In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[Askthepizzaguy]

Kutaisi, Georgia
Shortly after the fall of Arslan

========================================


The rider from the south was tired. He had whipped his mount since before the sun rose, and had only now reached his destination well after midnight. There were only a few places to stop and rest along the way.

He dismounted the horse and opened one of the many bags he carried with him. It was a simple meal of corn and anchovies, though obviously not prepared or heated in the manner fit for his Sultan. The anchovies were not cooked, and the corn was raw. Still, the man was famished from the exhausting ride. And there was much, much more riding to do, into lands far beyond the reach of the average Turk.

"O Allah, would you please ensure my return to my home. If I never taste my wife's fish kebab again, I will die a hungry and unhappy man..."

And he tried to enjoy this simple uncooked meal, which would ensure his survival, and perhaps, the survival of his people. Yes, in dire times such as these, with the death of Sultan Kilij Arslan, the survival of the nation is more important than the niceties of a home-cooked meal, or the company of good honest arab muslims. The rider had travelled very far to meet with the Georgian emissary, and they had much to discuss.

The Georgian guardsmen approached, with a diplomat and an interpreter to open talks. "Salaam alaikoom, friend and neighbor, from the newly crowned Sultan Kaikosru of the Turks. I bring a message to your wise and noble leader, if you are willing to hear it."

The Georgian eyed the Turk suspiciously. "Why should we discuss anything at all with you, Turk? In your short but tainted history, you have done nothing towards Christians which merits peace talks. You have contributed to the Armenian massacre, displaced them from their homelands, and it is we who have rightfully claimed this land in the name of the most Holy Christ. Your Muslim emissaries are not welcome here. Already we are at war with your brothers, the Seljuk Turks, and we do not trust you."

The Turk appeared shaken. This was not a promising beginning.

"Friend, we are not like the Seljuk Turks. We have not attacked innocent Christians. And you confuse us with them again, for it is not the Sultanate of the Rum Turks which caused the first Armenian massacre. In fact, we have made an alliance with the Armenians against the Romans who attacked them."

The Georgian ambassador seemed genuinely unprepared to hear this, and turned to consult with his aide and interpreter. The Turk continued:

"We know you are allied with the Romans at this time. May I ask what aid they have offered you against the Seljuk incursion?"

"It is none of your business what aid the Romans have or have not sent us." The Georgian replied curtly.

"Very well, but the Sultan sends his word that if the Seljuks attack you again, we will send you aid, and whatever intelligence we can offer."

The Georgian delegate was caught off-guard, but he quickly recovered. "Why would you even bother? You are at war with our allies. We are at war with your allies. It is only by God's divine intervention that we have not attacked you as well!"

The Turk continued calmly, "We know that the Seljuks attacked you in an unprovoked assault. It is the policy of Kilij Arslan, and his successor, Kaikosru, that the Anatolian Turks are to side against the aggressors in any war, even if they are our allies. The Sultan does not keep alliances with those who make war upon the innocent."

The Georgian delegate raised a brow, curiously. "That is most noble of you. In truth, the actions of the Romans have not impressed us at all. Attacking the Armenians without cause or warning? And on the side of the unprincipled King Baldwin, whose name is cursed even among the Christian nations for his betrayal and massacre of the Armenians? We find the actions of our allies most unchivarlous and dishonourable as well. But we cannot simply discard the alliance we have signed merely because it is inconvenient. And to side with the Turks, whose brothers the Great Seljuks now make war upon us... that appears unthinkable. Why should we betray our alliance to Rome in favor of one with Turks such as yourselves?"

"May I ask, was your alliance with Rome primarily defensive, or offensive? By that I mean, were you allied for mutual defense, or allied for mutual offense against a nation?" countered the Turk.

"I won't reveal the details of the alliance to you..."

The Turk hesitated for a moment, but pressed the issue.

"Isn't it true that you were once allied against us? The whole point of your alliance was to conquer the Turks."

The Georgian appeared outraged. "How could you possibly know that!? It is not for the Turkish Sultan to tell us why we were allied with Rome! We will not abide by such insinuations!"

The Turk replied calmly "The messengers you send back and forth do ride through Turkish lands. And since they imbibe so much of the spirits forbidden to Muslims while they ride, they tend to tell everyone they meet of your secret plans... to be honest, we were starting to wonder why you continued to employ such drunken men, or why you trusted them with national secrets to begin with. Most of the Muslim world already knows of the intimate details of your alliance with Rome."

The Georgian's jaw was agape. He appeared to be at a loss for words.

"I am here in the spirit of peace and cooperation. We understand your desire to ally with the mighty Roman empire for the defense and glory of your nation. In truth, we sought to be their friends as well before the cowardly attack on Armenia."

The Georgian delegate, the fire gone from his belly, slumped down into the chair his aides had brought for him. It seemed as though he was ready to listen to what the Turk had proposed.

"The Sultan Arslan was a most... unique man. He desired friendship with Christians, both Catholic and Orthodox. He even signed a mutual defense treaty with the pagan tribes of the north. He sees past such trivial distinctions as religion. Though we are descended from arabs and you are descended from europeans, it was the will of Arslan that we become friends, no matter what the cost."

The Georgian considered the Turk's words carefully. "Can there be friendships between Muslims and Christians? We know full well how Arabs treat non-Muslims in their lands. They are called dhimmis, and they are treated as second-class citizens."

The Turk winced painfully at this, but was prepared to set the record straight.

"Sultan Kilij Arslan... died... defending Armenian Christians."

The Georgian nearly fell out of his chair. Such a thing was unheard of. Muslims fighting to defend Christians? Soon the Jews would be fighting to defend Muslims, and the Catholics fighting to defend pagans.

"It is the truth. Our great leader was captured by the Romans, brought before a military tribunal, and beheaded for 'crimes against the citizens of Rome, and high treason against the Roman Emperor', but in truth, he declared war on Rome explicitly because of the alliance with Armenia, and fought to turn back the Roman invasion. Even now, Armenians are within our borders, where they have found shelter, food, and welcoming arms."

The Georgian scoffed. "That only proves that your leader was a poor military commander. Many have come before you in their fight against Rome, and all have fallen in battle. None of them were described in heroic terms."

"Did they die defending men of a different faith from a Roman invasion and occupation? Did they send their sons and fathers to die honouring a defense pact?"

The Georgian could not immediately think of such an example.

"We offer you the same treaty. We will defend YOU against a great empire which has crossed YOUR borders unprovoked. We will fight beside you, and offer any and all assistance you require. If you need safe passage through our lands, you shall have it. If you need money, we will send it. If you need Turkish bows and horsemen, we will send them."

The Georgian delegate looked at his entourage, and seemed impressed by the offer.

"This is... far more than the Romans ever offered us. But... why? Why would you turn your back on your brothers, fellow Turks, to help the ALLIES of your sworn enemy? We are most puzzled by your apparent lack of loyalty!"

The Turk stood up immediately and stared sternly into the eyes of the Georgian ambassador.

"We are loyal to the ideals of justice, peace, and non-aggression. We are all, as Turks, united against imperialists and villians who expand their kingdoms and sultanates through conquest and enslavement, pillaging and mass murder. We are loyal to the concept of human dignity. And we are loyal to our convictions. What good is an alliance with those who do not even serve their own conscience? We would find a knife in our back for our loyalty to them. The Sultan Kaikosru has sent me to serve a greater cause. And our alliance with the Great Seljuks was defensive; it did not include the conquest of Georgia. You are our neighbors and trading partners, and if the Great Seljuks managed to conquer your nation, there would be nothing to prevent them from stabbing us in the back for our loyalty to them, while we are busy fighting two other empires. My Sultan sends me to serve your people, your King, your nation in the cause of justice and mutual survival. My loyalty is to my Sultan, and so long as the Turks and the Georgians live together in peace, then I am also loyal to you, and the cause of your nation. We must stand together as brothers in arms against those who threaten both our nations."

The Georgian stared at the Turk with a furrowed brow. The Turk, having said everything his leader had sent him to say, finally sat down, exhausted. The Georgian sat silently for a few moments, and then began to slowly clap his hands. The Turk could not even muster the energy to look him in the eye.

"Impressive speech, Turk. But how do you propose we ally with you when you are at war with Rome? Are you prepared to declare peace with our allies?"

The Turk, clearly worn out from his travels, simply replied, "No... until Rome is prepared to sign a peace treaty with Armenia, we will not betray our friends the Armenians, even to gain an alliance with you. That is one thing the Sultan cannot offer you."

"Very well... I must say you are not what I expected. I shall deliver your terms to my King. By the way, weary traveller... what is your name?"

The messenger looked up at the Georgian delegate, and said:





..."Crown Prince Malik, heir to the Turkish throne."

[The Lemongate]

Basileos’ camp near Nikeia, Autumn of 1176


The Basileos was furious. He was not a man known for his temper. Indeed he was a most patient man, meticulously governing his empire as the great consuls of old had done for generations. But such blatant treachery was unacceptable by any terms.

“Barbarians! Uncivilized mongrels! They dare attack Rome! ROME! I will see them out of my lands! I will wipe their very names from the memory of mankind!”

A messanger entered the imperial tent. The room was a wreck. Chairs overturned, curtains ripped; it looked like a battleground. And in the middle of it all, the Basileos, christian emperor under God Himself, rightful ruler of the entire world, was smouldring over a large map of Anatolikon. The city of Ikonion was circled in blood red ink. When the Basileos slowly raised his gaze towards the messanger, the man was taken aback. He felt the weight of grim determination in the stare and shuddered at the subtle sign of glee in the Basileos’ smile.

“Kilij Arslan has made a fatal mistake. He has underestimated our will to fight and he will pay dearly for his crimes against the Roman people. Ride as fast and hard as you can. Reach the fleet as it sails along the coast towards Cilicia and tell Strategos Dukas to bring his host to Amorion. We will end this war and those wretched Turks will beg for peace.”

The Basileos’ voice was now calm. Eerily so. As he spoke he stepped closer to the messanger until he was only a few inches from the man:

“Let none escape.”

The messenger stuttered an answer, forgot to bow and walked briskly towards the exit. As he was nearly out of the tent, the Basileos’ flat voice stopped him:

“Should you fail to reach the fleet in time, pray a turkish arrow kills you along the way. Pray.”





Roman fleet anchorage West of Attaleia, a few days later


The messenger had reached a tiny fishing village on the fleet’s designated route. When he arived he was dirty and tired. His clothes were still damp and grimy from the previous night’s rain and his horse below him was nearly dead. He had ridden without rest for days, halting only so his horse could recover somewhat. He knew full well what the Basileos’ threat meant. Failure was rewarded with the best places at the Circus: down on the sand with the lions and other beasts.

The first villagers that saw him did not recognize him as an imperial messenger. His ragged looks did not befit a man of his station, but when life was at stake, looks could wait for another day. The Basileos’ seal however, got him the whole village’s assistance in no time. The local fishermen told him no ships had passed in the previous weeks.

Relief.

He was ahead of time.

When the ships finally appeared on the horizon, he requisitionned a fishing boat to catch up with the great dromonds. The imperial ships were fast, but laden with men and arms, they were easily caught up by the nimbler fishing vessel. The sailors eyed him suspiciously as en climbed onto the deck, but he was hurriedly scuffled towards the Strategos’ cabin.

Ioannes Dukas was an imposing figure of a man. Tall with curly jet-black hair, aquiline nose and piercing green eyes, he was a figure stolen directly from Homer’s Iliad. Though not a young man anymore, he had all the energy and cunning of the Spartans of old. And above all, he was loyal to Rome and it’s Emperor. It was not wonder the Basileos had chosen him to relieve Megas Dux Kontostephanos in Cilicia and given him the command of one of the Empire’s finest armies. He would make short work of the Armenians.

The messenger entered the cabin to find the Strategos sitting at his desk, writing battle orders for the army’s captains.

“I had specifically stated I did not want to be bothered before we reached Attaleia.”

The Strategos was known to be severe but a message bearer of the Basileos was beyond the reach of any man.

“The Basileos wants you to abandon the campaign plans for Cilicia and to transport all your troops to Amorion at forced march. The Sultan has brought his entire warhost to the battle. The Basileos wants none of them to escape.”

Ioannes did not like to modify his plans at the last minute. Looking down at the maps of Anatolikon he pondered what could have justify such a reversal in the Basileos’ decision.

He looked at Amorion.

At Nikeia

At his own position.

A smile slowly crept into his face.

“None shall.”

[The Lemongate]

Amorion, late winter 1177

The morning sky was clear. A slight dew covered the hills around Amorion, the night chill’s parting gift to the sleeping countryside. Even the Turkish army encamped around the city was resting, a few, sparse watch fires slowly dying in the rising dawn.

The Turks had felt no need to post sentries. The city they were besieging was too lightly guarded to attempt a sortie and no Roman army had been spotted in the area. Amorion would fall. It was simply a question of time.

A lone horseman observed the scene from the nearby hills.

He marveled at the efficiency of the Turkish warhost. The men encamped around the city had build large siege towers and mighty rams to turn the Roman fortifications to dust. They had worked for weeks on their constructions and, by morning, a thousand men would swarm out of their tents and over the walls like so many ants on a piece of meat. The great Turkish Goliath, with the slightest flexion of its powerful muscles, would crush the defenseless Roman town much as it had in Attaleia. The result was inevitable.

Inevitable.

Dukas grinned.

Fortune had decided to twist the Turks’ plans. It had placed him, Ioannes Dukas, Strategos of a mighty Roman army, right in striking distance of Rome’s most hated foe, Sultan Kilij Arslan the Indestructible.

It was time the Turks lost their arrogance. Dealing with Rome as though they were the equal of Romans. Insufferable fools!

Behind the general, the banners of Rome were being lifted into position. The army had taken the high ground. Trumpets blared and drums rolled. Hundreds of feet and hooves began rythmically marching down the low hill.

On the plain below, the Turks scrambled for their arms.


The Battle

The battle raged fierce.

The Turks, though isolated and unprepared, were able fighters and zealous in defense of their Sultan. They had formed up two lines of light skirmishers, bowmen and religious fanatics in front of Arslan hoping to hold the Romans at bay, but when the first tide of kavalieroi crashed into them, their formation degenerated into a chaotic melee. Even Arslan himself was caught up in the whirlwind of men, horse, steel and limbs, his knights soon surrounded by hundreds of nimble roman spearmen.

Flaming arrows fell on both sides, Roman kavalieroi charged and charged again into the fray. The Turks had the advantage of numbers and the Roman battle line buckled in places. But wherever the infantry lost ground, Ioannes Dukas rallied his men, waded far into enemy battalions. He felt blood run on the inside of his armor. His own and that of his enemies. He had no way to tell. Slowly he hacked his way through the Turkish infantry making his way to the Sultan.

He knew if the Sultan fell, the Turks would be demoralized.

His eyes were fixed on his target. His arm came down on heads and limbs. He hacked and hacked and hacked.

An axe struck his leg. He crushed the skull of its wielder.

Arrows struck his armor. He pressed forward.

Finally free of the infantry, Dukas charged forward. His retainers were greatly reduced in numbers, but the Sultan’s guards had been weakened as well. Both commanders met head on. The Romans, like true lions, rained blow upon blow on the Sultanate’s elite cavalrymen, but for all their courage, it seemed the Turks were gaining the upper hand. In desperation, the Strategos ordered for all his kavalieroi to abandon their positions along the battle line and to charge the Sultan. The horsemen charged. The Roman infantry, bereft of support soon found itself overwhelmed. Even the archers were caught in bloody hand to hand melee.

And suddenly a horn was blown in the distance. A turkic horn.

The Romans saw a massive wave of horsemen hurtling down the hills towards them. They saw their bows tighten. The arrows fly. And fall upon the Turks!

The newcomers fired three times before their faces could be seen. Asians with eyes as cold as steel. At once they drew their curved swords and ran down the Turkish battle line.

The bewildered Romans rallied to the cries: For Rome! The tide of battle turned in an instant. Everywhere the Turkish infantry was fleeing. Everywhere the Romans captured the runners in great numbers. Even the mighty Sultan was forced to recognize defeat and attempt to escape. But he was not quick enough. Laden with armor and tired from the battle, his horse was cut down from under him and he was knocked unconscious from the fall.

As the Sun finally rose above Anatolikon, the battle was over. Not a single Turk had escaped.

Raising his bloodied sword like the great Roman generals of old, Dukas bellowed:

"ROMA VICTRIX!"

[rossahh]

Seyhan River, Northern Armenia, 1177 AD


There was little left of the fort. It had once been in a clearing, high up on the ground, overlooking the riverbank. Trees and shrubs had began to reclaim the clearing, but the remains of the fort were still evident. Though blackened and partially destroyed from the fire that had consumed it when the Count's troops had departed, parts of the defensive wall was still visible. Equally visible was the simple cross made of the fort's own wall off to one side. It marked the grave of those who had died in the battle.

The wagon slowly trundled past the charred remains. Some of the escorts glanced briefly at it, but many deliberately avoided looking it. The land gently slopped downwards towards the river bank. As the troop moved out of the woods towards the river, their final destination came into sight.

On the western side of the river lay an intact fort. Over its gate fluttered a crimson banner. The troop leader turned to the rider next to him and muttered, "Finally". Over the course of the last week, the army had started its withdrawal from the north. The troop were some of the last soldiers left in Armenia, and though the war was over, they were nervous. The sooner they delivered the packages, the sooner they could start their journey south.

A trumpet sounded off in the distance, the gates of the fort opened and several horsemen began to make their way down towards the river on the other bank. The leader motioned to the man driving the wagon, who nodded and fetched the cases. The man opened each case and checked if the keys were still in their places, which they were. So much for something so small the man shook his head, thinking ruefully to himself. He passed the cases to the leader, who spurred his horse and made his way towards the river, with a single horsemen in tow.




"Greetings" said the leader.

The Roman grunted and in an accented voice replied, "Greetings. You brought the keys?"

The leader was slightly taken aback at the lack of pleasantries on the Roman's part, but managed to compose himself and reply, "Of course," holding up the cases, "and you?"

The Roman waved his hand and one of the mounted soldiers next to him held up two cases. The Roman held out his hand and gruffly commanded, "Now, hand them over."

The leader held the cases out. The Roman was about to pluck the cases from his hand when a sudden shout came from behind him. A rider, clad in royal blue, was racing at full speed towards the delegates. As he reached the party of men, he reigned in his horse and threw a message to the leader, who hastily broke the seal and began reading.

What the...

He finished reading and passed it to the Roman, who handed it off the one of his escorts, who rapidly translated it. When his man finished reading, the Roman gave the message back to the leader and laughed. "We won't be needing those anymore" he said, almost gleefully, pointing at the three cases, still in the leader's hand. Abruptly, he wheeled his horse around and began to make his way back towards the fort. His aide put his two original cases back in the saddle bag and followed the Roman. The riders from the Kingdom looked at each, confused, before shrugging their shoulders and heading back towards the wagon.

As they made their way back up the riverbank, the leader asked "How many?"

"I do not know. I have only seen the banner's in the distance" the messenger responded.

"Does the King know? Will the army return?" the leader pressed the messenger.

"A rider was dispatched to the Prince, he is closer. I do not think the army will be recalled. It has already crossed the river and marches on the Principality" the messenger replied.

The leader sighed. Bloody Turks...

[rossahh]

Antioch, 1178 AD


As Antioch slowly settled down to sleep, few could imagine the horror that would engulf the city that night.

For the third time in as many years, the city was besieged by an army from Jerusalem. However, the city's population had little fear. The other two times the city had been under seige, Bohemund had steadfastly refused the Crusader's demands of surrender and had waited them out. Both times, Jerusalem's army had run out of patience and was forced to depart northwards and fight other wars while the city remained independent. Little did they know it, but this time was different...



As dusk began to fall over the city that night, a man walked slowly down its streets. He looked like any other and no one payed him any notice as they hustled to their homes. His name was Gascon, and he was from the County of Tripoli. It was not all that uncommon from Franks from the south to be in the city, but if any had known his true purpose for being there, his stay in the city would have been payed for by his life. For he served Raymond III, Count of Tripoli, and his lord would be visiting the city that very night...



It was deep into the night when the first blow was struck. At the northern gate, Gascon slowly crept up upon the two guards and with a small but deadly blade, silenced them both. He then, fulfilling his mission, painstakingly opened the gates of the city. As the mighty gates groaned open, a host of shadowy figures filed into the city. The attack had been well planned, and the shadows broke into companies as they marched into the city,then headed off down the city streets as silently as possible to their prearranged positions.

While the host entered the city, the population slept. Inevitably, they were discovered, but it was far too late. On the western wall, a sentry happened to glance at the city below him and saw a flash of silver. Or rather many flashes of silver, moving towards the city barracks at great pace. He gasped in shock at the sight, then recovered his senses and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs to the guard tower and began ringing the warning bell with all his might. In the western part of the city, soldiers were woken with a start by the sound of the bell. They grabbed whatever was within reach and rushed outside to see what the trouble was. As they streamed outside they ran straight into a silver line of death. The fully armed and armoured soldiers from Jerusalem were waiting for them, right outside their places of slumber.

Though the soldiers of the city were experienced and, on the field, equally armed and armoured, they were totally unprepared for a fight. Ill-equipped, unprepared and charging out piecemeal into a fully formed battle-line, they were duely slaughtered. The fight spread as the sounds of battle awoke more and more of the city. However, in nearly every situations, the soldiers of Antioch rushed outside only to face their counterparts from Jerusalem, who were ready for action. Only in the south eastern corner was there proper resistance. It was the furthest place from the northern gates the soldiers from Jerusalem had had to cover, and when they clashed with the soldiers from the city, the battle was somewhat even. The men, awoken by the screams of the civilians and the sounds of battle elsewhere in the city, had time to fully arm themselves for a fight. Man to man, the soldiers hacked and hew at each other, but the battle remained on an even footing. Eventually, Crusader cavalry arrived on the scene and reinforced Jerusalem's forces. Hemmed in on all sides by men and horses, the soldiers of the city were slain to the last man.

As the battle for the city reached its zenith, its conductor, Count Raymond, unleashed his final and most devastating blow. Throughout the city, weaving around the pockets of men fighting their hopeless battles, rode the Knights of Outremer. They brought a terrible weapon - fire. Every second house on every second street was set alight. Unchecked by the terrified and distracted people of the city, the fires spread, destroying entire blocks, burning both empty and occupied houses alike. For hours the fires ravaged the city, even after the last of the fighting was done. When dawn broke on that fateful morning, the sun's rays shone down upon a smouldering and destroyed city. Barely a quater of it still stood, the rest was a burnt-out wreck, and less than half the population remained - some had fled, while many others had died in the fighting or in the fires.


Gathered in the square, the men from Jerusalem watched as the golden cross was raised above the city once more. From the northern gate was strung Bohemund, cut down as he rushed to join the fight, with the words scrawled next to him: Traitors die a traitor's death.

As the Count turned away from the grizzly sight, he made a silent prayer to all those that had died that night.

Forgive me, my brothers.

Be at peace.

[rossahh]

Emir of Aleppo's Camp, Syrian Desert, 1178 AD


For nearly 100 years, the Emirates of Aleppo had been in conflict with the Crusader States. Edessa, Antioch, Tripoli and Jerusalem had all fought against the Emirates, yet Aleppo still stood free. Mustafa, the last Emir of Aleppo - though he didn't know it - had continued the proud tradition of his people by defying the crusaders in the north. He and his people had seen them squabble and fight amongst themselves and the Muslims, yet they had somehow endured. And now they were coming.

The Emir had once ruled a vast and commanding portion of Syria, yet his realm was wanning around him. Though Antioch had broken free of Jerusalem's control, the conflict between the Principality and Aleppo had only increased. Christian raiders struck regularly against Muslim convoys, and for the past decade pushed the Emirates soldiers back beyond the river. The south was no longer safe either, with Damascus and southern Syria answering to Jerusalem now. After the initial surrender, some of the Muslim population had left the city, most heading south into Egypt, but some heading north into the Emirates. Aleppo had been buoyed by their additions, and the ranks of the army had swelled, but the Crusaders and their Saracen allies had followed the exodus and begun raiding southwards. The border town of Hama had been lost to the Crusaders, who had expanded far up the north road until checked by the Emir's men.

The Emir had seen this and been dismayed. His enemies had begun to close in around him, and there was scant help to be found. Though no friend of Jerusalem, Antioch was no friend of Aleppo. The Turks in Anatolia had once been friends, but when the Crusaders closed the mountain passes, the Turkish traders stopped coming. The Emir had hoped that the Abassids would aid him against the marauding Christians, especially when they took the former vassal-state of Jerusalem, Edessa. However, Abassid cavalry had begun raiding the eastern lands of the Emirates, making the lands leading to the Euphraties, once dominated by Aleppo, a dangerous place to be. And so Aleppo was surrounded, but was still strong.

But then Jerusalem came.

When Jerusalem's army had first marched into Syria, the Emir had feared little. Their army was marching northwards at full speed, deep in the desert. An Abassid raid had drawn his attention in the east, but when he had returned to the castle, he had been surprised to learn that the Crusaders had turned around mid-march and were coming back south. Their behavior was perplexing, and little made sense until reports came from the outlying regions of Crusader cavalry attacking their settlements. They called for aid and sent continual reports to the Emir, until suddenly no more reports came. What troops that were sent only found empty patches of desert. Then Mustafa had sent scouts in every direction, tryomg to get a sense of what his enemy was up to, but few had returned. Of those who had returned, their reports were all the same - Jerusalem was everywhere.

Mustafa was defiant until the end. He marched his army to the high dunes west of Aleppo, overlooking the main road from Antioch and the coast, and waited for his enemy to give battle, but they never came.


Then, one fateful day, a messenger arrived.


The man had ridden at top speed into the camp, making straight for the Emir's tent. He was blood-stained and frantic, and when he burst into his lord's tent, he delivered the grim news: the Crusaders had taken Aleppo from under his very nose. They demanded his surrender, or else they would come for him and his men.

The Emir was enraged, but then shaken. The Emirates was doomed, but the Emir vowed he would fight the Crusaders until the very end, and so he waited and watched the road, seeking to bring battle to the infidels.


And so the Emirates died, while Mustafa and his men wait and watch, waiting for their enemies, but they never come.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1178 AD


The court was deadly silent. It had been some years since the last messenger from Armenia had been received in the city, and a lot had happened between the kingdoms since then. Much of the Kingdom's nobility was assembled, including representatives and Knights from the various Crusader orders The King himself was presiding over the discussions, when an attendant had whispered in his ear that an Armenian messenger had arrived, bringing news of "great importance". And so the messenger had been admitted, and the court waited in silence for his news.

The messenger had strolled purposely into court. Clad in brilliant but expensive silk robes, the man seemed to have not a care in the world. Amazingly, not intimidated in the slightest by the dozens of eyes staring intently upon him, a slightly mocking smile playing on the man's face. He marched straight towards the King, though as he reached the throne, his smile faltered slightly. The brilliant eyes behind the mask pierced the messenger and he was momentarily shacken. Composing himself like the diplomat that he was, the messenger bowed low, and in a voice that was full of confidence and carried to all the ears of the court, said,

"Most noble King, I bring a message from Takavor Hetum, and a gift."

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a ring - a ring that was very familiar to the King. A murmur rippled throughout the court as some of the nobles near to the messenger recognised the ring. Surely not... they thought to themselves.

Not disturbed by the sudden murmurs around him, the messenger unfurled his scroll and began reading.

King Baldwin,

I'm both sorry and glad to announce the death at the hands of Armenian soldiers of Count Raymond of Tripoli.

Sorry because there now exists between our Kingdoms a state of war.

Glad because the main perpetrator of the Armenian genocide will finally meet Satan.

Some years ago, we were forced into proposing a ceasefire in the hope to live and fight another day... The day has finally come...

We will meet on the field of battle.

Takavor Hetum I
Survivor of Armenia


As the messenger finished reading, outcry gripped the court. Everywhere the nobles and knights of the Kingdom shot to their feet, many reaching for their swords. The messenger deliberately avoided looking at the menacing faces around him, and focused solely on the figure in front of him. The King sat silently for a moment, while the noises of outrage continued around him. However, with a wave of his, he silenced the court, though few sat down again. The messenger waited, but the King said nothing. Eventually, the messenger broke the silence.

"What response do you give the Takavor, Latin King?"

The King awkwardly rose to his feet. Staring down the messenger, in his soft but commanding voice, said,

"Tell him this.

The Count with be avenged, Takavor.

Mark those words."

The messenger bowed again when it was apparent the King would say no more, and turned to leave. As he did so, the King nodded to the Marshall of Jerusalem, who stepped forward and took the ring off the messenger. The King began to shuffle out of the court, as the messenger began to walk towards the front doors. Already, the court was full of angry voices. Just as the silk-clad messenger was exiting, he heard the Marshall's booming voice behind him,

"Assemble the army!"

If any of the Knights or noblemen had looked at the messenger, they would have noticed a smile lighting up his face. As he walked down the stone steps towards his horse, escort in tow, he couldn't help but hum quietly to himself. Though the road ahead to Baghdad was long, the messenger felt very pleased: his mission had been accomplished.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1178 AD


It had been nigh on ten years since the King had left the city under arms. To do so would mean death for him from his disease, but the Kingdom was under its greatest threat, and so the King marched forth to join the armies in the north. At the head of the column, the King could not help but feel sad as he passed through the city gates. He his city as he loved none other, but as he went through the gates, he knew deep down that he would never see the city again. As he looked back on what he loved for the last time, a tear ran down his face. Turning away, the King began his march north and the last march he would ever take in this world.

[rossahh]

Armenia-Jerusalem border, 1179 AD


Faulk Grenier, commander of the cavalry of the Army of Jerusalem, drove his sword into the fool's chest. The cavalryman cried out in pain, slipped from the saddle and joined the other bodies strewn on the ground below. Wheeling his horse around in a tight circle, sword poised to strike, he found somewhat to his surprise that the swarm of Armenian cavalry that had so recently been pressing against him and his men were gone. The only other mounted soldier left around him was Andrei, who too was looking for enemies but finding none. Looking over at Faulk, Andrei called out, "I think we have done it sire."

Bloodied and exhausted, Faulk nodded and turned to survey the scene around the valley below him. Panting heavily, he gazed upon the same sight that only moments ago had been awash with conflict, but was now almost dead calm. On the hill the banners and men of the main line were still in position, despite the Armenian's best efforts to the contrary. On the slopes leading to the line were hundreds upon hundreds of bodies of men and horses. Prince Guy's archers had made the Armenians in the valley pay a terrible price, while Lord Balian's infantry had held firm despite being outnumbered.

The valley itself was thick with bodies. Completely outmatched, the Armenians had tried to stand toe-to-toe with the finest archers and crossbowmen the Kingdom could muster, with disastrous results. Some fighting was continuing in the valley, with Guy himself leading the last of Jerusalem's cavalry against the remnants of Armenia's army.

Looking past the whirling figures below, Faulk's heart grew heavy. Scattered all around were the remains of the horses, men, banners and arms of his cavalry which had started the battle. Faulk had led 250 of the finest cavalry in the world across the valley against a force five times in number in a strong defensive position. Victory was forthcoming, but at a terrible cost. The Armenian's had been pushed off their hill and were only prevented from being routed by the intervention of the Takavor's army, which had rushed to the battle at full speed. Suddenly, Faulk's entire cavalry force had been in danger of being cut off and slaughtered. He had ordered the withdraw, but so many of his men were cut-off and killed or captured. His own knights had been decimated. Only he and Andrei had returned to Jerusalem's lines, leading naught but 50 men. Looking at bodies of his fallen, Faulk felt the guilt of each and every one of their deaths.


A horn blared on the hill, and a great cheer rang round the valley. Turning away from valley, Faulk looked at Andrei. "We have won a great a victory here today, my friend, but it is only the beginning.

I fear we shall soon need fight more battles like this." Looking back at the valley, Faulk asked himself softly, "But how many more men can we afford to lose?"

Andrei turned to his lord, pointing out a fallen Armenian standard. "The question is sire, how many more can they afford to lose?"

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph An-Nasir and his son, the Crown Prince Az-Zahir, had been arguing fiercely for some time.

So much so that the Vizier had long since fled and the palace ghulams skulked, fearful, behind drapes and furniture in the anteroom where the two men now stood, glaring at each other.

The Caliph, tired from shouting, spoke quietly and firmly to his son.

"So, you would have me change my policy, the policy of my lifetime, that has served so well in ending the Anatolian war and the conflict between the Georgians and Seljuks, in order to what? To occupy some dusty castle in Syria, beset to the north and the south by belligerents? You would have me risk everything we have fought for and gained? For what? In order to force peace upon fools who do not seek it? Explain to me why I would do this thing."

A note of urgency in his voice, his son replied equally firmly.

"Beloved father, your reign as Caliph has brought unprecedented peace to our lands, and our coffers now swell as they have not for generations. And rightly are you called the Peacemaker, for your diplomacy has reaped rewards and gained you much influence.

But it has not always proved successful - have you forgotten the men of Ghur, who defied you and drew the sword anew even as the ink dried on their agreement with the Hindu? They were men of war and never intended to honour the agreement you brokered.

These Turks, these Armenians, these 'Crusaders', they do not respect you and their tongues are forked like the serpent. This conflict is right on our doorstep, not a stone's throw from the West bank of the Euphrates.

We must show our strength and intervene to secure Syria from further hardship. These men must know our power and that we are not to be trifled with, or no sooner has one of them reached the ascendancy than they will turn on the Caliphate, their armies experienced in war and strong in mercenaries and arms from their sack of their rival's cities.

We must drive a wedge between them and force them to the table to secure peace.

And well you know that these are not my feelings alone. The Vizier, your great friend since childhood is in agreement. The Generals, the men of the army, do not understand your hesitancy and whisper that you become soft and weak as you age. And the people, through the Imans, call for jihad against the infidel, a glorious holy war to restore the Caliphate!"

The Caliph's eyes flashed with anger as he exploded in rage again.

"The Vizier, the Generals, the Imans, the people, serve ME! I am not their slave to do their bidding! They need not understand my reasoning, and I need not explain it to them!"

His son stood firm and said nothing, meeting his father's angry stare with a purposeful gaze of his own.

The Caliph sat down on an embroidered chair, motioning for his son to sit beside him.

"Az-Zahir my boy, you have grown to be a fine man, but there is much you do not understand about the world and the machinations of Kings and Sultans."

He shuddered as he again recalled the twisted leers of the djinns, and heard the echoes of their bone dice on the gaming table.

"Still....I accept your argument and you shall have your intervention. The armies of the Caliphate will cross the Euphrates and seize the castle at Aleppo, and the town of Hama.

Go, tell the Vizier to saddle our chargers and assemble the Caliph's guard. We will ride on the 'morrow to meet the armies at Edessa. I will take a troop of fast horse to Hama, and you will lead the assault on Aleppo.."

The Crown Prince interjected.

"But Father, I had hoped to ride to Hama, to..."

"SILENCE. You have argued with me long enough. It shall be as I have commanded. Then we will see what the great and mighty Allah has in store for us."

His son bowed and left the room, smiling as he did so.

[rossahh]

Antioch, 1179 AD


"You want us to sacrifice ourselves? For you?" the man was on his feet, nearly yelling at the host.

His host was on his feet equally fast, yelling back "I am not asking you to sacrifice yourselves for me. I'm asking you to do it for your people and your Kingdom!"

"The Kingdom which we do not even control anymore!"

"The Kingdom which you still serve apparently!" spat the host.

His word momentarily deflated the man. Questioning one's loyalty so openly, especially one who had done so much for the Kingdom in the past few years, stunned the man. Seizing upon the man's pause, the host continued,

"Look, there is much risk here, most of all to ourselves, but what if we succeed? We can finish them once and for all. Besides, you will not be going alone," the host stood proud and upright, "and nor will I."

The man stopped pacing, and the third figure sitting in the chair stirred slightly. They both gazed at their host, exceedingly surprised, who gazed back as if daring them to challenge his words.

Without another word, the man sat back down in his chair. The host slowly lowered himself into his, before speaking again. "Good. Now that you're ready to listen, shall we go over it?"

Both men nodded to the host, who resumed talking. "I will lead my men into Cilicia over the north bridge, while you," motioning to the man, "shall take your men across the sands to the east. Faulk," motioning at the third man, "you will assist him. Your target is the Takavor and him alone. Kill him and return as fast as you can. That's it."

The man and Faulk shared worried glances, which did not go unnoticed by the host. "We may not live to see the fruits of this endeavor, but we will know that should we die, we will die serving the Kingdom well." said the host, who bowed his head at the men. "I know we have had differences in the past, but through this, I pray that we are united." The host stood, and his guests followed suit.

"We shall not meet again, my brothers, but God be with you." His voice cracking slightly, the host left the tent as great speed.

The two men left in the tent looked at each other, their faces downcast. Faulk smiled weakly at the man, "At least, my lord, will shall die in good company." Balian de Ibelin smiled weakly back, "Yes, we shall."

[Askthepizzaguy]

Baghdad, 1178 AD, 4th day of Safar, 574 Hijri Calendar


Murhaba, trusted one. The Georgian infidels have agreed to become our subjects... err, "allies" against the treacherous Seljuks. The Seljuks on the other hand, are meeting with one of our ambassadors as we speak to discuss our relations and declare our alliance with Georgia. Inshallah they will not be offended by our siding with the Christians in this matter, but tensions have been rising ever since our proposed alliance was put on the shelf. They already distrust us because we rebelled against their rule so many years ago.

It seems likely the two great Turkish Sultans will go to war, but my Sultan desires peace above all else. Perhaps this show of solidarity with our less than pious neighbors will convince them to back off from their assault. So long as the Georgians occupy the lands between us, we should not fear Seljuk arms. Meanwhile, our armies advance against the hated Romans. The Jihad is nearing completion. All that stands between us and victory is the walls of Constantinople. However, I've just received word that the Romans have captured our capital. Fortunately we have evacuated the area and we are massing counterstrike forces in the north.

The Crown Prince, Malik the Dubious, has arrived in Baghdad to discuss matters with our neighbors, and open relations with our most distant of neighbors. Once his mission is completed, he will take his fastest horse and meet us on the front lines.

We have contacted the Rajput emissary, whose territory has been violated by our militant, distant cousins the Ghorids, who have taken a most radical interpretation of the Holy Qu'ran. The Hindus have already allied with the Persian Shah of Ghazni, who stands united with our Georgian vassals against the Seljuk aggressors. Perhaps a multi-state alliance against the aggressors here will strengthen us all. Unfortunately arms cannot be exchanged with our most distant neighbors, but economic and diplomatic solidarity perhaps will prevail here.

As I travel with Crown Prince Malik, I often hear him muttering about how much he misses sitting down and eating a proper Turkish meal with his wife. He also complains about this "foolish mission of mercy" which he claims is a waste of his military genius.

"Why do we bother making friends with infidels and Islamic militants? Why do we care what happens to the Hindus? I've never even heard of a Hindu. Shouldn't we focus our forces against the Romans and wipe them out?"

He is becoming more irritable by the day, and when he talks with other ambassadors, the strain of this journey and the testing of his patience is seen quite visibly upon his face. He has taken to wearing his Islamic face covering even during diplomacy to hide his seething anger.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying this mission, as I've discovered a nasty little secret here in Baghdad... apparently the Caliph has a huge collection of shisha bars right outside his palace, where there are many slave women to satisfy my ravenous desires. Tonight, I'm in the mood for Persian...

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph's son Az-Zahir sat astride his warhorse at the crest of a hill looking north at the mountains of the Kingdom of Georgia. The sun was setting in the west, casting a rosy light on the snowy peaks, which seemed to him to glisten as if they were capped with gold.

To his right, astride a fat pony, sat a hooded, slender figure - Kalil, son of his father's Vizier.

Az-Zahir turned to Kalil.

So my friend, will we have our wish? Will my father in his wisdom sanction this invasion of Georgia?

Kalil sighed, and shrugged.

Your father is a great man, and wise. But as you know there are those who say he has grown soft in his dotage, and over-friendly with the infidel kings of the region.

My father the Vizier has let it be known that he has been visited many times of late by the emissaries of Rome and Jerusalem. The generals are angered that the infidel has such influence over him...there are even rumours that he intends to return the captured territories of Syria to the Latins!

He looked up at Az-Zahir, meeting his gaze from neath his cowl with a firm and meaningful stare.

Indeed, there are many amongst the armies of the Caliphate that would gladly march into the lands of the infidel under the banner of the Prince Az-Zahir, even in defiance of the Caliph...they say the blood of the Prophet runs thicker in your veins, and that...

Az-Zahir's eyes flashed with anger.

Be careful in your words Kalil! I am still my father's son, although I am sometimes like of mind with you.

Kalil inclined his head as the Prince continued.

My father is a secretive man, and as deep as the ocean. He shares little of his thinking with me...but while I long for war against the infidel as much as anyone, and I do not understand many of his decisions, I must put my trust in him. I will not defy his orders to stay our march until word arrives from Baghdad.

Kalil nodded, and changed the subject.

And what of the Turk, great Prince?

The young Prince laughed and, wheeling his horse around and beginning to gallop back down the dusty track to the camp below, shouted out.

The Turk is a dead man!

[Askthepizzaguy]

A peasant man walks on the outskirts south of Damascus, with his camel following behind him. Both the peasant and the animal look exhausted.

A small pool of rainwater had collected last night in a sunken part of the stony road. The camel stops to drink, and is clearly quite thirsty. The man looks annoyed at the delay, but knows not to disturb his mount when he is drinking. He looks up and hears the sounds of hoofbeats against the stone road to the north. An entourage of men on horseback ride past him and his camel, not saying a word.

The peasant man resumes watching his friend drink the rainwater.

After several moments, the man looks up again and notices a group of men standing around him, and he immediately draws his sword.

"Oh, it's a bit late for that... isn't it, old man?" A harsh and ominous voice intoned. The peasant man looked started.

"You.... what are you doing here? Why aren't you on the Latin front?"

An arrow pierces his sword-bearing hand, and he drops his weapon, and down to his knees in pain.

"A better question might be, why aren't YOU on the Latin front?" the ominous voice replied.
Malik delivered a fierce kick to the face of the old man, shattering his jaw. "Another question might be... why did you order me to sign an alliance with the Armenians?" Malik took out his long, curved sword, and delivered a terrible blow to the man's other hand, leaving them both useless and bloodied. "Or how about; why did you order an alliance with the Georgians, who now bow in fear before the Caliphate?" Malik took his iron boot and delivered a swift downward kick to the solar plexus of the defeated man "Or why you bothered to sign an alliance with the distant Hindus?" Malik delivered another kick, this time to shatter the older man's ribs. "WHY did you sign an alliance with the Seljuks?" Another kick to the face of the crumpled man. "WHY DID YOU SIGN AN ALLIANCE WITH THE ROMANS????" A harsher kick to the face of the man. "WHY DID YOU SEND 15,000 GOLD TO THE CALIPH????" An even more vicious kick to the genitals of the man. "WHY DID YOU, FOOLISH AND STUPID OLD MAN, AGREE TO AN ALLIANCE WITH THE LATIN CRUSADERS WHO ARE OUR MOST HATED ENEMIES????"

Malik took his sword and impaled the man through the stomach.

"WHY DID YOU ORDER THE DISBANDING OF OUR GREAT ARMIES??? WHY DID YOU ABANDON OUR PEOPLE TO THE LATIN INVADERS, YOU SNIVELLING WRETCH???"

Malik twisted the sword, causing pain.

"And tell me why, dear Sultan, you decided to make a pilgrimage to Mecca in our most critical hour?"

Kaikosru attempted to speak, but the words could not come... he simply cried in pain.

"You will not be making any more mistakes, you stupid fool. Now die, defeated, once the greatest commander on the face of the earth, now simply a peasant without a country... and without a head."

Malik took an axe and seperated Kaikosru from his body.

[phonicsmonkey]

[Written with Zim, deguerra, Elite Ferret and barcamartin]

Az-Zahir rolled around on the back of his warhorse, his blindfold chafing his eyes after so many hours of wearing it. He was tired and irritable, and wanted nothing more than for this journey to end.

He could tell by the diminishing heat of the sun on his face that it was beginning to set, which meant they had been riding all day since they left the wild and unruly city at daybreak that morning and set off north into the mountains.

He knew his father, the Caliph An-Nasir, was still beside him as he could hear the clink of the Caliphial charger’s ceremonial gold livery as the great steed surefootedly negotiated what must be a narrow mountain trail. Judging by the quality of the echoes of the clopping horses’ hooves and shouts of the Ghulams, the path was hewn out of a cliff-face, with a sheer drop to the right.

Just as he began to imagine how it would feel to be thrown from his horse and fall, blind, into the abyss beside them, the procession halted, and the blindfold was removed.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, Az-Zahir was amazed to see they were at the open gates of a mighty stone fortress, carved from the mountainside and perched on an absurdly elevated spar overlooking a dusty valley below.

His father the Caliph clapped him on the back and chuckled, before dismounting and beckoning to him to follow him inside.

He was led to an austere chamber, and was left alone with his thoughts. His father had refused to tell him the purpose of this journey, saying only that 'a great secret must be revealed' and that Az-Zahir 'must learn the truth' in order that he could assist his father in some great task. He tried to remain calm and patient, but his curiosity was starting to get the better of him..

A few hours later after resting and taking some food and refreshment, Az-Zahir was led from his chamber by a ghulam boy, down a dark stone flight of stairs and to a set of carved wooden double-doors. The slave boy rapped three times and scurried away, leaving Az-Zahir alone in the gloom.

After a moment or two the doors creaked slowly open to reveal a cavernous chamber, lit with a single beam of orange dusken sunlight from a skylight in the high roof. The beam of light cast directly onto a large, circular stone table at the centre of the room, around which sat his father the Caliph, the Seljuk Sultan Arslanshah, the Ghaznavid Shah Khusrau , Muhammed of Ghor, and the Great Mufti Kahlan, son of the aged Imam Murshed of Oman.

His jaw dropped almost to the floor.

[phonicsmonkey]

The ghulam had struggled for a moment or two, eyes bulging and throat making a hissing, crackling sound as he fought for air. With a final, almost desultory kick at the flagstones, he gave up his life and slumped dead at his killer’s feet. The hooded figure dragged the body into a dimly-lit alcove and quickly changed into the ghulam's ornate armour, paying special attention to the face-guard which would protect his identity.

Moving quickly yet determinedly he followed the stone corridor through twists and turns until he came to the small door from which the ghulam guard had emerged some five minutes previously. Passing quietly through the door he found himself in an anteroom, lit by a single blazing torch.

An ornately carved wooden screen was set in one wall, through which he could see light and hear voices. There was a stool in front of the screen on which he sat. Looking through the screen he could see the conference table, and the various heads of state gathered there. The Caliph, his son, the Sultans, the Shah and the Grand Mufti.

He allowed himself a brief moment’s satisfaction as he reflected that his paymaster would be very happy at his success. Then he concentrated on listening to the discussion, and committing to memory every single word….

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph beckoned to Az-Zahir, who slowly walked over to the table and took his seat at his father’s right hand.

“Az-Zahir my son, welcome to the Brotherhood of the Faithful. You will have many questions, and we will answer them all in due course, but for now let me begin by explaining some of the background and why you are here.

Of course you know that in the past the Caliphate of my ancestors stretched from Persia to Al-Andalus. The Caliphs of the past were pious and mighty, but were also arrogant and complacent, and so the Caliphate splintered and broke up amid bitter factional rivalry and fighting. Out of the ashes of the Caliphate rose the new dynasties of the Seljuk Turks, the Ghaznavids, the Omanis and the men of Ghor.

My life’s mission has been to restore the glory of the former Caliphate, but to avoid the mistakes of my predecessors. Once the work of my early years was done, and the lands around Baghdad were secure and prosperous, I started to reach out to our Brothers in Faith that now ruled over our former territories. It took a long time to win their trust, but through my diplomatic efforts a secret alliance was formed between the Caliphate and those leaders you see now around this table. We pledged to work together to create a new Caliphate dedicated to the glory of the mighty Allah, where each tribe of the ummah could have political and even religious freedom, without fear of oppression.”

Az-Zahir interrupted, “But father, if this is a coalition of Islamic nations why is not the Khwarezm Shah present, or the great Salahuddin? And what of the Rum Turks?”

The Caliph nodded his head and sighed.

[phonicsmonkey]

As he drew breath to answer, the Seljuk Sultan Arslanshah interjected loudly, half-rising in his seat in his passion.

"Bah! The Rum Turks! Those rebellious knaves that call themselves our equals aren't fit to parley with us honourable men!"

The Ghaznavid Shah Khusrau placed a hand on Arslanshah's shoulder, who sat back in his chair with his arms crossed, glowering.

"Personal feelings and rivalries aside, what my friend here means to say is that the formation of the Brotherhood was primarily a strategic, not a religious move. It made sense for those of us with contiguous borders to join together in this alliance and protect one another until we grew strong. We were chiefly concerned about getting embroiled in a war with either the Crusaders or Rome before we were prepared, and we saw that a defensive alliance with either the Ayyubids or the Rum Turks would surely lead to a war with the men of the West sooner rather than later. We wanted to avoid uniting the Christian nations against us, and keep them divided if possible while we grew strong in secret, strong enough to counter any aggression from them."

Muhammed of Ghor cut in with a sly grin.

"And in the case of the poor Khwarezm Shah, well, we just had to find something for our Seljuk brothers to occupy themselves with instead of attacking Georgia…the Shah was like a bone given to a dog to distract him from the food on the table."

The Ghaznavid looked slightly embarrassed at this, but the Seljuk grinned wolfishly at Az-Zahir, his eyes glinting with ill-concealed bloodlust.

Az-Zahir gulped, and broke away from his piercing gaze. Clearing his throat, he turned to Muhammed of Ghor, known as the Godfearer, and asked, "But what of the war that has been raging these years between Ghazni and Ghor? And the Ghazni alliance with the Hindoos? For that matter, what of the Turk's 'Coalition of Freedom'?"

[Askthepizzaguy]

Sultan Malik stood watch over the land. Off in the distance, the last of the Turkish resistance was battling for independence.

Malik pondered the mistakes of the past... and the successes. How great were the triumphs, how disastrous the losses. But for certain, Malik knew all along that the only people worth trust were one's countrymen, one's family. In spite of Kaikosru's teachings, Malik could never bring himself to accept the idea of trusting men who covet your land, your wives, your resources, all behind the fake smile of diplomacy.

Kaikosru believed in an ideal... perhaps, a foolish ideal. The idea that if you show someone mercy instead of cruelty, the idea that you fight for the lives of your friends, instead of abandon them, if you should offer the hand of friendship to strangers, and trust those who return your kindnesses, the world would be a better place.

Malik never once believed such nonsense. But he stood quiet, and obeyed his commander. Loyalty, duty, and respect for his commander... Malik could take no more. When trust and kindness had failed to bring about peace and brotherhood between nations... between Muslims and the infidel... when empires were burning, and alliances were broken... when those we trusted turned against us... Malik had enough.

Kaikosru would follow in his father's footsteps, as a failure who could have been great. And now there was no more time. The enemy were at the gates, the people were being butchered, the army was gone, and our security was bought for the price of being the slaves of Roman infidels...

There was no time for Malik to achieve greatness. The war was lost, just as he ascended to the throne. He acted too late. Such hesitation, with so much at stake... cost everyone dearly.

"Coalition of Freedom... HAH!"

Coalition of Fools. Coalition of Cowards. Coalition of Weaklings. Those not brave enough to shout from the mountains their true allegiances. Those rats who hide in fear of brave and honest men.

Well, the snakes had won today. And from now on, the snakes would rule the world. Malik could not turn to the Catholics, for they were sworn enemies and traitors. Malik could not turn to his fellow Muslims, for they have allowed greed to pervert the ways of Islam. The tribes of the north were nothing, and there was no one left to challenge this rising power of darkness and treachery.

Kaikosru had his time. His ideals had a chance. The world had a chance for peace and brotherhood. There would be no more of that. Malik looked East... and saw the rise of the old ideals. The old hatreds. The old prejudices. The old ways.

In war, there are no friends. Only those who have not yet mustered the strength to assault you from the front. And invariably, they will be found wielding daggers behind you. That was the way of things... the world is cruel, after all. Only the cruelest survive.

________________________________


But Malik smiled. If one subscribes to that ideal... then one must destroy everything that is not under one's control. One can never trust anyone. This new... "Muslim Brotherhood"... founded on the very antithesis of trust and honor.

It was only a matter of time before the greediest, and most cowardly of them all, would step forward first and plant the first knife in the back of his Muslim "brother".

Perhaps they would wait until all their enemies were gone before they turned on one another. Malik sincerely doubted that they would be able to turn thier backs on one another without wondering... who would strike first.

Peace and defense... no longer exist. The once fertile crescent is now broken.

______________________________

Let the bloodbath begin.

[phonicsmonkey]

Muhammed shifted uneasily in his seat and glanced across at Khusrau, who nodded.

Muhammed turned to the Caliph, saying “Your boy is most perceptive An-Nasir, I will indulge his curiosity as you have vouched for his trustworthiness.”

In the anteroom the spy leaned forward on his stool, heart racing, and pressed his face against the wooden lattice to make sure to catch every word.

The Godfearer continued, “Az-Zahir, the war between Ghazni and Ghorid has been at all times a sham. When the Turk formed his ‘Coalition of Freedom’ and the Rajput (may Allah curse his house!) made entreaties for assistance against my jihadis, the Brotherhood determined that in order to remain hidden we must trick the world by faking a conflict in our ranks."

Shah Khusrau chimed in. “You see, at the formation of the Coalition of Freedom we determined that one of our number should infiltrate that Coalition, the better to keep an eye on the Turk and his infidel allies the Rajputs, Georgians and Armenians.”

The Grand Mufti Kahlan broke in with a laugh. “We hardly expected that we would ALL be invited to join! The Turk’s Coalition was almost half made up of Brotherhood members, and after the death of the last Takavor we dominated that body altogether, with Khusrau here even elected its ceremonial leader. The Caliph remained publicly un-aligned, the better to use his political influence effectively for our ends.”

Az-Zahir’s head was spinning. He could scarcely believe the sheer scale of the deception his father and his allies had perpetrated upon the unsuspecting world. He sat back in his seat, silent for a few moments before becoming aware of the eyes of all of the Brotherhood upon him.

The Caliph leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and intoned. “My son, do you have any further questions?”

Az-Zahir looked around the table at each of the men, great leaders of their people who held the fates of millions in the palms of their hands. He seemed to see them as gamblers gathered around the dice table, risking all on a single throw of the bones.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “my final question is….why?”

The Caliph threw his head back and laughed, unsettlingly longer than was necessary. He stood suddenly and his chair fell back on the floor with a crash which echoed around the hall. Raising his arms above his head he towered over Az-Zahir, who drew back with a start.

“To take over the world my son! To take over the very world itself for the glory of the mighty Allah!”

[00jebus]

Jeleladin looked at the bare palace around him, it barely deserved the name, its wealth stripped to pay for a long lost war.
The tribes of Ghanzi didn't care about that though, vultures that they were, beseiging the last remaining city of Khwarezm, even merchants had taken to adding the word doomed before they uttered the shahdoms name nowadays.

What a city it was though, almost as rich as Baghdad, in a crossroads between the harsh north and Iran, won by Jeleladin himself, he would see to its defense himself.
He looked at the ghulam strapping on the last of his armoured plates "how many?"
"the scouts report, they outnumber us 4 to 1, mostly steppe cavalrymen"
Jeleladin swore for the first time in his life.

twenty minutes later he was at the head of his army, which also barely deserved the name, mostly a collection of those too brave, honourable, or stupid to leave the militia at an earlier date, and 50 personal guards

"men!" he shouted from his horse
"I wont lie to you... we will see our end today!
but the immans say that defense of the innocent is a sure path to paradise, then what better path than this?
We are outnumbered by four to every one of us!

What an end this will be!
Our chance to scream out into the night our valour!
forward men!
Show these traitors of Islam what it truly means to be doomed!"

then he prepared to die in the saddle, like his ancestors before him.


five hours later

Blood was everywhere, the ground was stained with it, armour of the surviving cavalry was tinted with it and jeleladins own sabre had been rendered dull from overuse.
He stood on the husk of a once mighty indian elephant, his army around him, he raised his sword and shouted

"I was wrong to think I'd enter paradise today when such fine men make up my army"

then, looking around at the blood soaked battleground that was the remains of his shahdom, he swore from the second time in his life.

[barcamartin]

Looking over the battlefield, towards the wooden castle in the distance he shivered with delight. Once again he had defeated the Khawazi wretches.

Having led a large part of the Seljuk forces in the war, his armies had trampled the once mighty Shahdom into dust. All through Transaxonia and Khwarezm, along the northern coast of the Caspian and into the god-forsaken steppes had they fought. He had brought countless acres of land into the Seljuk Empire. In the distance another castle lay before him and his men. It would fall shortly, even though the defenders had held the Khawzi at bay for many seasons according to the reports.

It had been a hard battle, but now was not the time to rest. To bring the entire Caspian Sea under Seljuk dominion this independent steppe people must bow to the Sultan. There was no time to waste. Reports of trouble stirring in the south had reached him from Rayy.

' Move out! '

[Merlox]

Konstantinopolis, beginning of Winter 1183

"Prince Nevoulos...? Prince Nevoulos!?"

Prince Nevoulos would be interupted from his day dreaming, and look at all of the other generals and advisers at the court at Konstantinoplis.

"I am focusing... Tell me how grave the situation is?"

One of them sighed loudly, then one of them continued.

"Well... It is not good, The Emperor only gets worst every passing day, Settlements in the Empire are Revolting due to the Depression, Our Vasselage over Jerusalem is causing the most damage out of all. Total Corruption of the current governers, and the very large troop count needed for the area only makes the situation worst, The Steppe Warlords are now reacting toward our conquest to have an empire that surrounds the Black Sea, The Crusaders have called from reinforcements from the west and now are in the territories now, The Crusaders have demanded back their states or they will call for war if we do not accept, The Turks having no armies now, Will be defenseless, and will be Butchered by the Crusade. So... what are your orders...?"

Prince Nevoulos looked to the men and rested his forehead into his hand.

"Tell me, Can we get any thing back from the Crusaders for this deal, and if not... Would we have a chance of stopping the Crusader armies as they stand now...?"

The Adviser would speak.

"It would be a possible chance of victory, But we have to look at other than this, The Crusader states will attack our lands before we could Mobilize the armies, Some armies being as far away as Russia on their conquest, And even if we do destroy the Crusader armies, They may be funded and sent Reinforcements by the Islam Caliph, and the Egyptian armies... If they to that, We have No chance, As we are already under 10,000 florince in the hole and still growing rapidly..."

Prince Nevoulos would slam his fist onto the table.

"Enough with this, I have been pulled out of the Steppe Conquest to talk of things such as these..? We need to find a way to turn this around... Tell the Crusaders that their current demands will be met If they Give the Castle of Nikoseia, and that we will be neutral of what ever is to come... As for our Conquest, If the Crusaders Accept, I want all forces from Jerusalem Withdrawn and set sail for the Steppes, I want the Army in Konstantinopolis to set sail northward, and to start expanding, They will also be assisted by the Army at Caffa, that will be sent toward the East, An army will be left to defend our nation if Something goes wrong.. Other that that, I want the Army that is near Rhode's island to set sail toward Iraklion, I will set sail with the Army of Konstantinopolis with the Conquest of the Black Sea..."

The Room was queit for alittle, Then another Adviser spoke up.

"What About the Rum Turks? They are nearly defenseless, They will be destroyed if we don't aid them, We have to stop the Crusaders!"

The Prince got up from his chair and walked to his window, seeing Konstantinopolis, seeing the filth on the once glorious city, Seeing many poor people on the street, begging for foods from the soldiers.

"What do you want us to do...? The Turks have attacked us before, and they have interupted our plans to take over the Crusader's lands... Now they are facing the Penalties of destroying Empire's plans to smash the Crusader presense, They signed their own death will, With the Crusaders calling for help of their False Pope, now they come in thousands... With this, They will now be forced to face the beast that they saved from the Empire's Goal, The Empire will not help them defend, If they are worthy, They will defeat the Pope's Armies, And if not, They Will simply Perish.... Ofcourse, By giving the Crusader's back their lands.. and their freedom. May we hope that the Crusader's look at this as a kindness, As they are given a second chance, to prove themselves once more, And if they are Victorous, Stay close, as they are our only friend in this world from now on... If the Rum Turks wish to save them selves of being Exicuted all by the cross or converted, They Will wise up, and ask to Merge into the Roman Empire, Seeing as they are an un-defended nation with large ammounts of Florince, This could be very usefull for us... And if they don't ask for this, They will simply Die under the cross of the Crusaders... Give the King of Damascus what he wants, His freedom and Independence back, and mainly, His holy lands Jerusalem..."

The Emperor would stand up and walk for the door.

"I don't care how you make the treaty with the Crusaders, Make it work!, The Turks are dead now for all I care unless other wise... Friendship with the Crusaders, and Expanding the Empire, and watching of the Islamic World rip itself apart..."

He would walk out, Soon after this meeting the Renewed Titled "King of Jerusalem" Accepted Rome's Deal, and the Troop withdrawl of the Jerusalem Region started to commenced, Soon after that the War between the Turks and The Crusaders started, The Roman Army watched while Crusader Armies marched on with full out victory over the lands of the Rum Turks. The Roman Forces would soon take over the Island of Iraklion, a Long forgotten goal of the Empire, not a fact of truth, The Roman Armies would instead of Send the forces by boat to protect the Rum Turks, would sail up to the Kypchek's Warlords castle by the Georgian border, where they would have full out victory, Though, would call a ceasefire and an alliance with the Kypchek people as the months passed, The Turkish Government, What ever military they had Slain, Came to the Roman's pleading for their protection against the Crusaders, Even if it ment disbanding their government and such, The Roman Armies marched into the Gate opened towns, as the Turkish people cheered, The War was over for them, and now they can finaly rest in peace, and Relations between the Roman Empire and the Crusaders seemed to be almost perfect now, and the Depression ended, With enough Resources to start a massive building project that would help all of the trading partners greatly, Almost every town was to start to build for a Port, The Streets of Konstantinopolis had rid itself of the filth on it's streets, Things were finally settling... Though... What lays in the East?...

[rossahh]

PLAN B Staging Camp

Two dark figures stood whispering to each other, oblivous to the activity around them.

"So you are assembled and ready?" asked the first figure.

"We are ready, but I am slightly...worried...about our mission." the second figure replied hesitantly.

The first figure turned to face the other, his hood rippling in the breeze.

"Your mission is simple." he said flatly.

"But there is much risk to me...to us I mean." countered the second.

"War is risk, and this mission is vital. It must not fail." said the first figure, who began to pace about with his robe trailing behind him.

Still the second figure seemed worried.

"What if they resist?" he asked.

The first figure stopped pacing and stared at his companion.

"Kill them. Kill them all."

[rossahh]

Location Unkown


The horses had thundered over the border days before, yet none dared challenge them. The northward road was empty, and the locals were wisely staying out of the way. Their hold in these lands was tenious at best, and the horsemen weren't here for a fight anyway.


That was until the messenger arrived...


The orders were scrawled but simple:

EXECUTE PLAN B


The Prince read the message but couldn't believe it at first. Were things that bad? he asked himself. Shaking his head to clear those thoughts he summoned the Captains. They had a new road to take now.

[Ramses II CP]

South of Delhi, touring the Ghorid lands that now lie lightly under his hands, the Maharaja of all India pauses a moment to speak to his advisors,

It is good, gentlemen. India will remain for Indians. I am certain now that these invaders will honor their vow to serve our people.

It is less good that our generals, hungry for battles, have pressed the boundries of our lands up against more Muslims west of Sindh lands. Our vassal claims these people are no threat, and perhaps he is true, but then perhaps too he is baiting us into complacency. Either way these generals themselves, with their exposure to the dishonorable battle tactics of the foreigners, are a threat to our history, our way of life, and our honor. We must find them a task, a destiny, that meets the needs of India and the demands of their lust for conquest.

Looking to the setting sun the Maharaja continues,

It is to the west that they must look. I hear rumors of a war brewing in the west. Gather the ambitious ones, give them ships and funds, and send them there. In the west, distant from our own damaged lands, they shall find their destiny. Gods willing none shall return.

[phonicsmonkey]

Crown Prince Az-Zahir of the Caliphate rocked dreamily in his saddle in the center of the long column of cavalry making their slow and easy way through the forests south of Trapezon. It was a fiercely hot mid-summer's day, and as the trees and undergrowth grew thicker and harder to traverse, so the shade became cooler and more of a respite from the burning sunshine, making it a mixed blessing for the men of the Caliphate as they strove deeper into the woods.

So far the holy jihad against the Romans had been less than eventful - Az-Zahir and his men had ridden long and hard at night times for over a week to the ford of the river Halys and spent much time and energy fortifying the ford against possible Roman reinforcements. That job done, they had turned east and proceeded back towards the castle Trapezon, which by now should be under siege by armies led by Az-Zahir's brother and uncle. The plan was to provide field support for the siege armies by taking out any Roman armies coming to reinforce the Kypchak mercenaries who garrisoned the castle.

So far no such armies had been encountered..

On this, the eighth day of continuous marching, Az-Zahir's thoughts turned further South, to the lands held by the armies of the nefarious King of Jerusalem, Baldwin the Impious. He greatly hoped his father's Seljuk allies had successfully begun their assault on the Latin positions. He began to daydream about wild turks on horseback peppering heavily armoured knights with arrows, and was drifting into a kind of slumber when he was brought back to reality by the shouts of alarm of the outriders to his left.

And then the whole world descended into chaos.

Bursting out of the trees to the left of the column came a mass of armoured men, uttering blood-curdling battle cries and wielding sword, spear and axe in their mailed fists. The gold eagle of Rome flew on their standards and glittered on their shields. The air was suddenly thick with black arrows as both sets of soldiers let fly, their bowstrings singing the song of winged death.

Az-Zahir reacted quickly. His force was primarily comprised of Bado archers mounted on Camels. They were backed up by some mercenary Turkomen horse-archers, and small force of spear-armed camel-mounted Bedouins. His Caliph's guard and a unit of junior Ghulams were the only heavy cavalry to speak of.

He realised in a flash that he needed to get distance - his men were engaged in a shooting match and were holding their own, but it would suddenly become a massacre if the Roman spearmen and knights reached his lines and were able to bog down his lightly-armoured troops in pitched battle.

Sounding the retreat, the young prince wheeled and began to lead his men in the opposite direction. Bursting out of the tree line onto a shrubby hillside, he gave the orders for the mounted archers to fan out, taking high ground and maintaining fire. He signalled for the Bedouins and Ghulams to form up with his Caliph's guard unit behind the archer-line.

The Roman spear line advanced into the pocket created by his withdrawing - they seemed to be falling for the bait. Backed up by many Toxitai archers, they attempted to catch the fleeing horsearchers of the Caliphate, who kept up a constant rate of fire.

Suddenly through the Roman lines came a massed cavalry charge. Hundreds of armoured knights piled through the spearline and came at Az-Zahir's mounted archers who, panicking, dispersed and began to become isolated as they withdrew from the glittering lances.

Straight as an arrow a unit of heavily armoured Roman horse came at Az-Zahir's guard. He could see their scaled armour glittering and on their standard flew the Imperial insignia. Could this be? Yes! It was the Imperial guard itself, led by the former Emperor Alexius, who rumour had it was deposed by Nevolous on account of his insanity.

Certainly he seemed insane today, forging well ahead of his troops in a mad charge at the Crown Prince and his men, who withdrew up the hillside to avoid battle. Reaching the top of the hill, Az-Zahir realised he needed to turn the tide of battle. He wheeled his horse about and charged straight back down the slope at the Roman Emperor, signalling for the Guard, the Ghulams and the Bedouins to follow.

With a sickening crunch the two waves of horse met halfway down the hill, and soon were involved in a desperate melee, men on both sides hacking all around them in a struggle to the death.

Az-Zahir fended off the mace blow of a Roman guardsman, before running him through with his spear. All around him the lightly-armoured Bedouin were cut down like corn by the superior Romans. The Ghulams fared little better, their ornate armour and helmets smashed and crushed by the mace blows. All Az-Zahir had in this fight was numbers, and as he struggled to the edge of the throng to get a better look, he prayed this would prevail over the greater strength and experience of the Emperor and his men.

Looking out over the battlefield, he saw his horse-archers overtaken time and again by the pursuing knights, who picked off the slower of them as they in turn were cut down by arrows fired from the backs of the camels and horses they chased.

In the center of the field the Roman infantry huddled, ineffectual as their numbers dwindled with each wave of incoming flighted steel. Advancing up the hill towards him was a unit of the famous Varangian guard, wielding their enormous axes threateningly as they braved the thick arrow fire.

Az-Zahir took a blow to the back of the head and fell from his horse. As he struggled with his foot caught in the stirrup he saw his assailant bested in turn by a member of his guard. He got to his feet just as the Bedouins took up a shrill and triumphant ullulating cry. One of them had run the Emperor Alexius through with his long spear! He looked barely older than nineteen, the young desert boy who held high the helmet of the legendary king, dripping with gore...

And with that the battle was over. The Roman resistance broke immediately and they were cut down in droves as they fled the field, save for the Varangians who perished to the last man, pinned to the floor by arrows in a latter-day small-scale repeat of Carrhae.

After the battle, Az-Zahir sat atop the hill on his horse looking out over the forest to the coast behind, where a Roman fleet was moored offshore. The last of the ambushing Romans had fled to the safety of those boats. He could only hope they would not be followed by more of their kind.

A great victory had been won today, and a young man had become a hero, hoisted on the shoulders of the soldiers for the rest of the day and promised all kinds of rewards in paradise by the Imams of the army.

A chill breeze came in from the sea and he shivered involuntarily..

[rossahh]

"Message from the King, and it's a bit strange."

The man sighed.

"It says: Cancel Plan B, implement Plan C".

The man sighed again, and lent back into his chair. If that's what he wanted.

In a tired voice, the man said "Very well then, prepare to break camp. We march north along the coastal road."

"At once sir!"



******


Six days later


"Message from the King."

The man sighed.

"It says: Cancel Plan C, implement Plan D".

The man stared at the ceiling of his tent, and imagined all the ways he could beat the messenger to death with a stick. Finally he thought to himself, What in the world was the King thinking?

"Very well, preapre to break camp. We march south along the desert road."

"Yes sir!"

[rossahh]

The diary Jean Bourday, soldier of Jerusalem

It had been quite a difficult time for us in the PLAN B army. Orders and counter-orders had resulted in a lot of marching and a lot of fighting. Not a lot makes sense anymore. The banner now reads:

The Army of
PLAN A B C D E F

The campaigns have been just as shambolic. The stirring victory of the Ayyubids at Acre was followed by that disaster on the road to Jaffa, where a single band of peasents routed the entire right flank and would have continued to rout the entire army, but they were overcome by that freak avalanche which had absolutely nothing to do with Pierre-digging-for-gold-on-that hill-the-day-before-the-battle. I suppose all would have been well after that except that battle was followed by the unfortunate friendly-fire incident where the Clerics were mistaken for Ayyubid cavalry. It wasn't until we were searching the bodies that we discovered our error. After taking 9 arrows out of the first cleric, we were able to indentify his robes. Needless to say we left the remaining 13 in him and fled the scene sharpish.

At the moment we're in the pursuit of some Ayyubids who have stolen the King's banner. We know it's the Ayyubids as we stole one of their maps and it says that we are right in the middle of their territory. It's actually quite funny - I'd never noticed that the Muslims use exactly the same alphabet as us, except for some strange reason their's is upside down! Crazy Muslims! When those bastards with the banner make camp tonight, we're gonna sneek in and kill them. We'll ride back to Jerusalem as heroes, mark my words.

[phonicsmonkey]

On the banks of the River Euphrates.

The word had spread quickly through the farming and fishing settlements dotted along the fertile strip which formed the east bank of Al-Furat. Tools and nets had been cast aside and abandoned by their owners, who had rushed to join the growing crowds gathered along the riverbank, straining their eyes across the hazy, lazy brown shallows to catch a glimpse of the strange visitors from the Indus valley.

A small boy who had shinnied up a coconut palm was the first to spot them, his shrill cry of “Fel! Fel!” causing a minor surge by the crowd towards the waters, in which an old woman was jostled and a man lost control of his pomegranates.

Sure enough, through a cloud of dust cast up by their grey, pounding, wrinkled feet, the immense beasts could be sighted making their stately way along the western bank of the river, their loinclothed handlers perched magnificently atop and clearly enjoying the attention they were getting from the villagers.

Everyone could see they were heading West, towards the lands of the infidel where their Caliph and his allies carried out their jihad for the glory of the mighty Allah…but nobody could say why, and all were puzzled and awed by the immense and inconceivable distance these great animals had travelled.

‘God is indeed great!’, many in the crowd were heard to murmur…