An old Cossack, whose name was not mentioned, was led into the Sultan’s presence. The throne room was more opulent than anything the man had ever seen. As far as he was concerned it was gaudy and not all that tasteful. Which he mentioned before producing the letter. The Sultan swelled in fury, his face becoming mottled. The Grand Vizier gobbled in amazement at the sheer affrontery of the old Cossack.
A guard snatched the letter away and tried to kick the Cossack in the back of the knees. The old man swayed gently to avoid the clumsy attempt to bring him to his knees. The guard grimaced and handed the letter to the Grand Vizier, who tried to read the letter. Since it was written in the Cossack language he was unable to do so. The Sultan glanced at it and started to laugh.
“What kind of chicken scratching is this? Is it really writing or just childish scribbles?”
The Cossack strode forward a step and snarled,” It is the language of my people! Shall I read it to you?”
The Sultan smiled and waved his hand negligently,” Oh be my guest, I didn’t know Cossacks could read.”
The Grand Vizier handed the letter back to the guard, who handed it back to the old man. The guard stumbled and fell to the floor when the old fellow tripped him. The guard glowered at the Cossack as he scrambled to his feet.
“I’ll get you, old man,” he whispered.
“Go on, old fellow,” the Grand Vizier prompted the Cossack.
The old man cleared his throat, turned the letter upside down and began reading. With each sentence the Grand Vizier got paler and the Sultan become even more puffed up and began to turn purple. By the time the Cossack finished the Sultan was literally shaking with rage. The Grand Vizier was as pasty white as a ghost.
The Sultan pointed at the Cossack,” Kill him! At once!”
The guard pulled his blade and immediately ran the Cossack through. Or at least he tried. The Cossack spun gracefully from the attack and slapped the guards buttocks with a nearby sword he’d taken from another guard. The guard howled and turned to the old man who had skipped over to the Grand Vizier, who shrank away. The Sultan yanked out his own blade and met the Cossack.
The two men danced down the steps from the throne, their blades swirling and clashing in their own steely dance of death. Lots of other guards stormed toward them, eager to slay the impertinent infidel.
“Hold! He is mine!” the Sultan bellowed.
The Cossack, even as old as he was, kept the Sultan hopping, and swearing in Turkish. The Cossack said not a word. The old man had even managed to slice the Sultan’s left cheek, with a very deep wound. It wouldn’t be life threatening, but it bled copiously and would leave a wicked scar.
The Sultan roared in anger and redoubled his efforts. The old man was tiring, so he did one last attack sequence and managed to nick the Sultan’s thigh, uncomfortably close to the monarch’s genitalia.
“Remember this, infidel,” the Cossack puffed,” I am an old man. See what I have done to you. My people are strong. Stronger than you know. We do not fear the Turk. We do not fear the Mongol. We fear nothing and nobody.”
The Sultan finally managed to stab the wily old man in the chest. The old Cossack slumped to the floor, bleeding profusely. The Sultan gasped and trembled, weary from the exertions he was not used to performing. The white marble was being stained red, as was a nearby rug of immense value.
The Grand Vizier wildly gestured to the rug to be removed and the marble to be scrubbed while other men unceremoniously carried the dying Cossack out to be hung. They were disappointed when the old man died before the hanging could be accomplished.
The Sultan paced back and forth, his face still a deep scarlet. The Grand Vizier paced alongside him, slightly less pale than earlier.
“I want the army ready to march! The Cossacks will pay for this insolence! I want their fields to burn, their cities to be pulled down….”
“My liege, the Cossacks don’t really have cities,” the Grand Vizier interrupted.
“Fine, destroy their towns, yurts, whatever,” the Sultan bellowed,” I want everything that lives there to die. Everything. Every man, woman, and child. Every horse. Everything!”
“Sire!” the Grand Vizier interrupted again,” We should keep the best looking woman and the smaller children as slaves.”
The Sultan stopped pacing and faced his closest advisor with a frown,” Are you serious?”
“Of course I am serious! Think of it. Imagine the possibilities.”
The Sultan has a faraway look in his eye. Finally he smiles. A vicious, evil smile.
How's that, Nalivayko?
A guard snatched the letter away and tried to kick the Cossack in the back of the knees. The old man swayed gently to avoid the clumsy attempt to bring him to his knees. The guard grimaced and handed the letter to the Grand Vizier, who tried to read the letter. Since it was written in the Cossack language he was unable to do so. The Sultan glanced at it and started to laugh.
“What kind of chicken scratching is this? Is it really writing or just childish scribbles?”
The Cossack strode forward a step and snarled,” It is the language of my people! Shall I read it to you?”
The Sultan smiled and waved his hand negligently,” Oh be my guest, I didn’t know Cossacks could read.”
The Grand Vizier handed the letter back to the guard, who handed it back to the old man. The guard stumbled and fell to the floor when the old fellow tripped him. The guard glowered at the Cossack as he scrambled to his feet.
“I’ll get you, old man,” he whispered.
“Go on, old fellow,” the Grand Vizier prompted the Cossack.
The old man cleared his throat, turned the letter upside down and began reading. With each sentence the Grand Vizier got paler and the Sultan become even more puffed up and began to turn purple. By the time the Cossack finished the Sultan was literally shaking with rage. The Grand Vizier was as pasty white as a ghost.
The Sultan pointed at the Cossack,” Kill him! At once!”
The guard pulled his blade and immediately ran the Cossack through. Or at least he tried. The Cossack spun gracefully from the attack and slapped the guards buttocks with a nearby sword he’d taken from another guard. The guard howled and turned to the old man who had skipped over to the Grand Vizier, who shrank away. The Sultan yanked out his own blade and met the Cossack.
The two men danced down the steps from the throne, their blades swirling and clashing in their own steely dance of death. Lots of other guards stormed toward them, eager to slay the impertinent infidel.
“Hold! He is mine!” the Sultan bellowed.
The Cossack, even as old as he was, kept the Sultan hopping, and swearing in Turkish. The Cossack said not a word. The old man had even managed to slice the Sultan’s left cheek, with a very deep wound. It wouldn’t be life threatening, but it bled copiously and would leave a wicked scar.
The Sultan roared in anger and redoubled his efforts. The old man was tiring, so he did one last attack sequence and managed to nick the Sultan’s thigh, uncomfortably close to the monarch’s genitalia.
“Remember this, infidel,” the Cossack puffed,” I am an old man. See what I have done to you. My people are strong. Stronger than you know. We do not fear the Turk. We do not fear the Mongol. We fear nothing and nobody.”
The Sultan finally managed to stab the wily old man in the chest. The old Cossack slumped to the floor, bleeding profusely. The Sultan gasped and trembled, weary from the exertions he was not used to performing. The white marble was being stained red, as was a nearby rug of immense value.
The Grand Vizier wildly gestured to the rug to be removed and the marble to be scrubbed while other men unceremoniously carried the dying Cossack out to be hung. They were disappointed when the old man died before the hanging could be accomplished.
The Sultan paced back and forth, his face still a deep scarlet. The Grand Vizier paced alongside him, slightly less pale than earlier.
“I want the army ready to march! The Cossacks will pay for this insolence! I want their fields to burn, their cities to be pulled down….”
“My liege, the Cossacks don’t really have cities,” the Grand Vizier interrupted.
“Fine, destroy their towns, yurts, whatever,” the Sultan bellowed,” I want everything that lives there to die. Everything. Every man, woman, and child. Every horse. Everything!”
“Sire!” the Grand Vizier interrupted again,” We should keep the best looking woman and the smaller children as slaves.”
The Sultan stopped pacing and faced his closest advisor with a frown,” Are you serious?”
“Of course I am serious! Think of it. Imagine the possibilities.”
The Sultan has a faraway look in his eye. Finally he smiles. A vicious, evil smile.
How's that, Nalivayko?
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