February 5, TA 3019/AD 1200
Austria
"How much farther to the meeting spot? I do not want to be wandering in these lands any longer than absolutely necessary."
The man that Leopold VI, Duke of Austria and those under his command were following turned at that remark, a broad smile on his face. Bowing slightly, he replied, the wide smile remaining on his face.
"It is not much further now, my grace. I do bid that you have patience. I know that you are anxious, as would any man in your pace, but I assure you: this journey will not be for naught."
The man turned away again after that, beckoning for the Duke and his company to follow. Leopold stared at the man's back for a second as he walked further into the wild, absorbing that remark. Then he spurred his mount forwards, eyes fixed on the man's back, and his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening. The Duke was surrounded by guards, a small army on the path behind them, and they moved in broad daylight. If there was ever a time to confident in his safety, this was it. And yet...and yet fear gripped at his heart, and he cast wary glances at every tree and shrub the company rode past, waiting for something to go wrong.
He had reason to be afraid. In the ten days since the storm, a seemingly endless number of horror stories had come out of these alien hills, rumors of demons and monsters that swept out of the night and slaughtered all they came across. The tales were common enough, and similar enough, that any doubt to at least some of the accuracy was put to rest rather quickly. The cries for action from their people were loud and unending, and so Leopold, like most of the other nobles of the Holy Roman Empire, answered them, sending scouts into the misty lands that had appeared.
Few of these men returned, and even fewer returned with good news. Most could speak only to confirm the tales, having found only the ruins of the small and isolated villages that had dotted the foothills of the Alps, near always reduced to rubble and ash and with none still living that could speak of what had happened. There was little evidence to provide a clue as to what had occured, either: there were a handful of black arrows left and some spatters of dark blood, but near nothing else.
A small minority of those that went into the wild, though, told a completely different story. At least there seemed to be reason to this fact: all of them had been sent to scout out the same region, where a swift river had come suddenly plunging out of the hills. To a man they told the same tale: they followed the new river back into the alien lands, winding their way upstream onto unfamiliar ground. There, they had looked for anything that could help to reveal what had caused these new mountains to appear. In other places, the scouts had found nothing besides new causes for despair, but those that had gone up the river had apparently found something quite different.
Those men spoke of encountering people of inhuman beauty, who wore armor and robes and carried weapons that shone like the stars, who had revealed themselves as the men had started to explore the river valley. The scouts said that they had been taken to a beautiful city, hidden in the mountains, where they were treated as honored guests rather than as captured spies, fed feasts that would put the celebrations of royalty to shame, housed not in cells but in rooms that wouldn't have been out of place in the palace of a King.
There they met a certain Elrond, who said that he was the Lord of the City. By all accounts, he was the only one that had spoken to his men, seemingly possessing the ability to speak in tongues. This Elrond had spoken to many of them at length, both asking about this world and telling them of his own. Apparently, his people called themselves elves, and they had lived in the mountains for many long centuries, hidden away from the threats that hunted them, brought to this world by whatever mysterious act had transported the mountains themselves.
There was more to the story of his people than that, far more, but Elrond had apparently wanted to relay such tales in person. After a few days of back and forth questioning, the Master of Rivendell had released those in his care, asking them only to summon the local nobles for a council, to establish relations between the realms that had so suddenly found themselves to be neighbors.
And that was how Leopold of Austria found himself following behind one of his scouts, who was now leading them deeper and deeper into unfamiliar terrain. Perhaps he did so against his better judgement, his curiosity roused only be a desperate need for some kind of good news. In all honesty, Leopold felt very much like he was walking into a trap. He had been taught well, both in the art of war and in the wisdom of his faith. The Devil, he knew, did not always show himself to be a thing of terror. The Accuser could be, and often was, subtle, for why should one exert the effort to destroy their foes with force when many of them would walk open eyed to their own doom?
On the other hand, God could sometimes be as unsubtle as thunderstorm. If these people in the mountains were indeed Messengers of the Lord, as many of his scouts seemed convinced that they were, then it was his duty as a good and pious Christian to listen to their message. In such dark times as these, he needed all the help he could get. If God had seen fit to give him said help, then he would not be one to complain.
The Duke was shaken out of his thoughts when he noticed that the man they were following had stopped. Looking past the man, he saw that the company had arrived at a crossing to the river that his scouts, and now Leopold himself, had followed. Grimly, the Duke of Austria noted that the river was broad and swift, and, while crossable, the Ford was not wide enough for the whole company to move across at once.
Our backs are to a river, he thought, not good. Suspiciously, Leopold eyed the far bank. There was no one...that he could see, in any case. Still, the whole scene made him feel uneasy. He didn't know what it was, but he hadn't come as far as he had in life by ignoring his instincts. And his instincts were telling him that something was very wrong. His thoughts took a darker turn yet as their guide started to slowly wade out into the Ford, hands raised above his head, calling out to the far shore. This is it, Leopold thought, readying to fight. He gives the signal, and the trap is sprung.
But no arrows were loosed from the far bank. There was no sudden charge against the flanks or rear of the column. The only sounds continued to be the bubbling of the river and the crunching of snow under the nervous feet of horses and men. For a few moments, each of which seemed to stretch to eternity, nothing happened. The man stood in the river, the company watched the far shore, and the river continued to roar past.
And then, Leopold saw it: movement on the far bank. There was a column, seemingly smaller than his own, working it way up the path that lead to the Ford. His guide had seen it as well, and now turned back to the column, smiling broadly. "They are here, my Lord" Leopold nodded to himself, taking a deep breath. Silently, he steeled himself for what came next. Whatever the truth about those that his scouts had met, first impressions always mattered. Especially when those that you were meeting had been magically dropped out of the sky.
Finally, the approaching column broke the treeline, and the Duke of Austria beheld for the first time the people of Rivendell. His first thoughts were that his scouts had been surprisingly accurate in their reports; certainly, their exaggerations had been minor. There were roughly 100 or so of them, all dressed in brilliant armor, the descriptions of their beauty that Leopold had received being easily met, and indeed surpassed.
The strangers took up formation on the far shore, each one mounted on an armored steed, each armed with a bow and a lance. One of them, who the Duke judged to be their leader, and thus Elrond of Rivendell (or at least his adjunct), left the formation, riding forwards into the Ford on a white mount. At this, Leopold's scout beckoned his master forwards, and the Duke of Austria rode into the river himself, his eyes constantly scanning the far shore. He saw a good sign: none of them had bows knocked. They were not attacking immediately, at least. They met in the river's center, the scout between them. The two eyed each other, each trying to read the other's expression. Both noted that the other's gaze was one of suspicion. They simply stared for a moment, before the elf broke the silence, bowing slightly as he spoke.
"Leopold of Austria?"
"I am." The Duke replied, slowly, not lowering his guard, nor removing his hand from the hilt of his sword.
"I am Elrond of Rivendell." As the elf rose again to his full height, Leopold saw that he, too was armed, and that his right hand rested on the pommel of his own blade. His gaze was one, not of malice, certainly, but not one of much hope either, and his speech was tense and rigid. "We have much to discuss."
"That we do," Leopold replied, returning the elf's stare, "that we do."
The Halls of Thranduil
The people here were anxious. The air of nervousness was so obvious that even though he spoke not a word of their tongue, Dominic of Osma would have had to have been both deaf and blind not to notice the tense feelings that filled this place. It was readily apparent from the wary looks and tightened grips on weapons that the inhabitants of this place had, even as those that he could see were (presumably) far from any immediate dangers, deep in the heart of the caverns.
At least he was no longer in a prison cell. He and his brothers had been moved out of the deeper dungeons into rooms that were far more accommodating. Certainly, they were not bedded in the chambers of nobility, and there were many inns throughout Castile that would have been more homely than their current lodgings, but none among the brothers raised complaint. Their hosts, at the very least, no longer seemed to view them as outright threats, and treated them less as prisoners and more as guests, albeit that they were apparently guests of rather low standing.
Dominic was unsure of what to call said hosts. His conversation (that had been, in truth, far more of an interrogation than anything else) with what he assumed to be some kind of a King or other noble had established little, handicapped by the fact that apparently only the King himself could speak Dominic's language (and not particularly well at that), necessitating a rather large number of lengthy pauses as the two had spoken back and forth. What he had learned was good, at least: these people had no particular ill will towards their new neighbors, and were not here to conquer them.
But the young Priest had learned little else: the King had been far more interested in learning about his new surroundings than sharing about himself, and thus the flow of information had been rather one-way. The King had done little more than tell Dominic the names of himself (Thandule, or something similar-discrepancy in accents had proved to be another addition to the language barrier) and of his people (elves) before he had began asking questions of the man almost without ceasing.
Dominic felt that he had learned more being lead through the halls and caverns of this place than he had from its apparent master, in the short glances that he had stolen of other halls and chambers. He thought, at least, that he was not seeing it in its full glory. He felt that this land had much more magnificence than he had witnessed. At the moment, it seemed...broken. Hurt. He had not seen much of this land, having been taken swiftly to the cells with his brothers not long after arrival, and then just as swiftly taken before the King, but what he had seen was enough to fill his heart with woe.
Everywhere he had looked, it seemed, he had seen nothing but stretchers laid out for the wounded, caked in blood and dust and God knew what else, the tunnels and chambers echoing with a perpetual groans and other universal sounds of suffering and pain. Even his brief glances had seen far too many with their bodies covered up, what could only have been mourners weeping over them. His first few meetings with the King had done little to stir many feelings of friendship with him, but his heart went out to the King's people. No one should suffer like this, not while he could aid them. Personal animinity be damned, he was a Shepherd of the Flock of God. He would not simply stand aside as a great multitude of people (and they were people, regardless of how different they appeared or spoke) wept with little, if any, comfort.
Or he would have helped them, if the elves had not been locked back inside of his room whenever he was not being interrogated. While the King had decided that he and his brothers weren't threats, it had apparently been decided to keep them as out of the way as possible. They were fed at regular intervals, and the room was constantly guarded, but otherwise the elves attempted to ignore his existence, and Dominic did not know enough of their tongue to make the request himself. But, it seemed, the grace of God was upon him. Soon, the guards opened his door once more, signalling for him to come to them. It immediatley apparent that he was being brought before the King again, most likely for another round of questioning. Here, then was his chance. He prayed that he would not waste it.
The Throne Room, as it always was, was bustling. Guards hurried to and fro, delivering reports and receiving new orders. Servants moved quickly across the room, carrying supplies or scribbling notes, while what Dominic presumed were higher-ranking officers shouted orders, many voices trying to climb over the others. As he entered, lead by the guards, the King raised his hand, and immediately the room quieted. Then, he beckoned Dominic forwards. Mentally saying a quick prayer, the young priest moved towards the King, beginning to speak.
"Before we begin the questioning, your grace, my I make a request of you?"
The King looked taken aback for half a moment, before fixing a cold stare onto Dominic. "Which is?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt, his eyes boring into the young priest's soul.
"I mean no disrespect, your grace," Dominic said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Your hospitality to me and my brothers has been more than adequate. I have no issue with you, or with any act that you have taken in regards to me. I merely request that I may repay the kindness that you have shown me."
The King adopted a look of intrigue. "Continue," he said, a slight questioning tone slipping in beneath the contempt.
Dominic took a deep breath. Now came the hard part. "My grace, I have seen with my own eyes the devastation that has come to your people. I have seen the anguish and fear in their eyes, I have heard their weeping and their grief. I, and my brothers, cannot simply sit aside and allow any to suffer as your people do. I ask that you let us help you, in any way that you see fit. Let us do all we can to aid you, both for the sake of our consciences and to repay you for the great hospitality that you have shown us."
The King leaned forwards, looking Dominic over, his expression a mix of amusement and sadness. "A kind offer, my guest. A kind offer indeed. But I am afraid that the damages to my lands extend far beyond what you have seen. 12 men would make little difference."
"Then let us go home," said Dominic suddenly, "to gather others to aid you. Let us go to our people, and bring back medicine and healers and craftsmen and whatever else you need. Let my people help yours. Mine are a kind people; they will be moved to your aid, I assure you."
The King's expression hardened. "Do you think I need your aid, guest? My people are strong. They will lift themselves up."
"Do you need it? No, of course not." In his mind, Dominic was praying fervently. Another few wrong steps, and all would be lost. He steeled himself again, and continued. "The glory of your people, even from the little I have seen, far surpasses the glory of mine. You need no aid from me or my brothers or anyone else. But I do not ask to give you what you need. I ask to give you what would help you. Work done by many hands is light. Can two healers not treat a wound better than one?"
"Yes, but if the two dispute the treatment, the patient may be lost. A junior healer may ruin the treatment prescribed by a senior one. A younger hunter may scare off an elder one's prey with inexperience. Your people, from what you have told me, lack the experience or the skill to aid mine. I will not call on those that may do more harm then aid."
"So you will let your people suffer!?" Dominic found himself shouting, and the whole court turned towards his outburst. The young priest quite suddenly found quite a few spears being dipped towards him. Raising his hands above his head, he took a deep breath before speaking again. "My grace...I apologize for that outburst. But you must understand...a junior healer will listen to the senior, if the senior will accept his aid. I ask nothing from you, understand that. I ask only that you accept a gift that I wish to give. Is your confidence in your own people so strong that you will accept no aid? Is your pride so vast? What do you value most? Your pride or your people?"
Silence reigned over the Throne Room for a long moment, Dominic hearing little more than his own breathing. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the King sat straight up, waving off his guards. He fixed his gaze on Dominic once more.
"I will...consider...your offer. For the moment, I have more questions to ask of you, and I expect that you will ask no more of me. Understood?"
Dominic nodded, thanking God in silence. Mentally, he noted that the conversation could have gone much worse. As the new battery of questions began, though, a feeling of optimism moved through him, warming his heart. He had, at least, gotten the King to consider his offer. It was something. He felt that this might be a stepping stone, the beginning of something far greater than some aid lent between neighbors.
He had no idea how right he would be.
Hungary.
The Rangers of Ithilien were on the move. Faramir, Son of Denethor, led his men northwards, sticking to the shadows as they slowly worked their way back towards their refuge at Henneth Annun. They clung to the desperate hope that their brothers in arms had not been swept away in the storm, said hope being one of only three things that had kept them going over the course of the past week.
The other two things which drove the Rangers to continue forwards were the fear of imminent death at the hands of the patrols of orcs that roved through the countryside around them, and the sheer will of their Captain. Both were familiar feelings, emotions that had carried them through many battles and disasters before, the strength lent them by raw terror and by the courage of those leading them giving them the will to fight on, to survive, to continue. They used that strength like a crutch now, limping on towards their goal, their courage and will hanging by a thread.
On Faramir's part, he endured only for the sake of his men. His heart was filled with dread and terror, the apparent disappearance of his home sapping his courage and his will. But his men needed him. They were as full of despair as he, if not more, and he saw that they would only continued as long as he did. If he gave up, let the hopelessness overtake them, so would they. Despair would consume them all. Death would soon follow.
And so the Son of Denethor pushed on, leading his men back towards where he desperately hoped their Sanctuary remained. Their movement was slow, to say the least. They stuck to the shadows, doing all they could to evade the occasional orc patrols that swept through the countryside. The crept through the ruins of villages and underneath burned shrubs and trees, working northwards at a snail's pace.
Hours, then days, blended together, as the slow crawl continued. Their courage slowly continued to bleed away, mile by mile, skirmish by skirmish, but the men continued to drag themselves forwards, following their Captain, staying ahead of their doom. They won some minor victories over small patrols, they rested when and where they could, and they stumbled on, constantly seeking a source of hope.
Finally, they were given one. They had stumbled through the hills for several days by then, when a call echoed on the winter wind, sounding out from the north. To an untrained ear, it would mean nothing. It would be the call of a bird, or perhaps a frog: nothing of significance. But to a Ranger...the men moved towards the sound, cautious hope returning to them for the first time in days.
As they moved forwards, they sent out their own calls, each of which was responded to in turn. Croaks, whistles and birdsong drifted across the silent landscape, without a source to the untrained eye. Gradually, the two centers of the calls moved towards each other, until finally they had almost met, only a small clearing remaining to divide them. Faramir and his men were pressed to the earth, observing the land across from them. The Captain, hoping against hope for the best, gave one final call, a long, low croaking noise. Then he waited.
The reply came a moment later, a near-perfect imitation of Faramir's own call. Then, across the clearing, movement. A dozen or so shapes emerged from the brush, green hoods atop their heads, bows and swords visible in their hands. But, for the first time since their march had started, the Rangers had no reason to fear, for emblazoned on the figure's chests were White Trees, beneath the light of seven stars.
Faramir stood, a relieved smile on his face, and strode into the clearing. In front of him, more figures seemingly popped out of the ground, while those that already stood were lowering their weapons, taking their own strides forwards. His own men were also breaking cover, the sounds of reliefs escaping them. Coming towards him was an older man, far more beaten and ragged than the last time he had seen him, Faramir's own relief reflected in his face. They met in the middle, embracing each other tightly when they did so.
"Lieutenant," Faramir spoke after they had taken a step back to evaluate each other, "I do not think that I have ever been relieved to see you."
"Nor I you, Captain Faramir," replied Madril, a hollow chuckle accompanying the words. "Nor I you."
They continued looking each other over for a moment, soaking in this fleeting moment of happiness. Around them, their brothers in arms did the same, embracing each other and giving silent thanks for the turn of fortune. Still, as the Captain of the Rangers looked out over his men, he did so with a great sense of foreboding. They were to a man exhausted, their lack of sleep and food apparent on every face. They were still deep in enemy lands, and their supplies were nearing an end. Despite this turn, the situation remained grim.
Faramir sighed. "As fortuitous as this reunion has been, I believe that we'll have to move again soon. But give the men an hour or so to rest and regroup. I did not see any orcs on my way here. It should be safe for at least that long."
Madril nodded grimly. "Yes, sir. In the meantime, I have much to report. Casualties among my men have been low since the storm, but I have little other good news. The Sanctuary was smashed by the earthquake, and most of our supplies have been lost. We have gotten by by scavenging what we could from the ruins of this land, but that has provided little."
"Any news from home?"
"None whatsoever. It has vanished entirely, then. We had hoped that you would know what had happened."
Faramir shook his head. Madril looked taken aback for a moment, but then he took a deep breath and nodded solemnly. The Son of Denethor looked back over his men, men whose homes he was now sure beyond all doubt were at least beyond reach, if not gone entirely. He did not know how much longer their courage could last with such news. Surely, it could not be long.
As he looked out over his men, though, he noticed something. Many of the company that Madril had brought from the north could not have been of the Rangers of Ithilien. They wore no armor, and carried no weapons with them. They looked far more afraid than any of his men, and they huddled together in small groups, towards the edges of the forming camp. They looked about constantly, scanning the horizon with a ragged fear.
Pointing, Faramir asked "Who are they, Lieutenant? Surely, they are not of Gondor."
"We're not sure, Sir. As far as we can tell, they're the natives of whatever land we're in now. None of us know a word of their language, and none of them know a word of our, so there's not much that they can tell us, or the other way around. All we know is that the orcs were hunting them. Beyond that, you probably know as much as I do."
Faramir looked at them, thinking. They were no servants of the Enemy, then, if the orcs had been hunting them, or if they were, they were in open rebellion against him. That was good. At the very least, it meant that there were men in this world who were free from the will of Sauron, for the moment anyways. It meant that in this new world, there were men who might be able to fight against the Shadow.
He sighed. He was not mad enough to hope that this here was a war for him to fight, but the Captain of Gondor was wise enough to know that these people, who looked so frightened and broken, did not know what they faced, and would need protectors if they were to survive. He was also wise enough to know that his men, and he himself, needed a purpose, a reason to continue, with all good that they had known swept away.
And as he looked upon the strangers, those ragged and fearful folk, and had these two thoughts, he suddenly realized that he had a solution to both problems.
Bulgaria
Kaloyan, Tsar of Bulgaria, had a problem. It was not one of the sort of problems that he usually faced. In usual times, he contended with assassins, like the murderers that had claimed the lives of both of his elder brothers, or with the Byzantines to his south, who refused to acknowledge his people's independence, or perhaps with the Cumans and Vlachs to his north, especially those that paid little attention to his authority. But this was a different kind of problem, not one of those that was easly dealt with in the usual manner of crushing everything by force of arms.
Nor were these problems of the kind now being faced by many of the Lords of Europe, of freak storms and earthquakes that had shattered their lands, of new landscapes cutting massive swaths out of their realms, of the legions of hell itself trying to destroy the earth. Yes, from where Kaloyan stood the entire northern horizon had been replaced with dark and foreboding mountains, but the far majority of the lands lost had been north of the Danube, where there had been little he considered valuable anyways, and anything that stirred in those black peaks seemed to be, for the moment anyways, keeping to itself. No, the mountains were not his problems.
In fact, one could argue the problem that he currently faced was not his problem at all. It could be argued that it was the problem of Stefan, the Grand Prince of Serbia. Apparently, there were Hungarians, hundreds and hundreds of them, if not thousands, flooding over Stefan's borders like water through a broken dam. It was reported that they came practically without ceasing, begging for food, for shelter, for protection, for anything that anyone would give them. They carried with them only the clothes on their backs, if that, and horror stories, tales of hellish monsters and demon hordes. They swamped the Grand Principality, the pious Grand Prince doing all that he could to aid them. And he now had a grand plan for how to do so.
Stefan was wise enough to realize that the refugees would not stop unless there was nothing for them to run from. Whatever calamity had descended in Hungary, supernatural or not, it was clear that the Kingdom had descended into chaos. Stefan planned to march into Hungary and restore order, but he lacked the men to do so. And so he turned to Kaloyan. The two had been staunch allies in the past, and continued to be, Stefan seeing the Bulgars as the protectors of his nation from the Hungarians to the west and Kaloyan seeing the Serbs as a necessary buffer against the same Hungarians. And while Kaloyan had no particular fondness for the people of Hungary, for these ones, so pitiful and hopeless (and, just as importantly also largely Orthodox Serbs and Bulgars that had been conquered by the Hungarians long ago, who had no true loyalty to the Catholic Kingdom), he was willing to make an exception.
Or rather, he was willing to march in and take as much land as possible before the Hungarians could respond. Kaloyan held no illusions about his motivations for 'helping' the refugees, and for all his apparent piety, the Tsar doubted that Stefan's own motives were as pure as he espoused. Either way, it was not long before they were ready to march. Both of their armies were ever ready for action, a necessity due to the constant border skirmishes with the Hungarians, Cumans and Byzantines.
The two nobles rendevouzed at Ras, and then, to great fanfare, marched north, crossing the border into Hungary soon afterwards. They soon found that this campaign would be among the easiest that either of them had ever fought. At every village they came to, they were welcomed as heroes, as saviors, as the protectors that would banish the monsters back into the night. There was not the slightest resistance from anywhere. Kaloyan smiled.
This was going to be simple.
Bosnia
Andrew of Hungary had thought that his return to Hungary would be one that saw him reduced to little more than his brother's servant, living a life that was barely more than the exile that he had previously lived in. As long as his brother, Emeric, remained on the throne, it was certain that the former Prince of Halych would always be regarded as an underling. A pawn. It was no secret that there was little love between the sons of Bela III: the two's feuding had started in childhood, and their father had barely been in the grave before the brother's rivalry exploded into all-out Civil War.
Andrew had lost that particular fight, his brother uncovering his conspiracy to take the throne before the younger son had fully assembled his forces. Emeric, with the larger army, had been victorious in open battle near Lake Balaton, forcing Andrew to flee to the shelter of his cousin Leopold VI of Austria. The Pope, wishing for an end to the fighting (as well as wishing for Andrew to lead his personal pet project, another Crusade to reclaim the Holy Land), had sent a Papal Legate to mediate a reconciliation between the brothers.
The talks had been slow. There was too much bad blood between Andrew and Emeric for the either to be willing to give ground to the other, making compromise nearly impossible. But the Legate, a man named Gregory, had persisted, and the brothers had, after many months, nearly managed to come to an agreement. Andrew would be given Slavonia and Croatia as an appendage, while the rest of Hungary would remain in Emeric's hands, and it was made clear that Andrew could not inherit the whole Kingdom. Neither was particularly happy with this arangement, but both saw it as a step in the right dirrection: Emeric for controlling Andrew, and Andrew for dethroning Emeric.
Then the Storm had come, and everything had gone to hell. A matter of weeks, nay, days, before they were to have their final meeting and God had decided that no, that was not how the matter was to be settled. Andrew had been in Slavonia when the Storm had struck, readying for the last round of negotiations, and now he heard the constant tales out of Hungary proper, tales that spoke of mountains dropping out the sky, hordes of demons ravaging the countryside. Most intriguing to Andrew, they said that the King had vanished in this time of crisis.
The younger son of Bela III was not one to miss an opportunity. As Emeric had not yet sired an heir, the throne had legally defaulted to him. After all of his failed machinations and defeats, all of his setbacks, fate had decided to hand him the crown without so much as a fight. If he were to walk into Hungary, he would be its King, so long as Emeric remained missing. The whole of the realm was apparently in chaos. If he were to bring order, the people would welcome him without hesitation.
Of course, there was the reason for why the whole of the realm was apparently in chaos. Whether or not one believed the Apocalyptic stories coming out of the northeast, it was readily apparent that something catastrophic had happened. The question of if the invaders were of hellish origin or were simply a particularly effective group of Cumans mattered not; If Andrew was to claim his rightful throne, he would need an army at his back. He had raised some men in Slavonia and Croatia, but they were unlikely to be enough. He needed more troops.
Which is how he found himself in the court of Kulin, Ban of Bosnia. Nominally a vassal of Hungary (and thus subject to the will of its King, who was now Andrew until proven otherwise), the man effectively ruled his lands as an independent Lord, acting on the will of himself alone. Andrew and Kulin had never been close, and had in fact barely interacted before now, but strange times made for strange alliances.
Or they would, if Kulin would actually give Andrew control of his army. By all rights, there was no reason that the Prince, no, the King of Hungary shouldn't be able to control one of his subjects. But no. Kulin refused him. The man had been acting independently for far too long, and had grown used to not bowing before his rightful master. He saw no reason to march out for another man's sake.
But Andrew was nothing if not persistent. It was one of his better traits, the part of him that had allowed him to survive the war with his brother, remain patient throug the seemingly endless negotiations, and now, finally, come out on top. For three days, he had worked his way through through Kulin's court, speaking to anyone and everyone that might have the Ban's ear. And now his work was coming to fruition, and the King of Hungary strode confidently into the court of his vassal.
Kulin, for his part, did not look too pleased with all of this. The first words out of his mouth established Andrew's impression as fact.
"Let us be done with this, Andrew. I have told you, many times: I will not march out my army! Certainly, I will not march out behind you. This court is only gathered to humor you, Prince Andrew, and no more. Now speak your case. I have better business to attend to today."
"Better than the End of Days? It must be interesting indeed. You must tell me about it later."
He got some strange looks from the court for that one. Andrew smiled slightly. He had their attention, at least.
Kulin simply rolled his eyes. "Do not tell me that you believe the tales from the north! If the world were ending, there would be signs all across the world, not simply in Hungary. Your people are not special enough to warrant that kind of attention. It is simply a stronger storm than normal, or perhaps your brother is having trouble with the Cumans. Nothing more. And if it is something more, than I will face it from my own ground, and my own castles, not from yours."
Andrew held up his hands, smirking again. "I do not believe the stories of drunkards and peasants, no. But there are many that do. They come southwards, thousands of them, thinking that the world is ending. And where is my brother through all of this? Gone! Missing or dead or simply uncaring, it matters not. The point stands that, at the moment, Hungary has no King! No leader! No one to lead them through these dark times!"
"And you would make yourself their savior, the great hero coming to deliver them. And then, when it turns out that your brother's not dead, you get to call him a coward unworthy of the throne, use your newfound followers to get rid of him, and you get to rule as you think that you deserve. Am I right?"
"I will admit readily that you are. But, before you cast me out, Kulin, know that a good King remembers those that brought him to power. His good and loyal friends will find favor when he comes to power. But those that defied him, that tried to keep him from his birthright...those ones he will never forget either."
Kulin looked thoroughly unimpressed by this statement. "Do not try and threaten me, Prince. I know that you have no army. You may raise some peasants with sharp sticks out of Croatia, but not enough to march against me, or even against your brother. You know that you need my men to secure your crown; you would not be here otherwise."
Andrew had expected such an answer, and, with another smirk, gave his readied reply. "Does a wise gambler not hedge his bets? I have placed all I own on this roll, Kulin; do not think I did not weight the dice in my favor. Already, my cousin Leopold, the Duke of Austria, marches to my aid. If the Holy Father had not sent his Legate to negotiate between us, he and I would have waged war against my brother months ago. Now, with the realm in chaos, the Duke has seen fit to aid me in gaining my rightful crown. Leopold and I shall march in as its saviors, return the land to order within the month, and then...and then I shall deal with you."
Kulin looked taken aback at that. Good. He might see reason now. Of course, it was a colossal bluff, and Andrew knew it. Leopold would aid him if it came to that, but the internal conflicts of the Holy Roman Empire would limit the troops that the Duke of Austria could send. Kulin was right to say that Andrew was only here because he had no other options. The forces that he had raised in Slavonia and Croatia were not as weak as the Ban presumed, but they were still by no means a great army. Andrew was in no position to be making threats. But as long as Kulin himself didn't know that…
The Ban looked somewhat conflicted, hesitating to speak. Andrew decided to press his advantage, and spoke again.
"Kulin, my friend. Your lands are being overrun with refugees and beggars. I have seen that myself. You will soon be swamped, your people stretched to their limit. You know as well as I that the way to stop the blood is to close the wound. If you wish to keep your nation for your own, you will have to march out regardless. It would be best if you did not do so alone."
An angry grimace crossed over the Ban's face. Andrew smiled. He had won. Angrily, Kulin gestured at the door. "Fine then! I will march out with you, Prince! But for now, go back to Croatia! Meet with your armies! It will take time to raise mine. And then, not sooner, will I march out."
Andrew smiled once more, giving Kulin a look that he knew the Ban would like nothing more than to punch. "I march on Esztergom. Meet me there in a week." With that, the King of Hungary turned and left. Andrew smiled on his way out. He had both gained a powerful ally and removed a roadblock on his way to the throne. Things were looking up. Of course, Kulin could be lying, but if that was so he would find out soon enough from his own informants throughout Bosnia. If the Ban betrayed him, he would know.
In the meantime, he had a crown to claim.
Paris
There were whispers in the south. Philip II, King of France, had heard many of them. At first, they had been easy to ignore. Uneducated farmers, drunken huntsmen, et cetera, et cetera. There were far more interesting, and far more important, things for him to put his mind to. But they had persisted, the whispers increasing in volume by the day. Their claims were wild, outrageous, but so common and consistent that the Kind had begun to take notice. He had not yet taken any actions, but he listened to the tales, weighing each of them.
And then the missive had come, erasing any doubts from his mind and forcing him to face the truth. Either the Holy Father had gone mad, he was making a jest in the absolutely poorest taste possible, or he was telling the truth. And the more that Philip thought about it, the more that he realized that going to Rome was the only proper response to such a message, regardless of which of the three causes lay behind it. Whether madness, incompetence or Divine Will had driven Innocent III to send the missive mattered not. If the former two, the Holy Father had to be removed, by force if necessary. If the latter…
If the latter, than Philip would need his whole nation ready to march to war. It would be a simple enough task. His constant warring with the late Richard the Lionheart over Normandy and the surrounding regions had left him with a sizeable permanent army, battle-hardened veterans all, and despite Richard's death the truce that the two had agreed to the previous year was holding, regardless of the ongoing succession crisis in England, allowing him to have at least some confidence that he could pull men from the border garrisons without fear of invasion.
Philip was no stranger to war. In the two decades that he had held the throne, battle had been a near constant part of his life. There had been revolts by his vassals in Flanders, the constant battles with the English over Normandy and Aquitaine, and, of course, the gruelling campaigns of the Third Crusade. He had come face-to-face death from the Holy Land to Normandy, and many of the places in between, and so far escaped with his life. Philip knew war as well as any man alive.
But the coming war...if the Holy Father spoke true, then the coming war would be larger than all of those battles together, and more. It would be not for a single county, or even the Holy Land itself. No, if the Holy Father spoke true, then this would be a war for the entire world, fought against the Devil himself. It would be a war to shape the destiny of all of Europe, nay, all of mankind, and Philip did not dare say that he would stand aside. No, he would be there, leading the charge. He would fight, to the Gates of Hell themselves if need be. He would be known throughout the world, forever more, as one who had stood tall in the darkest hour, fearing no evil.
It would be his, and all of France's, finest hour...or their greatest defeat.
London
John, King of England, knew that he was unloved. He knew what his people called him when they thought that his ears would not hear. 'Lackland'. 'Softsword'. They said that he was weak. That he was incompetent. That he was a pale imitation of his late brother, and no more, a shadow that would never, could never compare. Many of those that said such things, in the hopes that he would be removed from the throne, had thrown their support behind Arthur of Brittany, his teenaged nephew, hoping that the crown of Richard would instead fall to the son of their treasonous and unmourned brother Geoffrey. And when he decided to negotiate with Arthur, and his sponsor, Philip of France, to avoid a long and bloody war that the nation had no reason to fight, they called him a coward, a scared boy running from a fight.
Why? Why did they hate him so? The obvious answer was that they loved his brother too much, and they pushed their grief unto his successor, their sadness turning into a bubbling rage in the process. John himself admitted that his own accomplishments paled in comparison to his late brother the Lionheart. The man had been a legend even while still alive, and the aura of glory around him only grew in death. But did they give him so much love that only hatred was left for John? Was that it?
Did they hate him for his attempt to restore order when the regents that Richard had left behind while he was Crusading proved incompetent? They called it a rebellion against the rightful King, but for many long years there had been no news of Richard. Was it not reasonable to assume that he had fallen on the Crusade, or was a prisoner rotting in some cell? Did they not remember that Richard himself had rebelled against their father, placing himself in allegiance with the French, the very same crime that they now accused John of? Did they forget that his brother had forgiven him for said crimes?
John was sure only of one thing: that the people of England, from the nobility down to the peasantry, seemed to utterly despise him. Their claims against him were utterly false: he was no coward or weakling, despite what they all might say. Had it not been he that held the line in Normandy, when the last war with France had been at its height? Had it not been he that had stormed Evreux Castle, and he who had pushed to within two days ride of Paris? Were his brother's accomplishments so legendary that all of his, great though they were, counted for utterly nothing in comparison?
Which was why, when John had received the Holy Father's missive, a feeling of utter ecstasy had come over him, a sense of utter relief in the fact that, yes, he would have a great destiny after all. Here was his moment. His chance. To show everyone, every peasant and lord, that he was not any less than a great man. That he was no weaker than his brother had been. That he was a worthy king.
His messenger had gone out swiftly. William, the 1st Earl of Pembroke, had already arrived in London, ready to fight for his King. Others would be soon to follow. This Crusade would be far greater than his brother's and the honor to be won at its forefront would be far beyond what the Lionheart had been given. Yes, he would answer the Pope's call, with an army greater than any that his brother had ever raised. He would lead the charge against the darkness, gaining glory that would put his brother's to shame. No longer would he be 'Lackland' or 'Softsword.' No, his people would see his greatness, and they would realize that he was just as deserving of their love as his brother had been.
And then John, not Richard, would be remembered as England's greatest King.
Mainz
The atmosphere was tense, so much so that Archbishop Conrad of Wittelsbach thought that the air could be cut with a sword. But he would have been surprised if it was any other way. The two men that this meeting had been arranged between, Philip of Swabia and Otto IV of the House of Welf, were at each other's throats, to say the least. And who could blame them? It was not often that the powers of the Holy Roman Emperor were within reach. He had tried to mediate between them before, to no avail. Power, especially as much power as was wielded by an Emperor, was not something that any man would give up lightly. With such a power within their grasp, neither man had been willing to yield.
Hopefully (although Conrad would hesitate to use the word 'hope' in a time such as this), the situation had shifted enough that the two would at least listen to reason. He would find out soon enough. Their heralds had arrived not an hour before: Philip and Otto, they both said, were not far behind, but taking extra caution in the uncertain times. Conrad had simply nodded when he had received the messages, and silently prayed that the caution was not being taken against each other.
His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion coming from the outer hall. The Archbishop rolled his eyes. Well, at least they had arrived safely. He made his way to the door, trying his best to ignore the ongoing, and escalating, shouting match coming from the other side. Sighing, he pulled open the door, and was greeted by the sight of two men in the finest dress, accompanied by a small army's worth of bodyguards each, and neither looking particularly happy to see the other.
The argument, which Conrad did not care in the least about, ended the moment that they both realized that the door was open. Silence fell in the hall. Seeing that neither man seemed willing to break it, Conrad did it himself.
"My Lords," he said, bowing slightly, a gesture that the two nobles, as well as their entourages, reflected, "I am glad that you have both arrived safely. I would ask that you would refrain from trying to kill each other as long as you are within my home; my servants have cleaned enough refuse from my floors as is. Now, come with me. We have much to discuss."
He turned without another word, only beckoning for Philip and Otto to follow. They walked behind him in silence, the only sounds within the halls of Conrad's home being the stomping of feet. He lead them deeper into the bowels of the building, finally reaching a small inner chamber. Both men, at least, understood the implication of meeting in such a small room, and left their weapons and guards outside.
The three men sat around a small, round table, the room illuminated only by candlelight. Silence reigned again. When neither of the perspective Emperors looked willing to speak, Conrad again took it upon himself to begin the dialogue.
"Let us pray that your guards don't kill each other before we're finished," he began, absentmindedly sitting down, "and let us also do away with the formalities. All of us know why I called this council," he continued, pulling from his robes the Papal Missive and placing it on the table. Philip and Otto both looked at him a moment, before reaching into their own robes and revealing their copies, also placing them before the others in the room.
"This Revelation...I believe that the Holy Father speaks true. I take it that you believe the same, it you are willing to come here to discuss it, yes?" When both men nodded, Conrad let out a sigh.
"Will neither of you say anything? If I wished to speak to silence, I have walls that I could talk to."
Both looked slightly taken aback at this response. They glanced at each other momentarily, before Philip of Swabia cleared his throat and began to speak.
"He speaks true. I have seen the new mountains with my own eyes, rising out of the Alps, and the scouts that I have sent south return with reports of the monsters and demons. I do not doubt the Holy Father's message."
"Good. Now that we agree on its authenticity, let us move on to larger tasks. I have called this council because I feared that the two of you would be more worried about each other than the task at hand."
"Can you blame us?" That was Otto, speaking at last. He cast an accusing look at Philip. "When men go against the will of the Holy Father? How can such men be trusted?"
"Or when men are crowned without regalia, and only after another man was elected!" Philip retorted, a burning look in his eyes.
Otto rose from his chair, fists clenched, and Philip did the same. Conrad, too, rose, and slammed his fists into the table, shouting "Enough!" at the top of his lungs. The Emperors stopped for a moment and looked at him, both breathing heavily.
Conrad signalled for both of them to return to their seats. A long moment passed before, begrudgingly, they did so. A bitter chuckle escaped the Archbishop's lips.
"I see that my fears are true," he said, lowering himself into his own seat. "Now, may we continue, please?" Both men nodded. Sighing, Conrad placed a hand on his forehead.
"Well, then, back to silence." He looked both men over again. There was still a simmering rage in their eyes, but there was something else as well. It took a moment to place, but Conrad soon realized that it was stress. He felt a sudden burst of pity for the would-be Emperors. Neither had hoped to take the crown. Neither of them had been likely choices for the position, or indeed wanted it: Otto's brother, Henry, had been the more likely choice, but he had been off on a Crusade at the time of the election; Philip had only intended that his nephew, the son of the late Emperor, be crowned. But both had found themselves thrust forwards towards the throne, and now both were loath to lose their chances on it. And now, a calamity beyond all reckoning had come upon the world. Was there any reason to doubt that they would be nearing wits end?
Conrad sighed again before continuing. "I called you here so that I could be sure that you would not murder each other in Rome. I still hope that that can be accomplished. But I have seen enough today that I doubt that we can accomplish much more here, yes?"
Both men nodded, and the Archbishop continued again. "We must be ready. The call has be sent and we must answer. Both of you must raise every man that you can. Those that have sworn their allegiance to you will likely have received their own missives, but call them up anyways. They must know as much as we can tell them."
Conrad paused briefly. They were at least paying attention to him. That was something. "The reason that I called you both here is so that I can be sure that neither of you is raising your army to strike at the other instead of the Devil. I know that it will be tempting to do so. But you cannot move against each other now, nor fear that the other is moving against you. I doubt that we can afford such disunity. So I would like both of you to swear to me, and each other: that you will have a truce against each other, at least until this threat is dealt with. Understood?"
Both men looked at him then, the emotion in their eyes certainly not one of goodwill. They were also resolutely not looking at each other. Conrad growled.
"For the love of God, men! Can you not see that this is bigger than either of you!? Did neither of you actually read the message!? The whole damn world is at stake! These are the end times, and yet here you are, behaving like petty children! Have you not minds to reason with!? Even this call is not answered, there won't be an Empire left to rule! Do you not understand even that!?"
The Archbishop hadn't realized that he had taken to his feet. He panted, looking between the two men. They looked somewhat stunned at his outburst. Growling again, he returned once more to his seat. Under his breath, he added, "And they would call either of you an Emperor." He chuckled slightly at the thought. It was a bitter sound. Hollow.
Philip and Otto, for their parts, looked at each other, then at the Archbishop, then back at each other. Then, Otto reached out his hand towards his enemy, slowly and hesitantly, and never breaking his stare at the other man. Taking a deep breath, Philip responded in kind, and the two men grasped forearms, tightly and rigidly, both trying to bore a hole in the other's head with their eyes alone.
Conrad let out a small laugh. When they turned to him, their eyes still burning, he only laughed again.
"So, miracles do happen," the Archbishop chuckled, a warmer sound than before, but still sounding hollow. "Well then? What are you waiting for? Go home! Raise your armies! There is much work to be done. It would be best to get a quick start."
The two would-be Emperors nodded, breaking their grasp on each other. They both made for the door, almost running over each other in their haste. When both started gesturing at the door, Conrad saw the inevitable coming and intervened, opening it himself. Philip and Otto filed out after him, both going to their entourages and rapidly giving orders. As they did so, the Archbishop reflected that these two men might be their greatest hopes against the coming storm.
And may God help them all if that was true.
Seville
Muhammad al-Nasir, Caliph of the Almohads, was still unsure of what to think of his guests. They were...strange, to say the least. The small man, who called himself Radagast the Brown, was more so than the other. He dressed only in shabby rags, and leaned heavily on his staff, a piece of gnarled brown wood. His scent was terrible, and he seemed permanently distracted. Birds and other small animals followed him everywhere, indoors and out, and he constantly mumbled to himself, staring into the rock embeded in the tip of his staff.
The other guests were less strange, but no more normal. In truth, they were outright terrifying. Muhammad had seen with his own eyes what these beasts (and they were beasts, just ones in the form of men) could do, when they had torn through the circle of monsters that had encircled Seville like axes though dead wood. Even in their human forms, they towered over the people of Seville like giants. Their leader, called Grimbeorn, was an utter titan, half again as tall as Muhammad himself when not in the shape of a bear, his arms as thick as tree trunks. Even as allies, he and his people were terrifying.
At least they were insocial, preferring instead to drive off any beasts that dared stray too close to the city, so their frightening presence was not so sharply felt within the city. Muhammad, as a consequence, spent much more time conferring with Radagast, the two trying to discern what had happened to bring their worlds together. Strange though he was, the small, shabby man had proved himself to be quite wise, and even more curious, and the Caliph of the Almohads thanked Allah for his presence. There were those in the court that were more wary of the man, and Muhammad himself could not say truthfully that he fully trusted him, but the two were certainly not enemies.
He had learned much from the self-proclaimed Wizard, his learning aided by the fact that Radagast's grasp of Arabic seemed to grow with leaps and bounds each passing day. He learned of the nature of the forest, of how it had once been a great and beautiful place, before a fell evil had twisted it to darkness. He learned of the great fortress of shadow within its heart, Dol Guldur, a place of torment and hellish evil. He learned of the unspeakable evil that had been rising in Radagast's world just before he had found himself here, and how the wizard still felt the same evil presence in this one.
Muhammad took note of all of this, and steeled himself to face the coming trials. It was as he had feared: the battle fought here would only be the first of many to come, regardless if the forest alone had come to this world or not. With the siege broken, the Caliph of the Almohads took action. Scouts went out both north and south, from the sea to the border of Castile, seeking the edge of the forest, while messengers rode hard for Cadiz, carrying calls to arms back towards Morocco.
He did not idly wait within Seville for replies. Supplies and reinforcements were already being brought up from Cadiz, as well as from further afield. The great city had held once, and the morale of the men rode high on such an accomplishment. The Caliph would not concede the ground, made holy by the sacrifice of his men. No, Seville would become his great bulwark, his rock, his anchor against the storm. He would not let it fall without making the enemy pay a price of blood beyond reckoning.
Despite all the progress made, a tinge of despair remained in Muhammad's heart. He knew why, of course: he stood alone. No allies were near enough to aid him, and despite Radagast's pleas he would not yet go grovelling to the heathens for help. There was too much bad blood there, too many battles and wars. He would call on them if the situation became desperate enough, but things were not yet so bleak. Not a single man from Africa, the heartland of his realm, had yet fought, and it would be a long time before times grew dire enough for him to call upon the Crusader Kingdoms to save him. And Africa was rich, with many veteran soldiers and supplies to throw into the fight. It would form the core of his fighting forces, the backbone of his armies. The Caliphate of the Almohads, stretching from the Sahara desert to the heart of Al-Andalus, was mightier than the realms to the north. If its full might could be brought to bear, Muhammad could drive back this darkness himself.
Yes, as long as Africa could be relied upon, he could hold.
Mazovia
Jakub Kowalsky was still alive, but he would have almost preferred death. The key word in that sentence being 'almost', as the probable cause of his demise would have been one that he wouldn't have wished on his worst enemy. Every night when he had rested, his dreams had carried him back to Krakow, to the Demons overrunning the wall, the giants that crushed men beneath their feet like ants, to the screams of the Devil, paralyzing all that had heard it. He had woken screaming more nights than not.
At least he had awoken. High Duke Leszek, and all those that had stayed behind with him, would not rise again until Judgement Day, which, Jakub thought morbidly, might be closer at hand than he thought. But they had done their duty, it seemed: those fleeing the city had done so unmolested, the monsters apparently more focused on wiping out the High Duke's last stand. The weather, too had been with them, a few small storms doing much to cover their tracks as the remnant of the people of Krakow had fled north.
The Fall of Krakow had left Lesser Poland all but defenseless, the legions of Hell now moving unchecked across the plains, destroying all in their path. Those that could fled north, stumbling through the winter landscape with whatever meagre supplies and valuables that they could carry in their hands or small carts. They abandoned whatever might slow them in their desperate flight, the roads being lined with at best the refuse and litter of those that had escaped, at worst the corpses of those that did not.
Jakub himself now languished in a growing camp in Mazovia. He felt that he would not be languishing for much longer. Not the day before, a herald of Conrad, Duke of Mazovia, had come to the camp, asking that all able bodied men be ready to assemble in three days time. An alliance, he said, was forming, between Mieszko the Old of Greater Poland, Conrad of Mazovia and Roman the Great of Volhynia. The three nobles had all heard the of the disaster that had befallen Lesser Poland, and knew of the monsters and demons that had spilled forth onto the green earth. It was hoped, and prayed for, that, together, their three nations could contain the might of Hell from expanding further, at least until nations further afield had been warned, long enough for all of Christendom to march as one against the threat…
Apparently, survivors from Krakow were now in the highest demand from Mieszko, Conrad and Roman, their experience in facing the legions of Hell now worth more than their weight in gold. Jakub had no desire to face the monsters again, but now he found himself being called upon. Satan's army would not stop at Lesser Poland, he realized. If they were not stood against, they would not stop anywhere, going out from their Black Gate until the whole world was consumed.
The terrors of Krakow tempted Jakub to think that the fight was one without hope. He had seen the horrors that the monster commanded, the power of their masters, first hand, and had seen how futile the efforts of men had been against such evil. But even as there were whispers of horror, of Hell and all its might, there were stories of hope, things to draw strength and courage from, that encouraged men to stand up and fight. These legends of battle began to overtake the horror stories, the light returning to the people for the first time since the storm had come. Tales circulated the camp, of how Leszek the White had cut down a giant alone, of captain that had held a bridge over the Vistula by himself while covering the retreat back to the fortress, of men who had cut down a dozen or more of the demons before falling themselves. They told the tales of the valiant fallen, tales that seemed to grow in the telling, but that many swore before God were true. They were tales of faith, of defiance, of courage. Above all, they were tales of hope, that gave the survivors of Lesser Poland the strength to carry on even now.
But the most hopeful of all came not from the survivors. It came from the courts of the nobles, apparently, a hopeful whisper that was giddy in the telling. They said that the Holy Father had heard of all the horrors, and that already, a great Crusade, even greater than those that had gone to reclaim the Holy Land, was being assembled, from all the nations of Christendom. The even more extravagant stories claimed that the Pope had spoken with God Himself, and that he had been given a Holy Revelation to the coming War, that The Lord Almighty had sent His messengers to aid them. And that was when Jakub remembered something, something that he had always been taught, something that he couldn't believe he had allowed himself to forget, something that kindled the fire within him anew, and gave him the courage and hope.
He remembered what was written: that God would never abandon his people, and that through him all things were possible. There were priests that went through the camp, saying these very things, encouraging the downtrodden, giving hope to the hopeless. They preached to those that had fallen into despair, into hopelessness, working to reignite the fire within them. And slowly, one by one, these broken men rose up, pulled from the ground by the the tales of hope that now surrounded them. He saw the fire burning within them, the fire of the Lord Almighty, giving them hope, courage and strength. He watched as those that had seen nightmares beyond imagining rose once more for battle, to stand against the coming horrors. There had been a call to arms.
And Jakub Kowalsky watched as it was answered.