Lords of the East - Library

[phonicsmonkey]

Barbarossa left the tent as soon as he was able and caught up with Swabia who was making his way back to their shared camp. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder, only to have him shrug it off as he turned angrily to face him, tears in his eyes and stabbing one finger into his chest in accusation.
"You could have stood up for me in there! After everything! We had a deal!"

"Freddie..."

"Don't 'Freddie' me you snake! Why shouldn't I run you through like the traitor you are?"

"Baldwin is King - it's his decision who rides with him."

"And I suppose you think it's just fine that I come all this way from Germany only to be relieved of my command and put in charge of some dusty village full of camel traders in the middle of the desert? While you prance off with His Majesty to save the world? You're a piece of work."

"Freddie, it's not like that - he needs a good man to stay behind and help Prince Guy prepare the rearguard. In case things go wrong.."

"I'll tell you what's wrong - it's YOU, leaving me behind after all we've been through together. I always knew you'd do it one day..after all, you're the heir to the Empire and I'm just poor little Freddie of Swabia, might be Duke one day if his brother dies.."

"Freddie, I'll share the treasure with you - we can roll dice for it, like before!"

"Sod off Fred, I don't want your charity!"

"Come now.."

But it was too late. Swabia had run off into the night. Barbarossa let him go - he'd calm down and after all there was nothing to be done. The decision had been made.

Two armies would set off from Mardin the next morning to seize the fortress at Mosul and break the peace with the Seljuk Caliphate, and King Baldwin and Frederick Barbarossa would be at their heads.

[Quirl]

Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Yilmaz & Batudai)
Ganja (October 19, 1183)

Yilmaz sat across from Batudai, the chunks of flesh and bone mashing between his teeth—some blood and oils dripping onto his obese frame. Across from him, the smaller Batudai remained more silent. Incased inside his armor, his fingers twitched on the armrests of his splintery throne. Between the gauntlets and chainmail, the flesh underneath shown brown and boiled in the tent’s candlelight.

Yilmaz stole a glance up at his friend, watching his fingers click and click next to his knee. Yilmaz smiled—a big, toothy grin wrapped in cooked flesh and meat—and nodded to Batudai. “How are the shakes, youngling?”

Yilmaz’s voice echoed inside the tent, traveling to the other end where Batudai sat. Batudai’s helm—the metal face of a frowning man—turned upwards to face his fellow Qara-Suu. “Fine,” he said, his words carrying much more hoarse and quieter between them.

Outside, a wind rocked the tent and Yilmaz let loose another smile. Turning again to the feast of flesh below him, he continued to banter, “So… what do you think of these lands, youngling?” A rip of flesh reverberated as Yilmaz stripped another bone. “They are quite beautiful, no? The Seljuks had something nice here… and the Georgians before them…”

“Grass and dirt,” Batudai replied, his words quiet and indifferent beneath the helm.

Yilmaz laughed. “Aw… come now,” he said, stopping his feast just long enough to extend his arms and grin. “You must… every once and awhile… taste the beauties of life, youngling. What does one gain,” he leaned forward, resting his chubby cheeks on his arms, “by ignoring beauty… sensation… pleasure?”

Batudai lifted his head again to face Yilmaz—the fingers at his knees twitching louder and louder on the splinters of his throne. “The more you have, the more you are scared of losing… before you know it.... fear controls you…”

“One should conquer his fear,” Yilmaz replied, turning away from the boy. “Ignorance does not bring bravery.”

“Bravery is not needed,” Batudai retorted, “if you do not know fear.”

“You mean to say, sadiq... that you do not fear, Batudai?” Yilmaz smiled from across the other end of the tent, wrapping his giant fingers across his lips.

Another wind rustled the tent’s exterior, and the masked boy shifted in his throne. “We all fear,” he replied, his words heavy and slow—calculating and cruel. Then Batudai tilted his head. “But I fear less than you, fat one.”

“HA! Perhaps so,” Yilmaz replied, turning away from the boy again and sinking his teeth deeper into the juicy slab of meat in his hands. “Perhaps so…”

Outside, another gust of wind rustled the tent. Some horses there snarled at the encroaching dusk. The whispers of the ghul outside also carried through the tent, along with the crunching of Yilmaz eating inside.

Batudai lifted his head and nodded, “How is the captain?”

“He tastes delicious,” Yilmaz replied, licking his lips and turning to face his comrade.”I can feel his power coursing through me.”

“Can you taste his fear?” Batudai asked, a genuine curiosity in the otherwise unreadable tone.

Yilmaz stopped chewing for a moment and lifted his head. In the shadow of the now almost completely dark sky, only a few candles illuminated the stitched animal hide of their tent. Yilmaz's cheeks retracted, like the curtains being pulled back, to reveal a dark and hungry smile underneath. "This man was ripe with fear," Yilmaz replied, "and that is why I can taste his beauty."

[phonicsmonkey]

After weeks of riding with him at the head of the Crusader host, Barbarossa was still none the wiser about Baldwin.

The King kept himself to himself and only infrequently had Barbarossa been summoned to his tent to discuss practical issues such as the proper upkeep of siege engines or the correct method for rationing water and supplies. Since they had occupied this city of Samara some days ago he had heard nothing from Baldwin and had spent his time among his troops, gambling, drinking and making merry with the local women in order to pass the time.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps it was for the best that he was not often in the King's presence, for the rumours of his affliction by leprosy persisted among the men and grew more lurid and fantastic by the day. Fred had no desire to depart this earth lying prone on a gurney - let the blades of the infidel cut him down first!

So it was with some surprise that he now hurried in the dead of night to the Royal tent having been aroused from his slumber by a messenger bearing the King's personal seal.

Stepping through the drapes and into the circle of torchlight he saw Baldwin in conversation with a hooded figure across a table of charts.

Barbarossa cleared his throat to announce his entry and the King turned and beckoned him join them.

'Barbarossa, come hither and meet our loyal friend - this is Monsieur Bland who has been our inside man at the Caliph's court.'

Bland stood to greet him and pulled back his hood, revealing a boyish face and long well-kempt dark hair. His blue eyes glittered in the torchlight.

'Frederick Barbarossa I presume?'

Fred offered his hand and was surprised at the softness of the stranger's grip. Bland's skin was smooth...like a woman's...with no callouses from the bearing of arms - he had clearly not seen battle in his few years.

'Indeed sir, that is how I am known...'

There followed an awkward moment as the two men regarded each other warily. Baldwin broke the silence.

'Fred, our young friend has brought us plans of the Baghdad defences. It appears there is a weak point in the city walls where our rock-throwing engines could be brought to bear. We could create a breach which would spare us the bloody job of taking the gates.'

Bland continued.

'Indeed. In addition my sources indicate that at any rate the city is ill-equipped for an extended siege. It has been only a year or so since the Seljuks took the city from the former Caliph of the Abbasid dynasty and they cannot depend on the populace for loyalty. It is likely that the garrison will prepare to meet your forces in battle outside the walls in an attempt to defeat you outright, so as not to test the mettle of the people who they fear will arise and overthrow them if they are made to feel the hardship of a siege.'

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully.

'Sir, you will be richly rewarded for this information. Fred, ready the men..at dawn we ride on Baghdad.'

[phonicsmonkey]

Freddie Swabia was bored bored bored.

He sat on the low stone wall hurling pomegranates at goats until the young goatherd finally dared to berate him and was pelted savagely with fruit for his troubles. The pomegranate salesman knew better and instead silently kept track of the missing fruit - he would present an invoice to the quartermasters at the Latin camp later.

Mardin was no place for a bright young thing to be stranded. There was nothing here but dust, more dust, goats, camel-salesmen and pomegranates.

Even Prince Guy had stuck around for only a day or so after Baldwin's and Barbarossa's departure before disappearing into the desert on some flimsy pretext ('securing the King's retreat by capturing desert settlements') leaving nary but a cloud of dust in his wake.

Now Swabia was in charge of the rapidly dwindling camp and bore the lofty title of 'Governor' of Mardin. So far his gubernatorial duties consisted mainly of procuring booze and women to keep the garrison happy whilst arbitrating in disputes between rival camel-salesmen.

He was royally fed up.

One goat came rather too close for safety. It looked a bit like Barbarossa - Swabia picked out a particularly large pomegranate and readied his arm.

[phonicsmonkey]

Baldwin pored over the brittle pages of the ancient illuminated Qu'ran set before him on the mosaic reading table in the Great Library of Baghdad.

Since the capture of the great capital of the Caliphate the young King had spent the majority of his time just here, taking in the accumulated knowledge of the Islamic world in an attempt to better understand his new subjects. At first he had been motivated by a simple desire to minimise the risk of a violent uprising by demonstrating a cultural sensitivity. After all, it was no secret how the people felt about being ruled by the Christian King of 'stolen' Jerusalem. The Crusaders were hardly thought of warmly by the Islamic world.

However, as he read more he began to find his interest piqued. His education by William of Tyre had imbued him with an inquiring mind, and he soon began to find himself asking uncomfortable questions about such weighty topics as the nature of God and the relative merits of Islam and his own faith.

Even putting such metaphysical quandaries aside, he began to develop an admiration for the simple and moral lives led by these humble yet proud folk. Their devotion to family and respect for one another seemed to display a nobility he had not reckoned on encountering. Perhaps Saladin was not the only Arab to display an innate understanding of chivalric values.

So here he was, deep in the Qu'ran, looking for answers and finding only more and more questions.

He sat up for a moment and re-engaged with his surroundings. A few meters away a group of Benedictine monks were engaged in a vociferous debate with a huddle of Imams, through translators evidently not skilled enough for the subtleties of the discussion.

Baldwin allowed himself to imagine a future in which he ruled over an Empire housing a multitude of faiths, living side by side in harmony, their differences only adding to the rich fabric of a varied and vibrant society where all the talents of men were recognised and encouraged, regardless of faith, colour or creed.

An Empire not unlike, in fact, the Ummayad Caliphate at its peak, if the Arab histories he had been reading yesterday were to be believed...

[Quirl]

Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde: Lord of Terror)
Baghdad (November 8, 1185)

The boy sat silently in his quarters for several minutes, licking his lips. There was a question on them.

In the other end of the room, Kamelya was bathing. Her robes were laid down beside her, crumpled up like a thick patch of dirt on the fine marble floor. She was running a sponge over her shoulders, clinching them so that the water inside would fall down her dry skin—then she would dip the sponge again in a nearby bucket, repeating the process.

The boy peaked inside, seeing the old woman sitting in the middle of the floor. He saw the fair white of the witch’s skin, cracks running down it like aged oak. He saw patches of freckles on her shoulders, areas scarred by the sun and aged by time. But the woman wasn’t ugly. Indeed, she had a strange allure about her even a boy as young as he could recognize. Not attraction; but something... else. So, the boy just continued to watch, waiting for his master to finish before he could ask his question.

But Kamelya asked first...

“Boy.”

Her voice surprised him. He had not known she was aware of him. He swallowed hard, unsure how she might react knowing he was spying on her.

Then the woman turned around to peak from behind her freckled shoulders—her blind eyes looking directly at the boy. “You stalk as if wanting to ask something…” Again, the boy swallowed. He was still unsure of how to react. “Well?” Kamelya continued, and the boy looked up at her. “What is it?”

“The people here…” the boy began, stopping for a moment to avoid appearing too eager in his questioning—looking down at the floor and struggling to find his words. “They speak of the ghūl and of their successes in the North. They speak of the Qara-Khağan and of his prowess in battle… and how of he is not human.” He swallowed. "I... I even hear they call him Terör Efendisi now—Lord of Terror. But..." He cleared his throat, shuffling his bare feet on the cold marble floor and, again, trying to find his words. Then he looked up at her, “but I know so very little about the Khağan… of Nasreddîn.... of where he came from... of who he is... anything.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes and at first the boy thought she was angry with him. But the witch made no sudden movements. She merely continued to hold the sponge on her shoulders—resting it there as it continued to drip a few more stands of water down her spine. Then the woman nodded. “What is it you’d like to know?”

“Where did he come from? Who is he? What is he?” The boy stood there ashamed for a few moments at his outburst of questions, embarrassed at his own curiosity. But as always, Kamelya stood perfectly still—perfectly unreadable.

The woman set the sponge on the floor and pulled her robes up over her shoulders. She tied it around her neck and then held her hand over her head. She waved for the boy to enter and he did—coming inside and standing just behind her… eager to hear of Nasreddîn from the the only person to have known him before he came to the steppes.

“I come from a land very far from here,” Kamelya began. “Very… very far from here… where very few have ventured and returned.” She sat on the floor facing the wall at the other end of the room. She didn’t bother to turn around to tell her story to the boy's face, but she knew that he was listening—she knew he was hanging on her every word. “I was exiled, you could say… and I have wondered the world for a very long time.” She smiled. “On one such wandering, I came across a desert.” She turned around just for a moment to smirk at the boy over her shoulder. “Not like the deserts here… no… sooo much more vast was this desert.” She turned back around and placed her fingers into her lap, focusing her blind eyes back onto the wall. “No trees… no rocks… no animals… nothing but sand and sky. And in the distance… mountains so large they held up the clouds.”

“In the Far East?” The boy asked.

“Yes,” Kamelya replied—a little surprised he had heard of such a desert. “I suppose some merchants here travel through it when wishing to avoid the lands of the Qara-Khitai.” She sighed. “But… regardless… that is the place Nasreddîn was born.”

“In the desert?” The boy asked, a confused look on his face. “How? Why did you go in if you were pregnant? Where were you going?”

“I was going nowhere,” the woman replied, turning around again for a moment to return the stare of the boy. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you realize there is no place to go... one place is just as good as another here.” She turned around and began clicking her fingers together above her knees. “As for the birth… I was not pregnant when I went in.”

“Then how?” The boy asked.

Kamelya sighed and narrowed her eyes on the far wall. Though she was blind, the boy could tell she was staring at something—perhaps actually seeing whatever memory she was recalling now inside her mind. Finally, Kamelya shifted on the floor and began to roll her head, letting the old bones inside crack as she let out faint grown. “What a memory…” she began. “Hard to recall it all.” She stopped her squirming for a moment and let out a cryptic smile. Then she continued, “I can barely recall it all now… but one night I fell asleep in the desert—just lying there in the vast nothingness that place was. The sky was dark—black clouds hiding an orange dusk… or was it dawn? I can’t recall. But... regardless… I fell asleep there. And when I woke up... there was a man.”

The boy shifted. “A man?”

“A figure… rather—one I would suppose was a man. He was on top of me when I awoke—tearing off my robes and grunting wildly into my ear. I resisted… but I was no match.”

The boy stayed silent for several seconds. Unsure of what to say.

Kamelya continued. “I awoke the next morning... unsure of what had happened. My robes were torn and I bore the marks of his assault… but there was no one in sight… no foot prints—nothing left behind. Just... me... the desert.... and the sky.”

“What happened next?”

Kamelya smiled. “I reached the edge of that desert and stepped on the first blade of grass I had seen for months… ahead of me were the mountains… snowy peaks and green trees I forgotten the beauty of. And I set up camp at the base there… the desert at my back and the snow at my front.” Her smile dropped. “I had been vomiting… cramping… feeling weak. I thought leaving that desert would help, but…”

“You were…”

“Yes,” Kamelya replied, tapping her fingers on her knee and taking in a deep breath. “I was pregnant.”

“How'd you make it past the mountains in such a state?”

The woman smiled and began to stand up, turning around to face the boy—her blind eyes turning downwards to meet his. Then, suddenly, her smile dropped and her milky white eyes suddenly became very serious. Her voice grew hoarse and she replied, “Willpower.”

The boy nodded, inquiring nothing further—unsure of what to think of the story and the woman herself, now.

The grin on the woman's face resurfaced and she started towards him. She laid a hand on the boy's head and rustled the hair there. Then she began to walk away—exiting the room and leaving him behind her, the boy standing quietly at the doorway as she left.

But as she continued to walk away, he suddenly spun around on his heel behind her. He had one last question to ask—a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to, but one he had to know—he had to ask. "My Lady..."

Kamelya turned around slowly to face the boy—the white glow of her eyes catching on the dim candlelight in the next room—her wiry gray hair masking slightly the image of her face.

"What..." the boy swallowed, unsure of how to ask—unsure of what he wanted to know and unsure of the implications of knowing. "What... is he?"

In the candlelight of the next room, Kamelya smiled at him. She just stood there with that smirk, no evidence of an answer tracing her grin and no words coming to offer aid. She simply stood there... then turned around—heading off to her bed chambers and leaving the boy standing there at the doorway.

The boy stood there for what seemed several minutes. His eyes kept wandering to the lone candle on the other end of the room. He watched it fidget on the wick, moving back and forth attempting to put itself out. His eyes wandered then to the shadows it cast on the walls—the shadows that seemed, to a boy's imagination, like the monsters and demons he'd sometimes see in his nightmares. But he was awake now and the monsters seemed very real. In fact, overall, it seemed to him the lines between dreaming and awake were being blurred...

... and monsters were real.

[phonicsmonkey]

In the dead of night, deep in the dark recesses of an imposing fortress in the eternal city of Roma, a meeting is taking place between two men who between them control the destiny of Europe.

Who are these men?

Well, the first is surely recognisable by his distinctive garb: white robes are draped over his gaunt frame and hang from his wizened limbs like bed sheets from a tree branch. Atop his bony skull is a tall and pointed white hat and around his neck dangles an over-large gilded cross on a heavy gold-link chain.

He sits, hunched, tiny and ancient, dwarfed by the cushions of the immense throne, his frail old hands folded on his bony knees, and stares intently at the other man with gimlet eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

He is Pope Urban III.

Our second participant is imbued with less celebrity but is no less influential for it. He is garbed in fine thread, embroidered with a double-headed eagle which is the symbol of imperial Germany. He is down on one knee in seeming deference to the cadaverous and sinister old Pope, but something in the way he holds his head indicates that any respect he might feel for the pontiff is tempered by equal measures of suspicion, arrogance and self-regard. In fact, he is so much taller than the old Pope that despite his position of obesiance he is still able to meet him with a level gaze.

This man is Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony, scion of the Welf dynasty.

The Lion gets up from his knee, sits down in a chair facing the Papal throne and the two man begin to speak.

They speak of Baldwin of Jerusalem and his request for assistance. He has made a pact with the Saracen, notes the Lion. This displeases us, whispers his Holiness.

The room is chill in the night air and puffs of steam are exhaled from the two mens’ lips.

They speak of Frederick Barbarossa, and his cousin Frederick of Swabia. They will join him there, breathes the Pope, I know that you fear and hate him but I will bless his crusade. He will be a hero. The Lion wants to roar at this. Why would you do so? Do you not wish for Baldwin to restrained? For Jerusalem to be returned to you? And what of me? What have I done but serve your interests? Why would you turn your back on me now?

Indeed, says the old man with a wry grin, I wish to rule Jerusalem and you wish to rule Germany, but such things are not achieved except by considerable cunning. We shall allow Barbarossa and his simple-minded cousin to gather great renown and influence, enough to challenge Baldwin for the crown of Jerusalem itself. And while he is away…

The Lion grins, I shall unite Germany and seize his throne.

And I will crown you Kaiser, the old man hisses.

The high-pitched scream of some slain night animal is heard through the leaded glass of the windows. It sounds for all the world like a child being throttled.

Listening at the doorway is another man, clad in the uniform of the Swiss Guard. At that moment he decides that on the morrow he will seek passage to the Levant to make contact with Baldwin and share with him this secret plot. Riches and renown will be his, far above what he ever could hope to achieve here.

This man is already known to us: his name is Orloomo Bland.