Homelands: Tales of the Anglo-Prussians

Enewald said:

What is an Prussian salute?
So there is no one to attack?
Poor soldiers...

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The Prussian Salute is based on the Polish Salute from our world:

Vesimir said:

Sweden should be conquered. The baltic still isn't yours.

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It is well enough mine. Plus there are some domestic events that are on the horizon.

Vesimir said:

Mumble, mumble. Bloody Prussians....

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That's okay... while I was writing the next part I realized that one of the characters was named Gabriel and deemed it in appropriate to make him a victim if he shared the name of one of my beloved readers, so I didn't use him.

Homelands
Chapter Thirty Three: By the Shade of Trees
Part 3

Prelude:
Democracy was a different thing to Prussians. It wasn't until the Enlightenment and the XIX Century that Prussia had any form of representative democracy for its people. Democracy to the Prussian Kings and Emperors was a bad thing, something meant to wedge the nobles over the King. And for the most part their fears were not completely unfounded. Elective issues in Poland and later in Western Europe showed the destructive power democracy could have over a country. Compared to the late XVIII to early XX Centuries when democracy became a driving force in progress and stability. It could just be an issue that laymen in the XIV Century were not ready for democracy in any form. Or it could be that democracy was not ready for use until the ideas of republicanism and federalism arose in the Enlightenment. The Caliphate of France, which lasted from 1662 to 1701, was one of the first nations to effectively apply the elective monarchy system. This propelled the Enlightenment from a mostly unheard-of theory from the United Kingdom to a world-wide movement that would drastically alter the course of human events. Democracy, however, did not truly flourish until the 1950's when much of Western Europe removed the shackles of monarchy. Even so, as Western Europe freed itself, many in Eastern Europe longed to do the same.
- Taken from Year One, by Klaudijs Ludissun; 1994 (Translated D. Rhodes, 1995)

June 1st, 1311

Dukes Nekolájs áv Pozán, Voldæmár Rurik and Dáreus áv Gálik stood before King Vishly. They were three of the most powerful men in the Kingdom, each ruling massive fiefs that had been under the control of their families for centuries. They had caused quite a stirring as they entered and they brought with them, inside a glass cover, a new Æthelræchtæs. "King Vishly the Unlawful," spoke Voldæmár, "We come before you representing all of your subjects. We demand that you end this constant assault on our rights and freedoms as guaranteed by the Æthelræchtæs! We demands that you step down and allow a new, noble-elected government take over." Voldæmár stood at the front and crossed his arms with a smug smile on his face.

Vishly, however, was unmoved. He finished delicately popping a candy into his mouth and even took the time to clean his lips, bear and fingers before breaking out into hysterical laughter. "You? You three are going to topple me? Are you serious?" Others in the court started laughing including Ziedás and Árás. As the laughter died down Vishly wiped a tear from his cheek and then looked up. "O, you three are serious." His smile slowly faded as he stood up. "Now boys, that is a major offense."

"What, can I not speak my mind?" Voldæmár asked, "Am I not of the proper position in life to have an opinion?"

"O, no... you can have an opinion... you just aren't of the position to speak it aloud. Especially an opinion as stupid and damning as overthrowing a King! That makes you a traitor. And being a traitor makes you dead."

Outside, in the court yard, the sounds of battle could be heard. Árás lept to the window and called, "Sir! The Rurik guard is trying to storm the palace!"

"Kill these traitors!" Vishly shouted. His own personal guard quickly cut down Nekolájs and Dáreus, but Voldæmár lunged forward at the King brandishing a short sword. The King drew his own sword and swung it over head coming down on the attacker. Standing on the throne's platform, Vishly had the high ground and kicked his attacker in the chest, sending him backwards into the hands of the guard. Without hesitating Vishly stabbed Voldæmár in the stomach with a knife and after waiting a few seconds for death to take hold.

"Sir, are you okay?" Árás asked.

"Fine, what about outside? Has the guard prevailed over the attackers?"

"I believe so. Sir, we need to get you out of here quickly. Please, follow me. We are going to get you out of here."

"No, Árás, I am fine." Vishly sheathed his sword and stood ready for more. When it was obvious none were coming and the Captain of the palace guard entered the throne room making sure everyone was fine, the King finally relaxed enough to sit back down.

"I assume your vengeance shall be quick, sir?" Árás asked.

"How very right you are, Árás, my friend," the King said, trying to calm down. "The lands of these men are forfeit. Send out your men to occupy their lands before any more of this nonsense breaks loose."

"What shall I do with the lands once they are occupied?"

"Next of kin if they can pay a year's worth of taxes to you in old in less than a week. If not, auction the land and have the surviving vassals elect a new Duke," Vishly said.

"Vishly! Just revoke their titles and land, take it for yourself!" Ziedás shouted. "Or at least put a friend in charge! You're the King! Do as you please!"

"Ziedás please, I will get about to it in time. No, the nobles have asked for it. They thought losing a few merger rights here and there was bad enough... but the worst is only starting!" Vishly declared.

"What shall you have me do?" Árás asked instinctively.

Vishly got out of his throne and strode over Voldæmár's dead body and stood at the window looking out into Memelgrád. He folded his hands behind his back and took a few deep breaths. He turned around and looked at all the faces in the court, many still covered by shock and awe. "We shall kill them all," Vishly said. "We shall give them a simple choice... join me or die. Each will be given a chance, and if they don't pass we shall kill them where they stand. We won't need to amend that bloody document if there is no one left it applies to."

An eerie silence fell over the court. Vishly turned back around and looked out his window. Árás stepped forward and asked, "Sir, are you serious?"

"Did I stutter, Árás?"

"No sir, if it is what the King commands the army will do to the best of its ability."

"But not just yet, Árás. Let them think they got away with it, let them have their few precious minutes of victory. All the sweeter when I snatch it out from under them and then cram it down their throats for being the insignificant, rotten, backstabbing shit heads they are." Vishly's face was beet red and behind his eyes steamed an anger than very few could ever contain.

"Very well, sir!" Árás saluted and turned to leave.

But he only got a few steps before Vishly called out, "And Árás, please do have these three quartered. Make sure their heads are returned to their proper places of rule. We wouldn't want their replacements to think that I am above holding a grudge."

"Very good, sir. I'll have a few men up here in a few minutes to carry them away," Árás said, saluting again. He waited a few seconds to make sure Vishly didn't have any more demands, and when nothing was heard from the King, he left.

The King of Prussia stood silent and watched from above as the three men were cut into pieces using an axe. He smiled as he imagined the head of Voldæmár hoisted above the ground and into the deepest nightmares of his sons. The whole Rurik family was going to pay dearly for this, Vishly thought. "They shall beg for my mercy and I shall show them none."

Enewald said:

Death to the traitors!

What is that in Medieval Prussian?

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In modern Prussian it is:

dathær in swicándæs
"Death for traitors"

or

dathær in se swicæn
"Death for the treacherous"

mayorqw said:

Wow. Just read it all. Again.
Vey nice. I bet this'll cause some distability in the country. Who will administer all those lands? The king? Bah! Keep them with the righteous nobles, let this be your magna carta!

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Wow, I am glad the earlier parts of Homelands still hold water. We shall see who gets to hold those lands in the next few chapters.

October 13th, 1312 was a Friday.

Homelands
Chapter Thirty Three: By the Shade of Trees
Part 4

Prelude:
The Great Purges started in 1312. In all there would be roughly six waves of purges: the Early Purges, the First Impaling, the Second Impaling, the Entrapment, the Third Impaling and the Forth or Austrian Impaling. Victims of the purges included nobles and their families, unloyal courtiers, unloyal knights, deserters, Russians and anyone else that Vishly perceived to be standing in his way. Justice became swifter and swifter as Vishly expanded a new special regiment of knights, the Death Knights. They were an expansion on the Old Guard, the religious knights who had at one time fought alongside Sviendorog in Finland, only now the religious fervor was replaced with blind loyalty. Their sole job was to hunt down those that Vishly demanded dead and then take them back to Memelgrád dead or alive. Of course tensions grew between the Guard and the Death Knights; two fanatical armies that were supposed to be the hand of the King left one redundant. Divisions were starting to build in Prussia between those who supported the King and those who want to uphold the provisions of the Æthelræchtæs. Even the Church was unsure of who to support, though the Patriarch was a staunch supporter of Vishly's reforms as it was a means of protecting Church functions from the prying nobles. Outside of Prussia proper, in the territories of Bohemia, Brandenmarch, Hungary and Croatia support was almost entirely in favor of the nobility.

October 15th, 1312

Joná Rurik ran terrorized down a dirt path outside of Moscow. Nearly blind, the old man stumbled and fell to the ground and grasping at the dirt tried to push himself back up so he could continue his panicked flight from his city. Joná had been, until only a few minutes ago, the Count of Moscow. Now, wearing only a few tattered sheets, he ran bear-foot and nearly naked through the forests of Russia. Of in the distance the galloping of horses chasing after him. It was nothing but a sport to these men. A sick and twisted mockery of a noble hunt. He could even hear the dogs barking from alongside their masters.

In the distance a small hut. A light shown from a small, open window. He ran toward the building but from behind it exploded a black-clad horseman. Joná screamed in terror and ran into the dense woods, the pain in his feet long numbed by the cold. The horseman shouted in Prussian to his comrades, but the thick brush and trees prevented the horse from entering the woods. The tired old man continued deeper and then in a small glade he stopped to rest, leaning over and taking deep breaths. He was uncertain of where he was or what had just happened so he tried to piece it all together. A few hours ago most of his family was alive and well, enjoying a state dinner. Now most of them were dead, many in their seats and the remainders scattered like the winds into the city and surrounding country side. He didn't know how many were left.

After a few minutes of thought he slowly started moving again, walking away from the road and deeper into the woods. Being lost wasn't as big as a concern as not knowing where the horsemen were. He could always find a small hamlet, a wandering huntsman, but as the saddled executioners prowled he was never going to be completely safe. What did he even do? Why were these men riding around with absolutely no resistance from the guards? Where were his loyal men? Joná stumbled into a shallow bog and he knew he must be near the river.

Pulling himself out of the mud and water he saw a road just through a few trees. Moving to its edged he glanced first to the right and then to the left, looking for his pursuers. Seeing nothing, not even the gleam of a torch, he moved onto the road. Staying still he could here neither the galloping of horses or the shouts of men. Could it really be that easy? He even let his guard down enough to smile as he turned to his left and began walking away from Moscow. His casual stroll lasted about fifteen minutes before he could hear the faint steps of a horse. His blood cooled and his mind froze in terror when he heard a man's voice shout "Tór! He ist hór! He ist hór!"

Soon the pounding hooves seemed to come from every direction and Joná took off running down the way he was going. But in the distance he saw several knights rushing his way, dogs barking at their feet. He skidded as he tried to change direction, blood mixed with dirt as his feet hit rocks and branches. When he finally stopped he turned to run but poised above him was yet another horse man. The man grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up on the horse and then spurred his horse with a thick Livonian accent. On their lightly armored horse they soon spread the gap between the pursuers and themselves. The old Russian Count soon slipped into a coma-like sleep on the back of the horse. For some reason he knew he was safe.


The next morn Joná awoke on a bed, his feet bandaged and his thin frame clothed in a peasant's vest and pants. Getting up he looked around the room and saw that it was a small one-room house. On a table by the bed was a loaf of bread and a beef stew, still warm. He ate quickly and savored what would likely be the last meal made for him by another person. Hobbling on his bandaged feet, the Count moved toward the door and saw outside the window a man dressed only in a slack pair of brown pants. His back, which was facing Joná was covered in lashes and the Count instantly recognized them as the self-flagellation of a Guardsman. Could he really trust a man who was supposed to never desert the Guard? The Guardsman eventually stood up and walked into the house, Joná stepping aside so he could enter.

"I cannot really give you much," Joná said, "But thank you, thank you for protecting me against those bandits. They struck with such ferocity. I have no idea who they were..." Joná watched as the Guardsman walked over to a small sack and pulled out a plain shirt and put it on, tucking it into his pants. Joná saw that he was just a boy, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. His hair and beard showed that they had at least a week of growth, but he normally would have been completely shaved. His eyes, a dulled blue, we heavy in fear and sadness. On a table sat a tunic with the white cross on it. Also there was a sword and a ceremonial dagger sheathed and attached to a utility belt. "Do you have a name?" Joná asked.

"I don't think so," the boy answered after a long pause. He didn't say anything else, just hung his head and seemed to try to collect his wits about him. He seemed lost, confused and terrified. Eventually walked over to the table and forced his sword and tunic into a large sack. He took the dagger, still sheathed, and strapped it to his leg and let his pants fall over it and conceal it.

"Well, then," Joná said, "I shall call you Kristján, if you don't mind." Joná said, trying to smile and cheer the boy, as well as himself, up. He patted the boy's shoulder but only got a shrug.

"Please, I do mind." The boy breathed out his nose and then stood upright. "The men who attacked you were members of the Death Knights, a unit created by King Vishly to exterminate everyone he sees as a threat."

"What? That cannot be! The King would never attack his vassal's servants!"

"Two days ago the Death Knights attacked the main priory of the Guard outside Riga. Many of us were caught sleeping and slaughtered like lambs. I headed toward another priory, outside of Smolensk and before I arrived I saw a plume of smoke rising from where it should have stood. Please understand that we are both in grave danger, but I must try to contact some of my brothers if we are to organize some kind of resistance. I do not doubt that more of us survive still."

"And what if you really are the last Guardsman alive? What if we find no one?" Joná asked.

"Then I shall leave you in a small peasant village and then I shall ride off and try to make it to Rome. But as I said, I do not doubt that more have survived. We will unite, we've feared this attack and planned for it... but we never would have guessed it would have been from the King himself."

"What is your plan then?"

"We head south and out of Prussia. In the Carpathian mountains is a secret priory, never manned and never staffed... ruins of an old Roman fort. In times of trouble we've been instructed to head there so we can reorganize." The Guard grabbed his rucksack and threw it over his back. He glanced down at Joná's finger and then, hurriedly pulled off the Count's signet ring. "You are no longer Count, there is no fighting that. We must leave this and forget it ever existed." Joná nodded quickly and the two exited the house. Finding a shovel, the Guard dug a shallow hole and dropped the ring in it. Joná watched as he covered it up again and then motioned for them to start walking.

They were on a small country farm, in the distance was a stables and a man working the fields some distance beyond that. Suddenly Joná didn't feel so isolated. "Do you know these people?"

"No, they were just kind enough to shelter two travelers. We must move quickly and lightly. Stop only for food and sleep. And to be sure: I am your grandson and we are headed to Morcárgrád to held at my father's new merchant shop. Trust no one. Never forget that. It is likely that we will meet other Guardsmen. We will never trust them and we will never travel with them. Trust will be built when we reach the Carpathians."

Joná nodded and saddled on the back of his savior's horse. "I shall never forget."

Enewald said:

Why a need to liquidate the Guardsmen?

And would it not be easier to hide in the endless forests of Mordva or Finnia than try to get to Rome?

What is in Prussian my honour is my loyalty?

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Paranoia is a guess as good as any. The Guard, in this instance, takes after the Templars. They are powerful, rich and the King fears them.

min ciena ist min loiálitat
miv ciêva ist miv loiálitat
miu ciéua ist miu loiálitat

Depending on which alphabet you are using (Western Transliteration, Modern Standard, Freehand respectively).

mayorqw said:

Let's hope this king redeems himself too before the Leofrickson Empire collapses.

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Only time shall tell... and all my notes.

SplendidTuesday said:

Um, wow. I think we have a new title for the Prussian king: Vishly the Monster.

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Ah, but that is what we've all been waiting for.

Homelands
Chapter Thirty Three: By the Shade of Trees
Part 5

Prelude:
In 1313 the impalings began in Prussia. King Vishly sought a form of execution so bloody, so violent, that no one would dare stand up to him. So, in the summer, some one hundred nobles were arrested and impaled around Kiev Palace where Vishly would eat his lunch by the shade of the "trees". Their bodies were left on the tall pikes to serve as a grim warning to anyone who would dare work against the King. Tensions between Vishly and his vassals were becoming strained. The Guard, which he destroyed out of paranoia and jealousy, was regrouping with support from the Bánát family in the Carpathian mountains. Unknown to King Vishly, in 1313 several of Vishly's vassals met to discuss the secession of the "Southern Kingdoms" or "Southern Lands". Eight proposed states were in attendance: Denmark, Brandenburg, Bohemia, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, Wallachia and Moldavia. Each had a proposed King or Prince: Christian Kinjitlin of Denmark, Otto áv Brand of Brandenburg, Tomás áv Luksæmburg of Bohemia, Ernst Witilsbák of Austria, Litto Arápád of Hungary, Louis Kran of Croatia, Franz áv Fránkæn of Wallachia, and Meinekinus áv Moldáó of Moldavia. However, the rebels were not without their dissenters. In Austria, Phillip áv Wen resisted leaving the Empire in any form and was a major land holder in both Bohemian and Hungarian Austria. In northern Moldavia, Meinekinus's brother, Ánton, was a staunch supporter of the crown and refused to let his brother take his half of the Duchy.


November 14th, 1313

While the Guardsmen and unloyal vassals plotted treason, King Vishly and Ziedás walked amongst the pikes outside their palace. Moans of agony and drops of blood came from above as some writhed in agony, dying slowly as Vishly had wanted. Árás, the Marshal, caught up to the couple, panting, and after catching his breath stopped the King. "My Lord, I must express my concerns, we've been having strange activity in the south, I want permission to call up a larger army in case we meet any resistance in the future."


Vishly stopped and turned to look at Árás, "What kind of activity?"

"Well, first, we have the strange pilgrimage of black-cloaks. I for one have no record of such an order existing, but they moved in massive numbers. Some ports reported numbers in the hundreds several days in a row!"

"You are worried about pilgrims? What is wrong Árás, this is not like you?"

"The 'pilgrimages' started days after the attacks on Riga and Smolensk. They are not pilgrims, my liege, they are Guardsmen. And if they are so readily headed south that means they have safe haven their... allies and the such. Sir, I believe that the southern states are getting ready to revolt. Support for your reforms is very low in the south, and it is unlikely they will tolerate anymore."

"And you, do you support these reforms?"

"Sir, if I didn't believe it was right, I wouldn't be asking to call up an army to crush those who would stand against you," Árás said diligently.

Vishly paused as he looked the Marshal over. "Fine, call up the troops you think you need. We'll see if we cannot snuff this out before it begins."

"Thank you, my liege." Árás bowed and left the forest of pikes. The King and Queen eventually made their way back to the palace and into their throne room. They took a seat and were instantly approached by a regal looking figure who seemed, if anything, unhappy.

"My lord, Count Ánton áv Moldáó here with a complaint about his brother," a herald stated in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"Proceed, Count."

"King Vishly, I bear grave news. There is talk of treason in the south. Many who would otherwise be your loyal vassals have turned to treachery and slanderous talk behind your back, they have already moved to appoint Kings and Dukes of new lands; titles and lands that are unquestionably yours and yours alone."

Vishly shifted uneasily, the coincidence with Árás's earlier was slightly unnerving. Was he the only one out of the loop? "This is most unsettling. I assume you have names? Proof?"

"Proof only in the form of my honesty. Names, there are many, for our enemy grows more powerful each night. Litto Arápád is the ring leader, and so-called King of Hungary, but also Tomás Luksæmburg: so-called King of Bohemia. There are many more, but one in particular cuts very close to my own heart."

"And who is that?" Vishly asked, leaning forward.

"My brother, Meinekinus, the Duke of Moldavia plans to attack the belly of Prussia and seize her Black Sea ports while the others strangle her of her bread basket in Poland. He didn't count on me resisting his move."

"And for your loyalty you shall be rewarded if what you say proves true, and only if it proves true."

"I understand, but you'll want to move quickly, they are already planning. You might be able to out maneuver some of them."

Vishly paused, watching Ánton's movements, "I will do just that."

"Also, Phillip áv Wen, he is an ally as well. He was the one to first inform me that my brother was not the only one contemplating this illegal move against the crown."

"And I shall keep that in mind, Ánton," Vishly said.

"Thank you, and long live the King." Ánton bowed and left Vishly to ponder his predicament. The King leaned back in his throne and for the first time a feeling of powerlessness crossed his mind and made the hair on his neck stand up.

"Vishly, what is wrong?"

"This cannot be good for the Kingdom... but it is inevitable, Ziedás. We approach a civil war if nothing else, a revolution. I don't know how much time we have or even if we have any time at all... It is a feeling and a position that I am not used to." He pulled at his beard and then got up and paced the throne room. His frantic steps becoming quicker and quicker.

"What are you worried about? Árás's instincts have been proven true. His intuition is sharp and I sometimes think that the man might actually be some off-spring of Wallachian fortune-tellers," Ziedás said, "His instincts may have just saved the Kingdom. You might want to have him call up more soldiers. Especially if we are to fight a war."

"I will have to do just that," Vishly responded. Ziedás looked very calm for a monarch facing a civil war. She watched her husband run out of the room before letting her own worry come through. She was sure that Prussia would survive with Vishly on top, but had little idea what it meant for Prussia in the long run. She thought of little Gunvald who was kept out of the lime light. Instead he stayed with other court members when the King was available for audience. Would he ever get to be King? And what would he rule over?


End Chapter Thirty Three