The Dominion of Melchizedek
He who sells what isn’t his’n
must buy it back or go to pris’n.
— Attributed to Daniel Drew, 1797-1879
Over at the Temple the ‘hem netjer’ and ‘hemet netjer’ discussed hieroglyphs inscribed on the tomb of the boy king.
“The wings of the Phoenix have only begun to reveal the mysteries, the cobra has only begun to strike before the final countdown.”
Over in the barracks of the Palace Guard Mattilda the Teutonic Maid had been handing out new blankets for most of the month. Rumor of the assault had hung in the sweat scented air for days. The smithy had been hammering steel and sharpening blades ever since the last battle. Clean smooth steel polished to a mirrored finish stood ready in the armory. The shields all been prepared with fresh enamel coats of arms.
At the Palace the Bishop's carriage had been summoned. A Number of people were seen to enter the carriage just before the gates were opened and the horses galloped off. But there was not a page or squire who could or would tell who that was that departed. Almost immediately a call to arms went up within the castle. “TO ARMS! TO ARMS!” Called the crier. A message that was repeated by all that was in ear shot of his voice. “TO ARMS!” “TO ARMS!”
The battle itself was a glorious affair. Practically from the opening of the gates the taste of victory was sweet on their lips. “Die shorty die” “Take that you pompous midget” Never had even the great Achilles led a band so skillful with the sword or accurate with the bow. Homer himself never recounted a battle more skillfully fought. Merciless was the slaughter and great was the schadenfreude on the lips of the victors.
The celebration surpassed all joys in the hearts of the victors. Kegs and vials of the sweetest nectars and the juices of the finest grapes were shared by all. Together they sang as if in one voice the "The Devil Went Down To Georgia"
With laughter and with the tears of joy until many of them could barely whisper a sound .
Many a tale was told about the heroic sword that engorged the fat pig but Slippery the Short was never found among the dead. Whether he was in fact with the Bishop or off in some distant land could not once more be proven.
Down by the waters of forgetfulness the brave Riddle a bit bruised but not beaten sat with the fair Maid Deniala. Who caressed his wounds softly but confessed herself once more to be at that time of month.
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