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Almeria rises in rebellion causing Isa to fail in his task, fleeing for his life he decides he no longer likes spiders very much and thus hands you back to an unimpressed Muhammad VIII. That is my guess anyway!
 
Judging by my vast historical knowledge of the era, probably alien invasion in chariots of fire.
 
Ashantai- Thanks a lot, I hope to keep improving

RGB- He is very lucky, and hopefully his luck continues. Italy is going to be a bear to convert, especially with Rome costing like 100 ducats to even start a conversion

Dewirix- The economy is relatively stable since i will get cores soon, but it gets better with conversions as well

Enewald- Be afraid, very afraid

morningSIDEr- Thank you a lot, its great to hear this encouragement

Regarding guesses:

morningSIDEr- Nothing that drastic yet, but it sounded like it would have been good

Dewirix- No not yet, fortunately

RGB- Ding ding ding, we have a winner
 
Chapter 16: Into the Vineyards in Italy

I was being carried from the Mission on the hill most directly northward of the slow city of Almeria. The Levante Winds had been blowing in from North Africa for two days. Given how a storm will normally blow in after the winds have stopped blowing, it was important for our caravan to get moving. As Isa had saddled up and begun to lead the Caravan to the province of La Mancha so they could continue their process of converting Southern Spain to Islam. However, as they were departing, they spotted a man bearing the Granadan Coat of Arms.

“The Emir of Almeria has sent me here to enforce the Ordinance that the Sultan has most recently put in place,” the armored Mamuluk stated.

“Well spit it out then,” Isa irritably replied.

“Okay then. Due to the outbreak of war between the nations of Portugal and Granada with each of their respective allies, it is forbidden for a group of Missionaries to travel between the provinces of the Granadan Empire as to protect them from roaming hordes of Portuguese Mercenaries or standing armies.” read from the scroll, freshly printed in bold black ink/

“Bah, how do you suppose that we are to leave for La Mancha before the weather turns bad?”

“According to this ordinance, you won’t.” the Mamuluk replied.

“Who started this war anyway?” Isa inquired, subtly hinting that he was not happy.

“Seeing that the Portuguese were engaged with the Aragonese, the Sultan figured that he would be able to bypass the Aragonese warning by declaring war on Portugal.”

“You know quite a lot for being an ignorant soldier.” Isa said, studying the man over from head to toe.

“I have my sources,” the Mamuluk replied, smirking, “but now I must be on my way” he said, spurring on his horse to gallop off into the distance.


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Salim woke up from his dark sleep outside of the walls of Naples. In the backdrop, you could see the great towering walls, fully garrisoned with the peasant rabble that had recently been drafted to serve on the walls. Around Salim’s midsection was freshly wrapped tape that had been laid there hours before. Although there had been no fighting, somehow, Salim managed to receive a wound. Threatening an already tense situation, one of the poorly trained peasants had forgotten to unload his crossbow. So as he was toying with it, bored obviously, he accidently pulled the trigger, sending the jagged steel bolt flying. The bolt passed two heavily armed foot soldiers and hit Salim, being an archer, wearing light leather plates, was pierced through the chest. The sight of Salim falling to the ground enraged the army. The only thing that prevented the death of the surrendering army was the order of lowering of weapons delivered by the Bey of Tuscany. With a wave of pain, the world went black for Salim. As he took a walk to test his body’s capabilities, he noticed that many of the tents were being packed up.

“Why are packing our supplies, Naples has not yet fallen?” he asked as he approached a lowly servant dressed in rags that have been tattered and torn.

“Haven’t you heard,” the servant grunted, lifting up a heavy metal pole, “the Milanos from the North have called for a Jihad against us, so we signed a hasty truce with Naples as to avoid fighting.”

Salim gasped and fell to the ground, taxing too much of his brittle body, he passed out again.


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The past few days had been boring since they mainly consisted of moving things into the broken down monastery that Isa had had to use because the older, quainter monastery had been rented out by a wealthy noble from the area. I had also not been fed as much, since Isa had been tied up with “more important things” such as systematically destroying the pearly white marble altar and burning every aged Bible he could lay his hands on. Being fed up with not being adequately fed, I escaped my cage using the same tactic I had used five years before to visit the library, and then went hunting. After pouncing on and dismembering a grasshopper, I heard the sound of horses clip-clopping on a dusty trail a few hundred yards away. Deciding that there was nothing better to do, and seeing that there was nothing better to do, I approached the sounds of the horses. They had stopped at the same monastery that Isa had once occupied just days ago. But instead of being all dark and dreary as it had once been, it had been decorated as to appear festive, with a grand, magenta banner, with a gold outline, was strewn across the entrance. The inside was lined with the finest oil lamps, inviting even the most paranoid inside. I approached to get a better look. Turning the corner, I saw the most magnificent carriage that could rival any. But even more magnificent was that I recognized the carriage. The way the wheels were rounded, the slight discoloring off the right door, it all seemed so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. Then it hit me, this was the carriage used by Yusurf III, I had seen it multiple times on the trips he would sometimes take me on, even though they did not last long. It was this that intrigued me the most, and it was this that forced me inside like a dog that can’t resist the smell of meat. Once I got to the main hall (well the ceiling), I recognized that this was not some gathering of nobles, it was feast, including the wealthiest nobles and the prettiest ladies of the land. The most prominent figure there was Muhammad VIII, who was sitting at the head of the table. The dinner conversation ranged from families, to solving the problem of how to keep the wells in Toledo clean. The purpose of the feast was made apparent at the toast, which was made by the Duke of Andalucía:

“First off, a toast to our beloved Muhammad VIII, who has arranged this spectacular event that has brought us together, to the armies of Granada, who have successfully seized the province of Algarve, and to ourselves, for without us, this country would be nothing.”

The sound of glasses clinked as the food was served, with the main course being Roast Pig spiced with cinnamon, salt, and other necessary spices for a lavish fest as this one. Casual conversation again reclaimed the focus of the feast throughout the evening until after the table had been cleared. After then, Muhammad VIII beckoned for his servant to bring over a map of Europe, painted on parchment crafted in Alexandria. On the way there, the servant tripped, demanding a severe reprimand from Muhammad as he handed the map to Muhammad. Seeing that he had not gathered the attention of all of his guests, he repeatedly hit his spoon on his crystal glass that had once contained wine, creating a ringing sound that demanded the attention of all who were attending.
“I have also called you here to discuss strategy for invading Milan.”

“Ah, you always have to include some sort of politics into the most fun event?” said a drunken noble, slurring his words.

“What, you think this has all been guaranteed to us, since we have conquered it? The entire Catholic World would like to see our name wiped off the map, and there is a rumor that the Pope has called for a crusade that would rival that of the ones that ravage the Levant centuries ago. Now is not the time to sit back and relax and watch the world pass us by, it our turn to seize the reins of fate and pull them into our favor. So raise your men, for there is glory to be had, and legends to be written, in the fertile land of Italy, where history will remember us for what we are; conquerors.”

“Italy, interesting, I could use a change of scenery.” I thought as I tried to reel in the magnitude of what this decision may mean.


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Great update! :)

Your narrative continues to improve.
 
I will echo Ashantai - the narrative continues to improve. It has this sort of Napoleonic-era officer adventure feel to it, despite the setting difference. Which is a good thing, love the genre.

Nice of Portugal and Aragon to keep going at each other :D
 
OK - so everyone who isn't Aragon declares war on you. I don't like the way Aragon has a free hand in Portugal. They've obviously won that fight and will be bigger and meaner than ever post the peace. You'll have to grab some territory in Italy as a counterbalance.

Nice to see that Milan has finally woken up to the threat of Islamic invasion.
 
Good stuff. Hopefully you can deal with this crusade quickly so as to gain some more rich Italian land and possibly dissaude other Christian nations from attacking you. As for the war against Portugal, is it likely you will be able to gain any land from that? I suppose it will probably depend on whether or not Aragon cut off Portugal's lands from you or not, but gaining an extra province or two in Iberia would be useful. A future confrontation with Aragon cannot be too far off.
 
Sorry if it was a bit unclear, i peaced and took Algrave.

No, apologies from me, it is quite clear re-reading the update, just my stupidity in overlooking the line! A good gain then but worrying still that it seems Aragon will quite probably gain a considerable bit of land from Portugal.
 
How would you guys like it if i did the dialogue all play like, sorta like this

Yusurf: We must invade Africa to...

Amir: Thats propesterous.

That would be an interesting idea, provide you keep giving us the quality screenies so we can see what's going on. I'm for it.
 
How would you guys like it if i did the dialogue all play like, sorta like this

Yusurf: We must invade Africa to...

Amir: Thats propesterous.

Like Avindian, I think that seems a very good idea. I look forward to seeing it employed in the next update!
 
Ashantai- Thanks

RGB- Very nice for them to fight it out

Dewirix- You will see what i do to counter it

Enewald- Only more territory for me

MorningSIDEr- I am afraid the more powerful i grow, the more they want to attack me.
 
Chapter 17: Into the Breach

As the ship left the port, there was a light breeze coming from the stern as the small frigate left the port of Murcia, which I had hitchhiked my way to on the rear end on a pack mule carrying Muhammad’s armor. The poor mule had collapsed not once, but twice on the two week journey to the port and the only response to its collapse was the crack of the whip. For the next three days, the weather was calm as we sailed passed the Baleares. Unfortunately, the night that the frigate had reached open sea, we hit a storm. I was at the time in my spider’s web in the hull of the ship, where the arms and supplies were stored, along with some of the more unfortunate crew member, most of them, of Spanish decent. Multiple times the boat keeled on the upwards of eighty degrees, sending the freshly spewed vomit, mixed into the sea water, sloshing across the stained wood floors. As the night carried on, the smell began to overpower me, forcing me to head up to the captain’s cabin, where Muhammad VIII and the Captain, named Pujamen, were having a heated discussion.

Muhammad VIII: (Storms in, enraged) How could you possibly let this happen!?

Pujamen: Sorry sir, but I can’t perfectly predict the weather, and given the time of year, it just makes it ten times harder. (Shaking in his boots)

Muhammad VIII: Really, how can anyone miss this storm, my parakeet could have predicted this, yet the captain of my ship can’t? How do you expect my specially crafted china set made in Madurai to survive this storm?

Pujamen: I am sure my crew has…

Muhammad VIII: Really, you expect those Spanish monkeys to be able to tie a simple knot? Even if my china hasn’t been bashed to miniature shards, they have probably been trodden in vomit. (Paces around furiously in his anger and disbelief) If I find that if one piece of my china has been broken, or stained by that swine crew of yours vomit, I will have your head on a pole in the square of Rome, do you understand me?

Pujamen: Yes, yes sir.

He too started vomiting, but for a completely different reason.
Salim again woke up in the same medical tent that had held him days before. But instead of feeling awful like he did then, he felt relatively good. He got out of his tent and was immediately shocked at what he saw. The Granadan Army of Italy had laid siege to an Italian City, probably Ferrara, given his knowledge of geography. He had always too smart to be an average foot soldier; but unfortunately, he came from a poor family with generations of serfs. He only began to learn because he once found a few books thrown out on the street during a march and quietly pocketed them without anyone knowing. He once had aspirations of attending college, and thought that army pay could possibly get him there, but after just one month, he knew that it was impossible. And now here he was, at a siege in Italy. It appeared that the siege had just began, since the fortifications were more or less in one piece and that it looked like there were trained soldiers on the wall, instead of the peasant rabble that tends to line the walls after the battle hardened soldiers ran out. Sensing an invasion, the tower guard had installed pots filled with bubbly, hot tar that would burn the woolen clothes of a man to his bare body. As of now, the siege had been brought to a standstill, with the only battling being done was between the archers, occasionally firing at each other from their covered positions. Depressed that he would be located there for many days given the slow progress of the siege, Salim decided to return hi battle tent, which was most likely in poor condition as it had been before the time of his wounding. He found out that his presumption was right as he approached the tent. It was covered in a thick, paste-like mud that had not bothered to be washed off for at least a week. As he entered the tent, he received a few glances from his fellow company-men, soldiers that had been mustered from the same area as he. Feeling exhausted from the long walk from the medic station to his barracks, he lied down on his scratchy saw bed, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

Muhammad had arranged the majority of his marshals in the tent of which I was hiding. The most prominent of the figures that had conglomerated on the tent was Forquud, the general that had led the men that had defeated Naples only a few months ago. He had a long beard that had obviously not been shaved for a while, so scruffy and gangly that it could be called home by a small primate. He was Muhammad VIII’s second hand man when it came to planning most of his military campaigns, and this one was no different for they were discussing if it would be more fruitful to assault the walls or to starve out the city.

General Forquud: I don’t see how assaulting the city could possibly bring more benefits than just starving it out. It is a waste in both men and siege equipment to try to tackle those walls when they pose no threat to us.

Muhammad VIII: What about Milan’s army, what if they come and try to uproot us from our position, shouldn’t we try to seize the city and get defensive positions?

General Forquud: As of now, Milan’s army is rooted in Anacona, and they show no signs of moving to alleviate Ferrara.

Muhammad VIII sat there and pondered for a good three minutes until finally making up his mind.

Muhammad VIII: No, we must seize the city for the people of Granada. Order the catapults to begin firing on the city walls, tomorrow night; we will feast in the halls of Ferrara, and dine at the table of a fallen king.

Salim woke to the sound of the trumpeter belting out the tune to order a stand at arms and rocks crumbling to the floor. He quickly pulled on his tanned leather breastplate and leggings and took up is elm long bow that he had specially crafted by an English fletcher in Sevilla. He was the first outside to greet his commander, a large burly man who smelled of rotten cabbage. He informed the men after they all had gathered outside, that we would be launching an assault on the walls the moment the trebuchet had made a hole in the wall large enough to allow penetration. He then ordered Salim and his company of archers to move to the first defensive line, which consisted of multiple wood blocks that could serve as shields for archers. For the next twelve hour, Salim and his men camped there, waiting for the trumpet that would announce the beginning of the assault. At around eight at night, that trumpet blew, receiving a call from the 7000 armed Granadans that were about to charge into the breach, at the head of the charge was the Sultan, Muhammad VIII. Salim and his men instantly unleashed a barge of flaming arrows into the crowed that massed around the breach, setting multiple men alight, causing much panic among their ranks. Men trying to climb up the siege ladders were instantly doused in the hot tar, forcing out screams that should never be heard by men. Granadan forces had pushed throughout most of the city, and were looking to capture the palace, when it happened. All Salim heard was a wail from the Granadan soldiers. Little did he know that the king had fallen, pierced by a spear blade, throwing him off his steed and to the ground below, landing him right beside the Marshal. The Marshal ordered a retreat, grabbing his fallen king to the Royal Tent, to be shipped back to Granada to a proper funeral.



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One month later, the City of Ferarra quietly surrendered, getting annexed, Milan would peace out with Granada, granting it Siena.