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This thread is for the players in the Broken Crescent: Wrath of the Khan hotseat game to post creative writing related to the game.
This can take the form of full or partial turn write-ups, battle reports, stories or other creative writing forms inspired by the game, so long as the posts are consistent with and related to events in the game.
https://i39.tinypic.com/28tkoj6.jpgFaction Info
Fourth Caliphate Mamluks
al-Khilāfa al-Rabe' Mamulik
"Al-hamdulillāh! Al-hamdulal-Khilāfa al-Rabe'!"
(All praise is to Allah! All praise is to The Fourth Caliphate!)
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
AARs (Last Update: Turn 6)
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
A Dark and Stormy Tradition of Tender Steak
It was a dark and stormy night. It had to be. Dramatic events always took place during dark and stormy nights and on this specific night a particularly dramatic event was about to unfold. The formula was a tad bit overused, but that was how the Khan liked it. "Do it by the book," he said. "Wait for some really bloody weather - because being bloody is what the Khan was all about - Wait for some really bloody weather with rain and lightning and wind that sends their turbans flying into their eyes! That way they'll never see us coming!" The Khan was not one to shirk on tradition. Tradition, after all, is a fairly big deal when you're a nomad making minced-meat out of your enemies (which for the Khan included pretty much everyone) all the way from Persia to China and back again on a semi-regular basis. It's like bringing a piece of home with you everywhere you go - that is, if we disregard the fact that the Mongols, as nomads, didn't really have a proper home to speak of. In any case, it was a a feeling much like it. And the Mongols were a people of many traditions. These traditions were not the sort of traditions that made good business in souvenir shops and village fairs nor did they have much to do in the way of literature or for that matter literacy as the heavy-handed style of this chronicle should be making painfully obvious. In fact, some people even went so far as to say that Mongol traditions were murderous, cruel, barbaric and altogether mean. We can, however, safely discard this opinion as the people who promoted it have long since been turned into minced-meat in a very traditional demonstration of Mongol debating skills.
Thus, it was a dark and stormy night, the dry desert winds (as unfortunately for the Khan it didn't rain often in the Karakum Desert) sent great wafts of dust in the air (a minor consolation) partially obscuring the thousands of flickering pinpricks that illuminated the nearby city's narrow streets and sand-bleached houses (for it is in Samarkand that our scene lies). The armies of the Khan were assembled in the gathering dark, the beys with their slaves and their warriors and their warriors' slaves and their warriors' squires and their warriors' squires' slaves and slaves that didn't really belong to anyone and kept rather quiet about it in case they ended up belonging to some really nasty bugger who'd beat them up all day long as part of some obscure Mongol tradition which they'd rather know as little of as possible because they were of the opinion that Mongol traditions were murderous, cruel, barbaric and altogether mean thank you very much for asking. The Mongols had also brought with them their horses and yaks and cows and other pack animals. To a casual onlooker, their great host might've appeared much like a large company of bad tempered, heavily armed, overly aggressive cattle merchants who owned way too many slaves or slave merchants who owned too much cattle. But no one in Samarkand happened to be quinting through the dust storm at the surrounding darkness because, all things considered, it wasn't a very clever thing to do: any decent ophtalmologist would've told you right away it could hurt your eyes quite badly and you wouldn't have seen much of anything since, as was previously mentionned, it was quite dark. In fact, it would've been pretty hard to casually onlook for long upon the assembled Mongols because a few subtle clues refuted the possibility that they were cattle marchants at all, even particularly murderous cattle merchants. For starters, cattle merchants rarely tend to load their animals and a couple of their slaves (those who didn't belong to anyone) on very large war machines with the obvious intent of flinging them over your walls. It's simply not a good way to tenderize the meat and it's not their style - not even for the most ravenous of cattle merchants. No, it's much closer to the style of an army hell bent on revenge, ready to turn an entire city to minced-meat over the slightest offesence, real or imagined. And when casually onlooking upon an army of Mongols that closely ressemble bad tempered, heavily armed, overly aggressive cattle merchants, your attitude quickly shifts from casual to concerned and alarmed and thoroughly shocked to discover first-hand that cows can fly so high...!
SPLAT!
"FIRE!!! Fire, fire, fire!"
The man leading this mighty Mongol host was none other than the Khan and "Fire!" was one of his favorite words. It stood firmly somwhere between "Charge!" and "Kill 'em all!"
Some called him Genghis Khan or Great Khan but he rather liked to be called simply the Khan. It was a short, stocky word that went right to the point - much like himself.
Rising a little over 5 feet tall with a full belly, receeding jet black hair and sporting a vicious little fu-manchu, the Khan was standing on a low hill near the large, cow-flinging war machines, barking orders to the mob of self-important, overly-decorated good-for-nothings that followed him wherever he went.
"Ram!"
"No! No, not in the trebuchets! At the gate you fools!"
"Noooo! Catch back those goats! Aaaaargh!"
Battles were often very frustrating experiences and the Khan jitteringly juggled his little fur hat from hand to hand to calm and focus himself. The Khan's will was always done. First he'd conquer this puny little city of Samarkand and then...
And then he'd have some steak. All this cow-flinging was making him terribly hungry.
The Mongol Invasion had begun.
Up on the Samarqand city walls the Caliph's man Iqbal squinted through the dust storm into the surrounding darkness, searching for a sign that would confirm his fears.
Flinching from the intense pain, he ducked down behind the battlements to flush his eyes with water from a leather flagon on his belt.
Just as he did so, above him and through the space he had occupied just a moment before, flew a cow.
With a wet thud the animal met its end against the dome of a mosque some fifty feet below the wall, before rolling down it with a clatter of hooves and dropping into the city street below.
Iqbal froze for a moment as he realised what this meant, before running as fast as he could for the tower stairwell.
Twenty minutes later he was riding at full gallop away from the city.
The storms from the east and the whispers of war they carried were indeed warnings. The Mongols have come and have they unleashed a wrath far worse than both the Crusaders and the dark rule Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn combined. The hooves of their horses can be heard in Egypt. The tales of their atrocities smack on everyone’s lips. Dark times have come again. And, once more, the slaves will answer with a war of renewed attrition…
Summer, 1220 A.D.
Letter to the Baghaturs' Lords of the 4th Caliphate.
Esteemed Lords and Protectors of the Sharia,
As per your wishes, the Stable-and-Dock system in Egypt has been completed. The first of its fruits, the Shahada Regiment, have been fully equipped and now march steadily to the North to combat the Mongol invasion. This regiment is lead by al Mustain of Tanta along with his corporal, Medhat Ayyub. The second two regiments are expected to head out in another two seasons (two turns) and continue in this steady pace until this war is won. May Allah guide our blades in these harsh times and, as always, know your slaves are willing to serve and defend the rightful rulers of the 4th Caliphate.
Sincerely,
Alpawit Marsal and the Baghaturs of the Caliphate Mamluks
Alauddin Qiwam-Ud-Dawlah, Emir of Balkh, had been ordered by the Shah to flee the city with his family in the face of the seemingly unstoppable Mongol advance.
After the massacre at Samarqand, when the full might of the horde had been revealed in all of its terrifying glory, no one was taking any chances and the royal line of the Ghaznavid Shahs was to be preserved at all costs.
So it was somewhat surprising to the men of the Urgench mounted archery brigade to find themselves under Alauddin's command, riding through the dead of night to the relief of the Seljuks of Merv, who were under siege from four Mongol divisions.
At dawn they crested a hill and saw before them the full extent of the task ahead. They were outnumbered some 8 times over, by a mixed arms force containing mounted archers of equal or greater skill than their own, and heavy lancers on swift warhorses that would try to split their force, surround them and trap them.
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With a wild and ancient Persian war cry, the Urgench brigade charged down the hill into battle, manouevring so as to attack one flank of one of the four Mongol brigades, that way surrounding their targets without leaving themselves open to enfilade fire.
For some three hours they danced - feinting, withdrawing, charging in once more, all the while showering their foe with arrows and ducking the waves of return fire. They were well drilled and their commander had tremendous spatial awareness.
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Like a swarm of biting gnats they pestered the Mongol forces, always appearing at the flank or rear of their formations, moving as one, and never becoming trapped in melee or surrounded by their foes.
But they were too few, and slowly the Mongol divisions began to co-ordinate their movements in an attempt to corner them on the hillside and cut off their retreat.
Seeing the danger, and with their ammunition almost spent, Alauddin sounded the retreat, and the Urgench brigade melted away into the desert. They had taken just over one Mongol life per man lost of their own...a reasonable result in the circumstances, but not one which would unduly trouble the horde.
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- WHAT was that you said?
Fakhr hadn't wasted any time since he was given command over the Sultan's forces in Antolia. Rebels had been defeated and put to the sword from Nicaea to Rhodes, from Sinope to Famagusta. The western half of Cyprus was about to fall into Seljuk hands, and his campaign against the Roman loyalists was near completion. Just as his success was about to be crowned with the final Seljuk dominion over all Anatolia and it's islands, came a blow to the face.
- Well, general.. Konstantiniyye is under siege. Thousands of European crusaders have competely cut the city off from our reach. The army is far superior to the city's garrison and anything we can muster west of Rayy.
- Curses! Why now? I can't leave this bloody island, not as the last resistance is about to fall! It cannot be! And you say the Sultan has left the defense of Anatolia entirely in my hands? Not even Alp and his Turkomans remain?
- General, the pagan barbarians threatening our eastern borders are as numerous as rats, and vile as rabid dogs. There simply aren't any forces to spare. As far as I have been informed, Alp left Amasia half a year ago, ordered to lead the defense of Transaxonia.
- So, we finally take the great city from the Roman scum, and are then forced to leave it to frankish mongrels? No matter their number, I shall drive them back. In the name of the Sultan, and Allah, I will strike them down. Isn't it so that where ever we have been challenged, we have conquered? Where ever our faith has been accused of weakness, we have prevailed?
- Sir, yes but, wouldn't it be wiser to..
- I CARE NOT! Run along now, tell the officers to ready the assault. Send word to the docks to prepare the fleet for departure. Tonight, we clear the last Roman remnants. Tomorrow, we ready our bows for yet another slaughter of infidels. Death before dishonour, DEATH BEFORE DISHONOUR!
As the messenger ran off, Fakhr grinned. The last Seljuk riders in Anatolia would have to be enough. His own army contained equal amounts of local mercenaries and the finest Seljuk mounted bowmen. What army had stopped him so far? The Romans had been crushed. Even if Alp had been given most of the honours for the successful destruction of the Roman Empire, he, Fakhr Basan, had been Alp's right hand for several years. He deserved recognition, glory and victory. The second Seljuk conquest of Konstantiniyye would be his doing. Failure was not an option.
Vizier Tariq left the Caliph's chambers with a heavy heart. It now seemed clear that Ghazni would fall within a season, their Rajput allies having abandoned them at the crucial moment and the armies of the Caliphate still too far off to effectively intervene.
As he trod the halls of the palace at Baghdad towards the Rajput diplomat's personal chambers, he reflected on the words of the Ghorids when first the great An-Nasir had struck his bargain with the Maharajah. Muhammed had been excoriating in his criticism of the Caliph, his tongue dripping venom as he castigated him for betraying his fellows of the ummah.
Tariq had been a simple courtier at the time, and he had observed how his predecessor Marshed had seemed to side with the Ghorid over his liege An-Nasir. It had been a demonstration for him that a Vizier could be more than a servant - indeed, could challenge the Caliph's decisons directly.
And still, had An-Nasir been correct? The Ghorids were not able to conquer India and lost many faithful jihadis in the attempt. The Rajput's power had threatened the Caliphate and its allies at the very moment that they were engaged in the bitter struggle with Rome and the Crusader Kingdom.
Now this new threat, the horde from the East, threatened to wash over the lands of the faithful like a black wave of wanton destruction, and the Hindus had decided to parlay rather than fight.
Well, let them do so and see where it gets them.
The armies of Islam are more than a match for these barbarous cattle-thieves, however numerous.
Staining the Red Sea
Admiral Tulun looked out across the waters. Ahead of him, orange sails walked across the ocean like a line of feathers. His eyes narrowed as he regarded them. He stood motionless atop the dank planks of his vessel—his arms barred across his chest and his gray eyes locked in an unwavering analysis.
"They outnumber us," one of his men, Erim, said behind him. There was no fear in his voice—only the tone of cold observation.
Tulun sniffed the night air in defiance of such a statement. "What does it matter?" He asked, turning a sharp gaze to his subordinate.
"It matters not."
Around the two men, the winds began to pick up. The sun was setting over the eastern horizon and gray clouds were beginning to tuck themselves over the ocean sky. Again, Tulun sniffed the evening air and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword; the other he tucked behind his back. He started down the steps towards Erim and began to pace around him. "Why does it matter not?"
"Because our masters have given us a task," Erim replied, his gaze forward—stiff and at attention.
"And the Hindus are in the way?"
"And the Hindus are in the way..."
Tulun nodded, his gray eyes not leaving the man. He whispered, "Yes... yes they are." Then he started off again to the edge of the dhow, putting a boot on the railing there. He crossed his arms once more and looked out towards the Rajput navy. "And what do we do to those who interfere with our masters' will?"
"We... subjugate them."
Tulun smiled, his grays eyes adopting the tone of the growing night air. "So what is your observation now, Erim?”
“They have not brought enough men to die today…”
“Good…” Tulun replied, his eyes still locked ahead—his smile formed into a wide grin. “That is your place. That is my place.”
“Do I give the signal, Admiral?”
“Yes,” Tulun replied and Erim immediately hurried off. Once more, Tulun smiled at the column of ships sailing down the horizon. Then he swiftly turned around and drew his sword, drawing the attention of the other men aboard. “Do you see these fools on their rafts in the horizon!” He called, his scimitar pointed in the direction of the Hindu fleet. “These pagans have spilled Muslim blood. Slaughter them! And feed them to Allah’s creatures of the sea!”
"Al-hamdulillāh! Al-hamduliarobyān Al-Khilāfa!"
There was a great shout from the men aboard and a bellowing call from the horn as Emir blew into it. The others ships then began to turn around and set their sails towards the Hindu fleet.
Tulun stood on the railings as he had before, his chin tucked into his chest and an eager smile painted on his lips. The other men around him hastily began to assemble their weapons and the ship's defenses. There were shouts of joy carried over the increasingly growing winds. There were calls of prayer—songs and hymns.
And tonight, Tulun knew, there would be blood in these seas. Tonight, he knew, was the night the slaves would join this war...
For over two years now the Caliphate armies had stalked the Mongols as they advanced through Ghazni and the lands of the Seljuks, but up to this point they had not engaged the invaders in battle, preferring instead to track their movements and lay fortifications in their path - the better to protect the damaged lands of the Caliph, still reeling from decades of conflict with the now-defeated Christians.
Now, with the eastern hordes in possession of Birjand and the route west into the Caliphate ahead of them, the Caliph in his wisdom had decided it was time to attack.
So it was that Yusuf Ibn-Jawzey, third and youngest son of the Crown Prince Mustarshid, found himself in command of a mixed force of spear, sword and mercenary horse, galloping across the bridge towards the city of Birjand.
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He drew up his forces in a thick line, the spears instructed to dig the butts of their shafts into the hard earth in an attempt to counter the legendary charge of the Mongol lancers. Both flanks he declined in order to better protect his bedouin archers and catapults, which would rain fire and stones upon the Mongol foot.
Gazing out over the sandy plain which lay between the army of Islam and the walls of the city, Ibn-Jawzey thought he could detect movement behind the rough wooden pallisade - and sure enough, before he had even given the order for the catapults to begin their work on the walls, the gate flew open and out poured the Mongol horde.
Chaos descended as the Mongols, seemingly fearless of the Caliphate spears and led by the Khan's guardsmen, Kubeke at their head, charged headlong into the massed spears and began laying about them with their maces.
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The highly-trained Abna Spearmen, pride of the Caliph's infantry, held their ground and soaked up the initial charge.
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The catapults even managed to loose off a few incendiary missiles at the Mongols as they poured through the gate, crushing and burning them in their dozens.
On the flank of the formation the Arab Swordsmen and Faris Infantry held their ground and simply tried to take as many of their foes with them as they prayed to Allah to receive them into paradise.
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But the Abna, the Arabs and the Faris were too few - elsewhere in the line the lightly armoured Nubian Spear were terrified at the savage onslaught of their Mongol opponents, and broke their line, panicking and attempting to flee.
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And all the while the second Mongol army, led by Khanzada Chagatai, known to the fearful inhabitants of his conquered lands as 'the Tyrant', approached slowly from the north. It was clear that this was not to be a day of victory for the armies of Islam.
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Utterly defeated, the remaining Caliphate troops were harried and cut down by their tormentors as they tried to flee.
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Yusuf Ibn-Jawzey and the few remaining members of his guard unit cut their way through a weak point in the Mongol line and fled the scene to regroup with the survivors at their encampment to the south.
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From the roof of the Birjand mosque, where the inhabitants of the city had huddled in terror to watch the battle, the scene was one of despair. They would not be freed from the Mongol yoke this day and would suffer further before deliverance came.
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It was just after dawn when the goatherds returned to the city of Birjand from the banks of the fertile river to tell of a mighty force of Caliphate troops that had, in the first rays of daylight, assaulted the bridge from the heights of the surrounding hills.
The Mongol Kubeke and his army had been encamped there guarding the upstream ford and the path to Birjand itself, wary of a second attempt by the Caliph's forces to retake the city after the defeat of Yusuf Ibn-Jawzey and his army some weeks before.
Some hour or so later from his vantage point on the roof of the Grand Mosque, Qassim the Iman of Birjand had watched the relief force of Mongols led by Khanzada Chagatai (known as the Tyrant) ride out along the road to the bridge to support Kubeke's defenders.
Between morning and early afternoon prayer the river had begun to run red, clearly visible from the heights of the city where it snaked around the walls to the east.
Now Qassim strained his eyes, searching through the heat haze for any sign, hoping beyond hope to see the fluttering standards of great Suleyman, Caliph of Islam and commander of the Faithful.
There! Some movement through the dust storm...but what colour is the banner?
His heart sank. The Mongols were returning - the Caliph's men had been defeated once more.
But wait - what was this? The Mongols were...too few, far too few and they carried with them the bodies of their leaders, suspended on great litters across the backs of pairs of horses.
Both Kubeke and Chagatai had been slain, and by Qassim's reckoning only one fifth of those Mongols that had left the city were returning.
He began to hope once more.
In the summer of 1226 a Caliphate expeditionary force led by Muez Ibn Muhallab and Ahmed Abu-Suffyan burst through the Rajput fort line near the previously-Ghaznavid fortress of Saravan and defeated the two Solanki forces guarding the city.
No sooner had the dust settled on the battle field and the sun began to set behind the mountains when a party of scouts returned to report the approach of a further two large Rajput forces, led by Prithviraj Gangeya and Jaitugideva Chandrawat, hell-bent on revenge for the loss of the city.
There was not time to retreat to the safety of the fortress, some miles away, so the Caliph’s men worked through the night to erect a hasty set of fortifications and protect the tired army from direct attack by the Hindu cavalry and elephant formations.
Muez Ibn Muhallab had barely finished inspecting the palisade by the dawn light when the Rajputs arrived from the east in a cloud of dust.
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The mounted cavalry mercenaries, well rested and their mounts watered and fed, took to the saddle and left the fort, their plan to harry the enemy, thin their numbers and tire them.
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Sure enough, before long they had the benefit of the high ground and were able to rain deadly arrows on their pursuers. The Rajput cavalry began to rout, leaving the elephants to chase the horse-archers.
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The elephant formations now scattered across the battlefield and their supporting cavalry slain or driven off, Ibn Muhallab now gave the order for the Afghan tribesmen to leave the fort with their bundles of javelins.
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These men from the harsh mountains bordering India were skilled at fighting elephants. Whether in some ancestral age they had hunted them for food, or whether they had simply been forced to repel one too many incursions by Rajput armies it was impossible to tell; but they were deadly with their hurled javelins and the elephants were mown down like grass.
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In one final attempt to seize the fort, the Rajput prince Gangeya charged the part-open gate, creating a bloody melee in the doorway.
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Meanwhile reinforcements began to arrive in support of both sides, skirmishing in a disorganised rabble across the battlefield, the well-trained Caliphate forces quickly gaining the upper hand.
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Muez Ibn Muhallab and his retinue rode out from the fort to chase down the remaining Hindu forces, and the day was won. Saravan would remain the property of the Caliph…for now at least.
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Qassim, Imam of Birjand, was overjoyed to see the Seljuk riders at the crest of the hill, blue banners flying gaily in the morning wind.
The remnants of the Mongol occupying force had been defeated at the river by the forces of Tohkmen, known as the Handsome for his comely appearance, and at long last the city of Birjand was liberated. Truly what the Caliph's men had started, his allies the Seljuks had finished and once more the faithful of Birjand could pray and live in peace.
As the riders approached the city gates, the word rang around the streets that their liberation was at hand and the inhabitants rose up and overthrew the small garrison of Mongols who huddled fearfully in the city's keep, binding them and dragging them into the city square to be punished for their crimes.
Qassim gathered a group of faithful who had taken refuge in the mosque and went immediately to the dungeon of the keep where the bodies of Hisham and Al-Mahdi Ibn Muqla, the Caliph's men martyred at the second battle for the city, lay abandoned and ordered them prepared for the long journey back to Baghdad.
Caliph Suleyman sat on the balcony of the Great Mosque at Baghdad, looking out over the polished marble courtyard which was beginning to fill with the faithful as they gathered in anticipation of the martyrdom ceremony. His eyesight was faded but in the bright light of the morning he could clearly make out the hustle and bustle at the gate of the Mosque as the people lined up and jostled to gain entrance.
The bodies of the martyrs Hisham and Al-Mahdi Ibn Muqla, slain by the Mongols at the Second Battle of Birjand, had been borne the several hundred miles from the eastern provinces and were now, according to reports, making their way through the crowded streets of the capital for their appointment with the Caliph.
Vizier Tariq attended to the Caliph, who had aged prematurely since his coronation, faced as he had been with the constant threat of invasion, first from the men of the West and now from this deadly Eastern horde. His master had never been athletic, having spent his early years in study of the Qu'ran rather than in the armies of Islam - but his frailty for a man his age surprised Tariq and he was often filled with concern for his old friend.
Suleyman cleared his throat, and without turning from the scene, said to Tariq:
"So my old friend, it is the latest report from the Seljuk Sultan that the accursed plague of horse thieves has been all but halted in their incursion into Georgia."
Tariq nodded his assent. "Yes sir, it is our belief that they are now pent up at Kutaisi and will take several seasons to break through the defences there, giving the Seljuks ample time to whittle down their numbers."
The Caliph grunted, waving his right hand out over the unfolding scene in the courtyard below.
"And of course we would not be engaged in today's revelry had those glorious Turks not leap-frogged our valiant forces and regained Birjand..."
"Indeed sir, it is so."
"They are but minor accomplishments when set against the task ahead but with the flank attacks now thwarted the main threat remains concentrated on Merv, where the bulk of the Mongol forces are reportedly gathered. We must hope and pray that our combined forces can hold them there. What of the war on the treacherous Rajputs?"
"Ghazni is slowly being regained sir, as the generals and your noble son Mustarshid have reported. Zanji and Saravan have been retaken from the Hindoo armies and many Indians slain by the Crown Prince and his retainers. Indeed it is your grandson Muez Ibn Muhallab that has seen the lion's share of the fighting - a lion indeed to have slain so many elephants! At sea, Admiral Ayyub reports grand victories against the Indian fleets and has manouevered into their waters in an attempt to seize control of the Indian Sea."
The procession was now visible through the gate and the assembled crowds were parting to make way for the green-shrouded coffins bearing the bodies of the martyrs. As they passed through the great gates into the courtyard the Caliph turned in his seat to Tariq.
"In'shallah we will have victory in this struggle - and before I go to join the Prophet (salay'him a salaam) we may finally put this bloodshed behind us and begin an era of peace and prayer."
The Caliph stood up on the balcony and cast off his outer cape to reveal his emerald-green ceremonial robes. As he raised his hands above his head the crowd gave a mighty cheer.
*Coming soon*
The Totally EPIC Account of the Six Great Atabegs of the Battle of Atrak River
(when I stop having tests and projects EVERY week)
Qassim, Imam of Birjand received the messenger in the dead of night in the prayer hall of the masjid.
He knew better now than to acquiesce to the subtle temptation of hope, but still the news was good. While the Mongol occupiers of the city slept, he offered a quiet prayer of thanks to mighty Allah for his benificence in allowing the message through the serried ranks of the horde.
It had been barely a few months after the 'liberation' of the city by the Seljuks before the Mongol vanguard had arrived and retaken it. They had shown little mercy to the enfeebled inhabitants, putting many to the sword and carrying off others to unimaginable torments somewhere out of sight.
Now, it seemed, Birjand itself was beyond hope of rescue, deep behind enemy lines and with a dwindling population of enslaved, mostly male inhabitants.
The Mongol advance had moved on - to where Qassim had not known..until now. It seemed that the horde had split in two, with one half heading north-west to Nishapur and the other going south-west to Yazd. While both cities had fallen, a great battle had taken place on the Atrak River and much of the Nishapur horde had been wiped out by six Seljuk Atabegs and their armies. There remained enough of a Mongol force to hold Nishapur, for the time being at least, and the Yazd horde were at large on the border of the Caliphate itself.
But still....without hoping, without allowing himself that delicate treat, Qassim began once more to imagine a future in which he could tend his faithful flock without the constant threat of violence and in which the humble city of Birjand could prosper anew under the gaze of Allah and his Caliph Suleyman the Pious.
The messenger left the enslaved city by the same secret means that he had entered while Qassim burned the message in a brazier and hurried to his chambers to steal a few hours precious sleep before the next day's inevitable and unrelenting toil.
The yurt of the Great Khan is resting at the shores of Atrak river. The riders of doom still are mourning their fallen brothers. Those brave men stood firm in the view of the might of six major Seljuk armies – all of them have been destroyed. The last two Atabegs who were seeking sanctuary in the forts along the river were beheaded by the mighty Khan himself.
That what the people of the Caliphate like to call a turning point is nothing but a rebel of that what is doomed, that what is meant to go down being replaced by a new order.
Obviously the small village of Birjand has been recaptured by Caliphate forces. Yet the Caliph did nothing but playing into the cards of the Dominion of the East.
The forces of the Great Dominators will unite soon drawing a closed front line that will move further and further to the west. The great city of Baghdad will be in reach of Dominion Forces soon.
The downfall of the Caliphate is near. The final battle is about to begin.
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House Seljuka of the 4th Caliphate
The Six Great Atabegs of The Battle of Atrak River
The battle was long. Delirious. It had no meaning anymore. No structure. No moral. Just slaughter. Blood and organs embalmed in the sand. Arrows like blades of grass watered by the dead. A lifeless sun staring down at it all. Indifferent. Unmoved. No God was seen watching from up there. Just the pink clouds which moved on by like they always had—unaffected by the screams and shouts below.
Thousands dead and the clouds just moved on by…
Thousands lost and the clouds just moved on by…
“Atrak, the river bordering Khurasani.” Djamal’s finger slid across the map, the sounds of the paper crumbled beneath his nail until finally his finger stopped at the image of the river. He tapped it twice and looked at the others. “That’s where they are gathered… that’s where we will meet them.”
“That’s suicide!” Sokhmen replied, standing up from the other side of the tent.”Over 6,000 Mongols! Over 4,000 horses! Even if we do succeed, their garrison in Nishapur will surely sally out and hunt down the survivors! Up to the very last…”
“Fool!” Ilgaazi now stood up from across table, the small tent shaking to his thunderous voice. “Here we wait and cower in Gorgan, whilst these demons from the east march closer and closer to Rayy! Here we wait with our great armies, and for how long?! Will we fight when their horses ride through our capital?! Will we strike when the great Khan himself tears down the holy crescent at Baghdad and lets his horses piss upon it?!” He turns to Alp, the general beside Sokhmen. “Hold your captain’s tongue lest he find it torn from his chattering teeth!”
“Should you try it,” Alp now stood up, pulling a dagger in one clean motion from his belt and pointing the serrated blade towards Ilgaazi’s throat. “You will find your Adam’s Apple upon the table.”
“SHUT UP!” Djamal’s fist pounded onto the desk, his words carried by the echo in the tent and the acid in his eyes. “Both of you! You direct your hate towards your brothers when you should direct it towards the infidel! And you direct your fear towards preserving your own lives when you should fear only the wrath of your God should you cower before Him now!” The room suddenly grew very quiet. The sands from the outside plucked at the tent, accentuating the silence that had gripped the gathering. Then ,finally, Djamal continued. “This is the only way. The Mongols are advancing and THIS is our opportunity. For too long we have watched, so eager to judge every opportunity that has come along thus far as unsuitable to ourselves. But perhaps the best opportunities are not supposed to be suitable to ourselves. Many are House Seljuka… many are the Caliphate…many are the Ummah… and many more will come after we have fallen. I say, let us prepare the way for them… let us cut off the beast’s arm so that the next man can cut off his legs… and so that the next man can gouge out his eyes… and so that the next man can cut off his head! We may die, but our martyrdom heralds the beast’s demise!”
“To be the vanguard of the infidels’ destruction!”Another general, Ahmed, proclaimed from his seat. “To die before Him in such a way… I would be most honored my friends!”
The arrow came like a sudden realization—like the quick resurfacing of a remembrance he had long forgotten. His gaze moved downwards, towards the direction he had felt it enter, and it was there he noticed the thing sticking out of his chest. Burrowed right beneath the scales of his armor and in past the chains of his mail, the arrow began to draw out blood like a syringe. The feathers at the end began to dampen and it seemed the sun around him had begun to rapidly set. Then the sudden realization hit him. Ahmed of Mashad was dead.
“TO SLAUGHTER THE INFIDEL!” Ilgaazi screamed. “Let the cowards here back down, but I… I for one… am with you Djamal.” He beat his fist against his heart and bowed. “I am with House Seljuka.”
Ilgaazi’s mace pounded against the helm of the Mongol warrior. The great demon warrior’s head made a “SQUISH” as it was crushed underneath the blow, and he fell off his horse—falling atop his own lance below. Ilgaazi shouted victory, but the battle had been lost long ago. His forces had suffered the most—first one in, first one routed. Now what little forces he had left he had attempted to take to Djamal’s line on the other side of the battlefield. His friend was still holding there and he might still have a chance. But there were just too many of the enemy.
Ilgaazi saw the arrow flying towards him. He had seen it too late to move, though it seemed to be hurled at him at an incredibly slow motion. It would strike his head, he could tell. And behind the arrow, up on a distant hill was Djamal—still fighting—still standing. Ilgaazi closed his eyes and accepted what was to come—not knowing whether this whole thing was failure or holy war.
The arrow entered Ilgaazi’s helmet and the man was killed immediately. He sloped over dead on his horse as the beast ran away from the battle—carrying the corpse of Ilgaazi waddling on his back.
Inside the tent—amidst the other’s shouting—Tegin Omar was not so eager to announce what he knew would be his final fate. Maybe the others truly were—or they simply didn’t understand—but he… he was quiet.
He was only a captain, subordinate to Ahmed. And he had only recently arrived—fresh off the boats from the Caspian expecting guard duty—now to come and hear of a suicide mission deep in Mongol territory. This wasn’t what he was expecting, but as the others seemed to accept more and more the suicidal plans of this Djamal, he only hoped that when the time came, he would find more courage than he had now.
Tegin’s bodyguard screamed as the Mongol lancer embedded his spear into his chest. The demon lifted the frail man in the air, carrying him almost entirely off his horse and laughing as he threw him to the ground. But as the beast looked up for a second strike he saw Tegin’s bow in his face.
Tegin let go of the arrow in his hands—his fingers flying out in a final wave goodbye to the Mongol before him. Then the arrow was flung forward on its bow and cleaved its way straight into the face of the Mongol directly before him. The lancer was nearly decapitated from the close shot, and he flew off his horse and into another warrior who was nearly knocked off his own stead.
Tegin then threw down his bow and pulled out his mace, grabbing also the sword that was still slung on the dead Mongol’s horse. He swung wildly at the enemy around him, softening them first with the stolen sword and then bashing in their bones with his mace. He had given in to the bloodlust of battle. He could feel nothing but it now.
More Mongols enclosed around him and one jammed his sword into his back. Another Mongol rode in from the front and threw his spear into Tegin’s chest. Yet another Mongol came and delivered the killing blow—holding his sword high in the air before slamming it down on the mad Muslim’s collar bone.
Tegin fell off his horse, still gripping the mace and sword, and watching the sky grow dark as he plummeted to the world below…
Fearless…
Dead…
The others looked to Alp and Sokhmen, waiting for their answer. Sokhmen was looking away from the others, obvious disgust and irritation on his face. But he didn’t matter—not really. Sokhmen was just a captain. Alp of Mashad was his general.
“Djamal,” Alp finally began, drawing his eyes up from his chest and unfolding his arms to speak. “You talk of opportunities… but how many have we really let slip by us? How long have we really waited? Is what you say martyrdom or impatience?” He sighed, shaking his head. “I am more inclined to believe impatience.” Then he looked to the others around him in the tent, nodding. “But your words have obviously met well with my brothers here and who I am to argue with all of you?” He again sighed, but this time, also bowed and continued to nod. “I will carry out whatever is the decision of this assembly. I will fight and die if I must… I only hope this is truly the will of Allah and that we do not rush so eagerly to death should it not be His desire…”
When Djamal’s line broke, Alp knew everything was over. His fellow general sounded the call to retreat—heavy lancers and Mongol cavalry swarming his position. On his own line, he and Sokhmen watched as the Mongol horde did the same to his soldiers. They were truly innumerable, but they had made a dent! In šāʾ Allāh! Djamal was right! They had made a dent.
Mongol foot archers lied dead, trampled beneath the hooves of Seljuk bowmen. Mongol lancers lied beneath their horses, victims of the spear and the mace. And one sight in particular—the distant image of a whole line of Mongol cavalry archers massacred beneath arrows and boulders launched from Seljuk catapults—thrilled Alp.
But at what cost? His own men littered the desert as well—the bright blue silk of their uniforms drenched in red and glowing under the sun. He had survived. Sokhmen had survived. But where would they go? No… death was just for another day.
Alp gave the signal to his captain, and Sokhmen held up the horn. He blew into it and the thing bellowed from his lips. The call to retreat was issued and his men began to frantically drop their weapons and run. Sand kicked beneath their feet as they let their tired bodies carry them as quickly as possible away from the carnage. But as Alp watched he knew not many would escape.
He turned his own horse around and began to leave the battlefield, followed soon by Sokhmen. Neither of them looked back.
The next day, Djamal and the five other Atabegs rode out from Gorgan. Their numbers were many. Even more would join them on the road ahead. Holy Warriors, farmers, zealots, mercenaries, and scours of other breeds of men marched to the river of Atrak—the place most would meet their deaths. But they would also face victory. Maybe not today. Maybe not years from now. Perhaps they would never look upon a Muslim world not beset by war and carnage. But one day it was destined. One day Allah would provide it, and the ummah would see such a Caliphate—fought for by them—died for by them. Today, they would set the first stone. Today, they would build the future....
But Djamal thought no such dreams anymore. The battle had cost too much. The mayhem was too great.
What meaning could possibly come from this? Would greater good was worth this cost? What greater good would demand the lives of so many men?! So many of his friends?! So many of his family?! What was the point?! What was the reason?! Were they really just specks of dust beneath the sky? No God? No meaning? Just the anarchy let loose by men of differing faiths, so eager to kill anyone who disagreed because the others' existence challenged the thing they hid behind—the thing they hoped so desperately was truth, but.... in their deepest corners of their hearts... knew was just lie?!
Djamal looked down at his horse as he and his armies continued their long track away from the battle. Quiet. Heavy. The Mongols weren't even pursuing them. They had lost so many themselves... but did that even matter anymore?
The sky was pink and the sun was beginning to set off behind him. His skin matched the hue—burned and bloody. He looked at the weary soldiers around him and wondered what he had dragged them into. What desperation and deception had tricked him into killing so many good men whose lives he was responsible for? What did he gain from their sacrifice? What would they gain from his?
And as the thoughts of doubt continued to settle over him, Djamal looked back to the battle behind him.
Then he saw it.
High up the sky—above the setting sun and holding just outside the pink and red clouds of dusk—a crescent stood over the battlefield.
It was impossibly huge, so close to the earth that it seemed it would slam into it. So huge, it demanded to be seen. So great, it brought tears to Djamal’s eyes.
Were it any other dusk at any other time, Djamal would have merely looked at such a sight with a curious awe. But on this night, the struggle, chaos, guilt, and pain made him truly appreciate what he was seeing—so much so, he could have sworn this simple thing in the sky was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life. And had he not come through the pain, he would have never known such beauty—he would have never seen it… this kind of beauty that could make an old warrior cry.
“Al-hamdulillāh,” Djamal whispered. “God is great…”
Vizier Tariq relaxed and let his thoughts drift as he listened to his master the Caliph address the masses congregated at the Grand Masjid at Rayy. They were here to commemorate and ordain the six martyrs of the Battle of the Atrak River, whose selfless acts of bravery had, for now, halted the Mongol advance on the Seljuk capital.
Tariq was not an overly religious man and had spent more time in his youth studying science and diplomacy than he had the Qu'ran. His friendship with Sulayman, whom he had never expected to see become Caliph, had given him a rare insight into the life of a man of genuine piety. He remembered well how inspired the young Sulayman had been by his faith, how his eyes had blazed with a strange and intense fire as he had related to Tariq the stories of the Prophet and his followers he learned in the masjid. Tariq had admired this passion but had found it somewhat unsettling; he could not seem to stoke the same fires in himself and while he was a believer, he could not seem to form an emotional attachment to what, for him, seemed the distant and impersonal concept of Allah. Sulayman, it seemed, felt it within him in a way that Tariq never would.
The Caliph was speaking on the subject of sacrifice, relating the story of Abraham who was prepared to slay his only son Ishmael, an act which he mistakenly believed was the will of Allah. Abraham, like the six martyred Atabegs, was willing to give something dear to himself for a greater cause – for his faith. But his real sacrifice had come earlier, when he had followed the will of Allah and settled his family in the desert, far from the fertile lands of his tribe. From this sacrifice of Abraham rose the Islamic faith itself, for his son Ishmael founded the nation which was to give rise to the Prophet Muhammed. So it was that from the sacrifice of the Atabegs would eventually come the long-awaited era of peace and prosperity that the nations of the fourth Caliphate had been fighting for all these long years.
Tariq knew that his was a subject close to Sulayman’s heart, that he too felt the pain of a great sacrifice made for his faith. He remembered that dark day when he, as Vizier to Sulayman's elder half-brother the former Caliph Abu-Bakr, had found his master cold and dead of the plague in his bedchambers. The same bed where his predecessor the great An-Nasir had been found, slain by the same accursed Levantine pestilence let loose into the world by the perfidious Franks.
Sulayman had been summoned from the masjid and it fell to Tariq to tell him what had happened. The young man had been stunned when he realised the implication of his friend’s words. That he now had a great responsibility. That he must give up his scholarly existence, his pure and undisturbed life in the masjid and place himself in the public eye to act as shepherd to the ummah, must submit himself to scrutiny in order to serve as general to the armies of Islam. That he was now Khalifa and must risk his life to save his embattled nation.
Tariq saw the toll it had taken on his friend, both immediately and over the following years, as he battled the Byzantines across Anatolia and Syria, as he grappled with his renegage uncle Al-Qahir and was forced to permit the oppression of the Ibadis in Oman and as he faced the destruction of his brothers the Ghaznavids and the treachery of his former allies the Rajputs.
Sulayman had grown old, his face lined and colourless, his body (never athletic) weary and aching. Tariq worried greatly about his old friend and did what he could to ease his burden, but it seemed the demands never ceased, that the life of the Caliph was not his own. Many an evening he discovered Sulayman in his chambers long after nightfall, working to the flickering light of an oil-lamp on battle plans, diplomatic missives, or religious addresses.
So it had been a week before that he had found him in his usual place, late at night, working on this very speech he now sat listening to. Tariq had interrupted his friend's work and challenged him. Why should he fight on? Why should he not make a treaty with the Mongols? After all, we of the Caliphate had not lost any territory, had we? Had we not made the first attacks on both the Rajputs and the Mongols? Couldn’t the Seljuks stand for themselves? Had we not sacrificed enough?
The Caliph’s eyes had blazed with that old familiar fire as he had turned on Tariq, castigating his old friend as he had known he would. ‘Tariq, don't you see? Every man who is faithful to Allah is my child and every land in which he dwells is my house, however far flung and whatever dangers beset him. We can never sacrifice enough for the ummah.' he had said. 'This is my duty to great Allah, the reason for my life.’
And so we fight on, thought Tariq, alongside our brothers and for the very survival of our faith. To the bitter end, to the very death. Just like the Atabegs.
On the dais the Caliph was finishing his speech. He spoke of the success of the Atabegs in reducing the Mongol horde and of the victories won in the far east by the Crown Prince against the Indians. He spoke of the seeming retreat of the Mongols from Yazd to Kerman, taking them away from the Caliphate and from the heavily populated heartlands of the Seljuks.
Finally he quoted the Qu’ran, saying to the gathered faithful “There are signs in all of this for those who wish to see them.”
Even from a distance, Tariq could see the fire in his eyes as he said it.
Said-Addin looked towards the shores he was about to set foot on. He could outline the same fishing village he had left with the very same fleet a few seasons ago. Since then it seemed he had been through hell. The little village looked just the same though. Peaceful huts and small boats, lonely palm trees and endless fields of grass and sand.
He turned and looked at the rugged and torn men spread on the brave dhows, steadily working their way towards their assigned landing site. Since a few months ago they were under his command, but calling them an army or even a regiment would be an insult to the very words. They were merely the few lucky, or perhaps unlucky, survivors the many slaughters the Seljuk commanders had sent thousands and thousands of men to. He could still remember the battle he had fought and survived, facing the Mongol beasts in the narrow mountain passes south of the once proud city of Merv. Even though he had barely seen the city, he had griefed when he had heard of its' fate and he could remember how he had burned with passionate revenge, looking down at the advancing swarms of armoured riders from a hilltop, next to the legendary Alp of Yazd.
He had thought that Seljuk army to be undefeatable. Line after line of riders born in the saddle, and taught how to use their bows since before they could even walk. Commanded by the greatest general the Seljuk nation had seen, and guided by the hand of Allah he had been ascertained that the advancing hell-spawn would be thrown back into the abyss from which they had risen.
But it was not to be. Even after his Seljuk brothers had let loose arrows to turn the very sky dark, the Mongol assault had been unstoppable. He shivered as memories of blood, gore and death flickered through his mind. The Eastern invaders had ploughed through his comrades as if they were no more than wheat rhipe for harvest, and despite their bravery there was little the Seljuk forces could do. He closed his eyes as he remembered the final charge of Alp the Lion. Roaring with a ferocity that defied the desperate situation they were in, Alp had lead his bodyguard straight into the mass of Mongol metal. They had not lived to tell that tale.
He, Captain Said-Addin, had however survived. A crazed flight though valleys, over mountains and across rivers had taken him and his men to Gorgan, where vast Seljuk forces were gathering. He did not want to face the Mongols again, but his travels over the Seljuk Caspian would once again bring him face to face with this fierce foe.
They would pay for slaughtering so many of his brothers. If not in this life, in the next one. He and his men would ripe the rewards of paradise, after either dying in battle in Allah's name, or emerging victorious from the conflict that would stain the sands red, and driving the beasts back to their caves. No matter how much he tried to put his faith in Allah and his eternal wisdom, he despaired as the dhow reached the beach. He knew he was heading for his final fight.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
As the blood-red sun began to set behind the immense and purple peaks of the Hindu Kush, Wahir al-Shamoun jumped down from the timber walls of the hastily constructed fortifications that sheltered the remnants of the army and prepared to give his Crown Prince the bad news.
But before he could begin to speak Al-Mustarshid interrupted him, saying without making eye contact,"Don't tell me Wahir. I don't want to know how many of them there are."
Wahir frowned. "They are many my lord."
The Crown Prince laughed. "I said don't tell me!" He leapt up onto the back of his great charger and wheeled around on the dirt bank, sending up a cloud of dust as he trotted down the steep slope to address the men.
Wahir followed him, as he had followed him all these long years. It was his duty, given to him by the Caliph himself on the day that the young prince had come of age. Wahir had instructed Al-Mustarshid in the martial skills of swordplay, of archery and of horsemanship. He had taught the young man how to play chess, how to be at once tactical and strategic in pursuit of victory. He had instructed him in the arts of logistics and supply, in the mysteries of siege warfare, had passed on all of the knowledge he had acquired in his long years in the service of Caliphs and Crown Princes before him.
And when Al-Mustarshid had first ridden out to battle, against the traitorous Rajputs, Wahir had followed him still, as Captain of the Caliph's Guard assigned to protect the young Prince in battle. Just as he had followed young Az-Zahir all those years ago, into the forests of Georgia, where the doomed son of the great An-Nasir had met his death at the hands of the Byzantine infidels.
It was fair to say that this campaign had been spectacularly successful in comparison to that Georgian incursion. The young prince had bested army after army of hindus, slaughtering their great war elephants and cutting down their half-naked foot soldiers as they ran screaming from the fray.
But at each victory, when Wahir had urged caution, the impetuous Al-Mustarshid had pushed on into enemy territory, seeking still more carnage as he hunted the Rajputs on their own soil.
And so it had come to this - a depleted force, cut off and stranded miles behind enemy lines, caught like a rat in a trap in their own fort, besieged by a relief force of Rajputs that had been straggling behind the two armies they had bested not two days before on this very plain.
Now the men were gathered, gazing up at their young prince as he spoke of triumph to be claimed and glory to be won. Of infidel blood to be shed. Of paradise to be won by the deeds of the faithful.
Wahir had to admit the young man was inspiring - like his father the Caliph Sulayman he had a gift for impassioned speech. And he could see that these men would fight again for the Crown Prince, would pour like molten steel from the gates of this puny fort and take the fight to their suprised besiegers.
So it was that some two hours later Wahir found himself drenched in blood once more, his tired old limbs aching from hacking and chopping, watching Al-Mustarshid astride the corpse of the Hindu Prince's elephant, surrounded by his devoted men, cheering the latest in a series of improbable victories.
But Wahir could see that it had come at great cost - barely three hundred remained of the seven hundred who had left the fort that evening. The army was no longer a force to be reckoned with and instead resembled nothing more than the scarred stump of an amputated limb.
Still, unsatisfied with this slaughter, Al-Mustarshid wanted to press on.
"To Quetta!" he cried, his scimitar aloft above his head, "Into the lands of the infidel for the greater glory of Allah!
There was certainly something noble and heroic about his young charge, but also something clearly insane. The grizzled old soldier suddenly knew what he had to do. As the men cheered their hero, Wahir stepped up onto the corpse of the elephant and with a single blow of the hilt of his sword knocked the Crown Prince unconscious, catching his falling body and cradling him tenderly.
"Good night sweet prince.." he muttered, before turning to the man he knew had the swiftest steed in the Caliph's Guard.
"Take him far from here where he will be safe, and we will be safe from him."
The rest of the army would indeed press on to Quetta, on a certain suicide mission. They would be martyrs, Wahir among them. This he knew - but at least he would not have to see another Crown Prince needlessly slain by the enemy. He couldn't stand for his heart to be broken for a second time and besides, the Caliphate had great need of men like Al-Mustarshid.
The campsite is a bloody mess of butchered bodies, warriors of the Caliphate struck down by their bedrolls as they fought the unexpected incursion of Rajputs and Mongols that had come just before dawn.
Somehow the fortifications had been breached with not so much as a warning cry and silently the deadly enemy had gone about his brutal business, most of the camp waking startled and too late for any defence to be mustered.
Atop a pair of pikes in the centre of a stack of corpses are the severed heads of the Crown Prince Al-Mustarshid and his son the hero Muez Ibn-Muhallab, eyes agog, gory strips of neck tendon dripping gore and dangling jauntily in the cool morning breeze.
Out of the Rajput command tent, hastily erected in the glow of campfires still warm from the previous evening's meal, comes Khalil son of Marshed.
He mounts his horse and slings the leather sack of red Indian gold over its haunches. He has been richly rewarded for his services this day.
As he passes through the camp the exhausted Hindu warriors gaze upon him in some curiosity. What breed of man would submit his fellows to such a slaughter for a little coin?
The Mongols are less interested and simply spit at him as he passes.
Reaching the gate of the fort, still intact as if in testimony to his crime, he sneers and spurs his steed to a gallop, disappearing in a cloud of dust as he makes his way westwards.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
The Breakthrough
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...eakthrough.jpg
THE FIRST BATTLE
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/.../TheAttack.jpg
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...TheAttack2.jpg
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...TheBattle2.jpg
THE SECOND BATTLE - THE MAGNIFICENT FIVE
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...eBattleII1.jpg
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...eBattleII2.jpg
THE THIRD BATTLE - THE BATTLE OF THE HILL OF DOOM
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...BattleIII1.jpg
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...BattleIII2.jpg
THE FOURTH BATTLE - THE MASSACRE
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/.../BattleIV1.jpg
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/.../BattleIV2.jpg
THE FIFTH BATTLE - THE FORGOTTEN
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...s/BattleV1.jpg
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...s/BattleV2.jpg
THE SIXTH BATTLE - THE FINAL BATTLE Pt I
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/.../BattleVi1.jpg
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https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/.../BattleVI2.jpg
THE SEVENTH BATTLE - FINAL BATTLE Pt II
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...BattleVII1.jpg
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
https://i767.photobucket.com/albums/...BattleVII2.jpg
The Caliph dreamed...
He dreamed he passed through a small doorway off a narrow laneway, somewhere in one of the great cities of his realm. Out of the stultifying heat and the hustle and bustle of the souq and into a dark chamber where he was bathed in a cool breeze which blew gently through an archway ahead of him. The archway was bright with a blinding light and he squinted as he approached it, passing through with his arm raised to his forehead to shield his eyes.
He found himself in the verdant courtyard of a traditional Arab palace, such as one would find in Damascus inhabited by one of the nobles of the Caliphate and decorated with intricate tiles of many colours in fascinating geometric patterns.
It was lined with fruit trees, colourful with orange and cherry blossom emitting an enticing perfume. In the centre of the courtyard was an ornamental fountain which contributed a fine and cooling mist while cheerfully burbling its watery tune.
Sitting at the fountain was a man he recognised. Approaching cautiously he saw that it was Az-Zahir, son of great An-Nasir and the former Crown Prince of the Caliphate. His older brother, although they had not been permitted to grow up together. Suleyman was filled with a mixture of grief and joy to see his fallen kin once more and called out to him Brother! How good it is to see you!
Az-Zahir was robed in shimmering green silk, emblazoned with gold thread in patterns denoting the constellations of the night sky. His face was sorrowful and on casting eyes on Suleyman he began to weep openly, his tears falling with a series of thundering crashes onto the tiled marble, which cracked under their weight.
Suleyman was afraid and turned away from the young man, fleeing through another archway into a smaller courtyard which held a series of beehives. Here he found a man wearing a large turban, standing deathly still with his eyes shut at the centre of an ornate tiled design in between all of the hives.
It was Marshed, who had been Vizier to An-Nasir in Suleyman's childhood. He was clad in black velvet, with blood-red thread embroidery and he cut an intimidating figure. Suleyman approached him and asked Marshed, how is it that you are here? Where is your son Khalil?
Marshed's eyes flicked open and he caught sight of Suleyman. He grinned wickedly and raised his arms up above his head, bringing forth from the hives a swarm of bees which circled him and poured into his open mouth.
Suleyman was again fearful and was deafened by the terrible buzzing. His hands over his ears and fleeing once more, passed through another archway into a quiet courtyard shaded by coconut palms. The husks of fallen coconuts had formed a soft mat around the trunks of the palms and Suleyman sat down for a moment to rest.
He was soon aware of a presence behind him.
Looking around and up over his shoulder, he saw a giant figure looming over him. It was his father, the great An-Nasir, Defender of the Faith, Prince of the Two Seas and Caliph of Islam. An-Nasir's head was silhouetted against the sun and palm fronds sketched him something of a halo. Suleyman fell to the ground before him and, grabbing at his feet, began to weep.
O Great One, father of mine, how I have failed you! The invaders are at the very gates and we shall surely fall. All of your good work is to be undone and the ummah will suffer terribly. I am so ashamed...
An-Nasir placed a comforting hand on his son's head and gently lifted his face until their eyes met.
Do not be ashamed my child. The lifespan of our nation is but the flicker of a candle when set against the blazing glory of Allah and his works. You have led the ummah as best you could. A victory against this foe was never to be - Allah did not will it to be so. Yet the faithful will endure and the word of the Prophet will be spread in our fertile crescent long after their cruel hoofs have departed. Yea, even those of the invader that remain will find Allah's grace and will take up the sword in his name against the infidel.
All is far from lost.
Suleyman began to rise to his feet.
Then I must return - there is much to be done and..
An-Nasir cut him short with a smile and a shake of his head.
No my son, you will not return this day. Stay a while with us here in the gardens. Your part in these events is finished.
Suleyman sat down once more on the soft matt of coconut husks, under the palm fronds in the tiled courtyard. An-Nasir sat next to him and together they prayed.
Finally, for the first time in many years, he felt at peace.
Tariq forced his way through the crowds which packed the streets around the Royal Palace at Baghdad, his heart heavy with grief.
It was now barely a week since he had discovered his old friend Suleyman, the Caliph of Islam, cold and dead in his chambers. While he was struck with the deepest sorrow at being parted from his closest companion and master, he had seen in the Caliph's lined face a peace that had not been present for many troubled years. Suleyman deserved his rest.
For the nation he left behind there was to be no rest. No sooner had the Caliph's death been announced than the news had come from the eastern front - the Mongol hordes had broken through the defensive lines slaying thousands of the Caliphate's finest, including the bulk of the Mamluk expeditionary force. They now threatened Baghdad itself and the Seljuk capital at Rayy and there was no practical defence that could now be organised.
How is it that when the vessel begins to creak and let in water, the rats begin to appear on the deck? The Caliph's uncle, the loathsome Al-Qahir, Sultan of the Eastern Caliphate, had somehow contrived to be absent from the final terrible battles and, still more conveniently, had with him in his encampment the fey youth who now claimed the crown of the khalifa, by dint of his obscure descent from the slain Crown Prince Al-Mustarshid.
So had the Caliphate finally fallen into the hands of the corpulent and despised brother of An-Nasir - and what was he to do with it? Hand it over to the invader of course.
Hence the riotous crowds here surrounding the Royal Palace, outraged at the surrender of Islam to the goatherds of the Orient. Already the Royal Ghulam guard, acting on instruction from Al-Qahir's agents in the Palace, gathered to put down the putative rebellion with their cruel blades.
Peace, of a sort, would be restored. But at what cost?
Tariq could not bear to consider the indignities which awaited the ummah in the years to come. His heart rebelled at the thought of serving a puppet Sultan of the Mongols.
Making his way through a secret side entrance and into the Palace complex, he went to his chambers and prepared mint tea. While the water boiled he stoked a fire in the hearth and set ablaze his personal papers and those belongings which he wished none to touch.
Pouring the tea, he added a draft of black, viscous poison that he had acquired in the souq from a swarthy apothecary.
Grimacing at the bitter taste, he drank it in one gulp before retiring to his favourite armchair in front of the fire.
Tariq, Vizier of Suleyman and Abu-Bakr, confidant of Caliphs, diplomat, strategist and negotiator, removed his turban, kicked off his sandals, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Al-Qahir, Sultan of Iran, hated brother of Great An-Nasir, uncle of Suleyman and the true governing power behind the Vassal Caliphate, eased his massive corpulent frame into a gilded chair in the palace at Shiraz and exhaled a long, satisfied breath as he began to relax at the end of a long day's feasting.
These Mongols were not such a bad bunch.
Certainly the common folk were indiscriminately enslaved, tortured and killed by the occupiers on an almost daily basis. But for those of the noble caste that had agreed to side with Al-Qahir in cutting a deal with the Khan life was markedly better than it had been for some years.
With the child Caliph some years away from maturity and what was left of the Caliphate armies loyal to he alone, Al-Qahir felt comfortable that the remaining years of his life could be spent in the luxury to which he was quickly becoming accustomed.
Chief among his problems at present was the need to replant the vineyards of Shiraz, trampled underfoot by the bothersome Armies of Islam as they had marched back and forth to their ultimate doom at the hands of the Great Khan and his horsemen. Such was his terrible burden!
He chuckled to himself at the thought. Which man would have foreseen this, that clever Al-Qahir, picked on, pushed around and unfairly treated his whole life by that insufferable prig An-Nasir and his brood would outlive them all and take the power that had been rightfully his all this time!
And with none left to oppose him! He chuckled once more, then allowed himself a full-throated guffaw as he reflected once more on his good fortune.
Thus he did not hear the soft footsteps, did not sense the approach in the cool breeze which buffeted the silk curtains at the open window, did not see the glint of the moonlight on the bitingly thin wire garotte wrapped around the hands of Khalil, son of Marshed as he whipped it around Al-Qahir's fat throat and choked the life out of him.
In the final seconds of his life, while panicking, kicking, squirming, eyes-bulging, clawing at the wire which in the end sliced his throat open like a bird on a butcher's block, he did see the eyes of his killer, recognised them and with a glint of realisation understood that he had not, after all, been able to escape the shared doom which had claimed them all.
And when it was done and the fat Sultan lay cold and senseless on the flagstones, that doom padded off again out of the open window and into the desert, bringing an end at last to the long life of the Caliphate.