Hello once again, fellow FF readers and writers. Here is another 'TotalWar' short for you, from 'Medieval II Total War'. This time it is between the Byzantines and the Turks. Each one-shot, unless stated otherwise, is independent of one another and is in no way linked.

Also, I would like to note that I will be including some settlements from the Crusaders Expansion pack as well as the original game, just to avoid any confusion when noting settlements throughout the story.

Enjoy!

Tutush ad-Dawlah, a name becoming increasingly well-known through the Turkish lands and beyond, one steeped with glory, tales of unending ambition and courage. To put it short, what would in future years be labelled a 'national hero', a true leader of his times. A wonder to behold.

It was something he certainly did not shy away from. Personality-wise, he was a hard man with a hard drive for all things pleasurable, both for himself and those closest to him (including his wife and, unbeknownst to her, mistresses). Along with this was a sturdy resolve in the face of danger, a bravery many considered unmatched with the majority of his kin.

He was, whether one viewed it positively as confidence or as nothing more than verbal jabbering, also boastful of himself and his men, their travels, their battles, his victories – of which he possessed a list of that one could never fully account of, not that they would always want to. One could not help but be amazed at his propensity for such a trait, to be in awe of his ability of hyperbolising many a situation as if it were a battle between life and death itself, something he loved reminding people of.

Very often he would do just that, though most with him had learnt to either block it out, or simply go along as, to be fair, it was sometimes interesting.

And today would no doubt be something that he would add to the list of tales for all to hear ('Unfortunately so' one of his companions had muttered, causing a ripple of snickering behind the man's back).

The dust swirled around the unit of forty-one men, all dressed in thick chain armour, heavy helmets adorning their head, swords in hand. Their horses too were covered with thick armour, perspiration lining their and their riders' foreheads. The terrain was hilly, dotted with groups of trees, small streams and rivers and grass, though the last of these was largely dry, parched from a lack of rain. Some areas of the ground were covered with dust and the occasional dead tree dotted the landscape as if outcast by the other, living members of its kind, left to rot and fade away into nature. One was even located near the dirt path that led had been set down long before by labourers and workers, traversing all the way from the fortress of Smyrna on the Aegean coast to the far-off northern city of Nicaea, the so-called 'second capital' of the Byzantine Empire.

Tutush had never really thought much of the Byzantines as anything more than an irritating, nagging (and admittedly compelling) puzzle, the constant word coming to his mind being simply: why? Why was this old and aging empire – one that his ancestors had defeated long ago and driven them back almost all the way to the gates of the famed city of Constantinople itself – still going on? Why was it relevant, or seeing itself as such, he constantly asked himself. It was no longer the shining example of Rome it had once been ages past. Its days of greatness, prosperity, unbound power were dwindling, the edifice of a time long past it so desperately clung onto was cracked, daresay even broken, or near so, leaving it open and exposed to its hungry neighbours. This one power, this once gleaming example of civilisation in what had been an uncivilised world was in decline, and could likely soon to be wiped from history.

And yet, here it was. Despite suffering heavy, sometimes catastrophic defeats; despite losing huge swathes of territory in the East and the West – one of these recently being the castle of Sofia to the growing Balkan power of the Hungarian Kingdom – and a drop in trade. Despite the power of the Catholic Church in the west, and the words of Nabi Rasulallah, Muhammad, ("Allah's Blessings forever shower upon him," Tutush would say, as was customary when his name was uttered) in the east, they were still here.

Despite everything, they had endured. When Tutush had been born, his people possessed quite a sizeable number of territories across the Middle East, including the city of Iconium, the town of Ankara, the castle of Caesarea near the Taurus Mountains, the glittering huge city of Antioch – this being their capital – as well as the fortresses of Aleppo and Adana, and the mountain settlement of Malatya in the province of the same name. Such a vast empire across this part of the world was to inevitably put them on a collision course with their old rival, whom they had managed to enter into a ceasefire with for several years, and, as predicted, war soon erupted after a fierce confrontation near the then Byzantine town of Amorium.

By the time Tutush had reached his teens, the Turks and Byzantines were still fighting, the former having largely displaced the latter as a regional power. With their powerful mounted archers that more then surpassed the skill, endurance and speed of their rival counterparts, the Turks had swept into the previously mentioned Amorium, the city falling very quickly after, then displaced the Byzantines in and around the Caucasus by capturing Trebizond and Yerevan. What's more, they had taken time to expand across the coasts to the south of Iconium, capturing the port town of Alanya and the fortress, Attaleia, and deposed the pro-Byzantine rebels from Sinope on the Black Sea coast to the north. Tutush had watched all this with a keen eye, taken up by the tales of battle and heroic deeds in the name of their people and in the name of Allah, eagerly hoping that he would be able to participate in the war, praying consistently that it would not be over before his time came.

His prayers must have been answered, as by the time he had reached his early twenties and begun serving on the frontlines, the two sides were still at war, though it had largely degenerated into border clashes and the occasional sea raid, as the Turks had entered into a conflict with the Egyptians and the various sultans across Syria and Iraq and beyond. The Byzantines had taken some advantage of it, though anything beyond minor regains was impossible. Yet, Tutush was still encapsulated with the accounts of battles and the stories of those who had travelled far and wide across the territories, some even reaching Europe or a fat peninsula far off to the west, though the name always escaped him.

It was when he reached 23 that he finally had his first battle, against a band of Bedouin raiders near Aleppo. Having found them in the dead of night, he launched an attack that swept them clean, arrows puncturing their chests, swords slicing men in two, horses trampling survivors into the ground and cracking their bones and, on one occasion, spraying their sanguinary innards across the sand and dust where they slept. Any survivors quickly fled into the desert, though there was no doubt of how long, or short, they would survive.

As for Tutush, when the battle had cleared, it was as if he had experienced a rush like which he had not felt since … well, since his first night as a married man. It was exhilarating, enticing, intoxicating. And he wanted more of it, the rush of battle, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the fall of his enemies to his sword, the sight of new lands to explore – or conquer, or both.

And more of it he got. Over the following three years he had fought against the Egyptians, helping his older brother, Dawood, defeat them outside Antioch before driving them all the way to Acre along the Palestinian coast, and also in several small skirmishes in Iraq. Afterwards, he had progressed to repressing uprisings in and around Adana and Iconium by the local farmer populations over grain prices. His own moment of glory had come when he had, in his eyes, single-handedly driven away a Byzantine force near Smyrna fortress on the Aegean Coast, leading to the fortress and the nearby town of Izmir falling.

All of this racked up a high reputation for him and his deeds, something he was eager to show off to everyone he met, be they on the field of battle or with one of his 'visitors' to his bedchambers (one could only imagine the groans said visitors would make). When out with his men, they would often put the newest recruit with Tutush, hoping that they would be fascinated enough to not become bored and on the verge of passing out from such feelings so that their commander would not make the march or journey all the more insufferable.

A difficult task this was indeed.

And today was likely to be no different. Even as Tutush scanned the horizon, taking in every detail of the landscape for anything that looked artificial, his men knew he would likely make this encounter with their enemy to be something bigger than it was, an embellishment that may as well be made into a fictitious play. They could already imagine how long he would be blabbing about it later this evening around the campfire. Well, if he as well as they were alive at the end of it!

Tutush's eyes suddenly stopped dead on movement far ahead of them down the road.

A small group of individuals were marching in their direction, having just come over the crest of the hill. Their weapons and numbers he could not make out yet, but they appeared not to be heavily armed or armoured, nor were any cavalry in sight. Perhaps behind the hill, wating to strike?

Bah! Cavalry or not, it was no matter! We charge in now! He unsheathed his sword, holding it out before him, pointed directly at his enemies.

"By Allah's will, men, we will triumph. Another great victory for us all!" his voice, confident, harsh, boomed out as if he were addressing an army of thousands.

Those with him rolled their eyes or muttered some minor invectives or comments about the dramatization of a simple skirmish. Still, it would be something to keep him happy, and help them on their wider mission.

With an intake of air, Tutush bellowed: "Charge!"

For Nikeforos, it was obvious the moment they set off from their fort that they would be dead. He had protested to his main commander, arguing that sending out a tiny force of just 115, archers no less, without any support was a literal suicide mission. But, his commanding officer rebuked him, telling him, to quote; "Get your legs moving!"

And here they were now on a small hill north of Smyrna fortress, ironically enough the very place had trained as a soldier some years ago, long before it had fallen to the Turks. Ever since then, he had longed to get the castle and the port city of Izmir next to it back from the Saracens.

With an army of course! He internally snapped to himself regarding the whole situation. Not with a single unit.

And a few hundred feet away further down this one road, in a place largely devoid of trees, save for the lone dead one on their left, was the reason why he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

No doubt his soldiers felt the same way.

Even though it was a single cavalry unit, he could see that they were heavily armoured and had their lances pointed at them, the killer instincts in the eyes of their opponents palpable up close, yearning to tear them to shreds. A long individual next to the group directed them on, this obviously being their commander. Probably one of the Turkish royal family members given the weapons they possessed.

Maybe it was the same one who had taken our beloved home Nikeforos told himself, a certain anger boiling away inside him, revenge clouding his thoughts and logic.

He had heard about this one general a few times, how he had swept aside many of his comrades across what had previously been Byzantine territory on the way to Smyrna, having crushed an army outside Amorium that had tried to take back the city from the Turks. Then he triumphed over another, more infantry-based force on the way to Smyrna before finally taking the fortress and the surrounding area just weeks later. It had been a blow to the Byzantines in that area, another wound on an already crumbling empire.

Whilst he would not dare say it out loud, Nikeforos knew that their time was indeed crumbling towards its inevitable end. Once, from what he had learned, his people had dominated much of the Mediterranean, from the Holy Land all the way to Italy, from Egypt to the centre of the Balkans, and even some areas of the Black Sea and into the Caucasus. Tens of millions called their Empire home, all the way from their cities down to the most minute of farms and monasteries scattered around this region, all of it was under the control of a people that wanted to continue the legacy of the past, an updated tradition whose leaders hoped it would endure for centuries to come as their ancestors had done long before.

But all of it was crumbling. Italy had been lost to the various factions and kingdoms and the power of the Pope, the Hungarians had expanded across the Balkans, taking Wallachia, Moldavia, and looked set on taking Bosnia and the lands along the Adriatic, putting them dangerously right up against the Byzantines. Wars had come and gone between the two for decades, going back and forth as either side tried in one way or another to expand into each other's regions and exert their power and influence. And now, the Turks had been making head-roads into their territory, displacing their people and literally destroying their control over the Middle East. His own uncle, for example, had fallen defending Trebizond, and an old friend had more recently lost his life fighting near Amorium, both battles ending in bitter defeats for the empire. Much manpower, equipment and money lost along with the lands, much of it irreplaceable.

In short, whilst slow, we are being chipped away, piece by piece, inch by inch. Nikeforos had told himself on the way here earlier, pondering over the situation his rulers had put them in. So much so that anything to rectify our situation is deemed acceptable.

Part of him wondered where it would lead both him and his people. Provided he survived here, unlikely as it was, would he be sent out again on pointless missions? Would he see the empire collapse until the last few strongholds it possessed here were all that was left? And what of Constantinople? Would it endure? Or would it fall? And if so, to whom?

A cry from ahead snapped him out of his thoughts. Looking up, his worst fears were realised as he saw what had been the distant forms of the horsemen now getting bigger as they charged towards them, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake like an army of nomads from the steppes. Their lances were pointed down, aiming directly at them. The individual on their side crying out a charge to intimidate them.

Nikeforos sighed. Well this is it.

His soldiers prepped their arrows, aiming right at the approaching horsemen. As they neared, the ground shook a little, the sound of thundering hooves echoing in their ears. One of the soldiers next to Nikeforos involuntarily wet himself, the urine trailing down his legs to the ground, but his companions did not notice.

"Fire!" Nikeforos ordered.

A wave of projectiles flew at the Turks. Tutush cried out for his men to lower their heads, lest they wish to have a new addition to their faces. The air seemed to shift and move as the arrows sailed past or over them, one just missing his ear by a millimetre. A few landed on their targets, striking the armour across their arms and shoulders. One horse was hit in the back just near where its rider's leg was placed, though the armour plating saved it from getting hurt, though it delivered a nasty shock to the rider.

To the Byzantines, the arrows either missed or bounced off their enemy's armour as if it were nothing. Some hastily tried to ready more arrows, others panicked and began to back away, faces laced with terror. Nikeforos, though terrified, stood his ground. He dropped his sword to the ground, a resigned expression, awaiting the end even as his men fled, death rushing at him as if eager to claim his soul.

So this is how it ends.

The last thoughts that ran through his mind were his daughter and wife, wondering what they were doing now, hoping they were safe in Nicaea.

It was a massacre. Short, quick, barely a few blinks of an eye, but a slaughter nonetheless. The horses slammed into the Byzantine archers as if a gigantic boulder had been hurled at them, crushing many underfoot. The lances of the riders impaled many, and those struck but not impaled found their limbs flying in all directions. Gore littered the ground, turning the sand a maroon colour. Screams and yells of pain filled the air like the damned of hell.

And then it was over, and calm returned to the world once again.

Tutush looked down at the carnage, seeing the piles of bodies triumphant, confidence soaring high.

"Another victory, brothers!" he declared to his men, all of whom raised their swords/lances into the air and let out a victory cry, a cry to the heavens, a cry to let their ancestors know that they had, by God's will, triumphed once more over their Byzantine enemies.

"What a great victory has taken place here, my brothers!" Tutush declared loudly in proud acclamation, voice hammering with excitement.

Those around him that had bothered to listen either rolled their eyes or just shook their heads, a little perturbed, but nonetheless able to accept their leader's innocence – making it akin to that of a child thinking that because they had won a game, they were Alexander reborn. Of course, he had to make everything out to be the best thing and greater than his last, but they could at least admit he was able to follow through with such confidence and beliefs in himself.

As they set off back to Izmir, Tutush began muttering to himself about how to relay the battle to his fellow brothers and sisters within the settlement, and how they would pass it on from there to the other cities across the Turkic empire. His men would relay it on to their offspring, and their offspring to their own offspring. His scholars and imams would mark the battle in the masjid during Jumaat and the Khutbah. All would know, and many would come to know about the future when more would be added to his victory list. Even his wife ("Mistress" he corrected himself) would be eager to hear of it, he would tell her about it tonight. They always listened.

Victories galore! he mentally thought to himself, but decided against it. No, victory in abundance! Oh, the books will record this for ages.

They certainly would, though as something just above a footnote.