The Russo-Spanish War

This fan story was inspired by a previous fan story written by Johnny Coaleaston: Invasion of the West Indies (1745).

Chapter I
AS TEMPERATURES FASTLY decreased below zero, the man on horseback rode valiantly through the harsh northern tundra. For weeks he rode through the bitter snow, with no civilization save the occasional farming village he encountered along his route, in which he would find an open barn to spend the night among the livestock. It is for this reason that he was relieved when at last he spotted the city.

Late on the night of the seventh of December he at last reached his destination. Although still miles ahead of him, there was no doubt mistaking the metropolis that lie ahead through the arctic landscape. Through the blizzard, over rolling snow-covered hills, the rider could barely make out a collection of large stone aedifices, complimented with gold and maroon architectural details, and embellished with a faint lumination of lights that were barely visible through such harsh winds. Surrounding the cluster of palaces, a grand wall protruded from the landscape, and beyond that, the mighty sea lie as a fitting backdrop. His face covered with muslin cloth to keep from receiving frostbite, the rider gave a firm tug on the reins clutched in his hands, as his white mare continued on the seemingly endless journey. The rider entered Saint Petersburg.

After gaining entrance past the grand wall surrounding the city, the rider proceeded down the broken streets. He could not bare but notice the extreme quiteness and emptiness of the avenue in which he rode. There were no street torches; the only thing lighting the night for the rider was the occasional candles sitting in the window sills of the city's natives. Though the Russian economy was strong, poverty was obvious in the city. Not a soul was stirring in the street, save a lone homeless man the rider passed, who simply glared at the passing rider with wide eyes. The snow had begun to let up, yet even still the rider's visibility was limited. As he passed the Mariinsky, a faint sound of violins and a baroque melody spilled through the grand doors and enlightened the rider. The baroque melody, along with the patter of the rider's galloping, the whirling of the winds, and the distant march of the Night Guard was the only sound audible in what seemed to be the entire city. The rider rode on, only stopping occasionally to admire the silence.

At last, his final destination, the Winter Palace, lie ahead. As he passed through Palace Square, he could not help but imagine the reaction he will receive when he tells the Russian officials of the news he brings.

He was stopped at an iron gate by a Russian guard bearing a tall maroon musket, complete with a foot-long, golden bayonet. The soldier, without a word being spoken, motioned for the rider to halt. The rider obeyed, and heeded as the white mare let out a whine. The rider dismounted, and approached the guard. He pulled back the muslin cloth taking up the lower half of his face, and all at once the frosted air met his warm cheeks. The guard stared for a moment at the rider's face, before finally recognizing him as a Russian nobleman. The guard nodded his head in approval. The rider mounted the mare once again, as he rode on toward the Winter Palace, the sentry held a long salute of honour to the nobleman. The nobleman quickly returned it and rode on down the frozen cobblestones.

Upon approaching the entrance to the Winter Palace, the nobleman dismounted once again, and handed the reins of his white mare to a stableboy, waiting nearby. He then tossed the stableboy a single Ruble, which caused the young boy to smile at such a generation tip. He disappeared down a side path with the mare, as the cloaked nobleman ascended the staircase to the palace's grand doorway.

Before he could knock on mahogany doors, they flew upon, pouring out light into the black of the frozen night. Standing in the doorway was a servant of the Tsars, a tall man clothed in a black burka. Without a word, he nodded his head softly, approving the nobleman to enter the palace. The nobleman entered the grand hallway, immediatly relaxed by the palace's warmth. The servant closed the door before pointing at a grand staircase about 200 metres forward in the atrium, signalling for the nobleman to head in that direction. The nobleman thanked the servant, and begun walking down the Grand Hall, his head spinning at the palace's architecture and elegance.

Right before reaching the grand marble steps, a black-haired man wearing a brown kalpak and a gold-linen jacket suddenly looked up at the clipboard he had been examing so intently. The man was Gerasim, an advisor of the Tsars and a member of the Imperial Court. Upon seeing the nobleman, he took his focus off of his clipboard and stepped forward.

"Ah, Fyodor!" shouted the advisor.

The nobleman met Gerasim at the foot of the marble stairs, and bowed in greeting.

"We were beginning to think you would not show up," said Gerasim, in his thick, Tatar accent. "Now come," he continued, "There is much to discuss".

Chapter II
GERASIM LED THE nobleman up the grand marble stairs, and into a corridor leading into the palace's northen wing. After passing through the palace gardens (which were nearly depleted of life due to the bitter temperatures of the season), the two ascended a much less-grand winding staircase before passing through yet another corridor and hallway. At last, they came to the parlor.

Before entering, Girasim ordered the nobleman to take off all weapons on him in the parlor's lobby. A palace proktor stood by to collect the arms. The nobleman reached into the folds of his cloak, and revealed a sheath holding a small sword, no longer than half a metre. The proktor grasped the sheath, and pulled out the short sword. He examined it, and noticed the blade's end to be covered in a brown, decaying blood. The proktor glared at the nobleman in suspicion, before resheathing the blade and placing it on a wooden end table. The nobleman, the Tsar's advisor, and the proktor then preceded into the parlor.

More coming soon...