Tomn_Peng said:
Wtf, over? Questions and critisism is all fine and good, but what's with the superior attitude and sarcasm? What have YOU created lately?
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Wtf, over? Questions and critisism is all fine and good, but what's with the superior attitude and sarcasm? What have YOU created lately?
Hey, somebody needed to say something other than "Oh no, Fu Manchu is going to conquer us all!" Some say "Fight the power", I say "Mock the power!"
It should also be noted that in those ancient times, old Fu would also have been facing problems of logistics, communication, unreliable maps/reports, unreliable allies, and plain incompetent minions. But I'm going to ignore all that in favor of mocking Fu Manchu.
It should be noted, though, that immortality would hardly have been detrimental in certain cultures, particularly those that aren't monotheistic. The Chinese, for instance, had legends of enlightened men becoming immortal, and with him actually being immortal, I'm sure someone with the supposed genius of Fu Manchu wouldn't have had much difficulty creating an underground resistance cult before making himself the God-Emperor of China with the ultimate Mandate of Heaven, that being immortality.
As for the mocking of Fu's lack of inventions, I was referring to how he made the Elixir in his first century, and then did...what? Most of his developments mentioned in the tale so far places his creations at around this century. There's a long, long gap in-between where he presumably divides his time between world domination and facing untold horrors beyond human ken, but even so it's a fairly long time for a genius to go through without coming up with, I dunno, a personal cure for the common cold or something. And as for the Jade Fever and the Soul of the Dragon, they seem pretty impressive, but their strategic effects appear just a tad limited. That might have been just an impression, though.
The problem of "What do I do now", of course, plagues every would-be conquerer of the world. Seriously, what can you do? One might imagine great things, but you'd be sitting on such a huge lid of revolts that you'd never be able to get anything done for decades, and you'd certainly not be able to pursue your own hobbies, unless you like coming back from vacation to see the angry mob at your doors.
Han refers to the Han Dynasty; in other words, ethnic Chinese. The Chinese have a certain history of being culturally arrogant...
One final note: Bond is devoted to Hannah. Hannah cuts him off in favor of Buck Rodgers. We know that Bond will later become famous as a ladykiller. Is Hannah thus indirectly responsible for the many broken hearts that Bond will leave in his wake?
It should also be noted that in those ancient times, old Fu would also have been facing problems of logistics, communication, unreliable maps/reports, unreliable allies, and plain incompetent minions. But I'm going to ignore all that in favor of mocking Fu Manchu.
It should be noted, though, that immortality would hardly have been detrimental in certain cultures, particularly those that aren't monotheistic. The Chinese, for instance, had legends of enlightened men becoming immortal, and with him actually being immortal, I'm sure someone with the supposed genius of Fu Manchu wouldn't have had much difficulty creating an underground resistance cult before making himself the God-Emperor of China with the ultimate Mandate of Heaven, that being immortality.
As for the mocking of Fu's lack of inventions, I was referring to how he made the Elixir in his first century, and then did...what? Most of his developments mentioned in the tale so far places his creations at around this century. There's a long, long gap in-between where he presumably divides his time between world domination and facing untold horrors beyond human ken, but even so it's a fairly long time for a genius to go through without coming up with, I dunno, a personal cure for the common cold or something. And as for the Jade Fever and the Soul of the Dragon, they seem pretty impressive, but their strategic effects appear just a tad limited. That might have been just an impression, though.
The problem of "What do I do now", of course, plagues every would-be conquerer of the world. Seriously, what can you do? One might imagine great things, but you'd be sitting on such a huge lid of revolts that you'd never be able to get anything done for decades, and you'd certainly not be able to pursue your own hobbies, unless you like coming back from vacation to see the angry mob at your doors.
Han refers to the Han Dynasty; in other words, ethnic Chinese. The Chinese have a certain history of being culturally arrogant...
One final note: Bond is devoted to Hannah. Hannah cuts him off in favor of Buck Rodgers. We know that Bond will later become famous as a ladykiller. Is Hannah thus indirectly responsible for the many broken hearts that Bond will leave in his wake?
cthulu, Simon_Jester, thanks guys but it's OK, I don't think Tomn_Peng is trolling, in fact I think he makes some good points:
*But then, how did he come up with the Elixir Vitae? Ah, you have NO IDEA! Mwhahahah!
This is true, and has been brougth up before - but even God-Emperor's with mandate from heaven get assassinated in the end if they hang around too long.Tomn_Peng said:
Good point too. My guess (as if I didn't know) is that Fu hasn't been a scientist for that long, 200-250 years tops. Because before that, there wasn't such a thing as science, and no matter how smart he migth have been, (if we assume he was first born as Attila) he hails from a pre-scientific barbarian culture. The idea of inventing things might simply not have occured to him until recently.* Before this, all his efforts would have been channeled towards achieving enough money and influcence to catapult him to world domination in the span of one lifetime, because he has learn't the hard way that his left-behind dynasties never acomplish much in his wake. But with all opposition crushed, perhaps, a line of caretakers under his immortal superivision could rule the world if not for ever, then at least for a very long time.Tomn_Peng said:
*But then, how did he come up with the Elixir Vitae? Ah, you have NO IDEA! Mwhahahah!
Very good! There must be deep-seated psychological reasons for such an irredeemable philanderer as Bond - and I don't think we've even seen the end of those yet.Tomn_Peng said:
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We-ell, I made a start of one over at the GCII section. Problem is, I made the mistake of coming up with the concept and initial post before actually completing the game. Let us say simply that I have yet to learn when to accept a white peace, or how to sacrifice economic power for a standing fleet. In my defense, though, in both cases I was attacked while my military was weak, but I managed to build up, hold the line, drive back the foe, and conquer his lands. If only it weren't for pesky third parties who didn't need to focus everything on building a fleet and could afford to build factories and research bigger guns.
None of what I've said is a knock on the AAR, by the way. It's very cool, how it ties everything into each other. It's just that I like to mock, and who better to mock than the villain? Fair game and all that, right? Right?
Edit: Yogi managed to post while I was working mine in. His point about "How did Fu Manchu get the Elixir, eh?" was why I hypothesized that he "got lucky" with the Elixir. Possibly, he started out as a brutish barbarian, got lucky, found an alchemist who actually did figure out how to attain immortality, killed him, stole the Elixir and the recipe, and then went on with dreams of eternal power. Also, it might be worth mentioning that we don't know exactly how old Fu is. For all we know, he was wandering around during the Roman Empire, and only went bad and mad as Attila.
None of what I've said is a knock on the AAR, by the way. It's very cool, how it ties everything into each other. It's just that I like to mock, and who better to mock than the villain? Fair game and all that, right? Right?
Edit: Yogi managed to post while I was working mine in. His point about "How did Fu Manchu get the Elixir, eh?" was why I hypothesized that he "got lucky" with the Elixir. Possibly, he started out as a brutish barbarian, got lucky, found an alchemist who actually did figure out how to attain immortality, killed him, stole the Elixir and the recipe, and then went on with dreams of eternal power. Also, it might be worth mentioning that we don't know exactly how old Fu is. For all we know, he was wandering around during the Roman Empire, and only went bad and mad as Attila.
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Now hold on just a minute here; I thought the answer had already been said in the story. From what I remember, while Fu was living as Attila (possibly his first actual life), the poison meant to kill him actually backfired somehow and he became immortal. Sound familiar to anyone? Seriously, I'm hoping that this is in the text and I didn't just cobble together something completely different.
Lyon_Man said:
There was nothing like that in the text. All that it said was that Attila's sons believed he had been poisoned by his bride Ildico at the instigation of Flavius Aetius, the magister militium of the West, and that he died and was buried under a tributary of to the Mures river in Stregoicavar, Transylvania.
Note, I'm not saying you're wrong; just that it wasn't in the text.
Great update, and the last AAR in the trilogy brings up some interesting ideas. It looks like the Pan-Asian empire may be a little more stable that we thought .
.I suspect that the Elixir does cure the common cold. Moreover, it is unreasonable to assume that we have seen all of Fu's inventions. His cure for the common cold is not relevant to the story, and the Yogi has been good about not including irrelevant details.Tomn_Peng said:
Any disease much more effective than Jade Fever would be too effective; it would spread to his own ranks. And the Soul of the Dragon is actually quite effective. Insofar as any 'super-soldier' drugs can make combatants more effective, the Soul is probably doing a good job. After all, no drug will make your men better shots or smarter tacticians.
Now that is a good spec.
I actually agree, which is why I debated those points at length. They're good enough to merit serious attention in my book.The Yogi said:
I'm guessing he stole it from somebody else who already knew how to make it. He was probably Attila the Hun at the time, after all. And from the historical character of Attila, it seems very likely that he'd be happy to steal an immortality potion.
He did settle down and get married once (or at least the 'get married' part), if I remember rightly. But it didn't stick because somebody used a plothammer to kill his wife off.
Woof, Simon, you're taking some of the stuff I'm saying way more seriously than I did. Like the common cold thing, for instance, that was a throwaway line. As for the bioweapons, it's true that they're fairly useful tactically, but on the strategic level they don't really pop up that much; the Jade Fever demoralized the Japanese, but failed to stop them fighting (much), while the Soul of the Dragon, if I recall correctly, has more usage in close combat. Of course, it helps them GET close, what with the whole "ignoring a shot straight to the chest" thing, but I'd imagine that once the drug wears off, they'd fall dead. Thus, strategically limited, unless you want to turn your entire army into suicide bombers or somesuch. Although that wouldn't be too unreasonable, considering...
By the by, here's a paranoid conspiracy for the thinkers out there: The Allies beat down the Pan-Asian Empire, and as a last ditch effort to save his empire, Fu Manchu breaks out a time machine. Unfortunately, it's not calibrated properly, and he ends up well, well back in the past where a barbarian by the name of Attila cuts his head off, drinks the Elixir on hand, and reads the recipe. Dun dun dun. Although now that I think about it, that particular hypothesis might actually make sense, considering how Nayland's visage was on those murals.
By the by, here's a paranoid conspiracy for the thinkers out there: The Allies beat down the Pan-Asian Empire, and as a last ditch effort to save his empire, Fu Manchu breaks out a time machine. Unfortunately, it's not calibrated properly, and he ends up well, well back in the past where a barbarian by the name of Attila cuts his head off, drinks the Elixir on hand, and reads the recipe. Dun dun dun. Although now that I think about it, that particular hypothesis might actually make sense, considering how Nayland's visage was on those murals.
The Yogi said:
Hey man, once the blood hunt has been called it can't be revoked. Tomn_Peng is bye bye.
You're right of course, but we crazed members of the Si Fan can't stand to hear the good Doctor's name be smeared!
Thanks for the discussion and comments, all! Now, to regain some sort of balance between updates and comments, here goes another one!
Near Przemysl
The Generalgouvernament, Greater German Reich
Sunday May 27th, 1940
The improvised camp, hidden among the trees of a patch of forest, was marked with a sign reading “Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, first Standarte, third Abteilungen.” A küblewagen stopped next to the sign, throwing up a cloud of dust.
‘This is it, grandpa!’ the driver said, turning his dust-goggled and helmeted head towards the passenger in the back seat, who opened the back door and stepped out with the slow, rigid movements of an elderly man.
‘Hey, didn’t you bring any luggage, oldtimer?’ the driver asked.
The passenger, a man of years in a somewhat dusty black civilian suit and sporting a long, archaic-looking white-grey beard shook his head. ‘I haveth no need, young man. From mine heart I thank thee; may the blessings of our saviour be upon thee!’
‘You’re a chaplain?’ the driver asked, curiosity seeping into his voice. ‘If so, this can’t be your unit; the Waffen-SS don’t have them.’
‘Nay, I be not of the cloth. Thou couldest say I be a retainer of Captain Skorzeny…’
‘He’s a Stürmbannführer, that’s equivalent to a Major, not a Captain, Mein Herr. And you speak funny – are you a jew?’ the last question was accompanied by a suspicious wrinkling of the nose.’
‘Nay, I be a good Christian. I have shewn thee mine safe-conduct; go now about thine own business and leaveth thou me to mine, young sir!’
‘Fine, fine! Bye, grandpa!’
The kübelwagen disappeared in another cloud of dust, the Wolkswagen engine puttering with it’s characteristic high pitch. As the civilian was left alone on the forest road, he sighed deeply and his still broad and strong shoulders slumped. He knew his Christian duty, but he couldn’t help the feeling of mortal dread. He walked with heavy steps.
Skorzeny made a face and turned off the radio receiver. He was in his spacious command post tent, smoking and listening to the latest news with the captains of the four companies in his command, and also lieutenant Meyer, the commander of the anti-tank platoon – all of them survivors of the Dreamland campaign, and decorated heroes. The Iron Crosses at their necks visually clashed somewhat with their new camouflage smocks, worn over the standard Feldgrau uniforms. In the early summer heat, they were a pain, but boffins expected them to reduce casualties by as much as fifteen percent, so Skorzeny and his Captains set a good example and wore them at all times. Ivan might know they were coming, but there was no use in giving him any more info about their whereabouts than was strictly necessary. A well-directed pre-emptive artillery barrage could ruin ones whole day.
‘That’s it then – this time Ivan’s showing it up Finland’s ass so hard her teeth are getting knocked out.’ Skorzney said. ‘Either we go now, or the Red Army will have time to finish them off and redeploy to meet us! I want everyone ready to roll with five minutes notice – I wouldn’t be surprised if there’d be some rash decisions coming from the Führerhauptquartier within the next day or two.’
‘The ground is still not entirely dry!’ Meyer objected. ‘I love our new five cm PAKs, but they’re heavier than the doorknockers, they’ll be a bitch to haul around if the halftracks get stuck in the mud!’
‘Hah! That’ll be the least of our worries!’ a Captain Wesridau of 3rd company snorted. ‘What I’d really like to know, if we go into the mud, who’ll pull apart Generals von Klüge and Guderian when they come to blows over road traffic priority?’
There was some laughter about that. The animosity between the two Generals was legendary. But the laughter was strained; what they had for some time considered the military equivalent of a walk in the park was now beginning to look less and less appealing. What if the Wehrmacht got stopped cold deep inside Russia by a numerically far superior Red Army? It's performance in Finland lately made it seem like it had finally been whipped into shape by the new overall Commander of the Leningrad and White Sea Military districts, General Zhukov, and no longer was the pushover they had been expecting to meet.
‘Enschuldigung, Sturmbannführer! a guard called from the tent entrance. ‘Master Liechtenauer’s here to see you. He has a circulation permit stamped and signed by the Reichsicherheitsauptamt, so we let him through. Do you want to see him?’
‘Master Liechtenauer is here!?’ Skorzeny jumped to his feet. ‘Sure, send him in! If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…’
The elderly civilian visitor brushed past the captains on their way out and Skorzeny greeted him warmly, although, as always, not without a slight frisson – Liechtenauer was, after all, a revenant, a resurrected dead who had spent the last five centuries in the oblivion beyond death, although he had always refused to speak a word about it.
‘What brings you here, Master? A great war is about to break out, and we can’t have you around the unit now. You should’ve stayed at the Berlin barracks.’
In accordance with 14th century tradition, Skorzeny and his men always referred to and addressed the fencing instructor Duhrn had provided him with as “Master”. He had genuine respect for the man, who was as much a pitiless disciplinarian on the training floor as he was unassuming and mild-mannered off it. The only thing that grated on the Austrian’s nerves was the deep and genuine Christian faith of the revenant, although he always claimed not to be an overly pious man. It was strange, Skorzeny thought, how different people had been during the middle ages. Even the undead sorcerer Xaltotun, born not five but 150 centuries ago had more resembled modern men in his way of thinking and speaking than this gentle sword master.
‘I wish thee to fulfil thine end of our bargain, Captain Skorzeny; many of thy men art now good swordsmen, and thou, Captain, be one of the most promising students it hath ever been mine privilege to train.’
‘You still best me easily, master.’
‘To be sure. But I be the greatest swordsman that ever lived, young Otto!’ the revenant replied with a brief gleam of humour in his eyes.
‘Still,’ he continued, ‘mine work hath now been completed; the art of the longsword liveth once again. Thou haveth mine books and those of mine students, and the wit to read them right; what remains to learn, thou can learn for yourself. I asketh now only that thou bringeth a stop to mine undeath, and giveth me back the peace of the sleep that dost not end.’
‘You’re serious? You want me to kill you!?’ Skorzeny asked, almost sounding scandalised. ‘No, I won’t do it!’
Liechtenauer looked sadly at him. ‘Thou wouldst renege on your word?’
‘No, but… anyway, the men would kill me, all those you taught so well, they think the world of you!’
The revenant smiled. ‘It warmeth me to hear that even in this age of paganism and godlessness there art still stout and warm hearts in men of Germany. But surely, they wouldst understand that I doth not wish to challenge the Order of the Allmighty any longer; my every breath doth be an abomination! I beseech thee, cut off mine head with thy sword, and put me to rest in hallowed ground; thy men will understand!’
Skorzeny squirmed. ‘Look, Master, what if I botch the cut? If you must go through with this, why don’t you wait until Duhrn comes back, he can dissolve you painlessly with a wave of his hand!’
‘I wish to consort with Master Duhrn and his devilry no longer!’ Liechtenaur spat. ‘Thy friend, Captain Skorzeny, be a blaspheming warlock, fit only for the pyre! No, honour thine old teacher with thy blade! Thou will knowest how to cut, or I will gladly suffer, for I will have failed as a teacher! I beg thee, keep thy word!’
Skorzeny was silent then for a long while, and although he seemed on the verge of speaking twice, in the end he did not. Instead, he turned and walked out of the tent.
‘You!’ he shouted to the nearest guard, once outside. ‘The 44th Infantry is camped back a few kilometres down the road; they’re an Austrian outfit, they should have plenty of Catholic padres! Go bring me one, at gunpoint if you have to, and don’t come back without one!’
He then stormed through the camp pointing out a few veterans, men that had trained with Liechtenauer and swung a sword in the Dreamland. ‘You! Dress uniform, right now! You’re on honour guard and burial detail.’
‘Burial detail? Who died, Stürmbannführer ?’
‘No one. Yet.’
The last red rays of the setting sun shone like lances between the dark conifers. In a clearing, a group of Leibstandarte soldiers had opened a grave, hastily hallowed by a padre from the revered “Hoch- und Deutschmeister” Regiment of the Austrian 44th Infantry Division. The padre who had then received the confession and administered the last rites to Johannes Liechtenauer, now stood silent, and shaken at the enormities he had learnt, at the back of the scene. The protagonist of the event himself, the revenant, had stood next to Skorzeny, watching, ever paler, as his final resting place was opened up.
‘My time hath come!’ he whispered, swallowed and walked up to the edge of the hole where he kneeled.
Otto walked up to stand behind him. ‘You don’t need to go through with this, Master!’ he pleaded, looking sick. ‘You heard what the Priest said; he cannot say if your continued life is an offence to God or not!’
‘But I do, Otto; doth not tempt me. I beseech thee; one clean cut, now, while I’m praying!’
‘As you wish.’
In one fluid motion, Otto freed the Rune Sword from it’s scabbard on his back and swung it into a middle guard, held upright next to his right shoulder. Red fire from the setting sun glittered in the razor-sharp edge.
‘Honour guard! Present arms!’ he commanded, and the Liebstandarte troops in their Feldgrau dress uniforms complied with machine-like precision.
‘Goodbye Master. May the grave grant you the peace that you long for!’ Otto said.
‘Fare thee well, Captain Otto Skorzeny. Always remember that thou art a Christian and a Knight!’
‘Master, I’m neither, as you well know.’
As his only reply, Liecthenauer smiled and shook his head ever so slightly before lifting his head to watch the setting sun for a few moments. ‘Now!’ he whispered with tears streaming down his cheeks.
The blade of the Rune Sword flashed sooty red as it descended. The sound of the honour guard firing the first of three salvos in salute masked the dull thumps as head and body fell into the open grave.
The Generalgouvernament, Greater German Reich
Sunday May 27th, 1940
The improvised camp, hidden among the trees of a patch of forest, was marked with a sign reading “Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, first Standarte, third Abteilungen.” A küblewagen stopped next to the sign, throwing up a cloud of dust.
‘This is it, grandpa!’ the driver said, turning his dust-goggled and helmeted head towards the passenger in the back seat, who opened the back door and stepped out with the slow, rigid movements of an elderly man.
‘Hey, didn’t you bring any luggage, oldtimer?’ the driver asked.
The passenger, a man of years in a somewhat dusty black civilian suit and sporting a long, archaic-looking white-grey beard shook his head. ‘I haveth no need, young man. From mine heart I thank thee; may the blessings of our saviour be upon thee!’
‘You’re a chaplain?’ the driver asked, curiosity seeping into his voice. ‘If so, this can’t be your unit; the Waffen-SS don’t have them.’
‘Nay, I be not of the cloth. Thou couldest say I be a retainer of Captain Skorzeny…’
‘He’s a Stürmbannführer, that’s equivalent to a Major, not a Captain, Mein Herr. And you speak funny – are you a jew?’ the last question was accompanied by a suspicious wrinkling of the nose.’
‘Nay, I be a good Christian. I have shewn thee mine safe-conduct; go now about thine own business and leaveth thou me to mine, young sir!’
‘Fine, fine! Bye, grandpa!’
The kübelwagen disappeared in another cloud of dust, the Wolkswagen engine puttering with it’s characteristic high pitch. As the civilian was left alone on the forest road, he sighed deeply and his still broad and strong shoulders slumped. He knew his Christian duty, but he couldn’t help the feeling of mortal dread. He walked with heavy steps.
****
…Red Army Panzer forces have broken through the Mannerheim line on the Karelian Isthmus and have taken Viborg! The Finnish forces are pulling back in good order, preparing to repel the invasion and…
Skorzeny made a face and turned off the radio receiver. He was in his spacious command post tent, smoking and listening to the latest news with the captains of the four companies in his command, and also lieutenant Meyer, the commander of the anti-tank platoon – all of them survivors of the Dreamland campaign, and decorated heroes. The Iron Crosses at their necks visually clashed somewhat with their new camouflage smocks, worn over the standard Feldgrau uniforms. In the early summer heat, they were a pain, but boffins expected them to reduce casualties by as much as fifteen percent, so Skorzeny and his Captains set a good example and wore them at all times. Ivan might know they were coming, but there was no use in giving him any more info about their whereabouts than was strictly necessary. A well-directed pre-emptive artillery barrage could ruin ones whole day.
‘That’s it then – this time Ivan’s showing it up Finland’s ass so hard her teeth are getting knocked out.’ Skorzney said. ‘Either we go now, or the Red Army will have time to finish them off and redeploy to meet us! I want everyone ready to roll with five minutes notice – I wouldn’t be surprised if there’d be some rash decisions coming from the Führerhauptquartier within the next day or two.’
‘The ground is still not entirely dry!’ Meyer objected. ‘I love our new five cm PAKs, but they’re heavier than the doorknockers, they’ll be a bitch to haul around if the halftracks get stuck in the mud!’
‘Hah! That’ll be the least of our worries!’ a Captain Wesridau of 3rd company snorted. ‘What I’d really like to know, if we go into the mud, who’ll pull apart Generals von Klüge and Guderian when they come to blows over road traffic priority?’
There was some laughter about that. The animosity between the two Generals was legendary. But the laughter was strained; what they had for some time considered the military equivalent of a walk in the park was now beginning to look less and less appealing. What if the Wehrmacht got stopped cold deep inside Russia by a numerically far superior Red Army? It's performance in Finland lately made it seem like it had finally been whipped into shape by the new overall Commander of the Leningrad and White Sea Military districts, General Zhukov, and no longer was the pushover they had been expecting to meet.
‘Enschuldigung, Sturmbannführer! a guard called from the tent entrance. ‘Master Liechtenauer’s here to see you. He has a circulation permit stamped and signed by the Reichsicherheitsauptamt, so we let him through. Do you want to see him?’
‘Master Liechtenauer is here!?’ Skorzeny jumped to his feet. ‘Sure, send him in! If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…’
The elderly civilian visitor brushed past the captains on their way out and Skorzeny greeted him warmly, although, as always, not without a slight frisson – Liechtenauer was, after all, a revenant, a resurrected dead who had spent the last five centuries in the oblivion beyond death, although he had always refused to speak a word about it.
‘What brings you here, Master? A great war is about to break out, and we can’t have you around the unit now. You should’ve stayed at the Berlin barracks.’
In accordance with 14th century tradition, Skorzeny and his men always referred to and addressed the fencing instructor Duhrn had provided him with as “Master”. He had genuine respect for the man, who was as much a pitiless disciplinarian on the training floor as he was unassuming and mild-mannered off it. The only thing that grated on the Austrian’s nerves was the deep and genuine Christian faith of the revenant, although he always claimed not to be an overly pious man. It was strange, Skorzeny thought, how different people had been during the middle ages. Even the undead sorcerer Xaltotun, born not five but 150 centuries ago had more resembled modern men in his way of thinking and speaking than this gentle sword master.
‘I wish thee to fulfil thine end of our bargain, Captain Skorzeny; many of thy men art now good swordsmen, and thou, Captain, be one of the most promising students it hath ever been mine privilege to train.’
‘You still best me easily, master.’
‘To be sure. But I be the greatest swordsman that ever lived, young Otto!’ the revenant replied with a brief gleam of humour in his eyes.
‘Still,’ he continued, ‘mine work hath now been completed; the art of the longsword liveth once again. Thou haveth mine books and those of mine students, and the wit to read them right; what remains to learn, thou can learn for yourself. I asketh now only that thou bringeth a stop to mine undeath, and giveth me back the peace of the sleep that dost not end.’
‘You’re serious? You want me to kill you!?’ Skorzeny asked, almost sounding scandalised. ‘No, I won’t do it!’
Liechtenauer looked sadly at him. ‘Thou wouldst renege on your word?’
‘No, but… anyway, the men would kill me, all those you taught so well, they think the world of you!’
The revenant smiled. ‘It warmeth me to hear that even in this age of paganism and godlessness there art still stout and warm hearts in men of Germany. But surely, they wouldst understand that I doth not wish to challenge the Order of the Allmighty any longer; my every breath doth be an abomination! I beseech thee, cut off mine head with thy sword, and put me to rest in hallowed ground; thy men will understand!’
Skorzeny squirmed. ‘Look, Master, what if I botch the cut? If you must go through with this, why don’t you wait until Duhrn comes back, he can dissolve you painlessly with a wave of his hand!’
‘I wish to consort with Master Duhrn and his devilry no longer!’ Liechtenaur spat. ‘Thy friend, Captain Skorzeny, be a blaspheming warlock, fit only for the pyre! No, honour thine old teacher with thy blade! Thou will knowest how to cut, or I will gladly suffer, for I will have failed as a teacher! I beg thee, keep thy word!’
Skorzeny was silent then for a long while, and although he seemed on the verge of speaking twice, in the end he did not. Instead, he turned and walked out of the tent.
‘You!’ he shouted to the nearest guard, once outside. ‘The 44th Infantry is camped back a few kilometres down the road; they’re an Austrian outfit, they should have plenty of Catholic padres! Go bring me one, at gunpoint if you have to, and don’t come back without one!’
He then stormed through the camp pointing out a few veterans, men that had trained with Liechtenauer and swung a sword in the Dreamland. ‘You! Dress uniform, right now! You’re on honour guard and burial detail.’
‘Burial detail? Who died, Stürmbannführer ?’
‘No one. Yet.’
****
The last red rays of the setting sun shone like lances between the dark conifers. In a clearing, a group of Leibstandarte soldiers had opened a grave, hastily hallowed by a padre from the revered “Hoch- und Deutschmeister” Regiment of the Austrian 44th Infantry Division. The padre who had then received the confession and administered the last rites to Johannes Liechtenauer, now stood silent, and shaken at the enormities he had learnt, at the back of the scene. The protagonist of the event himself, the revenant, had stood next to Skorzeny, watching, ever paler, as his final resting place was opened up.
‘My time hath come!’ he whispered, swallowed and walked up to the edge of the hole where he kneeled.
Otto walked up to stand behind him. ‘You don’t need to go through with this, Master!’ he pleaded, looking sick. ‘You heard what the Priest said; he cannot say if your continued life is an offence to God or not!’
‘But I do, Otto; doth not tempt me. I beseech thee; one clean cut, now, while I’m praying!’
‘As you wish.’
In one fluid motion, Otto freed the Rune Sword from it’s scabbard on his back and swung it into a middle guard, held upright next to his right shoulder. Red fire from the setting sun glittered in the razor-sharp edge.
‘Honour guard! Present arms!’ he commanded, and the Liebstandarte troops in their Feldgrau dress uniforms complied with machine-like precision.
‘Goodbye Master. May the grave grant you the peace that you long for!’ Otto said.
‘Fare thee well, Captain Otto Skorzeny. Always remember that thou art a Christian and a Knight!’
‘Master, I’m neither, as you well know.’
As his only reply, Liecthenauer smiled and shook his head ever so slightly before lifting his head to watch the setting sun for a few moments. ‘Now!’ he whispered with tears streaming down his cheeks.
The blade of the Rune Sword flashed sooty red as it descended. The sound of the honour guard firing the first of three salvos in salute masked the dull thumps as head and body fell into the open grave.
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Great writing Yog. It was sad but refreshing to take farewell of Master Johannes Liechtenauer. Not many men of his caliber in your magnificent story.
Not many men of his caliber in your magnificent story.
To bad to see such an interesting character die. Seems like Finland is getting hurt, wonder what will happen there.
It's a chronic problem for me; using sarcasm on me is like dynamiting fish in a barrel because I have trouble identifying sarcasm in online posts. Everything looks the same to me, so it's hard for me to tell what people meant.Tomn_Peng said:
Well, there's a practical limit on why either the fever or the drug could be hoped to achieve. Most weapons are only tactically significant, when you get right down to it. With a few exceptions, new weapons only affect the strategic level by making troops more effective on the tactical level and therefore more likely to win battles.
Wouldn't Fu remember how he got the elixir as Attila?
Fu is a vile man, but he's too clever to let himself get caught in a time loop.
I wonder if Skorzeny will begin to re-evaluate his relationship with Duhrn after this. Probably not, though he does seem to respect the sword master a great deal. I think a rift between the two is inevitable, however, as sooner or later Duhrn will cross a line on his mad quest for power and force Skorzeny to take action. After all, Skorzeny is a patriot but Gunther certainly doesn't seem to have the Fatherland as his highest priority.
EDIT: And I look forward to the third and final(?) installment of your most sublime series!
EDIT: And I look forward to the third and final(?) installment of your most sublime series!
