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The idea is interesting and I'm ready to try it if we go that way. I see a few drawbacks though. Firstly, the thread manager (coz1?)'s task would be rather delicate. It's not a given to write an interesting piece that throws enough characters and events in to allow several writers to graft upon it while remaining neutral at the same time in order to leave freedom. I think such writing requires both skills, thoughts and efforts.

The second drawback (IMO) would be that the four stories would essentially be the same: even if switching viewpoints can allow some very creative writing, the context and general setting would be the same for the four installments. I personnally like the variety of GtA, where you can jump from the rooster to the donkey and from WW2 to the darkest hours of feudal intrigues... Just my two yens.
 
Thanks for taking my suggestion seriously. My reactions:

First off, it can't really be harmful to experiment with GtA like this. If it doesn't work, go back to the "traditional style" for the next installment.

As for variety, isn't GtA exactly this: an excersice in narrating similar events in different ways? When I go through the original posts, the point addressed was something like: how can we describe the 1000th rebellion in our AAR in a non-boring way?

As for the practical side, maybe someone can either volunteer to write such a piece, or you can take (with permission of course) a piece from an existing AAR. If CatKnight's suggestion of a "neutral" POV is taken, take a piece from more of a history book style AAR.

Maybe getting a good scene is harder than it seems, but you also need to remember that a writer's creativity is by far his greatest asset. Leave it up to the writers involved to find interesting POVs and angles inside the scene that the original writer hasn't ever thought of!
 
TeeWee said:
As for the practical side, maybe someone can either volunteer to write such a piece, or you can take (with permission of course) a piece from an existing AAR. If CatKnight's suggestion of a "neutral" POV is taken, take a piece from more of a history book style AAR.
!

I like the idea of having four authors describe a scene from four perspectives. I'd be glad to volunteer to write a historybook/neutral scene if you all need one. Which game period would work best? I'd think EU merely because it is the game most everyone has.
 
If Coz agrees...(Coz? Hey!)...then I'd say go for it, Estonian. :)

Time period...hm. Of course we've just hit one of the big weaknesses in TeeWee's idea - an EU theme might not appeal to HOI writers, and vice versa.

Perhaps a compromise? One example would be a court scene. If the details are vague enough, that court could be anywhere from pre-CK through World War I.

Or just pick a Vickie or CK scene, and the EU/HOIers can deal. :D
 
CatKnight said:
Or just pick a Vickie or CK scene, and the EU/HOIers can deal. :D

They really are the most awesome of games, but alas not all the world is so enlightened :)

Perhaps another compromise, a diplomatic conference? I could say, not include the dates and thus allow for even more variation on the topic. "Germany" and "France" existed in some form or other throughout the length of the Paradox timeline. I could be vague enough to describe the events without actually forcing a time period but giving enough specifics to make the scene real.

Hmm, I seem to be trying to make my job more difficult.
 
coz1 currently has quite a bit going on, which is why he has been less active lately. I would be happy to write a scene, though, if people would want me to. Indeed, I have been thinking about this and have a few ideas.

My intention would be to write something that was relatively short - so that it did not include too many details to leave plenty to the various authors. Likewise to keep it as time-neutral as at all possible - using words like 'weapon' as opposed to 'sword' or 'pistol'. Likewise not to name characters, but rather just positions and associations, to leave that free for writers as well.

How does that sound?
 
fj44 said:
stnylan, sounds good. I believe all of us would be grateful if you adopted the role of coordinator, if only for this round, :)
Seconded. But wouldn't elementary courtesy require us to wait for Estonianzulu's reaction, since he volunteered first? ;)
 
Nil-The-Frogg said:
Seconded. But wouldn't elementary courtesy require us to wait for Estonianzulu's reaction, since he volunteered first? ;)

Heh... If Stnylan wants to do it I say go for it. Means I have less work to do :)
 
Nil-The-Frogg said:
Seconded. But wouldn't elementary courtesy require us to wait for Estonianzulu's reaction, since he volunteered first? ;)
I was thinking more of allowing him to compete, if he wanted to ;)

But since he has said it's ok, I will rustle something up. With luck I will post something tomorrow, and then I will ask for volunteers.
 
Well folks, I have managed to get something down. I hope it works. I'll just preface the post by saying that although I have tried to keep everything as time-neutral, gender-neutral, etc., a few specifics might have slipped through (such as the odd 'he' or 'she') - ignore those when it comes to fleshing out your version of all this. Along the same lines I have made reference to a 'Temple' - but really translate that into any applicable religious (or secular) building. Likewise, I have highlighted some specific characters but most certainly there are plenty of possible other characters present.

If people who would like to delve into the scene could please send me PMs letting me know, and I will reply with my email. Unless anyone thinks things should be different, I would suggest making Sunday 20th May as the submission deadline. The first four people who PM me will be our entrants.

And without further ado, let me yield the stage to the Storyteller, who will give us 'the generic version'.


_________________________________________________________________


The Storyteller smiled as the youth finished recounting a fantasy set in some mythic land. “A fine story,” the Storyteller said, “and as you have revealed to me your tale let me tell you a tale. A different sort of tale, for not all the parts are complete, but one that maybe you might wish to turn your hand to. A tale of a funeral.

“Not just an ordinary funeral, but the funeral of a Great Leader. The entire world, it seemed, had gathered to mark this Leader’s passing, but then it was said of the great metropolis that was the capital that the entire world gathered there every day, for so many different sorts called that place home. There were merchants and traders from overseas; migrants seeking fortunes or fleeing famines, wars, or persecutions; diplomats and dignitaries seeking favours and alliances; and not least the nation’s own inhabitants, bustling about their lives filled with ordinary incidents, small victories, and little defeats. And to most of these, the Leader was truly beloved.

“You see, the Leader had come to power many years previous, and at that time the Nation was in a truly terrible state. In those days the Capital was a wreck, having just been sacked for the third time in just twelve years, rich and prosperous territories had been lost, the army had been utterly defeated, and the fleet lay on the ocean floor, or had been washed up on the nearest beech. Enemies clustered in on every side, and the land seemed rotten form within: the roads were over-run with brigands and the towns with thieves. Law was fast becoming a forgotten thing.

“But the Leader changed all that – a series of feats and tricks and of glorious victories that would take me the rest of this year to relate, this year and likely all of the next! But the important thing is, the Leader did overcome these huge difficulties. The Leader reclaimed the lost lands, restored law and order, and expanding the Nation’s dominion over many places, some near, so far. By the time the Leader died the Nation’s star was rising, with the prospect of only rising further.

“No nation was richer, no city more splendid, than this country and its capital. But on this particular day the usually festive streets were wreathed with mourning colours, and the ordinarily cheerful folk went about the place downcast, for no one knew what would happen. And entire generation, or more, knew only of the Great Leader. Many wept as if they had lost a loved one, for in fact, they had. Some even said that the Divine grieved with them, for the night before there had been a storm. The rain had fallen in large, heavy drops that soaked the city, and the clouds remain grey and sombre, echoing the City’s mood.

“That may or may not have been the case, but there was one Young Officer in particular who already had cause to regret the deluge. Twice now he had fallen as he hurried through the city’s backstreets. The passing of the funeral cortege, bearing the coffin and body of the Great Leader from the palatial home to the National Temple had blocked all the common streets, as people flocked many-deep to watch it mass. And speech was of the essence. But the cobbles were teachers, and he a third time his feet skid out from under him. He rips open the knee of his uniform, his best uniform, saved for only the grandest of occasions. He pays it no heed but immediately checks he has not dropped or damaged his weapons. Satisfied, he starts to run again as a great bell toll marking the procession’s arrival at its destination.

“A great many people were already there, ambassadors and delegates, but many had also chosen or been chosen to walk behind the coffin. The Successor, not yet formally invoked as Leader, was among them. Not first among them, that place was reserved for the Leader’s Partner, who stubbornly refused all assistance as she struggled up the steps. They had been one of a kind, everyone always said. The Successor waited for her to ascend, and followed. The Partner had her own seat, to the side of the catafalque on which the coffin was placed, while the Successor sat in the very first row, on the right.

“Also in the first row, but on the left, sat the Traitor. He had a position of prominence and power, well-earned. But there was something rotten in his heart – or was there? You see, of all the questions concerning that day the most, surely, surround the Traitor. No I do not know his name – such things are now lost – but I have often speculated. But you are not interested in those, perhaps you can give me your theories when we are done. As the service began he glanced upward, to a balcony that overlooked that part of the Temple. Sure enough a drape there had been subtly re-arranged, to signify the Assassin had taken his place. Now he looked at the some of the guards which were placed throughout this hallowed place. One Soldier in particular caught his attention. The Soldier, seeing he was watched, nodded slightly, and then returned to attention. Surely no one else saw that small interaction. The Traitor tried not to sigh too loudly. All was in place.

“The music of the introit reached a new crescendo when the Young Officer burst into the front of the Temple from one of the side doors. He half-marched, half-skipped towards his own commander – the Spy Master – who was sitting in the second row, on the left side. Two of the guards blocked him. The Traitor, and many others, craned their heads to see what was about. The music made it difficult, but really, it made no difference. One of the guards was now quick-marching about the aisle, signalling to the Spy Master. Perhaps, the Traitor thought, he had been discovered. But it did not matter, it was time.

“The Traitor looked up, and stood. The Assassin used his weapon, and with a cry the Successor toppled from his seat. There was a moment’s silence, and then chaos. Another man died as the Assassin used his weapon again. But the Young Officer had broken free of the remaining guard, and now attacked the Traitor. The Traitor did not see him, did not see what killed him, as he was already trying to leave. The Assassin claimed a third victim, and now someone shouting warning, and there was panic. People fell, and were trampled underfoot. The guards barred the exit, to prevent the murderer from escaping. And now the Young Officer died, the Soldier having his own vengeance.

“Outside the city walls various units of the army had gathered. Not all of which were loyal, and in particular there was one troupe of siege engines whose commander and crew had joined lot with the Traitor. Now they released their engines against their own capital, against the Temple, as planned.

“Within, the Partner alone remained unmoved. Now there was a great clash as at least one engine founds its mark. A piece of masonry broke off from the ceiling, battered free by the impact, and crushed the Partner as it hit the ground. Another falling stone gave the coffin a glancing blow, splintering the wood and knocking it off the catafalque. As it struck the floor the Great Leader’s body tumbled clear, and went sprawling on the flagstones. From above there was a cry as the Assassin, his hideout discovered and surrounded, was rushed and pushed to his death on those same flagstones.

“It was the beginning of a new dark age.

“And that is my tale, make of it what you will. As I said, perhaps you will come up with some ideas of what happened, who was who and what was what. As for me, I’m fresh out. Let’s hear your version!”
 
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Stnylan, I think you may have missposted at the very top of the post, where you repeat the bit about the successor's wife and the traitor.
 
Estonianzulu said:
Stnylan, I think you may have missposted at the very top of the post, where you repeat the bit about the successor's wife and the traitor.

*embarrassed blush*

Thanks for pointing that out. Corrected. :)
 
Well, I have three people signed up. Who wants to take the final slot? PM me if you do!
 
Just a note to say that the slots are now filled. So, all being equal, I will post their submissions on Sunday 20th.
 
Sorry for the delay in posting the entries - I was waiting on the final entry but the author has not logged on in some time, so I am just going to go ahead and post.

Three very interesting takes on the original idea, I think you will agree.
 
Author #1

“…and this will probably be my last letter to you, dear mother, but if it is so, I know I will have fulfilled my purpose, and the monarchy is one step closer to returning to France. Monsieur Talleyrand assured me you will get the pension he promised me, even if the circumstances will not allow you and father to return to Lorraine immediately. Do not worry about me, for if I die today, I die a hero’s death.

Your loving son,
A.”

André sealed the envelope and gave it to his servant. He took a last long look around his room and put another letter in his vest pocket. It contained a Bank of France check of fifty thousand francs made out to captain Thibault and a short missive signed “T”.

“T as in Talleyrand or T as in Traitor?” Andre asked himself, smiling.

He left the room, thinking about how money today counts more than honor. He despised mercenaries such as Thibault, and felt a shadow of sadness at the thought that English money cancelled a Frenchman’s oath of loyalty.

“There is no other way, and it is all for the greater good.” he reassured himself.

The sky was cloudy; the city was dark with mourning. The colours matched André’s thoughts. The soothing rattle of the rain on the cobblestone street helped calm him down. He did not have a good night’s sleep ever since that fateful evening three days ago, when Napoleon’s carriage was blown up by that diabolical device.

“A nobleman kills with his sword” he remembered his father’s words.

Everything played back into his mind, the first meeting with Talleyrand, his encounter with the chouans, and the discussions of what bomb to use to maximize the damage. He felt dirty, sullied by his affiliations. But he was aware that without him, the plan would not have worked. On one hand, the royalists would never have trusted Talleyrand, and on the other their attempts would have failed, like countless times before, without the minister’s support and inside information. A traitor and a bunch of peasants. These were his accomplices.

“Maybe I could quit now” a thought came running through his head.

But the memory of his brother executed at Vincennes for no reason, at the obvious order of Napoleon himself, made him cringe. His hand touched the outside of his coat, checking that the pistol was still there. With firm steps he approached Les Invalides, having no trouble getting in, thanks to Talleyrand’s letters. He took his position in the balcony, and carefully folded the drapes in the agreed manner.

Who knows how history could have continued if Napoleon had not been assassinated that terrible March 25th, 1812? The rumored campaign against Russia would have probably been set in motion. And with what seemed to be a certain victory, both the Empire and Napoleon himself would have lasted for a long time, for the only thing that could stop the Grande Armee would be the eventual disappearance of worthy enemies. Maybe Napoleon was a great leader, maybe he did pull France out of chaos; but that was only possible because the king was gone. And the chaos was only because of the revolution. Such absurdity the Republic has been!

André is whisked out of his daydream by the growing murmur below. Marie-Louise sat down beside the coffin, and Joseph took his place in the front row. A young officer bursting into the room caused uproar, but André did not care. His eyes were fixed upon Talleyrand and he was so focused his head hurt.

The traitor stood up.

With a calm he did not think himself capable of, the assassin pointed his gun at Joseph, Napoleon’s brother and successor, and fired. Fatally wounded, the king of Spain fell to the floor, and the sound of the crown hitting the marble was perfectly distinguishable. Without hesitation, and paying no attention to anything else in the room, the pistol was pointed to Louis Bonaparte. André fired, and the king of Holland fell dead.

Thibault’s artillery outside opened fire on the Les Invalides complex; the building began to shake and crumble, large pieces of the walls and ceiling falling on the gathered crowd. The screams heard throughout the great hall of the church were the sounds of anarchy and chaos that would devour France. But for the assassin everything was clear. The Bonapartes had to die, and the rightful monarchy has to be reinstated. The last possible obstacle will soon fall. After a quick reload, André fired at the easiest target below, the king of Naples, Joachim Murat, in his flamboyant uniform.

The guards were running up the stairs, having discovered André’s hideout, and arrived just in time to see him put the gun to his head and shout a resounding “Vive le roi!” as he pulled the trigger.
 
Author #2

During the long funeral procession, the prior had occasionally glanced up
at the dark, ominous clouds gathered above him. People in the streets were
already whispering that God himself was mourning for the passing of King
Lorenzo the Magnificent and that last night's storm was the Lord paying
his last respects. The prior shook his head as if to shrug off any meaning
to the sudden storm.

As the foremost monk of the Order of Saint Dominic, Girolamo Savonarola
had the honour of being the first to follow the archbishop through the
large archway and leading the procession into the Basilica di Santa Maria
del Fiore. One could say many things about Lorenzo, but the completion of
the Duomo of Firenze must have been the greatest thing the late King of
Italy had ever done, even greater than the subjugation of their cursed
Lombardian rivals.

Behind the coffin, he heard Queen Clarice stumble on the steps. The
stubborn woman would not accept any help up the slippery steps. Girolamo
knew the Queen would want to maintain her dignity in these trying times, a
sentiment he respected. Behind the royal family followed other
dignitaries. The amount and rank of the representatives was a mark of the
influence of King Lorenzo.

His vassals were present of course, foremost Alfonso II, King of Naples
and Carlo II, Duke-in-exile of Savoia and under the protection of the Iron
Crown. Both owed their fealty as a result of the great War of Italy, one
gained at swordpoint, the other out of gratitude. Maximilian of Habsburg,
son and heir apparent of the Holy Roman Emperor, and King Wladislaw of
Bohemia and Hungary, were both present in person. The other great houses
all sent their highest emissaries, representing King Henry VII of England,
King Hans of Denmark, and Sultan Bayezid of the House of Osman. With the
notable exception of the House of Valois of course. After the great War of
Italy, no Valois would ever be welcomed in the Kingdom of Italy.

Inside the Duomo, the organ player was already playing the dark tones of
the funeral dirge. Girolamo followed the archbishop to the altar. The
archbishop motioned to the coffin bearers as they laid down the coffin.
The man, dressed in robes of white and gold and holding the staff of his
office, seemed even older on this day than usual, the lines of grief
showing clearly in his face. He motioned again. In front, the place of
honour directly next to the coffin was of course reserved for Clarice.
Girolamo felt a moment of pity for the Queen as she took her place.

On the front row sat Prince Giovanni di Medici. As his father's most able
soldier and diplomat, he had had an unmistakable part in the current glory
of Firenze. It was Giovanni who had led the Army of Tuscany that had
returned from the War of Italy so victoriously against the hated Duke
Sforza. It was Giovanni who had gone to Rome and to convince the Pope to
grant the Iron Crown of Italy to Lorenzo de Medici. Giovanni, dressed in
his army uniform, was scanning the people around him. Girolamo smiled
inwardly. Giovanni truly was his father's son, always observant, never
letting his guard down.

Next to Giovanni sat Piero. As usual, he wore his dark hair in the latest
fashion, oiled and bound back. Even on this solemn day, his face still
showed the charm and warmth the public knew of Prince Piero. Only the
select few knew that Piero was little more than a greedy and simple man,
obsessed with lust for the carnal. Piero never realized how fortunate he
was that Giovanni, out of family duty, had always covered up for him,
crediting his brother with his own successes. Girolamo shook his head. If
only Giovanni had been the elder.

Suddenly, Giovanni stood, looking towards the entrance. Girolamo followed
the Prince's gaze. He recognized the young soldier, gesticulating
frantically to a guard. His shoulders tensed.

Now.

The stifled cry of Piero was barely audible through the music as he
slumped in his chair, tumbling out of it, an arrow stuck in his throat. A
louder shout, as the attendants realised what was transpiring. Another man
fell with an arrow in his back. Thus ended the exile of Duke Carlo II of
Savoy. Girolamo's interest however was locked on Giovanni. The prince had
started to move towards a side exit. Behind him, the young soldier
Girolamo had seen before ran up to him with a raised sword. Giovanni never
had a chance and was slain in the back. Girolamo tried to recall the name
of the soldier he had leaked the conspiracy to, but failed. It was of
little import in any case. The soldier himself was struck down by another.

Girolamo was satisfied: the power of the de Medici had been broken and the
only links to his person were dead. On the morrow, he would convene the
council of Firenze. A rule by vote, with a primus inter pares chosen every
five years, a Doge, as in the glory days of Liguria. The council would
accept this wisdom. It would prevent an abomination like Piero from ever
rising to power. The prior spared the body of Giovanni one last glance. It
was unfortunate that the young prince had to die: he would have been a
good Doge. Giovanni had truly thought he had acted for the good of
Firenze. What he had never understood was that Girolamo had to prevent not
only this Piero from succeeding Lorenzo as King of Italy, but every Piero
who would ever be born afterwards. Alas, but such is the price. He took
the archbishop by the arm and led him to the back entrance.

“Your Excellency? Come, let us find safety for your person and let the
guards find the ones responsible for this abomination.”

The two men hurried through the back entrance and found their way through
an unguarded exit at the edge of the churchyard. A low rumble was felt
more than heard. Girolamo looked behind him. As the beautiful dome of the
Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore collapsed, a tear rolled down his cheek.
 
Author #3

Sir Martin Moore had left the key where he had promised to. Charles gave a silent prayer as he knelt down to recover it from the stone vase. It was a heavy bronze monstrosity, weighing far too much. It was an old key, to an old lock. Martin had not been able to get the new keys used by the steward of the hall, Lord Adrian. Instead he had gone deep into the vaults to find the ancient keys. Charles now only had to make the heavy lock work, and the plan would be in motion. It all fell to him now.

Charles stood up and lifted the rolled tapestry. He had carried it all the way here from the stables. The weight of it was finally taking its toll as Charles trudged his way up the stairs towards the balcony door. One of Moore's loyal guards nodded to him as he made his way past, at the top of the long stairs was the door. It alone stood between victory and defeat. Pulling the key from his robe, Charles turned the lock in his hand. It was heavy, like the key itself. But, with a quick tug it came loose and the door swung open, he was in.

After arranging the tapestry, Charles took a seat in the darkness of the balcony. The steward of the hall had arranged a dramatic and somber setting of tapestries across the mouth of the balcony, obscuring everything behind it. It was the perfect hiding spot. Charles' little addition had destroyed the symmetry of the display, but only a careful eye would notice. And Lord Brakenwood had a careful eye. Brakenwood's years in Raleigh, ruling the lands his father had conquered from the Turks, made him as fine a leader as ever there was. Charles respected him, and occasionally came to admire him. The noble lord of Brakenwood would be seated in the front row, and it was his signal that would start the bloodshed.

As Charles sat, he remembered that night so many days ago. The Great Lord had sat in the hall of Kevan, Duke of Eire. It was an honor to be visited by him, and Charles had won the greatest of all honors, to sit with the King's Royal Guard. There he had listened to the tales of Sir Harold Percy, former Lord of the Danes, who had slain Fierce Frederick of Oldenburg. Percy's story was a famous one, as the knight then decided to give the lands of Oldenburg to the Crown and join the Great Lord's Royal Guard. Charles was enthralled as Lord Merritt of Glencoe sat beside him. The Lord of the Royal Guard was an older man, but still proud and strong. He had been victorious in half a hundred battles, and was renowned throughout the world as a brilliant leader, and a sure shot.

Charles felt suddenly sad at the thought of the great man, but he would need to die with the others. Four loaded and primed rifles leaned against the balcony's edge. In each was a bullet, destined to end the life of a noble man. All this death had come from that night in Dublin. As Kevan, an old friend to the Great Lord, brought out his finest whiskey, so too did he unleash tempers. After a few drinks the Great Lord began finding everything a jest. Prince Gerard had not been so amused. In anger he shouted across the hall, insulting the Great Lord, his father. It had nearly come to blows, and as Charles took his leave he heard the Great Lord's damning words.
"That man is no son of mine, and not suited to sit upon my throne"

Charles knew then what he had to do. Finding like-minded men had not been difficult. Lord Brakenwood had been present at the feast, and likewise heard the King's proclamation. He had, at great sacrifice, financed this plan. All he asked for in return was a position in the new court, to help ease the new king into power. The Great Lord's nephew, who was still a child, would need all the help he could get, so Charles felt such a minor request as that was fair. Martin Moore had asked for a Generalship, which, according to Brakenwood he deserved. Charles felt that was fair as well, because people should be rewarded for serving the king's last wishes. Only stodgy Admiral Reed had been difficult about the plan. He called it assassination and called them all traitors. When Charles had explained to him what the King had said, Reed only laughed in his face and called him a fool. Reed had never been very nice.

The sounds of the funeral drew Charles to the window. He peered down and took a quick assessment of the scene. Prince Gerard and his wife sat at the thrones, a mockery of the dead king. In the back Charles could see men scurrying, Master William Motley, the old king's spymaster was taking to a young officer, and suddenly cast an eye to the Prince. A fear gripped Charles, had they been discovered? He lifted his first rifle and took aim, at the signal he would fire. Brakenwood stood suddenly, it was time. Taking careful aim Charles pulled the trigger. His years as chief hunter for Lord Kevan had made him as deadly a shot as any man in the realm.

Charles did not wait to see his target fall, he knew from the moment he fired that the Prince was slain, the old king's wish was fulfilled. Charles dropped the first rifle and hoisted the second. The fat lord Tomas Greene struggled up from his chair. As the richest man in the kingdom he had been awarded the seat of honor next to the prince. He was Gerard's staunchest supporter, and the second to be slain. His bright golden doublet splattered red as he too tumbled from the dais. Chaos erupted; men and women fled the hall screaming. Charles lifted the third rifle and scanned the room for the bright blue that adorned the Royal Guard. He spotted Sir Harold, and Timon d'Orleans standing before the queen, and without much trouble he found his target, the great knight Merritt.

The Lord of the Royal Guard stood shouting commands to the frightened and confused soldiers. Charles aimed at the man but found his pathway blocked by a frightened priest. A splash of red drew his eye and he turned to see Lord Brakenwood fal. In a moment Sir Martin was on top of his killer, driving him back from Brakenwood's body. The boy stumbled, and it was over. Charles' eye was drawn back when Sir Merritt boomed an order and his men rushed towards Martin. Now he was clear, and with a single shot the great hero stumbled backwards. He looked as though he may shout out one last order, but words failed him as he crumpled.

The deed was all but done, only one man remain. Then, in instant, hell broke loose. Charles was suddenly surprised as the building shook. Artillery shells landed on the building and suddenly it began to collapse. Rocks slid and fell as the roof began to cave in. The queen, defended by the Royal Guard, was crushed suddenly, and the resulting debris knocked Sir Harold to the ground and took Timon's head clean off. Charles grabbed his fourth rifle and scanned the room for Master William, but the old man had vanished in the confusion. Charles cursed and looked for an alternate target. A sudden shout drew his attention. Men had burst into the hall at the base of the balcony. Charles turned and fired into the approaching guardsmen. One toppled as the bullet took him full in the face, but he others pressed on.

"His Majesty ordered me to do as I did!" Charles shouted as the men closed on him. They paid his words no mind but rushed him with shouts of "traitor" and "assassin". Charles swung his rifle in a wide arc, hoping to keep them at bay. There was no escape, he realized. One of the guards stabbed at him with the long iron-edged spear. The blade dug deep into his thigh and Charles let out a scream. He stumbled back, blinded, the world was spinning. Then, suddenly, he felt light and floating. Air rushed past him. Charles tilted his head to look and saw the cold stone ground rushing towards him. He began to pray but could find no words as the world went dark. The young huntsman from Ireland never knew what madness he caused.