In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[phonicsmonkey]

This thread is for the players in the Broken Crescent 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.

[00jebus]

To Merchants traveling along the silk road, the ancient city of Merv was usually a true pleasure and wonder to pass through, not just a respite from the never ending sand of Iran, not so today, it seemed more like Allah himself was sorry, most of the men looked downtrodden, although the bazar was legendary little trade was done, all around the walls flags flopped downwards at half mast, the weather was clear, but felt sticky and lifeless and from the council chambers two messengers and their retinues rode out.
Today, would be considered a very special day by the worlds christians, the 25th of December, but to the people of Khwarezm, it was a tragic one, 2 days ago the shah had died in his sleep.
Nobody suspected foul play, considering his age, and nobody doubted he would be denied passage to paradise, considering his piety and chivalry, but the people were still sorry to see their king go. He did after all take excellent care of them, new civic building projects sprung up all over the shahdom during his reign, and he was responsible for ensuring so far lasting peace with both seljuk and ghanzi

The two messengers that were dispatched had the unenviable task of delivering news of this great man's passing to his sons, Malik and Muhammad.

Malik was first to hear the news, and his part of the will, he was to become Viezier - i - azam, or Grand Vizor, as a budding beaurocrat and efficient taxman, he would be in charge of the peaceful aspects of the shahdom until he died, with his brother and nephew being the next two in line for the throne.
Even though he was older than Muhammah, Malik accepted this anyway, he knew he would be best at this and enjoy it allot more than what Muhammad got upto, it would be important for him to protect the kingdom from his younger brothers occasional moods and odd habits.




The messenger that was sent to tell Muhammad had never seen a seige before, or the aftermath of one, he arrived at Tus early in the morning and was shocked to discover the entire army awake and at work, clearly a battle had happened the day before, and a one-sided one by the looks of things. Ladders were still on the walls, and a large square pit had been dug in which soldiers where throwing corpses haphazadly, they hadn't even been wrapped in cloth, holding back his vomit the messenger was about to ask a passing soldier where his general was, when he heard a loud argument erupt a short walk away

".... I dont give a toss if its against the Qua'ran!" A man in blood soaked armour thundered at a man who could only be the local Iman "Their dead! all of em! and I'm gonna burn them!"

the Iman spluttered to respond "But their souls may not enter paradise!, nobody has even gave them a burial prayer!"

"that would be your job wouldn't it? Im not changing things! the army is in the middle of a campaign, why wait a week to do it all properly? I suggest you do what you can for their souls..." he sneered

The Iman was clearly at a loss for words, a look of shock and frustration upon his face he turned and marched off towards the pit, a look of utter loathing on his face, the messenger stopped him, but before he could speak the Iman said
"Yes thats the so-called Muhammad the mighty, he's killed over a thousand muslims today.. if that deed gives you that title than its one I dont want... He has no idea about Islam at all.... even caught him eating pork yesterday... so if you must speak to him, keep religion out of it" before continuing his march.

The messenger caught the generals attention, bowing he began.
"Excuse me? sir? I have..."

"...if its a problem with attacking a city in the night and killing half the garrison in their sleep, I dont wanna hear about it! nor do I wanna hear about how my wonderful brother is such a saint, and I deffinanlty dont wanna hear that Im going to hell or wherever..."

looking slightly shocked and again holding back his vomit the messenger continued... "no sir, not, er, that.... your father, theres no easy way to say this, but he's passed away"

Muhammad Looked softer and like he was about to cry for a second, but only for a second before he scoffed
"Has my wonderful brother decided whether I can carry on conquering... just like father wanted or has his weaklingness got the better of him? idiot barely knows which end of a sword to hold...."

Bowing again "no, sir, your the new shah",
"god save us all" he added under his breath

"Good, nobodies expecting me to hang around building stuff cause I've got better things to do than look after peasants, and nobody expects me to care about the servant classes all of a sudden? And nobody expects any Hajj or Zaket of me"

"No, Malik will take care of all of that"

the new shah's eyes glinted, smiling he said "father really did take care of everything! great, now if you'll excuse me I have to get some sleep.."

"but sir, its early...." the messenger tried to protest, but quaked under the new shah's gaze.

In a tone that sounded as if it had been practised for the past few years, Muhammad proclaimed "do raise an army in the north for my son... I think now we can afford it," make sure its all infantry, If I have to hear him moan about horse archers again I'll do that christian thing where they hit their kids... only I'll use a mace..."
though the end seemed a spur of the moment thing

and that was how the reign of shah Muhammad the mighty began.






OOC, first ever AAR much harder than I thought it'd be, but included as many traits as I could.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1175 AD


It was hot, very hot, just as it always seemed to be that way in this Kingdom. The man on the horse wrinkled his nose. The city always smelt terrible when it was hot. It made it hard to think, hard to concentrate - yet he needed to do both at the moment.

Why have I been summoned? Why? he thought to himself. He had carried out his orders, the King's orders, yet he felt apprehensive. Gaza was taken and pillaged, all for the loss of but two knights. Indeed, he had still been carrying out the King's orders - March at best speed with the army to reinforce the army at Damascus - when the summons came.

What had gone wrong? What did I do wrong?






The King's chambers were just as they always were. Dark, cool, forboding. Standing proud and tall in the ante-chamber, the man waited, sweating from more than from just the heat outside.

"Enter" said the soft voice.

Entering through the curtains, the man came into the mix of darkness and candle-light. As always, it took a moment for the eyes to adjust to the drop in light before the figure on the cushioned couch came into focus. The figure was but an outline of a man, except for the eyes. The bright, shiny eyes pierced the newcomer and seemed to be searching him, reading him, judging him with their glance.

Nervously, the man bowed low and whispered in a suddenly dry throat, "My Lord".

For a moment, the figure did not stir. The eyes gazed silently back at the man. Finally, the soft voice spoke again, muffled from the mask, "Please sit down". The man quickly sat down, opposite the couch on which the figure lay. As he did, he noticed for the first time the multitude of papers scattered around the couch. Dozens of papers, parchments and letters, bearing all manner of seals and insignias.

As soon as he had sat down, the man began, "My Lord, I most humbly apologise for any offence which..." The man was stopped midsentence by an upraised hand from the figure. In the hand was a document, a letter, bearing a seal not known to the man. The man's heart began to thud faster and faster as he watched the King unroll the letter. What was in it? Was this the reason I was summoned? Was it his execution?

The soft voice spoke. "Jerusalem will not long survive in a war with the Muslims. Already, the Kingdom is divided. Of the northern states, only Tripoli answers to us. Edessa and Antioch have ceded and the Emir in Aleppo is openly hostile."

The figure paused and the brandished the letter to the man,

"But this is the future of Jerusalem. The Sultan and I have made peace."

The man began to panic. If the King had made peace with the Muslims and I had attacked them, had I violated the pact? Had I destroyed the future of this Kingdom? His heart stopped beating.

Unaware of the man's thoughts, the voice continued,

"Damascus and Homs have been surrendered to us. The eastern borders are secure. Peace has been restored between Christian and Muslim."

Relief flooded the man's body. He was able to breathe again, and his heart pumped blood once more.

"You have played you part well, and we thank you for that. Though peace with the Muslims has been obtained, the future is not yet secure."

The hand dropped the letter it was holding and picked up another. On this one was a seal that the man recognised. It was the seal of Joran, the representative of Jerusalem in the Court of the Caliph.

"News from the court speaks of trouble brewing in the north. Beyond the northern counties, a threat is growing. The Takavor in Armenia, it seems, is pulling away from us and towards the Turks."

The man frowned. The last that he had heard of Armenia was that were to be allies of the Kingdom. Strange that they would be courting the Turks against us. But perhaps I heard wrong. The man nodded to himself, it was quite some time ago that he had heard the stories about Armenia, after all.

"With the situation in the north as is, we have set a task for you."

The man ceased his musings about Armenia and focused on the eyes. Now that he knew his fate was safe, he was anxious to know what was to become of him now.

"It is time to strengthen the northern border. The counties of Edessa and Antioch are to be returned to the control of the Kingdom. It is our desire that you march the army of Jerusalem to the north and reassert our claim on the northern counties. Tripoli will assist you with whatever troops they can spare."

The man smiled at the mention of Tripoli. His uncle was a good soldier and campaigning with him was always a joyous affair. However, he frowned as he thought about what the King had first said. He saw a flaw in the King's plans, and felt he had to say something, yet he didn't know how to phrase it without offending the King. Tentatively, he inquired.

"My Lord, what if Antioch and Edessa reject your demands?"

The King's head tilted to the side. The eyes gazed intently at the man.

"Then you will force the demands upon them."

The voice had not changed in volume but there was an intensity in that sentence that frightened the man. The King is not one to be trifled with, I see the man thought to himself. How appearances can be deceiving.

The man waited for the King to say more, but he did not utter another word and just gazed at the man. The man understood that he was dismissed and so stood up, bowed and said, "It will be done My Lord".

The eyes twinkled back at him and the soft voice said, "Yes, we know it will."

A shiver went down the man's spine, and not from being in the cool room. Suddenly, he felt afraid again. He quickly turned to stride out of the room. As he did, he noticed something strange. The King had a third letter next to him, one that he didn't show the man. Though he couldn't see much of it in the dim light, from his angle it seemed the letter bore the official seal of the Roman Emperor. The man paused and looked back at letter, before leaving the room. Strange that he didn't mention that seeings they are one of our northern neighbors. It must not be important...





And so the army marched north, the man on the horse in the lead, its purpose clear.

The Kingdom would be united again under one banner.




Edit: I'd appreciate some feedback, if you want to give it. I've never done a story before for TW, but I hope you like it. If you do want to throw me some feedback, I suppose a pm is the best way so as to not clutter up the thread.

Edix x 2: Thanks for the feedback guys. We all know where this ends up so I'll do a few more, and be as truthful as possible, to show the path to war.

[rossahh]

Antioch, 1175 AD

The Message Bearer rode hard.

Messengers from Jerusalem were not as welcome in the Principality as they once were. The sanctity of the Bearers was not what it once was either. Though the road ahead in Armenia was no safer, he knew the sooner he was out of the Principality, the better. Besides, the utmost importance had been placed on this message. It bore the seal of the King himself.


Time was of the essence, he was told.


The Basileos was waiting.

[rossahh]

Tartus, County of Tripoli, 1175 AD


Raymond III, Count of Tripoli, sighed. The road below him twisted and turned through the sands like a serpent, leading off to the north, south and east. A cool breeze ruffled the man's hair. It smelt like the sea, that blue haze on the western horizon. For some reason he liked looking at sea and liked its smell, it made him feel calm.

Raymond sighed again, and turned his gaze from the sea, back to the road.

Rumours he thought to himself. Lots of rumours. Too many rumours. What does it all mean?

For months now rumours had flown throughout the County. Rumours of war, rumours of peace, rumours about everything. Some had proven to be true while others were just wild fantasy. He had even seen things himself that he did not understand and fuelled the rumours.

What does it all mean? Raymond asked himself again.

The breeze flowed through the air again. Another man began to climb the hill. His tunic was blue with the golden cross emblazed upon it, and it shimmered in the sunlight as the man picked his way up the hill.

The Count smiled as he watched the man climb.

I think I'm about to find out.




The man in blue reached the top of the hill, panting slightly. For a moment, both men looked at each other without moving, before embracing.

"Uncle!" greeted the man in blue.

"Nephew" replied the Count in his deep, thoughtful tone.

They separated and the Count looked the man up and down, smiled and nodded.

"So, leading the army treats you well I see. I'm glad."

"I see Tripoli is still in good hands" replied the man with a smile of his own.

The Count chuckled and said "Always". His face lost its mirth almost instantly as he gazed back northwards, motioning for the man to do the same. The Count tried to hide his anxiety as he looked down at the road.

"So tell me. What news from the south? I have heard many a strange tale, and they cannot all possibly be true."

The man looked down at the road before looking back at the Count.

"Most of it is true."

"Even Damascus?" asked Raymond quickly.

"Yes" replied the man.

The Count sighed. A self satisfied sigh. A sigh of relief. He closed his eyes.

Thanks be to God that that rumour was true he thought to himself.

For years, the Emir in Damascus had sent raiders into the County, and for years the Count had beaten them back. For the past month, a rumour of the surrender of Damascus to the Kingdom had been heard in the County. The Count had not dared believe such a blessing. Not even tales of Muslims and Saracens marching southwards back into Egypt and that peace had been struck between Christian and Muslim in the south, had been enough to convince him. But now, now he knew it to be true.

The man noticed the relief on his uncle's face. He knew what it meant for the County and his uncle. He knew it meant that the County was safe once more. Safe as the rest of the Kingdom that is.



It was some time before either spoke again. The only movement came from the breeze whistling between them. The man smelt the sea on the breeze and smiled to himself. He'd always like the smell of the sea. However, the man had more to tell, and so finally he broke the silence.

"There is more."

Raymond looked at the man again.

"You have received orders from the King?" asked the man.

The Count nodded gravely.

"Yes, we were assemble the County and prepare to march with the army. That I have done, a thousand men in all." The Count paused. "To where, the King did not say. Many others though, have said." The Count looked at his nephew, square in the eyes. "The rumours said that we were to march north."

He hesitated, "Far north."

The Count gestured to the road running northwards. Northwards into the Principality. Northwards into Cicilia. Northwards into Anatolia.

The man gazed intently back at his uncle, and nodded. "Yes, we are to head northwards."

"How far northwards?" asked the Count hesitantly. He had heard many rumours. Rumours from the caravans coming down from the north and from the east. Rumours from the travellers on the north road. Indeed, he himself had even seen things. Worrying things.

So it's true...

"Antioch" said the man, breaking into Raymond's thoughts.

Confusion flooded into the Count's mind. Antioch? But what about...

"Are you surprised?" the man cut across Raymond's thoughts again. "You of all people know that the Principality no longer answers to the King."

"No," said the Count as he tried to shake the confusion from his expression. Far below them on the road a lone horseman was riding, a plume of sand rising behind him. "I have just heard..." he trailed off.

"Heard what?" asked the man, confusion now on his face.

The Count paused. He turned and faced the man. Hesitantly, he spoke.

"I heard whispers of trouble up north, and I've seen, things."

The man sensed his uncle had something important to say, something secretive. He was determined to find out.

"Uncle, what is it?"


The Count turned away. His eyes went down to the road and tiny figure. For a long time, he did not speak. A strange dark mood seemed to fall over the hill. Finally he began in almost a whisper.

"Traders from the north, from Antioch and afar, have been bringing tales of the people beyond the mountains. They say war is brewing. They say the Levant is threatened. They say messengers have been travelling many leagues along the roads for months. Messengers bearing the royal insignias of many a king."

Raymond stopped for a while, but the man made no move to reply. Eventually, the whisper continued.

"I have watched the roads many times, and I too have seen messengers. Lone horsemen riding at full gallop, following the roads to the south. Like that one," pointing to the rider moving southwards down the road into the Kingdom below them.

The Count lifted his eyes and looked at his nephew.

"Something is going on up north. I feel it."

The man looked back at his uncle. A multitude of thoughts was going through his mind. He could think of nothing to say. On the road north, he had heard nothing. He knew only what the King had told him. He thought it was all so simple - recover the lost Counties. But now? he thought to himself. He felt perplexed and had the feeling, like his uncle seemingly did, that something was happening around them. Something terrible.


Suddenly, a big gust of wind and the smell of the sea struck the hill. The darkness that had been there before abated instantly. The Count seemed to gather himself and briskly said to the man, "Come, we have much to discuss" and set off down the sandy hill.

Surprised by his uncle's sudden change in demeanour, the man was slow to follow the Count. As he turned to obey, his eyes were drawn to the rider on the road, heading southwards. For an instant, a flash of sunlight lit up the figure, and the man was sure that he saw the figure bathed in purple.

Strange. I know that colour, but from where? the man asked himself.

Shrugging his shoulders, he started down the hill, towards the hundreds of tents spread out before him.


His uncle was right about one thing. They had much to discuss.

[rossahh]

Baghdad, 1175 AD


"Why does he say such things?" whispered the first voice.

"It is not him, it is the other one" replied the second voice.

"But he should be our friend!" exclaimed the first.

"Should does not mean is. This is politics" said the second.


The candle flared and the room was given light. The old man sat down at the desk. He grabbed some parchment, dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

The other man nervously paced to room, looking at the old man writing and then looking out the window. The city was dark and the night was in full force. He could stand not doing anything any longer and began,

"Joran, who are..."

"The King" the old man cut him off harshly. "He must be told!"

The other man shut his mouth and resumed his pacing. His thoughts were flying around and around his head.

He should be back by now.

He should be back by now.

The writing continued.



Suddenly the old man stopped writing and put down his quill, frowning. The slightest of noises could be heard outside the door. Silently, the other man drew a long knife with a shaking hand, and reached for the door. A muffled voice came through it before it was opened,

"It's me."

Sagging with relief the other man opened the door. A man, much younger that the other two, entered hurriedly, panting slightly. The other man shut the door quickly behind him, while the old man faced the young one.

"What did they say?" he demanded.

"They said it changes nothing." he said between breaths.

The old man closed his eyes. While the other man's eyes flared in panic. In a gravelly voice, he said,

"So be it."


He turned back to his letter and continued writing. The other men stood awkwardly in the room, waiting for the old man to finish. Eventually he did, sealing the letter with wax and his mark.

Turning to the young man, he handing over the letter and said "To the King. Now."

The young man ran to the door, flung it open and ran out of the room.

Hurriedly, the other man shut the door, and faced the old man.

"What does it mean? What will happen?" His voice was shrill, his face clammy with sweat.

The old man rubbed his forehead with his hands. In a strong voice, he said simply,

"War."

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph dreamed.

He dreamed that he awoke in his bedchamber at the palace in Baghdad. He was bathed in a warm light, but slowly became aware that it did not come from the shuttered window, but instead from the doorway, in which a silhouetted figure stood.

As his eyes adjusted he was amazed to realise that it was his son, Az-Zahir, who stood over him, dressed in a simple white cotton robe. Az-Zahir showed no signs of the wounds which had slain him, and his eyes burned with a strange fire.

The Caliph was at once overcome with great joy at the sight, and terrible grief at the memory of his loss. He opened his mouth to speak to his son, but words would not come, only a slow exhalation of breath.

Az-Zahir smiled, and put his finger to his lips as if to silence his father. He beckoned to the Caliph, turned, and passed through the doorway, disappearing into the bright light.

An-Nasir rose from his bed, amazed that the weakness in his limbs brought on by his sickness seemed to have left him.

He stood up tall, stretched, and followed his son into the light.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vizier Marshed knocked three times on the Caliph's door, as he always had, before entering with An-Nasir's morning tray of bitter medicinal tea.

He was surprised to find the room still shrouded in darkness. Even in his sickness, the Caliph was wont to rise early..

He approached the bed with a feeling of utmost dread, and his worst fears were immediately confirmed.

The Caliph was dead.

Dropping the tray on the flagstones with a loud clatter, he turned tail and fled for his life.

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade

Quirl left the court around dusk. The other ambassadors flocked out with him. A few stopped, turning to talk with him. The Roman scribe delivered some scroll. Quirl tucked it underneath his robe and thanked him, continuing onward. Some other nobles greeted him, wishing to know more about the now infamous happenings in Egypt. He made conversation as best he could—he was a diplomat; wasn’t that his job? But he ended these chats as quickly and politely as possible.

Two guards flanked him as he made his way down the streets of Baghdad. The roads were clustered with people. Some old, some young. Some rich, some with not a coin in their name. There was a man with no teeth but a wiry beard heading down to where Quirl knew the shisha den was. There was a noble who brushed past him, looking as if just touching these people might give him some sort of disease—and it just might. The sounds, the smell: they all soon overwhelmed him.

“Stop,” he told his guards. The two men looked at each other, then back at their master. “Stay,” but he couldn’t even finish his sentence. He ran down into a seemingly empty alleyway. He puked next to some discarded baskets there, supporting himself on the decaying wall above him. Some flies which haunted a nearby fruit stand sensed the act nearby. They darted down the alleyway, encircling the bile which Quirl had just extolled.

Still hunched over, he watched the flies settle there, rubbing their legs together in some frantic madness they didn’t even understand—but continued all the same. Their wings and bodies buzzed in a nonsense language as they held court in the chunks of Quirl’s old lunch.

How ironic, Quirl thought. This made him laugh a little.

This man was not made for court. It was all too much for a mere slave. Only a desperate nation would send such a man—only a kingdom stretched to its very limits. But Quirl knew the kind of desperation which plagued Egypt now. It was that same kind of desperate, mad sense of survival which kept Quirl going in the courtroom. He used that madness to exert an impossible calm there. On the surface he was ice, but underneath there was blizzard.

He heard the winds howling in his stomach again, and he let out one final, gut wrenching purge.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, wiping his sleeve in turn on the wall. He walked out to where his guards where. They had heard the noises but had not intervened—this hadn’t been the first time.

“Come on,” he commanded. The two men nodded, robots in chainmail, then continued with him down the Baghdad streets.

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade (Pt. 2)

In an alleyway directly across from Quirl, a single fly had not joined the pack. It rested on a broken jar, watching the others congregate on that bile the Egyptian diplomat had thrown up. The image of Quirl in his klidascope eyes refracted like dozens of tiny mirrors in a fun house. Then there stood the man. The man in black. The man who had been following this slave ambassador all these past few weeks.

He watched as Quirl vomited up that doubt, that fear, and everything else which he always had kept under that mask of calm and restraint. In court, the man in black watched as he wore that mask. But outside, he noted, the mask wore him.

The dark man smiled, a big toothy grin. There were too many teeth inside that wide maw of his. They were yellow, decaying, and still his baby teeth. It was a deformity he had had forever, one he kept always hidden under that black hijab. He wasn’t above dressing as a Muslim woman. Indeed, it bettered his disguise. He had a lean figure, and so passing as one was easy. He had a soft step and so, as he walked by, no one thought anything of him—if they noticed him at all.

The man in black relished this agony of the Egyptian diplomat. He had become one particularly fun to watch these past few weeks. It was the life of a Hashshashin to watch the world. But this man did more than watch; he enjoyed what he saw. Occasionally, he even poked his finger into the events, like a fly landing on the water, causing ripples but so small that he could always fly away unnoticed, afterward.

But this time would be different. This time, the ripples would be waves. He would come as a swarm and the ripples would be terrible. There would be plenty of carcasses afterward—plenty to feed on and plenty to lay his eggs in. Behind the bars of that deformed grin, his tongue was wet with the thought of it. Wet to the taste of it.

The man in black tied the veil over his grin again. He turned around to whence he came and headed back into the dark alley.

[phonicsmonkey]

Al-Qahir, Wali al Shiraz and brother of An-Nasir, sat back in his gilded throne and tried to think through the drunken haze that fogged his mind.

When had the young man Khalil arrived from Baghdad? Some weeks ago now, just days ahead of his father the former Vizier Marshed, with the news that the Caliph had died of the pestilence, and that the adopted Abu-Bakr had succeeded in his place.

Khalil and Marshed had brought him more than just ill tidings – they had brought a slew of messages of support and wild suggestions which had raised both his interest and his suspicions.

Could it really be true that the Imams were unhappy at the succession of Caliph Abu-Bakr, and the appointment of his younger brother Sulayman as Crown Prince? And were the Generals almost ready, as Marshed had said, to back an uprising to reinstate the true blood of the prophet (in the shape of balding, drunken, middle-aged Al Qahir) to the throne of the Caliphate?

These things he did not, could not know for sure.

Exiled as he had been for most of his adult life, to this sandy backwater in the East, where there was nary a fight to be had or any glory to be won, and only the comfort of the grape to turn to, he had lost touch with the intrigues of the Court. A great success his exile had been, at least from the point of view of his pompous ass of a brother An-Nasir (curse his rotten name for all eternity!).

But what he did know, knew for absolute certain, was that he had very little to lose and much to gain by going along with this plan of the devious Marshed. The Eastern Army were as bored as he was, and would relish the chance of a fight and some booty. And he was far, far from Baghdad and any reprisals by the usurper Abu-Bakr and his fop of a Grand Vizier…at the very least, he would be able to swell his coffers and keep the Eastern Army busy, and more importantly, loyal.

He turned over in his hand the gold coin that Khalil had brought him as a token from Marshed and the Generals. He knew well what it meant, what the crossed scimitars on its face signified.

The next day, Al-Qahir would give the order, and the Eastern Army would descend on Firuzabad to surprise and defeat the Ghorid garrison there. If Marshed was right, with the spoils of the sack of that city, and the prestige it would win him with the Generals at Baghdad, he would be on his way to securing the support he needed to cast out the odious Abu-Bakr and claim the throne for his own.

And then Marshed could wear his Vizier's turban again, if it should please him..

[Redemption]

Levantine Coast, autumn of 1192


"I got a bad feeling about this..."

Romanus Sophianos was the greatest general in the Empire. He had exterminated the elephant hordes of the Raj, he had crushed the Seljuqid advance at Ikonion and driven them back from Kilikia, twice, and he had triumphantly walked through the gates of Megas Antiochia, recapturing the great city from the grip of the dreaded Caliph An-Nasir. He had even survived the hellspawned plague that had snuffed the life from thousands of lesser men. He was, on all accounts, a true Roman, like the great consuls and imperators of Rome's glorious past. And now, he was reduced to the state of a lowly pirate captain heading a battered squadron of ships and a rag-tag band of mercenaries whose military prowess were limited to raiding unprotected fishing villages. Oh and he had been named Megas Dux of Kyprus. Yar...

Sophianos knew full well the fate of the last man to bear that title, Andronikos Kontostephanos: a knife in the back, courtesy of some Armenian royalist or Turkish fanatic. It seemed the position wasn't a lucky one.

Staring at the burning city of Ake from the deck of his flagship, Sophianos muttered again: "I got a bad feeling about this..."


~~~~~


Nikaea, autumn 1192


The announcement of a new crusade had taken Konstantinopolis completely by surprise. When the German princes showed up under the walls of the greatest city in Christiendom, Roman commanders had to scramble up an army in haste to meet the new threat. The greatest knights of the german states, the so called Holy Roman Empire, had made the journey from Europe to relieve the pressure put on the crusader kingdom by the forces of Rome.

Kaesar Artemios Komnenos, who had spent the last year in hiding to escape the blades of his enemies and the ravages of the plague, rallied his kataphrakts abd varangian guards in the hills of Thrace before meeting en route with the forces of the Capital commanded by Ioannis Vatatzes. Armenian auxiliaries were recruited along the way, and the combined armies descended upon the besieged fortress of Nikaea.

Over one third of the crusading army under the command of Frederick von Swabia was entrenched around the castle, their proud banners flapping in the wind. The flower of european chivalry, spearmen in heavy armor, trained swordsmen and crossbowmen all filled with religious zeal and a sense of divine entitlement were assembled. The odds looked grim for the Romans.

Only the varanginoi actually seemed eager for a fight. When the trumpets sounded the charge, they were the first to throw themselves a the enemy, striking right in the center of the line, aiming for the brightly colored fanions of the enemy general.

The light roman infantry followed them as well as the armenian auxilia who were ordered to fight in hand to hand.

The kataphrakts stayed behind.

Everywhere the Latin line was holding, inflicting terrible losses upon the Romans. Then another trumpet sounded. The doors of Nikeae opened and a stream of red-clad kavalieroi thundered out, catching the enemy in the back.

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They were followed by heavy roman infantry and mercenaries and the winds of battle started to turn in Rome's favor.

Seeing his army caught in a vise, Frederick ordered his knights to disengage the varangian warriors, surely planning to charge the freshly arrived Roman forces with the devastating power of his knights.

That was all the kataphraktoi had been waiting for. Frederick's knights had been the anchor of the crusader line. With him gone, the kataphrakts tore through the infantry like they were ragged dolls.

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When Frederick's knights were ready to charge anew, there wasn't an army left to save, only a few groups of men trying desperately to fight for their lives.

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Frederick attempted to escape but was caught up by the kataphrakts. The brave German, accepting his fate as unavoidable, commended his soul to God and steered his horse about. Drawing his sword, he met the aging but terrible Vatatzes in single combat to the battlecry "JERUSALEM!!!" But his wounds and the strain of the heavy fighting left him no chance. When the rest of Vatatzes' bodyguards caught up with them, Frederick von Swabia was already dead.

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[tusinict73]

sry to bug diego, but how do you get the items/etc to add 300 attribute to your weapon. wouldnt mind a 300 element walk through for dummys. :P