Éichholmschloss, Chlowisbuerg, United Realm of Gauliscia
Jœrg Graatha was known as the Griffhond or attack dog. He was the enforcer of the palace staff, he would notice a black hair on a coal. He was most known for plain old brutish aggression towards his colleagues, physical but mostly verbal. When things needed to be done, he was sent in to make sure it got done. He had been born a prison to a mother who had turned herself in for ‘unconventional sexual activity’ but in reality just wanted a roof and food. He grew up in the grimmest slum in Gauliscia, Hlaaïgaard’s Borxwe Borough. Blood ran through its unpaved streets from gang crime or a guillotining, most children had only their school shoes which they wore only to school and the temple and had to make do without otherwise, and diseases spread easily. He had put his head down at school, got the grades for a government grant to high school and university. From there, despite a rough tongue, he found his way into the palace staff. He had arrived to keep the ball preparations on schedule. And if they were not, scare those responsible witless.
Staff watched from a safe distance as he rampaged through the palace, like an enraged bull.
“I'm not sure what's worse, watching him slowly roll towards you like terminal cancer or him suddenly appearing like a stroke…” Lamented one of the decorators, hanging a drape with the colours and insignia of the King of Saxonia. A servant burst through the door with a panic stricken pale face.
“He's down the corridor!”
Outside there was a loud crash and thump.
“WELL SORT IT THE FUCK OUT YOU STUPID BITCH! BEFORE I SAW YOUR FUCKING BREASTS OFF AND SMASH THEM INTO A PINK MUSH!”
The door flew open, almost off its hinge. There was a collective breathe-in.
“Right, what the fuck is going on in here?”
The servant who had originally warned of Jœrg’s arrival, also a personal assistant to the High King drew a scornful glare.
“Um, can we stop with the constant swearing please?”
Jœrg smiled apologetically.
“I'm sorry, you won't hear any swearing from me any more you SCRAWNY WET SHIT!” He finished with a roar, shoving the servant out the back door. “NOW FUCK OFF!” The servant scrambled away like a ferret freed from its cage.
“Straighten that rag up, or I'll skin you alive and use your skin as the fucking flag.”
And he was off again, thumping down the corridor.
“DO YOU CALL THAT MOPPING? I’VE SEEN STARVED FUCKING CONVICTS PUT MORE VIGOUR INTO THEIR WORK. I SWEAR IF I SEE YOU ON ANOTHER FUCKING BREAK BEFORE THAT FLOOR IS SPARKLING I WILL SHOVE A FUCKING UNLUBRICATED MAMMOTH COCK DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROAT, HAIRS AND ALL AND I’LL MAKE IT CUM UNTIL YOU FUCKING EXPLODE!”
Outside, two Life Guard Cuirassiers, in full parade uniform, breastplate and plumed helmet, stood outside the main double oak doors. Their battalion had just returned from combat training on the Ueriflæche plains, relieving the Life Guard Hussars of their duty as the cavalry guard. Now they'd traded in their Wissent main battle tanks for towering shire horses and their grassland digital camouflage for a blue dress uniform, their bullpup carbines for heavy cavalry sabres. It was a sunny day, but had that early spring crispness, which was good news for the troops clad in wool, leather and steel. They stood still and silent, as was their duty, ignoring the obscene gestures of tourists or the pulled faces of children to cause them to laugh. One of the guards, Corporal Serchlaas Hyrzel remembered his own childhood days, near the Ahornschloss; residence of the Duke of Chwérzië, smiling and pointing at the guards in their sentry boxes, trying to make them distracted. Fond memories indeed. Serchlaas and his guard companion, Cuirassier 1st Class Uetti Waaluwe scanned the crowd before them. Most were tourists, snapping photos of the great turreted palace and the guards in their splendid uniforms. There were children, fresh from souvenir shops with guard figurines and the characteristic bearskin or plumed helmet of the other guard regiments. There were working city people, civil servants, politicians and university students to whom all this was now scenery. However a few individuals hurled abuse through the gates and over the walls, decrying the monarchy and all its apparata and pomp. Most simply shrieked, but some held up slogans on banners and chanted. This was permitted by the Life Guard. Until physical acts came into play. Over the years, many attempts of forced entry had been made, or assaults on the guards, even throwing refuse and foul things at the High King’s carriage. These actions were leniently dealt with by most standards: a rifle or sword butt to the face, though it had been known for cavalry to rear their horses onto the offenders. The Life Guards were indeed the most prestigious division of the Army, with many battle honours on their standards. The Jægers took the keenest shots and speediest runners, the grenadiers the most physically imposing and so on. They saw less combat action than most of the army, but when they had been deployed, they had performed with the greatest distinction.
Having eventually being relieved of their sentry duty by another pair, they returned to the palace barracks, where they changed into their fatigues.
“VOZIBO made a raid early this morning, some kind of attack planned for tonight. Ummayads.”
Serchlaas looked up to see Captain Kœnxwa, standing by the door of the mess room, accompanied by the company sergeant.
“Arrests were made and they’ve taken in for interrogation. The ball is going ahead as VOZIBO is of the opinion that this is an isolated capture and not part of a larger chap. Well done chaps, keep it all up, have some rest now, feed and water yourself, there's a long night ahead.”
Unknown VOZIBO holding facility, Chlowisbuerg
Two VOZIBO officers in black combats dragged the smouldering heap of bloodied flesh out of the cell. It was still alive, but a bullet to the back of the head ended that and the devastated body was burnt in a vat.
Qayud Assafi was hauled into the cell, passing the smears of red and purple where the last victim had been dragged out. His stomach churned as the grip of the visored guards tightened. VOZIBO was the main security service of the United Realm, meaning National Security Bureau and dealt with internal threats, whilst its brother organisation KOZVA handled foreign threats. Both were sinister and responsible for countless atrocities as far as the liberal world was concerned. KOZVA was responsible for the false flag operation that helped to trigger the Western Gulf War, by killing a Gauliscian general and his family, blaming it on the Wankans.
Qayud was thrown into a chair and strapped in. Gauliscian torture methodology was to start the torture process, then ask for information under the threat of further torture. And so it began, a hammer reduced his fingers to a splintered wreck of bone and skin.
“Who is your contact in Ummayah?”
Qayud spat in the torturer’s face. The torturer, a dressed head to toe in black combats, still in his helmet and visor, took a truncheon from his rack of implements and proceeded to smash Qayud’s teeth out, and out they fell, all crumbled and broken, mixed in with red saliva.
“You are not operating alone… where are the other groups?”
“It is just us! Only us! I implore-”
Two metal stakes were thrust through his thighs, which were connected to an electrical socket. And so they were turned on, and he writhed and screamed until it eventually stopped, the skin around the the stakes was blackened and sizzling.
“I repeat again. Who and where are the other terrorists?”
Gasping, Qayud tried to croak and answer but stammered and stuttered. His eyes widened as a saw was produced and handed to the torturer.
“I don't know… there aren't any! That's all I know! That's all I know….” he began to whimper, which became a howl as the serrated blade of the saw cut into his shoulder, and he was held down by other officers as the saw came to the bone, Qayud roaring in anguish as his left arm was torn off its sinews, the last strings of skin falling away as it was ripped off. Qayud threw up his last meal, spewing gore everywhere, as he watched his whole arm on the table behind the torturer, his own left socket now being blocked up to prevent him losing more blood.
“Give me names Mr. Assafi.”
“I wouldn't if I could you psychopath..” retorted Qayud as dark froth foamed from his mouth.
Taking a cleaver, the torturer began chopping Qayud’s severed arm before him, for Qayud to see.
“Names Qayud… names…”
“By Allah, if I knew something I would have said!” Screamed Qayud, his heart feeling as though it would explode.
The torturer signalled for him to be unstrapped. Qayud collapsed onto the floor, out of relief and exhaustion, but it was covered in his own filth. But suddenly he was on his feet again and now bent over a work table, held down. He felt somebody approach from behind, but could only fear what was coming next. A splintery wooden stake with barbs, flint and all other sharp objects embedded in. With his trousers torn off, it was thrust up his behind with three attempts and in the fourth it went through with ease, having had a path cleared for it. And once he too was finished, the next cell member was dragged in for more.
5th Gendarme Rifles Regiment, Uelixbach Barracks, Outskirts of Chlowisbuerg
A posting to Chlowisbuerg was considered a godsend by the conscripts which comprised the Gauliscian Gendarmery. It meant parties on weekends, good good and urban patrol duties, all of which were most agreeable. For Sjœrd Choorswe, this was his first time in the capital. The 5th Gendarme Rifles were recruited from the heather-carpeted wilds of the Hirschboch Highlands, well into the deep hinterland of Gauliscia. This was a landscape dotted with little crofts, lone spruces and rocky outcrops. Most, like his own family, were shepherds, eking out a hand to mouth existence. The nearest town was Frymingsthaal, a bustling river town and the location of his school. He fondly remembered its markets, stalls of wool and sheepskin, of fried mutton and the rowdy taverns. All the boys of his regiment were from Frymingsthaal or the surrounding areas, as were the NCOs and as such had that close bond that only local regiments could. Chlowisbuerg had been a shock for most of them, with its grandeur, size and smells. The largest building he'd seen was the Kwéerslaaïbuerg Fortress and its inner keep of thick turrets, a large fortress in the highlands, back when his native Duchy of Chwérzië was an independent state. Now he was confronted with Chlowisbuerg, not the largest city in Gauliscia but still impressive, with high steepled temples, huge arenas and heaving motorways.
Sjœrd clambered into the back of the green tarpaulin covered truck, where the rest of his section was sat, rucksacks in front of their legs and their HAAB rifles between their knees. He and a few others were stuffing the breakfasts down their throats, a crusty roll with fried offal sausage and creamed cheese. The truck trundled out the barracks and down the roads.
“Lads, urban patrol, you know the drill, the routes we agreed last night. Only today, there's a ball this evening at the Éichholmschloss, basically everyone that matters in the region is attending so there will be troublemakers at large; anarchists, and other seditious scummery. This evening you will be deployed in support of the riot battalions near the palace.” Explained Captain Theÿdelinda Jæffer over the radio, to which the corporal of his squad nodded to. Captain Jæffer was a rather fine specimen as far as the shepherd boys of the regiment were concerned, a pretty young middle class university educated girl. She was too bossy and intelligent for their long term taste but she was the subject of many fantasies in the barracks.
The truck rattled through the cobbled streets of the old city until eventually they were dropped off in a small square and dispersed to their routes in pairs. Sjœrd had partnered up with Taarcho Spouër, a friend he'd known his whole life. They walked to school together each morning, shared many girls between them and had often played in the wooded creeks, trousers rolled up. Now, in pine green combats and berets, rifles slung, they began their patrol through the narrow and cobbled streets, giving knowing nods to constables and receiving smiles from citizens. The street was lined with beautiful timber framed houses with pastel paints and sloped roofs, each now opened and with customers coming and going. There was the butchers, with rabbits and ducks hung up in the windows, and his walls lined with smoked sausages, there was a flower shop with a wonderful aroma, with baskets of bright and fresh flora, a little bookshop displaying leather bound books with intricate decoration and even a toy shop with carved wooden nights from oak and farm playsets. One of these buildings was indeed an Ummayad coffee house, a thick smell of roasted coffee beans wafted out and turbaned men sat outside smoking.
Taarcho and Sjœrd entered the coffee house, eyeing each customer and staff carefully. To avenge what many saw as a blatant venture of colonialism in Gauliscian Meridia, namely the Viceroyality of Mamluqstan and the Viceroyality of Tuxlocia, many radical nationalist Ummayads had come to Gauliscia in order to found terrorist cells. Most were poorly organised and a mix of informants, VOZIBO infiltration, and grassroots constabulary work had rooted the majority out, most members being sent back to Mamluqstan, some being imprisoned and the more grave offenders being guillotined for treason and attempts of ‘violent rebellion’. The customers generally looked up and went back to their business, chatting and drinking, but a few scowled back with furrowed brows and beady eyes. They were untrusting of the security forces, especially the gendarmerie, where hot-blooded conscripts had roughed up their friends and family. Accusations of savagery had floated round, of sniffer dogs tearing people's faces open, of shootings and lengthy detentions. Complaints had been lodged, but little action taken. Sjœrd nodded in satisfaction and headed back into the street with Taarcho closely behind. To Sjœrd the air was more heavy than usual, the Ummayads were tense and even smug. Arrests had been made early that morning, but little information had been extracted from the detainees. Sjœrd feared an attack worse than the Bochsthor Bombings, and on this day of all days.
The Duchess’s Apartments, Éichholmschloss, Chlowisbuerg
Meltdown. The Duchess couldn't find her necklace for her new dress, the necklace was a gift from the Mamluq Lords and . It was a silver necklace, with the prized Haqur-e-Jawaz diamond as its centre piece, with garnite and chrysocolla stones fastened in, as many would be present tonight she ought to wear it, not to mention it went very well with her new dress too. Duchess Yngehilda had a pine green silk dress, simple but elegant and fitted closely to her slim body. On her head a tiara, the decoration aside the ruby like the antlers of a fallow deer. Her flowing golden hair had been tied back into a tight bun at the back of her head and she'd applied limited makeup, a thin cherry red to her lips and green eyeliner to bring out her own green eyes.
“Please don't cry Your Highness…” pleaded one of her handmaids, comforting her mistress. “You’ll streak your eyeliner. I'm sure it's somewhere and there's so many people looking we’ll find it in no time.”
Yngehilda, slumped on her bed sobbed and shook. The necklace was the last straw in a sequence of many things. Her father, High King Amalrich II was old and frail, she was not ready to take the reigns of a recently tamed stallion. A fine horse at that, but nonetheless it was slightly unbroken in. When she had been born Gauliscia was simply Gauliscia, forest, swamp, plains and mountains. Now the might of Gauliscia had finally awoken, and its jaws had swallowed Tuxlocia, Mamluqstan and Auyadelle. In addition to High Queen, she would also be an Empress of lands far across the sea, lands which she knew nothing about other than that there was a lot of sand. And bloodshed. But the biggest lump in her throat was that, after tonight she was to be given a suitor who would be her King, but she would be his High Queen. Yngehilda knew little of the suitors to arrive as they would mostly be foreign. Crown Prince Willoum-Gœthewéin of Thueringië, heir to the Gauliscian kingdom of Thuringia was a safe back up plan; a handsome, quiet young man free of scandal and a commendable military record in Auyadelle as a Captain in the Hluuÿxscher Mounted Jæger Regiment, leading a company in some of the heaviest urban fighting in the war. As for the others, she, nay, the Oaken Crown had a few requirements. They ought to be open towards the polytheistic animist faith that was Wodinism, they ought to be sociable enough to be good company and ought to have some military experience. High birth was also a must as was fertility.
The door flew open and a servant followed by her brother, Prince Ulfomund rushed in.
“Your necklace, Your Highness…” Gasped the servant, wheezing to regain his breath. A handmaid fitted the necklace round the Duchess’ neck as the prince cleared his throat.
“Yngehilda, the first guests are arriving, but father wants you to wait up here until all have arrived, to make an entrance.”
With no undue flourish were the great oaken doors flung open to reveal the sacred and mighty chambers of the Éichholmschloss, house of the Oaken Throne and those ordained by the gods to sit thereupon. And as the first guests of many advanced to the great doors the sentinels of the High King, the Knechtwach, stiff as packed ice, resplendent in white tunic and breeches with green piping and accenting and a dark steel cuirass and helmet, snapped to attention, braid and metal jangling. Prized more highly than than the fruits in the gloomy chasms of the earth were what grew above it; this was not a palace of marble and gold but of carved wood and beast trophies. In the Gruessaal were the far-travelled guests received, a small, high roofed hall, its walls were pannelled with oak and intricate panoramas were carved in; great battles with thundering cavalry charges and hails of arrows, but also of great feasts, of dancing dryads and satyrs, of giant elk hunts and of ships braving stormy seas. Over the polished stone floor glided serving maids and boys in revealing garments, carrying jugs of Sféizou Schuÿmensreeben; a white wine from the Sféizou Monastery and of juniper and elderberry cordial, these they passed to the guests in great helpings, frothing over the rims of the small goat horns they were poured out into. Yet more came, their plump chest fruit bursting from their blouses, with trays of skewered meat; frog’s leg with garden herbs and smoked Heÿder ham and roasted blue kierxschena cheese. The walls were hung with great beasts felled by the royal house; great horned and hairy bison, bristly and tucked boars, high antlered elk and moose, sheep and goats with coiled horns, of long nosed horses and the huge heads of mammoths and woolly rhinocerae, but also the heads of fierce brown bears and black
wolves, of ginger foxes and brown wolverines, of tawny lynx and and golden mountain lions. These were joined by aromatic wreaths of spruce and oak, laced with thistle heads and fastened with ribbons of birch bark. Hung too were woven and ancient tapestries of the deeds of the heroes and lords of old, the banners of all the royal families. Amongst the guests from within the realm were the Kings of Thueringia and Saxonia, the Princes and Princesses of Lothaaringië, Schwaabië, Saalië, Elwechenbuerg and Merwingenland, the Dukes and Duchesses of Friezië, Allemannië and Chwérzië, the Marquess of Ouëndaal and the Lords of the Mamluq Emirates, all mingling and whispering of the freshest intrigues. Here too were the elected councillors of the citizenry; Realm Chancellor Theréza de Scheÿjax and her deputy Vicechancellor Arnoud Yper and His Majesty’s Secretaries of State; Lord Liupold, Baron von Zouën for the Treasury, Jannick Thassohéim for Military Affairs, Charlomann Houëcker for Foreign Affairs, Lord Gaston-Raadulf, Viscount von Lueweck for the Interior, Lord Wittomund, Baron of Jyhrnbosch for Overseas Territories and the Speakers of both Parliamentary Chambers, Baroness Izolda von Zettegem and Uetterich Xyrsli. And yet more bodies were thrown into this soup of the cream of Gauliscian society, the military heads, marshals and admirals in full garb, old and young, many having witnessed war with Gauliscia's adversaries, their blades tested and medals earned. Indeed did the clergy in purple robes sweep about the room, hassled by all for a blessing.
And at the centre of the throng, hands outstretched in greeting was the High King, Amalrich III in full robes and crown which weighed his aged body down and he was, with great subtlety supported by his eldest son and second child, Prince Ulfomund.
“Éin hérzlechs welchomm! Freÿnde vom d’Waalschse Bœndesréich und eses Grœseréich! Chomm, Thrinke! Féste! Taanze! En laat ‘alle frœhlechs zéin!”
