I'd just like to announce an AAR of my own based on Granada. And I'd also like to state the disclaimer that this aar is intended to be a bit tongue in cheek, and as such, apologies to anyone who's offended.
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Noooooooooooo!
My next project was "Sweet Home Allahbama!", the Mameluks check out the new world!
Dammit! Scooped again....
Faeelin - I'm looking forward to this one. It sounds like it has a lot of potential!
My next project was "Sweet Home Allahbama!", the Mameluks check out the new world!
Dammit! Scooped again....
Faeelin - I'm looking forward to this one. It sounds like it has a lot of potential!
Abdul Hassan looked out across the sea. Standing here in Morocco, here could barely make out the land across from it. There lay the hated enemies of The Socialist Islamic Movement for the Freedom of Islamic Sultans, or SIMFIS. Spain, France, and England, with their hated decadence and evil ideas of secularism, threatened to corrupt his people. That was why SIMFIS would stop them. He turned, and disappeared into the fog.
Lighting a cigarette, he thought of the plan, and its impending success. For a long time, SIMFIS had worked on using terrorism, war, and so forth to achieve its ends. Unfortunately, suicide bombers tended to have troubles carrying out multiple operations, and SIMFIS’s supporters tended to lose wars. That left only one option. The Plan must succeed.
From across the Islamic World, SIMFIS had hired scientists to work on the vehicle for the plan. As they tended to fail miserably, SIMFIS then hired scientists from outside the Islamic world, who actually managed to get it to work. Now, at long last, the trial run was complete. Soon it would be a matter of some one carrying out the mission, and SIMFIS would triumph.
He turned and entered the headquarters. Passing by the recruits, who were busy watching a TV show, he entered the deeper levels, past the vaulted doors. He was about to go down the steps past the last level of security when the TV started blaring.
“Intelligence officials say they have at last located SIMFIS secret weapons division. Officials from the Department of Defense comment that they should have seen this sooner, as it’s in the middle of downtown Casablanca. They have assured us, however, that bombers are enroute, with a strike force shortly behind. In other news, stocks rallied when the President promised to hand over the reins of government and retire to life on a ranch.”
Abdul rushed down the stairs, quickly bypassing the security levels. He turned to the first scientist of the project he found.
“Is it secret? Is it safe?” He roared, shaking the scientist as he did so.
“Yes, Gandalf,” replied the scientist as he grabbed a hold of himself. “I can assure you, I highly doubt the infidels know we have anything of value here. Furthermore, I am confident that the USA does not know of our location, and we can rest assured,” he was interrupted by the building’s shaking. A bomb had just hit next door.
“There is no time! Activate the project, while there is still time!” And with that, Abdul ran out the door.
The project had been in the works for a long, long time. In the 4th century (or around the beginning of the 2nd millennium, in the Christian timeline) Islam stood supreme. If only some one had taught the caliphs how to make AK47’S and a secret police, then they would’ve been set to assure the triumph of the Crescent.
Thus, the Project was to use a conveniently disregarded law of quantum mechanics to send some one into the past, and assure that the little mistake was rectified. The Almovorids, who were in war against the Spaniards at the time, would benefit most.
Thus, the project was to send a man back in time, with books and knowledge to lead even a hypothetical, minor 2-province Islamic nation to glory. And with the bombs falling, and gunfire from the top levels as the troops were slaughtered by the special forces of the demon west, now seemed as good a time as any to leave.
He entered the room, and with the help of the scientist, began setting up the machine for its last run. As Abdul had no knowledge of quantum mechanics and their involvement in the machine, his tasks seemed to be consisting largely of moving the equipment around and fetching coffee. Finally, after half an hour, the machine was read. Abdul quickly ran in, and turned it on.
It was well he started when he did, for the special forces of the West entered the room.
“Freeze!” shouted the first soldier.
“Surrender and you might live!” screamed the second soldier.
“Never!” replied Abdul.
“Let’s just shoot him,” said the third soldier, who did as he suggested.
Unfortunately, it was too late, as the bullets passed through Abdul as he faded from the world. Fortunately (perhaps) the bullets did hit the machine, cutting its voyage short, to the year 1418.
And with that, it flashed out of existence. A moment later, it flashed back. Abdul, aged by years, and bleeding from a chest wound, staggered out of the machine. Climbing up the stairs, he fully expected to see the faithful, Islamic kingdom he had set out to build. Instead, he saw:
”Hassan’s wine and tobacco! Cheap and Fresh from Sephardim.”
Looking up, he saw massive towers, such as those in London or America, stretching into the night sky. On a billboard ahead of him, he saw a car ad.
‘Buy your Corrola Viper today; unleash the djinn within.”
Looking at a paper on the ground, he saw the following headlines:
”First minister pledges to destroy the Empire of Mexico and its threat to global peace; Terrorist attacks continue as body count rises in the Mormon homeland of Deseret. American Commonwealth to consider membership for Texas and Deseret in exchange for bases for invasion of Mexico..”
Abdul, looked over the rest of the paper, and, despite his wound, was able to mutter two words, before passing out.
“Camel shit.”
Lighting a cigarette, he thought of the plan, and its impending success. For a long time, SIMFIS had worked on using terrorism, war, and so forth to achieve its ends. Unfortunately, suicide bombers tended to have troubles carrying out multiple operations, and SIMFIS’s supporters tended to lose wars. That left only one option. The Plan must succeed.
From across the Islamic World, SIMFIS had hired scientists to work on the vehicle for the plan. As they tended to fail miserably, SIMFIS then hired scientists from outside the Islamic world, who actually managed to get it to work. Now, at long last, the trial run was complete. Soon it would be a matter of some one carrying out the mission, and SIMFIS would triumph.
He turned and entered the headquarters. Passing by the recruits, who were busy watching a TV show, he entered the deeper levels, past the vaulted doors. He was about to go down the steps past the last level of security when the TV started blaring.
“Intelligence officials say they have at last located SIMFIS secret weapons division. Officials from the Department of Defense comment that they should have seen this sooner, as it’s in the middle of downtown Casablanca. They have assured us, however, that bombers are enroute, with a strike force shortly behind. In other news, stocks rallied when the President promised to hand over the reins of government and retire to life on a ranch.”
Abdul rushed down the stairs, quickly bypassing the security levels. He turned to the first scientist of the project he found.
“Is it secret? Is it safe?” He roared, shaking the scientist as he did so.
“Yes, Gandalf,” replied the scientist as he grabbed a hold of himself. “I can assure you, I highly doubt the infidels know we have anything of value here. Furthermore, I am confident that the USA does not know of our location, and we can rest assured,” he was interrupted by the building’s shaking. A bomb had just hit next door.
“There is no time! Activate the project, while there is still time!” And with that, Abdul ran out the door.
The project had been in the works for a long, long time. In the 4th century (or around the beginning of the 2nd millennium, in the Christian timeline) Islam stood supreme. If only some one had taught the caliphs how to make AK47’S and a secret police, then they would’ve been set to assure the triumph of the Crescent.
Thus, the Project was to use a conveniently disregarded law of quantum mechanics to send some one into the past, and assure that the little mistake was rectified. The Almovorids, who were in war against the Spaniards at the time, would benefit most.
Thus, the project was to send a man back in time, with books and knowledge to lead even a hypothetical, minor 2-province Islamic nation to glory. And with the bombs falling, and gunfire from the top levels as the troops were slaughtered by the special forces of the demon west, now seemed as good a time as any to leave.
He entered the room, and with the help of the scientist, began setting up the machine for its last run. As Abdul had no knowledge of quantum mechanics and their involvement in the machine, his tasks seemed to be consisting largely of moving the equipment around and fetching coffee. Finally, after half an hour, the machine was read. Abdul quickly ran in, and turned it on.
It was well he started when he did, for the special forces of the West entered the room.
“Freeze!” shouted the first soldier.
“Surrender and you might live!” screamed the second soldier.
“Never!” replied Abdul.
“Let’s just shoot him,” said the third soldier, who did as he suggested.
Unfortunately, it was too late, as the bullets passed through Abdul as he faded from the world. Fortunately (perhaps) the bullets did hit the machine, cutting its voyage short, to the year 1418.
And with that, it flashed out of existence. A moment later, it flashed back. Abdul, aged by years, and bleeding from a chest wound, staggered out of the machine. Climbing up the stairs, he fully expected to see the faithful, Islamic kingdom he had set out to build. Instead, he saw:
”Hassan’s wine and tobacco! Cheap and Fresh from Sephardim.”
Looking up, he saw massive towers, such as those in London or America, stretching into the night sky. On a billboard ahead of him, he saw a car ad.
‘Buy your Corrola Viper today; unleash the djinn within.”
Looking at a paper on the ground, he saw the following headlines:
”First minister pledges to destroy the Empire of Mexico and its threat to global peace; Terrorist attacks continue as body count rises in the Mormon homeland of Deseret. American Commonwealth to consider membership for Texas and Deseret in exchange for bases for invasion of Mexico..”
Abdul, looked over the rest of the paper, and, despite his wound, was able to mutter two words, before passing out.
“Camel shit.”
Ibrahim walked from the beach backed towards his hut. All his life he had been a fisherman, and a pious follower of the prophet. And for his faithfulness, he had been rewarded with many strong sons, most of whom had survived to adulthood. Life, he had believed, was good.
Now, though, as he saw the strange machine appearing in and out of his view in front of him, and a great variety of lights, he did the only thing a normal person would do. He turned and ran, back towards his boat.
After a minute or so of terror-inspired running, he stopped, and realized that whatever happened had stopped. Cautiously, he turned around and walked towards it, very carefully and quietly.
“Ugh…” he heard someone groan. This inspired him to advance quicker, as demons from Shaitan weren’t in a habit of groaning.
“Peace be with you. Welcome to Fez,” he began, quavering in terror. “I an Ibrahim, and I greet you.” When the other man didn’t respond, he tried something else. “Hablas espanol?”
He realized then that the man was actually strapped inside the machine, as a man might be in a galley. The man inside then replied, “I speak Arabic, as you do. My name is Abdul, and I am from the future. I must…” he coughed again. “I must….” He repeated, before finally getting it out. “I must get to the Almohads.”
Clearly the man, whoever he was, was sick and possibly deranged. Ibrahim sighed, and took the man and his belongings back to his hut. At least he appeared to be some wealth, whoever this wizard was.
The man’s entrance to Ibrahim’s village caused quite a commotion, despite the hour.
“He’s a sorcerer,” screamed an old hag. “Let’s burn him!”
”You said that when the Portuguese sailors were shipwrecked here, and looked what happened then,” replied her husband. “I say we hold him for ransom.”
Finally, at last, the village headmaster spoke. Leaning on his cane, he rasped, “The Koran says care for the sick and mad. And with this man bleeding and raving about the great Shaitan and how music is evil, I’d say he is both. We shall quarter him in the mosque, and mend his wounds.”
”And, of course, we shall take a few gold coins from his purse. It is only fair, after all.”
Over the next several days, the man healed. Apparently whatever had damaged him was not too severe, although it was strange indeed how he had balls of metal in him, which they took out. He, in turn, told them a horrible tale, of a future full of war, strife, and oppression.
“Can nothing be done to stop these rulers from taking over our lands?”
“We will restore the almohad caliphate, and strengthen it.”
“What Caliphate?”
”The one in Al-Andus.”
”Oh, you mean the Emirate of Granada. It’s pretty weak, isn’t it? And I was talking about the oppressive kings, not the Spanish.”
Abdul stared at him. “You mean to say there…. Is no caliphate!” He shook Ibrahim by the shoulders. “What year is this?”
Ibrahim paused, and pondered. “Let’s see now. It is 790 years since the birth of the prophet, or, in the Nasrani reckoning, 1418.”
He could not understand why Abdul wept.
But, of course, time heals all wounds, even those from strange weapons. Abdul had bought the services of Ibrahim’s bought, to take him to Gibraltar. As he dropped him off, Abdul paid him with a gold peso, almost as much as he would earn in a year. He then offered another, but Ibrahim refused.
“You will not take another?” inquired Abdul, before he turned and stared at the passer bys drinking wine.
“No, no thank you. You have taken of my bread and salt; it would be wrong. Besides,” continued Ibrahim, “I listened to your rambling when you had the fever. Everyone knows that Allah favors the mad. ”
And with that, Ibrahim turned and sailed his boat away, as fast as the wins could take it.
Now, though, as he saw the strange machine appearing in and out of his view in front of him, and a great variety of lights, he did the only thing a normal person would do. He turned and ran, back towards his boat.
After a minute or so of terror-inspired running, he stopped, and realized that whatever happened had stopped. Cautiously, he turned around and walked towards it, very carefully and quietly.
“Ugh…” he heard someone groan. This inspired him to advance quicker, as demons from Shaitan weren’t in a habit of groaning.
“Peace be with you. Welcome to Fez,” he began, quavering in terror. “I an Ibrahim, and I greet you.” When the other man didn’t respond, he tried something else. “Hablas espanol?”
He realized then that the man was actually strapped inside the machine, as a man might be in a galley. The man inside then replied, “I speak Arabic, as you do. My name is Abdul, and I am from the future. I must…” he coughed again. “I must….” He repeated, before finally getting it out. “I must get to the Almohads.”
Clearly the man, whoever he was, was sick and possibly deranged. Ibrahim sighed, and took the man and his belongings back to his hut. At least he appeared to be some wealth, whoever this wizard was.
The man’s entrance to Ibrahim’s village caused quite a commotion, despite the hour.
“He’s a sorcerer,” screamed an old hag. “Let’s burn him!”
”You said that when the Portuguese sailors were shipwrecked here, and looked what happened then,” replied her husband. “I say we hold him for ransom.”
Finally, at last, the village headmaster spoke. Leaning on his cane, he rasped, “The Koran says care for the sick and mad. And with this man bleeding and raving about the great Shaitan and how music is evil, I’d say he is both. We shall quarter him in the mosque, and mend his wounds.”
”And, of course, we shall take a few gold coins from his purse. It is only fair, after all.”
Over the next several days, the man healed. Apparently whatever had damaged him was not too severe, although it was strange indeed how he had balls of metal in him, which they took out. He, in turn, told them a horrible tale, of a future full of war, strife, and oppression.
“Can nothing be done to stop these rulers from taking over our lands?”
“We will restore the almohad caliphate, and strengthen it.”
“What Caliphate?”
”The one in Al-Andus.”
”Oh, you mean the Emirate of Granada. It’s pretty weak, isn’t it? And I was talking about the oppressive kings, not the Spanish.”
Abdul stared at him. “You mean to say there…. Is no caliphate!” He shook Ibrahim by the shoulders. “What year is this?”
Ibrahim paused, and pondered. “Let’s see now. It is 790 years since the birth of the prophet, or, in the Nasrani reckoning, 1418.”
He could not understand why Abdul wept.
But, of course, time heals all wounds, even those from strange weapons. Abdul had bought the services of Ibrahim’s bought, to take him to Gibraltar. As he dropped him off, Abdul paid him with a gold peso, almost as much as he would earn in a year. He then offered another, but Ibrahim refused.
“You will not take another?” inquired Abdul, before he turned and stared at the passer bys drinking wine.
“No, no thank you. You have taken of my bread and salt; it would be wrong. Besides,” continued Ibrahim, “I listened to your rambling when you had the fever. Everyone knows that Allah favors the mad. ”
And with that, Ibrahim turned and sailed his boat away, as fast as the wins could take it.
Zeyk Kastra prostrated himself before the Emir of Granada, Mohammed VIII. Standing in the throne room of the Muslims of Iberia, one felt as if he was in the presence of a man who ruled the world, not just an outpost behind mountains
“Rise, my servant. What news do you bring from the Nasrani Spaniards?” Inquired Mohammed.
”King Juan II prepares to march against us. Alfonso of Spain and Joa of Portugal have pledged support, and they are moving to complete the reconquista.”
Mohammed, a weak, sick ruler, had never wanted war. “But why? We have always paid the tribute we owe to them. Our army, though large, will still put up quite a fight.”
”My emir, may you live forever, our alliance with the Berbers of Africa have frightened them. From what my agents have told me, the King is also furious that a ship owned by his brother was attacked in the Straits, boarded, and captured by Berbers in Algiers.”
The Emir practically raged at this point. “But we did not do this! How can he attack us? He swore on his Bible!”
”Somehow, I doubt the Qu’ran would stop you from attacking a foe,” replied Zeyk cynically. “Now, what we must do is,” he was interrupted by a messenger.
“My Emir, and general,” began one of the servants, as he bowed. “A stranger from the South has come to the court. They say he is the sorcerer, whom we have heard about.”
Zeyk shivered. Bringing a jjinn into this… still, it must be done. “Let the man enter, and we shall discuss with him.”
When the strange man entered, Zeyk was looking out a window, at the city below. Up here, in the Alhambra, he mused, one was sometimes lost from the concerns of the people. What the kingdom needed, really, was a new emir…
‘I greet you, Exalted Emir of Granada, rightful caliph of Al-Andalus; and your general. I have much to tell you.”
Several hours later, as Zeyk held up a strange book. Inscribed upon the cover was “1492: Glory, God, and Gold.”
”So, the kingdom will fall from civil war?” asked the Emir.
“I am afraid so. And then the Christians, and Jews, will oppress and exile the Muslims of Al Andalus.”
Zeyk paused for a moment. “But the book here says that the Jews were exiled also.”
”The book lies.”
”How do we know the rest isn’t a lie?”
”Maybe the book doesn’t lie, but it stretches the truth.”
The Emir cleared his throat. “Yes, quite. So, what weapons from the future do you have for us? Cannons which shoot miles? A way to fly, as a man does on a horse? Perhaps a weapon which will cause all of Madrid to burn?”
Abdul coughed, a little embarrassed, almost. “Well, we were going to have weapons like that, but we hit a bit of a snag when the bombs started raining down.”
Zeyk picked up a date from the table. “Alright, so what do you have?”
”Well, I have a machine gun, and books which will let us make more weapons.”
“Such as?”
”I have plans to build atomic bombs, which vaporize cities.”
”How are those made?”
”With uranium.”
The Emir interrupted again. “Where do we find this uranium?”
”Well, it’s fairly common in Canada and Subsaharan Africa. Oh, shit.”
“Rise, my servant. What news do you bring from the Nasrani Spaniards?” Inquired Mohammed.
”King Juan II prepares to march against us. Alfonso of Spain and Joa of Portugal have pledged support, and they are moving to complete the reconquista.”
Mohammed, a weak, sick ruler, had never wanted war. “But why? We have always paid the tribute we owe to them. Our army, though large, will still put up quite a fight.”
”My emir, may you live forever, our alliance with the Berbers of Africa have frightened them. From what my agents have told me, the King is also furious that a ship owned by his brother was attacked in the Straits, boarded, and captured by Berbers in Algiers.”
The Emir practically raged at this point. “But we did not do this! How can he attack us? He swore on his Bible!”
”Somehow, I doubt the Qu’ran would stop you from attacking a foe,” replied Zeyk cynically. “Now, what we must do is,” he was interrupted by a messenger.
“My Emir, and general,” began one of the servants, as he bowed. “A stranger from the South has come to the court. They say he is the sorcerer, whom we have heard about.”
Zeyk shivered. Bringing a jjinn into this… still, it must be done. “Let the man enter, and we shall discuss with him.”
When the strange man entered, Zeyk was looking out a window, at the city below. Up here, in the Alhambra, he mused, one was sometimes lost from the concerns of the people. What the kingdom needed, really, was a new emir…
‘I greet you, Exalted Emir of Granada, rightful caliph of Al-Andalus; and your general. I have much to tell you.”
Several hours later, as Zeyk held up a strange book. Inscribed upon the cover was “1492: Glory, God, and Gold.”
”So, the kingdom will fall from civil war?” asked the Emir.
“I am afraid so. And then the Christians, and Jews, will oppress and exile the Muslims of Al Andalus.”
Zeyk paused for a moment. “But the book here says that the Jews were exiled also.”
”The book lies.”
”How do we know the rest isn’t a lie?”
”Maybe the book doesn’t lie, but it stretches the truth.”
The Emir cleared his throat. “Yes, quite. So, what weapons from the future do you have for us? Cannons which shoot miles? A way to fly, as a man does on a horse? Perhaps a weapon which will cause all of Madrid to burn?”
Abdul coughed, a little embarrassed, almost. “Well, we were going to have weapons like that, but we hit a bit of a snag when the bombs started raining down.”
Zeyk picked up a date from the table. “Alright, so what do you have?”
”Well, I have a machine gun, and books which will let us make more weapons.”
“Such as?”
”I have plans to build atomic bombs, which vaporize cities.”
”How are those made?”
”With uranium.”
The Emir interrupted again. “Where do we find this uranium?”
”Well, it’s fairly common in Canada and Subsaharan Africa. Oh, shit.”
I love the whole premise of this, Faeelin. You've got me completely hooked already - particularly knowing that at some point Abdul's going to get shot in the chest again.
Geez, he's really got some work to do, though, doesn't he?
I'm very much looking forward to more. Those first few posts were really great writing and storyline both...
Geez, he's really got some work to do, though, doesn't he?
I'm very much looking forward to more. Those first few posts were really great writing and storyline both...
Originally posted by MrT
I love the whole premise of this, Faeelin. You've got me completely hooked already - particularly knowing that at some point Abdul's going to get shot in the chest again.
Geez, he's really got some work to do, though, doesn't he?
I'm very much looking forward to more. Those first few posts were really great writing and storyline both...
You've really gotta feel sorry for Abdul. As you'll find out, things never seem to work the way he expects.
On the other hand, if he ruled, the next Emir wouldn't have gotten a refinery as an unexpected invention, would he?
King Alfonso looked up, in the harsh glare of the sun. Here in the mountains, it was easy for one to be ambushed. The damn Granadans had adapted tactics of hitting in the night, killing the nobles, and retreating before them. Water holes had been poisoned, and their damn cavalry had been raiding throughout Southern Castile, reaching as far as Toledo. He was really going to have to raze a mosque and rebuild a church in its place, to make them understand.
Alfonso turned to one of his nearby officers. “Find the Count of Mercia. I need to speak with him.”
The officer sped off, and was then cut down in a sheet of fire.
From up on a cliff, a Moor stood, impossibly far away. As his men died by the dozen, the king realized what had happened.
”The Moors have a sorcerer!” he cried out. “Father Gomez, you must smite him where he stands.”
Gomez began his invocation, before he too was smitten by the flame. Alfonso pulled out his sword. Then the fire turned towards him, and his horse shot out from under him. As he fell, his neck snapped.
“Wait a minute,” he thought to himself as darkness fell. “Clever Moors…. Small cannon.”
The slaughter continued for several more minutes, until only one man was left.
“Let him run. He shall tell his tale to others,” commanded a harsh voice.
“Yes, My commander. So you see, Zeyk, that is what we call an m-60.”
Inspired by the death of the Aragon king
So the army of Granada triumphed. Although Abdul taught them much, it was Zeyk who used the new tactics. The new steel, for instance, was commanded, by Zeyk’s orders, to be used not as armor, but as arrows for crossbows. The Granadan light cavalry tore apart their foes.
“Clever tactic, isn’t it?” asked the Emir, after the destruction of the Portuguese army at Seville.
“Yes, I’d say so. Our cavalry with crossbows can harry their rear and escape before they follow, and with their heavy cavalry drawn off, it is easy meat for our men.”
”A wise plan,” agreed the Emir. “But where did you hear it from?”
”A Nasrani text from somewhere far to the East. Some place called Muscovy, or some such. It was a tale of how the nomads of the east fought.”
Just then, Abdul came storming up. “What is this I hear of your decrees regarding the infidel in the lands we have conquered!” he roared. “How can you do such a thing?”
A swift motion from Zeyk, and the soldiers on the sides of the tent came in, swords drawn. “You think yourself too highly, sorcerer. Who are you to question the exalted Emir’s wishes?”
”Ah, patience, Zeyk. He is still knew to Al-Andalus,” responded Mohammed. “He knows not what he does.” Gesturing to the guards, he ordered them to leave, and told Zeyk to come and sit.
Zeyk picked up a cup. “Wine?” he asked.
The Emir replied, “Yes, it is good, isn’t it? The vines of Seville have always produced great bounty” He gathered after a moment that that wasn’t what Abdul was referring to. “Oh, well, Allah cares not what I take in, but what I give out. The uleema agrees.”
Abdul clearly looked as if he was about to argue, but decided not to. “Ah, well, at least we can get revenge on the Nasrani in the lands we take.”
Mohammed and Zeyk stared at him as if he’d started discussing eating babies. “Are you mad?” roared Zeyk. “Bad enough the pope condemns us. Do you want to face the might of a crusade?”
“Well, now, not quite, but surely they must be ruled as they ruled those of the faith in Murcia, and Seville.” He paused. “Musn’t they?”
”They musn’t,” continued the Emir. “First, they will pay more as loyal subjects. The Pope’s calls for crusade will seem less eager if we try to make ourselves look like the Kings of Spain, as well as the Caliph of Al-Andalus. Finally, we need men.” The Emir sighed, and continued, “No matter how many we killed in the mountains, they can always raise more. We cannot. If we treat them as slaves, they will do as slaves and join our foes.”
”So you’re going to make them equals?” Abdul roared.
“You’re lucky the Emir is a tolerant man, sorcerer,” Zeyk threatened, while rubbing the edge of his scimitar. “It is one thing for a noble to question jis rule. But a Berber? How dare you!”
Zeyk was about to act most rashly, when in stepped an emissary from King Juan.
“His majesty wishes to offer a truce. In return,” the messenger sighed for a moment, “he will deign to consider a treaty of peace with Emir Mohammed of Granada.”
Just then, another messenger entered the room. “My Emir! Excellent news! Toledo has fallen!”
Outside, the cheers rose through the tents as word spread that the majestic city, founded by the Umayadds, had been restored to the hands of the Emir. Outside of the tent, the howls of victory flared, and a man began to play a song.
Only Abdul, who was grinding his teeth, heard the messenger.
“Christ, have mercy.”
Alfonso turned to one of his nearby officers. “Find the Count of Mercia. I need to speak with him.”
The officer sped off, and was then cut down in a sheet of fire.
From up on a cliff, a Moor stood, impossibly far away. As his men died by the dozen, the king realized what had happened.
”The Moors have a sorcerer!” he cried out. “Father Gomez, you must smite him where he stands.”
Gomez began his invocation, before he too was smitten by the flame. Alfonso pulled out his sword. Then the fire turned towards him, and his horse shot out from under him. As he fell, his neck snapped.
“Wait a minute,” he thought to himself as darkness fell. “Clever Moors…. Small cannon.”
The slaughter continued for several more minutes, until only one man was left.
“Let him run. He shall tell his tale to others,” commanded a harsh voice.
“Yes, My commander. So you see, Zeyk, that is what we call an m-60.”
Inspired by the death of the Aragon king
So the army of Granada triumphed. Although Abdul taught them much, it was Zeyk who used the new tactics. The new steel, for instance, was commanded, by Zeyk’s orders, to be used not as armor, but as arrows for crossbows. The Granadan light cavalry tore apart their foes.
“Clever tactic, isn’t it?” asked the Emir, after the destruction of the Portuguese army at Seville.
“Yes, I’d say so. Our cavalry with crossbows can harry their rear and escape before they follow, and with their heavy cavalry drawn off, it is easy meat for our men.”
”A wise plan,” agreed the Emir. “But where did you hear it from?”
”A Nasrani text from somewhere far to the East. Some place called Muscovy, or some such. It was a tale of how the nomads of the east fought.”
Just then, Abdul came storming up. “What is this I hear of your decrees regarding the infidel in the lands we have conquered!” he roared. “How can you do such a thing?”
A swift motion from Zeyk, and the soldiers on the sides of the tent came in, swords drawn. “You think yourself too highly, sorcerer. Who are you to question the exalted Emir’s wishes?”
”Ah, patience, Zeyk. He is still knew to Al-Andalus,” responded Mohammed. “He knows not what he does.” Gesturing to the guards, he ordered them to leave, and told Zeyk to come and sit.
Zeyk picked up a cup. “Wine?” he asked.
The Emir replied, “Yes, it is good, isn’t it? The vines of Seville have always produced great bounty” He gathered after a moment that that wasn’t what Abdul was referring to. “Oh, well, Allah cares not what I take in, but what I give out. The uleema agrees.”
Abdul clearly looked as if he was about to argue, but decided not to. “Ah, well, at least we can get revenge on the Nasrani in the lands we take.”
Mohammed and Zeyk stared at him as if he’d started discussing eating babies. “Are you mad?” roared Zeyk. “Bad enough the pope condemns us. Do you want to face the might of a crusade?”
“Well, now, not quite, but surely they must be ruled as they ruled those of the faith in Murcia, and Seville.” He paused. “Musn’t they?”
”They musn’t,” continued the Emir. “First, they will pay more as loyal subjects. The Pope’s calls for crusade will seem less eager if we try to make ourselves look like the Kings of Spain, as well as the Caliph of Al-Andalus. Finally, we need men.” The Emir sighed, and continued, “No matter how many we killed in the mountains, they can always raise more. We cannot. If we treat them as slaves, they will do as slaves and join our foes.”
”So you’re going to make them equals?” Abdul roared.
“You’re lucky the Emir is a tolerant man, sorcerer,” Zeyk threatened, while rubbing the edge of his scimitar. “It is one thing for a noble to question jis rule. But a Berber? How dare you!”
Zeyk was about to act most rashly, when in stepped an emissary from King Juan.
“His majesty wishes to offer a truce. In return,” the messenger sighed for a moment, “he will deign to consider a treaty of peace with Emir Mohammed of Granada.”
Just then, another messenger entered the room. “My Emir! Excellent news! Toledo has fallen!”
Outside, the cheers rose through the tents as word spread that the majestic city, founded by the Umayadds, had been restored to the hands of the Emir. Outside of the tent, the howls of victory flared, and a man began to play a song.
Only Abdul, who was grinding his teeth, heard the messenger.
“Christ, have mercy.”
Back to Granada, and the Almohan. For Zeyk, it was as close to home as he would get.
“So, Zeyk, what do you think we can get out of them?” asked the Emir.
“Well,” he responded, taking a sip from the glass of wine on the table. “They’re beaten but not broken. We might be able to break our vassalage, and gain Seville, Toledo, and Murcia.”
“I don’t know. I think we should keep on pressing our claims. We’ll take Lisbon, too,” cheered Abdul. “And then London!”
”Why London?”
”Because it’s the root of the evil of materialism.”
”Materialism?”
”The love of fine things.”
”But I like fine things,” said the Emir.
“Right,” interrupted Zeyk. “Let’s just press our claims.”
Abdul snapped the quill in his hand. Clearly, none but he could see what must be done.
Just then, a courtier entered the room. “My Emir, the ambassador of Castile has arrived!”
”Jolly good,” said the Emir. “Now we can get down to business.” He took a sip of wine. “You may send him in.”
The count of Galicia entered. Before he could begin the introductions, the Emir interrupted him.
“You speak Arabic? Or prefieras Espanol?” This was, Abdul realized, a bit of a slight to him. His Spanish was poor, and consisted largely of Chinga tu Madre. So he was left out of the proceedings.
“We will present our terms, first. We demand: Seville, Mercia, Toledo, and an end of tribute. From Portugal, we demand concessions in their port of Lisboa, or 475,00 pesos. And, of course, we demand equal recognition with the other kings of Iberia, as the Caliph of Al-Andalus.”
This was, of course, a bit forthright. But then again, after the devastating blows inflicted against the forces of Christendom in Iberia….
“Perhaps. But we will not cede Toledo, and Portugal will not pay tribute to you! Most importantly, you may be the Emir, but you will not be king!”
“And you will, of course, stop us with the children of the knights we have slain and the wives of your peasants we filled with arrows?”
“The Christians in the lands you occupy will resist! The more you conquer, the more ground your men must cover. By logic, then, you are practicing the art of defeat!”
Zeyk rapped his fingers on the table before them. “Are you finished/”
”Yes.”
”Alright. I’ll explain to you why we will win. Remember, Much of Southern Spain is still loyal to the true faith, and the Caliph has made it perfectly clear that, in the eyes of law, all men, Castilan, Arab, Berber, are equal before the law.”
Abdul by this point had caught onto the conversation. “Fool,” he muttered. Tolerance was one thing, but that was due to the Nasrani of today as a separate species, not as part of the kingdom. Did he really think the people of Toledo wouldn’t rise up and raise the banner of Castile if war came again?
Meanwhile, though, the Count was speaking. “Will they hold if a Crusade to free them come? They care more for a king of the Cross than for low taxes, Emir.”
”We’ll see, won’t we?” replied Zeyk.
In the dark of night, the Count wrote by candlelight. Outside the spires of Granada gave the scene a majestic splendour, against the lavendar mountains,, and he could see why it was called the flower of Iberia.
He had other things on his mind than beauty tonight, howver.. King Juan ordered him to receive peace at any cost. But he had to do something, or the Moors would overrun all of Castile. Maybe not today, but….
A knock at the door. He stood up from the desk he was writing at, and stood up to answer it. He was a bit surprised to see who was standing there.
“You,” he said, with all the bitterness the loss of a nation would cause.
“I,” responded Abdul. “Am just a friend. And I have come to help you save your kingdom.”
“It may have been a bit more helpful had you done so before gunning down the King Juan of Aragon.”
”It was war. He knew what to expect. Had he wanted a death in bed, he should not have come.” Whoever this sorcerer was, though the Count, he had the Arab fatalism.
“And that, I suppose, excuses the slaughter of the men who made it across, including prisoners?”
”As much as the fact that they were burning farms in the vega,” replied the Sorcerer. “Do you want to hear the proposal or not?”
The Count sighed. “Say your say.”
”The Emir has a foolish plan, to treat the Nasrani of the conquered lands as equals, and full citizens of Al-Andalus. This shall destroy the kingdom. But,” he said, before continuing, “not before destroying Castile.”
”So what do you want?”
“I shall remove the Emir, and withdraw my forces. You shall keep Toledo.”
”Tell me more,” responded the Count.
Just then, they both heard a noise, and looked to the window. All that was there was a curtain, rustling in the wind.
And that's all I'm posting, until I get back.
“So, Zeyk, what do you think we can get out of them?” asked the Emir.
“Well,” he responded, taking a sip from the glass of wine on the table. “They’re beaten but not broken. We might be able to break our vassalage, and gain Seville, Toledo, and Murcia.”
“I don’t know. I think we should keep on pressing our claims. We’ll take Lisbon, too,” cheered Abdul. “And then London!”
”Why London?”
”Because it’s the root of the evil of materialism.”
”Materialism?”
”The love of fine things.”
”But I like fine things,” said the Emir.
“Right,” interrupted Zeyk. “Let’s just press our claims.”
Abdul snapped the quill in his hand. Clearly, none but he could see what must be done.
Just then, a courtier entered the room. “My Emir, the ambassador of Castile has arrived!”
”Jolly good,” said the Emir. “Now we can get down to business.” He took a sip of wine. “You may send him in.”
The count of Galicia entered. Before he could begin the introductions, the Emir interrupted him.
“You speak Arabic? Or prefieras Espanol?” This was, Abdul realized, a bit of a slight to him. His Spanish was poor, and consisted largely of Chinga tu Madre. So he was left out of the proceedings.
“We will present our terms, first. We demand: Seville, Mercia, Toledo, and an end of tribute. From Portugal, we demand concessions in their port of Lisboa, or 475,00 pesos. And, of course, we demand equal recognition with the other kings of Iberia, as the Caliph of Al-Andalus.”
This was, of course, a bit forthright. But then again, after the devastating blows inflicted against the forces of Christendom in Iberia….
“Perhaps. But we will not cede Toledo, and Portugal will not pay tribute to you! Most importantly, you may be the Emir, but you will not be king!”
“And you will, of course, stop us with the children of the knights we have slain and the wives of your peasants we filled with arrows?”
“The Christians in the lands you occupy will resist! The more you conquer, the more ground your men must cover. By logic, then, you are practicing the art of defeat!”
Zeyk rapped his fingers on the table before them. “Are you finished/”
”Yes.”
”Alright. I’ll explain to you why we will win. Remember, Much of Southern Spain is still loyal to the true faith, and the Caliph has made it perfectly clear that, in the eyes of law, all men, Castilan, Arab, Berber, are equal before the law.”
Abdul by this point had caught onto the conversation. “Fool,” he muttered. Tolerance was one thing, but that was due to the Nasrani of today as a separate species, not as part of the kingdom. Did he really think the people of Toledo wouldn’t rise up and raise the banner of Castile if war came again?
Meanwhile, though, the Count was speaking. “Will they hold if a Crusade to free them come? They care more for a king of the Cross than for low taxes, Emir.”
”We’ll see, won’t we?” replied Zeyk.
In the dark of night, the Count wrote by candlelight. Outside the spires of Granada gave the scene a majestic splendour, against the lavendar mountains,, and he could see why it was called the flower of Iberia.
He had other things on his mind than beauty tonight, howver.. King Juan ordered him to receive peace at any cost. But he had to do something, or the Moors would overrun all of Castile. Maybe not today, but….
A knock at the door. He stood up from the desk he was writing at, and stood up to answer it. He was a bit surprised to see who was standing there.
“You,” he said, with all the bitterness the loss of a nation would cause.
“I,” responded Abdul. “Am just a friend. And I have come to help you save your kingdom.”
“It may have been a bit more helpful had you done so before gunning down the King Juan of Aragon.”
”It was war. He knew what to expect. Had he wanted a death in bed, he should not have come.” Whoever this sorcerer was, though the Count, he had the Arab fatalism.
“And that, I suppose, excuses the slaughter of the men who made it across, including prisoners?”
”As much as the fact that they were burning farms in the vega,” replied the Sorcerer. “Do you want to hear the proposal or not?”
The Count sighed. “Say your say.”
”The Emir has a foolish plan, to treat the Nasrani of the conquered lands as equals, and full citizens of Al-Andalus. This shall destroy the kingdom. But,” he said, before continuing, “not before destroying Castile.”
”So what do you want?”
“I shall remove the Emir, and withdraw my forces. You shall keep Toledo.”
”Tell me more,” responded the Count.
Just then, they both heard a noise, and looked to the window. All that was there was a curtain, rustling in the wind.
And that's all I'm posting, until I get back.
Great stuff, Faeelin! I love the interplay between the modern Islamic fundamentalist and the practical 15th century Emir. They may have the same religion, but they certainly don't share point of views...
Does anyone know when he gets back?
Does anyone know when he gets back?
Just caught this one. Great work. The clash of cultures between our modern friend and the 15th century take on Islam is quite amusing (and makes a bit of a point). Hurry up and get back from where ever you are and give me more!
I was initally put off by the fundamentalism, but some of the dialouge is just too good, especially the materialism part
I had to say one more time, this is very good.
The contrast between our radical, modern "friend" and his 15th century brethern is very telling. Very relevant in today's world.
Keep up the insightful and amusing work.
BTW, the bit on materialism was my favorite too.
The contrast between our radical, modern "friend" and his 15th century brethern is very telling. Very relevant in today's world.
Keep up the insightful and amusing work.
BTW, the bit on materialism was my favorite too.
There's going to be some internal strife over this one. Does anyoine else think that Abdul will begin withholding some of what he knows until the Emir "sees the light"?
London as the root of evil materialism? He obviously hasn't been to Paris yet.
Come back Faeelin.........
London as the root of evil materialism? He obviously hasn't been to Paris yet.
Come back Faeelin.........
The Emir sipped, as he considered these latest reports. Although the King of Castile tried to rally Aragon and Portugal to his cause, King Joa would trade gold for peace. Aragon was poised on the edge of civil war with the death of Alfsonso, and Castillians had indeed proved desperate.
The Emir slammed his fist on the table. “So, Zeyk,” he continued through a mouthful of chicken, “It appears that you were wrong. Plots, from Spaniards. What other tales do you have? The Italians kneeling to Rome?” The Emir began laughing, but then he started gasping.
“My Emir!” screamed Zeyk. He rushed to the end of the table, and called for a doctor. Kneeling over him, though, he knew it would do no good. The man collapsed in his chair, and fell silent. He sent for a doctor, who quickly came.
“Can nothing be done, Physician?”
The Physician, a Jew who had fled from Italy, sighed. “I am afraid not. He has gone beyond the aid of all medicine I know.”
”What caused it?”
”Who can say? Perhaps his heart gave out. But he was a young man. There were none of the symptoms of disease.” The physician unconsciously stroked his bear. “Suspicious. Very, suspicious. I shall consult my books, and see if one of the Greeks mentioned this. But death by chicken? And the taster appears to be fine.”
Zeyk returned to his townhouse, distraught at the news. The Emir was dead…. Who would be the regent for his son, Mohammed IX?
“Can you not guess?,” interrupted a voice from his study. It was not his wife or majordomo, but he instantly knew who it was, even in the darkness.
“Ah, Khalid. What do you bring for me?” Zeyk asked, while sitting down.
“News from the Count. Emir Mohammed did not die of natural causes, as that fool Cohen believes. The Emir was murdered.”
Zeyk lit a candle. “This does not surprise me. Let me guess, the sorcerer Abdul is involved?” With a nod, he continued. “And the Count?”
”Of course. The fool left a document out , detailing some medicine. It was called some foreign word. Neurotoxin, I think.”
Zeyk took the parchment and began to read. The uleema and the qadi had been won over by Abdul. They would support him in turning the Emir’s son into their puppet, playing their games with him and the caliphate. Zeyk wrenched the parchment. Oh, how they would all pay for this!
”Ah,” grunted Zeyk, his lips pursing at the name of the potion. “Then for the caliphate, there is only one thing I can do.” He turned, and left, in the dark of night, to make arrangements.
Abdul leaned back and sighed, content. “Now, you see Mohammed, there are bad men to the North, as you know. The Nasrani want to conquer our kingdom, and keep it for themselves. They want to hurt and take things that don’t belong to them.”
”That’s awful!” replied the 5-year-old Emir. “We should fight back against those bad men!” The Emir practically leaped out of his seat, ready to lead his imaginary army to victory.
“I agree. That’s why I want to rule in your stead, until you are old enough. The uleema has agreed to it, as your father requested it.”
”But I’m the Emir!” replied Mohammed IX.
“Now, now,” interrupted the uleema. “He will only be an advisor to you. You can trust me, can’t you?”
Just then, the doors to the chamber burst open. In stepped two Berbers, who were the personal guards of Zeyk.
“We have come to place Abdul Hassan under arrest for crimes against the Caliph of Al-Andalus, including the murder of Emir Mohammed.” They drew their swords. “Surrender, and you may die cleanly.”
Abdul stalled for time, while reaching towards his pocket. “Well, you see, I’d like to,” he began as he pulled out his pistol, and fired twice. “But I have other plans.”
Abdul ran through the palace. It would not be long before they knew what had happened. He had to get to the machine in time. Running through the palace, he cut through the guards by the stables with his pistol. Thus, taking a horse, he fled towards the cave in the Sierras where he had hid the machine.
“Ah, well,” he thought. There’s always the next emir. This plan to win over the people of Iberia couldn’t really work. He paused, as he set the controls to the 1450’s.
The Emir slammed his fist on the table. “So, Zeyk,” he continued through a mouthful of chicken, “It appears that you were wrong. Plots, from Spaniards. What other tales do you have? The Italians kneeling to Rome?” The Emir began laughing, but then he started gasping.
“My Emir!” screamed Zeyk. He rushed to the end of the table, and called for a doctor. Kneeling over him, though, he knew it would do no good. The man collapsed in his chair, and fell silent. He sent for a doctor, who quickly came.
“Can nothing be done, Physician?”
The Physician, a Jew who had fled from Italy, sighed. “I am afraid not. He has gone beyond the aid of all medicine I know.”
”What caused it?”
”Who can say? Perhaps his heart gave out. But he was a young man. There were none of the symptoms of disease.” The physician unconsciously stroked his bear. “Suspicious. Very, suspicious. I shall consult my books, and see if one of the Greeks mentioned this. But death by chicken? And the taster appears to be fine.”
Zeyk returned to his townhouse, distraught at the news. The Emir was dead…. Who would be the regent for his son, Mohammed IX?
“Can you not guess?,” interrupted a voice from his study. It was not his wife or majordomo, but he instantly knew who it was, even in the darkness.
“Ah, Khalid. What do you bring for me?” Zeyk asked, while sitting down.
“News from the Count. Emir Mohammed did not die of natural causes, as that fool Cohen believes. The Emir was murdered.”
Zeyk lit a candle. “This does not surprise me. Let me guess, the sorcerer Abdul is involved?” With a nod, he continued. “And the Count?”
”Of course. The fool left a document out , detailing some medicine. It was called some foreign word. Neurotoxin, I think.”
Zeyk took the parchment and began to read. The uleema and the qadi had been won over by Abdul. They would support him in turning the Emir’s son into their puppet, playing their games with him and the caliphate. Zeyk wrenched the parchment. Oh, how they would all pay for this!
”Ah,” grunted Zeyk, his lips pursing at the name of the potion. “Then for the caliphate, there is only one thing I can do.” He turned, and left, in the dark of night, to make arrangements.
Abdul leaned back and sighed, content. “Now, you see Mohammed, there are bad men to the North, as you know. The Nasrani want to conquer our kingdom, and keep it for themselves. They want to hurt and take things that don’t belong to them.”
”That’s awful!” replied the 5-year-old Emir. “We should fight back against those bad men!” The Emir practically leaped out of his seat, ready to lead his imaginary army to victory.
“I agree. That’s why I want to rule in your stead, until you are old enough. The uleema has agreed to it, as your father requested it.”
”But I’m the Emir!” replied Mohammed IX.
“Now, now,” interrupted the uleema. “He will only be an advisor to you. You can trust me, can’t you?”
Just then, the doors to the chamber burst open. In stepped two Berbers, who were the personal guards of Zeyk.
“We have come to place Abdul Hassan under arrest for crimes against the Caliph of Al-Andalus, including the murder of Emir Mohammed.” They drew their swords. “Surrender, and you may die cleanly.”
Abdul stalled for time, while reaching towards his pocket. “Well, you see, I’d like to,” he began as he pulled out his pistol, and fired twice. “But I have other plans.”
Abdul ran through the palace. It would not be long before they knew what had happened. He had to get to the machine in time. Running through the palace, he cut through the guards by the stables with his pistol. Thus, taking a horse, he fled towards the cave in the Sierras where he had hid the machine.
“Ah, well,” he thought. There’s always the next emir. This plan to win over the people of Iberia couldn’t really work. He paused, as he set the controls to the 1450’s.
I settled T's question there a bit thoroughly (although a bit more insight into why the uleema supported abdul is in order, it won't show up until the end of the century).
And Paris is the root of crass materialism, a much more sinister version. Materialism itself originated in England when they came up with the odd notion that leaves from far away, when boiled, would make a good drink.
Craig: Part of the problem I've been having writing this AAR is not leaning too far to one side. On the one hand, I want it to be humorous, but not that offensive. Yet at the same time, I wanted it to be more than just a comicall (hopefully) AAR.
And Paris is the root of crass materialism, a much more sinister version. Materialism itself originated in England when they came up with the odd notion that leaves from far away, when boiled, would make a good drink.
Craig: Part of the problem I've been having writing this AAR is not leaning too far to one side. On the one hand, I want it to be humorous, but not that offensive. Yet at the same time, I wanted it to be more than just a comicall (hopefully) AAR.