool is dead, and you are not. Let us talk about something more pleasant. What has happened in my absence?” Over the course of a few minutes she related the last of the two weeks to him as the car continued at a leisurely pace to his own house. “Things in Paloni went rather well also, it seems we have friends in unexpected places, and despite a few mishaps we move forward.”

Lady Dench nodded slightly and drummed her fingers on the window ledge, “As you say General. It does not seem right though.” Her fingers tapped out a rhythm that seemed vaguely familiar before her soft voice cut it down again, “have the driver stop here.” Without a thought Stoffer wrapped on the little window separating the compartments.

“Why?”

“I intend on buying a dress over there. Don’t worry I’ll find a taxi.”

“Is now really the time to be buying a dress? What with… events?”

“Well I must. Bishop Rimmly gave me the money and told me to get something elegant. Haven’t you heard,” she smiled wryly, “we’re having a party. Tomorrow there is another meeting, but tonight I am otherwise entertained. Good luck.” With a dainty step she excited the car and smacked on the roof twice to signal the staff car to pull away and back into the street. Quite a few other women were also converging on the gilded storefront eyes set with a ferocity that would have startled the General if he hand not been starring elsewhere.

The Reverend Thomas Shmidt sat on an old, dusty pew in a bombed-out chapel, one of many such buildings in the city of Blünderburg. Nearly the entire east wall had collapsed, and sunlight flooded through the opening, illuminating what would ahve otherwise been a dark interior. The reverend sat in silence, cleaning his glasses. After several minutes a knock came on the door, and Michael Johnson entered.

"If only it were good to see you again, Michael." Shmidt said, putting his glasses back on. "Unfortunately I cannot truthfully say that it is, given your recent actions."

"Save your breath." The latter spat back contemptuously. "Have you made the arrangements?"

"We have." SHmidt said, standing up, and slowly walking towards Johnson. "You and a number of others will be disguised as waiters, the rest will go as guests. You will be able to recognize them by the red bands of cloth around their arms." He shouldered his cross as he got nearer to Johnson, who had placed his hands into pockets, smiling maliciously at Shmidt. "During the fifth song the first shot will be fired." The preist stopped three feet from the subject of his instructions. "And I will be watching you." In a flash he covered the rest of the distance before Johnson had time to react, pressing a blade of his cross against the bottom of the man's chin and bringing his mouth to Johnson's ear. "If you attack any of us." Shmidt whispered. "I will ensure your death."

Johnson stood motionless, leaning backward to releive the rpessure of the blade, terror rising in him as his mind raced. How did he move that fast? The rogue executioner thought. I've never seen him do anything like that... "Very well." He said, masterfully hiding his fear. "I won't kill any of your precious little executioners. Is that all you have to tell me?"

"Yes." Shmidt said, takign a step back and slinging the cross over his shoulders. "You will return here afterward, one way or another."

"Until then, my good reverend." Johnson said, smiling before he turned to walk out.

Minuet 'Bocchereni' in C (http://www.fileden.com/files/2007/5/25/1112528/02-12-%20Minuet.%20L.%20Boccherini.mp3)

Crystal glittered row upon row as flutes circulated amongst the room with an effervescence that added a late night sparkle to the eyes of the likewise circulating guests. Everywhere brilliant light sparkled from medals or ball gowns, and from glittering tiaras and inlaid diamonds. In and on every face a smile was frozen that suggested the conflict below; every partygoer knew it, everyone hid it behind a carefully disguised mask; invasion. It was a sour word that never the less clung to every air and every mind, whether from Gothic forces, from previous allies or the new enemies which everyday manifested themselves was unsure, but what was certain was the uncertainty.

So it was not to the barricades or the recruiting station the nation flocked to but to Church and to society to reassure and reaffirm one another of their collectively loyalty to the ideals of stability. So it was with forced smiles the mingling crowd wore the night away and by and degree forgot their worries.

“His Grace George the Bishop Rimmly and Lady Claudmillia Dench.” A herald, who had long ago given up on making his voice heard smacked his staff against the ground and mumbled the announcement. Even without a firm bellow the Lady Dench, resplendent in a white woven with flower like patterns, and certainly showing more skin than was customary. A few figures, which Claudmillia knew well from greater or lesser attempts to seduce her at some point or another, all of which had been rebuffed, bowed low and graciously to the pair.

Bishop Rimmly on the other hand was perhaps a little to elderly to be attending parties, nearing eighty; he had merely come to remind his staff that he was in fact still alive, and after asking one of the most infamously difficult women to join him he appeared to be receiving jealous glances from men half his age.

“You were so kind to come with my dear.” Rimmly whispered into her ear as they walked hand in hand through the great expanse of the marble dance floor where couples spun in elegant and planned patterns. “It has made this decade worth while.”

“I could not say no your grace, you are too adorable.” She squeezed his hand affectionately. Some years beforehand the old man had been her grandfather’s confidant and they had privately before when she was much younger. “I could not say no to party.”

“Well then,” a soft light glinted from Rimmly’s light blue eyes, “don’t let me keep you from it. You are a young woman, you have done your part for me; I am alive it would seem. Anyway if I’m not very much mistaken the Cenobiarch is over there; I should pay my respects.”

“No, it’s a pillar. It is forty feet high.” She bent low to kiss on both cheeks after which he turned a bright ruby red and beamed happily, “I will be back you know.” It was a large hall and with hundreds of the social elite swarming over it. Massive Phoenician pillars, larger than mature oak trees, looted from a former colony of the Empire, connected two levels below a roof of almost cathedral proportion. Technically all the guests had descended a floor from ground level where the grand veranda through which guests would enter and parade down to the herald’s accompaniment. Two marble staircases flanked the forward end of the imposing ballroom, and were decorated heavily with delicate lattice works and inlay. From somewhere unseen, as they were on somewhere on the ground floor, several musicians trilled away at various minuets and waltzes that reverberated from the dished ceiling.

With strides and nods Lady Dench slide through the twirling seas of ball gowns. There were many familiar faces amongst the crowd, most unfortunately however she was the only rebel amongst them, although that need not be the case for long. A major, a highly decorated one whose sleeve was sewn shut just above the left elbow, roared with laughter along with several other army officers around a side table. It would be easy enough to extricate him and perhaps over the course of the night see if she was really alone.

An arm, with a iron grip however shot out from amongst the dancers and spun the woman around and into the arms of a smiling man done up heavily in a military uniform and boasting several scars. “Lady Dench! I must say I was entirely expecting to see you here.” Without apparent effort the arms swept her into the dance and picked up a perfect timing and footwork

“Your Grace,” Claudmillia sighed to herself inwardly. Leopold von Waldenburg had been one of those few men who had taken her rejection with bad grace, and instead of building an inseparable barrier of hate between the two, added a tone of fervor to his overtures. “Though it is always a pleasure, I am not alone.”

“Quite so. You have me! Everyone saw you come in with Rimmly. Surely you can spare a moment for an old lover.”

“We were never lovers your grace.”

“Perhaps we could have been? We still could you know. There is much I could offer you, and your brother of course, the entire family. I understand it has been sometime since the late Lord Dench died, and your dear brother most nobly refrains from the name; perhaps it is time for an update?”

There was no point in struggling; even though she wished to, there was no potential for making a scene and not being the focus of attention, which rather conflicted with her interests. “I think not, although as always your efforts are entirely ingratiating.” In an attempt to change the subject she struck out in a random direction, “where is our host?”

“You mean the Field Marshal Nappfleplatz? I could not say. His adjutant is over there speaking with the Scant Bishoprics, I however have not seen the Cenobiarch, the Canonarch, the Marshal or this new Archbishop Throm fellow. The entire world is waiting for them; I hope they know. But why do we waste time with them? Let us speak just a bit more of you, my appetite has hardly been whet.” With as much aplomb and fumbled footedness she could muster a heel was aimed and unleashed with deadly speed at one of Leopold’s boots and with an equal burst his foot was withdrawn. “I took you for a better dancer. Waiter!” The man flagged down a passing and harassed looking butler wearing the distinctive uniform of the Service Corps of the Imperial Army, or in this case the Waldenburger Legion. “Two champagnes for table three. We will be there directly after this song, or perhaps a few more.” Leopold smiled a little smile and gripped Claudmillia closer to his chest.

Several hours after the meeting in the old chapel, Shmidt leaned against the brick wall of a building several hundred feet from the building where the celebration was taking place, quietly watching the frivolity within. After some time, he drew a small book from his coat, and put on a pair of reading glasses before beginning to write small notes upon the pages.

Amelia Henderson wore a faint smile as she walked through the crowd, dressed alike to many of the other women present, save for a red band around her arm. She slowly made her way to the coat room, where she had previously put hers, as did a number of other men and women. Ms. Henderson, once she had reached the room, picked up a large coat, which was weighed down by a somewhat heavy object contained within.

On the floor of the main room, a number of people were dancing, joining and separating into two lines with almost perfect synchronization as the pleasant melodies bombarded the many guests. From several tables dotting the hall, pairs of men and women stood up, reaching into their jackets or handbags for some item. While this was going on, a man nonchalantly made his way to one of the food tables, leaning over to grab a plate, placing a box onto the table's surface as he did so. He picked up several pieces of meat, and took a bite of one as he calmly walked away.

Across the street in the second floor of an old apartment building, several men looked through the scopes of large rifles, picking out targets amongst the crowds. Two had trained their sights upon Field Marshal Nappfleplatz, the rest upon security guards, and they seemed to be awaiting some sort of signal.

As the song grew to a climax a line of women separated from their partners, gracefully spinning away in synchronization. For an instant they seemed to be almost frozen in time, glittering amidst the brightly illuminated room, the red bands on their arms almost shining against the reflected light from the chandeliers. They spun one last time, each coming back around to face their partners holding a pistol. Simultaneously, they fired.

As the shots rang out, the half-dozen explosive charges that had been planted around the hall were detonated, sending a shockwave through the ballroom that shook the entire building. The pairs that had stood up from where they were seated drew a number of small automatic weapons, opening fire at the tables around them. The men in the building across the street fired.

The waiter whom Leopold had called approached the dancing couple from behind, he reached into his jacket, drawing a handgun and firing into the nobleman's back.

In the midst of the chaos that ensued, Michael Johnson cheerfully stepped out of the restroom where he had been waiting, looking with glee at the scene as he lifted a pair of small submachine guns. Grinning madly, he began emptying them into the crowd.

Shmidt watched from the street, his expression emotionless as he sighed. "So it comes to pass as he foretold."

Fuga in A (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/03a03.wma)

Time and again the lines closed towards one another; ball gowns shimmered in elegant translucent light. Crystal tinkled from all corners of the room and pleasant chattered filled the many-pillared halls as couples formed a great line and merged together. Claudmilla Dench had mostly given up trying to resist her partner and diminutively picked her way through the courtly dance.

“My son.” Leopold stated as he drew close to her again and grasped her arm, “is going to be Tzar of Dyelli Bebyi. I have great assurance on that respect. There and His Imperial Highness will bow to this as the natural course of things.” The pair separated and swung down a partner where the same routine took place. Lady Dench’s mind swung in tandem to here feet. The succession rights of the Empire were never clearly defined and if there was any chance of uniting two thrones then…

“You would be an Empress my dear.” Leopold reappeared at her side in the arms of a much more elderly woman who was apparently deaf as well as stiff legged. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

She turned her head to him and gave a demure nod, “It would; but my Emperor would not.” Lady Dench could almost feel the palpable rage pouring off the man and was lucky to swing down another partner to distance herself from the man. The more she looked though, this matter would not be remembered in history however self important for her own affairs; in every eye she saw a note of calculation, and indeed a great many butlers circulated amongst the tables with candid notes amongst the champagne. Of course this was entirely natural and to see a Waldenburger plotting was almost an auger of the world in proper order, but all at once it removed any individual from the event.

When, in a trance of action she separated for the last time she caught the eye of one furtive looking man, dressed in white sitting alone at a small circular table; he winked when he saw her staring and along with a flurry of motion across the room reached into his bag. She paused half step as women beside her drew from their sleeves pistols and leveled them at their male partners, amongst them she saw the face of Leopold shocked and enraged in the split second before a waiter drew his own pistol and shot his squarely threw the back.

All along the line smoke erupted as muzzle flashes and lead harkened the death of dozens of dancers. Military uniforms once overspread in braid and medals where frothing with blood as one by one the men fell to their knees hands dashing to cover chest wounds. A few swords were drawn in vain attempts to stave off the attacks but the sheer number of bullets and the accuracy of their firers barred no mistakes.

From around the pillared hall tables were flipped over and from behind them spats of fire took down butlers and guests alike until the floor was littered with the dead and wounded and the massive columns supporting the ceiling as dozens of men had dove for cover and were now huddled behind them and squirming for spaces.

Seven bishops were exchanging vicious punches for the right to hide behind a single table before a machine gun turned on them and turned both bishops and table to bloody ribbons. White robes were stained blood red and the few cardinals scattered about the room were a absolute magnet for fire. Behind one pillar an officer had stabbed one of the fleeing cardinals rather that draw the associated fire and kicked him back out onto the floor to bleed out.

Amongst the room only one man was still, and in an almost angelic state of calm; Bishop Remmly, hands over walking stick sat serenely at a coffee table sipping a champagne flute. Even this did not last for long as bullets found him too eventually, first one shattering his glass, and then dozens which nailed him to the chair and as he drew his last breath he caught sight of Lady Dench who could not control here tears.

It turned out later the only thing that saved Lady Dench from a very early death was an earth shattering explosion the threw her off her feet like a paper doll and dropped the chandeliers down in deadly showers of meter long crystal.

Far from being inactive the few Divine Legionaries left from the original onslaught were hurriedly flashing their radios for assistance and those few who were properly armed, mostly with halberds on this occasion had attempted to put up a defense. One of the attackers, a woman had taken a poleax directly to the chest which flung her from the upstairs balustrade and to the floor below, where white ball gown billowed about her for some time. Dressed in tunics and breastplates and wielding either halberds or ceremonial rifles the Divine Legion was fighting to take control the upstairs portion of the hall including the coat check, the entrance salon, and the orchestra box; on this floor at least it seemed as if the Divine Legion had the overwhelming odds.

“God damn!” An the most senior officer behind a pillar bellowed as a bullet tore through his uniform and spun his sword away, “where’s the legion? Where’s the Vice Marshall?” His question was answered when a colleague tapped his shoulder and pointed to a corpse, for people generally have more head and nodded sagely. The original officer scooped fallen chuck of masonry and lobbed it at one of the attackers where it connected satisfying and knocked the woman to her knees. “Gentlemen it’s been a pleasure. But I need that pistol,” from the front of his jacket the Order of the Imperial Heron was removed and a three inch pin unhinged, “I’ll try and save some for the Legion. Anyone coming with me?”

--
Far removed from the skirmishing in the hall, far removed from the terrestrial earth, salvation awaited the luckless party. The Divine Legion had already been in the air when the call arrived, responding to another report of a renegade Muslim in the warehouse district. It was only a matter of minutes for the call to be heard and the wing diverted. Sixty soldiers sat clumped amongst the tight seats clutching their rifles to armored chests and girding themselves to crash the Waldenburger Legion’s party.

Juno Reactor - Immaculate Crucifixion (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NemQKwFDn0A)

James Roberts stood over a wounded officer of the Divine Legion, reloading the handgun that he held. He pointed it at the bleeding man's head and fired. From behind him rushed a man dressed in archaic armor and swinging a halberd. Jameson dropped to the floor as the blade whistled over his head, coming up again to slam his palm into the man's nose, shattering it and killing him. He turned as his attacker fell, looking up through a window, and saw a number of helicopters approaching. The snipers stationed across the block noticed them as well, and for a moment took their sights off of the party goers to focus on this new threat.

lying in an empty apartment, Steven Ford lifted his rifle to aim at one of these helicopters. He could barely make out the outline of the pilot through the glass, and inhaled quickly to steady his hands, firing three times at the outline. Around him there was a burst of shots as the other snipers acted in a similar fashion.

Johnson smiled as he slowly walked up the stairs to the second floor, humming to himself as he did so and reloading a sub-machine gun. He reached the top and calmly continued forward, nonchalantly sending a bullet through the head of a Divine Legionnaire who had appeared on the staircase behind him.

Amelia Henderson spun out from where she had been hidden behind the door of the coat room, driving a knife into the neck of a Legionnaire and firing two shots at a group of seven outside the room before slamming and locking the door. She panted lightly, reloading as the door shook from the weight of a man attempting to kick it open. The door was struck again, followed by a quick burst of gunfire. For several seconds there was silence, and Amelia unlocked the door, flinging it open, prepared to open fire on whoever was outside. Johnson was standing in front of the bodies of the legionnaires, grinning as he looked at the blood on his fingers. He snapped his head to look at her, his smile broadening, his eyes shining with a glint of insanity.

"Ah, there you are, my dear." He said, chuckling. "I've been looking for you, miss Henderson."

In a blur of motion, he drew a pair of handguns, firing a shot through each of Amelia's hands and feet before she had time to react. She grunted in pain, falling to her knees, and Johnson advanced, looking down at her.

"So you are his new favorite?" He asked, mockery in his voice. "How pathetic. You are nothing more than an attack dog, pitiful slave of an old man and his twisted idea of justice."

"What do you know of justice?" She spat back. Johnson kicked her, knocking her backwards, and knelt down, placing his foot on her chest.

"Oh, I know a great deal." He said, bringing his face closer to hers. "I've come to realize it's true nature. You see, the entirety humanity is wicked, and those who you disgustingly refer to as 'innocents' are merely those who are too afraid or too brainwashed to commit the evil that their filthy souls desire. You are a weed, and I am the gardener." He giggled, putting a pistol to her head. "I would advise you to pray, but it really wont do any good. It is time to die, miss Henderson."

"I think not." Said a quiet and familiar voice behind him. Johnson stiffened at the sound, and spun around. The Reverend Shmidt stood outside the doorway, looking mournful as he beheld the scene in front of him. "I am sorry that it has come to this, Michael," he said, pointing his cross away from himself as short blades sprang from the ends of it. "but your actions cannot be ignored, and you must be rendered unable to do further harm."

Johnson threw his head back and laughed. "You presume to stop me?" He leveled the pistols at Shmidt. "You've 'executed' your last criminal, old man."

He fired. Two bullets traveled through the air, aimed exactly at the priest's forehead. Shmidt shifted several inches to the right, the rounds passing by his ear. He smiled as Johnson stared, dumbstruck at the fact that he had actually missed. "Come now Michael, you didn't think that I survived all these years without a certain ability to avoid injury, did you?"

With a scream of rage Johnson leaped forward, firing, the cross swinging around to block the rounds as his counterpart anticipated the bullet's trajectories. The two closed to within a foot of one another, and the priest's cross came around in a broad arc to be deflected upward by a quick jab as Johnson ducked under the blow.

The two began to move in what seemed a frenzied dance of blurred metal and gunshots, slowly moving towards an open balcony as each dodged and blocked the strokes of the other. Shmidt snapped his head back as a pistol fired under where his head had been mere milliseconds before, bringing his own weapon around in another swing which his opponent was forced to step backwards to avoid before closing in once more.

They reached the balcony, and Shmidt stopped walking backwards as his back struck the stone railing. Cross and handgun locked, pressed against one another as the two men struggled. Johnson brought up his second pistol, triumph in his eyes, and pressed it against his former teacher's forehead. "Checkmate." He said, grinning.

Shmidt's face held an expression of peaceful calm, and he smiled. His body a blur, he spun out and behind his adversary, one of the cross's blades slashing across Johnson's back. The man screamed, and fell over the railing. Shmidt rushed to the edge of the balcony, looking down at the street below, but could see no movement, nor any signs of a body. He frowned, and after scanning the area within his view for a moment, turned and headed back inside.

OOC: to be further edited.

But even he was struck down. There were none under the sun or amongst the heavens or in the pits of hell, or indeed throughout creation that could dare challenge the might and wisdom of the Holy Church that Ceno built on the rock of the old ways, and forever buried them.

The Book of Ceno 1:6

Bullet had continued to shred the rest of the furniture and the hundreds of guests who had failed to find cover amongst the large hall. The few Legionnaires either were killed outright or dove into side rooms where they bravely held side corridors while the rampage continued on.

Small bursts of resistance had sprouted over the hall and for all their enthusiasm had accomplished nothing but more additional bloodshed on the part of the defenders, and a mounting death count. Most of the senior members of the hierarchy had already been targeted with several Cardinals and three Imperial Princes being gunned down. It was a great slaughter, and the ability of any enemy to operate his far in the country, was perhaps more frightening than the already accrued bloodshed.

High above the building through several helicopters were already circling and coordinating with their operational command the best way to storm the building. Most favored repelling right through the ceiling and accepting whatever casualties resulted from such a maneuver. The more liberally minded wished for a rush through the front doors and a general sweep downwards. According to most of the troopers still inside most of the enemy was either on the ground floor or already in combat with the Divine Legion.

Both methods were eventually chosen, after a short argument between several colonels of the General Staff. Thirty men would burst through the front doors and secure the upper level while, an additional thirty men, with sniper support would assail down from above. Additional forces, at battalion strength, would arrive within about six minutes, but their needed to be a gap in the fighting for them to fill.

“Corporal,” three dark figures motioned back towards the line of armored officers; full tactical gear was on display and there were no pikes or sabers on these men. “In three, two, one.” Two of the men opened the door; the third sighted down his rifle and cleanly shot an elegantly dressed assassin, a woman firing two pistols towards a cowering bishop, through the head, dropping her almost instantly. Two flashbangs were tossed around either side of the door, dully discharged and the squad was pouring inside. In three columns they broke of in separate directions firing precisely at anything that held a weapon.

The assault through the roof began as a stream of chain gun fire broke the great crystal ceiling and rained foot long shards of glass down the assassins below. Black ropes dropped and black figures followed firing furiously, and tossing flashbang grenades without hesitation of where they landed.
--

Some distance away treads ground on cobblestones as APC after tank and artillery piece pulled out from their civil barracks. The Emperor, usually a peaceable man, had for once lost his temper, and exploded. His brother was already lying in a pool of blood and two of his cousins were in an almost similar state. He had ordered that as many as possible be taken alive so they in turn could be flayed alive then beaten to death with implements of torture created from their comrades skin. It was perhaps a little enthusiastic from the Emperor but for once his ferocity far outweighed the Cenobiarch who had quietly dispatched the Archbishop Throm and several of his Inquisitors to assist in the wiping out of this most recent and disturbing outbreak.

With deft hands Throm did up his black hood and readjusted the tall point, “His Majesty is most vexed with this, however the Cenobiarch had need of at least one of them, alive. That is our primary objective. After that I am sure you have no need.” There was indeed no need. Of course there was equally no need to endanger the Archbishop who would arrive some considerable time after the remainder of the ‘cavalry.’

OOC: I had a much longer and better version of this post prepared, but unfortunately I lost it, so this will have to do for now.

IC:
The man known as Michael Johnson grimaced in pain as he slowly pulled himself through the dirt of a small garden under the balcony from which he fell. As he slowly inched along, agony coursing through his back, he could not help but laugh as he saw the helicopters overhead and Waldenburger soldiers charging into the building. Fools. They will all be dead by this night's end. He continued laughing despite the pain it caused, unable to stop himself. And what do I care? Let the vermin slaughter each other. Mindless zealots, seeking each others' destruction in the name of God. They will all know in time that there is no God, and that the true master of creation is Death, who cleanses all corruption and whom saints and monsters alike all go to in the end.

As he dragged himself further, the former executioner's thoughts became less and less coherent. Finally he passed out, half of his body on the street, his head lying in a puddle.

The Reverend Shmidt stood in a corridor which opened into a long hallway, upon one side of which a huge window made up the wall. He calmly waited as chain-gun fire tore through the glass, sending the pane crashing to the floor. As the gun stopped, he stepped out into the hallway and began to run. After a few steps he could hear the gun begin to start again, and the more he ran he could hear the bullets striking the wall behind him, each one closer. He was but a few steps away from the safety of another wall when the fire caught up to him, and passed. He burst through the door that was at the hallway's end, and stopped, breathing heavily from the sprint. His mind was racing as he worked over what had just happened in his head. There is no way that gun could have missed me at that rate of fire. And yet here I am , unharmed. His first thought was It is a miracle. followed a fraction of a second later by another: It is fate. The priest shook his head, banishing such thoughts for consideration later. For now his only concern was to get as many of his executioners as he could out of the clutches of the Waldenburger forces bearing down upon them.

James Roberts smiled as he turned to face the men who had just burst through the frontal entrance. He opened fire on them, standing directly in front of the group until a bullet struck his abdomen. Doubling over, he reached into his coat, pulling out a detonator. After a moment, Roberts stood up and ran at the group of soldiers, more bullets striking him until he was practically dead on his feet, nothing but his own momentum carrying him forward. Several feet away from the first of the men he stumbled, running into the group and falling tot he ground. His fist clenched around the detonator, and the explosive in his coat activated.

As the resulting blast rocked the room the rest of the men and women who up until this point had been concerning themselves with the massacring of the ball's guests turned their attention and fire to the new intruders.

The first men through the front doors where scythed down after a grinning executioner had thrown himself at the squad and detonated in a violent spike of flame. Three more men were over the bodies in heartbeat and spraying fire so their comrades could pull through the now much enlarged door, and fall prone on the upper balcony to rain fire down on the remaining executioners. The armor of the recently arrived Waldenburger units greatly aided them against the comparatively small caliber firearms of the intruders, and several of the commandos took multiple bullets to the chest as they bundled down various corridors or dashed to the next column.

From above more troops were repelling down, admittedly the few that were not in some way wounded on the rope which ultimate lead to a painful fall to the marble floor, were left quivering amongst the party guests in a sea of enemies; but in this they were terriers in a barrel of rats and when one agent made it to the floor he was primly placed to removed opposition from the rear.

Outside of the building the first of the Dark Legion APC’s were rolling into place and quickly disgorging the black robed Inquisitors who did not run as the regular army, but strode purposefully, robes whipped asunder by hovering helicopters. Archbishop Throm lead the way a pistol dangling loosely from his fingers and occasionally spinning.

“And what is this?” Throm asked calling a halt to the column with a gloved hand and motioning down at a figure which two inquisitors bent to examine. “Not one of ours Your Grace.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes sir, he is alive.” There was little hesitation in the answer; the inquisitors knew well enough by now.

“Then this shall do for our prisoner. You two take him back, sedate him, tie him up, and patch him up as needed.” Throm motioned for the Inquisitors to begin moving again but after a few steps turned his head and cocked it at an angle, “Remove a few of his teeth as well: say three. Come gentlemen.” The Dark Legion moved up the rear stairs like a shadow, away from the rip and roar of the helicopters or the bloody explosions of the ground floor. Just as the team approached a woman, sporting long white gloves and glittering tiara, pushed her way down, Again there was no hesitation and the Legion moved as a firing line training dozens of pistols up at the women and firing in a murderous barrage. Slug after slug impacted the woman as she was blown to ribbons and eventually was allowed to slump against the wall in death.

“Be quick about your work. Leas as many of the senior clergy out the back as possible and do attempt to take other prisoners, ours may not live long in the chair.” With a wave of his hands Throm dismissed the squad who burst into the ballroom and completed the encirclement of the executioners. The last way out not surrounded by Waldenburger soldiers was directly into the mouths of the strafing helicopters.