Lords of the East - Library

**barcamartin** · 06-29-2010, 22:43

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** · 06-30-2010, 14:32

“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** · 07-02-2010, 01:13

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.

**Quirl** · 07-06-2010, 16:09

Büyü Evi burned with the mad intensity of a sun. The witches' coven collapsed into black brick and stone, the ghul all around killing everyone they came across. Hooded witches ran into the woods, tripping over the thick snow as they attempted flee—only to be chased down by the ravaging horsemen chasing them from behind.

The young witch apprentices became cattle for the smiling ghul, their robes torn off as they were tossed around in the freezing, bloody snow. Giant spikes were erected, the witches skewered on top for all to see. And more ghul poured in through the city, shouting whispers in the misty, night air: "Heretics! Heretics! Heretics! Heretics!"

The fires could be seen from miles away. The screams could be heard from farther. Pillars of smoke rose up from the middle of the woods, carried away by the blizzard forming in the sky.

"The Black Prophet's word is divine!" A masked man in silk proclaimed atop a growing pile of charred bodies. "His coronation into Kâhin is marked by the deaths of the old faiths! Wear your masks in proud submission to Him, sadiqs! You are not men while you wear His face! Let all those who do not bow down fear you in this form!" The ghul around him danced and shook their heads, wild snarls and screams pouring out of the grins of their helms.

"All praise is to the Qara-Kâhin!" The masked man exclaimed. "All praise is to the Nasreddîn!"

A new day for the Qara-Suu had begun...

**phonicsmonkey** · 07-30-2010, 13:15

Bohemund of Antioch sat atop his mount at the Royal Pier watching the fleet depart, the tall ships silhouetted against the afternoon sun as they made their way west and into the Mediterranean Sea like a great flock of birds.

A clatter of hoofs and the clanking of steel behind him announced the arrival of a group of unwanted visitors.

He turned to see five men, their armour dusty, their steeds frothing and sweaty with the exertion of their ride.

Catching his breath, their leader addressed him.

Sirrah, the Crusader King Guy would bid you tell him the whereabouts of the scoundrel Frederick of Swabia, wanted by His Majesty for the crime of treason! We are to seek him out and bring him to Gaza to face the justice of the Steward of Christ.

Bohemund smiled.

And what use would Guy have for this man? Has he not more to occupy him than petty vengeance? Does not the Ayyubid Sultan yet harass his southern flank while the steppe devils drive a wedge into the Levant? Is not Jerusalem itself under siege and soon to fall?

The man looked uncomfortable.

I have my orders sir.

The Duke of Antioch turned his back on the man and looked out once more to sea. He waved towards the departing ships.

The fellow you seek is aboard the fleet, heading to his certain doom at the hands of the Byzantine navy. If you wish to pursue him I can loan you a rowboat!

The men grumbled and cursed among themselves, their mission now futile and no doubt unpaid. Bohemund turned to their leader once more.

So what now? Will you swim after him? Will you attempt the journey back to Egypt to your mad King? His desert throne is sure to fall before long, as is Antioch. You would be better served manning the defences here against our foe. At least we will pay you a wage and you will have food and wine to fill your bellies. Well, what of it?

They discussed this for a moment before assenting. The Duke directed them to the captain of the guard, whom he bade instruct them in the defence of the city.

When they had departed, leaving him alone at the quayside once more, a hooded man emerged from the shadows behind a stack of crates.

The man drew back his cowl. It was Freddie Swabia.

I cannot thank you enough sir, you have been more than kind - I owe you my life.

Bohemund smiled.

It was nothing! I would have done it just to spite that fat pretender...but for you Freddie I would do more. I have not forgotten the largesse shown by you and Barbarossa after the sack of Tartus. Many of our defensive structures were built with that Armenian gold - God help us if they do not now hold back the hordes.

But where will you go now? What will you do? You are welcome to remain with my here - but while I can promise to protect you from Guy and perhaps the Byzantines I cannot in good faith tell you I shall be able to keep you safe from the blades of the Qara-Suu. I fear that Antioch is doomed my young friend, like the rest of our fledgling Kingdom, cut short suddenly like a dream harshly awakened from...

The golden rays of the late afternoon sun bathed the men in a honey glow as a warm breeze whipped in from the sea, bringing with it the tangy brine taste of the surf.

Freddie stood for a moment gazing out at the ocean before responding.

I'll go home, I suppose. Back to Swabia, to challenge Henry the Lion for my ancestral lands. I hear that he and that decrepit Pope plan to set him up as Kaiser and enslave Germany under the Roman yoke - Barbarossa should have had that title, so I intend to do what I can to oppose the so-called Lion and honour my cousin's memory.

Bohemund grimaced.

Well sir, if you are to oppose the Pope and his chosen Kaiser you'll need more than right on your side! You'll need to have a keen political sense, a certain lack of scruples, a silver tongue and a brain more cunning than a fox. Or you'll need to find yourself an adviser who can lend you his.

Freddie Swabia laughed out loud.

I think I know just the man..