The Pyre of Kirklareli

[Cyclotron]

Well, nuts, if we're doing stories here, then I'll bite. Here's one for you from a recent Ottoman game of mine.

****************************************

The Grand Ottoman Republic had not known war in hundreds of years, and yet now, the great scourge had come to bear solely upon him. Soon, the Spanish tide would reach the slopes of Mount Nabil itself, for he knew his fief across the sea could not stand. All that was left to him was to wait, and await the exile that he knew would not end in his lifetime.

The emir Rashan ibn Murad, the lord of Kirklareli and Nabil, stood atop the Sapphire Tower, the great citadel amidst the once teeming streets and boulevards of Kirklareli. The emir had made his fortune in the battles against the barbarians in the northern reaches of Urfala, the last land of the Ottoman continent to be civilized. Then, muskets had been a thing of the southlands, mere trinkets in the hands of the guards of the courtiers to showcase their great wealth. In the battles that finally wrested Urfala from the raiders of the frozen north, his men had fought with swords and maces and clashed in honorable warfare against enemies that they had never before met, but knew. In single combat, you knew men even without their names, he thought. You know them by their face, their stance, the words they speak or the silence they keep as they move swiftly back and forth, and then in to draw blood where they can. Now, he was more than a simple captain, and he longed for the days when he fought something other than a nameless horde.

Not nameless, perhaps; Spanish. In the years of the late Sultan Osman IX, the empire had taken on a great expansion over the seas and across the Urfan isthmus. The pride of that expansion was beneath him, Kirklareli, the Gem of the western jungles, across the sea from Istanbul and the home of his people. Finding only the backwards Celts in this land, the Sultan directed an expedition to settle on the western tip of the great western continent, in a harbor under the shadow of the lone mountain, Nabil. The land was wet and thick with jungle, but rich in wealth, as it provided the entire empire with the rare jewels so craved by the Sultan and his court. It was for this reason he stood atop a Citadel named for the sapphire, and wore a circlet ringed with glittering diamonds. Kirklareli was his gem, the land across the sea that had become his home. To the north, though, were the Spanish, neither backwards nor weak, who had made a name for themselves across the known world with their vicious and ambitious works of conquest in the islands west of Urfala. When the city was founded, the Spanish had merely been a rival. Now they were enemies. The Queen Isabella’s greed for the wealth of the City of Jewels had led her conquistadores here, followed by her mail-clad legions of peasant infantry and steady columns of knights.

The city in ascendance had been glorious; the city in decay was merely shameful. For a year now, the knights and heavily armored infantry had broken their teeth against the jungle strongholds outside Kirklareli, and now they rushed in hordes out of the jungles’ edge to smash against the ramparts of the city itself. Many of the people had fled when the fortress ring had begun to fall, and now only a few thousand remained who were unable to flee. The Celts to the west had closed their borders to refugees, and those that tried to make the journey through the jungles to Lindum died of disease or were cut down by Spanish cavalry that drew each day tighter about Kirklareli. The city was still large, but it was empty, whole markets and quarters deserted. The lonely neighborhoods showed the signs of the surrounding battle: crushed houses dotted the view, struck by catapult-stones, and many houses along the streets had been pulled down into rubble barricades to stop the onslaught that would come when the city was broken by the Spanish. And the emir knew it would come.

...

[Cyclotron]

“Commander, the Sword of Edrine reports it has loaded the last of the south battery guns. The remaining batteries are in action still, what shall I do with them?” It was a sign of how little time was left that Captain Tansel bothered only with a cursory bow and salute, not waiting to be addressed. He stood by the emir’s side, clad in a burnished and engraved breastplate, broadsword at his hip, and a yellow plume tossing in the breeze atop his gilded helmet. The emir was dressed in much the same way, though with the great turban and jewel-laden circlet upon his head. The Captain waited at his side, anxiously, his eyes darting away towards the two galleons docked in the harbor.

The emir gazed over the deserted city, and saw the new offensive. A wave of Spanish heavy cavalry, swords raised and lances lowered, erupted from the jungle’s edge. He could not see them well from this distance, but he could picture them well enough: Tall men with odd, peaked helmets and blue plumes, clad in heavy plate that yet did them little good against a musket ball. Here was this faceless enemy he waged war against; there was to be no single combat. As the wave exploded from the line of battered trees, the air splintered with the crack of muskets, and the north battery thundered with cannon and mortar. Under the bristling guns of the north ramparts, the cavalry seemed to slow, then fall upon itself and retreat back into the jungle, the cries of battle replaced with shrieks and then silence.

“Load up the west battery as well, and instruct the north battery to expend all possible shot in a sweep of those trees. Have them prepare grape for new attacks. When the battery falls, fire the magazine.” The emir turned from his watch to the Captain. “Begin the general retreat of our reserves from the citadel to positions south of the city, and bring Captain Mourad to me.” The Captain bowed sharply, and ran briskly off, leaving the emir with the few soldiers that could be spared for his own guard. The emir motioned to his own guards, and they began their descent from their outlook atop the Sapphire Tower.

The emir walked quickly with his guards to the docks, where civilians and reserve forces pushed wheeled artillery pieces onto the decks of the two galleons in harbor, the Sword of Edrine and the Scourge of Santander. A fine joke that was, for Santander was a Spanish city northwards, the port off which Ottoman frigates sunk two caravels loaded with troops headed for the coasts of Urfala. Without naval supremacy, the Spanish blow had only one place to fall.

... more tomorrow.

[Paddy]

Bring it on. Cheers mate, looking forward to the next component.

[SKILORD]

looks good.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Excellent start

[Cyclotron]

The Captain of the Guns, Tansel, strode up to the emir, breathless. To his sides were a few guards, as well as a tall, dark man in a naval uniform and a clean-shaven young man who also wore a Captain’s breastplate and helmet, though with a powder-horn and a long pistol at his side in addition to a saber. The naval officer spoke first, giving a cursory bow and stroking his thick mustache as he spoke. “You’ll forgive me, ah, m’ command’r, neither the Sword nor the Scourge has any more room for the west battery guns, sir. I can’t fit any more in.” He spoke calmly enough to the emir, but seemed to be wishing constantly to look over his shoulder at his ship. The men of the fleet were only too anxious to leave Kirklareli, and escape to the open sea where Ottoman frigates ruled the waves.

The emir nodded, and turned to Tansel. “Spike the remaining guns and roll them off the end of the pier. We will leave nothing to the Spaniards.” The air crackled again with distant musket-fire, and as ever the booming of the guns continued ceaselessly. The emir turned to the younger captain. “What is your report, Captain Mourad?”

The young man seemed the only one with any excitement on his face, and he let escape a small smile as he spoke with the emir. Standing tall, he said, “Commander, Captain Rasheed gives his regards and informs me that the Second Musket Company at the northern ramparts is quickly running out of shot, and that he has lost many men.” For this, his face lost its smile for a few seconds. “He tells me his infantry, however, are solidly positioned and ready when the ammunition gives way.”

The emir merely nodded. Rasheed would die today; he had campaigned with him in Urfala, and he would not abandon the ramparts until the Spaniards cut him down. The muskets sounded again, more sparingly now. The attacks had become more frequent as the mass graves in the north city grew fuller with Turkish casualties, man after man who had fallen in the endless fighting. Soon, however, there was to be an end. The reinforcements, men with these new muskets and shiploads of cannon and shot, had dried up in recent months. His thoughts flooded with bitterness towards the Sultan; neglected, his beautiful city was slowly gutted and destroyed. In the past months, the powder had come in only small shipments, the men in fewer. They ruled the seas, but no help was spared from Edrine. He had not tasted Antalyan spices in weeks, and had not seen new brigades of Sinopan musket-men in even more time.

“Captain Mourad, take your company to the south brigade once they pierce our defenses. Draw them southward with sorties, and take the bulk of your force into the fortifications on Mount Nabil.” He paused, and spoke again, with a dark tone in his rough voice. “You know we do not have the ships to leave with your men, and you will buy us time as they try to dislodge you from the mountain. If you can hold out, we will return soon with new forces to retake the city.” Lies, for there would be no new forces, and even if there were he knew a single company of musket-men could not withstand the legions of knights and infantry that the Spanish were sure to hurl against the redoubts of Nabil once the city fell. Lies, but comforting lies, and it was good to give comfort to the dead. Most assuredly, Mourad was as doomed as Rashid. He would lose them both to the noblest cause.

...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Splendid stuff this!! please do give us more

[Cyclotron]

Captain Tansel spoke up. “Commander, what of the Asturians?” The emir was silent, and turned his eyes over the city, the smashed dome of the great cathedral and the empty homes that filled the city blocks. He saw the Sapphire Tower, and the smoke rising from the north battery. To the west, near the abandoned courthouse, was the block-like shape of the University. It was empty as well; the scholars and pupils had long since left on ships, the books taken with them, its echoing halls now used to keep prisoners. Seven months past, when his soldiers still dared to make raids past the walls of the city, two companies of crack Bolan heavy infantry stumbled across nearly two thousand Asturians, Spaniard civilians who had been clearing roads through the jungle to facilitate the advance of the attacking armies. They had surrendered with hardly a fight, and now they heard the guns of the batteries and raised muffled cheers from their prison.

The emir turned back to the captains, and spoke in a voice that was commanding and utterly flat. “Bar the doors of the university tightly, spread the last of the oil and pitch, and fire the building with the prisoners inside. Make sure none are left alive.” Grimly, Captain Tansel nodded and hurried away with a quick bow. “Captain Mourad, take your men to their positions southward. Sailor, make ready to depart at my command.” Mourad saluted crisply and grinned. “For his grace Osman the Tenth, and for Istanbul’s glory.” With an elegant bow, he turned and walked in a stately manner to his forces southward.

The emir Rashan ibn Murad stood at the base of the long pier, as the last of the west battery guns slipped with a splash into the waters of the cove. The fading musket-fire had become scattered and sporadic, nearly drowned out by the clashing of metal on metal. Surely the attackers had made their last thrust, and the men upon the ramparts now fought with mace and sword against the Spanish knights. They would die fighting the way he had known, the way men faced and fought with honor. All the muskets and cannons shipped from Edrine had not saved his city, and all the guns in Istanbul would not save it now.

[Cyclotron]

With a tremendous, ripping explosion, a great pillar of flame and smoke shot from the location of the north battery. A few seconds later, the shock bore over the pier, fluttering the sails of the galleons. Smoke as black as pitch rose in great billowing clouds from the ruins of the north battery, and distant screams of terror and rage blew by his ears. The north battery’s magazine had been fired, as by his command, which meant the ramparts were overrun.

“We depart. Bring both ships out and make for Edrine.” The sailor nodded, and rushed off. The emir walked up the ramps and onto the Scourge of Santander, and looked out from the deck. As the ships pulled away, he could make out the bright flames of the University building, the fiery tomb of the Asturians, and the great pillar of smoke from the north battery. White smoke drifted up from the base of Mount Nabil, and the scattered flash of muskets was visible in the city streets. Atop the Sapphire Tower, the Sultan's flag fell, replaced by a brilliant blue banner of the Salamancan Ride, the order of Spanish conquistadors already known to countless barbarian settlements in the north. Here was the might of the Spanish, the will that had proved stronger than the will of the Sultan, even without precious gunpowder. Here was a war without honor, a war where he had never seen the enemy faces, least of all the face of the Spanish commanders who directed their men onwards. Now conquistadores and their dogs swarmed over the streets, hunting down the hapless few citizens and stragglers that still remained. He heard their voices on the wind, shouting in their foreign words, and yet made out Isabella on their tongues.

“I know you, Spaniards. I have not seen your face, but we have fought, and I see you for what you are.” His gaze wandered back to the quickly collapsing University, and the desperate screams from within. The Spaniards had reached it, but it made no difference for those doomed inside. “And now you know who I am. I trust we will meet again soon, and then it will be my turn to draw blood.”

He felt a deep sadness for his city, the Gem of the West, which now was resigned to emptiness, war, and death. The last flag over Nabil had not yet fallen, but Kirklareli had already died months ago. This was merely its cremation, the purging of the dead city by fire and steel.

****************************************


That's about it. Let me tell you, it was a tough thing losing that city in my game.

[Paddy]

Well thank you kind Sir for sharing such a tale.

The lose of such a Gem, such a city, the memories that will ride with you for time to come.

Looking forward to your next story.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

A cracking tale indeed ! well done, you should write more often

[Cyclotron]

Originally posted by ChrisiusMaximus
well done, you should write more often

Done, and done.

*********************************

At this hour, the sky was flaring brilliantly orange and red, and the sparse clouds in the sky seemed like rose-colored wisps of smoke, laced with the embers of dusk. The crimson sun sent rippling tides of color over the distant sea, casting long shadows of the small fishing vessels that were pulling slowly back to shore. The wind had begun to blow with an edge of cold as day faded in a brilliant conflagration, and it rustled the saffron banners over the sloping walls of Istanbul, the throne of the Ottoman Sultan, Osman the Tenth, light of religion, protector of the empire, and Grand Consul of the Ottoman Republic. Carried on the wind were the words of the muezzin, calling all the great city to prayer. As the glorious sun slipped into the western sea, darkening the dense glade of domes and minarets that crowded the Inner City, a whole nation turned in prayer to Sinop, the Forbidden City, the city called in the tongues of the ancient Arabs Mecca.

They were lost in history, much of the affairs of the early Arab tribes, but it was known that the Sultan Bayezid the Fourth began eight hundred years before the conquest of the lands controlled by the Arab tribes. Personally leading his columns of swordsmen, the Sultan had brought the army of the fledgling Ottoman state upon a treacherous jungle march that lasted for two entire months. Circumventing the Arab watchtowers, he brought his army over the high mountain passes that enclosed the vast jungles to the north, and swept down into Mecca, the main city of the Arab tribes. His forces fell upon Mecca with little mercy, and it was said that Bayezid himself rode upon his horse into the hall of Abu Bakr himself, lord of the Arabs, and hurled his spear through the Arab’s chest. Mecca had burned, and with the death of their leader the Arab state collapsed, their lands annexed under Ottoman rule, their people integrated into the great empire. Perhaps, however, after such a defeat the Arabs had still managed to triumph, thought the Sultan. Their lands and people are Ottoman, but when Mecca burned the troops spared the Great Oracle of Mecca, and thus allowed the religion of the Arabs to spread and convert the whole of the empire. Now upon those grounds was the grand and holy place of Sinop, the Forbidden City, in the center of which was the great dome of the Oracle to which every head in the Republic bowed.

The Sultan Osman the Tenth rose from his prayers upon the north portico of his great palace. This balcony atop the grand portico was built of white marble from far corners of the Republic, its flowing architecture a testament to power and wealth. Delicate marble screens, as fine as twining lace, covered the sides of the balcony. The last light of sunset glimmered through the ornate screens, tinting the white columns a rosy orange. With dusk approaching, the servants had lit the braziers upon the balcony, and the thick and sweet smell of incense now filled this overlook high over the city.

Murcian Incense, the Sultan thought to himself. Spanish Incense. After tonight, it will no more waft to my nose. I swear I will not burn incense again until Murcia is governed by my emirs or I am slain in my throne like a conquistador’s dog.

The Sultan looked not to the north-east, where the holy city of Sinop lay, but westward over the dark seas. It had been two months since Kirklareli had fallen to the Spanish by the count of the survivors who straggled into Edrine aboard a few galleons. The emir of Kirklareli had saved what he could, but even as he must surely despair the Sultan knew things went ever according to his plans. Tonight, he would pluck the sweetest fruit of all, victory, and ring the bells in all the holy places of the city. He, Osman the Tenth, would be the fist Sultan in two hundred years to truly be a Sultan.

The Sultan Osman wore a great silk turban, white as morning frost, a gift from the forests to the east where silkworm factories wove their precious cloth. In its center was a great ruby, nearly the size of a fist, and in its hems were nearly a hundred smaller gems that twinkled in the light of the braziers. The sultan looked out over the city and smiled beneath his curling mustache and thick beard.

“Your grace and majesty.” A deferential voice sounded softly behind him, and the Sultan turned with slow grace to acknowledge the visitor.

“Rise, Captain. What is it you trouble me with at this hour?”

The Captain bowed deeply, and answered without looking up at the Sultan. “Tariq al-Antalya is here, your holy grace. If you wish it, he humbly seeks an audience.”

“Then bring him here, Captain. And Captain… bring this to salar Ahmed. He will be at the palace stables.” The Sultan produced a small letter, sealed with red and gold wax in the Sultan’s family seal. The Captain bowed deeply again, and retreated from the patio without turning, closing the doors before him.

[Paddy]

Excellent there is more. I thought when you stated 'Thats about it', that this story was finished.
I am very happy to find how wrong I am.

Thanks, and I agree with ChrisiusMaximus:

Originally posted by ChrisiusMaximus
A cracking tale indeed ! well done, you should write more often

Keep up the good work mate.

[SKILORD]

Very nice, I commend this work.

[Cyclotron]

Well, it was finished, but I decided to keep going.

At any rate, the day after tomorrow I'm going out of state for the holidays. I may or may not have another installation for you before then, but either way I'll have to finish it later. Thanks for the praise.

[Cyclotron]

The sun had fully set now, and only a burnished crimson glow could be seen above the dark horizon of the western sea. The palace stables, at the bottom of the massive south wing of the Sultan’s palace, were closed even to this light, and only the measured tread of the beuluks and the occasional grunt of one of the Sultan’s horses could be heard over the soft wind and the distant sounds of the city center.

A door opened, and light flooded out. The Captain, aide to his most gracious majesty, stepped out into the cool air of the stables, a torch in his hand. Closing the door behind him, he looked carefully about, and stopped his search at a tall figure by a large and stocky cavalry steed. He drew near to the figure, and the light of the torch revealed in sparkling brilliance the man’s engraved plate mail. Thick, braided tassels hung from one shoulder-guard across his chest, attached to the other shoulder. These tassels were yellow, not the standard for a Sipahi, and the steel helm he held in one hand had a great saffron plume rather than the typical blue. Clearly, noted the Captain, a salar.

The salar spoke first, smiling self-assuredly while running his free hand over the back of his steed, decked in full battle regalia of steel chanfron and poitrel, and draped in the checkered blue and gold of a salar’s horse. “From the Sultan, I suppose? I’ve been waiting quite patiently as told. I hope you haven’t come to tell me to wait any longer.”

The Sultan’s aide found the attitude irksome; should not a man of the Sultan have more respect? Besides, he could have been anyone; it would be dangerous to speak of these secret meetings to those not in the Sultan’s direct confidence. Of course, the Sultan had hand picked this one, so there must be some reason behind it all... Still, thought the Captain, I would rather he had picked a janissary than this provincial fool.

“Salar Ahmed. I have direct orders from his divine majesty the Sultan Osman the Tenth to give this to you. Its contents are for you alone, and its orders are backed with the power of the Seal of the Sultanate.” He handed the salar the small letter. The cavalryman inspected the seal, nodded, and tore it open. Reading the letter with a casual manner, than tucking into the sash at his hip, he nodded curtly to the Captain.

“Tell the Sultan… Salar Ahmed sends his humble regards; his orders will be executed tonight.”

*****************************************

The evening air carried with it the scent of the sea, though atop the Sultan’s portico it was impossible to distinguish it with the heavy scent of sweet incense in the air. The lights of the city now gave a dull illumination to the marble-screened balcony, and the incense braziers glowed even more fiercely now that the sun had vanished below the western horizon. The Sultan waited in a cushioned seat by the end of a balcony, savoring the last drafts of Murcian incense and looking out over the torch lit city.

He heard the door open behind him again, and continued to look out at the rooftops. A rough, yet highly reverent and deferential voice sounded from the door. “Divine Father, a guest has been approved for an audience with your grace.” The Sultan instantly knew the speaker had to be a beuluk; only the janissaries called him by that title. He rose slowly from his chair, and turned.

Two beuluks stood behind the guest. One of them was tall and very dark, Arab perhaps, while the other was paler, maybe from Urfala… perhaps even from the Spanish colonies there. The man they guarded wore the fashions of Antalya, and the Sultan noted how garish Antalyan clothes were. Regrettably, he thought, in the strife that was planned, that fat fool who held the position of emir over that city of spices would have to be dealt with by his forces, and soon. At any rate, unlike the guards, the guest was certainly a Turk in every way. The two beuluks bowed deeply, as did the guest.

The Sultan nodded in approval. “Tariq, let us dispense with the ceremony. Guards, you are dismissed.” The beuluks bowed deeply, and backed out of the balcony, eyeing the guest warily until they closed the doors before him.

“As you wish, my Sultan. My agents bring news from Santander, or is there something else your gracious majesty requires?”

“You know well enough of my plans, Tariq. Tell me of them.”

Tariq nodded, and answered with great meaning in his voice. “Senator Abulhamid is the only one who has not been notified of the emergency session, as you wished it. As for the Spaniards, they seem quite satisfied with their sack of Kirklareli. Santander and Murcia are building fleets, majesty, at Isabella’s command. We think perhaps they aim to drive out our colonists in the islands north of Spain, perhaps even attack Urfala to bolster their fortresses there.”

The Sultan smiled. “And what of a good man to help in our efforts? Have you found one yet.”

Tariq smiled at this. “There is, apparently, a rumor in the Spaniard cities of a fierce brute that killed many innocent men when Kirklareli fell. They call him 'Rashad the Butcher.'"

The Sultan laughed, and looked away towards the city. “Perhaps our dear emir has not outlived his usefulness yet.”

...

See you in a few weeks, I'll have more.

[Paddy]

Thanks mate, that is great.

Have a good holiday.

[Cyclotron]

Back. Happy New Year to all. I'll resume shortly, in a day or two.

[Cyclotron]

There was no longer any trace of evening light in the sky; it was certainly night, and the only illumination came from the stars above and the scattered glow of lanterns and lamps throughout the city. Long shadows hung throughout the streets, and about the great granite edifice of the Senatorial building the shadows were even thicker, only cast away by the distant lights of the upper floors and the roaming torches of the night watchmen.

A shadow slipped by the gate, unseen and unknown, a figure cloaked in black, face darkened with pitch and steps muted with black slippers. Sliding along the wall, in the darkest depths of the shadows, it made no sound at all that could be heard above the tread of the Senate guards. Two guards exchanged places before the barred oaken gate in the outer wall of the Senate compound, bearing the green and gold colors of the Ottoman Senate. They wore circular green caps upon their heads, and held muskets topped with sleek bayonets that glimmered occasionally in the torches they held with their other hand. They each peered into darkness with fixed expressions on their faces, hiding the strange mixture of frenzied anticipation and cool dread that blend so easily in the darkness, where anything imagined dwells in deep shadow.

It was in only an instant that the clutching terror of the dark became manifest. Two shapes, two figures, grew from the shadow, behind each of the guardsmen. No sound was made, and neither guardsman turned to these new shades from the depths of the night. Raising a pitch-stained blade, the first figure moved his hand in an outward circle that ended in the guardsman’s throat, and the point of his dagger sunk inward into his neck. His other hand moved just as fast over the guard’s mouth, and with only a muffled sigh the guard sank to his knees, helped slowly to the ground by his murderer. Finally sensing something, the second guard turned, only to be confronted with the dark face of his killer, veiled in black. The guard opened his mouth, but said nothing, as already a hand was over it and already the point of the assassin’s dagger sipped at the blood streaming from his neck. The assassin lowered him to the ground as well, and together each of the figures in black whisked their victims away into the deep shadows at the base of the wall.

***************************************

Salar Ahmed listened intently, not daring to breathe too loudly, not wanting to risk not hearing the signal. The murmur of horses and the distant chatter of the city was all that he heard. They did not dare to light any torches for light, but as he turned his head towards the darkened depths of the abandoned barn he could see the faint outlines of men, men on horses and on foot, as silent as he, awaiting his command.

There it was, in the air; the cooing of a dove, though louder, and with a strange lilt that betrayed its source to him. The assassins had done their work, and the servant inside the compound had done his treachery. For a pouch of gold, he had unbarred the gates of the compound, and had given the awaited signal. The salar nodded to two figures he could see clearly, janissaries with their peaked turbans by the barn door, and they swung the doors wide. The light of the moon poured in, and the salar could see all of them. Janissaries, half an orta of them, and his company of sipahi, all looking to him. He unsheathed his broadsword and held it up in the moonlight. Wordlessly, he brought it down, a silvery crescent above his head, to point at the now-opened gate that stood only a hundred feet from the abandoned barn. He wheeled his steed around and drove in his spurs, and the sipahi followed him, the sound of hooves building to a dull roar. In two columns, one on each side of the cavalrymen, janissaries ran at a quick pace. The salar glanced once behind him, seeing the horseman behind whose saddle was laden with misshapen sacks, and turned his eyes forward again. He smiled slightly beneath his helm. The blow will hit them as a hammer upon glass, he thought.

The column of sipahi held behind the salar at the gate, and waited as the janissaries rushed by in their two columns. The courtyard was not empty, and as they advanced past the gate there came scattered yells, and the crack of muskets was heard from the outer wall. From his horse, Ahmed saw one peaked turban fall, but the columns paid no heed, advancing until the front man of each column stood by the great door of the Senate building. The janissaries knelt, muskets pointed outwards. Ahmed raised his sword again, and uttered a whooping battle-cry, a cry taken up by his sipahi and held as he led them in a charge between the two janissary columns to the door. The cries accomplished what the shouting guards had started; in the wooden barracks of the Senate guardsmen, lamps were lit and the confused mustering of men was heard inside.

Ahmed reigned in his horse twenty feet from the main door, turned to the sipahi with the bags upon his saddle, and nodded. As the horseman dismounted, a bag in hand, and ran towards the door, the salar raised his sword again, looking about and grinning. He barked, “Fire!”

The muskets of the janissaries went off in a synchronized bang. The musket-balls easily pierced the thin wooden walls of the barracks, and the screaming of guards could be heard within. Packed in their sleeping quarters, taken by surprise, they would not even have a chance to fight. The sipahi, still screaming their challenges and war-cries, fired their pistols upon the few guards on the outer wall and in the courtyard.

The horseman had done his work quickly, pouring black gunpowder from the bag he carried before the great door of the Senate building. He took a long reel of match from the bag, and buried one end in the pile of gunpowder. Unreeling the match, he stood back a good distance from the door, and the men nearby drew away or ducked behind the columns of the building’s granite portico. A janissary handed him a torch, and he lit the quick-match. In an instant, the flame had raced up the match, and the door exploded in flames. Splinters filled the air, and a particularly large one hurled itself, screaming, into the back of a janissary, who himself screamed in turn and writhed upon the courtyard ground. The air was now filled with the continuous roar of muskets, as the janissaries riddled the barracks with shot. A few guardsmen struggled out of each of the wooden buildings, only to fall dead into the growing heaps of men outside.

Salar Ahmed rode, five sipahi in tow, through the smoking doorway and into the Senate building. His lieutenant had stayed behind, and now gave orders to the janissaries, who drew sabers and charged with the other sipahi across the courtyard, killing every guardsman they could find. Ahmed rode across the rich carpeting of the main foyer, and drew up alongside the great door to the Senate chambers. He pushed the heavy doors open, and before him were the astonished faces of fifty-nine Senators, standing and sitting, all of them stopped in fearful silence and staring at the golden-plumed officer who was now before them.

Ahmed said nothing, and rode down the hallway in the middle of the Senate room to the podium. It was a bizarre spectacle, a horseman riding through the ranks of astonished Senators and up to the podium while remaining mounted, but Ahmed may have been the only one to notice. He turned his horse once at the podium, and removed his helm. He took a small letter from his sash, and addressed the Senate.

“Honored Senators, it is my duty to inform you why this emergency session was called. As the signed representative of his divine majesty Sultan Osman the Tenth, I hereby order this Senate dissolved.” With that the crowd of Senators burst into angry noise, which Ahmed silenced by drawing his pistol and firing into the ceiling. “Under orders of the Sultan, I pronounce this meeting adjourned, and I furthermore prohibit further meetings between Senators indefinitely, under penalty of death. You will proceed in an orderly manner out of this building, where you will be escorted by janissaries to your homes. You will be under guard, and will not be permitted to leave until such a time as the Sultan sees fit to release you.”

There was only silence in the hall.

“Go,” Ahmed shouted. “Now!” The Senators jumped from their seats and out the door, under the watchful eye of the Sipahi. They emerged into the courtyard to see the finished slaughter; the janissaries were assembled in neat ranks in the courtyard, and the bodies of guardsmen in their green and gold littered the courtyard. They were draped from the wall-tops, scattered on the ground, and in piles before their barracks. There was now no man left to fight for the Senate.

**************************************

Across the city, the Senator Abulhamid watched from his windows as beuluks, those janissaries who formed the Sultan’s elite bodyguard, knocked at the door of his mansion. They entered, and he could hear from downstairs their questions to his servants. Surely, in only a minute, they would be upon him.

The Senator had always denied this could happen, and he shook his head in disbelief and shock. He had been the most pro-senate voice in that body, the one with bravery and wit enough to lead his faction in their quest to diminish the power of the Sultan and win it for the people. Now, it was all collapsing. There was nobody now to save him, and he knew beuluks would care nothing for his senatorial status. They owed loyalty only to the Sultan.

Shaking, Abulhamid walked to his desk. He could hear the soldiers hurrying up the stairs. His breath was heavy, his brow beaded with sweat. He wondered how it had come to this, how everything had fallen apart at this hour. He had little hope for his people anymore.

Senator Abulhamid pulled open the third drawer of his desk, where a pistol lay. It was covered in a thin layer of dust, as he had not touched it in many years. His hand shaking, he drew it out of the drawer, and examined it in the light of his oil lamp.

I hope to God it still fires. God, forgive me.

The beuluks had reached his door, and pounded upon it, the door beginning to splinter as they bashed it. Abulhamid was no longer trembling. He pulled back the hammer of the pistol, took one last look out the window of his mansion, shoved the barrel upward into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

[vovan]

Well, I finally got some time to read some of the new stories that I missed in the past month or so...

And I must say: this one is well worth the time spent reading it. Good style, good plot, good stuff! Keep it up, cyclotron.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Brilliant!! simply brilliant

Please keep the goods coming

I too was pleasently surprised to see you continue this piece.

[Cyclotron]

A little busy right now, I'll resume as soon as time allows. Don't worry, I will tie this up.

[Paddy]

Looking forward too it...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

I spent over a year writing my last story so its probably hypocritical of me to tell you to hurry up with yours.

So Im a hypocrite


Please

[Cyclotron]

Don't worry, I'm not dead, just very, very busy. I promise it will continue.

[Cyclotron]

Kemil could have ridden a horse, if he had wished it, but he had no desire to earn the hushed mockery of the sipahi on their Bolan horses. He was first a janissary, a foot soldier, and with his great rounded turban he was easily visible despite being on the same level as the rest of the orta. Not quite on the same level; Kemil was a small man by most standards, wiry and short, his hard face framing a long, luxurious mustache. As was so with the rest of the janissary corps, he was only a slave, but one’s status depended on who one served, not freedom itself. The most free of men who lived as a pauper was nothing; to be the slave of the Sultan himself, the Divine Father and Protector of Religion, was to be truly great. Kemil was not only a janissary; he was the agha, the commander of all the Sultan’s slave-soldiers, even the fanatical beuluks that guarded the Sultan himself.

“Tariq. Come here.” The agha spoke to a man behind him, though he looked ahead down into the valley of Antalya, where a few miles away the city itself stretched between the coastal mountains and the sea.

The captain approached him quickly, bowing his peaked turban deeply. “What is asked of me, agha?”

The agha Kemil let him stay bowed for a while, as he gazed over the field surrounding the city. They were brown fields; fields that had withered and died from lack of water. The siege of Antalya had begun with raiders loyal to the Sultan riding hard over the Iruz mountain range, and sweeping down from the north to cut the irrigation channels that fed the city of Antalya. There was little fresh water on the coast, and what was needed for irrigation had to be channeled all the way from Sinop, hundreds of miles to the north. The city was ready to fall, but what was needed was a victory that gave legitimacy, not a pointless slaughter. If done well, the reconquest of Antalya from its rebel emir would serve as an example to other cities of both the tremendous power and great forgiveness of the Sultan.

“Tariq, bring this to the salar, and give him my regards. Inform the captains that they are to prepare our forces for an attack at dawn tomorrow. And Tariq… make sure this gets to Antalya by the usual route.” Kemil handed the captain a sealed packet for the salar, and a folded, unsealed, plainly written note to be delivered into the city. Bowing again, the captain dashed away, and Kemil smiled thinly. All he had to do was hope the emir was just about as smart as he seemed; no more, no less.

********************************************

Knuckles rapped at the door of an old, ornate mansion, small in size compared to similar buildings but retaining a stately grace in its position overlooking the harbor of Edrine. The building had the look of a tired old soldier, its paint faded by the salty breezes and its roof tiles riddled with holes, like the gap-toothed grin of an ancient, leering man.

Inside, the old soldier rose, wrapped in his thick winter cloak. Though it was not close to winter, the old mansion was cold, and there was only enough good wood for a single evening fire a day. The soldier thought of better days, richer days, when silk and jewels were his and not this aged squalor. He called for the servant; only one, a family slave. The rest he had dismissed long ago, or traded to others to maintain what funds he needed for food and firewood.

The gaunt and weathered servant moved to the door as quickly as his aged frame would carry him, and opened it a crack to look out upon the visitor. The man that stood outside was quite a contrast to the residents of the mansion, and the mansion itself; though unarmored, he wore a brilliant blue military tunic with gold fringes, and braided saffron tassels hung from one shoulder to the other. He was also smiling broadly, and although he was obviously no robber the servant nonetheless eyed him with a cautious reluctance, as if his presence itself would damage the dun colored residence.

The stranger spoke, while maintaining the grossly incongruous grin. “My name is Ahmed. May I speak with the master of the estate?” The servant snapped his head back, as if shocked by the very notion that such a house could be called an estate, but after a few brief seconds opened the door to let the stranger in. The servant opened his mouth to speak, but the guest strode onward into the main room, heedless of the servant. He wrung his hands, only now noticing that the guest had at his side a long, curved saber.

Ahmed stepped confidently into the main room, and found himself faced by a middle-aged man huddled in a heavy winter coat, scowling at him from the depths of an old and torn couch. Ahmed had to stop himself from laughing: They call this man the butcher?

The master of the estate continued to frown at the young officer, and spoke in a rough and unimpressed tone. “You have some business here, officer?” The man’s gaze slipped to the officer’s tassel across his chest. “I’m an old man, salar, and I’m not interested in any kind of duty, especially not in this accursed civil war.”

Salar Ahmed’s grin never faded. “Not even duty to the Sultan, Rashad ibn Murad? Not even for your city?”

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Nice stuff, please hurry up and post the next bit

[Cyclotron]

A side note, for clarification: while there is only one agha, there are multiple salars, one for each division of sipahi. Thus, salar Ahmed is not the same person as the salar in Antalya that agha Kemil is giving orders to.

[Paddy]

thanks



more beer landlord, this story is a hoot...