"And that, my children, is why the foreign infidels must be converted at sword point! Their false prophet and priest kings will lead to death, destruction, and worst of all, damnation," the fat archbishop preached. "They claim temperance, but starve their people! They claim modesty, but live in dens of debauchery! And worst of all, they fail to realize--any who do not respect the authority of the Holy Father doom their people not only to misery and ruin, but to Hell itself!" He slammed the holy book closed and threw up his arms. "For all that is holy!", he yelled. "For all that is holy!", returned the congregation.
The people began to rise from the pews, but the archbishop halted them. "One final thing, my children. Do not forget to check the notices in the town square. I intend to make some... changes... in Waifenberg and Ahnberg. Should you have any questions about the law, direct them to Sir Heinrich, my steward." The holy man raised a heavy arm to wave them off. "Farewell! Do not forget to honor our savior!"
That afternoon, a new notice was hammered to a post in the town square. A crowd quickly gathered, and those literate enough to do so read with interest:
By order of His Holiness Bernhard Abfell, Twenty-second Prince-Archbishop of Waifenberg, Archbishop of Waifenberg and Ahnberg, in the name of God:
As of tomorrow, all able men living in Waifenberg between the ages of 16 and 21 shall hereby sign up for the Holy Guard of Waifenberg. All recruits will be trained in the usage of pikes and crossbows. There will be a total of 190 standing guards for the Archishop's wealth, property, and personage, with every other man acting as a member of the reserve militia.
Any man who does not wish to join the militia may pay a tax to the Archbishop, provide labor for the general improvement of Waifenberg and Ahnberg, or be put to death.
Signed, Sir Heinrich of House Abfell, Nephew to the Prince-Archbishop, First of his Name, Lord of Husbandon Village, Steward of the Archbishop.
That night, arriving in the personal study of the archbishop was one Hans Remmiz, the son of a wealthy merchant. "Your Holiness?" he asked, looking into the study. The archbishop was, with some difficulty, sorting through the thick, heavy tomes on one of the upper shelves of a bookcase. Setting down a particularly heavy work, the archbishop turned and smiled at Hans. "Ah, my child, you are... Remmiz, no? The merchant's boy?" "Yes, Your Holiness. I, uh, have tax money," stammered Hans, handing the great archbishop a heavy purse. "My boy! Thank you, thank you. You've done well. I'll tell Heinrich to take your name off the list. And please, call me Bernhard." "Uh, yes, sir. Um, Bernhard, ha ha." Hans tugged at the neck of his tunic and stuttered out a question. "S-so, uh, this is a bit, um, outspoken of me, Y--Bernhard, but... why are you making a standing army, exactly?"
The archbishop looked grimly at him, turned around, and resumed packing his things. Hans turned to leave, somewhat dejected, but the archbishop spoke. "Sancria. We may need a backup."
Hans turned back, and asked, "I'm sorry, sir, but what did you say?"
"...Nothing. This isn't for you to concern yourself with, boy. Go back to your coins and shops. This is a matter for nobles."
"But, you're a bishop, Your Holiness."
"And a bishop," Bernhard retorted, "from a noble family, who can speak, read, and write in the ancient tongue, and who knows who his betters and his lessers are, is better than a jumped-up peasant who thinks he's worth something because he can count. Away with you. And don't question me again."
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Topic: ZE REICH's Imperial Thread (Read 4567 times)