Lords of the East - Library

[phonicsmonkey]

The great grey mountain bear thundered through the sleeping camp site, enraged by the pin pricks of the first volley of javelins hurled at it in terror by the fleeing sentries. With great cuffs of its enormous paws it sent pots and pans, racks of weapons and equipment flying through the air. Pausing for a moment, it let out an almighty roar, head thrown back and paws clenched into angry fists at its side.

Barbarossa moved quickly in an encircling motion some yards away from the beast, which was now occupied with investigating a large cooking pot which rested in the embers of last night’s fire. He tried to flank it, keeping low and watching it for a sudden move while he searched around for a suitable weapon with which to take it down. It hadn't noticed him yet, it’s large head buried inside the great iron pot, snuffling around for leftovers.

The racket of the bear’s arrival had woken the rest of the camp and as Freddie found a clutch of hunting spears he was aware of company around him, a circle of emerging rivals for the skin of the great beast.

Hoping to steal a march on them he ducked around a tent and let out a sharp whistle to attract the bear’s attention. With a snarl his hairy adversary spun around, the cookpot forgotten, and fixed its baleful yellow gaze on the young German prince.

It stood some two feet higher than the prince and it’s muscles rippled as it roared once more before dropping to all fours and bounding once, twice, to clear the distance between them.

Barbarossa let fly with a hunting spear and time seemed to slow down to a crawl as it flew, true and straight at the big bear’s heart.

Then he felt a collossal blow to his face as the bear’s giant paw smacked him in the side of the head and onto the ground. The spear had lodged in the beast’s chest but had not penetrated deep enough to cause a fatal wound. Dazed, Freddie rolled over onto his front and scrabbled for one of the remaining spears as the great bear loomed over him.

His hand outstretched….the spear just out of reach…the shadow of the killer darkening his sight….Barbarossa knew he was about to die.

But what was this? The dawn rays again bathed his hand in sunlight and he grabbed the spear. Flipping over onto his back he saw the great bear struggling, an enormous arm wrapped around its neck, belonging to a large, black-bearded Persian riding its back, stabbing repeatedly into its neck with a long dagger held in the other hand. The bear let out an agonized roar which became a gurgle and a croak as it slumped to its knees.

A mob of the Persian’s comrades had arrived and gathered around the melee, jabbering excitedly to each other in their native tongue while their friend jumped down from the bear’s back and stepped away, cautiously circling the mortally wounded beast which writhed around on the ground in a mass of tangled tents, bedding and fodder.

To a great cheer from the crowd he skipped forward once more and plunged his dagger deep into the bear’s chest, into the wound left by Barbarossa’s spear, twisting the blade sharply to the right before dodging back again. The bear crumpled to the ground, chest heaving as the life left its great body.

Freddie gingerly got to his feet, stepped up to the man and offered his hand in gratitude. The bearded Persian had saved his life this day and he would not soon forget it.

Barbarossa would ensure that this man, named Hashim, was promoted to lead this party of scouts, who rode in advance of the main crusading army to find safe passage through the treacherous mountains of Iran. And when, as they soon must, they reached Shiraz for their final confrontation with the Seljuk Sultans, he would shower the man in riches and make him his chief attendant.

[phonicsmonkey]

Orloomo Bland found Baldwin, eventually, in a small masjid tucked away in the depths of the grand souq, a place that the young King had taken to using as a refuge for quiet reflection. It was an unremarkable, squat and unattractive building which would have gone entirely un-noticed except for the twenty-strong unit of Crusader Royal Guard who stood around the entrance, armed to the teeth and shifting uneasily in the afternoon heat as they accosted any passers-by foolish enough to pass by.

Of course Bland had no trouble gaining entrance. The Crusader Royal guardsmen knew Bland.

Everybody knew Bland.

Baldwin was sat in a corner of the prayer hall watching the imam lead the faithful in the afternoon prayer. Bland sat down beside him and said in a low voice.

You see, it is just as I predicted. The German prince has gone native and declared himself Sultan of Isfahan. I hear he has even appointed a Vizier, a Persian by the name of Hashim, who saved his life from a bear.

Baldwin snickered.

Yes, I hear they are calling him 'Bearbarossa'! Well, let him have his eastern Sultanate. He's well out of the way there and frankly I don't give two pfennigs for the bountiful wastelands of Iran. They are his to play with. You have done me a great service Bland, by tipping me off to that old bastard Urban's plan. How dare he and that trumped up German baronet try to play politics with me! By separating the two German princes we have neutralised their power. Let Swabia continue in the service of Prince Guy, and see how far that gets him.

Bland inclined his head respectfully, secretly brimming with pride as the King continued.

And what of...the other thing?

Bland cleared his throat.

It is begun your Majesty.

[phonicsmonkey]

Raynald de Chatillon was a God-fearing man. He saw God in everything: in the rays of the dawn sun, in the flight of birds, in the zephirs that stirred the sands of the desert. He heard God in the call of the sea birds and in the crash of the waves upon the shore.

He even tasted God in the salty brine that misted his face as he stood here at the prow of his warship, heading a fleet which crested the waves off the Palestinian coast, ships packed to the gills with soldiers of Christ.

Only once in his life had his faith been tested - when his young sire Baldwin had made his pact with the accursed devil Saladin, and had given up the Holy City of Jerusalem to the infidel heathens of Egypt. He did not at first see God in that decision, although he looked hard for Him in the eyes of the young King.

His doubt had persisted these long years, as he sat idle at Acre minding the fort while the German prince and Baldwin conquered the Sultans and Caliphs of the east. A nagging, insistent voice which was pervasive at the time of prayer, at the time of communion. A wedge driven between Raynald and his Christ.

Until late one afternoon the hooded figure of Orloomo Bland had arrived at his door and they had spoken in hushed tones, and Raynald had heard his God once more, clear as a bell.

The truce was to be broken, the treaty dishonoured, the Holy City regained. But not by Raynald - John de Ibelin had that noble task. Raynald had been sorely disappointed, until he had heard the rest of the plan.

So here he was, leading his Crusading armies, like an avenging Samson, his sight restored, returning to Gaza to light the flame of war, to break the back of the Mamluk armies at their very base.

And he could not wait to show his God to the accursed heathens.

[Quirl]

Umarah read the pamphlet that had been being passed around throughout all the tribes in the land--calling for all willing mercenaries to join the Qara-Suu--calling for them to become ghul. His eyes scanned the paper thoughtfully, his hands stroking his beard and the nearby candlelight illuminating the thin oils on his face. Behind him, his captain Wadi sat picking his nails with a knife. Wadi wore a smile and hope on his lips. But Umarah was cautious. It was in his nature to assume the worst--this pamphlet was no different.

"Umarah, sadiq," Wadi finally spoke up, laying the knife aside and grinning. "What is the matter? This is a great opportunity for us. Finally we can pick ourselves up from the sands. Finally we can make something of ourselves. Finally we can bring our little band of warriors and raise them into something..." his smiled broadened. "Wealthy."

"Do not be so eager, Wadi," Umarah cautioned, not bothering to turn around--his eyes still on the pamphlet in his hands and the dim candle still dancing shadows on his face. "The ghul are not mere mercenaries to sign on with..."

"How so?" Wadi stood up, making his way slowly towards his commander. "Is it because they destroyed that pretender Caliph? The Caliphate died when the Seljuks invaded Baghdad. Now a Western King sits on the throne. The world is changing." He knelt over and placed his hands on the back of Umarah's chair. He spoke almost into his friend's ear, "We need to start thinking about the future."

"And just what is the future, Wadi?" Umarah asked.

"The ghul are the future." Wadi threw his hands off his commander's chair and started to walk away, seemingly disgusted. Suddenly, he turned around and began to pace around the dark tent, his eyes on Umarah and a passion growing in his voice. "Nothing makes sense anymore, Umarah. We can't rely on old traditions and faith anymore." He shook his head. "Our band is being pushed to the edge. How long do you think we can last? How long do you think we can go on like this? Soon we will starve. Soon we will have nothing! It is no different anywhere else." He took a heavy breath, his words hard and dark. "Truly... we are cursed."

"These ideas," Umarah said, narrowing his eyes and holding out his fingers. "This desperation... men will do terrible things in such fear... trust things they should not in such fear."

"Don't play high and mighty with me, Umarah!" Wadi shouted, cutting the air with his hand. "I'm being a realist! If we are to survive, we have to change with the times! If not this, then what else? The Caliph is gone. God has forsaken these lands! We can't turn down money just because the infidel offers it! Just because the infidel holds the coin purse!"

"Do not take me wrong, Wadi," Umarah said, turning around to look over his shoulder. "I am considering this offer... but I want to be cautious about it." He looked back at the pamphlet on his desk--to the wavy black seal at its bottom--to the runny letters written on its aged parchment.

"Be cautious then," Wadi replied. "Take your time. Arrive to the same conclusions I have." He turned around and began to leave the tent. He held up its exit and turned his head, looking at his friend sitting silent at his desk. He frowned. "You know I am right Umarah," then his frown softened. "Just think about it." And with that final word, Wadi left--the tent closing down behind him--Umarah was alone.

When Wadi had left, Umarah exhaled and closed his eyes. He let out a drawn out sigh and opened his eyes again. They narrowed down on the parchment in his hands. The candle lit up his face. He brought his right hand up to his beard and continued to stroke there, grabbing the black and gray strands of hair and running them through his calloused fingers. The times are changing, Umarah thought. Then he bit his lips. But are the ghul simply a symptom... or are they the harbingers of this change?

Umarah sat back and continued to read the pamplet. He would sit like that the rest of the night...

[phonicsmonkey]

So the great city was under siege once more. The people, grown accustomed to such matters, went about their business barely disturbed by the news. Of course the merchants complained at the fall-off in their business but otherwise most seemed to assume the siege would end as the previous two had done - with an orderly transition to a new and mildly diverting set of rulers who would change the emblems on the flags which flew from the great palace but little else.

This complacency seemed rather unwarranted to those who had heard the stories from the north of the terrible ghul and their bloodthirsty destruction of the Seljuks.

Up on the battlements of the high walls of the city, the young king Baldwin and his vizier Orloomo Bland surveyed the besieging force.

Qui seme le vent, recolte la tempete! breathed Bland.

[barcamartin]

Shahanshah kicked the Crusader banner and watched it fall into the mound of slaughtered Christians. They had come to his land, breaking the truce his brother Salahuddin, may he rest in peace, had signed. His brother had been a great conqueror, a liberator and unifier of thousands. But he had also been naive, and a dreamer. Peace with the heathens was never going to last, and it didn't. They came to these lands to fight. They were not going to settle for peace, honourable and prosperous as it might have been.

Their betrayal had come swiftly and harshly, and Salahuddins successor, Shahanshahs nephew Al-Aziz, had been slain together with the entire Royal Army, garrisoned at Gaza. The nation his brother had formed crumbled swiftly underneath heavy hooves and armoured feet. The Nile delta was swept away from Ayyubid hands, aswell as the holy city of Jerusalem and the rest of the faithful lands in the Levant. The new sultan Al Muizz was the grandson of the great Salahuddin, but except for being an extremely pious man he showed little of his ancestor's valiance. He hid away in his palace in the southern lands, and tasked Shanshah with the defence of a once great nation, now on the brink of utter destruction.

He had rallied whatever remained of the army, scattered around the provinces, and called to the people to rise against the foreign invaders. The royal family had swiftly gathered behind him, in the abscence of the sultan himself. The greed and vicousness of the Christians combined with their military superiority had turned the water of the Nile red, and the brave Egyptians into cowardly sheep. Despite seeing little hope himself, he had planned a trap for the advancing servants of Satan. A trap they walked right into at the village of Asyat. Sitting on a hill, with easy access to the rich waters of the Nile, it allowed a good defensive position and control of the lands between Al-Qahira and Al-Uqsor. Or so the proud and arrogant Joscelin de Cyprus must have thought when he fortified his army there.

Thinking of all that had passed made it hard for Shahanshah to decide whether to laugh or cry. His people had had little to smile at these last few years. Until this day. Until he had finally triumphed where so many others had failed. He had beaten back the invaders. He had stopped the scourge of greed and metal that had scoured his country, if only temporarily. He, Crown Prince Shahanshah, had lit a light in the darkness that clouded the future of the Ayyubids, descendants of the Great Sultan Salahuddin. It was but a faint and flickering flame, but he would make sure to fuel it. In the name of Allah and the Sultan, he would see to it that the Ayyubids would once more flourish, and that Egypt would once more be free of oppression.

[phonicsmonkey]

Deep in the desert, somewhere between Edessa and Damascus, a small force of armoured men collapsed exhausted in a wadi as the sun began to rise. They made camp and erected their linen tents to provide shade through the heat of the day. They would rest until nightfall before continuing their long trek.

As they settled down to doze under the cloth bivouacs, a bedouin rider arrived by camel bearing a message with the royal seal of King Baldwin. It was addressed to Prince Guy, who snatched it from him and began to read its contents.

Freddie Swabia watched from a distance as the Prince's eyes darted eagerly over the scroll. He took on a sardonic grin as he rolled it up and began to discuss its contents in a hushed tone with his group of close advisors.

Freddie was not part of this group. He had the feeling the Prince did not altogether trust him. Guy had been displeased with the general state of the encampment at Mardin when he had returned from his jaunt into the desert. Freddie, long since sick of minding the fort, had let an element of chaos and anarchy seep into the day to day running of the camp, and if there was one thing Guy did not seem to like it was feeling that he was not in control.

Freddie recalled the day that the Prince and his small army had returned from their mission into the desert. He had been sitting out in front of the garrison house at Mardin throwing dice with a group of the newly-arrived young noblemen from Europe when a cloud of dust and sand had announced the return of Guy.

In a flurry of activity the Prince and his men had commandeered the best lodgings, wine and supplies for themselves while driving the local traders, fortune tellers and camel dealers out of the camp and back into the village. In the centre of the camp they had erected a set of poles upon which they planted various heads that they had brought back from their excursion.

Later that night at a feast hastily arranged to celebrate his return Guy had bragged incessantly about his bravery in vanquishing the host of saracens installed in the castle at Anbar, and of the fierce fighting and resistance he had encountered in capturing the fort for the glory of God and the crusade.

Freddie had detected more than a note of exaggeration in the tale and indeed, on inspection the heads did not seem to be those of mighty warriors but appeared to be those of wizened, old and malnourished men. Secretly Freddie began to suspect that Guy had conquered nothing more than a group of old peasant farmers and that the castle at Anbar had been largely unoccupied.

In the weeks and months that followed, Guy reigned in terror over Mardin, implementing strict martial law and a cruel and unjust system of punishment for any perceived infraction, particularly by the local Muslims, many of whom were tortured or summarily executed for little more than stealing food or saying the wrong thing to one of the Prince's men.

So harsh and unremitting was the administration of the camp that the locals deserted the village entirely and soon it was barely populated by any other than the installed crusaders.

It was at this stage that the Prince, upon hearing the news of Raymond de Chatillon's attack on Egypt and John of Ibelin's recapture of the Holy City, decided to up sticks and move the camp en masse back to the Levant, where he intended to install himself as governor of Jerusalem in Baldwin's absence.

So here they were, somewhere in the desert, thirsty and tired, their numbers whittled down by the long and difficult march through the dry and unfamiliar lands.

Tired of waiting for the Prince to share the news with the rest of the men, Freddie shouted over to him.

Your highness, what news?

Guy scowled at Swabia before responding.

The accursed Qara-Suu dogs have betrayed our King and attacked the eastern lands, cutting off your Barbarossa from the King who remains under siege at Baghdad. The King tries to negotiate, but to no avail so far. It seems Baghdad may fall.

Swabia jumped to his feet.

Why, then we must be away at once! To his aid!

Guy sat down on his pile of cushions, poured himself a glass of wine and smiled a cruel smile.

No my young prince, we must not. What sense is there is our getting killed for nought? I am the heir let us not forget. It is my...responsibility to stay alive and...protect the kingdom. Besides, Baghdad is nothing to me - that was Baldwin's fantasy. Let Barbarossa retake it if he cares.

We go on, at nightfall - if I am to be crowned King it shall be at Jerusalem.