The next to speak—or rather, write—was King Desiderius of the thorn-helmed penitents. Unlike President Maleficent who expressed herself with a haughty cackle and a sly-eyed glare, the ruler of Lombard was a taciturn man, rigid and difficult to gauge beneath his mourning robes and eerie mask. His every movement was stone-like and deliberate, and as he penned his thoughts to paper the members of the summit hushed themselves, for there was a quiet menace in how he carried himself. The Lombardy people were just like the Saracens of before. Their malice was palpable.

  When King Desiderius had finished, Lucius took his message and announced it for all to hear. “Twenty years,” he said. “Our faith, smothered. Under the heretical boasts of a false lord, we penitents have forsaken our vows, an unforgivable sin that will forever mark our souls. The gift of Rapture will never come to my generation. When in death we are sent to the lowest hells, our grudge shall curse your people; eternal is our hatred and everlasting is our scorn.”

  Karolus somberly listened to the king’s wrathful reproach, for it was true that Francia had desecrated the penitents’ faith. The empire burned their scrolls and toppled their temples. To these people whose lash oft fell upon their own backs in acts of reverence, in atonement, toward their God, there could be no greater humiliation than the gradual abolishment of their faith. Yet despite how Pepin forced his scriptures on them, the Lombardy people silently kept close their faith and waited in the shadows.

  Dangerous was the resentment of a zealous few, much less an entire kingdom’s worth, and so before the very heir of his sworn nemesis, King Desiderius delivered what was all but a declaration of war.

  “You speak of unity and alliance,” was writ in his next letter. “Such dreams are impossible, young emperor. My people demand blood and sacrifice. Nothing will quell the fury in our hearts save for the death of every last cur who calls themself Frankishman, for our sins are many, and only with retribution can our children of tomorrow be spared of God’s damnation. There can be no coexistence between our religions.”

  The Katholicism they practiced was the very opposite of Francia’s revelry. Even back in Lucius’s home world of Earth, the tiniest of differences often led to war. Those who claimed to serve the same God broke off into various branches because of a clash in interpretation, and so it was that parents took up arms, shedding blood in a feud that would continue with their children. Was such a future possible, then, where this cycle could be broken?

  Karolus had to believe it so. Though slim in possibility and naive in thought, he had to try, for that was the duty he bore.

  “I will make no excuses, nor do I expect for Lombardy to ever forgive us,” he began. “But if there’s even a glimmer of hope that we can step beyond the divides that bound us, then I’ll chase after it, no matter how difficult. And… I think you feel the same, King Desiderius. You wouldn’t have attended this summit if vengeance was all you wanted.”

  The ruler of the penitents remained unyielding in his seat. Yet, for just a moment, Lucius saw a subtle change in his air.

  “Maybe if the empire was demolished, the Lombardy people would prosper for a time. How long would that last, though? You and your people know well that religion is not easily felled. The remnants of Francia might scatter to the far reaches of the land, but their faith will remain with them, as well as their anger. They will rebuild and they will fight. Then both our faiths will clash again, and again, until a victor emerges and the cycle repeats once more. I want to end this, King Desiderius. If you truly wish peace for the Lombards that come after, then we must lock arms not with bloody chains, but a promise to thrive in a world with no more wars.”

  So long that a seed of resistance remained, that which unified a group would always endure. A slaughter today would herald a slaughter in the future, far or distant it might be. Was placating the Lombard’s fury now truly worth the tragedy it would bring? To some people, it was, for man was a stubborn kind, one that oft relished in temporary cruelty than a possibility they would not live to see.

  But that was why the ruler of a nation should be no common man. Whether they be king, emperor, or anyone who led a great many, their duty was a simple one: ensure the people’s prosperity for however long capable.

  King Desiderius could have launched an attack on Karolus here the moment he arrived. He could have refused to hear the young man’s words, his pleas, and stir a bloodbath the likes of which would scar the annals of history. But he didn’t. He sat in his seat and listened, waiting to rebuke Francia with rage that no doubt festered in his heart, yet he still made room for that sliver of hope that their nations needed not repeat that which has occurred time and time again.

  “Words hold no weight. Promises can be broken,” the penitent wrote. “How can you guarantee that Francia will not attack again?”

  To that, Karolus gave a simple reply. “I can’t. As much as I want to believe that my descendants will carry on my dream, people are unique. They will never be me, and I will never be them. Maybe someday a tyrant like Pepin will emerge from the empire, but when that day comes I hope the alliance we foster here will stop such a person from gaining power. Those weaker will band together. Even the mighty will have no choice but to submit when confronted by many.”

  Karolus held his hand over heart, and then he spoke again. “King Desiderius, If I ever stray from my path or the pledges made here this day, then it’ll be up to you and the rest of the continent to strike me down. You won’t do so alone. The alliance I would foster is for everyone’s sake, not just Francia; and it will give you the justification needed to call upon the Moors or Arabia when it comes time to serve as the protectors of peace.”

  The lone penitent did not stir for a long while, his head lowered deep in thought. It was not peace his people sought. Peace was not the reason they endured such long, tortured years knowing they were blaspheming and sullying the faith that would lead them to salvation.

  Yes, the Katholic scriptures demanded they cared not for the pleasures of life, for they believed in death their penance would be rewarded. Yet man was not infallible. Even if forbidden from secular desires, they couldn’t help but yearn for at least a little reprieve: to live out their days with a smile.

  King Desiderius finally lifted his hand, and he wrote to the young emperor a simple preposition.

  “If you are so benevolent as you declare, then let us of Lombard reclaim the Cradle of Life. Long has your nation forbidden us from setting foot on the Mother’s resting ground. Only after declaring one’s sins and sacred vows on that peak shall a pilgrim’s journey conclude.”

  “It’s also holy to us, so I can’t just give it…” Karolus said. “But how about we share?”

  “Share?” he wrote.

  “Yep! We’ll share it, so that people from Francia, Lombard, or anywhere else can freely visit.”

  The penitent king didn’t seem all too keen with Karolus’s reply, but nonetheless he had no choice but to agree, for to claim ownership over what was solely God’s was blasphemous in its own right.

  “Then let it be so.” Desiderius raised his wrist and then cleanly cut it with a swipe of his nail, before letting the blood dribble on his pen. It was a morbid display, but apparently a positive one, for after a few strokes he handed the parchment over to Karolus and then clasped his hands together in prayer. “Lombard will join the alliance.”

  Karolus bid the lord of penitents a wide grin. “Thank you. Will your people join us during the battle for the mountain’s summit?”

  “Such is our duty, young emperor. I will lead the march personally to slay that which has infested our sacred peak.”

  Thus, with the Lombards now joined, there were four soon to descend upon the Demon King’s lair. The alliance was almost fully complete. Only one remained still yet to pledge.

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  The last of the land’s great powers was Lord Widukind of the northern Saxon tribes. The bear-like man was, in some respects, not bound by the same obligations as the other nations, for his people were of the rare few who followed no religion nor had the same reliance on the Holy Gems. They were children of the hills, the plains, where clouds ever veiled the suns and their borders were surrounded by sea.

  Britannia was far, far isolated from the conflicts of the central continent. The only entrance leading in and out was guarded by Francia, unless the brigands were willing to brave the aquatic horrors that lurked beneath the waters’ depths. The Saxon tribes had been self-reliant for all of their history, only recently allowing caravans to pass through, albeit with the empire’s permission; but such visits were for casual trade and not a necessity. They didn’t need anything.

  Especially not after being united under the iron fist of Lord Widukind, who alone conquered the warring tribes. Under his rule their plundering ways were replaced with farming, fishing, and gathering. They were but a few generations away from becoming another titan just like Francia, so what could the empire offer them that they didn’t already have, besides an agreement not to invade?

  Such thoughts, the Saxon Lord expressed bluntly to young Karolus.

  “Boy, all you speak of are possibilities,” he said, throat rumbling with a deep gravitas. “You wish to give and to enrich, yet nonetheless my clans of iron will survive, just as we did against your empire. Alliance? We have no need. The bounties of the Briton motherland are more than enough to sustain our rising expansion, but make no mistake: these fangs are not eager to bite more than it can chew. I will not make Francia my enemy so long that it knows its place.”

  These foreign brigands wished nothing more than to be left alone, to be isolated from the wider world and prosper their own fields, their own territory. In Karolus’s eyes the Saxon Lord’s attitude was not dissimilar to how the Frankish populace once felt. They believed themselves self-sufficient and shunned all that wasn’t familiar, but it was precisely because the emperor had already suffered under such dogma, and the consequences it inevitably brought to those deemed outsiders like Ruggiero, that he fought all the harder to change Widukind’s heart.

  “It might sound tempting to close your borders and hide away, but… like it or not, there’s a whole wide world with people in it,” Karolus said. “Change will one day arrive at your steps, and when that time comes you’ll wish you were better prepared to face it, both the benefits it could bring or the consequences of ignoring it.”

  “We have already prepared, son of Pepin. Our storehouses are gorged. Our weaponsmiths forge blades even as we speak. Should your wars encroach upon the northern continent, we will fight tooth and nail, claw and spear. What else could threaten us beside the drums of combat?”

  “Overpopulation.”

  Such was a common theme in the stories Lucius told to Karolus. He regaled onto the boy a collection of tragic fates and clans that which faded into obscurity. The Saxons were currently in the ‘honeymoon’ period, so to speak. With enemies turned ally and land shared rather than divided, the people of the north would experience unprecedented growth unlike any they had witnessed before. Trees would be cut and hills would be paved. What was once the domain of nature would gradually surrender to the clutches of man, but even those vast bounties were not limitless, and eventually they’d find their progress slowing to a crawl.

  Once all those resources were drained, how else would they sustain their populace? Those people who, for years, relied solely on themselves and their own harvests would now be forced to find aid elsewhere in the caravans and neighbors they once shunned. Desperate, hungry, they’d either return to their pillaging ways or be overwhelmed and taken advantage of by a world much more knowledgeable, and much more connected, than them.

  Lord Widukind’s ways would only set his descendants up for failure.

  “I admire you, Lord Widukind,” Karolus said, bidding the man a sad smile. “In just a few years, you have saved so many lives with your reform. You turned those once savage beasts into a community. Soon, a thousand will become ten thousand, and then a hundred. They’ll no longer need to fear losing family in a raid, but what comes after? When births far outnumber deaths from slaughter, do you truly believe those dry, northern fields whose soil can only raise weeds will be enough to feed a kingdom of millions?”

  Widukind’s brow furrowed in annoyance, yet hidden behind his rough bravado was a worry just like Karolus’s. He, too, was a ruler of people, and whilst his policies now were most efficient for the current moment, eventually he would need to think of future longevity. It was easy to wave off tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow’s you, but such negligence did naught but prolong the inevitable.

  “Change, you say?” the Saxon Lord grumbled. “You are correct. My advisors have said that seventy years is our limit. In that time, if our growth continues as predicted, we will require other means to sate our clans. But that does not mean we must bow down to your alliance. We have builders, shipwrights. Seventy years is more than enough to grow our armada and sail through the turbid waters.”

  “And what will you do when those warships land on a region already owned? Will you sail even farther, risk even more danger? Or will you ransack their towns and villages just like my father’s army once did?”

  To that, Lord Widukind could only respond with silence.

  Karolus shook his head. “Cooperation is not weakness, nor is it surrendering to another power. It’s an agreement that benefits all of us. Just like how the Moors would receive compensation for their inventions, perhaps you could trade something only your people would have. I’m told the iron clans are the best in the continent when it comes to metalworking, and you also raise a variety of livestock for wool, right? Those products are uniquely yours. It’ll become the basis for further commerce, and as more goods spread, then the people will be wealthier. With wealth you could advance your fleet and travel even more. Then you wouldn’t be forced to rely solely on Francia’s routes.”

  Independence, a particularly alluring proposition. Yet what amused Lord Widukind was that such advice came from the one who’d lose the most from the Saxon’s greater reach. Francia would no longer be able to pressure the sea-locked nation into accepting unfavorable deals, like how Ganelon’s merchants once took advantage of the Saracens, and they’d essentially be enriching a rival nation who might one day become an enemy.

  “We have a saying in my clan,” Widukind said. “Beware the outstretched hand, for the dagger will soon plunge from the other. But you are the first to hide neither poison nor blade. It is confusing to me, son of Pepin. All I have seen of you this day is charity. Why do you go to such lengths to nurture who should be your foes, when it is a man’s nature to favor only their kin?”

  Karolus froze for a moment, before letting out a bright laugh. “It’s not as if I’m giving everything away; I benefit from this, too. With the Moors, I hope to give my people the gift of technology. With the Saracens, I hope to give my people the gift of wealth. And with the Lombards and Saxons, I hope to give my people the gift of peace. We only fight because we haven’t yet seen how valuable unity can be; and as the land thrives and strife becomes just a distant memory, our descendants will see that happiness, that joy, and they will work to defend it from those who’d greed for more.”

  “You do not know such expectations to be certain.”

  “That’s right, but even so I’ll still dare to hope.”

  That hope manifested in the light of his will, his conviction that shone so radiantly before the jaded rulers of yesterday. Karolus represented, through his words and beliefs, the fervent dream of a new generation; and so tender was its ideal that the lords of north, south, and east could only look on as they were blinded by this young, starry-eyed man.

  Widukind of the Saxons bowed his head, and he carved a piece from his animal pelt before wrapping it around the hilt of a hunting knife. He gifted it to Karolus in the ceremonial ways of his clan; and the emperor was surprised. He was surprised that this hulking fellow, mighty in his pride and even mightier in his stubbornness, was willing to lower himself to the same level as a boy who just reached adulthood.

  “When the Demon King is slaughtered, I invite you to visit my homeland,” Widukind said. “I wish to test my mettle against the inheritor of the empire’s throne.”

  Karolus excitedly nodded. “It would be my pleasure. And it’s not just Britannia I’ll go to. When the demonic threat is gone, I hope you all will allow me to visit your nations in my travels. I want to see with my own eyes how the people beyond my borders live, how they prosper, and in doing so I’ll keep the memory close and dear to my heart as a reminder of what we must protect.”

  The Saxon Lord had no great motive in joining the mountain’s siege like the Moors or Lombard, but nonetheless he smacked his steel knuckles together and made an oath to his ancestral forefathers. He swore to them that from this day forth Francia and Britannia would become blood brothers, and that their bond would persist even after their death, settling in the spirits of all their future kindred.

  Thus was it decreed, an alliance of which was the continent’s first. The five great powers of the land were at last united.

  Karolus stood up and faced these new, sworn members, etching into his heart gratitude and a reminder never to forget their willingness to join this path alongside him.

  “Thank you, everyone. I mean it with all my love,” he declared, raising his holy sword and letting its light fill the expanse. He didn’t intend to be their leader; yet, as the gazes of all those in attendance fell upon him, they found their lips moving in tandem, whispering a title that would be praised in the years now and far, far later to come.

  For he was Karolus the Great.

  The Esteemed Gentlepeople of the , to whom I am forever grateful.

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]