Lords of the East - Library

[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.

[Thanatos Eclipse]

Dark Contacts

On a dark corner, in a small port town, two hooded figures meet. As they exchange greetings, footsteps and torchlight approach them from up the street. They dive into the crevasses of an alleyway until the patrol passes. Back in the moonlight, one of the figures passes a sealed letter to his hooded associate.


“Amr?”

“Who else?”

“What’s he want?”

“Don’t know; just passing this along the black line.”

“Important, huh? What’s going down?”

“Wish I knew, Malekate’s destroyed and I heard the Admiral just signed peace with the Shah.”

“Then again, the Captain always got something urgent.”


As more footsteps approach, the two strangers part ways, disappearing into the night.

[Zim]

Konya 1187

For a short period of time, all of Konya fell silent. The streets were empty, and even the traders closed up shop. The bulk of the town's inhabitants gathered on or near the southern walls, eyes and ears straining to see or hear that which travelers reported was coming their way. Then a shout arose from the crowd. Ever so slowly, banners came into view, and the slow rythmic thud of soldiers marching in step grew louder and louder, until even those not content to gawk silently could not hear themselves or their companions speak. Over the next few hours thousands of Roman troops, spearmen, swordmen,archers, and cavalry ranging from humble Hippotoxotai to Kataphratoi in their gleaming armor passed by a scant several hundred yards from the city walls, marching to the northeast.They were followed by a supply train guarded by heavy cavalry, then lastly by merchants and camp followers of every nationality, hoping to profit from the army on it's infrequent rests from marching, or simply to benefit from its protection for a time as they traveled to far off markets.

Then as swiftly as they appeared, the army vanished over the horizon. For some time silence fell again over the city, until the very banner was out of sight. Then the air was filled with the sounds of rumors as the townspeople discussed what they had witnessed and debated its purpose. Some, noting the direction of its march, thought the army intended to conquer Tbilisi and the rest of the old Georgian province. Others thought the Emperor was sending the force as an honor guard for that same city as it seemed it may replace Baghdad as the center of diplomacy. A traveler from Constantinople asserted that the army was marching for far off India, to conquer land and bring back Elephants for the Imperial armies. Only a scant few pragmatic souls dared share their opinion that with two massive warring nations on their border, that maybe the forces were being sent to guard the borders and ensure them against the parties of raiders that arise during war, and to keep the Empire safe from invasion in turbulent times.

[barcamartin]

Crown prince Shahanshah shrugged. His forces were already marching out through the same gates they raised their flags on a few days earlier. It pained him to see the looks in the people's eyes. He had been honoured, praised and celebrated as a true liberator after he had rid the city of its small Crusader garrison. Now he saw pain, desperation and misery in the dark eyes of his Brothers, the very same he was supposed to protect. He couldn't bare the thousands of eyes turned towards him, full of judgement and shock, so he turned from the beautiful skyline of his beloved city and looked out over the Nile delta.

Like a powerful and wonderfully blue and green snake, the Mother of Rivers made its way over the plains and gave life to the otherwise barren earth of Egypt. It had given birth to Al-Qahira, the most majestical city in a kingdom once proud and strong, now reduced to a court in exile, a people in terror and an army in flight. The setting sun sent stars over the crawling waters, and the light wind slightly rattled the palm trees outside the city walls. There were no farmers on the fields. No fishermen on the river. His country was dead, and its sultan was just as absent as a man already dead and buried.

Ibrahim, the man Shahanshah had given command of the remaining Ayyubid forces, rode out with the last group of Ghulams. Only Shahanshah's own bodyguards were still left below the walls. He sighed deeply, refused to look at the gathered crowds inside the walls, and left the city through the gatehouse. It felt as if his heart fell through the ground. He felt nothing but shame about his decision, but what was he to do? The struggle he had sworn to commit the rest of his life to had never seemed more hopeless.

[Quirl]

“What are you doing?!” Kamelya asked, approaching the throne of the Qara-Khağan
and throwing down a letter addressed to her at his feet. “What is this nonsense?!” She concluded.

In the dark tent, a wind howled from the outside, flickering the torches sitting on either side of the black khan’s throne. Behind the shadow of Nasreddîn stood the merchant-diplomat Akin. He watched as the crumpled letter smacked onto the rug below—his black eyes unreadable beneath the emotionless gaze of his white mask. Equally unreadable was the gaze of the Nasreddîn, whose scowling helm sat perfectly still upon his broad shoulders—his own eyes staring off in the distance—two balls of black shadow looking beyond the angry witch at his feet.

“The Qara- Khağan,” Akin explained, bowing, “feels the time to act as mercenaries in the world has expired.” He began to step forward from the throne—down the steps to the rug where the letter lay. The elaborate dress of blue silk and cloth blew behind him as he walked—one arm upward and an erect posture as he spoke. “And that the Qara-Suu should now take their place amongst the kings and queens of the earth.”

“You are undoing EVERYTHING I have worked for!” Kamelya said, ignoring Akin and looking straight at the Qara-Khağan. Her white eyes glared furiously from the beneath the shadows of her robes. “Have you forgotten everything I have taught you!”

Akin stood forward. “My lady... I am the voice of the Qara-Kâhin. You will address me when you speak to him.”

“You are a pawn!” Kamelya said, finally turning her attention to the man. “You have always been a pawn. A mere piece in a design more grand than you can imagine!” Kamelya turned back to Nasreddîn. “And now your ‘Kâhin’ threatens to ruin it all.” She glared, stepping forward past Akin and brushing him aside.

“My lady,” Akin began again.

“Sit down,” Kamelya said, brushing her hand. And with her words, Akin hit the floor. She moved past the stunned man and stood before the throne of Nasreddîn. The black khan turned his stare down onto the woman and the two merely stood there for several moments—quiet—still—unwavering. Finally, Kamelya took one more step forward and lowered her chin. “You will undo everything, child. Everything we have worked for. Everything we have accomplished. Nations fall. Kings fall. And with them… their ideas fall. Can’t you see?” her voice softened, before gradually picking up into a hoarse yell. “Can’t you see this is so much more than about increasing your OWN POWER?!”

The black khan stood up and unseathed one of the many swords lying next to his throne. Kamelya took a step back and Nasreddîn took one forward, down the steps of his throne and onto the dirty rug on the ground.

Kamelya scowled and clinched her fists into tight balls, her body shaking. “And now you call yourself Kâhin—a prophet of God.” The last word sat on her tongue for several moments, like the last echo of a noise reverberating down an empty hall. She knelt forward and threw her hand past her face. “GOD!”

Nasreddîn took another step towards her—the heavy, serrated scimitar in his armored grip clanging as he walked.

Kamelya growled—like a beast being backed into a corner. “You would ruin everything… to only increase your own power for a single lifetime.”

The black khan continued to walk—each step louder and more forceful than the next—each step sending Kamelya one step backward, towards the exit of the tent. She looked behind her to the exit, a gray and windy night awaiting her outside. Then she turned her attention back to Nasreddîn. “Cursed are the Qara-Suu because of you,” she said, pointing her gnarled finger to the giant. “The Ghūl will die and so will everything we have worked for! You fool!” She snarled. “YOU FOOL!”

Nasreddîn took several steps forwards and started into a full sprint. Kamelya began to step away, but the black khan was too fast. He thrust his serrated sword back and plunged it into the abdomen of the witch.

Kamelya stood there leaning over the blade in her stomach. Her eyes widened to tiny white pearls and she coughed some blood out of her throat. She looked down and saw the blade, sticking out from beneath her robes and drawing out a slither of blood down its edge. Then she slowly began to step backward—the sword making a metallic squeal as it left her body. And soon Kamelya stepped all the way out of the tent.

The ghūl around her looked up in surprise as the witch stumbled out. She continued to walk backward, gripping the wound gushing in her belly and her blind eyes staring off shocked into the distance.

She turned around and started into the night, the smiling faces of the ghūl around her watching curiously as she moved. They began to follow her, arching their back and moving steadily behind each and every one of her steps.

Kamelya stumbled, but kept moving. She stumbled again, but kept moving. Finally, she could walk no further and fell to the dirt—a cloud of gray sands rushing up as she hit the floor. The ghūl around her stopped and waited.

The witch raised her face to the bright moon, listening to the rolling winds coming through the northern mountains. She closed her eyes and took a heavy breath, releasing her hands from the hole in her stomach and letting them fall absently to her sides. “God,” she said, her voice strained and tired—her eyes shut and her words slow. “God hath deceived me.”

And with that, the ghūl around her pounced. They rushed upon her in a frenzy—their swords, maces, and smiles blending together in a violent storm of red and silver. They tore into her, the sounds of their massacre carrying viciously across the night sky.

And from the tent, the Nasreddîn watched emotionlessly—unmoved and uncaring at the scene playing out before him. He took a step backward—into the shadows of his rustling tent—and closed the curtain before him.

Up in the sky, some clouds began to eclipse the moon—its silver light illuminating less the world beneath it. And over them all the winds moved on by like they always had—carrying the sounds of Kamelya's death from one end of the earth to the next.

Somewhere far away, a crow howled for the very last time, flying off and never returning—leaving behind some feathers as it flew into the dark and into the sounds of the howling winds...

[phonicsmonkey]

Freddie Swabia sat at the back of the Edicule of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, arms crossed and a scowl on his face as he watched the interminable coronation ceremony drag on and on.

Prince Guy (he wasn't the King yet!) stood at the front under the rotunda, bathed in candlelight and with a beatific expression on his fat face (oh how Freddie longed to punch it) as the various monks, cardinals and whatnot made their various cermonial movements with incense and holy water and chanted their Latin monotonously.

It was fair to say Freddie was not entering into the spirit of the occasion.

In fact he was more or less aghast at more or less everything that had happened since he left Mardin (and quite a lot before that). He had been furious at Guy's decision to leave Baldwin and poor Barbarossa to their fate, all the more so when they had arrived at Damascus to the news that the entire eastern empire had been overrun by the ghul and all of Baldwin's and Barbarossa's conquests lost.

He refused to believe that Freddie Barbarossa was dead, although he knew in his heart that it must be so. He had not grieved for him, had not allowed himself to. Instead he had channelled his emotion into a steadily growing hatred for Guy which was reaching fever pitch during this ceremony. How fatuous Guy had been on hearing the news! How self-serving was his insistence that they forge ahead to Jerusalem!

And how terrifically bone-headed and arrogant it was to have the flower of European knighthood sitting around in this dusty old church watching Guy's moment of triumph, when the very existence of the Kingdom hung in the balance, when the ghul threatened even the Levant and when even the crusaders' oldest allies the Byzantines had declared war!

A cowled figure entered the Edicule and sat down next to Freddie with a rustle of silk.

I take it you are not best pleased with this turn of events young Swabia came the low whisper.

Freddie turned and saw piercing blue eyes and a curl of dark hair under the cowl. It was Orloomo Bland.

You! he breathed But everyone thinks you are dead!

Bland looked anxious.And well I shall be if I am discovered here. Guy has great hatred for Baldwin and anyone closely associated with him. He means to eradicate his memory.

Swabia scoffed. He won't have time - we'll be overrun with horse-demons and greek politicians before he has a chance to do anything!

Bland smiled. I have a plan to deal with that - but I need your help young friend. After I fled Baghdad I travelled north into the lands of the ghul searching for a woman I had known at the Seljuk Court and then at Baldwin's. A woman by the name of Kamelya. I had reason to believe that she would be authorised by the ghul to negotiate on their behalf and I was correct. I found her at Qara-Qale where the ghul have established their capital. With her I struck a deal.

Swabia interrupted. Seigneur Bland, I'm sorry but...did she know anything of my cousin Barbarossa?

Bland's face darkened and he turned away for a moment before responding. No. She did not.

There was a moment's silence as both men sat in quiet reflection. A dove which had been roosting in the rafters took flight for a moment in the domed roof and a single white feather floated down through the thick, hot night air.

Bland continued. I promised her the contents of the King's treasury should she turn her armies away.

Swabia almost choked. You did WHAT?!

The people in the stall in front shifted in their seats and murmured at this. A mailed knight, standing in the aisle, looked over at them suspiciously. Swabia's face flushed and he stared intently ahead at the ceremony until peace was restored.

Bland rebuked him. Please keep your voice down, I have no desire to swing from a gibbet this evening. The King's treasury, in full, shall be paid to the ghul and they will leave us be, at least for a time. Think of it this way - we have compiled great riches in our conquests. Our armies are at full recruitment capacity, our cities are well developed and our navy is the envy of the Mediterranean. We have nothing left to spend this money on, it only serves..

Swabia finished his thought for him. ...to enrich King Guy.

Ahead on the dais Guy was receiving the crown of Jerusalem, a triumphant expression on his fat, punchable face.

But how will you get access to the Treasury? Don't you need..

This key? said Bland, holding an ornate brass key in his hand. All I need, young friend, is your assistance in getting past the guards.

Swabia looked at the key, glinting in the candlelight. But what if it's a trick? If they simply mean to rob us and then slay us all anyway?

Bland grinned. Then we are no worse off, at least personally, correct?

Swabia thought for a moment.

Right, let's go.