Defenders of the Faith [CLOSED/Stille Nacht]

[Aemen]

Sarston
Aemen

The sun was obscured by smatterings of grey cloud and outbursts of light, soft rain, but that didn’t dampen the mood that had developed in the military dockyard. It was a proud day in Aemen; HIMS Lord Regent, the third of Aemen’s new King Reginald-class aircraft carriers, sailed into port at Sarston alongside two smaller and older Pioneer-class carriers. The shore was lined with sailors and their commanders, ceremonial swords drawn and saluting, the Imperial Naval Orchestra prepared and perched on a layered stone platform that edged out in all directions like a cylindrical pyramid. This wasn’t just an exercise in that famous Aemen pomp, it was a message to the world; Aemen was reborn, given fresh strength, purpose and ready to defend its interests with the might of new, modern, destructive weaponry.

From the 18th century bell tower of the Margrave’s Citadel, the Elector-Margrave himself, Diederik Folcwalding, sat watching the affair through his binoculars. His admirals filled in as special guests at the sail-in as their superior had much bigger plans for the day. This, however, was a gap in his schedule and he had sought to entertain himself with a breath of fresh air and a chance to watch the theatrics without being at the centre of it all.

He had two large comfortable armchairs from his office, cream in colour with golden patterns of ferns and roses, brought up for the hour he had to spare. Of course, he wasn’t alone in the bell tower. He had a guest.

‘I’ve found another one… centre rank, third squad from the left.’ Diederik said, passing the binoculars over. The man who took them was in a fantastic dark blue suit, an impeccable white shirt with an emerald tie woven from the finest materials. His black blunted shoes held a polished shine as if someone had toiled away at them endlessly and he wore a spotless silver ring engraved with the Olbridge owl. To an ignorant foreigner he was clearly a man of great status, but to every Aemen, he was the Emperor.

‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’ asked Theofilus as he focused in on the rating Diederik had picked out.

‘His cap.’

The Emperor held the binoculars steady and soon he saw what his cousin was talking about. One of the young sailors, undergoing his national service in the navy, was holding his cap in the at-ease stance incorrectly, meaning once the on-caps order was given, it would not look as natural or as uniform as his colleagues.

‘Hah! Hahah! Poor chap. His lieutenant will be threaders once he’s got it on backwards.’

‘Thankfully he’s the only one doing that which I can see from this end. Things like that have gotten less common since we reformed the initial training phase for all armed services.’

Theofilus lowered the binoculars, placing them on the arm rest, and leaned back into the embracing comfort of his chair. ‘Yes… it seems like a lifetime since we rewrote those policies.’

‘I’m glad we did. Your brother wasn’t doing this country any favours.’

‘No… no he wasn’t. It’s unfortunate that he took the path he did, perhaps if he didn’t he’d still be king today.’

Diederik took the opportunity to pull out a smooth metallic cigarette box from his uniform’s breast pocket. Using a flameless electric lighter, he pushed the end of his cigarette into the scorching crevice of his small tablet shaped gadget and breathed in heavily. He turned to Theofilus and gestured, offering one to the sovereign.

‘Not for me, not anymore.’

‘Since when did you quit?’

‘Since I took Hugo away from Alexander. I’ve already taken his crown, the last thing I want to do is poison his son. He may become motivated.’

‘He’s under house arrest, he has been for years. Why don’t you just-’

The two were interrupted by footsteps walking up the stone spiral staircase behind them. They turned, seeing the face of a young captain peek his head above the railing.

‘Sire, sir, the briefing team is ready for you.’

Diederik frowned, looking at his cigarette before reluctantly climbing to his feet and stubbing it out on one of the bell tower’s support pillars. ‘Thank you, Captain. We know the way, we’ll be there soon.’

‘Sir.’ The captain said, disappearing back down the stairway.

‘And here I thought we had more time. I suppose when you’re trying to stop a world of monkeys from throwing their shit at each other, there is no time to just light up and relax.’ Diederik breathed, letting the last of the smoke exit his lungs.

Theofilus rose from the chair and turned, walking towards the stairs as Diederik followed his cousin’s path down into the Citadel.


The briefing room itself wasn’t particularly impressive; the wall was coated in a dull cream colour, there were several desks sat in the corners and evenly spaced chairs with an attached desk arm had taken up almost the entire room. A projector hung over them and a Colonel stood at a computer terminal at the front left hand side of the room. Clearly it had been half-heartedly converted from a different function some time ago, but briefings didn’t need to be conducted with the same standard of ceremony as the one currently happening outside in the dockyard.

Several generals, admirals and air marshals of varying ranks were already seated; expensive leather notebooks open with designer branded black ink pens resting across the open pages. The heavy wooden door to the room opened and a young Squadron Leader stepped through, followed by the Emperor.

The senior officers stood from their seats as their monarch entered the room.

‘Sire.’ They all said, one after the other. Diederik followed Theofilus into the room and the two walked across the back of the rows to two armchairs that had been inserted specifically for them. The Squadron Leader made sure the two most powerful men in the empire were comfortable and then left the room, closing the door as he went.

‘Please, continue.’ Theofilus motioned as he and the Elector-Margrave took their seats. The Colonel used a remote to lower blackout blinds over the windows and turned the lights on to a dimmed setting as the projector booted up, showing an image of the Meridian Sea.

‘Sire, sirs, welcome. In the past week we’ve received intelligence and news reports that adherents of Heroicism were being treated with contempt in Gauliscian territories. Envoys of the religion were sent overseas some many months ago shortly after it was formed and His Majesty The Emperor became its official head. From what these envoys have said, Gauliscians appear to be easier to convert than most, as their rich history and deep sense of patriotism encourages them to revere several non-fictional heroic figures from their culture’s past.’

The Colonel continued, the image changing to a satellite view of an island in the Meridian.

‘This is Vexenland, one of Gauliscia’s islands in the Meridian Sea. It’s larger than most and has an active community of cattle farmers. It’s rural, with large open spaces and rolling hills that can survey the surrounding landscape with a three hundred and sixty degrees view. Its largest city and capital is called Stiermarkt. Stiermarkt is the focus of these reports of contempt. Local authorities and law enforcement have arrested dozens of adherents and shut down several makeshift shrines in the last six months. As a result, some have reacted violently and last month a series of letter bombs destroyed a sorting office in the town centre, killing three Gauliscians and injuring seven more.

‘Gauliscian government rhetoric has been surprisingly aggressive since then towards Heroicism within their own borders and surrounding nations. Their Realm Chancellor has been pushing for the necessity to deploy soldiers to Gauliscian overseas territories so that people are deterred from worshipping anything other than Wodinism. His Majesty has rightful concerns that members of the Heroicistic faith will be killed and the spread of its ideas halted and confined.

‘We have been in contact with the cell that organised the attack on the sorting office. Their leader is a man called Héidrich Becke, he has shown us evidence that the authorities are clamping down on Heroicistic worship using exceptionally repressive measures. His Majesty commands that our overall objective be to assist the Heroicistic adherents and liberate the island, and beyond if necessary, from Gauliscian control so that no others will be persecuted for their choice of worship.’

One of the officers in the room pointed the button-end of his pen at the screen. ‘Are we to expect physical support from this cell?’

‘We are, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Bernays and his ICE team have been creating products centred around the Gauliscian mindset. Becke has distributed them to Heroicistic adherents in Stiermarkt via print and social media and they’ve become quite vocal in their displeasure towards the Gauliscians. Becke is ready to arm them for a localised insurgency the moment we commit resources.’

Another officer began, rubbing his forehead. ‘What about strategic positions? Anything which could hamper their operational effectiveness if it were destroyed or captured?’

There’s an airfield several miles northeast of Stiermarkt. It’s not suited for strike aircraft and its facilities are minimal but it could serve as a launching point if the fighting becomes prolonged. There are few roads leading up to it, if they’re fortified then trying to take the airfield from the ground will bog our forces down.’

Theofilus stood up and moved towards the front of the room in front of the senior officers. The Colonel looked at him, coming to attention. ‘Sire.’

‘Thank you. I would like to say a few words.’

‘Yes, Sire, I’ll open the blinds to-‘

‘Leave them closed.’

The Colonel nodded and moved out of Theofilus' vicinity. The Emperor turned to his assembled heads of the battle staff, his stance rigid, his eyes looking from one side of the group to the other. Diederik grinned, bringing his middle and index fingers up to his temple and resting his thumb below his jawbone.

‘Generals, Admirals, Marshals. I want to make this very clear to you, to all of you, now.’ Began Theofilus, opening his arms to encompass them all.

‘I am interested only in preserving the integrity of Heroicism. My envoys have struggled and toiled to adapt in Gauliscia, but now, the number of converts is increasing and progress is evident, otherwise you would not be sat here. I do not want a prolonged assault, I do not want to lay siege to Vexenland like it were a castle with walls and a gate. If it were, I would expect you to smash those walls down, to blow open the gate and to overcome it with all the strength of a raging river.’

The Emperor said each word with the correct amount of emphasis, accompanying it with a hand movement that drove the point home. It was a performance, one meant to inspire and terrify.

‘I do not care for strategic points, I do not care for the future of Vexenland or who it belongs to, I want a quick, decisive, indisputable victory. If this airfield cannot be captured with haste, you will destroy it. If you cannot take a road, a hill, a village, you will destroy it. If the Gauliscians refuse to surrender, if they continue to fight and hold on to territory, whatever it is, you will destroy it. This is not a land grab, this is not annexation, this is about the future and whose culture will prosper in that future. The Gauliscians will be defeated, and when they are, the reputation of their gods will be dented with their own.

‘Heroicistic envoys have already landed beyond, in Nill, Inoroth, Gauliscia itself. I want to see it thrive, and for it to thrive, it must survive. Success will see it survive, survive and spread, strengthening Aemen’s hand in every area that matters. We will never be able to return to the days of our colonial glory, but we can place our hands on the world’s shoulders and whisper in its ear, and it will listen. That is power these days, gentlemen. Heroicism is the whisper, and you will be our hands.’

[Gauliscia]

Royal Wueëttschi Theatre, Chlowisbuerg, United Realm of Gauliscia
Weeping, young Sjuurdecho dropped to his knees and raised his palms in supplication to the gods above in Walhalla, pouring out his devastated soul in sorrow song, the gathered clergy and soldiers echoing him in a crescendoing chorus, ever louder as the High Shaman Uettewachi approached Sjuurdecho with the Oaken Crown, stepping over slain corpses and through the pool of holy blood that once flowed through their slain King’s veins. And, in a roaring, Wagneresque finale, the Oaken Crown was placed upon the young Sjuurdecho’s head and he rose to his feet as he, and all the other performers sung the final stanza of the Sjuurdecholied in a heart gripping operatic rendition of it, tears streaming down nearly every cheek in the heaving theatre. And the green curtain fell, the light was restored and the whole theatre rose up in thunderous applause and cheers.
“Bless the words of Wueëttschi!”
“Jolly good show!”

The curtain rose again revealing the whole cast in the splendid costumes; great horned helmets and bearskin cloaks, not to mention the actors in the costumes of horses, Satyrs and bulls. The nymphs who had made love to Sjuurdecho where hooted at approvingly whilst the Aemenic characters and Chjésson the evil Satyr were hissed and booed at amicably, much of the volume coming from the packed stalls where the commoners stood; packed in like sardines. And the Director-General of the Royal Wueëttschi Theatre took to the stage to gesture the appropriate applause, as indeed the orchestra under Sir Ulfochund Fænscho who had composed much of the music was to be lauded in as much as Thanckmaar de Woorsnuÿer; the director of the opera had been. Lastly he threw his arm up towards the Royal Box, wherein sat the High Queen, her Realm Chancellor and indeed the Secretary of State for Culture who nodded graciously, though for Yngehilda; the death of her own father and the impromptu crowning resonated too strongly and sacred beads ran down her fair face.

And such sentiments were not lost on her adoring subjects who, as their High Queen turned to leave the theatre and for her car, broke into rancorous song; the national anthem of Gauliscia. A song of a blessed land splendored by the generous hands of the doting Gods; of all its beasts and landscapes, of a heroic and hearty people who are always happy to make room on the mead bench for another and of course a song in supplication to Walhalla, Crown and State. Truly a holy trinity.

Once in the leather seated and wood furnished interior of her state car, crawling down the lamp lit cobbled streets of Chlowisbuerg into which now spilled the singing masses from the doors of the theatre; greatly boozed up from state-subsidised drink on this most glorious day of the Maiden Showing of the Sjuurdecholied. Yngehilda’s Culture Secretary; Chlous Vléissou was both a patron of the arts and of taverns; whilst he did his best to compose himself in front of his monarch, his darting eyes and slurred speech betrayed someone who had drunk too much of the mead offered by the delicious serving ladies.
“Chlous.” Began Yngehilda, removing her white gloves, whilst Charlomann; the Realm Chancellor grinned stupidly at the scene. “It would seem you have drunk more than your body can fathom.”
Charlomann mock sneezed into his handkerchief and snickered briefly at the demise of the poor Minister who was undergoing the transformation from Minister to tuxedo-clad beetroot.
“Please avoid embarrassing yourself and subsequently the rest of the government..” she scolded in conclusion, as the car drew up to the King Woudemaar Station, its imposing gothic architecture dominating the local scene, yet still in architectural quorum with the rest of the city.
“Have a safe journey on the sleeper back to your riding Chlous, I enjoyed your company very much Minister.”
And with that the Minister jumped out the car and briskly walked towards the station; bustling even at this late hour as late trains departed for the far corners of the Realm and even beyond.

Charlomann turned back to Yngehilda.
“Your Majesty, a full government briefing will be given to you in due time, but if I could be so bold as to burden you with some foreign policy at this late hou-”
Yngehilda waved her hand dismissively.
“Yes, yes.. pray tell Chancellor.” She said, opening a drinks cabinet under the armrest of their seat, pouring them both a glass of plum liqueur.
“Well your majesty, the Aemenic religion of Heroicism, one of these neo-newly-revived-born again religions has begun to spread its tentacles overseas as it were. We previously thought it all rather trivial but Gauliscians are proving rather easy to… persuade, due to the already polytheistic nature of our own religion..”
He took a sip of the liqueur, wryly smiling in approval before continuing.
“It really is rather rum indeed, especially on the far flung island of Wéhxschië. The Duchy. Local authorities are encouraged patriotic Gauliscians to remove this ‘Heroicism’ where they see it but… it's causing tension between ourselves and Aemen. Many of our embedded sources within Aemen are of the opinion that like us; they will go to a great length to ensure their faith prevails. Whilst, Your Majesty, I can assure you the Boar shall not charge into battle prematurely, it may indeed already be trotting that path.”

---

Stiermarkt, Duchy of Wéhxschië, United Realm of Gauliscia
The town lived up to its namesake as the Bull Market, and as the golden sphere of Sœwilo the Lord of the Sun rose above the timber framed thatched houses and stone brick buildings of state that was the town of Stiermarkt, herdsmen brought in their prize bulls from their upland pastures. Fine bovines they were indeed, with great hornage and healthy flanks which quivered with a certain firmness that pleased the eye as they moved down the narrow streets lowing and snorting. The people of Wéhxschië; the Wéhxi a name deriving from their rearing of cattle were a hardy people; who identified enough with Gauliscia to maintain their place in the union but years of relative neglect by Chlowisbuerg had lead them to mild disillusionment. Preachers from Aemen had come with a new message, of hero worship; and though it's ceremonies were different it was somewhat compatible with Wodinism owing to its polytheistic nature. Already had the local authorities; the Ducal Constabulary of Wéhxschië and its Synod taken action against such deeds. Shrines to Aemenic deities were shut down and and its frequenters placed on watch lists. But the small police force and local bureaucracy was unsuited to such matters and became overwhelmed.

Aemenic preachers who were wise never rejected the existence of Wodin and neither did they discourage their listeners from attending weekly services. Unfortunately, one such man had urged his flock in these ways. James Sedgebury was a missionary from Aemen, a fiery orator with a highly controversial rhetoric. Most shunned him; Gauliscians were generally not the radical sort and were perfectly content with the ebb and flow of life as they knew it. However some stayed on in the street to listen, visiting his house and spreading his word. The VOZIBO; Gauliscia’s internal security force had managed to infiltrate his network and began building a record. James’ fanaticism had been his downfall. Seized and put before a court and jury who wanted only to see his demise; he was all but a dead man.

Flanked by two constables, James walked through the town square, a wooden sign hung round his neck with his crime inscribed in runic; HERETIC; INCITOR OF ANTI-WODINIST SENTIMENTS. Market-goers gathered, some hurling fruit and eggs at the convicted heretic as he was lead the square centre. He was stripped naked and with the crowd safely perimetered off, a thick, unlubricated beech stake was thrust up his behind, through his insides, until they could stand it up horizontally. With this done, constables tied bushels of hay to his body and gagged his mouth. The town crier read out James’ full crime theatrically, eliciting boos and hisses where appropriate before enthusiastic jeering came about as his punishment was read out. Three constables bearing flaming torches stepped forward and set the bushels alight. He writhed and wriggled but this made his impalement all the worst, whilst his skin was scorched by hundreds of licking tongues, yet the rope gagging his throat muffled his screaming. Many passers by thought it was a hog-roast and beckoned their children to come, only to see the blackened carcass of a man slowly descend from the stake, his charred appendages breaking off with ease. And from the balcony of the Burgher’s Hall the town Burghermaster and the Duke of Wéhxschië looked on with relief and gladness.

---

Chamber of the Citizenry, the Réichsraad, Chlowisbuerg
“Is the Vice Realm Chancellor aware that despite his fervent advocation for increased passenger capacity on local branch rail lines, over half of commuters polled that they rarely get a seat in rush hour…?”
The benches of the WZV; the Gauliscian Co-Operative Party nodded in concurrence, emitting what used to be a ‘hœhr, hœhr’ but as speech morphs over time had turned into an ‘ohrrrrrrr’. The transport secretary quickly shoved a file into the lap of Arnoud Yper; the gruff, rotund, tweed clad Vice Realm Chancellor, who promptly rose to his feet.
“Rush hour inter-city trains will always be full, even with our new double decker trains with an extra two carriages. Unlike the main party opposite, this government has committed to freezing travel fares rather than drop them; realise there's not enough money then increase by three times as muc-”
He was met with cheers from his benches, slamming their palms on the benches in front of them, but a loud and hoarse voice arose from the benches of the VAS; National Workers’ Surge.
“WHY DON’T YOU SCRAP ALL THE FIRST CLASS CARRIAGES! IF YOU STOPPED PAYING FOR LOUNGES AND RESTAURANT CARS WITH CAVIAR AND GLAZED DUCK THEN-”
“Order!” Cried Uetterich Xyrsli, the Speaker of the Chamber, glaring in disdain at the disorderly member; a red faced ex-steel worker by the name of Helmuth Staahlmuehl. The member sat down, not wishing to take the brunt of a savage torrent of mocking abuse from the quick witted speaker.
“The Honourable Member must not shout in the Chamber unless he cannot otherwise be heard. Whilst we’d love to hear about the rest of his most recent meal in the restaurant carriage, other members have pressing questions for the Vice-Realm Chancellor. The Honourable Member for Wéhxschië!”
The benches on both sides erupted with jeers and laughter, drumming with the feet and roaring in approval of the Speaker’s admonishing.
Wéhxschië was the only constituent nation in the United Realm small enough to send only one MP to the lower house to represent its single Riding. Wilhoum Ochsheck was a member of WZV, the main opposition party in Gauliscia, a party who championed a more federal system of government and one which advocated for more local and decentralised authority; a view which most of his electors favoured in far away Wéhxschië. Wilhoum usually flew in and out every weekend, leaving the capital on Thursday evening, holding a clinic on Friday, spend the weekend with his family then fly out again Sunday evening. It wasn't a bad arrangement; first class air travel with all drinks and food on expenses, plus an apartment in central Chlowisbuerg also paid for in expenses.

Wilhoum stood up, briefly glanced at his notes then began.
“Vice Realm Chancellor, Honourable Members, I trust you are all acutely aware of the situation unfolding in regards to ‘Heroicism’ -a new religion that has arisen in Aemen and is being actively exported. The Duchy of Wéhxschië is on the front lines of this religious pandemic yet it is the least equipped to handle such matters. Our constabulary are overwhelmed in monitoring potentially dangerous extremists and the local Gendarmery is not logistically able to carry out all the necessary raids and operations against those spreading harmful doctrine. Whilst I thank the government for its despatch of several VOZIBO operatives to bolster local enforcement, it may not be enough. A column from the Sunday Herald did a feature of the attitude in Aemen about this and it's safe to say they are growing increasingly belligerent. The recent execution of James Sedgebury will only fan flames. May I ask what provisions are being made to defend the island?”
The government benches gasped in surprise, others rolled their eyes in mock.
“Sensationalist tripe!” One muttered.
“They wouldn't dare!” Cried another.
Yper took to his feet again.
“The Foreign Office and our security forces have indeed identified a threat from Aemen.”
The government benches of the SÉP grew silent.
“The Honourable Member opposite does voice real concerns. At this point we need to ensure every word is as deflammatory as possible to avoid turning a drizzle into a thunderstorm. The Aemenic ambassador has been summoned to the Éichholmschloss but in the meantime I can say that we will stationing a brigade of Gendarme troops on the island consisting mainly of rifle battalions but also some mechanised forces too, we will increase our anti-aircraft assets in the island too whilst also diverting a littoral squadron to the island. Gauliscia will never abandon an inch of territory! Ever!”