Lords of the East - Library

[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.

[CiviC]

On the banks of Ganges, under the majestous walls of Golden Temple of The Holy City of Varanasi a great pyre is prepared. On the pyre lies the body of Maharajah Vindhyavarman daubed in saffron. His heir the new Maharajah Devapala aproaches with a lit torch and sets the pyre on fire while devotees chant Vedic hymns to the clashing of cymbals and beating of drums reaching a crescendo. Then a deep silence follows interrupted only by the sounds of burning pyre and one by one the many wives of the deceased Maharajah walk into the flames to follow their beloved husband and master to the next life. The fire burned for hours untill the sunset then the ashes were scatered in the holy waters of the Gange.

Now the Rajputs have a new master, Maharajah Devapala. He stands on the top of The Great Tower of the Delhi Fortress and watches the endless plains of India with their many meandering rivers and the Himalya Mountains on the background. He meditates on his father's many heroic deeds and great achievements, to the Empire he founded and the many wars and battles him, Prince Devapala, as a child and young man, took part as an aprentice and right hand of his father. He then turns his eyes to the mountains where the Sun sets down dreaming to new oportunities and new worlds that expect him ...

[phonicsmonkey]

Baldwin IV, Crusader King of Jerusalem, Antioch, Edessa, Cairo and Baghdad stood on the small viewing platform, at the top of the tallest minaret and watched as the invading Ghul drew up an enormous battering ram and brought it to bear on the massive gates of the Grand Palace.

How had it come to this? Had he been so blind that he had ignored the threat of these mercenary horsemen? Why had he not anticipated that the Sultan of Egypt would set them against him in a final act of spite before going to his grave?

With a great crash and an explosion of wooden shards the gates flew open and the bloodthirsty mob burst through, slavering like wolves. In the maze of courtyards and passages below the denizens of the palace had erected barricades in self defence, pitifully small and easily breached by the veteran warriors of the Qara-Suu. The plaintive screams of their victims rose to his ears, distant and muffled as if from a dream long-remembered.

Why had he foolishly pushed his advance so far to the east instead of consolidating here at Baghdad? Why had he remained here, defenceless and arrogant, reading in the library like some cloistered monk?

Head in his hands, he thought bitterly of his great, lost dream - an empire of all the faiths, with he at its head like a modern-day Alexander. How idealistic and naieve that now seemed. Baghdad was falling and Guy (that odious worm!) would take his place at the head of the crusade, in his cruelty and avarice undoing all his good work at a stroke.

He hammered his fist against the stone ramparts until the flesh was torn and his knuckles bled. It did not hurt. It could not.

He stared at the pouring blood, distantly aware of the ring and clash of steel on steel as the Crusader Royal Guard battled valiantly and in vain to retain the inner fortress. They were too few and their foe too many and there was no chance of relief. Good men died, far from home and their passing went un-noticed.

Baldwin came to his senses at the clatter of mailed boots on the stairwell. He stood poised over the hatch, hefting his blade from hand to hand. Almost as an afterthought, he ripped off his facial coverings.

Let them see me, he thought, let them see what manner of King am I.

The hatch burst open and with a mighty two-handed blow Baldwin beheaded the first man to venture through. His twitching body, blood spurting from the neck, fell back on his comrades sending them tumbling on the stone stairs with a crash and an array of foreign curses.

Then they came through in a pair, blinking in the bright light. Across the circular stone platform they saw a demon, face a hideous mask, long hair whipping around in the wind, arms outstreched and coming straight for them.

With an exhultant scream Baldwin tackled both men, hitting them at full force and wrapping his arms around them in a deathly embrace. His momentum carried them up against the rampart and with a final surge of energy he propelled all three over the edge and into the void, laughing as he went.

[Quirl]

They had attacked at dusk. They always attacked at dusk. Freddy Barbarossa looked up on the dark hills surrounding him. The mounts lied in front of the blood-soaked and setting sun, where the cavalry archers fired at them as they dashed in circles. Men wrapped in cloth and stitched leather masks let loose their arrows with surgical precision—too meticulous to be normal—too cold to be human. Below, the mercenaries—not true Ghul, but clumsy, fanatical Saracens hired from the deserts—attacked his men with axes, swords, spears, hammers, clubs, and anything else they could grab a hold of.

It was slowly becoming a massacre.

The Crusaders fought valiantly against the onslaught, but it was just too much. Soldier after soldier. Arrow after arrow. The sun had completely set now and Freddy thanked God he could not see the horror in the darkness. But he could he hear it. He could hear it all around him. Screaming. Squishing. Cursing. Laughing? What hell was this he stumbled into? What nightmare was this that he just couldn’t awake from?

He turned to his side and his commanders had all turned into Ghul. Their masks looked up at him—silver faces smiling with beady, black eyes. They looked like they were about to ask him a question.

He pulled away and fell off his horse. The ground came hard and fast. Dirt flew up from the fall, staining his blonde hair and fair skin. He held up his hands and there was blood all over them. He looked up, and the ghul around simply looked down at him—pitying smiles on their unreadable faces.

Off in the distance there was a woman singing.

More arrows flew by like locusts, hissing and spiraling around him. The ghul began to encroach and reach out their fingers. Freddy threw his hands over his eyes and screamed. Then he awoke…

***

Frederick’s eyes darted open, running back and forth—confirming they were out of hell. He looked to his right. Then to his left. He could see nothing but blackness and stone. Above him, he heard chains rattling. And in the darkness, he heard a woman singing.

“Who’s there?!” He shouted.

Suddenly, from inside the dark cell, he saw something stirring. It began to pick itself up off the floor—like a shadow come to life. But as it picked itself further up and came into the light, Freddy recognized who it was.

The woman wore a heavy brown cloak and had white, silky hair. Her eyes were milky and seemed to reflect what little light was left in the chamber--almost like they were glowing. She approached and held something in her hands. Freddy couldn’t quite make it out in the darkness, but his nose quickly told him what she carried.

“Would you like some food, sadiq?” the old woman asked, holding up the bowl of hot stew—the tender meat inside bobbing up and down as she held it in the air before him. She smiled. “You’ve been without any for so long… I thought you could use a proper meal.”

“Curses on you, lady of the Ghul!” Freddy yelled back, rocking forward on his chain and seeming to snarl at the woman in the shadows. “You have not broken me yet! And you will not tempt me with food now!”

“Oh, no master,” the woman said, continuing forward. “You misunderstand me… the time for torture is over.” She tilted her head sideways—smiling—cooing. “And that was Qarabey Kobyak, sadiq. I wish no information from you.”

“Then what is it you want, witch?” Freddy replied.

The woman smiled, dipping a spoon into the steaming bowl and holding it before Freddy’s nose. “To feed you, sadiq. Nothing more. Now… will you not accept the food this old woman has humbly prepared for you?”

Freddy remained quiet for a moment—stalwart. Then he looked both ways and ran his teeth together, slowly leaning forward and clasping his jaws together over the hot spoon.

“There we are,” Kamelya replied, dipping the spoon again into the bowl and holding out another bite. “You must recover your strength.” Freddy took another bite of the stew held in the woman’s hand. The old lady smiled and began to take another spoonful from the bowl. “I wanted to know if I could ask you some questions, sadiq.”

Freddy scowled, almost spitting some of the soup out of his mouth and glaring at the witch. “So this IS an interrogation!”

“No! No,” the woman replied. “This has nothing to do with the Qara-Suu. This is strictly between you,” she laid her finger on his chest, then slowly retracted it to her own. “And me.”

Freddy glared down at her, but the food was too good to resist. He had resisted the torture for days. He had told them nothing. He was fully prepared to die for his God, but death was coming all too slowly. He was starving and he wanted more. He knelt his head down and said nothing—staring down, instead, at the food and preparing for another bite.

“There we are,” she said, taking another spoonful out from the hot bowl and placing it gently into Freddy’s mouth. “And there is no reason I cannot feed you while we talk. No?” Freddy made no reply and simply continued to chew. “No,” she repeated. Then she continued. “I… heard of your unwillingness to bend to Kobyak’s torturers. You made him quite angry,” at this, the old woman seemed to laugh. She took another spoonful and fed it to Freddy. “He’s so unused to men sticking up to him. I personally admire the… tenacity. It’s what compelled me to come down here and talk to you myself.” Freddy continued to remain silent. Chewing in quiet, he didn’t even return her stare. Nonetheless, he could see the old witch smiling at him from below his own brows. “You crusaders are an interesting breed,” Kamelya continued. “Like the Muslim caliphates, your empire is steeped in religious conquest… and yours has been certainly more successful as of late. Yes?” She shrugged. “And I wondered if your own tenacity… that trait so admirable and which prevails even against a man like Kobyak… is in itself religious?”

Freddy looked up at her—a mix of fear, anger, and curiosity in his sweaty, beaten expression. Then he looked away, staring off into the shadows. He sighed, “I… don’t know.” Then he snarled, turning to her. “Not everything,” some shame added to his expression. “Not everything. And before you now, witch, and God in heaven… not everything I have done as a soldier for Christ has been in His name.” He sighed, looking away again. “I have not been all I could have been… and perhaps now,” he paused, biting his lips. “Perhaps now that tenacity is regret. I have lived a life of fortune seeking—trying to find myself through title and recognition. But now… in my final hours… what have those things afforded me?”

“Do not be so humble,” the woman said—not in an accusing voice, but a serious one nonetheless. “Your name will now be laughed at… cursed even. The one who failed to rescue Baghdad. The one whom God abandoned to the Pagans in the desert.” She smiled. “You abandon your title seeking because you no longer have a title to seek.”

“And how now,” Freddy countered, “do I wish my entire life had been so. I wish I had been a poorer man—not so blinded by money and titles—by birthright and honor. How now do I wish I had been perhaps a stable hand… brushing the horses and knowing meekness—not having the distractions of life fog my sight of heaven… as I so clearly see it now…”

“You must be joking,” the woman said. For the first time in their entire conversation, she seemed genuinely irritated. “In the black… in the darkness… you claim to see light? You hold on to that illusion? That is where your tenacity flows?” She held down the bowl and dropped her smile, looking up at him. “How hard I have worked on the Qara-Suu. How long it has taken me to create these ghul. And to see this… this… misunderstanding of all I am trying to do for the world is...” She sighed, closing her eyes and looking to the floor. “discouraging... what a disappointing experiment.”

“What,” Freddy began, glaring down at her, “exactly, are you trying to do for the world, old woman?”

Kamelya again sighed, keeping her blind stare to the floor. “Since the Qara-Suu have come… so many have begun to question. So many have begun to search.” She looked up to him, smirking. “We began that, sadiq. I began it. The world has seen what can be accomplished if we drop these antiquated ideas of nation, identity, and divinity… and seek only that which benefits ourselves.”

“What are you saying?” Freddy asked.

Kamelya smiled—a dark, cruel smile. “For how long have you labored, master Barbarossa? How long have you toiled for your God? You say you wish your title, power, and self-fulfillment had not blinded you so. But I ask you… even now without such things… where is God?”

Freddy said nothing, merely continuing to stare forwards. The old woman shook her head, cooing again. “Surely you have noticed, sadiq… that the God of the universe seems very hard to see. His presence is obvious… but why does he hide?” She lowered her head. “And why… if he is so loving… do we suffer so? No, lord Barbarossa, the facts are so much more horrifying. God… hates us.” Freddy leaned back and Kamelya walked away. She began to pace in the dark, the white glow of her eyes sticking out from her silhouette in the shadows. “We are his play things… his unaffectionate ragdolls. We are a form of entertainment to a superior being, sadiq! Like a child playing with ants. And yet we so submissively continue to endure his manipulations… his indifferences… his cruelties. And why? Why do we not try to be free?”

“What are you saying?” Freddy asked again, pulling a bit on the chains above his head. “That we should kill God?”

Kamelya turned to him. Even in the shadows, he could see the darkness on her face curl upwards into a smile. “Exactly.” She walked excitedly forwards, stepping just a few inches away from Freddy. “Have not the Qara-Suu come so close already? We have robbed these lands of their gods, sadiq. Do you not see it?! The mosques are empty. The churches are barren. Holy places have been defiled. Holy wars have been stopped in their tracks… and for seemingly no reason! ‘What is this new change? Why is God so powerless to stop it?’ the people will begin to wonder… and it is that wonderment—that questioning—that signals the first hammer stroke.” She smiled, brushing Freddy’s cheeks and leaning in closer, speaking into his ear. “I will reveal the weakness of God…" she smiled. "...and for once... we will be free…”

Freddy began to chuckle into Kamelya’s ear. The old woman pulled away and looked into his face. The man was smiling, keeping his mouth closed but looking as if he were almost unable to contain his laughter. Kamelya frowned and stood motionless. “What are you laughing at… dead man?”

“You,” Freddy replied, keeping his chin down. “Is it not obvious?”

Kamelya’s eyes narrowed, then she suddenly smiled. She brought up her hand and ran it through her hair. “Oh?” She said. “Do I have something in my hair?”

“No,” Freddy laughed, looking up at her. “But this whole time I looked at the Qara-Suu as something to fear. But now,” he shook his head, no longer laughing. “I almost pity you and what will come to you all…”

Kamelya stood in the shadows, her black silhouette standing quiet and motionless before Freddy. A wind passed in from the outside, blowing between them and rattling Freddy's chain. Somewhere on the outside as well, a crow could be heard.

The old woman knelt down, picking back up her bowl of soup. She got back up and began to sift her spoon through the stew. “Very well, sadiq… I can see you are too far gone to understand what I am trying to do for you.” Then, suddenly, from the bowl she pulled a dagger and thrust it into Freddy’s mouth. Barbarossa let out a brief gag and then there was crack as Kamelya quickly turned the dagger inside.

Freddy’s head lumped forward—lifeless and without any further word. Kamelya knelt over and placed her ears near his mouth, looking up at him. “What, master?” She asked. “No longer hungry?” She pulled the dagger out of his mouth and it snapped out violently. She put the blade back into the stew and began turn around. “Then farewell," she said, pulling open the cage door and stepping out into the shadowy hallway outside...

"Farewell Frederick Barbarossa…”

[Thanatos Eclipse]

Kolachee Landing

As the Admiral stands on the deck of his flagship, the Harbinger (named after a ship of Omani myth), he scans the horizon, contemplating the coming battles. Although dark clouds filled the sky, the ocean was comparably calm and there was a strong easterly wind. ‘It seems Allah smiles on them this day.’ the Admiral thinks to himself.

Then on the horizon a dark shape appears, seeming to rise from the ocean itself. “Death shows himself!” yells an engineer, “Turn back now! We are not welcome in these waters.” The dark shape quickly assumes the form of a mighty black ship. The sailors just laugh as many of the Harbinger’s civilian crew panic at the sight of the black ship.

Admiral Walid allowed himself a quiet chuckle, for this ship was not the demon they feared, but one born of Omani hands. It was the Black Wraith; or at least her latest incarnation. The Black Wraith, one of the finest ships in the Admiralty, was the personal vessel of none other then Captain Amr. Walid marveled at the Wraith’s slender form as if glided smoothly over the water, like a shadow, quickly overtaking the Omani Fleet. As the Wraith draws near, they hoist an Omani flag, calming the Fleet’s panicking civilians. Walid searches the Wraith’s deck, but Amr is nowhere to be seen. ‘Probably in his cabin preparing letters for his Contacts’ the Admiral concludes, something he should be doing himself. As soon as they landed he was planning on sending letters to both of their new easterly neighbors, the Rajputs and Khwarezm; something he was yet to start. With a heavy mind the Admiral heads to his cabin to take a stab at the first true effort at foreign relations, since the rise of the Admiralty; he could only hope things would go smoothly.


From a hilltop overlooking the Indus delta, Admiral Walid watched as more troops disembarked from the Fleet to go and join the siege of the nearby city of Kolachee. Turning around he walks into his command tent. Amr, sitting at a table and surrounded by his usual pile of letters, talks to a shady looking character. As soon as the Admiral enters, the figure is dismisses and Captain Amr addresses Walid, “We have received word from the Rajputs, but the Khwarezm remain silent. The Rajputs seem eager to welcome us to these lands, and they are even eager to help us rid them of the Malikate’s influence.”

The Admiral ponders this news for a second, then responds “The silence of the Khwarezm troubles me. They have proved in the past to be quite aggressive when it comes to claiming lands they see as their own. It may prove prudent to form an alliance with the Rajputs; but that aside for now, what of the Malikate’s forces?

“I’m compiling that information now and shall have it to you shortly, but for now,” Amr suspiciously grins, “I have an offer you will be most interested in.” Amr indicates an Indian man sitting in the tent’s corner, “This mercinary commander wished to offer his serves-”

“Mercenaries!” Walid furiously interrupts, “We’re not here to support the Malikate’s left over scum, we’re here to free the people of Sindh.”

Amr patiently waites for the Admiral to settle down before continuing, “I think you’ll feel differently about these noble warriors. Have you ever heard of elephants?”

[Thanatos Eclipse]

High General Kahlan

In the middle of a desert on a march to retake the castle of Bam, the High General Kahlan receives the news: Peace has been signed with the Shah. From atop his horse, Kahlan furiously reaches down and grabs the messenger by his collar. With a tug of great strength and a nasty snarl, the messenger finds himself uncomfortably close to the burning glare of the High General’s intense eyes. Shaking the messenger, but unable to articulate in his rage, Kahlan screams and throws the messenger hard into the sand.

Struggling to sit up and fearing for his life, the messenger stutters “Th-the Grand Admiral p-ports at the nearb-by Gwad-dar. T-talk to him!”

Clenching his reins tighter, determination seeping into his face, Kahlan yanks his horse around and races for the coast; leaving his confused forces in his wake.


The door burst open to the Admiral’s cabin. Two marines struggle to stall the march of the husky Kahlan, but to no avail. Kahlan leans down to step through the door, dragging the Marines with him. Seated behind his desk, the Grand Admiral waves his guards away and addresses Kahlan “Well Great Imam Kahlan, wish I could say this was completely unexpected. I do hope you didn’t rough up my messenger too much. He’s a good man.”

“Don’t call me that!” Kahlan snaps. “I gave up my rights to that title the day the Imamate fell.”

“Of course,” Walid replied, “how silly of me to forget. Now once your army catches up, your to march on Firuzabad.”

Kahlan slams his fist on the table. A loud crack pierces the air, but the table does not give. “You expect me to go after rebels! The Shah killed my nephew! I was so close!” At this point Kahlan screams in rage; picking up the Admiral’s table, he throws it against the far wall.

Guards rush in the room at the commotion, swords drawn, but Walid remained unfazed. Dismissing his guards again Walid replies “Your nephew was an idiot, but that’s not what this is about. You hated your nephew, so this must be more about taking orders from an Admiral.”

Kahlan smirked, “You Floaters are all the same, you might be able to make your stand on water, but you don’t know how to stand on land.” The General looks back at the closed door and then laughs, “You’re all alone Admiral; I could kill you right now and run the Omani way better than you.”

“There’s just two problems with that.” the Admiral replies. “First off, the people of Oman are aligned with the Navy. Even if you kill me, they would never follow you. And secondly,...” In the blink of an eye, Walid knocks the legs out from under Kahlan, sending him crashing to his knees. Before Kahlan even hits the ground, Walid has his sword drawn just hairs from the High General’s neck. “...we’re on water and you forgot your sea legs. Now I’m giving you a choice: you can either take orders from me or go discuss your mistakes with your ancestors. At this point I really couldn’t care either way.”

Kahlan manages a painful snarl “Yes, Grand Admiral.” Walid shoves him back towards the door. By this time guards had reentered the room and Walid orders them to escort the General off his ship. As the door closes behind Kahlan, Walid allows himself a smile until he see the horrible state of his cabin; at which point he frowns and heads off to find some sailors to clean it up.