The Adventures of the Crovan Clan 2: The World Is Way Too Much

Erik I “The Spyder” Kolbeinsson Crovan

Emperor of the Crovan Empire



In Which Hakon Suffers A Head Trauma
(28 October 1504 – 3 January 1507)








“Well then gentlemen…”







“Ahem.”







“Sorry. Gentlemen and Tramp.”

Hakon tittered until Asta shot him a withering glare.







“Hey, where is William? I commissioned a poem from him and he is late on delivery.”







“Yes, well, after that tripe he turned in for my epic, I doubt William is in a very poetic mood. Unless he has found rhymes for ‘gaol,’ ‘rats,’ and ‘the rack.’







“Right. Well, I didn’t pay him anything up front, so,” Bard shrugged, “no harm no foul right?”







“Well, I have taken the time to replace both William and Seigmund in my advisory council. Njord Larsson commanded a regiment in the St. Aslak Division during the war and General Ebsen has recommended him to help rebuild the army. He will be working with you Bard.”







Njord rose and nodded, silently and then sat down. “Tell me Bard, when did you last command in the field?”







Bard blushed. “Oh, it’s been a while. I’ve been busy here for quite some time, requisitionings supplies, horses, weapons and food. Coordinating shipments and handling recruiting. Really, our organization won the last war. Thanks to my team, we were able to outlast several very strong enemies.”

“Oh! And I am in charge of implementing any sort of organizational changes and equipment upgrades the armies might need.”







“Ah, foolish me. And all this time I have been wasting my time organizing and leading my soldiers into battle, storming into breaches and finding ways to make due when the food stops arriving, the equipment is worn out and the horses are eaten. I am certain, Bard, you will have much to teach me about order forms and quill-pen pushing.”








This was not going to be a good day. Bard held his head high, assumed a look of quite superiority and sniffed the air. “Yes, I am quite sure I do. And probably something about regular bathing as well.”

The two men regarded each other with hostility.







Erik was pleased. A little competition could only be good for the army. “More importantly, since it has become clear that I cannot expect to be immortalized in poetry, I have chosen as Assistant to the Posthumous Poet Laureate, a writer of prose and plays. Sir Alojz Praha.”








Alojz rose with a flourish. “Couplets may not be my style, but I shall make you immortal, Your Majesty!” Alojz struck a dramatic pose, rippling his cloak about, “I shall make you a Legend!”







“You’d better Alojz. Otherwise William’s cell may still be dank, rat infested and stink of human waste, but it will no longer be lonely.”







Alojz’s hand went to his throat and he visibly paled. “I shan’t fail you, my Liege.”







“Threats to poets aside, father…”







“Playwrights, madame.”







Asta, still smarting from her father’s jab rounded on the playwright.

“Shut up you or you’ll wish you were in that cell.”

Alojz sat quickly and quietly, a look of despair settled on his face. The job advertisement had not mentioned all this.







“As I was saying, father, the wars kept our armies, my spies and our other internal agents so busy that the Heretic’s were able to spread like wildfire. Close to a third of all your subjects follow a non-traditional Christianity.”

Asta smiled at Hakon. “Oh, and father, I know who the leader of the Olafites is. It is none other than…”

Hakon’s eyes went wide. He needed a distraction, and fast.







“Ow My Head!” Yelled Hakon, and then he slammed his head into the table with such force that Erik’s wine bottle tipped onto the floor. Soon after, Hakon, insensible and bloody, also tipped onto the floor.

The room was silent as everybody stared in wonder at what just happened.







Asta rolled her eyes. “As I was saying, that bloody, crumpled mess on the floor, my brother Hakon, Duke of the Western Isles, is also the leader of the Church of Olaf.”


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Erik I “The Spyder” Kolbeinsson Crovan

Emperor of the Crovan Empire, Pontifix Maximus, The Shield of Olaf



In Which Erik Finds the Lord, Literally And Figuratively
(3 January 1507 – 15 September 1508)








Asta stormed into Erik’s bedroom. Her face was a mask of fury and pain. She failed to notice that the Emperor, preparing to climb into his bed for a nap, was rail thin, covered in sores and almost ash-grey. The Imperial Robes of State always made him look so large and imposing. Or maybe she did notice, but pretended not to.

“How could you, father? How could you? By all rights, Hakon and his filthy seed should be rotting in the dungeons or burning at the stake, but no! Instead, you have not only converted to that insipid faith, but ordered the whole court to as well!”

Asta threw herself into a chair. “I should be Empress, or at least Dan should be. But no. You drag our family name through the muck just so that fool can ruin the fruits of your labour.”







Erik sat on the edge of his bed, exhausted. He’d tired of Asta’s rants. “No, Asta, what I did was to save the Empire. Let us say that I did turn on Hakon. What then? The Olafites and Audunites and whatever other –ans and –ites running amock in the lands would have had yet another martyr. And not just any martyr, but an heir to the throne.”

“We would be their bitter enemy from now on.”







“So what? They’re serfs.”







“Well, now that is true, and usually you would be quite right. But in this case, there was an advantage to be gained by aligning with them.”







“What possible advantage can there be for turning Crovania into a pariah nation, one that any Catholic could attack with impunity, even blessing from the Church? What advantage is there in shattering our ancient, and useful, alliances with the Pope and with Sicily?”







“Well, tell me, Asta dear, who was the most powerful Protestant nation before our conversion?”







Asta was sullen. “I don’t know. Maybe Crovan Connacht. Or The Kingdom of Greek Scotland. But isn’t that the point? Only nobodies have converted.”







Erik grinned. “Until now. Now there is a beacon of hope and protection to all the miserable serfs, disaffected nobles and any other sap who buys into a Protestant program. And that hope is the mightiest country in the world. Us.”

“And what of our own serfs? Well, Asta dear, now, instead of a subversive minority religion which attracts the disaffected, the Church of Olaf Crovan, Christ, is a source of power. It strengthens our hold on the people. Our wishes are not just those of an Emperor, but of God himself.”

“As the divine descendants of Olaf Crovan himself, who better to rule the people and the church than me, the Crovan Emperor?”







Asta rolled her eyes. “Come now father, you know good and well the Council of Olafian Bishops only agreed to your demands because they knew you’d kill them if they didn’t.”







“That is irrelevant. All the people know, and all the bishops dare to tell them, is the touching story of an heir to the throne and how he converted his own father to the true light and how the bishops begged the Emperor to take up another mantle of spiritual leadership.”








“Whatever father, such pageantry never interested you before.”







“And it still doesn’t. What does interest me is that now, orders go from God to Erik to the serfs to the fields to work harder or they’ll suffer in this world and the next.”








“Fine. But that still doesn’t solve our isolation problem.”







“Well then, Asta, what would you do to remedy that? Since you are so eager to command.”







“Well, I guess I would try to reach out to all the other Protestant countries to form a defensive league.”







“A Protestant League, if you will.”







“Well, that is a good plan, I suppose I will send Bard and his angry assistant to make the rounds.”







“Why not send Hakon? Give him some practice with diplomacy, since you’ve decided to make him the emperor.” Asta spat out the word.







“Well, dear, because Hakon needs to be here at Viken. Because the succession needs to be smooth and secure. When your poisons finally kill me, I want Hakon here to take the reigns immediately. Otherwise, you will just destroy the Empire with a Civil War.”







Asta’s face blushed red, then turned white. “Poison? What do you mean poison. Just because I complain a lot…it’s only because I want a competent ruler. I’m sorry if my words have caused you such distress!”







“Dear Asta, it’s not your words that cause me distress, rather it is the heavy doses of Antimony. I just wanted you to know Asta. You may be a brilliant Spymistress, but I figured it out.” Erik shook his head and sighed. “I figured it out too late, mind you, but I figured it out.”







“What, what will you do?” The words died in her mouth and Asta no longer looked like a raging Valkyrie, but rather like a small girl, lost in the over-sized chair.







“Do? Why, my dear, nothing at all. I have already exacted my vengeance on you by keeping Hakon as the heir and assuring that his Olafism won’t cost him the throne. Now, please leave Asta, I haven’t much time and I’d rather not spend it with you.”





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Hakon III Eriksson Crovan

Emperor of the Crovan Empire, Pontifix Maximus, The Shield of Olaf



Hakon At War
(15 September 1508 – 8 February 1511)








Well now, father has passed, which is a tragedy, to be sure, especially since I don’t think he really believed that Christ returned a second time, and therefore is burning in Hell as all Papists do. However, there is an upside to all this, which is that I now have the power and the chance to right almost five centuries of Crovan wrongs to the people, for that is what Olaf wanted of us.







Now then, since I have to be alive to do that, I have sent my sister to Akershus to stir up the Norse their against their Heretic Meklemburgian Overlords.







As I look over my realm, I think I am most struck by the fact that the Pope (and Papal Spain) remain our vassals and in spite of this, no one else has seen the folly of remaining Papist. God himself has placed the Pope under the heel of Olaf’s representative on Earth!







The real issue, if you ask me, is that the Big Brown Blob, Bohemia, is such a powerful Papist presence in Europe. If we can crush them, and I mean really crush them, then the world will see clearly that Olaf’s Light is the only way.







The war itself should be easy enough to provoke, I shall simply put an end to the Hell Express known as Audunite Candar In Jamtland. Thereby bringing Olaf converts and also bringing the Bohemians to task.







God’s will be done Papists!







Like other great Missionary-Kings, such as Charlemagne and Clovis, I will personally bring Olafian mercy to the Jamtlanders…or else.







I’ve been a little preoccupied in Jamtland, but it has come to my attention that the Bohemians have a lot of armies.

It has also come to my attention that I have a “Catholic Division!” Luckily, they’ve already been horribly decimated in combat.







And now the people are rising up in rebellion throughout the lands. It’s the Papist part of the Empire, but still. This is not what I had planned.







Based on some campaign maps Bard has delivered, it would seem things are a bit out of hand in Germany.








Olaf! Olaf! Why hast thou forsaken your servent?







That vile Heretic Jiri II has won this round. I must think on this. I have failed Olaf in some way, otherwise he would never have visited defeat upon me.








“Why dear brother, have you been neglecting your worship?"







Hakon’s heart leapt into his throat. “Gah! What are you doing here Asta? I sent you to Akershus!” Hakon was somewhat afraid. His guards were not present.







Asta smiled before plopping into a chair. She shrugged, looking bored, “Akershus wasn’t very interesting. Apparently the Akershus Catholics prefer their remote Papist overlords of Mecklenburg in Brittany to your – ahem – more personal Olafite attentions.”







“So I changed my orders. Fife, you may not have known, is staunchly Olafite and they jumped at the chance to leave England for your rule. I came to deliver the news.”







“Well, I sure do appreciate your taking the time to share that with me. When do you plan to leave?” Asta always scared Hakon.







“Leave? Why never, dear brother. So tell me, it has been a while. How are my little nephews? Are you raising them strong in the church?”






Hakon was somewhat peeved. “What sort of question is that? Of course I am! Why, the Archbishop of Viken himself has personal charge of their education and two more Christian lads have never walked the Earth!”







The corners of Asta’s lips turned up in a faint smile. “Archbishop Skule. Excellent choice. He is quite…fervent, I understand. The boys will be very, very interested in their salvation then. Good.” This last part was said almost to herself, he eyes had taken on a distant look.

Then she nodded to herself. “I am quite glad to hear that Hakon, dear brother. I would want nothing more than to see my nephews at Olaf’s right hand in Heaven.”

She then rose and walked towards the door. “Olafism has a certain appeal Hakon. I think I may be spending more time studying your religion.”






“Our religion, you mean!” Hakon called out as she left.

Talking with Asta always left Hakon nervous and upset. Still, she’d shown real interest in his children and their salvation and she seemed to be genuinely interested in the Church of Olaf, so maybe, maybe she’d turned a corner.


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