Lords of the East - Library

[Quirl]

This thread is for players of the Broken Crescent 2.02 Hotseat - Lords of the East. Players and guest AAR writers are free to post creative writings related to the game here. These can take the form of full or partial turn write-ups, battle reports, stories or other creative writings inspired by the game, so long as the posts are consistent with and related to events in the game.

[Quirl]

Qara-Suu Khağanate

The Northern Ghūl

Updated Turn 20

Faction Info

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Brief History

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Amidst the foggy steppes of Rus and beyond the Kypchacks are innumerable. Nestled in their khaganates and tribes, the Turks of the north are a sleeping power soon to be awoken. For there is something stirring in the steppes—whispers of signs from the gods, warning of some new arousing in the West. And along the bitter coasts of the Black Sea these whispers most abound. For in that region a new Kypchack warlord has arisen, the likes of which has not been seen since the ancient times of pagan kings and queens. At his behest are a great host of Ghūl—men whose masks smile but are underneath as gruesome as the ghosts they are named after. The people of the Steppes have come to call this warlord Karakura, a demon of the night. But soon they will call him Qara-Khan—Black Khan of the Qara-Suu Khaganate.

***

The Qara-Suu Khaganate, or the “Ghūl” as they are sometimes called, is a Kypchack kingdom formed in 1170. The nation came into being when a man named Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde converted a tribe of Tatars to paganism and conquered the territories north of the Black Sea. They soon became known as the Qara-Suu (Black Water) in reference to the fact that they had come from the Black Sea.

Not much is known of Nasreddîn, himself. Some have suggested that he was a Zengid warlord who fled due to internal politics. Others state that the old women who follows him, who appears more Khitan or east Asian, suggests he is from somewhere in Transoxiana. Regardless of his origins, he arrived in the steppes sometime around 1150-1160, and succeeded in gaining much power amidst some of the more disenfranchised tribes in the region. Eventually, the warriors of these smaller tribes were converted to ruthless, fanatical “ghūl”; and when he led his soldiers across the Black Sea to the Kypchacks along the coast, he swiftly annihilated all resistance there and set himself up as khan.

The Qara-Suu follow a very strict law, one dominated by pagan traditions and warrior-codes. Capital punishment is the most common form of punishment, and every child is expected to be raised, at least in some respects, as warriors. Hunting is a requirement of all young boys, and nomadic roots such as these remain dominate in the culture. However, the kypcahcks themselves have for years steadily been developing into a more semi-nomad-ism, influenced by such neighbors as the Georgians and the Rus. The Qara-Suu live up to this standard, gathering an unprecedented amount of slave labor in the construction of great citadels and cities.

However, though the laws of the Qara-Suu are absolute and harsh, the rulers of the ghūl actually enjoy relative autonomy—being bound by strict rules and yet having the freedom to act mostly on their own accord. This allows the Qara Suu a unique, yet organized diversity which few of the other Kypchack confederacies and tribes enjoy. At the head, however, is always the Qara-Khan, who enforces the laws and traditions of the Khaganate. Currently, that Khan is Nasreddîn. However, because Nasreddîn himself claims no royal lineage, titles (including that of the Qara-Khan itself) is gained solely off merit. This also serves to keep the warlords in line, as those who most bind themselves to Qara-Suu tradition set themselves up for better positions in the future.

However, perhaps the most inventive quality about the Qara-Suu is their utter lack of interest in nationality. With all the various tribes, bloodlines, and even religions in the Khaganate, identifying with a single national identity is difficult. So, instead, the Khaganate has become largely focused on profit over identity. In this way, the Qara-Suu have come to lend their services and soldiers to the war efforts of other nations outside of the steppes. In doing so, the warlords gain profits from acting as mercenaries and the governors gain income from increased trade.

Also, despite Paganism’s deep roots in the culture itself, various other religions have taken a hold of the people. Orthodox Christianity still carries sway in much of the hearts of the Qara-Suu citizenry. And Islam has begun to also take root, becoming a growing religion in the ever expanding empire. Though Paganism is still the dominant religion, time will tell what effects these other faiths will have on the Qara-Suu.

Overall, the ghūl of the Black Sea are a rising power in the north. They identify with no overall philosophy, no binding religion, and no tribal bloodline. They heed only the coin and the coin alone. The snarls of their horses carry in on the rolling fog, seeping across the Black Sea and whispering to any who might hire them. For a 100 coins they would deliver the head of your enemy. For 1,000 coins they would deliver those of his loved ones. And for 10,000… they would deliver his entire nation…

Organization

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Qara-Khağan

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Qara-Khağan (Black Khan) is the true ruler of the Qara-Suu. First carried by Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde after his initial conquests of the Steppes, the Qara-Khağan's word is more than final—it is divine. His council are the witches of Büyü Evi. His servants are the warlords of the Qarabey. Every generation or so, a new Qara-Khağan arises from the ranks of the Qarabeys. This candidate must first gain the approval of his fellow Qarabeys and then must stand the trials given to him by the witches of Büyü Evi. If he can accomplish these feats, he is crowned the new Qara-Khağan—his rule divine—his will absolute.

The Qara-Khağans of the North

The Qarabeys

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Qarabeys (black chiefs) are the rulers of the Qara-Suu. They are second in command and inheritors to the throne of the Black Khan. Individually, they are both warlords and governors, overseeing individual beyliks (or Houses) within the Khağanate. Together, along with the Qara-Khağan, they make up the ruling body of the Qara-Suu. It is the Qarabey's vote (if blessed by the witches of Büyü Evi) that decides the Atabey, the inheritor to the throne upon the death of the Qara-Khağan. Yet, they have no direct influence over the Qara-Khağan, himself; guaranteeing the Qara-Khağan’s ultimate power, while still giving substantial autonomy to the Qarabeys.

Hayvan Beyliks
The Hayvan Beyliks, or Animal Beyliks, are ruled over by the first warlords who accompanied Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde’s initial conquest of the Kypchacks in 1170. They are the first and most influential Beyliks within the Qara-Suu Khağanate. Currently, there are three Animal Beyliks lead by three separate Qarabeys. Each one was given a name of an animal sacred to the Kypchacks and which emulated their own characteristics:

House Ayioğlu

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

First Generation

Second Generation

House Kurtoğlu

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

First Generation

Second Generation

House Kargaoğlu

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

First Generation

Second Generation

Third Generation

The Witches of Büyü Evi

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The witches of Büyü Evi (House of Sorcery) are the divine council to the Qara-Khağan. They guide him and his people spiritually, as well as subtly. In their house is the home of the Stygian Eye, the secret guild of assassins and spies which predates the Qara-Suu itself. Little is known of the witches. Few have seen them; few would know it even if they had. They offer their council in secret and it is their trials which truly decide the next Qara-Khağan.

If chosen by his peers, a Qarabey must travel to the Sisli Orman (the Misty Woods) located high in the northern steppes. From there, he is to enter Büyü Evi and receive his trials. If he returns, he is automatically coronated as the inheritor to the throne upon the death of the Qara-Khağan.

The first to survive their trials was Tegin Savalat. He traveled to the north alone and entered their house in the winter of 1173. He has never spoken of what transpired there, but legends say he was given powers by the witches upon his success. Regardless of what truly happened, he inherits the throne by their blessing—and all know this. And it is why the witches of Büyü Evi hold the sway that they do within the ranks of the Qara-Suu.

Known Affiliates

The Stygian Eye

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Stygian Eye is a group unseen in Qara-Suu politics. Nonetheless, it is a force widely recognized—and feared. It works behind the curtains, insuring the defeat of the Qara-Suu's enemies abroad—and the loyalty of its members at home. It is an organization that spans empires. No one nation makes up its ranks. Anyone who helps the eye is considered a member and becomes officially indoctrinated into "the circle." Members may not even know of their membership—but the eye knows. The eye knows all and see all. And one way or the other, all things serve the eye...

The group takes it name from an old Greek myth, which tells the tale of Perseus. Perseus, during his hunt for the Gorgans, went to the Graeae—three perpetually old women with one eye among them. Perseus snatched the eye at the moment they were blindly passing it from one to another, so they could not see him. He would then not return it until they had given him directions. The women submitted to Perseus and revealed the Gorgans' whereabouts; but after he was done with the witches he threw the eye into the sea. Some say that sea was the Black Sea. Some say the Stygian Eye found it.

Yet, despite all its mysticism and mythology, at its core the guild is simply a spy and assassin organization. Its members are based in Büyü Evi (House of Sorcery), located in the northernmost steppes. From there, it is said, witches instruct members on the art of secret murder and conspiracy. You need merely send a letter to the ladies of the Büyü Evi, and in a short time one of their representatives—a "poet"— will come into contact with you. From there, the services of the Stygian Eye are at your disposal.

The symbol of the Stygian—the witches' eye—is not merely a symbol. It is the representation of the guild's very structure. The Circle, as it is known, consists of three parts: the Outer Circle, the Inner Circle, and the Central Circle. Those in the Outer Circle may not even know they are members. Perhaps they merely once sold the Stygian information. Perhaps they merely once gave them something valuable. Regardless, they are within the circle now and they are the very front line soldiers within the guild's membership.

The Inner Circle consists of more enlightened members. Rarely will an agent within the Inner Circle not be aware of his position inside the guild. He is free to access guild secrets and is often employed directly for jobs especially chosen for him based upon his abilities. He usually answers to a superior in the Central Circle and he usually leads a group of lesser members in the Outer Circle.

Lastly are the members of the Central Circle. These individuals make up the silent leaders of the Stygian Eye. They make the decisions. They make the calls. They are the pupil—the eye's darkest part—and oversee everything within the guild—usually, without the knowledge of any of the other members. Currently, a man who is known by the name of "Avsar" is the leader of the Central Circle. But whether he is actually the leader or merely the man who plays the part on behalf of the witches of Büyü Evi is unknown...

Known Affiliates

Faction Services (Everything is negotiable)

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Qara-Suu is an empire that knows nothing of national identity. It has forsaken all bloodlines, tribal oaths, and royal lineages. It has become, in the strictest sense, a business. Where in some nations one cries the names of his or her king or recites the morals of their anthems, the Qara-Suu have but one saying: For a 100 coins—the head of your enemy. For 1,000 coins—the heads of his loved ones. For 10,000—his entire nation…

We Offer:
Spying
Assassinations
Sabotage
Port Blockading
Military Assistance
And Curses...

Please PM if you would like to know more...

AARS

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

• Ghosts from the Sea
• Deal With The Devil
• Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Tegin Savalat: The Black Bear)
• Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Kobyak: The Wolf)
• Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Yilmaz & Batudai)
• The Road Ahead
• Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde: Lord of Terror)
• In The Deserts of Baghdad
• Farewell Freddy
• Upon the Winds
• The Coronation of Nasreddîn

[Quirl]

Ghosts from the Sea

The black sea stood as still and quiet as the night air itself. The only noises came from the wildlife. Crickets played their usual instruments, but there was a certain discord in the way they played them .The birds had all left the area, only a few stragglers now rushing off and cawing their frantic goodbyes. The squirrels dug deeper into the hearts of their trees; the wolves retreated farther into the darkness of their caves; and on the ebony surface of the water treaded the ghostly visages of the fog, the only movements which now shown under the silver light of the moon. But it was what wasn’t being seen that would change this night.

The stillness on the black sea’s surface began to crack and slight ripples moved across the surface of its waters. Oars pushed through the black, moving the boats of their masters across. Torches began to come through the fog; below them were men draped in shadow and smiling silver masks. But underneath these masks, underneath the armor, were not men. They had no souls like men. They had no emotion like men. They had no thought, ambition, or desire like men. They were the ghul, the disenfranchised peoples of the tribes these lands had never before heeded—an untapped power which was only now united. They were the future of these lands, come at last to claim them.

The winds began to pick up…

From the black sea they came. Like the ghosts they were so named after, no one saw them coming. I remember that day. There was no tolling of the alarm bells. There were no shouts from the messengers. No proclamations from the khan! There was only silence… then screams.

The ends of the boats fell onto the shores. The men and their horses swarmed off of them like a quiet breeze, moving across the blades of grass like merely a wind. In the midst of a moment they were on the shore, and they wasted no time in continuing uphill through the fog and to the lights of the sleeping village beyond…

I remember their faces. The smiling faces of their helmets—approaching you like about to tell you a secret, before they drove their swords through you like it was all a game. But I remember one that was there—one man whose mask did not smile. There was no merriment in the way he directed the others. There was no idle glee in the terrors he was unleashing. Only the calculatory presence of something so beyond such emotions that one might justifiably wonder if it were at all human. The others called him “Qara-Khagan,” the black khan. We called him Karakura, a demon of the night.

When the smiling men had finally broken through the gates, the city was already overrun. Men continued to crawl over the walls like rabid spiders, and those swarming through the broken gates now loomed through like a tide of insects. Those on horses began to simply charge through the city, killing everyone they could, and those on foot hacked away at the few defenders still brave enough to die standing…

And it was then that I saw her. The woman of the ghul. She moved through the mayhem as simply as a leaf might through the storm, gliding across those dying and those killing, and seeming unnoticed by both, but somehow by me. Underneath the thick hood of her cloak, it was difficult to make out her face; but I knew somehow that she had seen me.

I was hiding in my room when she approached me. Such a small boy was I then that I thought such a feeble hideaway could protect me. She extended her arm to me, her frail brittle arm like dying oak or rustic metal, and she smiled. When I looked into her eyes, I saw only glossy white there. Somewhere underneath the cataracts I saw the dim glow of her pupils, staring away from me—beyond me—to the eternal shadow that must have been her vision of the world. Yet, somehow, she had known I was there and when she extended her hand to me, I took it. It was warm, the warmest thing I had felt all through that cold winter night. They pulled me up and I felt safe. We walked through that battlefield like it was all a dream. The men around us either ignored us or didn’t see us at all. We passed through the shattered gates of my hometown and I knew then that I would never look at it again—or, at least, not with those same eyes...

…And I have not looked back! And I have not regretted that day. In those times these lands were enthralled by weakness. Now they are without such chains and are as wild and as untamed as the great Khaganate itself! No longer do we slave ourselves over the question of nation or identity. No longer do we sit in our tribes and feud over meaningless bloodlines. The only nation that exists is that of ourselves and the only blood that matters is that of which we spill.

We are servants to the Black Khan, the scowling Ghul! He has united us—made us stronger—made us something more than we could have ever been on our own. And now we only smile. Now we are Qara-Suu!

…And the little boy walked off with the witch, watching behind him as his village burned.

[Thanatos Eclipse]

A History of the Omani Admiralty
Volume 1: Of the Sea

“The Omani are a people of the sea. For too long we have been led by tyrants, content with only dirt under their boots and their greedy eyes ever facing inland. Legend says the Omani rose from the sea and to the sea we belong. I do not wish to carry the burden of leadership, but if that is what it will take to free my people, then I shall bare it on my shoulders with honor, through the wind and waves from the deck of my ship.”
-Grand Admiral Walid, 1175 AD


Chapter 1: History of the Imamate
When Allah’s word first made it to the Oman coasts around 700 AD, most Omani were simple fishers and merchant sailors. Towns and cities were usually managed by elder councils. The introduction of Islam was a unifying force for the people of Oman. Religious leaders stepped up to govern the people and the Imamate of Oman was formed. These leaders guided the people justly till about 950 AD. As trade among the Islamic nations increased, more and more valuables and riches passed through the hands of Omani merchants. Soon the Omani leaders grew greedy for these riches themselves. They constructed vast mines, but when they could not get enough people to work the mines, they started enslaving their own people. They recruited massive armies to enforce their rule and keep the mine workers in line. In response, the Naval Council was formed, and elite marine training programs were started in the coastal cities. The Naval Council vowed to protect the coast, but the growing interior was left to the whims of the Imamate. The armies of the Imamate were too strong for the navy’s marines to take the interior, but too weak to enforce all of the Imamate’s laws on the coast.

Chapter 2: Fall of the Imamate
When Murshed came to power in 1149 AD, most of the Omani interior resources had been depleted. Although he still had his slaves and armies scouring the mainland for resources, Murshed realized colonies were his best bet for new resources. This gave the Naval Council the chance they were waiting for. Admiral Walid used this chance to make friends in the Army and insert naval spies into the army ranks. On the long journeys to capture colonies, sometimes uncooperative generals would conveniently be “lost in a storm”. While transporting Murshed’s chosen diplomat to the peace council in Baghdad, Captain Amr, under Grand Admiral Walid’s orders, threw the diplomat over and took his place at the court. When Murshed found out, he realized the Naval Council was getting ready to make their move against him. With the Caliph’s declaration of a Fatwa on the Seljuk, Murshed saw a chance to gain support from the other Islamic nations for his rule. Unfortunately, his diplomat/assassin was no match for Captain Amr and Amr was able to warn Grand Admiral Walid and the Naval Council of Murshed’s coming strike. When three battalions of soldiers stormed the council chambers, they found it deserted, but when they tried to leave they realized they were surrounded by marines. When Murshed welcomed back into his palace his victorious soldiers with a captured Grand Admiral Walid in toe, he was overjoyed; he realized only too late that they were actually marines in disguise. As Captain Amr led the marines against the palace guards, Walid chased Murshed to his throne room, where he cornered him. Murshed quickly surrendered, begging to be spared.

Chapter 3: Rise of the Admiralty
Against Captain Amr’s advisement, Walid chose to spare Murshed and the ruling family. He believed they were needed to perform the duties they were always supposed to, be spiritual leaders to the people. The ruling family was left as ceremonial and religious leaders, while the generals were allowed to live as long as they took an oath of loyalty to Walid and the Admiralty. To keep Murshed out of the way, he was banished to the most distant Omani colony. With the armies now under control, the Omani Admiralty was official. Walid’s first act was to free all enslaved Omani and abandon all fruitless mining operations on the mainland. The celebrations of the fall of the Imamate and the rise of the Admiralty lasted for weeks among the general population, while some sailors were reported to have continued the celebrations for months.

Chapter 4: Afterword
Many problems still lay ahead for the Omani. Many prosperous inlanders will miss the luxuries they enjoyed under the Imamate and the loyalty of the Armies is still shaky; not to mention, who knows what troubles lay beyond the Omani borders. It will take hard work and long nights for Grand Admiral Walid to keep the Admiralty together in the coming days, but for now things are looking bright of the people of Oman.

[Thanatos Eclipse]

Myths of the Omani
Volume 1: Rise of the Omani

Introduction
Before the light of Allah came to the lands, man’s heart was ruled by fear and darkness. In these dark times the ocean was something to be feared; the water’s surface the only barrier that separated man from monster. Many still whisper the tales of old, although one is whispered above all the rest, the rising of the Omani. No one can quite agree on the origin of the Omani. Some say they where explorers from a distant land, turned mad after spending too much time lost at sea. Others believe they were sailors who traveled too close to the ends of the earth and went crazy at the sight of the unending nothingness beyond. The more religious have said they were sailors out to sea at the time of the great flood, and through pacts with dark spirits, survived at the cost of what humanity they had left. But one origin is feared and repeated above all the rest. It claims that the Omani where not men, but demons bred in the murky depths at the ocean floor, for the purpose of waging a war for control of the underworld, but they were too feral for even their demonic masters to control. They escaped from their masters to ravage the lands of the living. Although their origin might be uncertain, the bloodlust and ferocity of the Omani of myth is a story told far and wide. Few along the coast have not heard the tales.

Chapter 1: The Storm
In times of old, when most people lived in but simple farming communities along the coast, war was a thing of distant lands and the Emarii (people of the coast) were left in peace. The Emarii feared the open ocean and the beasts that lay beneath its waves. They rarely ventured into its waters, and then only short distances to fish or bathe. The Emarii elders had long talked of a great ‘storm’ that they called the Oman, which would one day wash away their peaceful civilization. Few ever took them seriously, for they had been predicting this great storm for countless generations, yet the Emarii had weathered every storm that had come. One day the elders were particularly worked up, yelling and shouting that the Oman was coming, but the skies were clear that morning except for a few black birds, not native to this land, circling over head. Most people went on about their day as usual, but by noon the skies had grown grey and by mid afternoon the skies were black as night and strong cold winds began to blow in off the ocean. The worst storm ever had come to the Emarii coast. People ran for higher grounds as the ocean crawled up the coast, lashing out with wave after wave to pull unfortunate souls to its murky depths. As the night drug on the storm only got fiercer. Lightning lit up the night sky and thunder shook the mountains. From caves high in the hills the Emarii waited out the storm. Sometimes brave souls would go to the entrance to check on the progress of the storm. Over the wailing of surviving elders that ‘the end had finally come’, they would tell the others what they saw. How each flash of lightning revealed the ferocity of the storm now clawing at the base of their mountain hideaway. Some described it like the lions of distant lands; how the storm had pounced on the earth and now tore at its sides, ripping away at its flesh. While others recounted stories of seeing massive ships floating among the waves, as if Sheppard’s of a flock of wolves that were the waves. The storm grew steadily worse even as the elders ran out of breath and energy and succumb to asleep. The storm raged on through the night, with some claiming the water levels reach as high as the mouth of the lowest cave.

Chapter 2: The Omani
The people of the Emarii awoke to find the sun streaming into what they had feared would be their stone graves. As the first few stumbled out of their caves, their hearts sank at the sight that greeted them. Once fertile farmlands were now salty marshes, proud stones had been reduced to pebbles, and houses lay in pieces up and down the shore. But then they noticed something was off, there was way too much wood and debris for just their buildings. It appeared as if the wreckage of many other settlements had washed in. This was great, for wood and other building materials were hard to come by in these parts, plus they could make quite a profit off of selling what was left over. With new hope in their hearts they gathered together and headed back down the mountain. As they walked down they talked and boasted how, although their settlement was washed away, they had survived the Oman. Once they reached the wreckage they started right away to sift through and sort it. Everyone was helping, even children. One boy was searching in the shallow tidal waters when he tripped over something. It was a rope. He was suddenly filled with the urge to tug it; overwhelmed by curiosity about what was on the end of that rope. He tugged on it once. An elder near him gave a sharp yep, turned towards the boy and started shouting for him to stop, but the boy ignored him. He tugged it a second time. Loud piercing screeches filled the air. Many looked around to find all of the elders crumbled on the ground clutching their head as if their inner eye was burning with the intensity of an inferno. Their screeches turned into one drawn out word “Omaniiiiiiiii...!” However, the boy did not care, did not even notice. His mind was consumed by one thought, one care. His entire world revolved around what was on the end of that rope. He gave it a third tug and out of the sand and water popped an anchor. The screams of the elders subsided. As some helped the elders up the rest gathered around the boy’s discovery. Unnoticed by the gathering crowd, the water had stilled itself to an almost mirror like surface. The boy picked up the anchor, fascinated by the decorative pattern on it, but after only a few seconds it began to burn, searing the boy’s hands, until he let go. The anchor fell from the boy’s hands. He watched it slowly falling; followed it with his eyes, until it landed without a splash in the water. The only sign that it had even fallen in water was a single ripple that spread out in all directions. As if waiting for the signal, the water around the Emarii started to bubble and splash. “Ahhhh,” people started screaming and running as figures, dressed in light armor and carrying swords, started rising out of the shallow water. Those unfortunate enough to get close to the pirates saw only a cold bloodthirsty fury in their hollow soulless eyes. Their attack was quick, but after the majority lay slain and the waves turned red, they took their time torturing the rest; leaving only a few alive to go and spread the rumors and fear of the Omani attack. The boy, one of the few survivors, reaches the top of a hill, but before continuing he turns around one last time and is struck with horror at the sight of five massive ships on the horizon, with black birds circling their masts, bearing the same colors as the Omani pirates that just attacked them. The boy stands there horror struck, frozen to the spot. An Emarii man, with a bloodied face and a limp arm, swiftly picks the boy up with his good arm and carries him off.

Important Notes
Although many sailors and more cultured Omani enjoy this myth for a good laugh or as part of an old culture, others (often those from smaller religious communities) find it offensive for the Omani to be portrayed in such a barbarous way.
Interestingly enough, Latin merchants, trying to establish trade with the far east, enjoyed this story so much that they started using the word omen, mispronouncing Oman, to represent a sign of something to come.

[Thanatos Eclipse]

Captain for Life
A biography of Captain Amr

Chapter 6: The Ivory Sword

[Intro: This chapter covers the story of how Captain Amr earned the rank of admiral. Many may wonder at this point why then does everyone still call him ‘Captain’ Amr. It has to do with when he served under Admiral Walid, then only a captain himself (see Chapter 3). Amr had such a high respect for Walid’s strategic genius that he feels Walid will always be his superior. He has since insisted on always being addressed as captain, even occasionally threatening those who try to insist otherwise. His respect for Walid is such that he considers Walid to be the only true admiral in the fleet and addresses all other Omani admirals by their sir names occasionally adding the title of captain for those he holds some respect for. Now on this particular occasion, Captain Amr had been sent by the Naval Council, then led by Grand Admiral Nashmit, to discover why Omani trade vessels had been disappearing along the African Coast.]

The dim glow of the crescent moon was all that lit the dark desert night. A soft breeze blew in off of the ocean, making it surprisingly cold for the desert. At a sentry post on top of a dune, a small fire illuminates six guards sitting around it. The guards, charged with patrolling the beachfront, were instead sitting around the fire, telling jokes and warming themselves on this unusually cold night. After one apparently good joke, the whole group burst out laughing, but they were cut short when their commander stepped out of the tent behind them and ferociously started yelling at them for not being out patrolling. He stopped for a second to catch his breath, but screams of agony broke the silence, as six daggers flew from the darkness and dug deep into three of the guards, killing one who had got hit multiple times. As the guards drew their swords to go and meet their unknown attackers, the commander looked for the warning horn so he could send out the alarm. There it was, on the belt of the fallen guard, but before he could get to it six figures jumped out of the darkness behind the guards; cutting down half the guards before they could even realize they had been surrounded.

Captain Amr stands by the fire, surveying the bloodied guard post as his pirates rummage through the tent and corpses for anything of worth. A soft gurgling sound draws Amr’s attention to his feet were a guard lay coughing up blood; his eyes pleading for mercy. Amr snorts at such a futile act, but kneels down anyway, grabbing the guards arm to pull him closer. Amr leans in close to the guard’s ear and whispers “die with dignity.” He pauses, laughs a bit, and says, “or at least die,” and with a quick thrust of his sword ends the guard’s life. He says to the others, “leave the junk, keep moving.” The twelve pirates recover their daggers from the corpses and head off down the beach, back into the darkness.

They were heading for Nashadem-klujak, the palace of a powerful African warlord. Days earlier, at a popular trading port, Captain Amr had learned that this warlord had recently decided that it was easier to take trade goods then buy them. His fleet had been ransacking every trade vessel that tried to pass into the Red Sea. Many thought him mad, since he was practically declaring war on every nation whose vessels he attacked. Many believed that his madness was caused by his powerful ivory sword, which was called Olmonguhl. At this, Femr Ushem, Captain Amr’s first mate, got really excited, for Olmonguhl, was supposed to be a magical sword of Omani legends, lost centuries ago. It was said to drive any but its rightful owner mad with power lust. Amr, of course, dismissed this as legend. After slipping a few coins into the outstretched hands of some Dark Contacts*, Amr and his crew were heading for the warlords base, with schematics of its defenses and garrison in hand.

The pirates took out two more sentry outposts, before making it to the outer walls of Nashadem-klujak. They grappled over the walls at a blind spot in the city watch and quietly made their way into the town surrounding Nashadem-klujak.

Inside the palace of Nashadem-klujak, the African warlord paced in front of his throne as he ranted and raved to the generals that surrounded him. They all cowered as he pointed to the pile of treasures at his feet and then back to them, continually insisting that they were holding out on him, that there should be more treasure. From the shadows along the outer edge of the throne room eleven pairs of eyes stared past the pile of treasure and greedily at the ivory handled sword hanging from the warlord’s belt. Although Amr had continued to insist it was only a legend, Femr still spread the story about Olmonguhl to the rest of the crew. Now Amr was having to work twice as hard to keep his crew under control. The throne room guards were too distracted taking bets on which general they would get to behead today that they did not notice the Omani pirates moving into position. At Amr’s signal, his crew jumped out of the shadows taking out most of the throne room guards before they knew what hit them. As the remaining guards fruitlessly called for help, for their reinforcements lay in pools of their own blood back in the halls the pirates had entered from, the generals pulled their own swords out to engage the attackers. With the rest of the room locked in battle, Captain Amr was free to challenge the African warlord. The warlord grinned and laid his hand on the ruby studded ivory handle of his sword. In one swift movement, he pulled it out and brought it down with all his strength, cracking the stone floor where Amr had just been. Amr, agile for his height, had jumped out of the way and now assumed a defensive stance. Although the blows of the African warlord seem to carry more power than the thin ivory sword should have been able to deal, he was not fast enough to land any significant hits on Captain Amr. After a few minutes of parrying and dodging blows, Amr seized an opening to disarm the warlord. As the warlord stumbled back, a few finger short, the ivory blade landed at Amr’s feet. The warlord dove for the blade, but Amr had already grasped it. The warlord tried to scramble back to his feet, but Captain Amr, using both swords, beheaded him when he was still on his knees. (Later, when questioned if he ever tried to negotiate with the warlord, he responded, “I offered him the same deal he gave to our trade vessels ‘Either you agree to let me kill you and take you treasures or I’ll kill you and take your treasure.’ He chose the later of course”)
With the ivory sword in Amr’s hand, the remaining guards and generals laid down their weapons, apparently fearful of the blade. It quickly became apparent that the people of Nashadem-klujak also believed the sword to have magical powers, because none offered resistance after seeing Captain Amr use the sword for the public execution of the remaining generals. In a matter of weeks Amr had shortened the name of the city to Klujak (thinking it easier to say) and turned it into a colony of the Imamate of Oman. (It remained a colony of Oman till it was wiped out by a plague nearly five years later.)
Once Captain Amr had returned to Oman he was promoted to Admiral for his bravery, leadership, and ‘establishment’ of a new colony of Oman. Amr was noticeably absent from his promotion ceremony, but Admiral Walid made sure the promotion stuck anyways.


* Notes: Dark Contacts are a loose network of spies, pirates, and other well informed nefarious characters willing to share information, for some coin of course. They operate along the coasts of the Persian Gulf, Red Sea, and Indian Ocean. Omani captains usually set up their own list of Contacts, but will often share Contacts with others that they trust. Many believe Captain Amr to have more Dark Contacts than most Omani captains combined, although it would be hard to prove, since he rarely shares. Even Admiral Walid does not know the extent of Amr’s connections.

[phonicsmonkey]

The guards escorted the exhausted messenger up the hilltop in the gloomy dusk towards the large, gold-fringed tent at the summit.

As he stepped into the firelight he saw the two Freds sitting across a table playing dice.

He cleared his throat.

The dark-haired one (Swabia?) turned to him and grinned broadly.

Well good sir, I expect you have come to tell us what we're doing next, eh? Did Baldwin send any women with you? Ye gods, I'm sick of this fellow's company after weeks aboard ship!

He laughed, clapping the fair-haired one (Barbarossa?) on the back.

The messenger fumbled in his satchel for the scroll, while Barbarossa fetched him a chair.

Sit down good sir, you must be tired after your journey. It's a long way indeed from the Levant to Nicaea!

Swabia laughed again.

Yes, I suppose I must take the blame for that one - we stopped off along the coast here for provisions at my urging, before the storm blew up and wrecked our ships. The worst thing is, they went down with all the wine aboard!

The messenger had finally located the scroll and placed it in the centre of the table without a word, before leaving the tent swiftly.

Both Freds reached for it at once and laughed, before each with exaggerated politeness bade the other to pick it up. After a moment or two of this, Swabia finally grabbed it and read its contents quickly before tossing it to Barbarossa.

Well, this is interesting indeed is it not? I'm not sure his Holiness would approve of these orders! What do you think Freddie?

Swabia shrugged.

Baldwin has some balls, I'll give him that - first he makes a pact with the Saracen and now this!

He thought for a moment.

I say we go along with it - he's a sharp fellow and I'll wager there's a great deal in it for us if we follow along like good soldiers. We can always go our own way later if we don't like the cut of his jib.

Barbarossa picked up the die once more, looking Swabia in the eye.

I'll roll you for Tarsus.

[Quirl]

Deal With The Devil

In the middle of the misty woods the witches set the fire. It shot up in a brief pillar of flame before collapsing into a wildly burning pyre. The nine women all stood around it—watching each other over the flames—waiting for it to begin.

There was the sound of distant crows—some murder startled by the cracking of the flames. A wind picked up, swirling the pyre like a miniature cyclone in the burning twigs and branches. Then the first witch stepped forward.

She held above her a jar. She watched only it as she continued to walk, the jar reflecting the moonlight into her eyes, making them almost glow. Then two other women scuttled forward, laying a long stick above the fire. They twisted the device in its place and let the thing hang above the flames. Then the first women laid the jar atop it.

Then all the women stepped back from the fire and began to dance. It started off slowly—whispers coming from their chapped lips—slow steps kicking into the frigged snow. Then it began to pick up. Some woman hurled her hands above her hood as she sang in her various dead languages. Another merely began to shake her head like a rabid dog, saying nothing which was decipherable.

The dance picked up. Women began tearing bits of their robes, revealing the cracked, white skin underneath. Others began clawing their skin, like holding back some insatiable ecstasy threatening to burst out from inside them. One woman screamed and another soon followed. And as the flames continued to be picked up by the wind, it casted shadows across the nearby trees and stones. Other figures soon became visible—still ghosts inside smiling masks. More shadows danced across and more men were revealed. Then a ray from the moon crept out from beneath the fog, revealing an entire host of smiling ghūl.

The women continued to dance and one man stepped forward. His mask scowled and his armor seemed almost as black as the night. He extended his claws forward and gripped the jar from the burning fire. He held it up and one of the women snatched it from his hands.

The woman with the jar danced to another at the opposite end of the flame. The woman there was not dancing, but stood as still as the army around her. In her hand she held a paper—a contract—a deal from their new employer.

The woman with the jar and the woman with the contract began to walk forward to the great masked man on the other side of the flame. Soon, another women joined them, holding the tattered standard of the Qara-Suu.

The other women continued to dance—howling, screaming, gnashing their teeth—casting their shadows and screams on the army of still ghūl around them.

The three witches carrying the jar, contract, and standard now stood in front of the great Khağan. The woman in the middle produced an object from beneath her robes and dipped into the smoking jar. The hot wax inside the jar trailed a bit as she pulled out the stamp. Then she took the contract and the stamp, and sealed it onto the banner the other witch held. Finally, the middle witch took the banner and handed it to the Khağan, smiling and bowing away.

The man in black armor took the standard and slowly began to turn around to face his army. The three witches behind him soon stepped back and melded with the others—continuing their mad dance around the frantic flame.

The Black Khağan held up the flag—the contract attached to it flying in the wind—calling for the death of an entire nation—and the army of ghūl around them began to scream.

The Black Khağan remained silent as the others howled their anticipating war cries. Then he slowly tipped the banner and the contract to the southeast, motioning his armies forward. Soon, his army began to move and there were shouts of "FORWARD" and "HO" echoing in the night air. Torches began to light, showing only then their true numbers—the woods were ablaze with them.

And as the army began to move out—the Black Khağan himself soon following atop his great horse—the women continued to dance. They danced the rest of the night—long after the smiles and ghosts had departed them. And they kept the blaze alive for several hours until the morning sun had finally come over the horizon...

... a red dawn.

[Quirl]

Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Tegin Savalat: the Black Bear)
Dvin (December 15, 1182)

“We hold in here!” Abaaq screamed to his troops—the last few of his few brothers left alive after the fall of the city. “When they come in… we slaughter them!”

Held up inside the governor’s pitiful mansion, one of the guards looked outside. It was dusk. The sun was just beginning to set over the city’s palisade. The pink hue of the falling day filled the dim city, reflecting off the gray and blue armor of the scurrying “ghul” outside. His guard looked back at Abaaq, some worry crackling in his voice. “They haven’t tried to push through, yet.”

“But when they do,” Abaaq said, slamming his fists together and smiling in grim anticipation. “Take as many of them down as you can... before you embrace the glories of paradise.”

His men nodded, then another turned back to him from the window. “Lord, they’re organizing but… they don’t seem to be coming in for an attack.”

Abaaq turned to him. “What?”

Outside, the ghul stood around the mansion. The smiles of their masks refracted back to the men inside from the shadows. The creatures were hunched over, gripping the air with an excitable eagerness. But they merely stood there.

There were whispers coming through windows—soft words none of the men inside could understand, but which haunted the mansion nonetheless. Then, a man stepped out from behind the crowd of ghul.

Savalat stepped out from behind his soldiers, several sizes taller than any of the ghul around him—and easily several sizes larger than Abaaq. He wore a great fur helm over his stone face. His brow set heavy over his eyes, casting a thick shadow there that made his face expressionless. Then, one of his ghul handed him a spear and another threw one of Abaaq’s captured soldiers onto the cobblestone in front of his master. Then, in an instant, the giant bear, Savalat, thrust his spear into the writhing prisoner below him. Abaaq watched from the window as the bear’s eyes locked onto his, the giant mercilessly rolling the spear into the prisoner’s spine back and forth—back and forth.

The screams from the prisoner below the demon made Abaaq churn. He fell below the window, trying to block out the noises from the outside. He could not. Those black eyes and those screams still scraped against his skull, like fingernails on his mind. Finally, however, the man stopped screaming. The squishes of the spear silenced. He was dead.

Abaaq closed his eyes, then breathed a heavy breath—not sure whether to feel relief or pain. Not too far away, he could hear one of his guards beginning to weep.

Then, suddenly, another "CRACK!" came in from the outside. Abaaq thrust his eyes out the window one last time to see yet another prisoner below the Qipchack general. Savalat's spear was also now in his back and the giant twisted it left and right—left and right—letting the man’s screams fill the mansion as he watched on callously.

“Infidel!” Abaaq screamed, but the giant outside did not acknowledge him. He merely continued to turn the spear methodically left and right, indifferent to the choking screams of the man below him. “Infidel!” Abaaq cried again, and the man below the giant finally fell silent.

Abaaq closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears, just in time to hear the faint and sudden “CRACK!” of another victim outside—and the left and right turns of the spear into the muscles and spine of yet another of his fallen comrades.

“DOG!” Abaaq cried, getting up from where he stood and pulling out his scimitar. “God will judge you for what you have done this day!”

Suddenly, on the outside, the door to the mansion burst open. Abaaq’s men ran forth—their scimitars glistening in the coming night—their eyes filled with vengeance before the coming paradise. Then Savalat stepped back into his ghul and the smiling soldiers around him held up their bows. Their claws pulled back on the arrows and some strands of dust flew off their strings. They pulled back and there was the sound of tension echoing in their weapons. Then their fingers flicked up and they released their arrows, the daggers flying off from their masters like rabid cobras or drops of rain. They whizzed through the night air towards Abaaq and his charging soldiers, burrowing little tunnels through the winter fog.

Then it became very quiet. Then the sun had finally set.

[phonicsmonkey]

The two Freds sat across the banquet table from one another in the Great Hall at Vakha, picking at a hastily-assembled meal of roast hind and mead and casting dice for the ceremonial arms that lay abandoned around the chamber, the last relics of the dynasty of Takavor Reuben.

In just over a month the entire Kingdom of Armenia had fallen to the concerted assault of their zealous crusading armies.

Aside from some minimal resistance from the Takavor's troupe of bodyguards, who could be heard slowly dying in the courtyard outside as their horses were surrounded by spearmen and riddled with crossbow bolts, none now contested the claim of the Crusader Kingdom to Cilician Armenia.

Swabia to Barbarossa: "Well sir, where to now? Aha! The bronze buckler is mine!"

Barbarossa to Swabia: "Well, we made a pretty penny out of Baldwin's last proposal - I say we go along with this one too."

Swabia: "Aye, a pretty penny indeed, the prettiest part to you from the treasury at Tarsus. How much of that will Baldwin see I wonder?

He grinned.

Barbarossa: "Freddie, that's for me to know, for you to wonder about, and for Baldwin never to discover."

Swabia: "So we head north to parlay with Prince Guy?"

Barbarossa: "Aye....Damn! That ivory dagger was a prize. Keep it well lest I steal it from you later!"

[Quirl]

Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Kobyak: The Wolf)
Telavi (December 21, 1182)

Dear Caliph…

Kobyak began, scribbling the words onto the paper just as quickly as he crumbled it up and tossed it onto the floor. “No… that won’t work,” He said. Then he grabbed a new sheet and dipped his quill into the ink bottle again, starting over…

Dear esteemed Caliph,

It is most regrettable that this war has come between us. I remember the days when the Seljuks were our common enemy, and behind the curtains we planned together—drank deep the cup of conspiracy together.

But now the Seljuks are your subjects and we must…

“… We must…" Kobayk continued. "No…” He picked up the paper again and tossed it to the side. The sheet fell down the walls of his tent, blowing a bit with the wind coming from the outside. It found its place amidst a pile of other such crumbled up letters. Kobyak turned to look at them and let out a sigh. Then he put his head into his hands and began to stroke his beard. Under his breath he was humming a tune. Just what tune the man on the opposite end of the tent couldn’t tell.

He had been watching the strange Qara-Suu do this for a number of hours now. The man’s name was Sokhmen—the disgraced defender of Telavi. Sokhmen’s mouth was gagged, his hands bound, and his weapons and armor dangled on a table not too far away—the place his eyes constantly stole to every few minutes. He didn’t know why this Qara-Suu warlord had decided to bring him in alive to his tent. He didn’t know why he was writing a letter to his Caliph while he sat around and watched. And he didn’t know why the Northman had attacked Telavi at all—hadn’t the Seljuk and the Qipchaks once been allies?

The only thing Sokmen knew for sure anymore was the shame of losing his city. Telavi fell too quickly and too easily to the advancing tide of ghul. He had simply had too few men. He had simply had too little time. But in the end that didn’t matter. The shame of it all—the guilt—it was still there. And now he was this madman’s concubine—locked in his quarters whilst he scribbled away notes and hummed strange, exotic tunes.

“What would your Caliph like to hear from me?” Kobyak suddenly asked him.

Sokhmen was surprised to see the Qara-Suu speak to him. He didn’t immediately know how to react.

Kobyak stood up and began to walk towards him. Again, Sokhmen didn’t know how to react and he pulled away for an instant. Then Kobyak smiled at him and took off his gag, asking again, “Do you know what the Caliph would like to hear from me?”

“The Caliph does not want to speak with you!” Sokhmen suddenly found himself saying. The response had caught even himself off guard. Where did that come from?! Sokhmen wondered. Suddenly, he found himself looking into the cold, green eyes of the Northman above him, waiting for what felt like an eternity for his reply. Finally, the Qipchak’s brow rose and his lips parted.

“Why not?” The Qara-Suu merely asked. “I am Muslim… just like you, Sadiq.”

“I am not your sadiq!” Sokhmen replied, again taking himself by surprise. Running off more adrenaline now than thought, however, Sokhmen continued, “you are no Muslim, infidel! You defy our Caliph! You defy our God!”

Kobyak frowned at the man and placed the gag back onto Sokhmen. Shaking his head and letting out a final sigh. “Fine,” he said, tying the last knot around the gag. “I suppose I will merely have to continue trying myself.”

The wolf got up and dusted off his claws, smiling to his prisoner below him. Then Kobyak turned around, poking his head out of the tent, and yelled something to the guards that Sokhmen could not understand.

“Onu al! Lütfen onu çabucaköldür!”

Some ghul in smiling masks suddenly came inside, picking Sokhum up by the arms and dragging him outside. He didn’t know just what the Qara-Suu warlord had said to them. He didn't know just what the Qara-Suu warlord exactly intended for him. But he knew now that he was going to his death. He closed his eyes and bit down on the gag in his mouth. The smiling ghul then took him away to the foggy dawn outside.

Back in the tent, Kobyak sat down once again. Throwing back the bulky sleeves of his robes and dipping the quill in the ink jar again, he once more put his pen to paper…

Dear exalted and blessed Caliph,

I am sorry that this war is upon us now. I pray to God that it ends soon.

You will be happy to know, however, that I have killed most of your men quickly, sending their souls to blessed paradise with all my love…