A get - together Scramble: part two
A few people came out of the house, but they did not come to greet the hikers. Instead, the girl placed her and on Emil’s sleeve, gave him a serious look and said, formally, “Welcome, von Reisling, to one of Frankszonia’s most sacred secrets, The Bock Spring.”
The people from the cottage doffed their hats, and as Emil followed suit, he saw that Hans had grounded his rifle in a veteran’s stance of attention. “Honored, I’m sure,” Emil said, “but why is it so sacred?”
“From here, Frankszonia arose,” the girl responded.
“Ja,” Hans continued. “Once, long ago, when the Electors came to crown a new Emperor, the best beer in the world was brewed from this water. The brewmaster Fhartz sent an entire wagon to them.”
“From that time,” one of the men from the cottage noted, “we Fhartzen have been enobled.”
“We Fhartzen?!?” Emil and one of the strangers exclaimed together. Even as they snatched for their pistols, however, the others reassured them.
“Do not fear, mein Herren,” the first speaker chuckled. “We are truly of the Resistance.”
“The dream of truly free Freistadt derived from the Imperial Receipt is not confined to just .my uncle,” the girl assured them.
“Your uncle?”
“The Hurtshog Stanken Fhartz zu Frankfurter,” she replied impishly.
“Ja,” chuckled Hans, “Our Rausen Marie, the Rose of the Resistance, is a Granddaughter of der Alte Hurtshog.”
“But,” Emil protested, “I know that his agents communicate regularly with the Gallians, and in spite of the hassles he’s caused other Gallian allies, he has provided troops and fought himself to protect Gallian supply routes.”
“The Hurtshog favors the Merry Teaser,” the speaker responded. “As long as there’s no hope of a Germanian nor an Imperial rescue, there’s no point in sacrificing Frankszonians.”
“Besides,” a lady smirked, “the Gallian depot is the best source of Gallian wines.”
“So, the Hurtshog pretends alliance to plunder the Frogs?” Emil asked.
“No, no,” the speaker grinned. “We replace the Gallian kegs with good Rhine wines, locally grown and legally paid for!”
“Of course,” Rose Marie laughs, “we’re careful that the gentlemen who drink their own estates vintages will get their own stuff.”
“Then the Resistance is a sham!” the other stranger shouted angrily.
“Hardly,” the speaker responded soberly, “and that’s why this meeting is necessary.”
“Most of our people hate an alliance with the Catholics,” the other woman said. “And most of the nobles resent the Gallian presence visciously. Now that the imbecile Bastille has removed the Hurtshog, they’re getting ready to act.”
“Without Stanken, we doubt that Broderick Woad will commit his men to the field,” the speaker continued, “and without Hottatrot, a lot of the Frankfurters will drag their heels in fighting their own cousins. We won’t be able to take Frankfurter, nor would we have nearly enough people to actually capture the depot.”
“But we can probably burn a lot of it,” Rose Marie eagerly suggested, “and we can drive the Gallian lapdogs back into their master’s boudior!”
“Then the Gallians would be forced to pull back from Hesse Seewald,” the other stranger realized.
“And then,” Hans contributed, “the Resistance will need a clear path to run!”
“And that,” the speaker continued, “is where you two come in. The Mayor of Ausfhart needs to know that you can clear a quick route out of the valley into Hesse Fedora or even further north.”
“And what,” the other stranger asked, “is the Mayor’s role in this?”
“My Lord Bleah,” the speaker replied, “Stanken may be Hurtshog, but the real head of the family is always the Lord Mayor. Surely you Cheezers knew that!”
“I doubt,” Emil responded, “that our Britischerwurst can get any real strength this far behind enemy lines. Why even involve us?”
“Because Stagonia and the Kerns are about to relaunch their feud on our turf,” the other woman responded. “Neither the Alte Vater nor the Hurtshog care to risk the fall out taking out too many of our cousins. This is a rather pretty dance we’re trying to make here.”
“This stinks worse than Frog Cheese,” Lord Bleah complained. “The Frankszonians would still put nearly 15,000 men into the field if you tried to concentrate for a real strike.”
“Hardly, they’ve got nearly 4000 already committed to the Altenburg affair,” the speaker commented.
“And our agents don’t report to General Mayer,” the other woman continued. “They won’t have time to get their full strength into the field, even if they knew what was going to happen by tonight! Stagonia has some usefulness, it seems.”
“So,” Emil asks, “what is going to happen?”
“These are mountains, Captain,” the speaker responded. “They hide a lot, and city troops won’t be trying to patrol them when a hard freeze hits.”
“And the morning after,” Rose Marie exulted, “my beautiful bronze guns and their friends will be skating across the fields!”
“There is a big risk in that,” Emil cautioned, “Your heat, my lady, just might melt those fields and freeze the guns!”
She laughs as the men turn back to the cottage to begin more detailed planning.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A Get-together: A scramble in the woods
A get - together Scramble
The pearl grey mist swirls about vague, pre-dawn shadows like rope curtains. On the tree dark slopes, two indistinct lumps slip across wet, black stones and stumble, muttering, over gnarled roots.
“Ha! Poachers!” storms out above them, and they jerk to an awkward halt.
“Not poachers,” protests one figure, “but protectors!”
“Ja, ja,” their captor sneers, “und you vill the little birdies from der Hurtshog’s kitchen protect, eh? Nein, Nein!”
“Nein, Feldwebel,” the other captive answers with a girl’s musical voice. “We keep therm from turning into Frogs!”
“Ach, meine kleine Blumen,” the large figure of a jaeger sergeant steps down among the black pillars and dripping branches. “We did not if you for sure were coming know. Welcome to our Ausfhart Wald und valley.”
“Hans, Hans,” the girl chides him and gives him a quick hug. “I have your hunts always enjoyed.”
“Ja, und we have your style of hunting always loved,” the big man chuckles. “Wo ist?”
He gestures to the other figure whose shoes were slipping off the rocks.
“Emil,” the girl responds gaily, “stop slipping away and come meet Hans Baher.”
Hans catches Emil a second from disaster and leans the smaller man into a tree.
“These boots,” Emil complains, “are too stiff for this work. Our little plotter here won’t let me just ride in!”
The sergeant grunts cheerfully, “only a dwarf on his mine pony could where we’re going ride anyway.”
“Where are we going then?” Emil asks.
“Come!” Hans moves across the slope, leaving a billowing wake in the fog. Emil and the girl stumble along behind him onto a narrow path which cuts across a cliff hidden by tall firs.
“Careful, meine Herr,” Hans cautions, as he leads them on a narrow goat path across the face of a cliff. “It can get slippery.”
Emil clutched the cliff face on his right as he wobbled through the fog. “Where will we meet the others,’ he asks after one slip sends a small rock bounding down among the firs.
Hans and Rausen Marie steadied him. “Already there, Mein Herr,” Hans reassured him. “Achtung! Be careful,” Hans continued and then seemed to vanish into the cliff!
Emil came to a startled stop, and the girl blundered into him. For a moment they tottered and swayed together, clutching each other, tree branches, and random loose rocks. The little tussle ended with a loud slap and a muttered apology. Their little stumble, however, had moved them far enough for Emil to see into the mall gorge which cut into the cliff. Of course the path turned suddenly into the gorge a few yards above the boulders over which a mountain stream splashed.
“First,” Emil mockingly grumbled, “you try to break my legs. Now you want me to break my neck and to ruin my boots?”
He was rewarded with a brief giggle.
Though the rocks were wet and mossy, they weren’t slimy. Emil was quietly grateful for that. Then after a few yards, the gorge twisted, and the crack climbed swiftly. The three stepped out onto a clear terrace. A few goats nibbled at bunches of grasses on the glade. The stream flowed from beneath a dilapidated cottage leaning against the upper cliff face. Emil’s companions removed their hats and nodded respectfully towards the cottage. “We’re here,” the girl said.
The pearl grey mist swirls about vague, pre-dawn shadows like rope curtains. On the tree dark slopes, two indistinct lumps slip across wet, black stones and stumble, muttering, over gnarled roots.
“Ha! Poachers!” storms out above them, and they jerk to an awkward halt.
“Not poachers,” protests one figure, “but protectors!”
“Ja, ja,” their captor sneers, “und you vill the little birdies from der Hurtshog’s kitchen protect, eh? Nein, Nein!”
“Nein, Feldwebel,” the other captive answers with a girl’s musical voice. “We keep therm from turning into Frogs!”
“Ach, meine kleine Blumen,” the large figure of a jaeger sergeant steps down among the black pillars and dripping branches. “We did not if you for sure were coming know. Welcome to our Ausfhart Wald und valley.”
“Hans, Hans,” the girl chides him and gives him a quick hug. “I have your hunts always enjoyed.”
“Ja, und we have your style of hunting always loved,” the big man chuckles. “Wo ist?”
He gestures to the other figure whose shoes were slipping off the rocks.
“Emil,” the girl responds gaily, “stop slipping away and come meet Hans Baher.”
Hans catches Emil a second from disaster and leans the smaller man into a tree.
“These boots,” Emil complains, “are too stiff for this work. Our little plotter here won’t let me just ride in!”
The sergeant grunts cheerfully, “only a dwarf on his mine pony could where we’re going ride anyway.”
“Where are we going then?” Emil asks.
“Come!” Hans moves across the slope, leaving a billowing wake in the fog. Emil and the girl stumble along behind him onto a narrow path which cuts across a cliff hidden by tall firs.
“Careful, meine Herr,” Hans cautions, as he leads them on a narrow goat path across the face of a cliff. “It can get slippery.”
Emil clutched the cliff face on his right as he wobbled through the fog. “Where will we meet the others,’ he asks after one slip sends a small rock bounding down among the firs.
Hans and Rausen Marie steadied him. “Already there, Mein Herr,” Hans reassured him. “Achtung! Be careful,” Hans continued and then seemed to vanish into the cliff!
Emil came to a startled stop, and the girl blundered into him. For a moment they tottered and swayed together, clutching each other, tree branches, and random loose rocks. The little tussle ended with a loud slap and a muttered apology. Their little stumble, however, had moved them far enough for Emil to see into the mall gorge which cut into the cliff. Of course the path turned suddenly into the gorge a few yards above the boulders over which a mountain stream splashed.
“First,” Emil mockingly grumbled, “you try to break my legs. Now you want me to break my neck and to ruin my boots?”
He was rewarded with a brief giggle.
Though the rocks were wet and mossy, they weren’t slimy. Emil was quietly grateful for that. Then after a few yards, the gorge twisted, and the crack climbed swiftly. The three stepped out onto a clear terrace. A few goats nibbled at bunches of grasses on the glade. The stream flowed from beneath a dilapidated cottage leaning against the upper cliff face. Emil’s companions removed their hats and nodded respectfully towards the cottage. “We’re here,” the girl said.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
At last, the camera is found!
My has a beloved Pentax which was rigged for close ups with special mounts and tripod ... it disappeared last spring, which removed a lot of the oomph for my postings.
I've played several interesting games, but with no photos didn't feel like posting them.
Today, after a major excavation (not kidding, it took her hours of heavy effort; and I was unable to help); she reports she has finally found it.
Looking forward to a much more active time next year!
Perhaps I can persuade her to shoot some of the figures I'd painted this fall ...
which would make me feel more like a participant in our grand enterprise.
:)
A
I've played several interesting games, but with no photos didn't feel like posting them.
Today, after a major excavation (not kidding, it took her hours of heavy effort; and I was unable to help); she reports she has finally found it.
Looking forward to a much more active time next year!
Perhaps I can persuade her to shoot some of the figures I'd painted this fall ...
which would make me feel more like a participant in our grand enterprise.
:)
A
Friday, November 13, 2009
Saluting
My confuser was down for a couple of days, so I missed posting my own salutes to the honored folks who had served before, with, and after me.
My grandfathers, of course, both served in W.W.I.
Grandad Carnes came back so committed to pacifism that he would not defend himself when a bully attacked him.
Grandad Pigg was much more enamored of his adventures as a Navy man ... even though he spent three days swimming the North Sea when his ship was torpedoed.
My step-Grandad Clifton Talbert was in the trenches ... and he would talk about it on occasion and kept his VFW magazines all his life.
For myself, however, I was recently extended an honor which I don't really deserve. The American Legion (for whom I hold good feelings because they didn't discriminate against my Viet Nam friends like the VFW did back then) informed me that I was now defined as a combat era vet. Unfortunately, I don't feel like I deserve it all. It's a long story, but I never served a single day under fire or even out of the country.
Now that I am legally part of the gang whom I always honored, however, I feel ever more keenly the struggle for them to be treated properly by we stay-at-homes who never made the horrendous sacrifices still being demanded of all troops of free countries. I've been under fire during some violent strike settings, and it always amazed me that these men functioned, survived, and came home after enduring endless days of a thousand times more intense struggles. Yes, a few of them came back quite damaged in their spirit, but most came back to be folks who existed at what I felt was a higher level than mine. Who had day after day put all their dreams and all their selves on the line, often for things they didn't really understand.
Great history, to me, is actually the art, the music, the food, the discoveries, and so forth of a time; but I am cognizant of the overwhelming fact that none of that would survive or even be possible without the good soldier and the stained knight.
Which, in part, is why I wargame.
My games are often funny, always trivial, and the worst wounds occur when I'm trimming the flash off of a new figure. But in the background, it's a way to honor the real heroes. Not the great conquerors, most of whom could rightly be seen as monsters even when as benign as the Persians; but the young officer bravely holding the flag staff in a square at Waterloo thinking that he'd never heard of a battle where everybody died ... as it seemed was happening all around him then.
Nor do I forget the fellows who fought on the other side. It is popular today to hate the German soldier, but ninety percent of them had real reason given their limited knowledge (deliberately limited by their rulers, just as occurs today in dictatorial or fanatical regimes)to believe their cause was just. Even if they did not, they still felt the need to stand for their country against war's destruction.
So the guys who marched so far barefoot under Jackson or struggled across the sand for Rommel I honor too.
We may never be free of the horrors of war until the Parousia, but until then, I honor the good folks, now boys and girls, who willingly march into hell for me or for their own families.
Sincerely,
Arthur
My grandfathers, of course, both served in W.W.I.
Grandad Carnes came back so committed to pacifism that he would not defend himself when a bully attacked him.
Grandad Pigg was much more enamored of his adventures as a Navy man ... even though he spent three days swimming the North Sea when his ship was torpedoed.
My step-Grandad Clifton Talbert was in the trenches ... and he would talk about it on occasion and kept his VFW magazines all his life.
For myself, however, I was recently extended an honor which I don't really deserve. The American Legion (for whom I hold good feelings because they didn't discriminate against my Viet Nam friends like the VFW did back then) informed me that I was now defined as a combat era vet. Unfortunately, I don't feel like I deserve it all. It's a long story, but I never served a single day under fire or even out of the country.
Now that I am legally part of the gang whom I always honored, however, I feel ever more keenly the struggle for them to be treated properly by we stay-at-homes who never made the horrendous sacrifices still being demanded of all troops of free countries. I've been under fire during some violent strike settings, and it always amazed me that these men functioned, survived, and came home after enduring endless days of a thousand times more intense struggles. Yes, a few of them came back quite damaged in their spirit, but most came back to be folks who existed at what I felt was a higher level than mine. Who had day after day put all their dreams and all their selves on the line, often for things they didn't really understand.
Great history, to me, is actually the art, the music, the food, the discoveries, and so forth of a time; but I am cognizant of the overwhelming fact that none of that would survive or even be possible without the good soldier and the stained knight.
Which, in part, is why I wargame.
My games are often funny, always trivial, and the worst wounds occur when I'm trimming the flash off of a new figure. But in the background, it's a way to honor the real heroes. Not the great conquerors, most of whom could rightly be seen as monsters even when as benign as the Persians; but the young officer bravely holding the flag staff in a square at Waterloo thinking that he'd never heard of a battle where everybody died ... as it seemed was happening all around him then.
Nor do I forget the fellows who fought on the other side. It is popular today to hate the German soldier, but ninety percent of them had real reason given their limited knowledge (deliberately limited by their rulers, just as occurs today in dictatorial or fanatical regimes)to believe their cause was just. Even if they did not, they still felt the need to stand for their country against war's destruction.
So the guys who marched so far barefoot under Jackson or struggled across the sand for Rommel I honor too.
We may never be free of the horrors of war until the Parousia, but until then, I honor the good folks, now boys and girls, who willingly march into hell for me or for their own families.
Sincerely,
Arthur
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Alarms and Excursions
First, PLEASE, PLEASE, go to Bill's excellent post:
http://campaignsingermania.blogspot.com/2009/10/cheer-boys-cheer-parade-and-surprises.html
In which Bastille manages to snag the Hurtshog, L'Comte d'Beauphaup, and the Marquis d'Hottatrot into the advance of the Gallian Army under General Cheveret ...
Then ,,, rumors abound ...
Amidst the roar and infernal smoke and total confusion of a great battle, The Frankszonian "guests" of Baron Bastille notice a slathered horse being led to the party.
A young Gallian dragoon hands an attache case to the Baron, who looks at a couple of the papers inside, and then quickly wheels his horse towards the rear shouting for an aide.
The messenger remonstrates, pointing to the Hurtshog animatedly, but Bastille brusquely orders the lad away!
L'Comte d'Beauphaup quickly overtakes the rider and inquires, "What news from Frankfurter, M'seur?"
"There seems to be a mutiny among the Frankszonian forces in their southern Stadt Wald, m'Lord," the lad replies, excitedly. "A supply train from Wittenberg was taken, and one of St. Maurice's patrols were ambushed! Several regiments seem involved, and they've got the support of the peasants in the forest!"
After sharing the shock and excitement (and a draft of cordial) with the lad, the count hurries back to the Hurtshog. To their pressing inquiries, he replies, "that foolish Gallian will be buying more of our seltzer and bizmuth, my lords." Then he adds, grimly, "It seems that the inevitable consequences of removing the Hurtshog from such an unstable stew as Frankfurter are already boiling over."
http://campaignsingermania.blogspot.com/2009/10/cheer-boys-cheer-parade-and-surprises.html
In which Bastille manages to snag the Hurtshog, L'Comte d'Beauphaup, and the Marquis d'Hottatrot into the advance of the Gallian Army under General Cheveret ...
Then ,,, rumors abound ...
Amidst the roar and infernal smoke and total confusion of a great battle, The Frankszonian "guests" of Baron Bastille notice a slathered horse being led to the party.
A young Gallian dragoon hands an attache case to the Baron, who looks at a couple of the papers inside, and then quickly wheels his horse towards the rear shouting for an aide.
The messenger remonstrates, pointing to the Hurtshog animatedly, but Bastille brusquely orders the lad away!
L'Comte d'Beauphaup quickly overtakes the rider and inquires, "What news from Frankfurter, M'seur?"
"There seems to be a mutiny among the Frankszonian forces in their southern Stadt Wald, m'Lord," the lad replies, excitedly. "A supply train from Wittenberg was taken, and one of St. Maurice's patrols were ambushed! Several regiments seem involved, and they've got the support of the peasants in the forest!"
After sharing the shock and excitement (and a draft of cordial) with the lad, the count hurries back to the Hurtshog. To their pressing inquiries, he replies, "that foolish Gallian will be buying more of our seltzer and bizmuth, my lords." Then he adds, grimly, "It seems that the inevitable consequences of removing the Hurtshog from such an unstable stew as Frankfurter are already boiling over."
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
And updates
First of all, the big news is that the Hesse Seewald which was in position to liber ... ah, besiege Frankfurter has fallen back through the Fulda Gap in response to the Allied victory at Minden ... as I write, news of a great collision near the capital of Hesse Seewald, Gotha, is just beginning to arrive (see "Campaigns in Germania).
Of course, the Resistance continues its forlorn struggle (I've fourteen pages of rough draft to bang into the confuser), and the search for the wife's good close up camera also continues ... Amazing what two cats can accomplish in a single night in one room ...
:)
Arthur
Of course, the Resistance continues its forlorn struggle (I've fourteen pages of rough draft to bang into the confuser), and the search for the wife's good close up camera also continues ... Amazing what two cats can accomplish in a single night in one room ...
:)
Arthur
Thn Von Kerns Are Coming!!!
Once again, the creator of Erwin v. Mack is participating in the story line, I happily copied this post from HIS blog ...
:)
The Von Kerns Are Coming!
http://raubenstadt.blogspot.com/
Erwin von Mack was grateful that the trip from Raubenstadt to Frankzonia had been without incident. The Markgrafin of Raubenstadt, Sharon von Meltzer was traveling to Frankzonia to visit the ruling family, the von Fhartz, and help them celebrate the completed renovation of one of their many estates. Of course, the presence of a platoon of the Markgrafin's Own Guard Musketeers, with their glittering bayonets, and a squadron of the Markgrafin's Own Lancers, with their twinkling lance heads, probably had something to do with the uneventfulness of the journey. It would have indeed been a bold band of highwaymen to even consider hindering the carriage and it's escort.
"If I keep showing up here, they're going to name the road after me.", he thought sourly to himself.
He was not surprised to see his counterpart, von Badmann waiting by the entry portal, as he rode up to the gate. Von Badmann raised his right hand and spurred his horse forward.
"What?! No wandering yodelling instructor cover this time?", referring to their first encounter years ago. "You know, old friend, that we'll have to name the road after you, if you keep popping up!", he said after shaking hands.
"Well...at least I could yodel, unlike those God awful clocks you were trying to foist off as your own work. Besides, I had no choice in the matter this time.", he grunted, and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder towards the carriage. "The Markgrafin and her brothers have come to call."
"Her brothers?!", Badmann's tone and right eyebrow rose.
"Only two of them.", von Mack dryly replied, enjoying his friend's discomfort.
"THREE von Kerns?!!" His left eyebrow joined the right in a mighty effort to reach the hairline.
"Technically only two. The Margrafin herself, her brother David, the commander of her personal Guard Musketeers, and her other brother Paul, the commander of her Guard Lancers. You see, Paul has given up the family name. So...he'll thank you to call him what he goes by these days: Colonel Somerussian Guyovich."
"And he thinks that that is enough of a fig leaf to hide behind?", Badmann inquired.
"He has great faith in the new name, the cossack scalplock, the moustache, his troopers, that he has spent enough time in the Cossack Stiech for everyone to have forgotten why he left, and if all else fails, that weighted Hungarian saber he favors."
Von Mack laughed as he turned his horse around and started to canter back to the carriage.
"I've seen him hack through a fencepost, in one stroke, at a full gallop with that cleaver!"
"We'll talk later!", Badmann called after him, then slumped back in his saddle.
As von Mack neared the carriage, he heard the clink of tumblers and a flask, as the Markgrafin said, "To old scores."
"And their settling!", David replied.
"In a painful manner!!", Somerussian Guyovich chimed in.
:)
The Von Kerns Are Coming!
http://raubenstadt.blogspot.com/
Erwin von Mack was grateful that the trip from Raubenstadt to Frankzonia had been without incident. The Markgrafin of Raubenstadt, Sharon von Meltzer was traveling to Frankzonia to visit the ruling family, the von Fhartz, and help them celebrate the completed renovation of one of their many estates. Of course, the presence of a platoon of the Markgrafin's Own Guard Musketeers, with their glittering bayonets, and a squadron of the Markgrafin's Own Lancers, with their twinkling lance heads, probably had something to do with the uneventfulness of the journey. It would have indeed been a bold band of highwaymen to even consider hindering the carriage and it's escort.
"If I keep showing up here, they're going to name the road after me.", he thought sourly to himself.
He was not surprised to see his counterpart, von Badmann waiting by the entry portal, as he rode up to the gate. Von Badmann raised his right hand and spurred his horse forward.
"What?! No wandering yodelling instructor cover this time?", referring to their first encounter years ago. "You know, old friend, that we'll have to name the road after you, if you keep popping up!", he said after shaking hands.
"Well...at least I could yodel, unlike those God awful clocks you were trying to foist off as your own work. Besides, I had no choice in the matter this time.", he grunted, and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder towards the carriage. "The Markgrafin and her brothers have come to call."
"Her brothers?!", Badmann's tone and right eyebrow rose.
"Only two of them.", von Mack dryly replied, enjoying his friend's discomfort.
"THREE von Kerns?!!" His left eyebrow joined the right in a mighty effort to reach the hairline.
"Technically only two. The Margrafin herself, her brother David, the commander of her personal Guard Musketeers, and her other brother Paul, the commander of her Guard Lancers. You see, Paul has given up the family name. So...he'll thank you to call him what he goes by these days: Colonel Somerussian Guyovich."
"And he thinks that that is enough of a fig leaf to hide behind?", Badmann inquired.
"He has great faith in the new name, the cossack scalplock, the moustache, his troopers, that he has spent enough time in the Cossack Stiech for everyone to have forgotten why he left, and if all else fails, that weighted Hungarian saber he favors."
Von Mack laughed as he turned his horse around and started to canter back to the carriage.
"I've seen him hack through a fencepost, in one stroke, at a full gallop with that cleaver!"
"We'll talk later!", Badmann called after him, then slumped back in his saddle.
As von Mack neared the carriage, he heard the clink of tumblers and a flask, as the Markgrafin said, "To old scores."
"And their settling!", David replied.
"In a painful manner!!", Somerussian Guyovich chimed in.
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