City of IF

[sparrowhawk]

The Imperial Army of Samarkand lay defeated for the first time in history. Spears, shields and corpses covered the plains. Here and there small groups of women and children searched the bodies for silver. Meanwhile a company of barbarians, young and proud, escorted a line of ten thousand imperial prisoners. Surely, they will command a high price in the slave markets.

The Kingdom of the Moon and the Wolf, to their surprise, had won. The night before the mothers of their warriors had prayed that their sons would die fighting, for defeating Samarkand was beyond their dreams. Now, they hoped for a swift return home to see their children grow free.

Queen Arethoosa, chieftain of the chieftains, had other plans.

"People of the Moon and the Wolf!" The roar of a lion would have been humbler than the voice of the woman who flew her dark hair into the wind.
"Here we stand!" The army, perfectly arrayed before its general, answered in one voice.
"Glory to our weapons! Glory! Good fight, my men, good fight indeed. But the beast is not dead."
Then one voice interrupted the Queen from the rank: "They are no returning in ten years! Let's go home!"
In the imperial army for a soldier to interrupt, a general is a death sentence. The people of the Moon and the Wolf, had other ways.
"You are right," replied the Queen, "they will not come back in ten years. But they will, and when they do come back, they would field twice this army. Then our children will have to fight and die, weak if the crops have been poor. Now we can defeat them once and forever. I shall not rest until our standard flies over Samarkand and their children tremble in fear. Who will follow me?"

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The gong on the top of the Gate of the Griffin struck once to mark the midnight hour. Over the battlements the guards huddled themselves in their capes. Below them Samarkand slept as a baby in the arms of her mother, confident in the weapons of the army.

Beyond their sight, rode a messenger.

It was a time of war and for the common people that meant a time of victory. What could happen to the ever-victorious Imperial Army? Who could stop their good God of wisdom and order? Who could resist the might of the Eternal Flame? Certainly not Queen Arethoosa and her rag-tag collection of barbarian war bands. What could a frail woman do where her father and all of their ancestors have failed?

Two circles of walls guarded the city. Each of them was forty hands wide and seventy hands tall and sported no less than twenty towers. If the enemy could breach it, victory was not assured, for as its core the Citadel of Heaven awaited them. The fortress was two thousand hands long by five hundred wide. Its first line of protection could give a laugh, for it was a symbolic pallisade of white wood. The second was a field of steel spikes, most of them hidden in the ground. The thirst and final was a rampart of granite, wide enough for a chariot to run on its top, one and again as tall as the city walls and provided with hidden ballistas. Who could defy them?

A droplet of the messenger's blood kissed the ground. The pain crawled ever deeper into her body but she would not allow herself to faint. Not before she delivered her message to the Emperor. Biting her lower lip, she ignored the pain and prayed. "Merciful Flame, do not abandon Samarkand. Seven Lords of Wisdom stop the hand of death till my mission is complete." She grinned, for her faith expected nothing from the Gods.

The market square rested in calm. Around the Eternal Flame temple, in abandoned warehouses, bands of street children took refuge from the unusual chilly wind. Still, nothing that a makeshift home could not tackle. A dozen families gathered around the body of a departed kin. Only in prison, hours passed tense before the morning execution. The remaining souls of the city slept, or tried to, just as any other night.

"Healer! Bring a healer!", shouted the guardsman.
The messenger had just arrived to the gate of the citadel. A parchment fell from her hands, and then she fainted. Fortunately the stirrups stopped her fall, allowing the guards to arrive.

Nothing of that knew Cree, a slave boy, merrily sleeping until twenty minutes later, when the pain of a sudden slap aroused him.

"Cree, come on kid, you have work to do," said Tanasas, the youngest of the guards.

"Eghd...yadh...wake up me...why...no wan't...eed," mumbled a still somnolent Cree.

Tanasas understood. The boy had spent the morning in the infirmary, tending to the sick and the evening doing all sort of chores. "He must be tired, poor guy." With some regret and a mischievous smile he saw a bucket of water and, at once, he knew what he had to do.
"Hey, you criminal!" Wet to the bones, the boy sprung up, fists clenched, red faced and ready to skin a lion. Not a second later he had to lower his head. The whole dormitory, the twenty slave children that shared the room, had aroused, startled by his scream.

"Everybody, back to sleep. This is not a business of yours, intervened Tanasas. Come Cree, quick, put something on and get your stuff. There is a soldier that needs your assistance."

"I hear and obey, you criminal", replied the kid in a slumberous voice, slightly modifying the usual reply of a slave.

Cree took his length pants and a sleeveless tunic. He had little else: sandals but he would wear them only if he expected heavy work outdoors, another three tunics and five pants. Many of the children of the city would have considered him fortunate, for they had but rags and a loincloth.

"Cree, quick, kid." The boy took no notice of the little prank, as old as his birthday. Tanassas, even though a free man by birth, cared for Cree as an older brother. The boy found him just as bossy. The two chaps raced through a maze of corridors and then down the stairs until they arrived to the main yard of the citadel.

At their back was the Palace of Dawn, a huge tower of black bricks, built but a century before. On their right the house of the concubines, home of the Emperor's least preferred wives. To the left, almost invisible in the night, one of the many gardens. To their front the guardhouse.

Barefoot and half-clad, Cree shivered. Freezing was the night, colder than he had ever felt. A second later, he noticed a wonder he had only read about. Tiny sprites like falling starts danced in ease to the ground, painting the wind with streaks of white.

"Cree, have you never seen snow? Sorry chap. No time for that now. Follow me. Cree, quick, kid."

The boy ran as fast as he could, feeling knives of cold at his every step, until he and Tanassas were in the guardhouse. The place had three rooms, including a store house and the barracks, but the messenger was at the office. She lay on a desk, under a mechanical fan, covered with twelve sheets, for in the barracks were no blankets. Bleached and worn out with use, the yellow cloth was now stained in red.

"Mom," said Cree shyly. "Let me help you." He was expecting a man. He had discovered a woman's face, tainted by the golden light of the torches.

The woman's pale face made a sudden turn towards Cree but she could not recognize the boy. Still, she did not utter a word of reproach.Mother, what is in a word? A hope? A lie? A bit of truth? A wish? To Cree, a world, for he was an orphan.

Losing not a second he raced to her side. "Good Wisdom, what have the guards done?" The guards had sewn the wound, but only its exterior; inside the deep wound kept bleeding. Losing not a second, he cut the knots. "It's dirty!" Cree smiled, hoping the woman could not read his thoughts. He worked on, against hope, for the cleaning of the wound revealed its severity.

"Mom, don't cry, please. I fixed it. Now you have to rest."
"Thanks my child," replied the woman kissing his hair. "But I am a warrior who has done her duty, I shall not cry. Fear not."

Cree faked a smile. He knew the woman had taken pity on him, for a moment, he could fool himself into believing he was someone's child. Soon afterwards, the messenger expired. Cree did not shed a tear; duty stole his time.



"Cree, you are requested in the Palace of Twilight."

"But..." A fist in the face muted the boy.

"Nor but nor butter, do as you are told!" Corporal Espasanas, the bully of the Guards Corps, had made his appearance with a scold.

"Come with me, Cree. We have to go," Tanasas, shielded the boy with his arm.
Cree hesitated for a moment before deciding for the mechanical reply. "I hear and obey." His reddened face told another story of anger and helplessness.

Again, they braved the frost of the night. This time Cree felt at lost, for while his body and mind were running to the new and uncertain mission his soul was still with the woman who had told him to be brave.

Soon afterwards, they were before the doors of the Palace of Twilight. This building, much smaller than the Palace of Dawn, or Dawn as it was more commonly called, no longer housed a soul. When the Empire was young, it had been the home of the Imperial Family and their guests. Two centuries ago a golden prison for the barbarian hostages. Now it would hold the most solemn ceremonies and little else. Cree could guess he had not been called to worship. He was not worthy to worship the Eternal Flame, no slave were. When he prayed he praised the Good Waters, the patron of children and slaves. He hoped not again as a healer, for he was neither the only nor certainly the best in the Citadel.

"Now you must continue, alone. I am not invited to the party."

"Oh, sell yourself as a slave. The more we are the merrier we will be." Cree grinned. The automatic reply was an old, private joke between them.

"Cree, quick, kid. Goodbye."

Cree rolled up his eyes. "Goodbye, you criminal."

[sparrowhawk]

OK, I confess I am not a native speaker of English, so feel free to point out anything weird.

[Phantomfan]

This is quite good, sparrowhawk!
There were only a few mistakes that jumped out at me when I read it.

Quote: She lied on a desk,

The past tense of To Lie, as in to rest, is "lay". "She lay on a desk."

Quote: "Nor but nor butter, do as told!"

I'm not sure, but to me, "Do as you are told!" would sound slightly smoother.

Only one more thing... perhaps you are trying something new, (and if so, this next comment will be very stupid) but in the majority of SG's, the author would simply give a DP, to which the readers would suggest what should happen next. For example, the author would write about someone following the main character, and then ask the readers who the follower is.

Fantastic writing however!

[NeverNeverGirl]

Can someone pls tell me why Samarkand is familiar? Fanfic?

~Ne~

[sparrowhawk]

NeverNeverGirl wrote: Can someone pls tell me why Samarkand is familiar? Fanfic?

~Ne~

There is a real city called Samarkand (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samarkand), located in Uzbekistan, that since the travels of Marco Polo is considered the archetype of orientalism and exocitisim. As such, many authors had used a fantasized version of it as a setting.

Which is what I am doing here. But Fanfic? Not at all, it's a original story, and "our" Samarkand has little to do with the real one, but for the name.

[sparrowhawk]

Phantomfan wrote: This is quite good, sparrowhawk!
There were only a few mistakes that jumped out at me when I read it.

Quote: She lied on a desk,

The past tense of To Lie, as in to rest, is "lay". "She lay on a desk."

Quote: "Nor but nor butter, do as told!"

I'm not sure, but to me, "Do as you are told!" would sound slightly smoother.

Only one more thing... perhaps you are trying something new, (and if so, this next comment will be very stupid) but in the majority of SG's, the author would simply give a DP, to which the readers would suggest what should happen next. For example, the author would write about someone following the main character, and then ask the readers who the follower is.

Fantastic writing however!

Thanks for the kind comments and suggestions. They should be fixed by now.

As for the DP... I'm reusing a novel draft that got nowhere when I relized my English skills were not good enough to write a full length, publishable novel. Add that to the fact that I'm a newbie to this site... :)

[Chinaren]

Also the adventures of the wizard in the trilogy, which name eludes me for the moment, has 'The Amulet of Samarkand' as one of the books.

Not bad Sparra, esp if English isn't your first language. The main thing I saw was the odd tense slip from past to present.

[Phantomfan]

Chinaren wrote: Also the adventures of the wizard in the trilogy, which name eludes me for the moment, has 'The Amulet of Samarkand' as one of the books.

The Bartimaeus Trilogy! That was the first thing I thought of too.
Sorry... :off:

[sparrowhawk]

How many votes should I wait for before writing?

[NeverNeverGirl]

the usual style of SG is run as follows...

The author writes a chapter (usually between 1000 and 2000 words) and leaves it at a decision point (DP).

The readers/players read the story and post comments, be they required corrections, opinions on edits, plot etc... they also offer a decision on where the story should go next... (this period is best if left open for a minimum of 5 days* IMO)

The author then collates all of the choices (DPs) into a poll, edits the first post's title to indicate a poll exists and waits (again IMO a min of 5 days - though if a considerable amount of votes occur before this its okay to close it).

The writer then closes the poll and writes the story based on the winning option.

Rinse and repeat.



*Most Ifians get on fairly regularly but there are MANY that only check in once a week or less... this period of 5 days allows for most to have checked in...

[sparrowhawk]

NeverNeverGirl wrote: the usual style of SG is run as follows...

The author writes a chapter (usually between 1000 and 2000 words) and leaves it at a decision point (DP).

The readers/players read the story and post comments, be they required corrections, opinions on edits, plot etc... they also offer a decision on where the story should go next... (this period is best if left open for a minimum of 5 days* IMO)

The author then collates all of the choices (DPs) into a poll, edits the first post's title to indicate a poll exists and waits (again IMO a min of 5 days - though if a considerable amount of votes occur before this its okay to close it).

The writer then closes the poll and writes the story based on the winning option.

Rinse and repeat.



*Most Ifians get on fairly regularly but there are MANY that only check in once a week or less... this period of 5 days allows for most to have checked in...

OK, thanks. This is what I'm going to do then. I will wait till next Friday and then see if a there is a minimum of people who vote. (Let's say 7 votes?) And then, continue on a more standard route.

[sparrowhawk]

Well, I think that's it. It's friday and there does not seem to be much interest in the story, so I'm ditching it. I still believe in it, though it will probably re-write it in Spanish.

Thanks to all who helped, any way :)