Legends of the Khan: BC Hotseat story thread

[Quirl]

House Seljuka of the 4th Caliphate

The Six Great Atabegs of The Battle of Atrak River

The battle was long. Delirious. It had no meaning anymore. No structure. No moral. Just slaughter. Blood and organs embalmed in the sand. Arrows like blades of grass watered by the dead. A lifeless sun staring down at it all. Indifferent. Unmoved. No God was seen watching from up there. Just the pink clouds which moved on by like they always had—unaffected by the screams and shouts below.

Thousands dead and the clouds just moved on by…

Thousands lost and the clouds just moved on by…

“Atrak, the river bordering Khurasani.” Djamal’s finger slid across the map, the sounds of the paper crumbled beneath his nail until finally his finger stopped at the image of the river. He tapped it twice and looked at the others. “That’s where they are gathered… that’s where we will meet them.”

“That’s suicide!” Sokhmen replied, standing up from the other side of the tent.”Over 6,000 Mongols! Over 4,000 horses! Even if we do succeed, their garrison in Nishapur will surely sally out and hunt down the survivors! Up to the very last…”

“Fool!” Ilgaazi now stood up from across table, the small tent shaking to his thunderous voice. “Here we wait and cower in Gorgan, whilst these demons from the east march closer and closer to Rayy! Here we wait with our great armies, and for how long?! Will we fight when their horses ride through our capital?! Will we strike when the great Khan himself tears down the holy crescent at Baghdad and lets his horses piss upon it?!” He turns to Alp, the general beside Sokhmen. “Hold your captain’s tongue lest he find it torn from his chattering teeth!”

“Should you try it,” Alp now stood up, pulling a dagger in one clean motion from his belt and pointing the serrated blade towards Ilgaazi’s throat. “You will find your Adam’s Apple upon the table.”

“SHUT UP!” Djamal’s fist pounded onto the desk, his words carried by the echo in the tent and the acid in his eyes. “Both of you! You direct your hate towards your brothers when you should direct it towards the infidel! And you direct your fear towards preserving your own lives when you should fear only the wrath of your God should you cower before Him now!” The room suddenly grew very quiet. The sands from the outside plucked at the tent, accentuating the silence that had gripped the gathering. Then ,finally, Djamal continued. “This is the only way. The Mongols are advancing and THIS is our opportunity. For too long we have watched, so eager to judge every opportunity that has come along thus far as unsuitable to ourselves. But perhaps the best opportunities are not supposed to be suitable to ourselves. Many are House Seljuka… many are the Caliphate…many are the Ummah… and many more will come after we have fallen. I say, let us prepare the way for them… let us cut off the beast’s arm so that the next man can cut off his legs… and so that the next man can gouge out his eyes… and so that the next man can cut off his head! We may die, but our martyrdom heralds the beast’s demise!”

“To be the vanguard of the infidels’ destruction!”Another general, Ahmed, proclaimed from his seat. “To die before Him in such a way… I would be most honored my friends!”

The arrow came like a sudden realization—like the quick resurfacing of a remembrance he had long forgotten. His gaze moved downwards, towards the direction he had felt it enter, and it was there he noticed the thing sticking out of his chest. Burrowed right beneath the scales of his armor and in past the chains of his mail, the arrow began to draw out blood like a syringe. The feathers at the end began to dampen and it seemed the sun around him had begun to rapidly set. Then the sudden realization hit him. Ahmed of Mashad was dead.

“TO SLAUGHTER THE INFIDEL!” Ilgaazi screamed. “Let the cowards here back down, but I… I for one… am with you Djamal.” He beat his fist against his heart and bowed. “I am with House Seljuka.”

Ilgaazi’s mace pounded against the helm of the Mongol warrior. The great demon warrior’s head made a “SQUISH” as it was crushed underneath the blow, and he fell off his horse—falling atop his own lance below. Ilgaazi shouted victory, but the battle had been lost long ago. His forces had suffered the most—first one in, first one routed. Now what little forces he had left he had attempted to take to Djamal’s line on the other side of the battlefield. His friend was still holding there and he might still have a chance. But there were just too many of the enemy.

Ilgaazi saw the arrow flying towards him. He had seen it too late to move, though it seemed to be hurled at him at an incredibly slow motion. It would strike his head, he could tell. And behind the arrow, up on a distant hill was Djamal—still fighting—still standing. Ilgaazi closed his eyes and accepted what was to come—not knowing whether this whole thing was failure or holy war.

The arrow entered Ilgaazi’s helmet and the man was killed immediately. He sloped over dead on his horse as the beast ran away from the battle—carrying the corpse of Ilgaazi waddling on his back.

Inside the tent—amidst the other’s shouting—Tegin Omar was not so eager to announce what he knew would be his final fate. Maybe the others truly were—or they simply didn’t understand—but he… he was quiet.

He was only a captain, subordinate to Ahmed. And he had only recently arrived—fresh off the boats from the Caspian expecting guard duty—now to come and hear of a suicide mission deep in Mongol territory. This wasn’t what he was expecting, but as the others seemed to accept more and more the suicidal plans of this Djamal, he only hoped that when the time came, he would find more courage than he had now.


Tegin’s bodyguard screamed as the Mongol lancer embedded his spear into his chest. The demon lifted the frail man in the air, carrying him almost entirely off his horse and laughing as he threw him to the ground. But as the beast looked up for a second strike he saw Tegin’s bow in his face.

Tegin let go of the arrow in his hands—his fingers flying out in a final wave goodbye to the Mongol before him. Then the arrow was flung forward on its bow and cleaved its way straight into the face of the Mongol directly before him. The lancer was nearly decapitated from the close shot, and he flew off his horse and into another warrior who was nearly knocked off his own stead.

Tegin then threw down his bow and pulled out his mace, grabbing also the sword that was still slung on the dead Mongol’s horse. He swung wildly at the enemy around him, softening them first with the stolen sword and then bashing in their bones with his mace. He had given in to the bloodlust of battle. He could feel nothing but it now.

More Mongols enclosed around him and one jammed his sword into his back. Another Mongol rode in from the front and threw his spear into Tegin’s chest. Yet another Mongol came and delivered the killing blow—holding his sword high in the air before slamming it down on the mad Muslim’s collar bone.

Tegin fell off his horse, still gripping the mace and sword, and watching the sky grow dark as he plummeted to the world below…

Fearless…

Dead…

The others looked to Alp and Sokhmen, waiting for their answer. Sokhmen was looking away from the others, obvious disgust and irritation on his face. But he didn’t matter—not really. Sokhmen was just a captain. Alp of Mashad was his general.

“Djamal,” Alp finally began, drawing his eyes up from his chest and unfolding his arms to speak. “You talk of opportunities… but how many have we really let slip by us? How long have we really waited? Is what you say martyrdom or impatience?” He sighed, shaking his head. “I am more inclined to believe impatience.” Then he looked to the others around him in the tent, nodding. “But your words have obviously met well with my brothers here and who I am to argue with all of you?” He again sighed, but this time, also bowed and continued to nod. “I will carry out whatever is the decision of this assembly. I will fight and die if I must… I only hope this is truly the will of Allah and that we do not rush so eagerly to death should it not be His desire…”

When Djamal’s line broke, Alp knew everything was over. His fellow general sounded the call to retreat—heavy lancers and Mongol cavalry swarming his position. On his own line, he and Sokhmen watched as the Mongol horde did the same to his soldiers. They were truly innumerable, but they had made a dent! In šāʾ Allāh! Djamal was right! They had made a dent.

Mongol foot archers lied dead, trampled beneath the hooves of Seljuk bowmen. Mongol lancers lied beneath their horses, victims of the spear and the mace. And one sight in particular—the distant image of a whole line of Mongol cavalry archers massacred beneath arrows and boulders launched from Seljuk catapults—thrilled Alp.

But at what cost? His own men littered the desert as well—the bright blue silk of their uniforms drenched in red and glowing under the sun. He had survived. Sokhmen had survived. But where would they go? No… death was just for another day.

Alp gave the signal to his captain, and Sokhmen held up the horn. He blew into it and the thing bellowed from his lips. The call to retreat was issued and his men began to frantically drop their weapons and run. Sand kicked beneath their feet as they let their tired bodies carry them as quickly as possible away from the carnage. But as Alp watched he knew not many would escape.

He turned his own horse around and began to leave the battlefield, followed soon by Sokhmen. Neither of them looked back.

The next day, Djamal and the five other Atabegs rode out from Gorgan. Their numbers were many. Even more would join them on the road ahead. Holy Warriors, farmers, zealots, mercenaries, and scours of other breeds of men marched to the river of Atrak—the place most would meet their deaths. But they would also face victory. Maybe not today. Maybe not years from now. Perhaps they would never look upon a Muslim world not beset by war and carnage. But one day it was destined. One day Allah would provide it, and the ummah would see such a Caliphate—fought for by them—died for by them. Today, they would set the first stone. Today, they would build the future....

But Djamal thought no such dreams anymore. The battle had cost too much. The mayhem was too great.

What meaning could possibly come from this? Would greater good was worth this cost? What greater good would demand the lives of so many men?! So many of his friends?! So many of his family?! What was the point?! What was the reason?! Were they really just specks of dust beneath the sky? No God? No meaning? Just the anarchy let loose by men of differing faiths, so eager to kill anyone who disagreed because the others' existence challenged the thing they hid behind—the thing they hoped so desperately was truth, but.... in their deepest corners of their hearts... knew was just lie?!

Djamal looked down at his horse as he and his armies continued their long track away from the battle. Quiet. Heavy. The Mongols weren't even pursuing them. They had lost so many themselves... but did that even matter anymore?

The sky was pink and the sun was beginning to set off behind him. His skin matched the hue—burned and bloody. He looked at the weary soldiers around him and wondered what he had dragged them into. What desperation and deception had tricked him into killing so many good men whose lives he was responsible for? What did he gain from their sacrifice? What would they gain from his?

And as the thoughts of doubt continued to settle over him, Djamal looked back to the battle behind him.

Then he saw it.

High up the sky—above the setting sun and holding just outside the pink and red clouds of dusk—a crescent stood over the battlefield.

It was impossibly huge, so close to the earth that it seemed it would slam into it. So huge, it demanded to be seen. So great, it brought tears to Djamal’s eyes.

Were it any other dusk at any other time, Djamal would have merely looked at such a sight with a curious awe. But on this night, the struggle, chaos, guilt, and pain made him truly appreciate what he was seeing—so much so, he could have sworn this simple thing in the sky was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life. And had he not come through the pain, he would have never known such beauty—he would have never seen it… this kind of beauty that could make an old warrior cry.

“Al-hamdulillāh,” Djamal whispered. “God is great…”

[phonicsmonkey]

Vizier Tariq relaxed and let his thoughts drift as he listened to his master the Caliph address the masses congregated at the Grand Masjid at Rayy. They were here to commemorate and ordain the six martyrs of the Battle of the Atrak River, whose selfless acts of bravery had, for now, halted the Mongol advance on the Seljuk capital.

Tariq was not an overly religious man and had spent more time in his youth studying science and diplomacy than he had the Qu'ran. His friendship with Sulayman, whom he had never expected to see become Caliph, had given him a rare insight into the life of a man of genuine piety. He remembered well how inspired the young Sulayman had been by his faith, how his eyes had blazed with a strange and intense fire as he had related to Tariq the stories of the Prophet and his followers he learned in the masjid. Tariq had admired this passion but had found it somewhat unsettling; he could not seem to stoke the same fires in himself and while he was a believer, he could not seem to form an emotional attachment to what, for him, seemed the distant and impersonal concept of Allah. Sulayman, it seemed, felt it within him in a way that Tariq never would.

The Caliph was speaking on the subject of sacrifice, relating the story of Abraham who was prepared to slay his only son Ishmael, an act which he mistakenly believed was the will of Allah. Abraham, like the six martyred Atabegs, was willing to give something dear to himself for a greater cause – for his faith. But his real sacrifice had come earlier, when he had followed the will of Allah and settled his family in the desert, far from the fertile lands of his tribe. From this sacrifice of Abraham rose the Islamic faith itself, for his son Ishmael founded the nation which was to give rise to the Prophet Muhammed. So it was that from the sacrifice of the Atabegs would eventually come the long-awaited era of peace and prosperity that the nations of the fourth Caliphate had been fighting for all these long years.

Tariq knew that his was a subject close to Sulayman’s heart, that he too felt the pain of a great sacrifice made for his faith. He remembered that dark day when he, as Vizier to Sulayman's elder half-brother the former Caliph Abu-Bakr, had found his master cold and dead of the plague in his bedchambers. The same bed where his predecessor the great An-Nasir had been found, slain by the same accursed Levantine pestilence let loose into the world by the perfidious Franks.

Sulayman had been summoned from the masjid and it fell to Tariq to tell him what had happened. The young man had been stunned when he realised the implication of his friend’s words. That he now had a great responsibility. That he must give up his scholarly existence, his pure and undisturbed life in the masjid and place himself in the public eye to act as shepherd to the ummah, must submit himself to scrutiny in order to serve as general to the armies of Islam. That he was now Khalifa and must risk his life to save his embattled nation.

Tariq saw the toll it had taken on his friend, both immediately and over the following years, as he battled the Byzantines across Anatolia and Syria, as he grappled with his renegage uncle Al-Qahir and was forced to permit the oppression of the Ibadis in Oman and as he faced the destruction of his brothers the Ghaznavids and the treachery of his former allies the Rajputs.

Sulayman had grown old, his face lined and colourless, his body (never athletic) weary and aching. Tariq worried greatly about his old friend and did what he could to ease his burden, but it seemed the demands never ceased, that the life of the Caliph was not his own. Many an evening he discovered Sulayman in his chambers long after nightfall, working to the flickering light of an oil-lamp on battle plans, diplomatic missives, or religious addresses.

So it had been a week before that he had found him in his usual place, late at night, working on this very speech he now sat listening to. Tariq had interrupted his friend's work and challenged him. Why should he fight on? Why should he not make a treaty with the Mongols? After all, we of the Caliphate had not lost any territory, had we? Had we not made the first attacks on both the Rajputs and the Mongols? Couldn’t the Seljuks stand for themselves? Had we not sacrificed enough?

The Caliph’s eyes had blazed with that old familiar fire as he had turned on Tariq, castigating his old friend as he had known he would. ‘Tariq, don't you see? Every man who is faithful to Allah is my child and every land in which he dwells is my house, however far flung and whatever dangers beset him. We can never sacrifice enough for the ummah.' he had said. 'This is my duty to great Allah, the reason for my life.’

And so we fight on, thought Tariq, alongside our brothers and for the very survival of our faith. To the bitter end, to the very death. Just like the Atabegs.

On the dais the Caliph was finishing his speech. He spoke of the success of the Atabegs in reducing the Mongol horde and of the victories won in the far east by the Crown Prince against the Indians. He spoke of the seeming retreat of the Mongols from Yazd to Kerman, taking them away from the Caliphate and from the heavily populated heartlands of the Seljuks.

Finally he quoted the Qu’ran, saying to the gathered faithful “There are signs in all of this for those who wish to see them.”

Even from a distance, Tariq could see the fire in his eyes as he said it.

[barcamartin]

Said-Addin looked towards the shores he was about to set foot on. He could outline the same fishing village he had left with the very same fleet a few seasons ago. Since then it seemed he had been through hell. The little village looked just the same though. Peaceful huts and small boats, lonely palm trees and endless fields of grass and sand.

He turned and looked at the rugged and torn men spread on the brave dhows, steadily working their way towards their assigned landing site. Since a few months ago they were under his command, but calling them an army or even a regiment would be an insult to the very words. They were merely the few lucky, or perhaps unlucky, survivors the many slaughters the Seljuk commanders had sent thousands and thousands of men to. He could still remember the battle he had fought and survived, facing the Mongol beasts in the narrow mountain passes south of the once proud city of Merv. Even though he had barely seen the city, he had griefed when he had heard of its' fate and he could remember how he had burned with passionate revenge, looking down at the advancing swarms of armoured riders from a hilltop, next to the legendary Alp of Yazd.

He had thought that Seljuk army to be undefeatable. Line after line of riders born in the saddle, and taught how to use their bows since before they could even walk. Commanded by the greatest general the Seljuk nation had seen, and guided by the hand of Allah he had been ascertained that the advancing hell-spawn would be thrown back into the abyss from which they had risen.

But it was not to be. Even after his Seljuk brothers had let loose arrows to turn the very sky dark, the Mongol assault had been unstoppable. He shivered as memories of blood, gore and death flickered through his mind. The Eastern invaders had ploughed through his comrades as if they were no more than wheat rhipe for harvest, and despite their bravery there was little the Seljuk forces could do. He closed his eyes as he remembered the final charge of Alp the Lion. Roaring with a ferocity that defied the desperate situation they were in, Alp had lead his bodyguard straight into the mass of Mongol metal. They had not lived to tell that tale.

He, Captain Said-Addin, had however survived. A crazed flight though valleys, over mountains and across rivers had taken him and his men to Gorgan, where vast Seljuk forces were gathering. He did not want to face the Mongols again, but his travels over the Seljuk Caspian would once again bring him face to face with this fierce foe.

They would pay for slaughtering so many of his brothers. If not in this life, in the next one. He and his men would ripe the rewards of paradise, after either dying in battle in Allah's name, or emerging victorious from the conflict that would stain the sands red, and driving the beasts back to their caves. No matter how much he tried to put his faith in Allah and his eternal wisdom, he despaired as the dhow reached the beach. He knew he was heading for his final fight.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

*At least it's an attempt at a story. ;P

[phonicsmonkey]

As the blood-red sun began to set behind the immense and purple peaks of the Hindu Kush, Wahir al-Shamoun jumped down from the timber walls of the hastily constructed fortifications that sheltered the remnants of the army and prepared to give his Crown Prince the bad news.

But before he could begin to speak Al-Mustarshid interrupted him, saying without making eye contact,"Don't tell me Wahir. I don't want to know how many of them there are."

Wahir frowned. "They are many my lord."

The Crown Prince laughed. "I said don't tell me!" He leapt up onto the back of his great charger and wheeled around on the dirt bank, sending up a cloud of dust as he trotted down the steep slope to address the men.

Wahir followed him, as he had followed him all these long years. It was his duty, given to him by the Caliph himself on the day that the young prince had come of age. Wahir had instructed Al-Mustarshid in the martial skills of swordplay, of archery and of horsemanship. He had taught the young man how to play chess, how to be at once tactical and strategic in pursuit of victory. He had instructed him in the arts of logistics and supply, in the mysteries of siege warfare, had passed on all of the knowledge he had acquired in his long years in the service of Caliphs and Crown Princes before him.

And when Al-Mustarshid had first ridden out to battle, against the traitorous Rajputs, Wahir had followed him still, as Captain of the Caliph's Guard assigned to protect the young Prince in battle. Just as he had followed young Az-Zahir all those years ago, into the forests of Georgia, where the doomed son of the great An-Nasir had met his death at the hands of the Byzantine infidels.

It was fair to say that this campaign had been spectacularly successful in comparison to that Georgian incursion. The young prince had bested army after army of hindus, slaughtering their great war elephants and cutting down their half-naked foot soldiers as they ran screaming from the fray.

But at each victory, when Wahir had urged caution, the impetuous Al-Mustarshid had pushed on into enemy territory, seeking still more carnage as he hunted the Rajputs on their own soil.

And so it had come to this - a depleted force, cut off and stranded miles behind enemy lines, caught like a rat in a trap in their own fort, besieged by a relief force of Rajputs that had been straggling behind the two armies they had bested not two days before on this very plain.

Now the men were gathered, gazing up at their young prince as he spoke of triumph to be claimed and glory to be won. Of infidel blood to be shed. Of paradise to be won by the deeds of the faithful.

Wahir had to admit the young man was inspiring - like his father the Caliph Sulayman he had a gift for impassioned speech. And he could see that these men would fight again for the Crown Prince, would pour like molten steel from the gates of this puny fort and take the fight to their suprised besiegers.

So it was that some two hours later Wahir found himself drenched in blood once more, his tired old limbs aching from hacking and chopping, watching Al-Mustarshid astride the corpse of the Hindu Prince's elephant, surrounded by his devoted men, cheering the latest in a series of improbable victories.

But Wahir could see that it had come at great cost - barely three hundred remained of the seven hundred who had left the fort that evening. The army was no longer a force to be reckoned with and instead resembled nothing more than the scarred stump of an amputated limb.

Still, unsatisfied with this slaughter, Al-Mustarshid wanted to press on.

"To Quetta!" he cried, his scimitar aloft above his head, "Into the lands of the infidel for the greater glory of Allah!

There was certainly something noble and heroic about his young charge, but also something clearly insane. The grizzled old soldier suddenly knew what he had to do. As the men cheered their hero, Wahir stepped up onto the corpse of the elephant and with a single blow of the hilt of his sword knocked the Crown Prince unconscious, catching his falling body and cradling him tenderly.

"Good night sweet prince.." he muttered, before turning to the man he knew had the swiftest steed in the Caliph's Guard.

"Take him far from here where he will be safe, and we will be safe from him."

The rest of the army would indeed press on to Quetta, on a certain suicide mission. They would be martyrs, Wahir among them. This he knew - but at least he would not have to see another Crown Prince needlessly slain by the enemy. He couldn't stand for his heart to be broken for a second time and besides, the Caliphate had great need of men like Al-Mustarshid.

[phonicsmonkey]

The campsite is a bloody mess of butchered bodies, warriors of the Caliphate struck down by their bedrolls as they fought the unexpected incursion of Rajputs and Mongols that had come just before dawn.

Somehow the fortifications had been breached with not so much as a warning cry and silently the deadly enemy had gone about his brutal business, most of the camp waking startled and too late for any defence to be mustered.

Atop a pair of pikes in the centre of a stack of corpses are the severed heads of the Crown Prince Al-Mustarshid and his son the hero Muez Ibn-Muhallab, eyes agog, gory strips of neck tendon dripping gore and dangling jauntily in the cool morning breeze.

Out of the Rajput command tent, hastily erected in the glow of campfires still warm from the previous evening's meal, comes Khalil son of Marshed.

He mounts his horse and slings the leather sack of red Indian gold over its haunches. He has been richly rewarded for his services this day.

As he passes through the camp the exhausted Hindu warriors gaze upon him in some curiosity. What breed of man would submit his fellows to such a slaughter for a little coin?

The Mongols are less interested and simply spit at him as he passes.

Reaching the gate of the fort, still intact as if in testimony to his crime, he sneers and spurs his steed to a gallop, disappearing in a cloud of dust as he makes his way westwards.

[SilverShield]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Disclaimer:

First of all dont expect too much. Since I was worried the game might crash and everything being worth nothing I just took shots at the beginning and the end of the battle. Every time I got back to the desktop to open paint and save the shot I was close to collapse thinking it will crash now. So actually the biggest relive was when it was finally over and I could pass the save on.

Since I still got this german version of the game installed you certainly wont understand the words. I dont get it all either but the numbers matter so it should be okay.

As I already said Im not that big on story writing so its more like telling you what I did in order to win than the sort of poetic writing you guys are capable of. Anyway since these battle determined the outcome of the game it might still be interesting for you.

One thing first. The fact that 1 army crushed 6 major armies was pretty amazing and really does tell a lot about the strength of the Mongols.

The Breakthrough

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

It was amazing when I realised that I will get the chance to fight. I hadnt fought one battle with the Mongols in the field before so I did know nothing about their strength. So when I conquered the second fort and cleared my way to fight… that was a great thing.
Actually just wanted to clear the forts in the north to secure a path of retreat in order it gets nasty while advancing on Baghdad but hey…

THE FIRST BATTLE

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Well after I broke through I chose an army that has been untouched so far to spear head my assault.

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Since this was my first battle I didnt know what to expect. Obviously I aimed for losing as less troops as possible which means avoiding close combat as long as possible and rely heavily on arrows instead.
Actually I wanted to slowly approach and just shoot down the army as I did in the original Medieval game before quite often.
Well.. the computer is not that stupid in Broken Crescent. It s not just standing by idling waiting for the troops to be shot down from the distance. Instead it did approach me. So I somehow had to change my strategy to splitting up and outmanoeuvring the infantry to cross fire it and take it down with cavalry as soon as the broke their formation. Quickly taking out the Caliphats cavalry was essential obviously.
Well things went as I planned. I took out the cavalry at ease and pretty much wore down the infantry that was chasing mine with arrows and cavalry strikes. No matter where the Calipahts infantry went there was always a pack of Mongols to shoot them in the back or a cavalry unit to do the same on a horse.
So all in all it went pretty good and I was satisfied with the outcome.

THE SECOND BATTLE - THE MAGNIFICENT FIVE

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After the successful first battle I wanted to go on exactly as I did.
The thing with the second battle was that there was way more cavalry I had to deal with. Notably The Magnificent Five as I d like to call those 5 generals that had been part of this army. They really gave me a hard time since they just didnt want to kick the bucket and over and over again attacked my infantry that I d split up as with in the first battle.
The problem was that my heavy cavalry was to slow to even catch the bodyguards so they always got out of the trap. They are furthermore immune to arrows even fire arrows so those bodyguards broke through my line of defence several times and got my infantry into close combat action. Well at least I then could attack them with my own cavalry. But none of the actual generals died. They just fell back and got after me over and over again. It was at the very end of the battle before I managed to finally kill them or they routed. Truly some magnificent five. Alamo sort of thing dudes.

THE THIRD BATTLE - THE BATTLE OF THE HILL OF DOOM

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Now that actually was the battle I was second likely the most. to lose.
In an attempt to secure the highest hill on the map I placed my units pretty as close to this hill as possible not realising the enemy zone of deployment. So when the battle started the Mameluks already were so damn close and they managed to seize the hill first. This was an army mainly of cavalry troops just light one but fast. So before I even could form my line of defence the entire Mameluk cavalry went into a hurry up offence and they stroke me severly. There was much planning going on then it was just pumping units forward hoping to be victorious. Thanks to the amazing Mongol cavalry the Mameluks horse troops slowly vanished so I at least could size the top of Hill of Doom and position my infantry the way the can shoot straight down the hill at the approaching Mameluk infantry while some its cavalry got back on me over and over again approaching my infantry which although pretty strong lack spears so they certainly aint best at fighting cavalry. Nonetheless the horses were too little in number already to break my formation again and since it was just light cavalry they suffered loses when even trying to approach my no fire arrow shooting infantry. So in the end volley after volley went down the hill wearing down the Mameluk infantry which then stood no chance against the cavalry charges of my heave lancers rushing down the Hill of Doom.
Although I won this thing it has been pretty close in the beginning. The numbers might hide the fact that his was the second most hard battle.

THE FOURTH BATTLE - THE MASSACRE

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This battle truly was a massacre. The Mameluks army mainly consisted of archers and light infantry so I quickly took out the too little cavalry and somehow encircled the infantry in the distance. Then my cavalry charged against the assembled infantry pretty much from all sides. Since the cluster was that big the first charge didnt break them so after some close combat action my horses fell back while at the same time my own infantry approached the scene. The second cavalry charge was followed by the infantry so that the Mameluks had been totally encircled. In a total battle of encirclement the Mameluks were pretty much massacred on the battlefield. Almost the entire army was killed in the field.

THE FIFTH BATTLE - THE FORGOTTEN

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Well I dont remember anything about battle five anymore. Probably has just been a decent battle.

THE SIXTH BATTLE - THE FINAL BATTLE Pt I

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

I thought this was going to be the final battle since I planned on crushing the last 2 remaining Mameluk armies. Since I wanted to crush the 2 armies I moved the Great Khan himself to the frontline to support my assault with an all cavalry army.
I positioned my troops on top of a hill from where they shot down anything trying to approach my position. The entire army slowly moved down the hill with the cavalry charging against various troops on the way. When I reached the bottom of the hill the Mameluk army had been worn down pretty much already. Some outmanoeuvring and shooting in the back as well as some well positioned cavalry charges pretty much killed it before the second army could reach the scene. I then moved my army back up the hill aiming towards doing the same again. But the second army turned right after they arrived the battle seen. Since I wanted to destroy both armies this result didnt really satisfy me but anyways.

THE SEVENTH BATTLE - FINAL BATTLE Pt II

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The final battle was the most intense. Since my infantry had no movement points left I formed only could attack with the all cavalry army under command of the Great Khan. Not the best decision as I know by now but pretty much the only way to fight the last 2 Mameluk armies.
When the battle started I got the message that my reinforcements wont arrive whysoever. So I wanted to take down the first Mameluk army as fast as possible obviously especially since I could not rely on my archers in this battle. The thing was that this Mameluk army apparently was the best equipped one consisting mainly of medium spearmen. Since there were to archers to shoot them in the back I tried to separate them and cavalry charge them in the back which didnt go that well since they pretty much kept the formation while at the same time the Mameluk horse archers decimated my own cavalry. This ended up in micro management hell where every unit had to be dealt with on its on every second. Due to all these things it was impossible to take down the first Mameluk army before the Caliphate reinforcements arrived the scene. Although little in number it consisted mainly of heavy infantry and also heavy spearmen. With my horse archers running out of ammo and my heavy lancers being decimated already taking out the Caliphate army did gave me a hard time. It got worse when the second Mameluk army arrived. So now it was just about not losing this battle and not about losing as less troops as possible anymore. Subsequently the number of suicide cavalry charges rose since there was no way anymore to split up the frontline. With my own and my enemies army worn down I send my entire remaining cavalry on a suicide mission in order to brake the formation. In the biggest cavalry charge I d witnessed so far I broke the enemies formation. Finally units of the second Mameluk army rooted. Although this charge did cost the live of many of my horses it was worth it. When I was about to clear the field my computer reinforcements did arrive. Right in time… They took out some rooting units so that I could focus on the ones still fighting. They didnt stand any chance anymore now that their formation was broken. Some final cavalry charges wore them down and pretty much killed the battle.
This certainly was the longest and most intense battle. There were several times when I though I might lose this one. Really stroke me when suddenly the second Mameluk army did arrive the scene. However in the end it did work out so… all good.
As I already said seeing one army doing this was quite impressive and definitely underline the fact that the game was pretty much over. Its quite remarkable that the entire war/ game was in the end decided by luck mostly. Guess its just like in real warfare, someone at some moment in time is lucky in a war and this particular moment does decide the entire conflict.
Had a blast. Was a cool thing and a good experience.

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph dreamed...

He dreamed he passed through a small doorway off a narrow laneway, somewhere in one of the great cities of his realm. Out of the stultifying heat and the hustle and bustle of the souq and into a dark chamber where he was bathed in a cool breeze which blew gently through an archway ahead of him. The archway was bright with a blinding light and he squinted as he approached it, passing through with his arm raised to his forehead to shield his eyes.

He found himself in the verdant courtyard of a traditional Arab palace, such as one would find in Damascus inhabited by one of the nobles of the Caliphate and decorated with intricate tiles of many colours in fascinating geometric patterns.

It was lined with fruit trees, colourful with orange and cherry blossom emitting an enticing perfume. In the centre of the courtyard was an ornamental fountain which contributed a fine and cooling mist while cheerfully burbling its watery tune.

Sitting at the fountain was a man he recognised. Approaching cautiously he saw that it was Az-Zahir, son of great An-Nasir and the former Crown Prince of the Caliphate. His older brother, although they had not been permitted to grow up together. Suleyman was filled with a mixture of grief and joy to see his fallen kin once more and called out to him Brother! How good it is to see you!

Az-Zahir was robed in shimmering green silk, emblazoned with gold thread in patterns denoting the constellations of the night sky. His face was sorrowful and on casting eyes on Suleyman he began to weep openly, his tears falling with a series of thundering crashes onto the tiled marble, which cracked under their weight.

Suleyman was afraid and turned away from the young man, fleeing through another archway into a smaller courtyard which held a series of beehives. Here he found a man wearing a large turban, standing deathly still with his eyes shut at the centre of an ornate tiled design in between all of the hives.

It was Marshed, who had been Vizier to An-Nasir in Suleyman's childhood. He was clad in black velvet, with blood-red thread embroidery and he cut an intimidating figure. Suleyman approached him and asked Marshed, how is it that you are here? Where is your son Khalil?

Marshed's eyes flicked open and he caught sight of Suleyman. He grinned wickedly and raised his arms up above his head, bringing forth from the hives a swarm of bees which circled him and poured into his open mouth.

Suleyman was again fearful and was deafened by the terrible buzzing. His hands over his ears and fleeing once more, passed through another archway into a quiet courtyard shaded by coconut palms. The husks of fallen coconuts had formed a soft mat around the trunks of the palms and Suleyman sat down for a moment to rest.

He was soon aware of a presence behind him.

Looking around and up over his shoulder, he saw a giant figure looming over him. It was his father, the great An-Nasir, Defender of the Faith, Prince of the Two Seas and Caliph of Islam. An-Nasir's head was silhouetted against the sun and palm fronds sketched him something of a halo. Suleyman fell to the ground before him and, grabbing at his feet, began to weep.

O Great One, father of mine, how I have failed you! The invaders are at the very gates and we shall surely fall. All of your good work is to be undone and the ummah will suffer terribly. I am so ashamed...

An-Nasir placed a comforting hand on his son's head and gently lifted his face until their eyes met.

Do not be ashamed my child. The lifespan of our nation is but the flicker of a candle when set against the blazing glory of Allah and his works. You have led the ummah as best you could. A victory against this foe was never to be - Allah did not will it to be so. Yet the faithful will endure and the word of the Prophet will be spread in our fertile crescent long after their cruel hoofs have departed. Yea, even those of the invader that remain will find Allah's grace and will take up the sword in his name against the infidel.

All is far from lost.

Suleyman began to rise to his feet.

Then I must return - there is much to be done and..

An-Nasir cut him short with a smile and a shake of his head.

No my son, you will not return this day. Stay a while with us here in the gardens. Your part in these events is finished.

Suleyman sat down once more on the soft matt of coconut husks, under the palm fronds in the tiled courtyard. An-Nasir sat next to him and together they prayed.

Finally, for the first time in many years, he felt at peace.