Our ascerbic master of lore, Morthoron, is at it again with the newest part in the ongoing Tales of a Dark Continent saga.  Return once more to the recollections of dear Greagoir and feel that old familiar tugging of Middle-earth at your heart.

CHAPTER XI: Of the Founding of Marannan-astair

The master nodded and grunted with a pronounced "Harrumph!" as his apprentice finished reading the chapter. "That will do, Tatya," Greagoir said, stroking the beard on his chin. “Much have we written regarding the Dark Elves, but I believe it is time we concentrated on the history of Men for a bit. The ways and means of finding such Mannish lore was perhaps less dangerous than the paths I tread to gather the tales of the Sidhe, but only by degree, and the process was much more laborious. There is now not one credible instance of historical fact arising from the First Age of Eastern Middle-earth -- let alone chronicles, whether bardic or scribal -- unless it came directly from the Dark Elves; but they have little interest in the lives of we mortals, nor the histories of our brief empires."

The blind scribe leaned forward towards where his apprentice sat, and remarked (with a good deal of sarcasm), "What we are left with, my good apprentice, is a hodgepodge of mangled myths and fallacious fables handed down from generation to generation, passed through filters of sentiment and ancestral pride, hallowed with time, and tainted with the attitudes and morals of each succeeding age, until we have naught but great piles of shite to sift through." Greagoir laughed loudly and exclaimed, "To find the history of Men, Tatya, you must get your hands dirty! Wave off the flies and dig through the manure and maggots, and perhaps you will find an undigested kernel of truth regarding Mankind's past!"

"Umm…where then shall we start, master?" Tatya asked, trying his best to sound intrigued (but was more so nauseated at the thought of having to dig through dung).

Without missing a beat, Greagoir triumphantly replied, "Why, The Second Age of Middle-earth, of course; for precious little can be found before the fall of Morgoth. We shall first look towards our own island realm, Marannan-astair, the land of accountants, bookkeepers and lawyers. Marannan-astair was built on seafaring commerce, and bureaucracy is bred in our bones. It is an irony of avarice that where flourishes trade and the counting of coin, there lies also written history. We shall also delve into the bloody triumphs and tragic fall of the Khanate of Five Kingdoms, which was of old called Tsin-Quinqan, once the greatest empire along the Eastern Ocean. Then, perhaps, before we run too far a field, we shall discuss the founding of Bajazet, its rapid rise after the destruction of the Balchoth horde in the east, and the long line of Hierophants who have built an empire out of desert sand, and in the process have managed to outwit both Sauron and Urzahil."

Tatya bit his lip and thought for a moment. "But certainly Marannan-astair is not that ancient," the apprentice said incredulously, his head spinning at the idea, "that would mean...our island is several thousand years old!"

Greagoir nodded with a satisfied smirk. "Yes, my dear apprentice, Marannan-astair has been continuously occupied since early in the Second Age, or perhaps even further back in time. Its prime location in the straits of Enegaer has given it a strategic importance, both militarily and in trade, for countless centuries. I assume it was originally discovered in the shadowy past during one of the great migrations of Men in the First Age, and most likely by tribes heading north from the continent of Mu. It is all a matter of conjecture, really, but taking into account tidal currents and the primitive watercraft of those most ancient of times, I would say the first Men floated or rowed across to the island on rafts or in canoes. The channel waters between the island and Mu are much calmer and are sailable for a greater season than the stormy strait that lies between Marannan-astair and the southern shores of Hildorien. Nevertheless, those first journeys were dangerous, for it would be no mean feat to make the passage from Mu to Marannan without sails or a seaworthy vessel.

"Fisher-folk these first inhabitants were, most likely spending the summer months on the island away from the sweltering heat of Mu. Eventually, tribes settled permanently on our temperate shores, shifting their livelihoods from hunting and fishing to farming the rich soil. But aside from speculation, the first real hint of significant history lies in the Second Age, for it is a long-held tradition that the foundations of Marannan-astair were laid by great mariners from a far-distant shore who once came among the awe-struck and primitive fisher-folk and farmers of the island. The lore holds that these ancient mariners were near god-like in their aura, sailing in white ships that glided effortlessly across the sea without the use of oars or seemingly any other means of propulsion. Yet these tall men in their tall ships came not to conquer, for they were kindly and wise, exploring the world for the sake of bold adventure only.

"Across the Shadowy Seas they had come, and navigated the turbulent waters around the Cape of Mu, a savage crossing even the most adventurous sea-captains of modern times dare not sail. Having traversed north along the entire coast of Mu, they found at last what they sought: the straits by which they could find passage through to the inner seas of the world; and though they made no permanent habitation on the island, these noble ship-lords used our shores as a base from which to explore the seas to the east and to the north. Many times over the years they returned to the island, sharing their knowledge of ships and sailing, and of medicine, language and building, so that the ignorant folk of Marannan-astair grew in knowledge and skilled of craft. Yet there came a time when the ship-lords bade farewell and ventured homeward, promising another expedition within two year's time, and the grateful people of the island waited anxiously for the mariners' return voyage.
 
"The two years came and went, and the years after, but the ship-lords never returned; yet still the island-folk revered their memory, erecting two great statues at the foot of the harbor of what eventually became our city of Caladh. But the harbor has long since been dredged and enlarged, and the remnants of those granite giants, now weathered, old stone pillars, can still be seen far from shore -- lonely sentinels ever waiting the return of the white ships with golden sails to pass majestically up the strait towards the island."

"Carnan Neamhaniar!" Tatya cried with excitement. "So that's how those pillars came to be placed in the bay! I thought the cairns were merely raised by the harbor master so that beacon fires could be placed upon them."

"Well, no. No, not at all," Greagoir grumbled in exasperation, the interruption jarring him from his narrative, "but I suppose it is appropriate, in a poetic sense, that they are now used as beacons to guide ships into port. Towering they were in days of old, with high crowned helms upon their noble heads, but earthquakes and violent storms have long since toppled them. Now only the massive legs of the statues are all that remain..."

"Wait!" Tatya exclaimed and jumped to his feet. Neamhaniar means 'Holy Men from the West'! Do you suppose that means..."

The master raised his hand, and the chagrined apprentice immediately fell silent. Greagoir glared with his blind eyes smoldering and growled, "My dear scribeling, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, might I ask that you attempt to control your outbursts of youthful ardor, before I, too, topple over from old age?"

Tatya obediently returned to his seat and glumly picked up his pen, while Greagoir rolled his eyes and sniffed impatiently. Having mended the frayed edges of his thought, the master continued, "Yes, Tatya, Neamhaniar does indeed mean 'Holy Men from the West', thank you for pointing that out so effusively; but I am far more interested in the similarities between the words 'Neamhaniar' and 'Numenor'. In Elvish Numenor means literally 'Westlands', which begs the question, were these 'Holy Men from the West' indeed Numenoreans?

I personally believe that is the case, primarily due to information garnered from my brief perusal of the Book of Akallabeth, or ‘The Downfall of Numenor‘, so long ago in Minas Tirith. My recollection is a bit hazy, but I do remember clearly that the early Numenoreans were the greatest adventurers of the Second Age, and had navigated far beyond the stretches of Gondor and Harad that eventually became part of their empire. I am certain there was a chapter that dealt specifically with Numenoreans finding a passage to the Inner Sea. If that is the case, then Neamhaniar is merely a bastardization of Numenor, and Marannan-astair was indeed once visited by the High Men of the West.

"This might explain Marannan-astair's early and continued dominance in naval power throughout the centuries. Our ancestors were taught well by the Numenoreans, and they took full advantage of the lessons learned. Hence, we have had no rivals on the high seas, save perhaps for the Corsairs, for time out of mind, and it is why there has never been a successful invasion of the island. But truthfully, Marannan-astair has flourished for so long because we learned far back in our history not to seek to conquer the ever-feuding realms on the mainland. Ours is an invisible empire, Tatya, not some warring monolith with vast tracts of land that are hard to manage and eventually prove indefensible; but of a great shadowy web of commerce that none  of our trading partners want to cut ties with because so many of them have learned that profit without war is better than greed with war. We have made ourselves so indispensable, in fact, that greater kingdoms have risen to our defense during times of conflict merely to insure their own interests, which, by the way, are also our interests. The irony is delicious!

"Whereas great realms in the West -- Gondor or Rochand for instance -- rely on the intricate interplay of honor and chivalry and fealty to maintain their power and prestige, Marannan-astair deals in cold currency and in all sorts of trade: importing, exporting, buying, selling -- if a price can be affixed to it, our island will ship it, trade it or hoard it. The defining difference between the Elvish-influenced kingdoms of the West, and the Mannish countries of the East, like Marannan-astair or Bajazet, is that we Easterners are more commerce-centered; while to a great western realm, like Gondor, commerce is a mere afterthought of empire and not the driving force that impels its existence.

"The further west one travels, the less emphasis is put on expanding trade. Dorwinion, a Mannish settlement on the southwestern slopes of the Orocarnis, adjacent to Rhun, is a great exporter of goods, particularly their fine vintages of wine, and their products can be found on both coasts of Middle-earth; further west, the kingdom of Dale thrives on commerce, but the bulk of its trade is with their nearest neighbors, the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen; in the furthest west, trade is so localized that products rarely leaves the country of origin, unless of course one considers the Dwarves, who have always been an industrious and mercantile race wherever they make their homes. But the other kingdoms of the West share somewhat in the Elvish attitude of noble isolation, preferring to maintain their long-held customs and a hallowed belief in their own esteem; therefore, the lands outside of their spheres of influence are, to them, hardly worth dealing with."

Greagoir swatted a fly off his cheek, then stretched and yawned. Dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a fold of his robe, he remarked drowsily, "The late afternoon sun always beats the hardest on this side of the cottage." Reaching for his great, black staff he added, "Tatya, help me in and prepare supper, please. I wish to take a nap. This evening I think we shall go for a bit of a walk down by the pond where it will be cooler. There we shall discuss Tsin-Quinqan, the Khanate of Five Kingdoms. There is an interesting tale behind how I procured that history."

CHAPTER XII: A Tale of The Gold Coast

Evening was deepening by the time Greagoir and Tatya had passed through the high, parched grasses of the sun-bleached meadow on their way to the deep pond that lay at the tumbled, mossy stone feet of the highlands, jutting haphazardly in shaggily craggy tumuli above them. For a blind, and sometimes lame old man, Greagoir had walked at a brisk pace, planting his staff with authority every few paces or so to continue his forward momentum. Although the light was failing, he had no need to seek guidance, having trod this path many times over the years ("When the sighted man doth stumble at night," he had once said, "there goes the blind man without aid of light."). Meanwhile, Tatya stopped and started all along the way with the ungainly weight of lanterns, parchment, ink, quills, blankets, wineskin, and the master's chair in tow. Greagoir kept up a rambling discourse on gladiatorial spectacles in Bajazet, and their prime importance to that desert kingdom's local economy, the entire length of their journey, punctuated by "Tatya, quit dawdling!" every time his apprentice would falter.

A few ancient willows marked the spot where the dark waters lay, and they slowly swayed in mournful cadence to the stale breezes fanned by the high heat of summer, moving only with drowsy tremors as if the oppressive warmth disturbed their treeish dreams. But their long and supple tendril branches seemed to capture what coolness there was on the sluggish wind, and under their drooping protection the air about the pond was far less humid. Tatya tripped on a root and dropped his load with a clumsy crash, then spent several minutes on elbows and knees trying to locate his ink well in the muddy weeds. By the time the apprentice's search was complete, the master had already sat in his chair and began his lecture.

"I have been to the Gold Coast on Peer Kiryatin's business numerous times over the years," he stated matter-of-factly, "and never once could I draw you a map clearly delineating the borders of the khanates and petty-princedoms that line the shores of the Eastern Ocean, so often do these lands change hands. One would think that border swapping is as seasonal a business as the harvest in those outlandish realms, save that the farmers have more common sense in that regard than the potentates who attempt to rule them. It is truly ironic that the thousand mile stretch of eastern shoreline referred to as the Gold Coast is really only profitable to the mercenaries who constantly shift allegiances to the highest bidders in the unending series of internecine feuds between the ruling families of these fractious kingdoms; yet so intermarried have these royal families become over the years that it is impossible to pick a fight with anyone that is not a brother, nephew, in-law, great uncle or cousin twice-removed on his mother's side. I have actually commenced trade-talks with one side of a family, the ruling house of a khanate, only to have a cousin, a usurper come to power after a bloody coup, eventually sign the agreements while his relations were being sent to the block! Maddening for a diplomat, perhaps, but it certainly spices up tedious negotiations!

"Such chicanery and fratricide have been ever-present on the Gold Coast, but the Second Age was a period of consolidation. Throughout Middle-earth in that epochal time great empires or near-empires rose coevally, or close enough time-wise to strive against each other in a titanic struggle for the domination of the greater part of the known world: in the West, the maritime might of majestic Numenor versus the monolithic, malevolent power of Mordor; and in the East, the seething advance of the Balchoth horde against the realm of Tsin-Quinqan, the Khanate of Five Kingdoms. But like all the empires of the Second Age, Tsin-Quinqan is now a thing of shadows and dust, split once again into faded parcels of ebbing glory by the very factions from whence it was first formed, bereft of the unifying will upon which its glorious legend lies. Only a mere handful of chronicles and ballads escaped the final ruin of Tsin-Quinqan's once magnificent royal court -- its stately halls and lush gardens reduced to rubble in a series of bloody civil wars -- but the imposing tomb of its greatest emperor still stands, and is likened to a palace in its grandeur, and is hailed as one of the Seven Wonders of the World. And I was drawn to this emperor's tragic tale, intrigued by the simple but stunning epitaph chiseled into the onyx marble facade below his golden effigy:

'Great among kings, still his fate lieth thus:
Even those enthroned on high fall to dust.
What you are in life, friend, so once was he;
What he is in death, then so shall ye be.
Proud, the victor in ev'ry war he fought,
But love's loss conquered what the sword could not.'

"I was deeply moved by this self-effacing requiem. For such a great emperor to admit, even in death, that he was no more or less than any common man of his realm certainly was not in keeping with the high opinions the haughty but largely impotent potentates who followed in his stead had of themselves. Thus bemused with fascination, I sought out the story of Cui-Baili Khan, the last emperor of Tsin-Quinqan. Little did I know, but the getting of this tale of woe was in itself a story of sadness for me, and driven to madness I blindly crossed the Roaring Wastes and trod treacherous paths in my haste for self-destruction."

In the glinting lantern-light Tatya perceived a shadow of melancholy pass over Greagoir's face, and the robust old man seemed to shrink as his thoughts were drawn inward to some haunting memory that seemed to suck the vitality from his very marrow. Yet with the exhale of a wistful sigh, his aged master returned, a bit weakened and somewhat somber in his visage, perhaps, but hale and hearty as ever. Greagoir grasped his black staff as if it were a ward against the darkness, and pulled his cloak closer to him, even though the night was still hot and humid.

"I was sent on an embassy by Attar Kiryatin to the Khanate of Geas-geata," Greagoir blurted suddenly and with some effort, "there to procure for him a birthright to bury his bastardly background. It was my first journey on behalf of that ungrateful poseur of a pirate," the master hissed at the thought of his reluctant patron, "and I took my mission with all the seriousness a young man at the advent of a bright career could muster: which is to say I had every intention of conducting myself in the manner of a seasoned diplomat; yet saddled with the wandering mind and restless heart of a precocious youth, I was bound to go somewhat astray.

"The Khanate of Geas-Geata was a corrupt and decadent remnant of glorious Tsin-Quinqan, a meager shadow of that once great empire, accounting for perhaps a tenth of that former realm's land mass; yet it was ruled by exactly the type of disreputably greedy bureaucrats that would be amenable to my sordid plan for raising my master to respectability. Seeking proper introductions and wrangling my way through that pit of seething vipers took some doing, as even the lowest echelon administrators had their hands out, their eyes closed and their ears to the ground. But I must say, once rumor got about that a young diplomat was spending freely for information, doorways that were at first closed to me swung wide with fawning prefects and smarmy seneschals bidding me solicitous and wholly insincere welcome. It was all I could do to keep from laughing right in their bloated faces as their pudgy little fingers nervously counted the coins I had dropped in their ample laps.

"Most difficult of all was reaching the eunuchs of the inner circle, the [Castrati], who surrounded their figurehead princeling and basically wielded power in his stead, leaving the oblivious Khan to putter about in his gardens -- kept fresh and unhampered with the day-to-day rule of his realm -- ever ready to be trotted out for ceremonial display on state occasions. These eunuchs proved to be tough nuts to crack -- if you'll pardon the pun. As their positions were neither hereditary nor a matter of entitlement, the Castrati jealously guarded their shadowy roles behind the throne and looked at all outsiders with utter suspicion. Needless to say, I was left to cool my heels for several weeks while I sought an audience with the head eunuch, a sly and grossly obese creature named Mharu-muc.

"In the interim, and out of boredom, I took to searching out the ancient ruins that littered the countryside of Geas-Geata, fallen monuments to an illustrious past. It was on one of these expeditions that I came upon the Sepulchre of Cui-Baili, whose daunting minarets loomed out of a forsaken valley, black-bulbed spires wholly alien to the natural surroundings of tumbled boulders, flagstone, wildflowers, grass and pine. The vale itself was a great lake and in the center, accessible only by a granite and basalt causeway, stood the magnificent tomb of the fallen emperor. To say this mausoleum was breathtaking would be an understatement. I only had such a sense of awe when I first beheld the tower of Ecthelion and then the white city of Minas Tirith itself, shimmering against the mountains of Ered Nimrais. On the drowned plain below me, encircled by crystal blue water and standing amidst groves of tropical hibiscus, jasmine, magnolia and palm, the stunning edifice shone starkly in stone of white and black, mirrored in chiaroscuro upon the glassy pool at its impervious feet.

"As I drank in the view I discerned a solitary figure, small against the imposing backdrop, passing secretively in through the massive gilt doors of the Sepulchre. Strange as it was that only a single person might be partaking with me in the grandeur of this palatial tomb; I thought it stranger still that it was indeed so desolate there, and I wondered why penitents had not made the Sepulchre a place of pilgrimage, flocking in their milling thousands to marvel at this monument to mournful majesty. Ever inquisitive, I was drawn down from my vantage point, across the causeway and to the great doors, there to seek out the lone soul who had unwittingly joined me in my desultory reverie. The immense vaulted inner space of the Sepulchre stretched above me, a great ribbed chest consuming sound and light, commanding my silence. And there...and there..."

Greagoir paused again as if to draw from a deep well of will, a diminishing reserve that grew harder and harder to reach. His lips quavered as speech escaped him, leaving Tatya to wonder at his master's sudden mute distress. But even blind, Greagoir felt his apprentice's intense scrutiny, and returned a wan smile. "In my long life, Tatya," the master finally drawled, "I have been bludgeoned, I have been punched and I have been stabbed, but the pain of being smitten supercedes all other physical forms of torment. Love is a bewildering mix of infuriating pain and sultry bliss from its first, awkward embrace to its woeful parting kiss. Love is a weight one shoulders gladly, but its absence is an excruciating burden that must be endured. Yet separated by a countless span of miles and a great gulf of time, love remains -- never to be shirked or forgotten -- a living entity haunting the deep recesses of your heart long after it has departed."

That's it! Tatya thought to himself, the master has finally lost his mind -- he's begun to babble. Concerned, the apprentice attempted to interrupt, but Greagoir continued on with his tale as if he had just surmounted some difficult hurdle:

She was standing there at the emperor's tomb, merely staring at the great block of black marble, utterly lost to the rest of the world.  By her silk robes I could tell she came from a wealthy family, which I thought odd, as she was there unattended. I stood behind her near the entrance, barely moving from the apse to the nave of the Sepulchre. I dared not speak, as I thought it would be rude to disturb her quiet contemplation. After several moments of silent communion, she at last acknowledged my presence.

Turning her head, so that her long, dark hair glided from her shoulder across the silk on her back, revealing only the side of her face, she said,  'Do you, too, come here to mourn the passing of all that is just and true in this fallen realm?'

I knew not what to say. I stepped forward tentatively, allowing time enough to compose myself (so as not to sound like some blithering idiot). When I finally stood beside her I looked up at the resting place of Cui-Baili and read the words inscribed on his monument. 'Truth does not entirely abandon any land where lives those who seek it, my lady,' I answered quietly, still pondering the emperor's epitaph. I added, 'few though those seekers may be.'

'There may be those few in Geas-Geata who recognize Truth,'  she replied forlornly, 'but then avoid it at all costs. None seek it in this realm."

She was so sad, so awash in melancholy, that my heart was moved to pity. 'If there are but two souls left who bear witness to the Truth, then all is not lost,' I said sympathetically as I turned to meet her gaze. I was instantly struck by her eyes: almond-shaped they were, of a sparkling green but flecked with lighter hazel. Her beauty was familiar, as if from a dream. I let out an audible gasp, then dropped my glance in embarrassment.

She smiled a little, and I melted further. ''Tis obvious you are an optimist," she stated in a less somber tone, "for you the bottle is always half-full."

'Nay, my lady,' I said with a grin, 'rarely have I left a bottle that wasn't emptied!'

She laughed then, high and clear, uplifting and tender. 'Ah, my friend!' she exclaimed, 'you have heard my laughter, which is a thing rarer still than Truth these days!'

'Then I would have it as common as sand on the shore,' I replied, 'if such a thing so precious could be made so.'

She looked at me strangely and said, 'Hmmm...a diplomat with a poet's soul. I know you from court, do I not?'

My face grew ashen as the sudden shock of recognition overwhelmed me. Of course the maid was familiar! I had never met her before, and had only seen her from afar. On those occasions she was dressed more regally, and was surrounded by a great retinue of servants, soldiers and sycophants, all dutifully following her father, the Khan.

I bowed humbly and said, 'A thousand pardons for my forwardness, your Highness. Had I but known...'

'Had you but known,' she interrupted, 'then we would not being having this conversation. I would have not had a brief moment of mirth, and you would be attempting to curry favor for your employer with well-worn words of tedious flattery. For you are working for that corsair...that murderous Kiryatin...are you not?'

'Well...yes...I am in his hire,' I replied with chagrin. 'But I was not aware my mission was one that would gain the ear of the Princess.'

'And how could I not hear of your trollishly subtle machinations?' she snapped and boldly placed her fists on her hips. 'I am surrounded by thieves who would sell themselves finger by finger, joint by joint, if the price were right, and here you come, the suave Southron, buying off my traitorous administrators with a limitless supply of gold most likely plundered from my father's coffers in the first place!'

I did not like where this conversation was going. The Princess' eyes grew dark, actually changing from a lively green to near gray, like a stormy sea. 'Again, I beg...most deeply...your pardon, Highness,' I sputtered in supplication and bowed with eyes averted. 'I have indeed been sent on an errand where bribery is, unfortunately, a stock item in the arsenal of diplomacy. If I have offended thee, then I shall remove myself from your sight.'

'Ha!' she exclaimed, then laughed, 'An honest scoundrel! I am not sure of the length of a cutpurse's career if he goes about telling his victims he is picking their pockets, but I must admit the idea is novel!' She glared at me hard for a moment then her features softened, and she appeared vulnerable. She turned again to gaze at the gold and marble sarcophagus, and said wistfully, 'I wish that I could have been the daughter of a true Khan, and not the scion of a mere shell of a man who long ago surrendered his power and dignity, mocked and paraded about for the sport of his own crows at court.'

She turned again to me and asked, 'Southron....or Greagoir of Caladh, is it not? Yes? Well then, Greagoir, know you the tale of Cui-Baili?  Know you of the fall of the greatest emperor of the East, and why Geas-Geata is now in its present sorry state?'

When I admitted I hadn't, but longed to hear such a tale, she nodded with satisfaction and said, 'I had heard you were a wordsmith in addition to your more unsavory role as huckster for a pirate.' Obviously amused at my silent discomfort, she smiled and added, 'Please, Greagoir, for the present I ask that you ignore my station, a circumstance brought about wholly by birth and not through any entitlement, I can assure you. Let us for a few, short moments be two lore-seekers intent on finding the Truth, and neither a noble prize to be sold to the highest bidder, nor a conniving diplomat employed by a cut-throat.'

I had heard at court that the Princess was being shopped around by the Castrati to the other khanates on the Gold Coast, a bride to seal alliances and reduce the risk of war. I knew then the reason for her melancholy: she was merely a bird in a guilded cage, lacking the freedom to sing her own song; whereas I had been an indentured servant who eventually worked his way out of his chains, she would forever be a slave to the whims of courts and khans, a bauble to be toyed with. Her personification was worth more than her person, which was incidental. 'Your highness...' I said, whelmed with pity, and attempted to bow, but she placed her hand lightly on my shoulder and I froze, as if entranced.

'I have a name, and it is Leannan,' she said imploringly, 'I shall have the rest of my life to bear my cursed title, allow me this time to merely be Leannan."

Gazing into the depths of her fathomless eyes, I dumbly nodded. Would that it were she was only a woman and not a princess! I thought. For even then, Leannan held me in thrall. I had met her but once and I knew. Leaving the grandly austere tomb, we strolled about the park that surrounded the Sepulchre, and spoke of many things. Leannan was well-read, indeed wise beyond her years, and far more perceptive than her court officials. Had circumstances been different she might have been a poet of some note, or a scholar hermited away -- unmindful of her beauty or former position -- and had been happier with her lot. And so I encouraged the voice of the poet from within and ignored the troubled princess from without, and we sat beneath the scented shade of a blooming magnolia as she recounted the history of Tsin-Quinqan.

CHAPTER XIII: The Khanate of Five Kingdoms

The realm of Tsin-Quinqan, as its name belied, was once five different kingdoms, of which Tsin was the smallest. Tsin the helpless! Tsin the precarious! Wedged as it was between the fickle Eastern Sea and bigger, bully neighbors, its existence was ever threatened with tide and turmoil. But through such adversity the realm of Tsin managed to eke out an embattled existence, and its people grew hardy and unmindful of hardships -- proud of the fact that they were survivors -- unbent and unbowed. From this tough stock rose a remarkable line of khans who would shake the pillars of the Eastern World with their glorious deeds, and like shooting stars they would cast wonderment across the firmament; but all too soon that mercurial light would fail, leaving only a legacy of darkness and bright but fading memories.

The first of this line was Cui-Chullain, named the Fierce, the marshal of Tsin's small but disciplined army. When it became clear that his predecessor, Baothan -- a weak-willed Khan prone to acquiescing to his neighbors -- was ready to surrender sovereignty of Tsin (while retaining his titular post) rather than risk a war he was ill-equipped to prosecute, Cui-Chullain forcefully grabbed the reins of power and banished the Khan and his family from the realm. This coup, although just in saving Tsin from falling prey to its rivals, had far-reaching consequences for Cui-Chullain and his descendants. As Khan, the crown sat uneasily on Cui-Chullain's head, and his enemies called him 'Usurper' and 'Bloodthirsty', and Tsin was in a continuous state of war throughout his reign.

Cui-Chullain proved to be a tough and tireless general, and his soldiers were fervent in their adoration for the man, who slept and ate with them in the mud and rain, and who awarded positions in the army and at court based on bravery and merit, rather than privilege and parentage. But forced to fight a war on two fronts, Cui-Chullain was driven in desperation to the very shores of the ocean -- or at least so his enemies thought. But the wily Chullain knew well the capricious currents and tidal flow of his native land, and he lured the vast armies of Noor and Geata into a trap. With the ousted Khan Baothan in the van of Tsin's enemies -- an iconic puppet paraded about to lend credence to this 'righteous crusade' -- the invaders marched methodically down the sandy shores, unhindered and fully expecting an easy victory. Cui-Chullain and his veteran group of campaigners awaited them on the high-ground just above a seemingly-serene bay the local fishermen called the 'Cataract'.

The tides of the Cataract ran counter to the flow of the waters along most of the coast in spring, with the ebbing of neap tide reaching its lowest point just before noon. All that morning there was a desperate battle along the foothills above the shore, as the vastly superior numbers of the Nooris and the Geats surrounded the beleaguered forces of Cui-Chullain, ranging in great numbers far out on the sandy shelf of the bay, left barren by low tide. As the sun ranged past high noon in the cloudless sky, there came a great roar as the Cataract suddenly filled with turbulent waters. With Cui-Chullain's men valiantly holding the high ground, the armies of their enemies, weighed down by cumbersome mail and heavy leather boots, were swept seaward by the violent undertow. Those few survivors left clinging in terror and bewilderment to their rocky footholds were easy marks for the bowmen above. Within an hour of the cataclysm, the battle was over, the armies of Noor and Geata were decimated, and the deposed Baothan Khan was captured by Cui-Chullain, his former marshal. As a final insult, Cui-Chullain had Baothan unceremoniously locked in a large falconer's cage, where he spent the rest of his wretched days perched from the ceiling of the palace he once called home.

But Cui-Chullain was not able to follow up on his stunning victory. Even as he assembled his forces for an invasion of the now defenseless khanates of Geata and Noor, he was stricken with a debilitating illness that left him bed-ridden for weeks. Many whispered that he had been poisoned by his enemies, and to the learned lore-masters of the land this seemed so, as none could treat him, or even offer him some relief from his agony. When it became clear that the Khan would not long survive this wasting sickness, his son, Timur-lenk, was recalled home from abroad.

Timur-lenk, or Tamer the Lame in Common Speech, so-called for the halting limp he sustained from a failed assassination attempt when he was but a child, had been sent forth for his safety's sake far from Tsin by his concerned father, and was raised by kindly kings and chieftains in foreign lands. Ever threatened by impending death, Timur spent much of his formative years in travel, always one step ahead of a hidden blade or well-aimed arrow. But such was the young Prince's state of mind that he never knew fear -- a trait characteristic of  his House -- and welcomed the chance of visiting new lands, learning the languages and discovering how things worked. When he reached the Khan's deathbed, he was full ready to ascend to the throne of his dying father. And Cui-Timur proved more than capable of filling his father's formidable shoes, lame though he might be, earning for himself the titles of  'Conqueror' and 'Emperor' in his long and storied career.

It was Cui-Timur who developed Tsin's imposing cavalry, modeled on the fierce mounted tribesmen he had once seen sweeping across the high-plains of Hildorien in his years of travel; and ever after Cui-Timur was seen astride a horse, leading his forces with his crippled leg strapped to a stirrup. The added mobility of horse warfare allowed his forces to fight on several fronts, and to fall upon their unsuspecting enemies seemingly at a moment's notice. In addition, the young Khan set about building a fleet, having learned the rudiments of shipbuilding away in the south; for Cui-Timur had seen the tides of a nation's fortune turn on the success of its navy, both in war and peace. Armed thus with advances in military strategy and armed might, Cui-Timur set about avenging the death of his father, and with a restless heart and searching mind, spent the next twenty years conquering one after another of Tsin's neighboring states, and adjudging the fate of his fallen enemies from the saddle, the only true throne of his early rule.

First of the khanates to fall was Noor, one of the co-conspirators in the invasion of Tsin. Noor was the home-in-exile of Baothan Khan's son, Baolach. But Baolach was not as weak-willed nor timid as his father. He deftly eluded Cui-Timur's troops, who had been sent to search for him, and slipped off southward from the sack of Noor's capital. In time Baolach made his way to the camps of the Balchoth in distant Hildorien, and offered his services to the great Chieftain Khalid Barbaratha, father of Khamul the Butcher. There, the vengeful Baolach whispered cunningly to Khalid, and afterwards to his cruel and ambitious son, of the tremendous stores of riches to be gotten on the Gold Coast, setting in motion events that led to the greatest conflagration the East has ever known.

But for the present, Cui-Timur continued his dogged advance along the coast. Soon after the fall of Noor, the mountainous northern Khanate of Xu capitulated without so much as a blade being drawn. The realm of Talamh and its vaunted army proved to be made of sterner stuff than the Khanates of Xu and Noor. With the backing of the cynical Khan of Geata, who shrewdly managed to use other kingdoms' armies to fight his battles, the Talmhai boldly withstood the invading forces of Tsin. A protracted siege ensued, but with the newly-built sea power of Tsin, a naval blockade effectively strangled Talamh, and starving and eventually abandoned by its ally, Geata, the Talmhai surrendered to Cui-Timur. This left only Tsin's arch-nemesis, Geata, to stand against Cui-Timur's growing empire.

The desperate Khan of Geata, having exhausted the resources of his allies, sought other means to maintain his power. Knowing that his army could not withstand the brilliant and relentless Cui-Timur, the Khan of Geata found a partner with a seemingly endless supply of manpower at its disposal. For Khalid Barbaratha, Chieftain of the Balchoth, had sent an embassy with messages of goodwill and succor to the embattled Khan, and the leader of the delegation was none other than Baolach, son of the former Khan of Tsin. The conniving Baolach knew well the mind of his master, and he had his own vengeful agenda. With subtle words he gained the confidence of the aging and fretful Khan, and dispatched requisitions to Khalid for a mercenary force to bolster the army of Geata.

Within months whole clans of the Balchoth and their subordinate tribes came streaming across the frontiers from Hildorien. Like a virulent swarm of locust descending on the fertile fields of Geata, the Balchoth set up their great camps, evicting rightful landowners and causing much consternation amongst the citizens of Geata. The Balchoth treated their hosts with disdain, and took what they would from farmers, freemen and nobles alike. Great misery was there among the people, particularly those displaced in the south, but the indignant pleas of the Geats to their Khan proved fruitless; for he who had so shrewdly used other kingdom’s resources to further his own ends now found himself outplayed in the very game at which he so long excelled. Reluctant to lose the very allies he hoped would quell the invasion of Cui-Timur, but galled nonetheless at having to pay for this mercenary horde that deluged his borders, the Khan walked the tightrope of diplomacy, teetering ever closer to the brink of oblivion. To this day, the ravages of mercenary armies and free companies still blight the Gold Coast; a legacy of ancient misrule and corruption.

But Cui-Timur proved shrewder than either of his enemies. Having received news of the alliance of Geata and the Balchoth, the Khan of Tsin and his vast army of horsemen boarded ships -- the greatest armada of its day -- and sailed southward down the coast past Geata, harboring on the barren shores of Hildorien. Rising thus from the sea unseen and unexpected, Cui-Timur and his cavalry drove northward and not southward as expected, and fell upon the Balchoth camps at unawares, swiftly routing each in turn. The common folk of Geata, fearing more the depredations of their guests, the Balchoth, than the swords of the invaders, hailed Cui-Timur as a liberator. The Geatish army put up only a cursory defense of their land, offering token resistance in order to secure favorable surrender terms from the generous Timur. Having been forsaken by both his people and his army, the Khan of Geata was decapitated by his own servants, and his crowned head was sent as a present to the conqueror. Upon beholding the gory gift, Cui-Timur took the crown from the dead Khan’s head and placed it on his own, and proclaimed himself emperor of Tsin-Quinqan, the Khanate of Five Kingdoms, with these words:

‘A blade in the dark did cut to the bone,
But saved was I by chance from sudden death --
A lame child sent forth by a father’s love,
Returned in time to hear his final breath.

Revenge I craved, and sated on a blade
With blood from those who would seek to disown
My house. And now I place upon my head
The fruits of victory -- this fallen crown.

Let it thus be told that I have cometh!
The very hand that smote with cruel sword
Shall seek to bind the bloody wounds of war.
Glad shall all the lands be to call me Lord!’

And so Cui-Timur proved not only foresighted in the manner of war, but in peace as well,  granting favorable terms to the defeated lands and offering near-autonomous privileges to the subject princes who governed in his stead. Still, there were rebellions throughout the newly-founded empire, and Cui-Timur spent much of his later rule quelling these insurrections, for even the most enlightened conqueror is seen by the defeated elite as an encroacher on their individual liberties; or, more likely, interfering with their ability to subjugate the common folk themselves. But Cui-Timur wisely sought out the instigators of sedition rather than punishing their followers, and by the end of his reign the vast majority of his empire submitted to his rule, perceiving at last the bright prospect of peace that had for so long proved elusive.

Cui-Timur’s reign spanned more than thirty years, yet he was not old when he met his untimely death. Still vigorous and bellicose as he approached his fiftieth birthday, the emperor sought to expand his empire, but on a military expedition to the far north, he and a party of his nobles rashly decided to hunt hill trolls on the high moors. The Emperor’s party rousted a slumbering troll from its cave, but did not reckon on the beast’s sudden and violent attack. The bristling behemoth made straight for Cui-Timur, and the great Khan defended himself valorously, but the powerful troll broke the neck of Timur’s horse, sending the emperor sprawling. Wounded and lame, Cui-Timur was unable to stave off the infuriated troll and was crushed before his aides could kill the monster. Thus ended the reign of the first emperor of Tsin-Quinqan.

Cui-Timur’s firstborn son, Ealain, was duly crowned as Khan of Tsin and Emperor of the Five Kingdoms. Though he shared none of his illustrious father’s battle lust, Cui-Ealain was no less formidable in protecting his lands. He proved to be a capable administrator, a shrewd diplomat, and was well-loved by his people. This was due in large part to the foresightedness of Cui-Timur. Even though he had been embroiled in the all-consuming labors of empire-building, Cui-Timur did not forsake the education of his son, remembering well that what he learned in his youth proved to be the building-blocks for his later success. And so, by the time Ealain had reached manhood and eventually ascended to the throne, he was well-traveled and immersed in the regimes of engineering, mathematics and statecraft.

His reign was notable for great public works, of a marvelous system of roads and aqueducts, and the building of commercial centers to better serve the needs of his empire. In addition, Cui-Ealain was renowned as a patron of the arts and of learning. Under his rule scholars and sculptors and craftsmen of exceeding skill flocked to Tsin-Quinqan, and the realm flowered in beauty and knowledge, so much so that it was said the empire was ‘roofed in gold, paved in marble and ruled by the wise.‘ Cui-Ealain erected the splendid, many-domed imperial palace with its fabled hanging gardens, and the Libraries of Xu and Geata, great halls of learning and lore.

But though Cui-Ealain’s empire proved an incomparable pearl in the vast and primitive East, the glories of his reign were overshadowed by ominous storm clouds that spread a menacing darkness across all the lands. For it is said that in the tenth year of Cui-Ealain’s reign emissaries from the Dark Lord Sauron sought audience with the emperor, and they offered him a ring, a gold band unadorned with jewels nor inscribed with runes, but supposedly steeped with much power and a potent weapon to rule the hearts of men. This they offered as a token of friendship and esteem from their mighty lord, if Cui-Ealain would but ally with Sauron the Great.

‘And why should I wish to rule the hearts of men?’ Cui-Ealain asked of Sauron’s envoy. ’I may rule their lands, I may even order them about bodily, but a king cannot win the hearts of his people through domination.’

‘It matters not how you wish to rule your people,’ one emissary growled insolently, ’we offer you a great gift from the hand of Lord Sauron himself. Such a prize should not be gainsaid. It is perilous to refuse the friendship of Sauron.’

Cui-Ealain gazed long and hard at the ambassador of Mordor, and at the ring he held before him. The grim silence lasted for many uncomfortable moments without any sign of surcease, when the irritated emissary snapped, ‘Yea or nay, my lord, will you accept this mighty token from Sauron the Great? What answer have thee for Mordor?’

But the wise emperor, although troubled in mind, was not cowed and replied thusly: ‘In one hand you present a token of goodwill, a gift that appears plain to the eye but seethes with a hidden malice. Such is the manner of your feigned offer of friendship as well. For in the other hand, hidden beneath your black robes, you hold veiled threats as real as a dagger. Friends are not made at knifepoint, nor are alliances sealed in such a way, save by desperate fools. Be gone, foul servant of darkness, your words are laced with the poison of your master! Tell Lord Sauron he must forcibly take that which he thinks he can deceitfully steal!’

And the emissaries of Mordor were driven forth from the realm of Tsin-Quinqan in disgrace, and from thenceforward the malevolent eye of Sauron was set against Cui-Ealain and his House; but the evil seeds of the Dark Lord found fertile ground elsewhere in the East. Far to the south, the envoy of Mordor was well-received in the camps of the Balchoth, and shown much honor before the seat of Khalid Barbaratha. Yet such was the will of Sauron that the chosen instrument of his evil was not Khalid, but his ambitious son, Khamul. The emissaries of the Dark Lord made their overtures in secret to Khamul, and they offered unto him the Ring of Power; and they played upon his vanity and his lust for domination.

‘Your father, Khalid, has grown weak in his old age,’ an emissary hissed, ‘he no longer leads your warriors into glorious battle, preferring to waste his waning years in these dusty cow pastures. In a few years your legacy shall be naught but a petty-kingdom of mud, straw and dung.’

‘Greater lords have treated your folk like sheep fattened for the slaughter,’ added another. ‘With impunity the Khan of Tsin-Qinqan exterminated the Balchoth in Geata without so much as a stern word from Khalid. The enemies of the Balchoth openly mock the once-proud House of Barbaratha!’

‘Your father fritters away the might of your tribe, an old miser counting his niggardly wealth in patch-work tents and a few naggish horses,’ the first continued with unrelenting pressure. ‘Is there none in the House of Barbaratha with the will to conquer? Shall Sauron the Great go elsewhere to seek a leader formidable enough to be called his friend and ally?’

A fierce light smoldered in the eyes of Khamul as a great hunger was awakened in his dark heart. ‘The Lord Sauron need not look any further for a great leader of men, for there is none who can match me,’ the haughty Khamul proclaimed as he greedily snatched the ring from the emissary’s outstretched hand. Placing it on his finger and admiring its enticing brilliance, Khamul smiled in satisfaction and stated, ‘Yes, I know what I must do.’

The following evening, a splendid feast was given in honor of the delegation from Mordor. A huge open pavilion of silk and cloth of gold was erected in the center of the Balchoth camp to make room for the throng of clan-leaders and lesser chieftains of vassal tribes who were in attendance. These sat in order of precedence at many a long trestle arrayed in a crescent around the table of honor, at the center of which sat the Chieftain Khalid, with his son, Khamul, at his right hand, and the emissaries of Sauron to his left. Khalid raised a goblet of wine in toast to his new allies, but no sooner had he gulped down its contents, he began to sputter and hack.

‘What is the matter, old man, cannot take your wine?’ Khamul mocked.

Khalid struggled up from the table in dismay, but was unable to speak. Gasping, he placed his hands on his son’s shoulders, silently imploring aid; yet when he gazed in Khamul’s eyes he beheld not respect or concern, but treachery. In anger, Khalid reached for his dagger, but Khamul callously pushed his father over the table, sending plates and pitchers crashing as the chieftain tumbled face-first into the dirt.

Khalid’s bodyguard and those loyal to their chieftain roared and rushed with blades drawn to protect him, but Khamul had prepared for such eventualities. Bows twanged from the darkness and cut down those who opposed Khamul, and armed men surrounded the pavilion, ready to quell any further opposition with their spears. The ruthless Khamul calmly strode forward from the wreckage of the table and stood over his choking father, placing a heavy boot on the struggling chieftain’s neck.

‘I am the Balchothard,’ he boldly announced, using his father’s title. ‘Is there any here who would question my claim?’

A silence fell on those in attendance, until the cynical Baolach, always knowing which way the wind blew, bowed before Khamul and loudly proclaimed, ‘Hail Khamul! Hail the Balchothard!’

Whether they perceived the change as favorable to their positions, or were merely too shocked to do otherwise, the remaining guests at the feast all bowed and took up the chorus as well, raising their swords in honor of their new chieftain. Khamul, too, raised his sword, then grasped it two-handed on the pommel and jabbed the blade downwards with all his might into his father’s back.

With the quivering sword jutting like a warning from the skewered body of Khalid, Khamul bellowed, ‘No longer shall we beat the bounds of wealthier kingdoms like wretched curs, content with scraps fallen from the tables of the mighty. We shall have war! We shall bathe the plains of Hildorien red with the blood of our enemies!  No one shall stand against the Balchoth! We shall build an empire on the bones of those who oppose us! To war!”

‘To war!‘ Khamul’s subjects howled and shrieked like mindless were-beasts slathering for meat; for it is said in that hour that the Ring of Sauron elevated Khamul’s  power of command to staggering heights and drove his minions into a frenzy. Soon all the tribes under the sway of the Balchoth rose like a vast swarm of angry hornets to answer the call of Khamul, and the Great Horde cut a swathe of bloody destruction across the plains.