The Plains of Eblistan,

Ten miles west of Baalor.

The Plains of Eblistan were fraught with memories of those long dead. Crumbling walls of corroded stone marked forgotten towns and villages, rows of endless grassy mounds stood in testimony to the terrible wars that marred Eulona, and a spattering of minarets were staggered about the vast expanse. Only a few hundred years ago, was all of this still in use, still tended and worshiped. Eblistan's population must have been mighty, numbering in the millions, before the Sultanate came crashing down in a fire of division and civil unrest. Such pain, there must have been, when the fabled legions of the United Realms of the Free Peoples came cascading through the land, burning, hacking and raping as they went. 

Jazeer wept, as his cloth-clad hands brushed the moss from a sunken grave stone. 

[i][center]Too young to fight, too young to die,
Go to Duranar, and with angels fly. 

Iza Shezir, beloved daughter of Eron and Tia.

S742-S750
[/center][/i]

"Yes," wheezed Jazeer, "much pain, much anguish." 

The sound of hooves thundering on sodden grass awoke the Crown Prince from his reverie. He knew without the need to lift his head, heavy as it was with the golden mask he often wore, that his brother, Prince Basar, had arrived with the World Breakers. 

"Father sends his love, brother, and his best soldiers," said a young, but fierce voice. 

Struggling to his feet with one mighty heave of his stiff knees, Jazeer turned and greeted his blood with a slow and feeble bow. At the World Breakers, he merely nodded and held out a gloved hand in greeting. 

"Mela'thra, Duran," he said nassaly. 

"Tra'ku ferale," Basar replied. 

The young Prince was only eighteen years old, but already Jazeer could see every sign of Mundhir's qualities within him. Basar was tall, bulging with strength acquired from dedicated practice and training; his beard was full, ringed and oiled much like the depictions of the Prophet. When he spoke, his voice often sounded odd with the unfinished business of puberty, but it was nevertheless dominating. Men several years his senior respected Basar for his raw talent in combat, and Jazeer stood among them. 

"When we do we strike, my Prince?" Basar asked, looking down at Jazeer from possibly the mightiest black destrier Eblistan could offer. 

"I do not know, young brother," replied Jazeer, turning briefly to eye the distant ruins of Baalor. "I still await the return of my scouts to assess his strength." 

"Five hundred men," Basar snorted, "we know this already, there is little need to assess anything. We need to go in there, and cut him from Eblistan like the cancer he is."

Harsh words, to one Basar had once loved more than any other. 

"Patience, Basar, you are too hasty in wetting your blade," Jazeer said, smiling kindly behind the cold and unfeeling stare of his golden mask. "Mundhir is a [i]good[/i] man, and I will not have him slaughtered until I have the truth of this situation." 

Basar's eyes widened as if someone had shoved a hot iron up his arse. The World Breakers shifted uneasily, each one glaring at their Crown Prince, secretly dismissing him as a weakened cripple with no right to carry the crown the Caliph had lavished him with. "Sixty men left behind sixty families seven days ago, Jazeer - they were taken forcefully, by sword, axe and magic. Mundhir led those murderers out of the tunnels, and now he harbours them in the midst of his rebellion. He is a traitor, he is Godless and by Duranar's will, I'll slay him for all the wrong he has tortured my people with." 

"Perhaps I am the only one who remembers Mundhir, prior to his supposed death at the hands of Elven assassins," said Jazeer; if he had teeth, they would have been gritting in rising anger at his brother's narrow mindedness. "I remember him as honourable, as strong and full of fine ideals. Though there are too many holes in what we know, for me to listen to father's words with dutiful ignorance."

"I remember him as a bully, and as a murderer," spat Basar, clambering down from his horse. "Why are you so reluctant to carry our father's will."

"I answer to a [i]higher[/i] power, young Basar, I do not kill kin unless there is just cause to do so. Mundhir may well be innocent in most of this - surely, the most glaring hole of all in father's story, is that the Elves of Nillanor made an attempt on his life, and then stashed his body in our own dungeon, stands out to you?"

"Bah," Basar said, shaking his head and squaring him to his older brother. His warrior form towered high above the crippled visage of the Crown Prince, but Jazeer was not cowed. "The Elves once appeared outside of our walls with a whole host of warriors, with us being none the wiser until their ladders were against the walls. I have little doubt that a body could have been snuck past our lax security." 

"Perhaps, but until I am sure, I will not order an attack," said Jazeer, edging forwards so that his neck was straining to look his physically superior brother in the eye. "However I feel that, with the involvement of a World Breaker in his assassination, one of us was involved - perhaps even father. There was much jealousy and anger directed at Mundhir for his campaign against the Elves. Father was so livid by the wrecking of his newly forged peace that he had to be consigned to his bed for three days, lest his heart gave out. I know, I was there." 

"You say father ordered his death, then?" 

"No. I don't know. I agreed to lead the army, to stop the likes of you from carrying out swift and misguided justice. The Caliphate needs men like Mundhir, men with vision and a sense of righteousness," explained Jazeer, his head shaking as his weakened neck muscles started to lose the fight against the weight of his golden mask. 

Basar shook his head with a smile, "it does not matter now, my Prince. Ice Venom kills, it always kills. He'll be dead in weeks, and by then this whole ordeal will be over."

"Oh young Basar, I fear you have just divulged your part in this treason," siad Jazeer, lowering his head and turning to face Baalor. 

His face twisting in confusion, Basar placed a heavy arm on the paper-thin shoulders of his elder brother. "What do you mean?"

"There was no mention of any details of the assassination attempt, until now not even I knew Ice Venom had been used. How is it that you know?" Asked Jazeer, refusing to look at Basar. 

The young Prince snorted, and headed back towards his horse. The World Breakers were nodding their heads amongst themselves, some gleefully. Jazeer sensed something was about to happen, and not for the first time in his life, he hoped his death would be swift. 

"It matters not, wretched brother, father has charged me to relieve you of your command, and to return you to Eblistan. He said that 'real men' must see to this matter, before it stained his lineage, and that your soft, weakened form would be inferior to the task ahead," said Basar, climbing atop his steed and looking down at his brother with disgust. "You and Mundhir both lack the appreciation of Duranar, and both of you have denied our father's will."

"Answer me one thing, dear brother, before I refuse and you slay me," said Jazeer, turning to look up at his brother. "Why?" 

"You're a smart man, my Prince, you figure it out." 

Basar nodded to two of his World Breakers, and they moved on the Crown Prince with the intention to apprehend him. Jazeer had other ideas, and reaching into his warded robes, he pulled forth a small pouch. 

"Come any closer, traitors, and we all die here," he said, backing away. "The powder in this small purse of mine will blast us all to the Undying Lands," he paused, "well, it will blast me to the Undying Lands anyway. I fear you all will be waking up in the cauldron of eternal agony." 

The two World Breakers looked at Basar, and he shook his head at them. They backed away. 

"Trust you, my wretched brother, to use a woman's weapon," spat Basar. "Go where ever you wish, my Prince, but know Eblistan is no longer your country. I think it might be a romantic notion for you to head to Baalor, so that I can have my traitors confined to one single spot." 

Jazeer limped away on his weakened legs, too overcome by sorrow to make further reply. It was as he feared; a plot was afoot, and he knew in his heart it would not end with the murder of himself and Mundhir. One of his many siblings sought the Caliph's throne, but his father was too blind to see - this much was obvious. With tears stinging his cracked skin, he mused over the various pawns at play.

The Crown Prince concluded quickly that Basar was just a tool in someone else's machinations. He lacked the strength and conviction to lead a Kingdom, this was plainly known to anyone - ruling and winning were not the same thing. So then, his sisters must be playing their part. Adora, maybe, she was always the schemer, and close to their father's heart. Though Basar would not be led by a woman, unless he was tricked. The more Jazeer thought about the situation, the more it perplexed him. 

It would be a long walk to Baalor, however, and so he had plenty of time to figure things out. The powder satchel was still clenched in his gloved fist, but he would have little defense against an arrow crashing into his back. With mumbled prayers, he walked away from his peoples, praying that he could find Mundhir and make sense of this riddle before it came to fruition. Eblistan did not need another tragedy, the world did not need another tragedy.