House of Osman - Princes of Dawn

I'll find a way. I'll have to steal maps from the Western nations, w hich means invading them and all, but that wouldn't violate Ultimate Goal 3 since it is necessary to accomplish Ultimate Goal 2. And it is not needed to conquer them. RM's will suffice if it is not possible to military occupy them.

The Founder of Empire
The Anatolian plain stretched for miles around, broken only by the occasional village or grove of trees. The young man often spent his mornings lost in the endless plain, remembering the tales his grandfather had told of the steppes of distant central Asia. Herding, fighting, and loving under the blazing sun and icy moon.

The young man, Murad by name, had loved those stories. But he had also seen the splendor offered by civilization. The Greeks had mastered the arts and sciences, and he intended that his people master them too. With a sigh he ended his meditation and prepared for the tasks of the day. With his father campaigning in Europe the people looked to him for leadership.

1423

Murad the Second, unchallenged ruler of the Ottoman Turks, sat in royal splendor in Adrianople. Since his father had led the spahi north against the Romani Murad felt it best to station himself and his small army nearby should the Greeks stage an uprising.

Murad's handsome face briefly constricted into a snarl. The delegation of Roman Senators which had met him on his way thorugh Thrace rankled still. "We get so few chances to witness a barbarian migration" said one overfed pig of a man. "Our Emperor only wished to ensure that the live stock remained unmolested" said another who constantly hid his face behind a perfumed cloth. Bloody city dwelling vermin.

Although.... the city did have its benefits. Osman was wise to have chosen this land for his own. Constantinople was as beautiful a place as he could ever imagine. Even Adrianople made his father's seat in Anatolia look like a rustic shambles. A snap decision sent his servents flying in search of a Greek tutor. His own children would grow up learning of philosophy and languages of civilization as well as the ways of horse and bow. He would hand them a legacy.

1424
The death of the Sultan had sent his armies to rout. The Prince of Wallachia had found the troops to besiege his occupied capital while the Moldavian horsemen chased the Turks back towards Thrace. New leadership was needed as badly as new armies.

Murad loved his father. But the Old Man had too much of the steppe in him. The rocky fortress' of Europe needed a new outlook. With a sigh he ordered the ruling family of Wallachia killed. He had hoped an accomodation could be reached, but the Prince was little more educated than his peasants and had the intellect of his cattle. Wallachia was thus consigned to the Bey Said for the time being. The Moldavians though. They were courageous as any spahi and as terrible in a fight as Murad's grandfather.

Their Prince, a man in his middle years, had turned back no less than three Ottoman armies. Unheard of since the devastations of the Mongols. Now a captive in his own castle, he had nearly escaped twice and killed four of the guards detailed to the dungeon.

Murad had triumphed, shadowed as always by his friend Hamza, approached the Prince's cell. "It is a rare thing that a man's worth equals that of his title. Let us talk Prince of Moldavia, and let there be peace between us."

The Prince was silent for a long while. And then, "You talk of peace? You it was who invaded and despoiled my lands. Your father devasted the coast and his maurauders slaughtered villages down to the dogs in the street. You murdered my brother-in-law and my sister and all their children in Wallachia. What peace can there be with such as you?"

Murad pondered his reply. "You are that rarity among nobles, Highness. One who rules in fact as well as name. Your brother-in-law was a placeholder. He did not challenge himself nor did he think of his people as anything more than possessions." He stopped, thinking of the Senators who had humiliated him the year before. "Prince you are, and prince you and your sons will be in the future. I vow now before God that should you accept parole and make peace on my terms that no Moslem ruler will invade your land again."

The Prince seemed to shrink. He was lord of a minor principality, an impoverished hovel was his palace. But it was his! His and his sons. While he lived he would not see it become a heathen's plaything! An arrangement? Did not the Bible say that Satan came in guise of light?

"You make a generous offer Sir. Have you considered the Lithuanian and Polish though? Think you they will be content to see Turkish rule so near their lands? They will ravage those parts of Moldavia that your barbarians have not."

Murad smiled. A brave man indeed. It was a pity he did not have more like this among his generals. "Prince, there is no need for deception any longer. The Poles are mired in a civil war that looks to last a decade. The Lithuanians? They and the Mongol dogs are engaging in mutual extermination. No, my Lord of Moldavia. You can become my vassal or you can be executed."

The Prince, when all was said and done, as no fool. A yearly tithe and diplomatic isolation was better than becoming chicken fodder.

Youssef, Commander of the Imperial Guard, sat pensively in his tent. "This fretting is foolish and unmanly," he told himself for the hundredth time, "The boy is headstrong, arrogant, and thinks nothing of the risk. But he is no fool.... far far from it."

The young Sultan had foolishly left his finest troops in Anatolia when he had struck north to finish the conquests his father had started. "Relax old man! I will have the bulk of the army to guard me from Christian knights! No Black Sheep assasin or Roman killer may find me for I shall be like the wind! I shall cut through the Balkans like a summer storm. Swift, terrible, and gone again just as fast!" The words of a boy.

For the Guardsman it meant endless repetetive field manuevers - must keep the spahi on their toes! Idle warriors are potential rebels - and putting up with the equally endless intrigue of the court.

His aide, appeared. "My Lord Commander of the Guard, a messenger has arrived from the Jihad. The Sultan has commanded that you march up and down the peninsula. The lands of Teke and Karamon, the Principate of Kastamon and even the Greek Empire of Trebizond. Loose your harriers My Lord!"

The Commander stared at the man. The sun. It must be that the poor man had been struck by the heat. Attack? A piddling little "sultinate" like Teke would be doable. But every nation in Asia Minor? "You are sure of this message's veracity? No chance of it being a Roman trick?"

"Commander," the aide said with a bow, "it bears the sigil of our Emperor. Saving only his capture and the destruction of his army there is no way that conspirators of any sort could have reproduced his mark. The message has been verified. It further states that you are to raise new armies. The treasury is at your command."

"Phah. Damned burueacrats will have emptied it into their silly ass "improvement projects". Does His Supreme Majesty know perchance that right now the Imperial Magister of the Exchequer is spending gold on merchant ventures?! Is the Son of the Steppes aware that the tax collectors are building themselves fine little manors in several of the major provinces?! I am lucky to get the silver to fund the Guard! How does the Lord of the Ottomans expect me to hire on more cavalry and - God help us - stinking infantry?" The Commander was near apoplectic, as his voice raised in octaves many of his captains found urgent duties elsewhere - like at far side of the camp.

"Master, the Sultan has ordered that all taxes be directed to your staff. The bureaucracy is at your disposal Lord!" The aide's excitement cut through the growing rant of the Commander. Never before had the Sultans risked that kind of responsibility on another. "Sir, the Magister of the Imperial Records has compiled a report on the state of our enemies' defenses. The regional Beys must send their levies to you here."

Shocked, the Commander of the Imperial Guard could only gape at the message. Perhaps he could conquer Asia Minor after all....

Late 1426
Sultunate of Karamon, S.E. Asia Minor

The man gasped. The plague was worse than the stories said. He knew that the end was close, but couldn't find it in himself to be unhappy. In the first year of his service with the Lord Marshal, Youssef, he had known desperate charges and plunder. Since he was consigned to an infantry force besieging the last holdout of the Sultan of Karamon. Plague, hunger, living in mud, the contempt of the cavalry.... Death looked better every moment.

"Damn it. Basil, get you to the camp and call up as many loyal troops as you can. No stinking courtier will be usurping my command and my glory!" Youssef had been invited to a fete' by several Ottoman officials touring the siege lines. Instead of a party he had found hired killers and the smirking face of the Bey Sulieman.

As the man raced off he was cut down by no less than a dozen arrows. "Hell," muttered Youssef, "the stupid bastards have gotten some competent troops instead of the mercenary rabble." He had only six bodyguards to hold off half a hundred of the bureaucrats hired killers.

"Really now Youssef. What happened? You have shattered the best our enemies have thrown at the Empire. You have slaughtered rebellious peasants in the thousands. But in the end you just could not capture the cities." The treacherous Bey rode in closer.

"I have lost entire harvests paying for this venture. My home was stripped of my tapestries by the Imperial tax collectors. My merchants driven out by Imperial sponsored trade missions abroad." The man was working his way into a tirade that Youssef himself would have envied. "All for a few miles of war wasted dirt and sieges that are dragging us into ever deeper debt. This is your doing Marshal."

A flick of the wrists sent a swarm of arrows into the Marshal and his bodyguards. A moment later a squad rode up and beheaded the bodies to ensure the mission of murder was complete. "Remember lads," the Bey said, "None of this happened. We came upon the Lord Marshal's body, cruelly hacked to pieces by raiders."

One month later
Suleiman of Smyrna had assumed overall command of the Ottoman armies in Asia Minor. Couriers had been sent to the Sultan, at that time crushing the small Kingdom of Albania, informing him of the shocking murder of his chosen Warlord and Guardsman. As he had the largest contingent of troops in the provinces of Karamon and the neighboring Sultanate of Teke - still holding strong after a six month siege - none other dared argue.

Suleiman of Smyrna went to bed thinking himself the most powerful man in the region. A certain contender for the throne should the young welp Murad find death at the point of a Christian spear. The sieges ground on in a fruitless waste of treasure and lives. But unlike his predessesor he was a true tactitian. He would sort things out.

Suleiman of Smyrna woke late in the night to find two dark figures standing above him. "Well well well. Tell me Hamza, what is the penalty for the slaying of an Imperial Marshal?" one of the figures asked.

"I believe it is decapitation Majesty. Followed by the seizure of his property." The second black cloaked man said. "Do you wish the sentence to be carried out now m'lord?" Hamza. The Bey recognized the name. Murad's right hand, a tactical genius and strategic visionary. A hero of the wars out west.

"Oh no. Decapitation is so... messy. You will be interested to know, good Suleiman, that I have no intention of formally charging you for treason or murder or any crime for that matter." A soft chuckle. "No. You have performed a service for me. A great service that I myself could not bring myself to do. So you and your troops will have the honor of leading tomorrow's forlorn hope against the city walls. Do this and you die with honor, your family will not be disinherited."

Royal Palace of Karamon
Six Months Later
Murad sat in the bloodstained throne of the late Sultan of Karamon. Grissly prize that. But he had to impress upon his followers that he was not squeamish. The throne room was empty of all save Hamza, the sacking of the surrounding city entering its second day. Murad had finally decided to send in his elite troops to bring order back to his armies.

"Well it is done. Three new provinces to add to the Empire and then on to Teke." Murad knew he should feel happy but there was something-
"Hamza, do you think I did the right thing? Youssef was my teacher throughout my boyhood. He was a tireless and loyal warrior. I could have stopped his murder. As it turned out I did not even really punish his killer. That Bey's family now stands to be among the most powerful in the Empire." For a rare moment genuine grief overcame the brilliant young man. A tear streaked down his face.

"Boy, you knew it had to be done. The Marshal was not cut out for the kind of campaign you assigned to him. He was a bodyguard and teacher - not a great captain. A decent general could have taken all three provinces long ago."

"Yes but...."

"He was a liability. Noble and commoner alike needed someone to blame for the failure to reduce these cities. Better him than you." With that final comment Hamza stalked out of the room, leaving Murad alone in the devastated Palace.

Better late than never

:rofl: Pickin up where I left off

Murad perished in fire, leading one last charge of the Ottoman army against their Turkic cousins. A short and violent life, some might say, but he handed to his successor a strong and united nation. All those who had attacked his realm had been broken and likewise had those who he made war on fallen in time.

Ruling now from Constaninople Mehmet chuckled as reports came in from the European frontiers. "Ah, these Christians do my work for me. The Serbs and the Moldavians are gone now, eaten by their brothers. I do miss the lost tribute though, Murad should have taken their lands when he had the chance."

Sipping his wine he gazed at the great map he had ordered made the day after his coronation - a thing of pomp and ostentation that impressed friend and foe alike. "With the Emperor of Trebizond now a guest in Georgia I believe that we can take a welcome break from my bloody predecessor's rule and spend time building this splendid realm, don't you think Gregory?"

Gregory, one time commander of the Roman Navy shrugged. "Its one to me your Lordship. It is dangerous to think we can ignore the rest of the world. Those Latin bastards in the Aegian for one. I think they realized it was you who spawned those pirates that so infest the Adriatic. Venice can hurt you - us - badly."

The Sultan barked a laugh. "The merchants are too busy counting their gold old friend. Besides, by the most sanguine of estimates I think it'll be years before we can mount the kind of action necessary to subdue your Catholic friends." Many of the more traditional Turks sneared slightly at the way Greek flowed off their leader's tongue. Some exchanged looks. Many were unhappy with the changes wrought by Mehmet.

The English came in waves. It didn't take long for the defenders of Careys to recognize the futility of continuing the fight. The Vicomte asked for terms of the English leader, a Duke called Salisbury. The Vicomte bowed his head and nodded to his captains. Rough arms seized Lucas and -

He awoke in a sweat. The damned dream again. It had been 3 months since the damnable English caught up with him. Rather than kill him - as King Harry had commanded - they sold him to a galley as an oarsmen. Two pirate attacks and a tangle with an Algerine corsair later he was now an enforcer aboard the Salty Sultana in service to the Venetian House Morelli. Not bad work overall, though he still was prone to boughts of seasickness. The Great Houses had placed a bounty on Greek and Turkic vessels in the Adriatic and eastern Medeterainnean, and his master hoped to become rich off the anti-piracy measures.