The Coveted Elixir [MT/OPEN/IC]

[Hrythingia]

Team 002, Operation Arctic Elixir, Royal College of Geographers

Chiefdom of Flæþúrƿang (Ummiqnarsaq)

Hrystic Arctic -Seolhígoþ

The Northwind swooped over the tundra with its icy wings, screeching like a banshee and leaving in its wake fresh layers of snow as it passed over the land which was flat and white from horizon to horizon. A small herd of musk oxen huddled together, the calves pushed into the middle and screened from Winter’s worst by the bulls and cows. A pair of distant yellow eyes emerged from the billowing white gloom which shrouded the tundra followed by a constant whine which came to be the sound of a small motor. It made its way loudly to the operations base, it’s faint glow providing the snowmobile and its two passengers a beacon to follow. They dismounted, fully clad in blue wind and waterproof coat and salopettes, their faces covered by goggles and scarf, and after grabbing a large bag from the trailer on the vehicle they quickly rushed inside, keeping their heads down.

Having hung up their blue hooded coats with the crest of the Royal College of Geographical and confining their snow boots to the slush filled porch, they were walked in on by a tall man in a cream woollen jumper and corduroys.

“Well done gents, bloody howling out there by the sounds of it. Got a brew on the stove for you now.. but the questio-”

He was cut off one of the men eagerly.

“Yes, the GPS location of the seismic analysis was correct. You have your site Doctor, one of the largest natural gas deposits in the world lies beneath our feet.”

The man in the woollen jumper, Dr. Cuðbeort Þræcaxa gave a thin smile. He had been waiting for this moment for most of his career as head of arctic operations. Attempts to drill for oil had been refused for decades. It had not been conceived until the 80s that this part of the arctic would be rich in minerals and gas, yet once suspicions were raised, there were objections on so many levels. Hrythingia was making the transition to relying on renewable energy, namely bio-energy and as such few saw it as worth investing in. Ministers were hard to lobby, parliament refused to give it funding and local chieftains refused to grant access. But in the end, permission was given to investigate fully.

Dr. Þræcaxa nodded slowly.

“I could be knighted for this.. once the Hrýðƿalda learns of the potential revenue. The Hrystic Arctic Company… yes.. no longer just trading in fur but exporting natural gas. That’ll keep the coffers of Ernburh nicely stocked..” he mused. The expedition had largely been kept secret. To those who took interest it was no secret that Seolhígoþ potentially sat upon such treasure but no one knew how much, how accessible or even the nature of it. Until now.

“Right chaps, get yourselves warmed up, I’ll go get a bottle of whisky.”

---

Ƿolfholtscíra (Wolfholtshire), Earldom of North Gyrweald (Norþ-Gyrƿeald)

Scraping off the crumbs from the loaf Algar just ate for his lunch onto the wooden bird table, he made his way back into his kitchen. There was much to do, and he busied himself about the kitchen and pantry. Algar was, like many Hrythingas, a homesteader. He was largely self sufficient and sold his surplus to a local markets and eateries. Taking a wicker basket full of freshly unearthed beetroots he washed them in a bowl of water, rubbing off the mud and then placed them on a wooden chopping board. Taking a small knife, Algar cut off the leaves and peeled off the skin with relative ease, for he was adept at the knife. After dicing the beetroot up into small squares he scooped them up in handfuls and placed them in small jars, adding a clove of garlic to each and sloshing in some rhubarb vinegar to pickle them. Sealing the lids on Algar put them in the pantry alongside hanging sausages, hams, sealed casks of mead and a brace of hares and a pheasant. Making his way back into the kitchen he turned on his radio for the 2 o’clock news and began to pour himself a glass of cider, drawing it off straight from the frothing vat. He sat down and listened to the usual until he heard..

[i]And yesterday, scientists from the Royal College of Geographers confirmed the presence of large deposits of natural gas under Seolhígoþ, namely Flæþúrƿang. Dr. Þræcaxa, the leader of the expedition and long term advocate for arctic drilling said it was a ‘glorious day for science and Hrythingia…’[/b]

Algar grunted dismissively. Seolhígoþ was very far away by Hrystic standards, about a thousand miles from its northernmost point. For him it was full of small eyed dwarven folk who ate raw meat and it was unseasonably cold. Or so he’d heard. Algar had only left his shire once for Fyrd (militia) manoeuvres on the northern coast. Those arctic isles had, as far as he knew, brought only trouble. Fishing disputes, whaling controversies and land disputes when the oceans froze over. But it wasn’t his business, at least that’s what Algar thought. He was a humble crofter and left such high minded things to the burhfolc (city-people). He changed station to listen to the rugby -something much more interesting and for him at least, more relevant.

Heohstólsele, Seat of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh

After an early and often arduous morning of government business, Earl Wynmar the Second of The Ashwold, 64th Hrythwalda of the Hrythingas liked to enjoy a long lunch well into the afternoon which then slowly become dinner and then the drinking and feasting would begin. It was about four in the afternoon and there was a lull in activity, and he sat upright on his wooden throne overlooking the great feasting hall where his royal court convened each day. Few private audiences were ever granted, if an official, diplomat, military officer or even businessman had something to say they could say it to the whole court. Wynmar enjoyed such theatrics, it put the person seeking something at a disadvantage and they could easily be intimidated should the courtiers begin tutting or sniggering. Wynmar was young by most modern standards for a Hrythwalda, being in his late forties. Hrythwalda’s did not inherit the Hrystic Throne, rather they were elected from amongst the Earls and coronated by the Hrystic Church. But Wynmar was shrewd, fairly energetic and was well suited to the Hrystic style of open political confrontation. Previous more aged Hrythwalda’s had often relied on an adviser or herald to deal with difficult audiences, but Wynmar had no such need.

As a servant brought him another beer glass a commotion stirred at the entrance of the hall as a man in a tweed suit briskly walked down the centre of the hall. The court muttered disapprovingly at such a hasty entry -he had not even bothered to mingle. Wynmar cocked his head inquisitively and watched the man as he approached the foot of the stairs which lead up to his throne. He bowed on one knee and bent his head. Despite his rushed entry, the man, a clerk sent to run from the Energy Office, knew not to speak until told to do so.

“Pray tell young man.. what brings you before my court at so late an hour in such haste?”

The man rose from his knee and held a document in front of him.

“Your Lordship, forgive my doubting, but are you aware of the find of Dr. Þræcaxa?”

Wynmar took a gulp of his beer and tilted his head back as he recalled his morning business. It has been followed by a rather heavy lunch indeed and it’s events were not too fresh.

“Yes… one of my cabinet ministers seemed very.. elated by it. Natural gas and oil if I recall… well what about it. It’s after lunch. You ought to know that I only address emergencies after the allotted time..”

The courtiers nodded and tutted from the sides of the hall and from its pillars, wincing at the gross breach of protocol from a government official of all people.

“Er well, yes my er, My Lord, well you see we were wondering whether you wanted to include those resources in the Charter of the Royal Arctic Company.. before.. well.. it’s very close to the limits of our official control over that part of the arctic and others may wish to.. enjoy what is rightfully ours. Minerals in Hrystic soil, are after all, the property of the Hrystic Throne to buy or sell. We felt it was an urgent matter.”

Wynmar peered down at the clerk, clearly out of his depth. Part of him pitied the poor chap, being sent in such an errand. Part of him was deeply perturbed by his lack of spine. He looked at one the guards stood next to his throne -resplendent in a cuirass and a combed steel helmet with a horsehair plume and gesticulated with his head disapprovingly towards the tweed clad man.

“Fetch the Acornhead.” He said curtly, a the servant who had brought him the beer left the jug on the throne side table and briskly walked off.

“You see, now you’ve made me need to fetch my accountant. Hebrews are usually asleep at this time, they’re nocturnal you see.” Wynmar said matter of factly. The tweed-suited man, unsure of whether the Hrythwalda was being ironic looked at the Guards, who remained stock still, and was about to turn and see if any of the courtiers were smiling but he remembered turning his back on the Hrystic Throne wasn’t a good idea. At all. She shifted awkwardly.

The servant reappeared and drawing a breath, announced the arrival.

“The Grand Hebrew of the Gold Hoard, Your Lordship..”

In shuffled a rather short man of Semetic complexion -black curly hair, a pronounced nose and a stooped back betrayed his age. He wore a black robe and the ‘yarmulke’ -for which his informal and most used name ‘acornhead’ was attributed to his Office. The Hrystic Throne has long been served by a Hebrew for its chief accountant and financial adviser.

“Ah, my acornhead. Sorry to disturb you from your nest.. but er.. this official wants to know if his department should give the recently discovered resources to the RAC. I’ll convene the Ƿaldaġemot on the issue tomorrow but, perhaps you can give me a vague idea of where I ought to stand..”

The elderly accountant shuffled again to the throne and whispered at great length. Wynmar leant back in his chair then waved him off.

“I will address this tomorrow morning. But I my stance is that we should sell this to the highest bidder, namely our allies, whilst giving some contracts to Hrystic companies. There will be a scramble.. much gold is to be made. Much gold.” Wynmar turned to see the ‘acornhead’ depart the hall into his chamber behind the throne platform.

“He’s gone to feed the geese just thinking about the gold. Good day sir.” He replied abruptly, which was the official’s cue to leave.

[Greater Themis]

The Hrystic Arctic Territories

It was the time of year when the sun rarely graced the land. For but a brief few hours each day, the sun made its appearance, skirting the horizon, and bathing the land with a few hours of twilight. Crimson light of the frozen sun glinted off the pockmarked landscape, lighting up the endless snow, skirting between drifts and rocky outcrops. The corral of white and grey tents dug into the ice and snow offered some shelter to the group as they rested, packed snow berms keeping the icy wind at bay. With their all-terrain vehicles, two modified 4-tonner Bison utility trucks, they had been making good progress along the shallow rivers forming natural highways. Sprayed white and grey, they blended into their parking spots, divots in the snow keeping their shadows hidden, white canvas protecting the screens and keeping their engines warm.

To an outside group they were some sort of survey team, as evidenced by the equipment packed into the vehicles. The fifty kilometre trek in from the coastline had been uneventful over the couple days they had been travelling, ruts in the snow rapidly filled by the gentle flurries of ice wind from the north. Every short while along the route, they had been at work, sensors being left buried in the ice, or flown alongside them aboard drones. Their ultimate goal lay around three kilometres beneath them – geological formations picked up by satellite surveys had suggested a massive gas field, rivalling the largest in Dienstad. Whilst satellite gravity and magnetic measurements were good enough for initial suspicion, ground measurements were needed to gain enough support for exploratory drilling. Detailed mapping of geological formations, of the traps, seams and deposits, were all needed before the first well could be sunk.

There was one catch to the wealth sitting deep beneath them – it didn't belong to the surveyors yet. Analysis by KSP, the state-owned petroleum corporation, had suggested that private contractors would be auctioned the vast majority of the exploration rights – but with the territories absentee owners holding all the cards, there was a powerful financial motive to knowing what plots would be worth exploiting, and what plots would be useless.

In any case, though this region was sparsely populated, efforts had been made to ensure no unfortunate run-ins occurred. Alongside the 12 man exploration team, 4 escorts accompanied them as a security detail, sourced from an otherwise undisclosed agency. Only those four men themselves knew who their normal employer was, keeping their knowledge quiet as they rotated between driving, and keeping a watch on the vast plains. They weren't expecting too much trouble – whilst there was the military base on the other side of the territory, the majority of the population were nomads, loyalties seemingly more with their families than any overarching state a thousand kilometres to the South. In any case, the Naval Militia survey vessel that had dropped them off sat outside territorial waters, a helicopter on standby for any rapid evacuation.

Two sat on watch, casually concealed in snow hide, tarpaulins and packed vegetation within keeping them warm from above and below. From a slot cut into the packed snow, they were easily able to survey the surrounding snowscape from the direction of possible patrols, whilst themselves improbable to being noticed from either the air or on foot. Professionalism was a hard habit to kick – including a particular attention to detail, and this appropriate concealment. There was no outward features to suggest they were from any particularly specialist military outfit, their civilian clothing and hunting rifles suggesting they were merely there to fend off hungry polar bears and harvest the occasional reindeer that grazed these expanses – only the ability to disappear into the landscape, whilst ever observant.
''You know Nikolas, I still think it was a bad idea to let them use explosives. I wouldn't be surprised if they've been tracking us for the past forty eight hours at least, since they started blowing holes in the ground.''
''It's a risk we knew we would have to take Dymas. We only have another three days of this anyway, before we're back at sea. You of all people should know about risk.''
''Fair.''
The coffee in his flask was still pleasantly warm, a splash or two of rum from the colonies enough to warm it up further. The two sat in silence, surveying the distant hills for a while. The snow blindness had fortunately not addled their eyes, and out here it would be possible to see people for miles.
''Right, I'll leave you to it. See you in an hour's time.''

The smooth walnut of the old RA-10 rifle glowed in the evening light as he left the hide, crawling up the angled tunnelway into the open. He took note of the crate of explosives stored next to them, snow already gathering on the tin lid. Dynamite had a funny habit of making people nervous, and so keeping it a hundred metres from the camp was generally a sensible idea, along with the crate of 8 x 63mm Republican ammunition they had carried with them. For bears, of course, he reminded himself, chuckling as he made his way back to his tent.

[Organized States]

Heohstólsele, Seat of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh


Things were rarely ever as they seemed. In fact, they were almost always stranger than reality. This was no less true for the life of Colonel Mark Lambert, who had, by some way on God's green earth, found himself in Ernburh as the head of the newly established Organized States' Military Advisory Command-Hrythingia, or MAC-H, for short. He almost always wore his Dress Blues here and almost always froze in the process. Perhaps the fact that he was a farm boy from the South, raised in the fire and brimstone of both the local Baptist Church and the equal heat of Southern sun, amused his hosts. Or more than likely, the king had a flare for the exotic and there was nothing quite as exotic as a grizzled solider from a foreign land with a chest full of medals, boots on his feet, and a Green Beret atop his head.

"Colonel, please remember your manners. The King is erm... a bit eccentric." said Ethan Logan, a grey-haired man who had become the OS Ambassador. Logan, who had spent most of his adult life as a diplomat knew from experience that being a representative of the Organized States in a foreign country presented quite a unique set of challenges, in particular that when it came to protocol. While wearing the uniform of the Organized States or acting as a representative of a nation, be it at a sporting competition or as a diplomat, you were not to salute any foreign flags or bow to any monarchs, symbolic of the ideal that "a free people will never submit to another nation". Although noble and lofty, it did create for some interesting conversations while entering royal courts, particularly in a place like this.

"I remember them quite well, Mr. Ambassador. I'm a Southern boy after all." said Colonel Lambert, giving the ambassador a sly smile as they walked closer and closer to the entrance to the Court. They knew of course that they would have to be addressing the court as a whole, but they knew the rumors were true. OS Intelligence was far too good for them to be wrong. Hrythingia had just struck oil in its Arctic Territories, and even though it promised good times ahead economically for the country, it signaled bad times ahead politically. Bad actors always existed, but in an energy starved world like our own, it was down-right dangerous to even have oil.

[Demetland]

Demetian frigate Ôl ap Olwydd, Ynysfarna, Cenanian Far North.

As his ship hove gently past the old light-house towards the harbour, Commander Eilfyw Trecelyn looked out at the sprawling mass of wooden huts and prefabricated buildings that was Porth Sgawen and sighed. Cold and grey, and in spite of the calm weather, it was a miserable place, huddled by the shore on an area of flat ground between two hills, which stretched out into a sort of valley. The colourfully-painted orange or green houses failed to brighten the place, as did the bright, thick winter coats which the few inhabitants wore as they slowly trudged about their daily business. Away from the shore, and apart from the rest of the buildings, lay a crude stone church with a small belfry above the entrance, which yet seemed to tower disapprovingly over the settlement. In the distance beyond he could see the rusting brown wreck of the old coal mine, disused for about a hundred years and decaying, rather (in a perverse way) like a ruined old church or ancient amphitheatre or fort beside a city or town which had somehow outlived them. He thought the fact the hideous wreck didn't look so incongruous here spoke volumes about the rest of the place.

Though this was the chief settlement of the island, boasting about 2,000 inhabitants, four fifths of the total population of Ynysfarna. A couple of smaller villages aside, the rest were distributed in tiny stations along the shore in inlets or fjords. Most were rough and hardy men, transplanted from the isles further south, whose experience in fishing and whaling had made them well-suited to the settlement of such a place. In summer, when the ice did not provide convenient access, many could only be reached from the sea or by difficult paths on foot. The island possessed a single airfield, which was too small for any except the smallest aeroplanes, and was most of the time unusable due to the weather.

'Take in lines,' ordered Trecelyn as the ship came to halt beside the pier, and not long after their cargo began to be unloaded. The purpose of Ôl ap Olwydd's visit was to resupply the garrison, replace the marines there with fresh troops, and to deliver equipment to the communications posts hidden away in more discrete corners of the islands. These installations helped to monitor maritime traffic in the Arctic and assist the Navy in their patrols, and compensated for the low tonnage committed for the defence of the far-northern waters. Stepping down from the ship, he was greeted by the commander of the garrison, a major, six feet tall, who in stead of the usual winter coat had on a sort of almuce of thick fur, which gave him a somewhat wild appearance, and looked rather odd.

'Well, you must be glad to be seeing the back of this place at last.'

'I think the lads are looking forward to going home again. But it's better than being stuck in a ship for six months or more.'

'Ah,' said the commander, turning to introduce one of his companions, 'this is Captain Felyn, your successor.'

'You'll find there's not much to you have to do here, I'm afraid, so take extra care to keep your men busy. I hope you like whale, because along with fish, that's the only food you can get apart from whatever arrives by ship. The locals can be rowdy sometimes, but they'll generally leave you alone if you don't persecute them too excessively. Well, come along, we'll go and meet the governor.'

And so the men of the garrison, cheerful at being about to return to more moderate climes, energetically helped load the various cargo onto trucks, and drove off towards their compound, followed by their successors, who had still not quite got over the displeasure of being exiled to such a desolate post.

Plasbrwynog, Caergwrtheyrn.

The sudden announcement that massive quantities of oil and natural gas had been discovered in Hrythingia's Arctic territories took Demetland by surprise. It is true enough to say that Demet had never properly turned her attention to the Arctic, nor indeed had she any reason for doing so. Several Demetian expeditions had been sent to seek out the pole during the last two centuries, and had managed quite respectably, but on the whole there was neither the maritime opportunity nor the expertise to encourage further interest; for energy she had ample reserves of oil in her Conoracian off-shore fields, and in any case had, much like her southern neighbor, invested considerably in developing renewable sources. In spite of this, Demet did exert sovereign rights over a not insubstantial segment of the northern oceans. Although by no means the largest player (Hrythingian efforts had yielded them control of large swathes of the polar mainland, such as it was) the Demetish possessed several important islands (most of them whaling stations in gradual, but inexorable, decline) and dozens of smaller islets besides. There might be a destroyer and a couple of corvettes on patrol in the summer months, and there was a tiny garrison protecting the settlement on Ynysfarna, but the Arctic commanded little public attention from the government.

It was late at night by the time Bleddyn Prysgewy completed his business for the day. He sank back into his chair, having tossed the Arctic report onto his desk, and retrieved a cigar from the case as he turned the matter over in his head. As permanent secretary to the Distain, he was responsible for co-ordinating the government of Demetland, but also in practice the higher affairs of the other polities within the Kingdom of the Cenains, such as Eblain or Glaconnor (the administrations at Dindewy and Llanawstl being too remote), as well as the internal affairs of the Kingdom. Although he hadn't had cause to realise it, he was also in fact ultimately responsible for managing the Arctic islands, minuscule, isolated, and (which had hitherto been their principal reason for notoriety in Caergwrtheyrn) the source of interminable fishing disputes with the Hrythingians based in Seolhígoþ. Both countries were close allies, so the complaints were usually regarded as a nuisance and ignored. They knew that some of the islands contained rich coalfields, and attempts to exploit this had almost taken off in the 1890s, but the costs were too high in the face of competition from Demetian mines, which were so economical that even fierce opposition could not stop their expansion. More recent surveys had suggested both oil and natural gas, but not enough to make it worthwhile, and in any case the problem of finding an uncontroversial energy source had been solved by the off-shore oilfields further south, and so any ideas about the Arctic soon faded away.

'Bleddyn ap Hywel?' issued a voice from the corner of the room as the door opened and his undersecretary came in.

'Ah, Bengam — you've read this?' He held up the paper.

'Yes, sir,' replied the undersecretary, Maredudd Bengam. 'But it's on all the television channels and newspapers, ours as well as the Hrystic ones, not to mention further afield.'

'The whole God-forsaken wasteland of a place will soon be swarming with prospectors and surveyors and God knows who else...' lamented Prysgewy. 'But the details in this report are impressively specific. I hadn't realised the energy department were so efficient.'

'They are very keen, sir. And besides, they've been trying to set up surveys for drilling in the Arctic for thirty years.'

'That's true enough.' The secretary got up from his chair and looked out on the cold winter night typical in the capital at that time of year. 'It's awful good luck for the Hrythingians, but if they flood the market with all this new oil and gas, our own operations probably won't be economical for very long.'

'We can expect favourable terms from our allies, though. And our economy is more than twice as large.'

'Cardinal Lleuddadin saw the Hrythwalda earlier to-night about the matter. No doubt the government will want large investment in Seolhigoþ; we are of course obliged to support our allies.'

Ernburh.

The Demetish embassy in Ernburh was a large stone structure, with a decorated gatehouse in the centre flanked by armed constables in bright dress uniforms, behind which lay a courtyard enclosed on all sides by spacious halls, chapels, offices, apartments, and various other facilities. This palatial edifice was one of the grandest embassies in the city, as befitted Demetland's status as a close neighbour and ally. Having a reputation for culture and hospitality, the ambassador's court was the centre of Demetish life in the Hrystic capital as well as an institution of Ernburh society in general.

It was about the end of the afternoon, just before the Hrystic court usually settled down to dining and feasting, when the heralds of the Hrythwalda's court announced the arrival of the Demetish ambassador and some of his retinue, along with lesser diplomats.

'His Most Reverend Eminence Awst ab Echel, Cardinal Lleuddadin, Bishop of Caersyddyn, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of His Cenanic Majesty the King of Demetland.'

Preceded by his gentiluomo, the noble bishop entered the great hall as the courtiers parted before him to let him pass. Approaching the throne, he bowed, and genuflected at the base of the steps.

[Hrythingia]

Heohstólsele, Seat of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh
The court warmed considerably at the arrival of their ancient friends. Between the two peoples of Celtic and Saxon stock -they could stir up quite the party. As the sun went down over Hrythingia, the glow from the Throne-Hall lit up the hill on which it stood overlooking the very small city of Ernburh.

The Hrythwalda grinned in his throne as the Bishop paid his obeisances before booming:
“Ah, Cardinal! How the devil are you, you old chestnut?” He exclaimed, standing up with his arms outstretched. He ambled down the steps towards him.
“This er.. discovery...” he muttered quietly. “This is rather concerning. I suspect a lot of unwanted attention is about to come our way. Nonetheless, we can cut you a good deal I reckon. Right, I am bloody starving.”
As if on cue, two huge bulls, skinned and carried on poles by servants in kitchen whites entered the hall, to applause from the courtiers. They were positioned above the great fire which had been roaring in the centre of the hall -surrounded by the feasting benches and tables. As they were turned by the servants, roasting them on a giant spit, they were glazed with buckets of red liquid which smelt divine. It was crushed juniper berries, mixed with plum wine and it was garnished with large springs of thyme which was rubbed into the skin. A huge cauldron was then brought in and hung above the fire by a chain, and in it was tossed all manners of things: a rack of deer ribs, a dozen rabbit legs, the carcasses of pheasants, quails and grouse, large fillets of mutton and goat and several dozen links of pork and horse sausages, quickly followed by a whole garden of vegetables and herbs: kale, peas, beans, cabbage, celery, fennel, turnips, leeks and carrots, rosemary, thyme, garlic, onions and mushrooms too. The aroma was quickly filling the whole room: a thick and savoury smell which made the stomach feel empty as a cavern and began making a noise like an open volcano or thermal spring. Whilst the meat and stew were cooked -which would take some time, another troop of servants brought in baskets of fresh rye bread: thickly seeded and very nearly black. It was accompanied by large bowls of fresh well salted butter and pungent cheeses of many sorts: blue, creamy, crumbling goat and sheep cheese and indeed hard smoked cheeses too. A large leg of cured ham was brought in too and was carved by an expert ‘Léowsnæda’ for whom his work was a delicate art and one that took much training to master. Other dried sausages were brought in, alongside pickled cucumbers and onions and other savoury jams and jellies. Last of all, huge barrels of mead: an alcoholic beverage made from honey was brought in by monks clad in black robes. It was from the hives in the royal monastery that served much of Hrythingia. The courtiers drifted to the benches, and rather than the hushed muttering that had governed much of the day, it gave way to loud and friendly chatter, raised voices and laughter soon filled the hall.

Ƿuduċild (Wuduchild) Rammford was a ‘Cnyht’ or ‘knight’ and his tall but handsome appearance indeed affirmed his noble birth. The youngest of his siblings: Wuduchild had no land and thus had to make a living. After a short stint in the ‘Hær’; the Army as an officer in the 1st Guard Archers: a highly prestigious light infantry regiment in the air assault brigade (7 Valkyrie) who’s dark green uniform and black lambskin busby he now wore with much pride, he became a diplomat with the foreign office. He had earned a pretty sum of money, namely through bribes and backhanders and also the salary was not too stingy either so he took early retirement despite only being his early forties. Now he enjoyed court life, often advising the Hrythwalda and his council the Ƿaldaġemot. But having spent much time abroad: whilst he loved his dear country with all his soul, he was aware that it’s peculiarities were daunting and weird to much of the world, his busby in hand, and his sabre clashing at his side he approached the ambassador and military officer from the OS.
“Your first time in the Throne-Hall sir?” He asked in perfect English to the Colonel, ungloving his right hand and offering it to shake.
“I am the Lord of Rammford and a Knight of the Earl of Sceagfeld. I worked for a long time in the Anglophone world as a diplomat, perhaps I can show you some of the ropes as it were?”
He stepped a bit closer to the two men.
“I suspect..” he whispered, “ you are here to discuss something to do with the arctic.. you may just be in luck tonight, I can sit you next to the Hrythwalda, if you wish?”
The skin on the two bulls, caramelised in its glaze, began to turn crispy, and servants began slicing the skin off and the red meat and healing it on platters. Others began to fill jugs of the amber mead which foamed at the top.
Patrol Team 3, Reindeer Platoon, Hrythwalda’s Own Bone-Scythes (Saaneqvissaq)
Chiefdom of Flæþúrƿang, Seolhígoþ
Gliding effortlessly over the flat tundra, two snowmobiles sped in the snow, before suddenly coming to a halt. There were dots on the horizon which looked like signs of life. And they didn’t look like quadrupedal mammals like Reindeer or Muskoxen. One of the riders dismounted and took his binoculars out. They were a great many miles away but it was clear that it was some complex arrangement.
“Patrol team 3 to FOB Foxbay.. yes.. significant activity about 20 miles north of our current position which is... Qumuq check the map..”
“676355”
“676355, our coordinates. Two miles north of Bearcreek. Do you know who might be up he- oh? No idea.. right. Yes sir, I’ll check them out.. very good sir.”
The soldier, Corporal Immuq Manniq, trudged back to his snowmobile and shouldered his assault rifle, the GAG-97 bullpup. He also had a sniper rifle the Hornwyrm, which he kept just in arm’s reach where he sat in a deep holster. Both men had husky dogs which clung on the backs of the snow vehicles as they sped off again, directly towards the camp. Eventually they neared and dismounted a short walk off, and crunching over the snow, both holding their rifles with their large huskies at their heels they walked into their midst.
“Ƿes Hal!” The corporal greeted in Hrystic cheerfully. It quickly became obvious they were neither Hrystic nor natives either. Nonetheless they continued pleasantly, assuming they were.
“Hƿæt þín intinga sy?” He continued in Hrystic, inquisitively asking, slowly removing his dark shades.

[Greater Themis]

The Hrystic Arctic Territories

''How far away do you think that chap is?''

The research team had been at work for the last hour or so, the twilight of what passed for 'morning' hardly reassuring them that their watches were set correctly. For the last five minutes, the two guards had been watching a distant figure patrolling, snowmobile headlights cutting out across the dark. Even through binoculars and rifle scopes, it was difficult to make out any more than a tiny black figure.

''Maybe ten or so kilometres? He's right on the horizon as it is, and certainly coming towards us.''
''Give me a second Dymas.''

He reached for his radio.
''Base this is Sierra One. We've got at least one vehicle inbound, probably a snow mobile. How do you want to play this, over?''
''Sierra One, we're finishing up in a few hours anyway. I'd appreciate your discrete presence for now, over.''
''Base, discretion it is, out.''

He smiled, placing the radio back.
''You keep an eye on them, I’ll wake the others. Keep an eye on them. ''

--

In a short while, the two snowmobiles rocked up, engines silencing as their riders dismounted. The dogs followed behind them, sniffing around the tents and equipment as they walked up to the surveyors. The expedition lead, in his orange high-visibility jacket, nodded to the two as they wandered over, the rest of the works team glancing over as they went about their work. On the rear tailgate of the truck, Nikolai sat smoking, his rifle concealed under a tarpaulin. He was the only set of eyes watching, rifles in hand as they watched from inside partially unzipped tents or the hide, out of sight to most observers.

‘Yes, voss hall to you to. Ioannos Cos, researcher. Apologies, but my grasp of the language isn’t fantastic.’

He crouched down to look at the husky, smiling, but knowing well not to put his hand near them. These weren’t domesticated dogs.
‘They’re beautiful dogs you have!’

[Hrythingia]

Patrol Team 3, Reindeer Platoon, Hrythwalda’s Own Bone-Scythes (Saaneqvissaq)
Chiefdom of Flæþúrƿang, Seolhígoþ
Immuq stared blankly back at the men. Neither he nor Private Qumuq could speak or really understand English. Hrystic was an ancestor to English before English became corrupted by Norman French and its Latinate influences. But the languages had grown so apart they were rarely mutually intelligible by sound and occasionally understandable when written down. Immuq patted the husky’s head, understanding Ioannos to be complimenting it.
“Ġeþanċian!” He thanked with a smile. He paused for a while before asking his question, trying to phrase it in a way they might understand.
“Hæfdest þu þá ġeƿritu? Hƿilċ londe útcymst?” He asked, his face clouding over again to a more serious expression. Then Qumuq approached and unzipped a pocket on his combat jacket and showed them what seemed to be a form of some sort.
“DOK-YU-MEN-TAY-SI-ON” Qumuq loudly spelled out somewhat obnoxiously, one of the only words he knew, stored in the back of his mind for some reason.

[Greater Themis]

or a moment it seemed they got off to such a nice start. But, as Nikolai watched, the tone took a turn for the more serious. He knew the civilians had no knowledge of the local language – any basic language lessons had gone straight in one ear and out the other. Even he had struggled to grasp more than the basics, though it was obvious what they wanted. Documentation. He casually leant back, fingers resting around the concealed rifle stock, moving slowly so as not to elicit any attention.

‘Mr Cos, perhaps our passports would be necessary at this point.’

The lead engineer nodded, any look of worry on his face rapidly dispelling as he retrieved his own passport. The blue cover of a Themisi passport, the four stars emblazoned on the surface in silver embossing, the inside thick with various VISAs and stamps from the man’s travels around the world in the past 5 years. He watched as the soldier asking looked through.

‘We are scientists… what’s the word in the local language Nikolai?’
‘Not a clue. Perhaps we should avoid accidentally insulting their mothers for now.’
‘Ok… er… researchers? Ecologists?’

Nikolai sighed, stubbing out his cigarette on the truck, waiting to see what would happen next.

[Christoslavia]

Imperial Coast Guard Cutter Tremendous

Hrystic Arctic

In the clearest blue oceans of the south, the naval ensign of alternating stripes, precious white and brilliant gold, could be seen for days. In this land however, all blended together as the flag whipped mercilessly in the winter wind. The brand new icebreaker found itself very far from home, on a very hush sort of mission. On the surface, it appeared the Admirals in the Coast Guard were more than happy to test their new toy. They had fought like hell during the appropriations hearings, many Senators befuddled as to why a country with a sub-tropical and temperate coast needed 2 new Icebreakers. The existing fleet of 2 had already opened waterways in the Antarctic. The Admirals had argued that in a world with growing danger, sea routes to the north would be vital, and the icebreakers would be of added value to the Imperial Geographic Administration and Imperial Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration for their scientific studies. They assured the Senators that the ships would be stored in Naval Station Trest, far off in Murovanka and close to the North; guaranteeing their use. The IOAA had acquired their own fleet of icebreakers as well, but due to the nature of the mission, command felt it best to use the Coast Guard's more state of the art vessel, at least militarily state of the art.

Now the Bismarck class cutter fulfilled its duties as promised, and while on board the behemoth was indeed a team of geographers and oceanographers, the crew did not exist for most purposes. The Imperial Navy insisted that the Coast Guard keep only the bridge and engine crew, the complement for this operation were ghosts from the Navy's Special Warfare Command, Black Ops Division. The sailors that composed the Special Warfare Combatant Craft Crewmen, or SWCCC (Swick), and elements of Team 8 of the 18th Blue Moon Battalion, colloquially the Stingrays, kept firm on the deck, unbothered by the tremendous gales and penetrating frost. The real purpose of the mission was the driving force of many wars in history, not land or identity, but energy.

The Tremendous tugged along, obliterating the ice like paper, while the personnel inside the comfort of the ship discussed the operation. Tremors were not uncommon in this part of the frozen north, and SATCOM along with the Imperial Reconnaissance Agency had picked up something peculiar in the area. The secrecy was a must, as the Hrythingians and Demetish had vast claims to the land. This was off the books, if discovered, then no more than a scientific inquiry. The brass and academic brainpower in The Citadel believed oil to be underneath all the ice. It was in high demand, and running low. The flow of oil from Mamluqstan, Ummaya and Zevretin were becoming unreliable, most of the country had switched to some form of hybrid or renewable energy, offshore drilling was not currently a consideration either due to the cost and potential for environmental catastrophe, not to mention it'd be a pretty target for an al-Kabaab fanatic. Even the very ship they stood on ran on a combination of hydropower and industrial biodiesel, but nonetheless oil was a commodity, and it paid to be in control of it, in more ways than one. If Christoslavia controlled the flow of oil in the South and the North, practically the global market, there were only good things to come of it.

"We stop here". A silent nod spoke of mutual concurrence, and a squadron of researchers and sailors departed the ship from snowmobiles, armed to the teeth both in terms of seismic equipment and weaponry. Roughly 25 minutes before, there had been lifeforms detected, in part thanks to the dedicated attention of the Satellites controlled by the IRA. The squadron sped towards the nearest ice shelf to establish a visual after some distance from the ship. The attached scientists hurriedly set up their seismic equipment, eager to get what they came for and leave as soon as possible. It was all too probable they had been detected by now, if not by the Hrythingians then by the Demetians, they just needed confirmation of that black gold. The designated team sniper took up position with their spotter on a nearby shelf, and to their surprise, a peculiar scene was unfolding below.

[Demetland]

Heohstólsele, Seat of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh.

'May it please your Majesty, I am in excellent health!' replied the cardinal with jovial voice, rising. 'Demetland will back you if there's any Arctic trouble. The Rothians will have to also.' He spoke under his breath, confident of his country's ability to fulfil her obligations to her allies and see off whatever threatened the maritime security of the region. After all, the Demetish navy had nearly twice the tonnage of the Hrythingian fleet, boasting four excellent new destroyers, and five older hulls recently modernised to extend their lifespan; a light carrier, with two more such vessels of the most modern design under construction; just less than two dozen frigates; plus submarines, stealth corvettes, patrol vessels, and icebreakers. True, with the exception of the new destroyers and corvettes, most of the fleet was beginning to lag behind in terms of capability; the government was starting to appreciate the fact, and considerable orders for new vessels had been placed. Not that these would be ready before the middle of the next decade, of course.

Then the necessary provisions for the evening arrived, and all beheld the great splendour and observed the fineness of the animals, and in general made approving remarks. The Demetish guests were well used to the ways of the Hrystic court by now, for although the Hrythingians were thought in some ways peculiar, the quality of the victuals one could obtain there was undeniable. And anyway they approved of such hospitality, not that the cardinal in particular had ever given much concern to the denunciation of gluttony, at least in so far as it touched on diplomacy.

'I say!' exclaimed one of the Demetish, a tall, robust military attaché from a fashionable cavalry regiment, 'who are those queer fellows over there?'

'I think,' replied the first secretary, a priest, one of the cardinal's minions, his black cassock and woolen ferraiolone (as the Rothians call it) contrasting starkly next to his companion's richly decorated navy blue uniform. The priest, who evidently had a better grasp of geography, continued 'they are from the 'Organised States',' yet not without a trace of scorn, 'They must be a republic of some type or another.'

'Dashed impertinent,' scoffed the soldier, 'implying everyone else is disorganised.'

'They do not bow, salute, or make any of the customary gestures of respect towards our hosts.'

'Probably rabid democrats...'

'They also possess significant military capability, and a first-rate blue water navy. No doubt they have been drawn here by news of oil and gas.'

Communications base, undisclosed location, Cenanic Far North.

'We've detected an unknown vessel in the vicinity of Seolhígoþ!'

The officer looked up and sighed. 'Do we have a more specific location?' He knew there tended to be Hrystic vessels, both military and commercial, in those waters, so the announcement was not very unusual. 'Approximate size?'

'Uhm,' the subordinate paused, 'It looks small-ish, bearing towards Vlaturg... Flæth... Flæþúrƿang... sir.'

'It isn't Hrystic?' he barked, the tediousness of a long and uneventful shift seeping into his voice.

'I don't think so, sir. We're detecting several Hrystic vessels, but this one's way out of the way.'

'It's probably nothing more than a bunch of fishermen thinking they can do a bit of poaching undetected, or some feckless scientist types,' he thought to himself. 'The usual sort of culprits.' The warning about unscrupulous energy corporations sniffing around Hrythingia's newly discovered oil prospects sat uncomfortably in the back of his mind, and he considered what to do. He looked at his computer screen, watching the blip as it pulsated.

'There's nothing suspicious about it at the moment. Let's take another look when we've got a better idea of its course.'

Some hours passed, and at length the ship came up again.

'Looks like she's not heading for any port, sir.'

He took a look over his colleague's shoulder, frowning. 'It looks to me as if she's in the eastern ice shelf.'

'An icebreaker, then, sir?'

'Well, it still probably isn't anything much, but we'd better send this on up the chain now just in case.'

Seconds later the information was discreetly making its way to control, who decided, since it was on their patch, to pass it on to their Hrystic counterparts to use as they saw fit.

[Christoslavia]

Imperial Coast Guard Cutter Tremendous

Hrystic Arctic

Captain Hazard did not like that the ship had been out for so long, he did not like that the research team had been out so long, and he especially did not like the jagged, dagger-like chunks of ice encroaching on his beautiful new $100 million ship. He had a gut feeling, and the common sense to know that someone's sensors had picked up their lone vessel in an endless ice shelf, close to international waters but just inside the claimed territory of a northern nation.

Now whether all that ice belonged to them or not was a point for the irredentists to argue about in lecture halls. In his 25 years in the Coast Guard fighting pirates and smugglers and the occasional Chen Navy gunboat, he had never been more nervous. The steely gaze that penetrated the thick blanket of snow beyond the windows of the bridge betrayed a feeling of unease. It was a tossup as to whether the Demetish, Rothians, or Hrythingians would send someone to investigate if they stayed put long enough. Nothing happened out here, and that is exactly why the presence of their cutter could excite someone who would otherwise pay no mind.

"Lieutenant Richtofen, minimize our radar signature as low as possible. I don't want any unwanted guests... for now"

"Aye Captain", the young, boyish looking officer, experienced but not visibly showing the gruff of a seaman, set to work on shutting off non-vital systems and cutting down radio and sonar signals, only keeping what was sufficient to keep the team in contact.

The Captain ran over the pre-planned scenario in his head. If they were found and boarded, they were to explain that this was strictly a scientific mission, sanctioned by the legislature and executive as well as the concurrence of the Joint Chiefs. On their way to the research zone in international waters they must have gone off course and ended up in whoever's territory. The reason that the vessel was military and not civilian was more political than anything. He would explain that the Assembly demanded the new icebreakers be put to use under whatever test the Coast Guard to come up with to prove it wasn't a waste of money. That the Imperial Coast Guard had the authority to lease it's ships to other Agencies in peacetime and did so to the Imperial Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, providing a military escort for their research. If all was well at that point, he would ask kindly that they be allowed to rendezvouz with auxiliary ships on their way from Naval Station Trest in Murovanka, and upon return he would immediately send a cable to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Christoslavian Embassy in Demetland and allow Ambassador Merkel to explain and offer apologies for the mishap.

If things did not go that peacefully, then he would have to kindly explain to whatever would be captors that the boarding of a Christoslavian Civilian Leased Vessel with military personnel constituted a hostile act and he would have no choice but to send a distress signal to the nearest fleet, which all things considered was quite large.

He prayed that the latter wouldn't happen.

Naval Station Trest
Christoslavian 2nd Fleet

As per the Admiral's orders, the small fleet of auxiliaries had been inspected stern to keel, with practice emergency drills ran by the crew to keep them sharp. Admiral Daughtry was a typical flag officer, hell-bent on keeping his sailors spick and span, punctual. He was methodical in everything he did, he did not skip any detail no matter how minor. Some admired it, others lampooned it, even his fellows in the Admiralty, but no doubt he was well respected as a military commander for the way he kept such order among whatever command he held. The man was rock solid, and operated like clockwork, unfortunately due to the ever changing and ad hoc nature of war, he had the occasional trouble keeping up with the chaos, and yet still held firm.

The fleet designated Task Force 17 consisted of one Replenishment Class Fast Combat Support Ship, two Dominator Class Heavy Guided Missile Frigates serving as escort carriers, and one Purgatory Class Cruiser. Junior Admiral Juniper Grassley led the Task Force out of port the second the order was communicated, and headed North for the East Ice Shelf. They were to hold just inside the Demetish Exclusive Economic Zone until they knew that either the Tremendous was coming, or that something was wrong. There was a day and a half between them and the Tremendous, they set sail just as the Icebreaker signaled they were 4 hours from the ice shelf.

[Hrythingia]

Patrol Team 3, Reindeer Platoon, Hrythwalda’s Own Bone-Scythes (Saaneqvissaq)
Chiefdom of Flæþúrƿang
The Corporal took the passports, and quickly leafed through them. After finding all the pages blank in the first one he threw it to the ground in exasperation. Then the next, then the next after that.
“Orca!” He exclaimed, his face rising up to meet their eyes, his own luminals blazing with fury. The Hrythingas and indeed their Kaluuq subjects such as he and Qumuq were intensely paranoid about invasion from a foreign dictatorship and had a strong distaste for most things ‘foreign’. ‘Orca’ meaning orc or ogre -a common term used for foreigners reflected this severe fear and near hatred. And the dogs, sniffing about, could not have chosen a better time to make a discovery of their own. One began frisking about Ioannos, lunging for where it knew a firearm might be but could not see it. Whilst the other headed for where he smelt the other armed soldiers concealed behind the tarpaulin, barking. Qumuq flicked the safety catch on his rifle off.
Immuq, with a grim face barked too:
“Éoƿ cnéoƿa benæmaþ! Æt þæt eorð! Nú!” He roared, sending a spray of spittle, gesturing with his hand also to tell them to kneel on the ground. He turned briefly to Qumuq and spoke in his native Kaluuq.
“Oqarasuafigaraa toqqavik assut! Assut!”
Qumuq leant into his radio.

---

Túxhranƿíc (Walrus Bay), Capital of Seolhígoþ, Hrystic Arctic
“Just er.. get us the usual mess of seafood please, and two iced beers. Thank you” Demanded Lord Eadgar Caldísen as he took his seat in the remarkably high end eatery that was the ‘Bonehouse’ -a former storage hall turned culinary miracle. Lord Caldísen was the Undercyning or ‘Viceroy’ of Seolhígoþ and a close friend of the current Hrythwalda. He was a thin and tall man with sunken eyes and grey hair. His face was riven with wrinkles and was oddly weathered for a man of such noble birth. It was testament to the weather of his posting and it’s strain. He was accompanied by a short native man, a local strongman in the city- controlling much of the fishing and whaling.
“So, Essuaq, thank you first for joining m-” The Lord, was interrupted by a vibrating in his suit pocket.
“These bloody things, always plugged in these days, sorry about this..” He exclaimed, standing up. He listened briefly, before paling. He took his face away from the phone briefly.
“Sorry sir, this is urgent. Very urgent.”
Two men, Hrythingas, ran in, one in a suit with an overcoat and another in ceremonial dress uniform sat the Viceroy down. Lord Caldísen peered up at them in shock.
“You’ve heard this?” He whispered in an alarmed tone at them.
“Yes, replied the soldier, the two crossed curved blades on his busby badge showing that he was an officer in the native ‘Hrythwalda’s Own Bome-Scythes’. “You must respond now my lord.” He continued. “This is a clear attack, a landing party several miles north of this new icebreaker. Two small landing parties. These are recces into the new oil region. They must be warded off.” The Viceroy nodded.
“Despatch a considerable armed response to the northern intruders. I want them alive and in for questioning. As for the icebreaker, I want a fighter sortie over it immediately. Ward them off.” He replied down the phone. When the two beers arrived he quickly drained them with much ease before setting into the large plate of food that just came from the kitchen: tearing off a crab claw to eat, guzzling down three oysters and scoffing a handful of pickled herrings. He patted his stomach and sat down to finish it off, eyes sparkling with glee.

---

Déorþyfel Airbase, Chiefdom of Scræfclúdas, Seolhígoþ
A slow mournful siren echoed over the tarmac as four pilots rushed from barracks towards the hangers where their Gósheafoc (Goshawk) interceptor jets were ready and waiting, their technicians in green overalls standing by to help the pilots into their aircraft. This was 003 Flight, the the rapid air response unit responsible for countering immediate breaches of Hrystic sovereignty in the Arctic. They were well drilled into getting off the runway as quickly as possible, with frequent competitions to see which crew was the most time efficient. They were already fuelled, last minute adjustments were made and after taxiing along the runway, the four jets took off, roaring as they soared into the dark sky, a comet of blue flame burning behind them.
“Flight 003 is now airborne, proceeding to target at coordinates 668428, Captain Hárafot over.” Confirmed the Flight CO as they flew over the tundra towards where the icebreaker had made its entry.
“Roger that Flight 003, this will be a procedure 29, supersonic boom them before making a return sortie. If they show no signs of retreat then you may engage the target with Hlynra missiles. Godspeed, Déorþyfel out.”
It was not long before the ship became present on their distant radar, the crew enjoying their blissful ignorance as the quad of jets lowered their altitude drastically one by one.
“Flight 003, prepare to initiate sonic boom over the bow of target.”
“Aye captain.” Came the reply; and shortly after, at a minimal height over the ship the four fighters made their supersonic jump. The Captain, as the jets made their return sortie, watched the icebreaker for any response; they were likely shocked and may have sustained damage even.
“Flight 003, prepare for a second sonic boom over bow of target. And on my command, be ready to arm and lock your Hlynra missiles.” The jets made their return, nearly skimming the water, and veered up to go over the bow and made their boom again, a clap of thunder over the otherwise silent plains of ice and water.

---

Heohstólsetl, Seat of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh
The courtiers became deeply amused at the Demetish cavalry officer’s remarks about the ‘queer fellows over there’. So despite Lord Rammford’s best efforts to subtly whisk them into a seat near the Hrythwalda they now became the centre of attention. Wittingly or unwittingly the officer had set in motions things which could not be reversed. The older and wiser men less prone to mead-induced rash vivaciousness sat back to watch the spectacle unfold as they knew it would. It was started by a very fat old man in tail coats, a Thane from East Hrystia. He began thumping his jug of mead (indeed, a jug so that the servants wouldn’t need to keep topping him up) on the table slowly, followed by almost overtime else, thumping their mead mugs on the tables in rhythm.
“Go the kitchen get a knife!” Shouted one.
“Lop off a swine’s bristly cock!” Came the roaring unison reply in tune with the thumping.
“Give it to the gaggle of queers!” Shouted the voice again.
“Make ‘em chomp it make ‘em swallow!” And again came the chorus. The Hrythwalda quickly preoccupied his mouth with an oversized clump of bread or else he would give in to uncontrolled laughter -as indeed, he was greatly amused.
Lord Rammford looked at the OS delegation with eyes of pure pity, before casting his face up to the roof in order to avoid them seeing the broad smile which he couldn’t stop appearing on his face.
“Dreadfully sorry about this chaps, it can get a bit loud in here sometimes.” He apologised, catching the Hrythwalda’s eye and gesturing with a finger over his neck. The Hrythwalda grinned the nodded solemnly, standing up amidst the clanging of crockery and shouting.
“GENTLEMEN!!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’m sure our guests feel right at home after that welcome. Indeed, may I invite the Delegation from the Organised States to sit at the High Table...”
The Hrythwalda turned to look at them, the first time he had properly done so. He caught their eye- which commoners were not supposed to do. And these men were certainly ‘common’. As he waited for them to take their seats an aide-de-camp in a scarlet tunic and tall black bearskin from the 1st Spear Guards approached him from behind and muttered something very quietly.
“An icebreaker?” Replied Wynmar slightly louder than he had been addressed. The aide nodded and continued.
“Well yes, if it makes no movements please do send it down into ‘sea-realm’.” He replied curtly, sarcastically invoking the concept that the depths of the sea according to many Hrythingas were a different part of the world from ‘Middle-Earth’ as they called it.

[Greater Themis]

The sudden anger of the formerly pleasant pair of men surprised Ioannos, the incoherent shouting from the two men in front of him stunning him for a second. A raised rifle pointed at him was enough for him to raise his hands, slowly backing down.
'I don't know what's wrong – I'm friendly. Friend. No harm.'

The two men were fixated on him – one speaking into the radio in rapid local tongue whilst the other warily looked over the chief engineer. The dogs however were more aware of the real threats, one excitedly barking as it tried to get at one of the armed men hidden in a tent. Nikolai had himself received the attention of the other as it tried to dig out his rifle, excited as if it were a leg of meat.
'Security detail, break cover.'

Whilst Ioannos inadvertently did his best, unwittingly, to play the panicked idiot, kneeling amongst the heap of passports tossed on the snow, the two men could hardly be aware of the security detail approaching. From behind a parked truck, and from out of an unzipped tent, two of the armed men slowly advanced, rifles raised and aimed at the armed interlopers. Nikolai's hand went to his belt, resting on a knife should he need to use it on the increasingly frustrated dog. He knew some phrases of the local language, hopefully enough to defuse the situation.

''To seh campƿæpen dune! Esower roðor ymbhammen.''

It was that point the radio operator would have turned to see the barrel of an RA-10 rifle directly aimed at him, its bearer five paces off kneeling in the snow that had masked his approach. His colleague the Corporal would have similar noticed from his side a rifle barrel aimed from behind a truck, aimed directly at his heart. Hopefully Nikolai's accent and poor grammar would not prevent the message he wanted from getting across.

''Dreopian eower campƿæpen ðonne scrîðan.''

Across from him, he could see the other dog digging away at their hide, trying to dig out the fourth armed man within. He hoped that dog would be called back – the last thing he wanted was for them to shoot the dogs. Nikolai pointed at the interloper's rifles, gesturing for them to be lowered. He didn't want any sudden movements - much as he knew they all shared his degree of restraint, the last thing he wanted was for the two to be shot for any excited actions.

''ðêana!''

[Christoslavia]

Hrystic Arctic
Team 1

A lean fellow, ballooned to twice his size by the bright orange winter coat, stumbled hurriedly to the Team leader,

"We have what we need"

"Alright, what are you waiting for, let's get out of here"

On the shelf the team sniper zoomed in with his X-450 Bolt-Action, amused that whoever the Hrythingians found, they were shitting their pants most likely with guns and dogs in their face. The sniper quickly slid the rifle onto his shoulder, and the duo of spotter and sniper ran back to the snowmobiles. As the engines "roared" to life, despite the fact they were specially made to emit as little sound as possible, the team sped back to the Tremendous. Everything was fine as it was, yet to their immediate surprise, the radio buzzed to life.

"This is Captain Hazard of the ICGC Tremendous, Hrythingian Jets have spotted us and are descending for a fly by, sonic-"

"Captain?"

"Dammit, sonic booms", On the bridge of the Tremendous, Captain Hazard reeled in pain as his ears popped and the sturdy man lost his balance, almost tripping over himself.

"We're coming to you, meet us at Coordinates 1181, if we don't move know those bastards will sink us"

"Roger Captain"

The Team leader signalled the snowmobiles to move double time, they were done if they didn't get there fast.

ICGC Tremendous

"Captain, 4 fighters moving in for a fly by!

"Hold steady!"

The fighters descended like Valkyries one by one, and without hesitation flew low over the bow of the ship, emanating sonic booms that outright disoriented if not injured several of the crew.

"Sir" the Lieutenant slurred as he tried to recover from the pounding of a mach 4 fly by, "Sir, they're coming in for a second run"

"Cover!"

The second boom hit as hard as the first, Captain Hazard clawed for his radio to contact the team, where the hell were they?

This is Captain Hazard of the ICGC Tremendous, Hrythingian Jets have spotted us and are descending for a fly by, sonic-", he breathed heavily, straining to focus his vision, "Dammit, sonic booms. We're coming to you, meet us at Coordinates 1181, if we don't move know those bastards will sink us"

"Lieutenant!", he barked, "Move us 10 degrees starboard, we're leaving! Warrant Officer Schneider, activate the SAM Battery and hold fire unless I say otherwise"

"Aye Captain" said the two officers in chorus

The behemoth vessel started moving slowly, crunching through the ice that found a home on the hull. Inching at first, it slowly picked up steam and moved at a steady pace away from the jets before they had a chance to decide on blowing them up.

Team 1

The snowmobiles ripped through sheet ice and packed snow in blizzard conditions, the GPS being the only way of finding the ship and not getting outright abandoned in this winter hellhole. Over an hour had passed in the biting frost and still nothing.

"Where the hell is it?"

"We should be right on top of it!"

"Full stop!"

The riders braked hard, the GPS incessantly beeping that it was no more than a half a kilo away. One by one they looked up however,

"Jesus H. Christ", The Tremendous was indeed on top of them, and was far more Tremendous from the bottom. A White and Gold behemoth appeared like a ghost out of thin air, shattering the ice, the bellowing foghorn taking no pity on the team's eardrums.

"That's our right, link up with the autocranes!"

One by one they were hoisted aboard, rushing to their positions across the ship. Suffice to say, it was likely they had been tailed even if the jets left them alone.

"Alright, everyone aboard? We're heading for open ocean, if we're lucky then the Task Force will already be there to meet us, if we aren't, I'd prefer not to think about it."

IMPERIAL EASTERN COMMAND
Murovanka

Two women of the same height and build, with the same neatly cropped platinum blonde hair, the same piercing blue eyes, the same concentrated stare as they focused on what was ahead, walked briskly in formation, rhythmically to the clack of their dress shoes on the cold tile. These were Navy women, their name tags glistening on their perfectly pressed uniforms, complementing the rich gold embroidered rank on their shoulders. The woman on the left, a Senior Lieutenant, the woman on the right a Commodore. They rapidly approached an ordinary looking door, with an ordinary looking sign. If it weren't located in one of the most highly secured areas of the building, it could have just been another office

SUPREME GENERAL DARIUS RAYMOND

3 sharp knocks elicited a simple "Enter". The two walked in, giving a sharp salute before being put at ease. They handed over a manila envelope, emblazoned in bold red TIER 1: CLASSIFIED. The General nodded and dismissed the two, who executed an about face and exited swiftly.

The Supreme General leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward and poured over the file, donning his reading glasses and squinting intently. The contents were definitely of interest, and of concern.

The General rubbed a hand on his shiny bald head and continued reading. A cable directly from the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, and at the bottom, the signature of Ajax Santosa, SUPREME OVERLORD. All forces stationed in Murovanka were to be put immediately on high alert, and all air and sea units prepped and ready for deployment on a moment's notice. Raymond commanded 50,000 soldiers in Wanka alone, and as daunting as the task appeared, it would be done flawlessly for the Empire.

Task Force 17

The Admiral had ordered a full stop several hours from the frozen North, just inside Demetish waters. Every sailor was ready for potential combat and all systems were armed to the knowledge of this shipboard, but on the outside, there were no apparent hostile intentions. There were to be no hostile actions either, but it never hurt someone to be prepared for the worst.

Imperial Economic Council
The Citadel

The chatter was lively between all the faces and friends gathered in a spacious conference room, despite the small gathering of only 7 members of the council. Some talked of policy and others of matters more personal in respectful yet jovial tones.

Then in hobbled a man propped by a cane, who had aged considerably yet stood upright as possible and still commanded any room he entered

"You may be seated", spoke the man with the intonation that he would not repeat himself.

The elderly Ajax Santosa took his seat at the head of the table, and called the meeting to order. Looking around the room at his colleagues, he promptly began,

"As you all have been made aware, there is oil and natural gas in the Arctic." Waiting to see if whispers and chatter would erupt, he continued,

"We have a fine grasp on the oil reserves of the south, but the north proves a very strategic means to capitalizing on all the oil this world has to offer. The problem is that it lies strictly in the sea boundaries of Hrythingia, and to an extent Demetland. While we cannot access the resources ourselves, it is vital to establish contracts with the proper parties before other nations get trigger happy."

The room nodded in agreement.

"And so, I am sending Wilhelm Smith, Minister of Energy, Adolf Blüchen, CEO of ImpOil, and Peter Shaw, Imperial Trade Representative, to the Court of the Hrythwalda himself."

One of the members abruptly spoke up, "Sir, if I may, the courts are famed for their um...unorthodoxy. And there is no guarantee that they will return our delegation."

"I am not afraid to threaten the Marian Covenant with economic and actual warfare if need be. However your assessment is correct. This is why, I have sent a message to the Demetish and Rothian Embassies here, asking if either would be happy to accompany the delegation, and vouch for our honesty. And to ensure the safe return of our people. I do not intend on wasting lives here but I trust each of you are up to the task. Besides, Adolf is a mountain boy, his gruff should be of use" He said with a chuckle and a wry smile.

"Dismissed"

[HMS White Whale]

Office of Trade, Department of Foreign Affairs, Frontera, Tenochte

The Office of Trade sat quietly within the Fronteran headquarters of the Department of Foreign Affairs. Unlike its Internal counterpart, foreign trade wasn’t exactly a priority. Deals had been struck shortly after the overthrow of the old Communist government, but trade had stagnated to a comfortable, if underwhelming, level. All of this was much to the chagrin of the ambitious Chief of Trade, Santiago Garcia, a man with a common name whose title was even shared by a few others in different Departments. These and other simple facts contributed to why it was a shock when he and his relatively small Office received a call on the direct landline to the President.

Chief Garcia shot a nervous look at his secretary, who seemed to be in equal dismay at the shrill ringing coming from the red telephone. He scrambled out of his chair and past his desk, taking a pile of papers with him, towards the source of the noise. Shakily, he took the call: “Hola… Presidente, this is Santiago Garcia, C-Chief of Trade in the Department of Foreign Affairs. Whatever you need, we can get it done!”

President Rasmus Mardh’s soft chuckle could be heard through the phone before beginning. “Well, that’s good to hear, because I have a very… special job for you. Our mutual friend, Minister Mansfield, head of your Department, has recently heard something interesting. It seems the northern savages in Hrythingia have found large quantities of oil and natural gas. I want as much of it as possible. The main issue with this is we have practically no contact with the moose-fuckers, and zero trade. That’s where you come in. You’ve run your Office without incident for years, so I’ve decided to give you a certain amount of autonomy in the matter. Get someone out there, I don’t care who, just someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing, and get their ‘king’ or whoever else to the negotiating table.”

Santiago didn’t know what to think. Securing new trade routes? Opening up diplomatic relations with strange nations? Sure, they were technically in his job description, but he had no real experience in the matter. Aside from this, there was another issue he saw. “Sir… Presidente, if I may ask, why go to the arctic for oil? We have sizeable, untapped fields further inland and off the Gharbadan coast, why go-“

“Don’t shit where you eat.” The President interrupted.

“E-Excuse me?”

“Don’t shit where you eat. Why would we tear up our rainforests, disrupt our agriculture, and piss off every hippy in the goddamn country when we can get oil somewhere else?” Mardh took a short, shallow breath before finishing his thought: “Just don’t let me down, otherwise, best case scenario, it’ll be your job. Worst case… I’ll talk to you about it in person if the time comes.”

The Chief of Trade’s face twisted from concern into outright horror. “Y-Yes, sir! It will be done!”

“Excellente. Pick any company not actively shooting at anyone, one with experience in the north. Find a ship, some gifts, and some winter coats. Stay in regular contact, and don’t fuck this up.”

Santiago could hardly hear the President’s orders over the sound of his beating chest, but he hastily affirmed his ability to get the job done: “Yes, sir. Of course, sir! Thank you for this opportunity!”

“Don’t fuck this up. Adios.”

Santiago heard the click of the receiver before he could say farewell. But it wasn’t necessary, the President entrusted him with this important duty, so he’d get it done. “Janice!” He called to his secretary, “Get someone in the Department of Defense on the phone!” He struggled to not slip on the papers he had accidentally thrown about the office earlier as he returned to his desk. Before he sat down, he added, “And find out what the best wine in this goddamn country is!”

G.T.S. Icecarver, Tenochtan Northern Outpost, West of Northern Auria

Captain Kiara Abarca was surprised to get the call. A trade mission wasn’t her forte, and neither was diplomacy. But she had fought a number of skirmishes in the Far North and the Far South, was familiar with the wildlife and some of their people, and, perhaps most importantly, was one of the few Tenochtans accustomed to the lower temperatures.

But it was because of her knowledge of the Far North that she questioned her superiors choosing her. Hrythingia was massively conservative and she suspected they would less than welcoming to a female officer leading, well, anything. However, orders were orders, and she would follow them and carry them through just like any other soldier. She had taken a resupply ship to a Tenochtan outpost west of Auria with a few subordinates, then gather a little over a hundred soldiers onto the only icebreaker in the entire navy bearing a “taste of Tenochte.”

It was a common subject of debate during its construction towards the end of the old dictatorship, roughly 15 years ago. Tenochte didn’t seem to have any real need for an icebreaker; most people assumed it was to keep shipwrights busy during a bit of a downturn, but it was built and maintained nonetheless. And, as Captain Abarca could see, it was all in working order. It wasn’t heavily armed, but it had twin anti-air turrets and was large enough for plenty of soldiers and guns. It should serve their purposes of a peaceful trade mission well enough, though.

As for what they were bringing was a matter of debate. The Chief of Trade wanted wine, but Captain Abarca doubted the Hrythinga had a taste for it. Some strong rum, on the other hand, was powerful enough to keep anyone warm in the winter. But why not both? And, on the track of winter warmth, tiger furs, seal furs and leather from the southern tip of Cestria, as well as high quality heartwood from the rainforest, various metal ingots from mountain mines. Nothing perishable due to the indefinite amount of time they’d be spending treading international waters, but what could be done?

They were also bringing a translator with them. There are unsurprisingly few Tenochtans that speak the Hrythinga language, but Captain Abarca managed to find someone on short notice that would do suitably. Either way, she would be brushing up on the language as much as possible.

“Captain!” One of her lieutenants approached, “The ship is ready for departure.”

“Good,” The tall brunette Captain responded, “then let’s take this show on the road.”

As the G.T.S. Icecarver set off for colder waters, it was evident it would be a long trip. However, anything for blood and country. As soon as they were in range, they’d be radioing Hrythinga, and would be in international waters until they were either invited to dock or threatened to leave.

The Far North was a shit place.

[Organized States]

Heohstólsele, Seat of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh.


"Sir, I can neither confirm nor deny that you may be correct in that regard. Our government may or may not be paying attention to some unsavory actors in the Far-North. Ones who do not have the same interest in global security that we do." the Colonel responded, stating his point in the more academic tone that he had been taught in the War College at Carlisle Barracks. His studies there had specialized in the use of Special Operations Forces in austere, Arctic environments.

"What I can say is that my government is prepared to offer a significant military aid package for the more ill-equipped forces of your Fyrd, including training by the Colonel's troops on certain tactics, along with significant amounts of lethal and non-lethal aid. Of course, this will come with a concession that OS forces be allowed seasonal basing here and that OS companies are given preference in any particular deals with the Hrythwalda." the Ambassador said with a certain level of confidence that likely came from his years within the Foreign Service. That level of confidence was required to seal deals with foreign nations. The Ambassador was often forced to act as a kind of door-to-door salesmen, peddling his wares as being in the best interest of the Organized States and the other country involved. It took a certain level of tact. One that allowed to him mostly ignore the drunken ravings of the Hrythwalda and his court. As a Green Beret, on the other hand, the Colonel was largely familiar with the drunken ravings of large groups of people. It was almost similar to the bars outside of Fort Bragg.

The two men gracefully accepted the invitation to sit close to the Hrythwalda, which was certainly well appreciated, particularly considering the fact that things were about to get quite interesting up North, as noted by the long stream of secure text messages sent to the two OS representatives over the Iriduum network from the Embassy. "LARGE AMOUNTS OF WANKAN AND CHRISTOSLAVAN EMISSIONS DETECTED BY ELINT SATELLITES. SUGGEST MOVEMENT IMMINENT." read one subtly read by the emissaries underneath the table on their phones. Clearly something had disturbed the Hrythwalda himself, based on his mutterings to an aide-de-camp behind him. It was clear their hosts may have become aware of similar issues.

[Hrythingia]

Patrol Team 3, Reindeer Platoon, Hrythwalda’s Own Bone-Scythes (Saaneqvissaq)
Chiefdom of Flæþúrƿang
The worst fears of Corporal Immuq were confirmed, an armed party of trespassers that now outnumbered them. His eyes darted around him, at the frantic huskies and the rifle barrels aimed his way and at Qumuq.
“Qimmiqet!” He shouted at the barking dogs. “Siniisussaq!” The Corporal commanded, causing the huskies to shrink away, whimpering in disappointment. Immuq strained his ears to listen to the demands of the ‘researchers’ in their warped understanding of the Hrystic tongue. Had the situation not been so dire it might have been funny. It seemed they wanted him and Qumuq to drop their weapons. Carefully and slowly they lowered their assault rifles to the floor and put their hands in the air. It took every bone in Immuq’s body not to lash out in furious rage at the absurdity of the situation; surrendering to a foreign force on Hrystic soil. The men began backing off slowly.
“Móton ƿé úre dríhtnum besprecaþ eac..” The Corporal calmly explain as they walked backwards, making a phone call sign with his fingers before turning to walk to the snowmobiles parked some way off: having left their rifles in the Themiclesian camp.
Meanwhile, the help requested by Qumuq earlier began to soar over the ice-plain, Lord Caldísen having considerably increased its size due to the perceived threat of an attack. Qumuq has requested a mere few more snowmobiles. Now, a chinook and two Tysca-14 attack helicopters flew swiftly in the dark sky, lighting up the ground beneath them, the pilots scouring the land with their infrared cameras. The chinook lowered, bringing up a whirlwind of snow around it as the back door slowly opened and out crawled an armoured caterpillar truck with an automatic grenade launcher, the two crossed bone-knives beneath the head of caribou emblazoned on its side to mark it as a vehicle of the native ‘Hrythwalda’s Own Bone-Scythes’. It was followed by four snowmobiles each with two riders, the ones on the back with assault rifles locked and loaded, and then ten dismounted troops jogged out, each man holding two huskies on a leash and a weapon in the other. This force began moving quickly, though they had landed a little way off from the camp to give them time and space to prepare an attack. If it was necessary -for whilst the chinook had stopped to unload its cargo, the two Tyscas had carried on towards the camp.
“Tysca One, targets in just over five kilometres, raise elevation and prepare to deploy flares.”
“Copy that Tysca Two, receiving concentration of heat signatures.” The two helicopters roared over the camp, shining their beam over it, before rising high again and both released a spectacular display of decoy flares with spread for a while before fizzling out. Abs whilst the two original patrol soldiers jogged back to their own vehicles, the helicopters began circling the camp, just as a multitude of torches appeared in the distance: the cavalry was arriving.

Some way off, the Gósheáfoc jets began their third sortie over the bow retreating icebreaker. Damage to windows was clear and several crew members from the bridge seemed to be in pain. Captain Hárafot had hoped this was a lesson worth teaching: break the sovereignty of Hrythingia and Hrythingia will break you. He rummaged around for a small piece of card that had a paragraph of English written on it, before tuning the radio as the four jets cruised above the icebreaker.
“This is the Royal Hrystic Fleet Air Arm, you have intruded without permission into the Waldaric of Hrythingia. Any delay in a retreat from our land will result in the use of force against your vessel which may result in your seizure or even death. You must immediately vacate this vicinity or you will be fired upon. You will be fired upon.”
He then switched to a closed circuit to report back to base.
“This is Flight 003: the icebreaker has changed course and is headed away from our waters. Over.”
“Pursue it for 20 miles out of our waters. Any, any twattery at all from it and you will engage it with lethal force, understood? Déorþyfel out.”
“Copy that.”

---

Chapel of the Most Venerable Virgin, Residence of the Hrythwalda, Ernburh
The heavy wafting of incense followed the long line of priests, sacristans, monks and choristers as they processioned out of the chapel, the ancient stone chapel echoing with their polyphonic chanting of the final prayer of the choral vespers:
Te lucis ante términum,

rerum Creátor, póscimus,

ut sólita cleméntia

sis præsul ad custódiam.

Procul recédant sómnia

et nóctium phantásmata;

hostémque nostrum cómprime,

ne polluántur córpora.

Præsta, Pater omnípotens,

per Iesum Christum Dóminum,

qui tecum in perpétuum

regnat cum Sancto Spíritu.
Amen.
The chapel was very dimly lit, only a few candles up on the altar and one by the door, the rest going out with the procession. On one of the back pews, kneeling with his rosary, his hands slowly going over the beads was Cardinal Sƿyþgar Gósaxa: The Hrythwalda’s Secretary for Diplomacy and unofficially the head of FRIǷA (FRIWA: Friþ and Ƿiscian Ambyht; Security and Intelligence Office). FRIWA officially did not exist but was the closest thing Hrythingia had to a federal security agency and overseas spying. So essentially, Cardinal Gósaxa was chief-spymaster; which in a state as suspicious of foreigners as Hrythingia was was essentially the main occupation of anyone involved in diplomacy. Behind him, one of the great oaken doors creaked open and a tall well suited man in his forties entered, taking off his hat and leather gloves before brushing the snow off of his beaver fur lined overcoat. His brogues clacked on the cold stone before waiting for the cardinal to finish his prayers. He himself made a hasty genuflection before the altar and lit a candle before the statue of St. Michael the Archangel as he waited.
“Ah, Commander Grímƿrót.”
The man was startled, before suddenly bowing to the Cardinal, who was clad in his robes with a purple sash.
“You called for me Your Worship..”
“Yes. In a few hours, you will leave for Seolhígoþ. Some armed intruders are being apprehended as we speak. I need you to find everything there is about them, the motives and anything else. But I don’t want them to be heard of again: once you know all you can dispose of them quickly. I’ll deal with our public response. I expect with this recent discovery there’ll be a lot of this cockolorum -but if we come down with an iron fist now then we can ward off later rampagings. The Hrythwalda is very concerned: let’s not let his mind become too troubled. Take some other FRIWA operatives and use one of the underground bunkers, any useful intelligence you will deliver to me in a sealed envelope to me personally. You’d best pack a bag..” explained the elderly Cardinal in a silky voice, guiding the Commander to the door.
“Remember Commander, these intruders are not Hrythingas, they are hardly even men-folk. They are Orcish brutes, Godless and hoping to ravish the Creator’s good earth. Have no mercy on their bodies as you extract intelligence from them.”
The Commander clicked his heels and briskly made off into the wintry night, gazing across the courtyard where in the great hall he could see the golden warmth of the fire and a loud hum of chatter and cheer and best of all the aromas of stewing meat and vegetables, roasted flesh and endless barrels of mead.

Indeed, it was a cheersome night inside the great court of the Hrythwalda, where gathered at the tables were all the noblemen, important men of commerce, military officers, Bishops and foreign envoys, feasting on the boundless quantities of meat and drink: with bowls full of the great stew which was promptly refilled by the army of servants which hurried to and fro from the great fire pit, plates of roasted oxen with black rye bread and cheeses and hams, and mugs always full of amber mead which foamed over the sides. The Hrythwalda enjoyed few things better than watching his royal court feast in good spirit. Food, good company and drink. A thick fog of smoke billowed around too, not just from the fire which brewed the stew and roasted the oxen but from much of the court that smoked. They were mostly cigars. Hrythingia largely imported the tobacco and made its own cigars but the very rich did enjoy the odd Tenochtic cigar if they could get it.
Lord Rammford was amused by the near robotic response of the Colonel and the Ambassador as he guided him to the bench next to the Hrythwalda.
“The Fyrd is fairly well equipped for all intents and purposes: at least all the important units. Some of the units which are only called up in a dire emergency could do with some sprucing up a bit but they are not professional soldiers, they are more just armed villagers fulfilling a feudal oath to bear arms for their Lord. Nonetheless your offer will not be forgotten; Cardinal Gósaxa will be very interested in talking to you. He’ll be sling a tad later.” He said as he seated the two men next to the Hrythwalda.
“Your Lordship, the Ambassador from the Organised States and Colonel Lambert. They have some proposals...”
The Hrythwalda turned slowly to face them, offering each his hand, grasping firmly and shaking vigorously.
“Welcome to my Court Gentlemen, you handled yourselves well in the face of some of our noisier... hospitality..”
He paused as a host of servants came towards the two men. First they filled the two men’s steel mugs to the brim with the sweet mead till the foam poured over the edges, then ladled into their bowls the thick stew filled with all sorts of game and farmed meat, in addition to vegetables and herbs. Five slices of the black tube bread were put on their plates: still warm out of the oven and a dollop of fresh cow’s butter, then came heaps of carved ox meat, along with some crispy caramelised skin from the thyme and plum wine glaze as they were on the high table. Lastly they spooned some ‘ƿyrtcrem’ onto the meat: a fresh goat’s milk cream mixed with thinly sliced cucumber, chives, garlic, and mint.
“So Gentlemen, what brings you to my Court? You are not regulars..”

[Demetland]

Plas-Sant-Silin, Residence of the Earl of Glynllygad, Distain and Prime Minister of His Majesty, Caergwrtheyrn.

'In conclusion, sir, it is obvious that only trouble will come of this new discovery,' explained Bleddyn Prysgewy. 'It was clear from the beginning that such a large discovery would elicit significant interest from, shall we say, external parties, but I think it is now clear that we must not be surprised if conflict erupts.'

From behind his grand oaken desk, the Distain glanced around the assembled company, comprising the secretaries for foreign affairs, the army, and navy. The Distain, Iorwerth ap Rhiwallon, Earl of Glynllygad, was the chief minister of the Demetish government. He was a tall man, almost 70, but his body remained thin, if not muscular, while his face had retained a healthy complexion in contrast to most men of his age and class, whose cheeks were reddened by years of indulgence and whose bellies had been fattened by gluttony.

'Well then, gentlemen, how long do we have?'

'A couple of weeks, perhaps,' said the foreign secretary, gravely. 'In my view we have to start preparing for war, the sooner the better. If there is already a Christoslavian task group prowling about in the north sea—'

'Hmm!' snorted Gruffudd Foel. True to his surname, the secretary of the navy was a short, fat man, and had a pugnacious temper. 'They wouldn't dare cause trouble.'

The Distain shot a disapproving glance at his squabbling colleagues, before turning his gaze expectantly on Prysgewy. 'Well, Bleddyn ap Hywel, you're the adviser. Pray advise us.'

'I think Gruffudd ap Dwywg is right,' reflected the mandarin. 'The Christoslavian ships represent a small force. They are few in number and far from home. We'd make short work of them if it came to blows. But with respect, gentlemen, those ships are not what will start a war, if there is going to be one, which as I have said is not unlikely.'

'What, then?' demanded the secretary of the army, sitting carelessly in his chair, his legs crossed as he slumped back, nonchalantly dangling a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was Gwynllyw Clotryn, something of a rising star in the government. Politically astute, handsome, and rich, Clotryn was both the scion of an ancient dynasty and popular with the country as well as the government's supporters in the capital.

'It is possible that an illegal occupation of Hrythingian soil, or perhaps I should call it Hrythingian ice, may be about to occur. Indeed, we have reason to believe that incursions have already been made.'

'By the Christoslavians?' asked the Distain.

'It is very likely.'

The foreign secretary opened his mouth as if to speak, but Foel anticipated him. 'Then it's very likely that those Christoslavians - or whoever it is - won't be alive much longer...' An outrageous grin took over his face as he reflected on the likely loss of life. Demetish signals intelligence had, of course, picked up evidence of the Themidians' Arctic adventures, but it would have been impossible for such information to have reached the highest levels of government so quickly, and in any case many thought it dishonourable to pry too closely into the affairs of their allies. Nevertheless, everyone remembered the occasion several years ago when a pair of foreign explorers had inadvertently strayed into Hrystic territory went missing until it transpired they had been imprisoned on charges of espionage, and the allegations of heavy-handedness that followed. If they brutalised unarmed civilians, then any more sinister interlopers would surely meet with even harsher treatment.

'They are as hospitable as Cyclopes when it comes to intruders,' quipped the Distain. 'But Gruffudd ap Dwywg, can the navy spare more ships for the Arctic? some high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft wouldn't go amiss either.' The earl stood up as the door suddenly opened, and an official quickly approached him. 'What is it?'

'A message from the embassy in Christoslavia, sir,' said the official, who quickly laid the document on the desk before making his excuses and leaving. The foreign secretary reached over and scooped it up. He scanned the document intently, the curious expression on his face contorting into a bemused smile.

'Hah! the mendacious little...' he stopped himself from going further. 'The Christoslavians are asking us to establish their bona fides with Hrythingia. We'll do it, of course,' he continued, chucking to himself.

'Let the Hrythingians know the truth of the matter,' commanded the Distain. 'But where were we? It is too soon to make any hurried preparations for war; so long as the navy is prepared to eject these Christoslavians.' He looked at his watch. 'Now gentlemen, I shan't keep you from your business; I'm off to dinner. We'll discuss this further at Cabinet to-morrow.'

At sea, N. W. of the Cenian Isles.

The sleek shaped blue-grey hull of the Cenanic guided missile destroyer Gormesol slid gracefully through the waves, speeding away from her port of Castell-Wyry on the western coast of Cenain. First she turned north, passing quickly through the Eblish straits out into the great deep of the ocean. Once out on the open seas, she bore to the north-west at thirty knots on course to intercept the Christoslavian ships, and rapidly began to close the distance to the task group.

This was the standing fleet escort, ready to monitor any foreign vessels whose presence in the seas around Demetland was viewed with suspicion. The presence of such a task group was not in itself unusual; foreign warships passed by many times a year. Most of these, however, had clearly apparent destinations and obvious reasons for sailing through Demetish waters. Although they had some suspicions that the Christoslavians' business might be less than honest, the Demetish navy had no excuse to act except to carry on as if they thought the task group were there for perfectly innocent reasons.

'Christoslavian task group is now inside Demetish exclusive economic zone.' announced one of the lieutenants on the bridge. 'Composition two guided missile frigates, one cruiser, and a supply ship. Their position is --- ---, bearing 316 degrees.'

'Maintain intercept course,' ordered the captain. He watched with satisfaction as the foreign vessels came into range of Gormesol's Môr-Dryfer anti-ship missile batteries, about 60 nautical miles away. Since they could track vessels from hundreds of miles away, sending a ship to escort the Christoslavians was practically unnecessary. Nevertheless, the navy liked to make a point of showing the flag, demonstrating that they had the strength to respond to any incursion. Now the captain remembered an old proverb of the artillery: the closer you are, the safer you are. The paradox amused him. In case anything did happen, two more destroyers and five frigates had been taken from stations in the south and moved to northern ports from which they could better support the units already operating near the Arctic.

As the destroyer approached, she signalled to the Christoslavian vessels the usual courtesies, then maintained her position some miles distant.

[Greater Themis]

Hrystic Arctic

The silence of the standoff could have been cut with a knife. Rigid, the rifleman crouched like statues in the snow, the gentle flurry of wind dropping a dusting of snowflakes onto motionless shoulders. Gloved fingers rested on triggers, ready to loose a shot at any moment. It seemed to last forever, before the two native gunmen slowly and deliberately signalled their submission. Calling the dogs back to them, they backed away, anger and humiliation radiant from them as their boots crunched in the snow.

Any resolution to this situation was temporary. In the distance, the gentle susurration of the wind carried a dull, repetitive thudding, of rotors slicing through ice-cold air. The flashing strobes of three helicopters rose over the distant horizon, a signal for the disarmed natives to sprint back to their vehicles, dogs galloping at their heels. Ioannos had barely picked himself out of the snow where he had been cowering, only to be confronted by this new reality, and had frozen where he stood.
''Dymas, Iacos, take the trucks and the civilians, and head to the RV point on the coast now. Message the TNS Atromitos and see if they can organise a pick up. Try and organise the rabble into two separate groups, so they have more difficulties in track us.''

The two men nodded, shouting orders as they sprinted to the trucks. The camouflage sheeting was ripped off, engines thankfully starting despite the cold. Smoke billowed with a roar from the exhausts as they herded the last of them to the vehicles, physically throwing the research team leader into the back of one of the vehicles.
''Two volunteers to stay and destroy what's left!''

As the trucks began to move, throwing up snow and slush as the wheels turned, the attack helicopters roared overhead, flares lighting up the dark sky with a blinding red glow. The men left in the camp threw themselves down, crawling into what cover was afforded as light rained down around them.
''Pieter, get to the dugout now, and keep watch.''
As the flare extinguished, the last two remaining from the security detail picked themselves up, sprinting between the abandoned tents and equipment. Whilst Pieter took cover, sliding on his back down the small rat hole deep into the packed snow, Nikolai ran over to where the ammunition was stored, stuffing a couple handful of clips into his cargo pockets. His next call of attention was the crate of dynamite, which he began dragging the hundred metres between their firing position and the main camp.
''Get everything in a heap here - we're burning everything we can, before retreating.''
He looked up, noting his two volunteers had picked up the abandoned assault rifles, grimacing to himself. Whether they had considered the risk or not, they had marked themselves as combatants. He hoped their military service had been recent enough that they could handle a firearm safely. As the helicopters flew past again, their wide circle following both the trucks and their fevered efforts, the sound of snowmobiles added to the din.

''Pieter, fighting retreat. Effective fire on any targets you see until you get the call to move.''
He left the two researchers to finish stacking equipment, pouring kerosene from the stoves over the loose stack whilst one fitted the electric detonators to the dynamite. Whilst it was supposed to be used in seismic surveys, safe enough that they could be considered glorified birdscarers, the eleven charges remaining in the box would be enough to deal with the remaining electronic equipment and radios not already loaded onto the trucks.

As Nikolai dove into the snow, using his arms to build what little cover he could behind an existing drift, he heard a single, loud crack, as Pieter opened fire. His efforts quickened, as he waited for inevitable return fire.

--

International Waters, 80 NM off the Hrystic Arctic Coast

''Permission to address the bridge, sir!''
The urgency of the amateur radio watchman's intrusion into the TNS Atromitos' bridge was matched only by his enthusiasm, the first time he had evidently delivered important news.
''Go ahead.'' The Lieutenant on watch turned from the darkened view of the ocean ahead to the man, his dark navy jumpsuit hiding him in the red-lit gloom.

''Sir, Survey Group SITREP - as of five minutes ago, engaged in fighting retreat from Hrystic armed forces approximately 55 kilometres from RV point Echo, engaged by at least three times helicopters and two times men on foot. Shots not exchanged as of yet. Requesting evacuation.''
The officer turned to the navigation consoles, noting the lay of the land. Whilst out of RADAR range, the open channel broadcasts from the south had been heard easily between the local Air Force and an intruding vessel. The last thing the survey vessel needed was to be fighting off a flight of fast jets with a locker of rifles and GPMGs. Their travel away from the coastline had been the only reason so far he felt they had avoided any attention, and with heightened activity the last thing they needed was to travel back into the hornet's nest.

''Acknowledge their message, and organise a secure line with Asteria command. I think we'll need to wake the Captain for this.''

[Christoslavia]

ICGC Tremendous

"Captain, they're coming in for a third!"

His face strained with rage and confusion, he spat and roared "Raise them on the radio dammit!"

Before they had the chance, they were the recipients of first contact,

“This is the Royal Hrystic Fleet Air Arm, you have intruded without permission into the Waldaric of Hrythingia. Any delay in a retreat from our land will result in the use of force against your vessel which may result in your seizure or even death. You must immediately vacate this vicinity or you will be fired upon. You will be fired upon.”
He then switched to a closed circuit to report back to base.

"Dear God can't they see we've turned course?" Unfortunately it was hard to hear the complaining as the shattered windows shuttered abruptly, with several monitors embedded in the shielding buzzing to life so the bridge crew could see the outside.

Lieutenant Hrathen quickly sprinted to the radio, their only Hrythingian interpreter, and quickly tried to ease the situation. What he said was never written in Hrythingian because the external writer was fluent in only one other language and Old English wasn't one of them.

"This is the Imperial Christoslavian Coast Guard Cutter Tremendous Hull-Number WAGB-5, currently on lease to the Imperial Oceanic and Atmospheric Association. This is a civilian vessel repeat this is a civilian vessel present for a scientific expedition. We are lightly armed with a majority civilian crew.

We are turning back towards international waters. Please do not fire, this is a civilian vessel, we are leaving. Advise"

The Lieutenant held his composure well for someone who never had to consider the prospect of being blown up thousands of kilometers away from home where no one would ever find them. If there was a medal for it they deserved it.

With Team 1 safely aboard, they arguably had little to worry about as they gradually increased their speed to 22 knots, only hindered by the ice, and made way to contact Task Force 17.

Task Force 17

"Admiral, Demetish Destroyer in visual range. Likely they have other squadrons out waiting. Your orders?"

Junior Admiral Grassley stroked her bun, squinting out into the blinding blue sea towards the destroyer, doing a courtesy check. But in honesty they must have been waiting for the first excuse to sink us. It's not like their presence here was anything completely honest to be fair, but nonetheless even they would understand that this was en escort and nothing else.

"Raise them on the comms"

"Aye Admiral"

"Attention, this is Junior Admiral Juniper Grassley of the Imperial Christoslavian Navy Ship Holden CG-68. We are here to rendezvous with a civilian Arctic expedition aboard the Imperial Christoslavian Coast Guard Cutter Tremendous WAGB-5. Our orders are to escort the ship from this position and immediately return to Naval Station Trest, Murovanka."

The Demetish had the gist, and they were actually telling the complete truth. Whether or not they would want to shadow wasn't out of the question. Nothing needed to escalate.

[Hrythingia]

Chiefdom of Flæþúrƿang, Seolhígoþ, Hrystic Arctic
The crack of the shots from the Themidians invoked the hours upon hours of training of these well drilled native troops who immediately hit the hard snowy ground. One of the shots hit Qumuq through the knee and there was a crunch as he fell to the ground, reddening the white snow, before being hurriedly being dragged by Immuq towards the snowmobiles where they might take some cover. The roar of a Kaluuq sergeant however echoed across the snow-plain, and the stretch of land between the approaching ‘Bánscyða’ and the ‘researchers’ became lit up by streaks of tracer rounds as the native troops returned a punishing fire with two SMGs, four assault rifles and two assault rifles with grenade attachments whilst the two marksmen picked their targets to snuff out. One of the researchers who had picked up the abandoned rifles of the Corporal and Qamuq was the obvious target, lit up by the searchlight on the attack helicopter. He crumpled to the floor as his head essentially caved in, having been hollowed out by the high caliber round; the brains and fragments of tissue and skull leaking onto the lily-white snow, the hot gore steaming on the frozen tundra. As the armoured caterpillar truck fired three consecutive grenades into the rough direction of Pieter to keep him occupied, the ten troops stood up and advanced: spaced out and sprinting, the four with assault rifles had their bayonets attached whilst the 20 huskies bounded across the tundra barking and growling -hungry for flesh.

In the meantime the two trucks that tried to escape would meet an unhappy fate as the first one was hit by two ‘Wyrm’ missiles from the wings of the Tysca attack helicopter reducing it to a fiery mess of metal and chunklets of seared flesh, the sizzling blood hissing on the snow and the ruined carcass of one of its six passengers flew out of the chassis, looking like a rack of lamb on the barbecue with black char and exposed bone with burnt ends. The stench of blood, petrol and burning flesh reeked in the clear air -no doubt the birds of prey would come to investigate. The second truck was only slight more fortunate as the attack helicopter doubled round and fired a short burst from its machine gun head on into the truck, killing the two in the front instantly, reducing them to a smoking pink pulp and projecting their dark soul-filth onto what was left of the glass windscreen as the truck essentially burst into flames from the heavy rounds. Two of the men bailed out as they saw the first truck turn into a Phoenix and despite suffering severe burns and a broken leg survived: the other two in the back were roasted alive like quails in an oven, pan seared and doused with gas as their skin was flambéed before they could even scream. The four snowmobiles made great haste over the tundra towards the scene of fire and barbecued meat, the flames lighting up the land far and wide, whilst the billowing smoke began to choke the two survivors: paralysed by the incident both mentally and physically. They were peeled off from the ground, leaving purple stains where the ice had clung onto their scabs on the earth. They were bundled onto the snowmobiles and raced back to the chinook.

The huskies were merciless in their assault, sniffing Pieter out and shredded his legs and clawed his back as they dragged him with savage jaws from his hideout and were only stopped short of killing him by the approaching soldiers who called the dogs off and put bullets through his legs to force him onto the ground whilst another ran over to him and smashed his face in with the butt of his rifle. The surviving researcher of the two that stayed behind had been felled by shrapnel from the grenade barrage but before he was swarmed by dogs was dragged to safety and a corporal began first aid on his open wounds. The last armed man met a cruel but heroic end. He shot one of the dogs head on, putting three rounds through its face and it screamed to a blood-smeared halt -limp on the ground, as its owner, giving a blood curdling cry of ‘AVAQ’ rounded the corner of the remains of the camp only to receive a bullet strait in the shin and he fell yelping on the ground. Before the sergeant could restrain the rest of the squad to keep this last resistor alive, three soldiers sprinted in, having dropped their arms in favour of their eponymous ‘Saaneqvissaqit’ -a formerly bone now steel curved blade. They rushed in and despite his best attempts to ward them off was hacked to death, with a killing blow to his neck which burst open like pierced yolk and the crimson liquid ran into the snow.

“Cor bloody hell lads, we gave them a cracking good shredding.”
The chirpy tones of what could only be a somewhat well-born Hrythinga were as contrasting in this rugged wild landscape as the blood was on the snow. A young lieutenant sauntered through the carnage and wound-slurry: like a giant amongst these arctic pygmies. Whilst the Bone-Scythes were a native unit their officers were Hrystic. It was a mixed blessing for officers posted to them. On the one hand it was a mark of supreme hardiness: only the toughest out of the Royal Military College at Beorcmór (Birchmoor) would be accepted into its ranks: as the demands of the unit operating in such a hostile environment were high. It was however a world away from high Hrystic society: the Army Officers Club in Ernburh, many of the festivals and of course the Hrythwalda’s court. Therefore it was the preserve of the able but unconnected men of the upper middle classes such as wealthy Churls or less socially orientated Burghers. The soldiers picked through the devastation scouring the blood spattered snow for useful evidence and intelligence. Lieutenant Dracaþréoƿ had one priority from the Forward Operating Bass from which he was sent forth: get some prisoners back alive to spill the beans. With the four survivors wrapped in foil blankets aboard the chinook and the rest of the dead left for some of the soldiers to bury he set off with his intelligence assets, his heart pounding: not quite believing what he’d just witnessed.
“Crumbs.” He exclaimed as the chinook made for the sky, whipping up the snow around it.

Up in the air over the Christoslavic cutter, Captain Hárafot was surprised to hear a reply in somewhat coherent Hrystic.
“Copy that ‘Tremendous’.” He replied, also in Hrystic, still surprised.
“But regardless. Science experiments grant you no exemption to border policy: you are trespassing on Hrystic soil and that is not acceptable. As agents of the Christoslavic government this is a minor act of espionage, you are lucky you were not sunk. Now get the hell out of our waters!”
The Captain seethed at the arrogance of the ship; its presumption it could sail anywhere under the guise of ‘science.’ He knew little of their homeland other than that it was authoritarian and Godless. A shiver went up his spine. But soon enough he had escorted them out of Hrystic waters and his flight made its way back to its airbase.

---

Sætohabold, Office of the Royal Hrystic Fleet, Hranmúþa
Admiral Cyneric Heorthelm adjusted his bow tie in the mirror -perfect. He adjusted the crimson cummerbund and checked his dress shoes: well polished and shining. It was an old friend’s birthday meal and it was going to be a long night of drinking, eating and goodness knows what else. As he walked over to his desk to collect his wallet suddenly the office landline began ringing. He looked at it in confusion for a moment before picking it up.
“Good even-...”
After being barraged with a long timeline of events and distances and ship numbers he placed the phone down for a minute. He slowly walked over to his drinks cabinet and poured a large crystal glass of whisky -the finest Demetish stuff. He swung most of it back before picking phone up again.
“Right, I want the Kraken Attack Pair 002 ghosting that Christoslavic formation: if a sailor on board so much as burps in a way I don’t like you hit the cruiser with torpedos then they surface and saturate them with cruise missiles. Clear? Good. And then I want a destroyer up in the arctic with another frigate, yep, yep. Then that leaves Squadrons 4 and 5 to be activated and be ready to defend our waters here. That’s two destroyers and four frigates plus another two submarines from Attack Pair 003. Activate the naval reserve too, I want all our littoral vessels fully ready and airfields manned. Get AWACS up there too. If that icebreaker was from Christoslavic then that attack up beyond Berahýþ is theirs too which means we are likely at war. Get to it.”
The admiral slammed the phone down and glugged the rest of his drink away. Hopefully the icebreaker would reach their fleet the whole lot of them would bugger off, but that still left whatever was going on with the patrol. He knew as much as shots had been fired. He wondered whether the press knew: he could already picture the Hrystic tabloids who would only serve to fan the flames. He dialled an internal number on the landline.
“Get me the Hrythwalda’s Residence.... yes? Is His Lordshi- right well this is a bit more urgent than his dinner..”

[Demetland]

Demetian frigate Ôl ap Olwydd, Arctic Sea.

The frigate, after leaving Ynysfarna, had continued its patrol of the Arctic seas, sailing west. It was not long before Trecelyn's ship also detected the Christoslavian icebreaker as it made a frantic bee-line south towards the waiting Task Force 17, its course cutting directly across Ôl ap Olwydd's path. The frigate hastily requested guidance from naval command, who advised them that the ship had been identified by the Hrythingians as the 'ICGC Tremendous.' At this point, both countries conjectured that the Themidian party must have been somehow connected to the Christoslavian icebreaker. Indeed, the identity of the first had not been established, but the admission that the icebreaker was armed and carrying non-civilian personnel only inflamed their suspicions further. Waiting for her prey to arrive, the frigate lay silently in ambush so as to be undetectable by the icebreaker as it innocently converged on their position.

The whirring of rotor-blades filled the air as the frigate's Rhwygen helicopter sprung into the air, laden with anti-ship missiles. Behind it, the frigate quickly returned to life, her engines powering up. The helicopter soon disappeared into the dark night sky, only lights withdrawing further into the distance suggesting its location, gracefully skimming above the wild and untamed waves of the wintry sea towards its unsuspecting quarry. Its approach was heralded by a dull sound, which gradually grew louder and closer until becoming almost unbearable before the helicopter suddenly roared up into the air above the icebrealer, illuminating the deck of the ship with blinding searchlights which surely stunned anyone on the bridge as gloriously bright light blasted in through the shattered window frames. Almost simultaneously, Tremendous's captain received a transmission from Ôl ap Olwydd:

Demetian frigate Ôl ap Olwydd to ICGC Tremendous.

You are instructed to submit to be searched under clause –––– of the –––– Convention on Piracy and the Laws of the Sea. Failure to comply will be taken to indicate hostility. Do not attempt to flee.

The Demetian warship then appeared to erupt out of the darkness, her blue-gray hull blazing with polychrome lights appearing almost in front of her stunned prey as if to complete the kill, but the captain restrained her. Instead, two rigid inflatable boats were lowered into the raging sea packed with armoured sailors clutching their rifles. They jumped into life, bursting forwards as icy water and lashing rain assailed them, their occupants each silently praying that the great God be unto them a strong tower of defence. Meanwhile, the Rhwygen had circled about for a second pass, the din of the rotor-blades assaulting the ears of the crew like a plague of wasps swarming about their heads. This time the helicopter slowed, hovering above the deck as ropes descended from its cramped belly. These were soon followed by four navy-clad gunmen, their boots clashing against the deck just as their comrades began to clamber aboard. They screamed orders demanding surrender as the barrels of their guns probed every angle, fierce eyes darting about for any hostile movement.

[Christoslavia]

ICGC Tremendous

Demetian frigate Ôl ap Olwydd to ICGC Tremendous.

You are instructed to submit to be searched under clause –––– of the –––– Convention on Piracy and the Laws of the Sea. Failure to comply will be taken to indicate hostility. Do not attempt to flee.

"Convention on-on the what?"

Captain Hazard immediately raised Admiral Grassley as the Helicopter circled around the deck

"Admiral Grassley, Code Black, we are being boarded by the Demetish Navy, citing the Convention on Piracy and the Laws of the Sea which does not exist. They are in attack positions, please advise!"

Turning to the radio that broadcast throughout the ship, the Captain steeled himself and answered.

"Demetian frigate Ôl ap Olwydd, this is Captain Peter Hazard of the ICGC Tremendous WAGB-5. I am ordering all crew to the bridge and will allow you to conduct a full inspection of the ship keel to stern. Please be advised that your justification for boarding on a made up convention will be noted. We will not resist. I acknowledge we are in your waters directly and we will completely oblige with inspection, granted you release the ship upon completion and allow us to proceed to Task Force 17."

He paused for a moment, gulping before continuing.

"To address the concerns of other parties in the Arctic, we do not possess any relation to the land party that Hrythngian Forces attacked after we left. Repeat, we are in no way related to the unidentified land party. Please continue your search, we will wait."

The Captain put down the speaker and sat in his chair, revealing an empty pipe from his utility pocket. He never lit it, but chewed the tip only, claiming it eased him. As the crew assembled in the bridge, he sat silently, waiting for the next move and secretly praying they would all get out alive.

Task Force 17

Admiral Grassley's eyes shot open with each word of the emergency transmission ramming in and out of her head. They expected something but not this. Clenching her fists concealing a barely hidden rage, she strode to the Lieutenant manning the comms.

"Son, get a message to EASTCOM and let them know what we just heard."

"Right away Ma'am"

EASTCOM
2nd Fleet

Admiral Daughtry and Supreme General Raymond stared at each other for an uncomfortably long while. The former clutching the message from the Task Force with a white knuckled grip, showing an abundantly clear indignation that the Demetish would go so far as to make up a law for boarding a ship, when it would have been easier to claim a violation of territorial sovereignty.

Finally, the normally quiet and methodical Admiral who spoke in sharp, measured tones screamed.

"THEY'RE FUCKING LIARS AND BASTARDS!", slamming his fists down on the Generals desk.

General Raymond on the other hand, masked his rage, sitting at his desk pouring a glass of water, with a slightly shaking hand.

"Admiral, we move this up the chain. This has to go to Foreign Affairs...and the Chancellor."

The Admiral looked at him in bewilderment. Santosa? If he heard about this, he shuddered at what he might do. Their leader was calculated sure but utterly merciless at the same time.

He took a seat, incessantly tapping his foot on the floor, lurched forward, hands on his knees.

"You're the boss."

Finally he straightened himself up. He was acting pathetic, like a junior officer out of the Academy seeing reality for the first time. "I'll leave it to you Raymond. Let's pray that that ship makes it back here in one piece. Because if not..."

"All our forces are on alert for something. I'm with you Dean, I'd really rather not use them."

The Admiral gave a sharp salute returned in kind, and about faced out into the hallway.

[HMS White Whale]

G.T.S. Icecarver, Leaxƿaroþ, Hrythingia

The G.T.S. Icecarver glided through the icy waters off of Hrythingia. Captain Abarca had gotten the all-clear to dock in Leaxƿaroþ, a surprisingly extravagant coastal town. The northern savages were famed for their isolationism and closed-mindedness, and yet there wasn’t a homestead in sight from her quarters: modern buildings and comforts abound took their place on the Hrythinga coast.

Before docking, Kiara had called Santiago Garcia, the Office Chief “in charge” of the operation. There was really no point in having his input, but Tenochte was one of the few nations where government had any semblance of efficiency, so it was better not to hassle the bureaucrats. She sipped on fresh-brewed, black coffee at her desk to get a quick jolt of energy before the likely tedious call. The last couple of days had been spent primarily trying to learn as much of the Hrythinga language as possible, but it didn’t click with her. There was no grace to it, no flow. It seemed like a fitting tongue for the harsh people that used it.

Abarca sighed as she picked up the satellite phone. “Hola, Chief of Trade Santiago Garcia. It is Captain Kiara Abarca aboard the Icecarver. Everything is going smoothly, we are preparing to dock shortly. You have no need for concern, but I will likely not contact you before we return to the ship.”

Chief Garcia seemed to be enjoying his newfound responsibilities with a sort of nervous energy uncommon among adults. “Excellente, keep up the good work! As I’ve said before, be sure to stress the quality of the goods we have prepared.”

The Captain thought that ‘we’ was an odd choice of word, but nonetheless she reassured him: “Of course, Chief. It will be done.”

“And be sure to bow!”

She put her head in her hands. “Yes, of course.”

“You are representing the Glorious Nation of Tenochte, your impression will be-”

“Yes, yes,” Captain Abarca cut off the Chief of Trade, “I know all of this. We approaching the docks now. I will be incommunicado for some time. Do you have any last orders?”

The young Chief was taken aback by her abruptness. “No… jus-just remember to bow-”

Abarca closed the satellite phone and tossed it to the back of her desk. “Fucking bureaucrats.” The muscular woman stood up with force and grabbed her winter coat off the back of her chair before tearing open a steel door and going out onto the deck. “Alright, you louts!” she called to her crew. “When we dock, do not interact with the locals! We are here on business, nothing else! If someone spits northern gibberish at you while you carry our goods to their ‘royal train,’ what do you do?!”

“Nothing, sir!” the crew resounded around the deck.

“Excellent! But if someone tries to steal our goods, what do you do?!”

“Beat them bloody, sir!” the crew responded.

“What was that?!” Kiara was, obviously, not deaf, but she always enjoyed hammering that point home.

“BEAT THEM BLOODY, SIR!”

The Captain smiled faintly to herself. “Will we kill the Hrythinga? Does Huitzilopochtli smile on those that kill their hosts?!”
“NO, SIR!”

“GOOD!” Huitzilopochtli was the chief deity among the Teotl pantheon. Teotl hadn’t been practiced with any real seriousness in almost a century, most of the nation was actually Christian, but Teotl still corresponded with national holidays, something none of them would see if they mucked their mission up. Abarca pushed her short hair back with her gloved left hand. “Now get the fuck back to work!”

The company scattered around the ship to complete the various tasks that needed to be done. The Tenochtan military was compulsory from age 18-20, but if there was one thing that the old dictatorship had done it was inspire patriotism. At 26, Kiara was long past the required amount of time needed to serve, but she had some skill with a gun, was the three-time Female Navy MMA Champion, and had a particular knack for ordering around her troops. She ran a tight-ship with high morale and high discipline.

She nodded to her translator that scurried to her side as the Icecarver pulled into port. He wasn’t quite as tall as her, thin, and black-haired. Kiara hadn’t figured out if he was celebrating his heritage or was just another wannabe Anglophile; either way, something was off-putting. But he was the only translator who spoke both Hrythinga and Saldaran that was willing to go the the frigid north in a military vessel, so that was something positive.

The Icecarver came to a stop and Captain Abarca was greeted by a number of Hrythinga soldiers. One of them, the leader presumably, spouted some guttural nonsense. She looked to her translator.

Meical Enfield cleared his throat before interpreting the Hrythinga tongue: “They want us to gather our things and proceed to the royal train. They will guide us to their king.”

“Fair enough.” Captain Abarca turned to the bridge gave a quick gesture above her head. “Let’s keep this moving! Get your asses in gear and unload the cargo!” She cracked her neck before continuing, softly, to herself, “All our asses depend on it.”

[Greater Themis]

Hrystic Arctic Territory

The battle was short and bloody. The first bullet had found its mark, ripping a hole in one of the soldier’s legs. Blood, tendon and splintered bone sprayed out on the white snow. The man fell, quickly dragged to cover by his battle buddy, a follow-up shot barely missing them as it smashed the headlamp cover. The native troops paused as they took cover, hesitating. This was the first time their quarry had shot back. Fortunately, they had numbers and an experienced NCO to alleviate any doubts in their minds, a series of barked orders enough to snap them back into drills practiced time and time again on the range.

Pieter ducked down in the bunker as the ground shuddered, shrapnel and bullets flying down in an angry flurry. The ground was low enough and the snow hide dug deep enough that the was safe from the gunfire, though it was doing enough to suppress him for the moment. As the fire lulled he took the opportunity to fire back, another aimed shot into the advancing troops cracking into one of the dogs with a yelp.

Behind him, the snow was lit with the flicker of burning kerosene and equipment, the occasional loud crack of combusting material spreading ashes and the coarse smell of plastic. One of the civilian gunmen had already fallen, dead before he hit the ground from a marksman’s bullet. The other had crawled behind a snow drift, back and legs peppered with steel splinters, his mind solely focussed on white hot needles biting into his flesh. In the distance, the sky lit up with fireballs, the shudder of the exploding vehicles rumbling through the ground, steel and body parts punched into the sky in a fountain of flame.

The dogs soon enough found Pieter, before he had time to withdraw. A wall of claw and tooth confronted him, the dogs trying to dig him out like a cornered rabbit. With a knife in hand he slashed back, doing all he could to keep them at bay for now. Blood splashed across his face as the blade cut into the animal’s muzzles, paws and throats, loud yelps seeing them withdraw to be replaced by another, yet angrier hound. Soon enough the roof of the snow bunker collapsed in, the dogs piling on him. With hands raised to protect his face and throat, the dogs tore at his heavy cold weather clothing, teeth sinking into kicking legs until they were finally called off. Awaiting a sudden death, he was pleasantly surprised to only take a couple shots to the legs and a rifle butt to the face, getting the message to lay still. Around him, the snow started to stain with a mix of his and the dog’s blood.

Further away, Nikolai had decided to make a last stand. His body lay amongst the bodies of the dogs he had felled, his hunting knife buried in one of their chests, the other’s brains splashed across a half-burnt tent. In the charge, he had fought like a man possessed against the aggressors who outnumbered him. Battering them with rifle in one hand as a club, knife in the other, it had taken many wild blows to take him down. As another of the soldiers received aid for a shattered leg, screaming as his dressings were tightened, the others sat down panting, taking off outer coats as they caught their breaths. Their opponent had already gasped his last, muffled as he lay face down in the snow, paying the price for the angry open wounds, bloody noses and broken jaws he had left the men and their dogs.

Pieter had enough of his senses about him as the adrenaline came down to survey the situation around him. He was probably the only talking survivor, distracted in part by the gashes and scratches beneath his tattered clothes, a forewarning of the agony he knew would be coming soon. His wounds had been packed for now; with any luck his captors wouldn’t be incompetent enough to leave infection to set in – though he had little faith as they hustled around him, muttering in their own native language, evidently cursing him.

Overhead he watched the helicopters circling. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a snowmobile carrying bodies – a couple of the injured from the trucks who had survived by some miracle, clothing still smoking from where it had been put out. One of them was swearing, cursewords in Greek soon silenced by a threatening growl from the angry pack of dogs. Pieter lay back, waiting for what happened next – the Hrythingians had won for now.

++ -- ++

TNS Atromitos

‘Since the last communication we have received no further contact. Our signallers have noted an explosion of local radio traffic, likely from military sources. I can only presume the worst.’
The Captain, awoken a couple hours into his sleep, sat in the radio room with phone handset in hand. Scowling, he sat fidgeting, flicking the pages of his notebook as he listened.

‘I can confirm the last communication was with regards to contact with identified Hrythingian forces, including attack helicopters, armed infantry and at least one vehicle. The chance of escape I feel is minimal, particularly given the passage of time; and given the activity in the region, I feel it would be dangerous for a survey vessel to attempt any sort of a rescue.’
Nodding, his shadow cut across the white-painted metalwork, the dim fluorescent bulb perceivably flickering as the distant engines shuddered.

‘Acknowledged. I think that’s all we can do, given what’s happened. I’ll await your communications.’
He placed the phone handset down, looking up to the signaller across from him as they shut the satellite line down. With a deep sigh, he stood up, placing his chair back at the table.

‘We’ll be going to EMCON A with immediate effect, as I’m sure you’ll have heard. Keep an eye out for any follow up communications from our team.’
The door slammed behind him as he stepped onto the bridge, attracting the attention of the watch.

‘In short, your warning order is that we’re getting out of here. I’ve spoken with Asteria – the risk to us is greater than our chances of successfully rescuing anyone. We’ll bring the extraction plan forwards and pursue that route at full speed, until we’re within 400 NM of the Three Territories. EMCON A, RADCON A whilst we get out of here. I hope we won’t have any further company. Full briefing in an hour.’ He turned and stormed off, gathering his thoughts as he made his way back to his cabin.

++ -- ++

Office of the Foreign Minister
Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Asteria, Greater Themis

The winter had been very mild this year. Rather than the token dusting of snow he had come to expect, and the media hysteria that came with it, incessant rain had given him reason to complain about the weather. Droplets gently tapped at the window, rolling down the glazed terracotta gutters of the old whitewashed building, emptying into the drains on the streets below. The room itself betrayed itself as being one of the original in this 17th century former townhouse, tall windows and open wooden shutters letting the grey light touch the original fireplace, panelled walls and framed paintings. At the great wooden desk, presiding over the ornate sculpting of polished tropical wood, the Foreign Minister Hanikos Caelambos sat with his counterparts from the Defence Ministry, deep in conversation.

‘So let me get this straight – the Hrythingian government opened fire upon the research team, and has either killed or abducted them all.’

‘That appears to be the case Hanikos. We’re waiting on anything else our intelligence bodies can pick up in the region – but the indication so far is that that is indeed what happened.’ The Defence minister sat back in the chair, blue leather embracing her as she looked up at the dark walls. During her short tenure as Foreign Minister, before being ‘demoted’ back to her defence brief, Senator Lyra Anthis had tried all she could to get the office redecorated, or at least moved to a more pleasant part of the building. Despite that, the aging hardwood and royal blue carpet hadn’t been burnt as she had wished; indeed the incumbent minister seemed to have had it deep cleaned.

‘Who knows about this? Have the Hrythingians started ranting about this yet?’

‘Our indications at this early stage is that nobody knows who they are. With any luck they were all killed and left no evidence.’

‘With any luck Lyra? We have maybe 16 dead men to explain. A freak accident won’t quite cut it. Especially if the Hrythingians decide to showboat in the near future.’

‘Perhaps I wouldn’t have to explain 16 dead men if you and Baptiste hadn’t pushed for this. In any case what’s done is done. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, but at this point we need to wait for the full picture to emerge. You’re good at playing the victim Hanikos, I’m sure you can manufacture enough outrage.’

‘And what’s the supposed to mean?’. The Foreign Minister paused, glancing back at his briefing documents, the bright red document carrier marking them as Top Secret. ‘I presume you will be planning to brief the First Minister at some point? The President?’

‘Once you’ve worked out what your standpoint is going to be on this. I doubt they even get briefed on routine government agency business, so I presume you’ll want to have worked out why you wanted this venture in the first place.’

Lyra stood up, picked up her locked briefcase, and turned to the door.

‘I did this for you as a favour, trusting your hunch. The last thing either of us want is to resign – but I think we’ll be lucky to have a job at the end of week if this breaks.’ She stormed out, the door slamming behind her.