Bad Blood Runs Black - chapter 2 rev 1

Bad Blood Runs Black - chapter 2 - by John "Basileus Ioannis"

The world is filled with legends and tales of how the world was created. One such legend is the foundation upon which the Blacktonian Church of Syerogo Drakona, the Gray Drake, is built. The legend, passed from parent to child from a time before there was writing, had been transcribed onto holy scrolls, part of the treasures of the Cathedral in the city of Blackstone. Monks made copies for the multitude of chapels that dot the land. But as the scriptures are not always accessible to the average citizen, the tale is still told within households thus:

“Long before men and elves walked the world, aye before there was a world at all, there dwelt a celestial drake. This being had created the universe, and was suitably colored black. His name was Cherniye. Closer inspection would lay plain that this drake’s scales were not black at all, but a very dark hue of purple. But one could not see that, for there was no light. Cherniye was lonely, so he set about to create a world, upon which he sprinkled living beings and plants borne of his own flesh. When his work was done, Cherniye stopped to examine the fruits of his labor. Something was amiss. Despite all of his creations crawling about on his world, he was still...lonely.

“It so happened that upon this scene, another celestial being came to find the lonely blackish dragon. This being was also of celestial nature, but was so bright and shiny that it was hard to behold it. Squinting from the brightness that invaded his universe, Cherniye at first thought the being came to steal his precious creations. But soon it became apparent that this bright white dragon, Belya, was there to help him. And...she was female! Her intense glow made her look white, but again, her scales were pale gold. She added light and warmth to Cherniye’s world, happily dropped rainbows here and there, and most importantly of all, she gave the humans on the world fire and magic. Cherniye and Belya completed each other, and all was right with the universe.

“Suddenly the peaceful universe was shattered by strife. More celestial beings appeared, puny armored humanoids with lances and swords, riding winged horse steeds. They saw the two dragons, and immediately charged, yelling terribly. Not sure what to do, Cherniye tried to protect his mate, but there were too many horse warriors swarming them, and Belya was hurt. The black drake was enraged by the sight of his wounded mate, and rushed to her aid. To better defend themselves, the two celestial drakes merged into one omnipotent being, Syerogo Drakona the Gray Drake. By combining the energies of the two dragons, Syerogo Drakona could fight the intruders and keep them at bay. By day, the drake blazed with the light of the sun, making the armored horse riders hide themselves. At night, the horse warriors dared to sally forth as stars in the sky, but the Grey Drake kept an eye on them, in the shape of the moon...” or so the Blackstonian legends go.

The tale is somewhat different as told by the elders in Hannetzbirg, of course. Theirs is a more humano-centric viewpoint, with a powerful celestial knight on horseback portraying the godhead, and dragons representing the archetypical serpent, unleashing deadly forces of nature. These legendary beasts more closely follow existing evil dragonkind, lending more credence to this philosophy:

“A celestial humanoid named Gertze, wearing shining armor, wielding a great glowing sword, riding on a celestial winged horse named Pfard, created the universe in six days, and on the seventh day he stopped to water his steed. They had created the world, the sun, the moon, the stars, and all the plants and animals on the world. Everything was right with the world.

“Then, suddenly five evil celestial dragons appeared in the universe, and they were colored red, green, blue, black, and white. The red, named Pyros, blasted Gertze and Pfard with fire, but was struck by Gertze’s mighty sword and fell to the ground. Fires started where the wyrm fell, and threatened to burn all the trees and creatures on the world, leaving a scorched desert. Then green, named Blaberos, blew a cloud of poisonous gas at Gertze and Pfard, but the celestial horse kicked him with his mighty hoof, sending the dragon crashing into the fens. Toxic fumes bubbled up to the surface, killing all it touched. The blue wyrm, named Keravnos, called upon lightning bolts to rip into Gertze and Pfard, so Gertze grabbed the dragon by its neck and hurled it into the sea. The ocean turned blue, and tremendous storms brewed up. The black dragon, named Oxynos, and the white, named Pageros, swept down upon the mountains, creating pools of acid and cloaking the mountains in ice.

“Realizing that he alone could not fight all the dragons plaguing his world, Gertze made the decision to split himself and Pfard into the Pentarchy, five godesses mounted on winged horses. Being created from the essence of Gertze himself, the Pentarchy shared equal status, and controlled one elemental domain each. Ignia controlled fire, Fluvia the mighty river waters, Venta the winds, Huma the fertile soil, and Arta magic. Thus to this day, the five goddesses and Gertze are collectively called the gods, and one Church administers to the needs of the worshippers.” So say the holy scriptures of Hannetzbirg.

One can see that by tying their faiths to natural phenomena that can either be invaluable to mankind, or threaten its very existence, and portraying the good and bad as either dragons or horse warriors, the two nations of Blackstone and Hannetzbirg had set in its foundations the bigotry that perpetuated their hatred toward each other. The fact that clerics of both faiths have access to divine magic must mean that there is an element of truth to these legends. But how could two opposing theologies both be true? Perhaps the joke is on mankind, and the truth lies somewhere in between, or not at all.

In any event, real dragons are thankfully few and far in-between. But how the humans of both nations react to encountering a dragon is of note. Blackstonians who encounter a hostile dragon write it off as a spawn of Cherniye’s rage, and try to avoid them if possible, or quickly put them down and hold prayers over the carcass, calling upon forgiveness from Belya. Hannetzbirgers seek out dragons to kill, regardless of color, and celebrate bringing a wyrm low with thanksgivings and beer. It is a wonder why these two peoples wouldn’t get along better.

It has been forgotten through the passing of the ages that at one time, the humans of Blackstone and Hannetzbirg were once one people. The name of the unified human nation has been lost over time, but their influence is still found in the odd ruins that dot the countryside. This mighty nation spanned the continent from the mountain range that ran from north to south in the west, eastwards to the shores of the ocean, and from the frozen north to the sylvan woods of the south.

Dwarves lived in the mountains, in their deep mines, and it was from these dwarves that mankind learned how to mine minerals, work metals, and to value gold and silver. To the east of the mountains lay deciduous forests dotting the landscape, with mighty rivers watering the lush grasslands amongst the trees. Here, communities of halflings worked farmlands and raised sheep and cattle, and from them mankind learned agriculture and animal husbandry. West of the mountains, the vast wilderness was a mix of plains and rolling wooded hills, with numerous rivers. Scattered colonies of gnomes lived in the foothills, tinkering and creating magical devices, and from them the humans would learn industry and technology. In the north, virgin evergreen forests reached toward the tundra, beyond which lay icy glaciers. To the south, the vast elven forest ran from the mountains to the ocean, separating the northern lands from the vast desert beyond. The reclusive elves, whose concerns lay not with surface-dwelling humans but the threat from the dark elves, the Drow, and their deep gnome and grey dwarf allies, waged on-and-off war against the underground denizens, who were resentful of those that drove them from the sun-lit world thousands of years before mankind.

The humans gained mastery of magic, and built numerous mighty city-states, on the banks of the great rivers or along the sea shore to the east. Networks of roads linked the communities, and trade flourished, both between cities and with the non-human races. The city-states were monarchies, but about two thousand years ago, after fits of warfare, one city would grow to stand above the others by promoting a confederation of city-states, for both economic benefits as well as mutual protection. One by one, the city-states chose to join the confederation, as the benefits outweighed autonomy. A string of wise kings permitted this confederation to grow, until all human communities were under their flag. Eventually a governing body of representatives called the Senate was formed, to ensure that member city-states retained their right to self-rule while handing off authority to the confederation as a body in matters that affected multiple city-states. Considering that it was still a loose confederation, it worked surprisingly well, and both trade and education flourished.

**********

About sixteen hundred years ago, there was an ambitious project put forth by the top wizards of the land, a system of portals linking all the city-states, permitting instantaneous transport from one to the next. This was meant to be an improved form of teleportation in the shape of permanent magic portals, and plans were made to expand on the concept, permitting rapid military reinforcement and reliable mail service, and even commercial use was contemplated. The populace of all the city-states turned out in droves to see this miracle take place, and the mood was joyful and festive. Even farmers from outlying communities came into town, filling the available inns, and food and souvenir vendors had booming business.

But something went terribly wrong when the portals were activated. Instead of linking directly to each other, the portals deviated through the Abyss, and hordes of demons poured forth into the heart of every city. Not expecting such an invasion, the city-states were ill prepared, and despite the valiant efforts of their warriors, priests, and wizards, wholesale slaughter took place. The buildings containing the portals caught fire, soon raging out of control, setting the hearts of the cities ablaze. People tried to run, but for most, it was to no avail. By the end of the day, more than half the population was dead or carried off to the Abyss.

The cities continued to burn for a week, eventually leaving nothing but charred rubble. A few bands of refugees managed to escape the clutches of the demons, and struck out cross country towards the mountains to the west and the sylvan forests to the south. But the dwarves, fearing being swamped by the refugees, and blaming them for unleashing the demonic hordes, retreated into their mines and sealed their doors. The halflings hid in their burrows, managing to avoid the gaze of the demons.

The refugees heading south were taken in by the elves, who organized a resistance against the demons. They, among all the races, were able to drive back the invaders, but it took them over a century to finally rid the land of the demons and the portals that linked the planes. After clearing the land, the elves would form a new nation, the High Porte, and the southern human refugees, the halflings, and eventually the dwarves, would all become vassals of the High Porte. But that is another story.

Three groups of human refugees, driven westwards over the mountain range that bisects the continent, had shown up in the land of the dwarves seeking aid. As previously described, the dwarves sealed their mines, refusing to aid the humans. The humans continued westwards into the vast wilderness beyond the mountains. Small communities of gnomes in the foothills joined the human refugees on their trek, and would prove invaluable in helping the humans survive in the harsh climate of the north. Technology became their forte, and they turned to magic to create what nature would not provide.

One group of refugees, of humans and gnomes, took a northerly route, skirting the vast tundra with hardwood pine forests. They followed rivers westwards until they reached the shores of a long narrow gulf. To its north, the land was frigid and swampy, but access to the sea would provide fish. The forests had game, and the land near the shore proved fertile enough for farming. The humans gathered around a natural high ground on the shores of the gulf, a peak with a flat top. The mountain appeared to be a long dormant volcano, for its rock was mostly black basalt. Natural springs at the peak trickled mineral water down its faces. The refugees, with gnomish aid, began building a wall with the black rock that was abundant. Buildings were soon erected, including a temple complex atop the flat peak. After a thanksgiving ceremony, the humans christened their new bastion Chernye Kameny, or Blackstone.

A second group, almost exclusively human, had taken a southwesterly route, into the warmer plains and wooded ridgelines to the south. They too followed a river, but one that flowed almost due south, today called the Tauner River. When they came upon the confluence of this river with one flowing from the ridgeline to the west, now called the Lida River, they chose to build their city there. The soil was rich, with fields of wheat and oats, and game, cattle and horses were plentiful. Unfortunately, monsters also lurked within the wooded ridgelines, and priority was given to constructing a walled fortress as quickly as possible. This soon became a walled city, as more walled fortresses were built radiating outwards from this first hold. The initial city came to be named after their leader, Hannetz, and was called Hannetz’s town, or Hannetzbirg.

A third group of human refugees had been in between the northern and southern groups. They went due west until they hit the ocean, took to the sea in longships, and haven’t been heard from since. With the central group leaving the continent entirely, contact between Blackstone and Hannetzbirg was lost. Over time, they would come to develop their own languages, cultures, and religions separate from each other, although the common themes of knights on horseback and dragons betray their common ancestry.

**********

Twenty three years ago, the previous Grand Duke of Hannetzbirg, Lord Heinrik von Schafflingen, made the last cavalry charge of his life. Leading his brave legions two wars ago, he looked magnificent in his golden armor, his white hair and beard flowing from under his golden helm. They had their enemy Blackstone on the ropes. One last push, and they should sue for peace, yet again.

It was a stormy October day, the skies overcast, lit up by occasional bolts of lightning, rain driving in sheets. There was a chill in the air, winter was fast approaching. Everyone sensed that this war would end soon. It would have to, for Hannetzbirg had exhausted its manpower reserves. But the majority of the army was mounted, and therefore mobile. Blackstone, reduced to a mostly infantry force, reeled from one defensive battle to another.

Several hundred miles to the northwest, in the capital city of Blackstone, a synod was being held in the sprawling cathedral complex of the Church of Syerogo Drakohna. Blackstone was a theocracy, the Church its government. The wings of the cathedral were filled with bureaucrats of all departments and offices, one wing dedicated to the army and its affairs. Stress was evident in that wing, for things had not gone well on the frontlines. The few dragon steeds they had employed were gone, either dead or abandoned the field. Other steeds had proved unfit for service, or in the case of horses, completely unavailable in the cold climate of the north. Gnome mages had begun research on adapting a huge variety of the Bulette, or land shark, crossed with a giant tortoise and white dragon's blood, but things had not gone well. The end result was too small to carry a useful combat load, and could not employ breath weapons. Flying was out of the question. Left with only foot infantry, the army was in dire straits.

In the main chamber of the cathedral, His Most Divine All-Holiness the Archbishop of Blackstone and Ecumenical Patriarch, Konstantin XXIII, held counsel. A wise man of sixty two years, he had spent all of his adult life in the Church, and had been elevated to Patriarch less than twelve years ago, upon the passing of the prior Patriarch, Vasily IX. While not a warrior, Konstantin had seen his share of war as a commissary, a deputy officer charged with the morale, welfare, and religious support of the troops. All Blackstonian army units from battalion level upwards had a commissary, and it was natural progression for only about one in four such officers to be elevated to the next echelon up, while the others took on other responsibilities within the hierarchy of the state. Konstantin had risen to commissary of Third Army Group before becoming a bishop. Therefore, he had considerable (but not professional) knowledge of the army.

“So we have neither the dragon steeds we had, nor a suitable replacement,” contemplated the Patriarch. “Our army is reduced to pockets of infantry, and we are in full retreat, despite all the efforts of the commissaries. That is...unfortunate.” He looked up from the map and into the eyes of his generals. They all had dark expressions of despair on their faces. “What other options do we have?”

One of the generals, a field marshal with a simple baggy uniform over his suit of armor, removed his hat, exposing his glistening bald pate. “Militarily, divine grace, we are exhausted. We must sue for peace, to buy time for the gnomes to finish developing the armored Charr. Since our enemy lacks aerial steeds, I suggest we concentrate on the Charr to counter their horse cavalry, with your leave.”

“Very well, send an envoy under a flag of truce, and make it so.”

Thus the war came to an end. The war, which had gone on this time for only four years, had claimed almost six hundred thousand souls on both sides of the border. That border, over which war had broken out countless times going back through a thousand years of recorded history, had barely moved sixty miles. Ten thousand people had died for every mile the border moved.

Lord Heinrik led his victorious legions into the capital city amid jubilant cheers. The war was over. Now almost eighty years old, Heinrik rode proudly on his horse with his helm removed, his white locks flowing in the breeze. The father of the country had returned home. With the assistance of his army commander, Magister Militum Heizmall von Rosenstein, the Grand Duke dismounted with some difficulty in front of Castle Schafflingen. “Ah, Heizmall, these weary bones ache...war is for the young.”

“My Lord Heinrik, you are plenty young and strong, to have led our nation to victory against our hated enemy yet again!” beamed the general, trying to cheer him up. “Look yonder, your wife awaits your triumphant entrance!”

The aged Lord Heinrik lifted his weary head, and gazed upon his waiting wife, the Grand Duchess. Standing in the doorway of the castle, she looked like a porcelain doll, lacquered and gleaming. He extended his armored hand toward her, and suddenly collapsed on the cobblestones. Elation quickly turned to shock. The Grand Duchess’ eyes widened at the sight of her husband’s fall. Heizmall and other soldiers quickly ran to aid their leader.

“Lord Heinrik!” they yelled, as Heizmall turned his liege over onto his back. Heinrik had blanched, with a pained expression on his face. Heizmall yelled, “Quickly, carry him into the castle! Fetch the Matriarch!” Several armored knights lifted the still form of the Grand Duke and rushed him toward the doorway. Attendants supported the Grand Duchess as she reached out for Heinrik, as the soldiers bearing the fallen lord hurried him inside.

“To the couch in the library, hurry!” yelled the Grand Duchess. The guards within the castle guided the rushing troops into the library, where the green upholstered couch was cleared of excess cushions, and the Grand Duke, still in his armor, was laid upon it. Attendants removed his armor and wiped the beads of perspiration off of his pallid brow.

Matriarch Benevolencia was by the Grand Duke’s side in a matter of moments. She was the youngest Matriarch of the Church, still not yet thirty years old, and she had run from Grusskirche Cathedral. Of average build, Benevolencia was reasonably fit, but being a pure cleric and not a warpriest, she lacked the stamina of some of her sisters in military service. Out of breath, she waved her arms to part the crowd gathered around the couch. “Make way...make way...so I...may work!” she blurted, dropping to her knees beside the elderly lord, holy symbol in her right hand. Still panting, she began her incantations, as people closed in behind her. Ringed by the Grand Duchess, Heizmall, and many concerned soldiers, the spiritual leader of the Church tried to work her healing magic, but there was nothing the Matriarch could do. She looked up to the Grand Duchess with despair in her eyes. “Heinrik is not injured, poisoned, or diseased...he is dying of old age.”

The venerable warrior was cleansed, and borne up the stairs to his bed. He held on for four more days in a comatose state, his wife rarely leaving his side. On the morning of the fifth day, he had breathed his last. The celebrations of the armistice never took place, and were replaced by a period of mourning, as the body of Lord Heinrik lay in state for three days before the state funeral.

Thirty days of mourning were observed, and it was during this time that the Grand Duchess took ill. Her hair turned platinum white, and she barely ate any food. Stengal von Pippenstock, the viceroy, would look in on her every day. Very slender, with a wiry mustache protruding horizontally from under his pointed nose, Stengal had a slightly bent spine, a birth defect. This, combined with his squeaky high pitched voice and his general demeanor, had given him the unfortunate nickname of “the Weasel” behind his back. Yet, the eldest of the von Pippenstock siblings of mages worked hard to keep the state functioning, while the widow sank further and further into a near catatonic state. Seeing her untouched meal plate, he would admonish her, “Milady, you must eat, to keep up your strength.” But the Grand Duchess was too despondent over the loss of her lifemate, and barely two weeks after her husband’s funeral, passed away in her bed of a broken heart.

The second funeral was hardly over before Stengal went to Grusskirche to meet with Matriarch Benevolencia. His younger siblings Sybille and Erick were also in her chambers. Sybille von Pippenstock was barely in her twenties, and yet had risen to archmage in record time. Tall and statuesque, with flaming red hair, Sybille had an air of confidence in her golden robe, a symbol of her station as instructor at the War Mage Academy. Her younger brother Erick had just come of age two years prior, and was an up and coming wizard specializing in the Transmutation school, working on creating a giant fly that could be used as a form of propulsion for aerial travel. Wasserstoff gas had been discovered through experimentation with acid, and a balloon using this gas for lift had been developed. Combining this new balloon craft with his giant fly propulsion would revolutionize aerial travel, and could possibly have military applications. Slightly overweight with a rotund face and ruddy cheeks, Erick appeared middle aged, but his face looked much more youthful than his siblings, his piggish eyes gleaming with intelligence and his dark brown hair slicked back in elf fashion.

“Ah, Benevolencia, I see my sister and brother are already here,” began the Weasel in his annoying voice. Taking an offered seat, he continued, “Shall we continue our discussion regarding the throne?”

Erick snarked at the word “throne”, but his sister elbowed him in his ribs with a sidelong glare. Benevolencia looked tired, having witnessed the passing of both the Grand Duke and Duchess and conducting two state funerals in less than three weeks. She had seen many more funerals in the prior four years, as the remains of select heroes of the war were brought back to Grusskirche from the front to be interred in the national cemetery. Many more thousands of fallen soldiers were buried in cemeteries closer to the front lines.

“Yes, let us finalize our plans,” said the Matriarch, “so we may set them in motion by next month when the period of national mourning ends. The Church will endorse you, Stengal, as the new Grand Duke, on the conditions we discussed.”

“Yes, Matriarch, that is agreeable to us,” said The Weasel casually. “I will ensure that we will hold constructive talks with Blackstone to avoid reigniting another war. We have had a war break out every generation since the dawn of recorded history, and it has gone on long enough.”

Sybille closed her eyelids and opened them slowly as if she nodded in agreement. Erick was busily writing on a scroll he held on a tablet on his lap, appearing to take notes on the discussion at hand. Closer inspection would show that he was doodling his concepts of the fly propulsion system, and was writing calculations here and there. He could care less about politics, unlike his older brother.

“Very well, viceroy, then we have a deal. I have it on good authority that the newly established Observation Balloon Corps of the army will support you.”

Erick looked up at the mention of the balloon corps. “Count von Lichthafen is supporting us?”

“Not publicly, but his officers have given their approval to the plan.”

Sybille purred, “The War Mage Academy will also support us, so that is half the players. Only those smelly cavalrymen might pose a problem.”

Stengal stroked his mustache in contemplation, “They are a significant fraction of the army, I will have to make certain they will not be in a position to argue.”

Benevolencia looked up the date on a calendar scroll nailed to the wall above her desk. “The mourning period ends in a fortnight. The following morning, we will dispatch the cavalry on a mission. Then on the following day, the Count’s men will join the war mages and my clerics outside the castle. Our supporters will gather, and we will announce your ascension to the people. By the time the cavalry are notified, Stengal, you will have been coronated Grand Duke.”

“Splendid,” croaked the Weasel, rubbing his hands together and showing a toothy grin. Sybille laughed softly, Erick scribbled, and Benevolencia looked relieved at the prospect of a lasting peace.

Two weeks went by, and the mourning period ended. That night, at the army headquarters building adjacent to Castle Schafflingen, Magister Militum Heizmall von Rosenstein was reading a scroll with the following day’s orders. Seeing that virtually the entire army was to deploy back to the frontier, he frowned. The war had ended not two months ago, and they were still in the process of rebuilding their units. Surely Blackstone’s forces were in no condition to resume hostilities, or they would have made their move during the period of mourning when the army of Hannetzbirg was at its weakest. It made no sense to have to send all the legions out again, so soon after returning home.

The sound of tramping boots came from the hall outside Heizmall’s office. Shortly, a loud knock came at the wooden door. “Enter,” he called out, not looking up from the scroll. The door opened with a creaking noise, and five legion commanders in full armor and equipment entered the room with angry expressions, slamming the door shut behind them.

One general barked, “Magister Heizmall! This is outrageous! We’ve had to recall our men from their leaves, and hardly a month after we returned from the war! Intelligence hasn’t detected any change in disposition along the front, what is the Weasel thinking?”

Heizmall sighed, raising a hand to calm the warrior. “I know, Joachim, but these are our orders. Perhaps the castle received word from spies about something even Intelligence hasn’t.”

“Horse dung!” yelled another irate general. “You know very well that they’re planning to select the successor, and they’re just getting us out of the way! I say we revolt!”

“Absolutely not!” snapped Heizmall, his eyes flashing with anger. “We are loyal soldiers of Hannetzbirg, we are sworn to protect her and whoever wears the crown!”

“I say we elevate someone ourselves upon a shield, in the fashion of old!” demanded a third general. “That is our right as soldiers!”

“Yea, the army has the authority to select our candidate,” concurred the first general. “If we do not consent, then crowning the successor in our absence constitutes a coup d’etat!”

“The entire army is not deploying, Joachim...”

“Yes, we see that!” bellowed the second general. “Apparently the entire Observation Balloon Corps is remaining behind to garrison the capital! They are suited for patrolling the frontier, why aren’t they deploying with us?”

A fourth general spoke up, “My sources tell me that this new Balloon Corps has close ties to the Weasel and his family, House Pippenstock. If they’ve gotten the Church and the war mages on their side...”

“There are no ‘sides’,” groaned an exasperated Heizmall. “We are all Hannetzbirgers, no faction will turn against the will of the country and succeed! However, you have a point. We must not be disenfranchised from selecting the next Grand Duke.”

The fifth general finally chimed in, “Ah, then you agree with us, that we should elevate our candidate upon a shield? When should we do this?”

A silence fell in the room. Heizmall rubbed his tired eyes, “I suppose tomorrow morning, at our departure ceremony. Who did you gentlemen have in mind?”

The next morning, the streets of the capital were filled with soldiers in full gear, many with their horses. In the parade ground behind army headquarters, a ceremony was being held for the deployment. Cavalrymen stood ringing the parade ground, holding the reins of their steeds. A wooden platform had been set up in the middle of the field. Twenty seven legion commanders stood around the platform as Heizmall stood, addressing the assembled troops. From a balcony on the castle overlooking the parade ground, Stengal, Benevolencia, Master Johann von Hemstedt of the War Mage Academy, Sybille and Erick stood between a brace of guards, smiling and observing.

As Heizmall finished his speech, he stepped aside as one of the generals stepped up on the platform. In a booming voice, the general hollered, “In the days of old, when a new Grand Duke was to be selected, the army would choose a candidate who would then step upon a shield held by three soldiers. The shield would be raised high, so that all could see the candidate clearly.”

Smiles disappeared from the balcony, as Stengal looked toward Benevolencia and Master von Hemstedt nervously. Benevolencia looked on resolutely, while von Hemstedt looked confounded.

“Therefore, as the gods are my witnesses, I call forth our right as soldiers to select our candidate for Grand Duke, Magister Militum Heizmall von Rosenstein!” The three soldiers held a round shield horizontally about a foot above the platform. Heizmall stepped up onto the shield, and the three soldiers lifted it up to waist level. All the assembled soldiers roared in approval. Jaws went slack on the balcony.

Word of mouth spread the news from soldier to soldier, citizen to citizen, throughout the city. The entire capital began chanting, “Heizmall! Heizmall! Grand Duke! Grand Duke!”  The streets and walls rang with thousands upon thousands of voices. The army’s choice was the people’s choice as well. Stengal slammed his fist on the railing of the balcony. Benevolencia’s eyes glistened as she realized her hopes for a lasting peace were crushed. Master von Hemstedt looked miffed that his war mages were denied their moment in the sun. Sybille glared at the assembled soldiers below. Erick scribbled.

*** to be continued! ***