[h2][u]1 Shawwal 356 [/u][/h2]

[b]Chicago, Capital Province[/b]

It was a good feeling to be setting foot in the Holy City once again. 

Chicago was always a busy city, but today the streets swelled with pilgrims, many coming directly from the northern lands. Armen Karlssun had last been in Chicago 5 years ago. As his boat approached the docks of the Old City, memories flooded into the mind of the old man. When last he was here, he spent his time within the palace of the Caliph himself, named not Armen but Khalid, watching over the valuables of Caliph Mikhail al-Hakim, keeping guard of his children and family. However, today he would enter those halls again, not as a soldier but as a bearer of tribute. 

The City was alive, more than ever. Fireworks bathed the skies in color in celebration of the Sweet Eid that fell on this day, as the people partook in feasting and felicity. Armen trekked through the streets, past familiar sights to the gates of the Bayt al-Mal. Clearing himself with the guards, Armen entered shuffling past others, both Muslims and resident non-muslims, gathered to pay their dues of Zakat and Jizya respectively. Armen had come on behalf of the Norsemen, to deliver the collective taxes of the Norsemen. 

“As-Salaamu ‘Alaykum”, Armen spoke out, meeting eyes with the teller. A young woman, clearly a fresh graduate of the school forced a smile, though she looked more intrigued by the clarity of the Norseman’s arabic. No accent, only perfect Koranic Arabic escaped from his mouth. 

“Wa ‘Alaykum As-Salaam”, she replied softly, averting her eyes from the elder man. “May I have your name?”

“Armen Karlssun, of the Northern Provincial Treasury. the  I am here to deliver the taxes from the Northern Provinces”

After confirmation of his position, the teller lead Armen into the back of the central treasury to deposit the gold he was transporting. 

Each year it seemed like the amount that was deposited became less and less, even more after the appearance of the Khans close by in the plains of Kafiristan beyond the great river of Misisifiy. Armen sighed as he thought over this. 

“Wallah, may we persevere, and crush the armies of the khan of kuffar.”

Armen lamented that he was too old to fight once again. And though it had earned him a better life for his family and children, as nobility in the lands of his ancestors. He prayed that the new generation would lead the caliphate and Islam to greatness.


[b]Shamsu’l-Gharb, Shami Province[/b]

“Brother, are you sure that you wish to embark on this”

Yahya ibn Betros was known for many things. Principally his piety, but his wisdom and caution were not among those things.

On this day, Yahya was to travel to the west, past the great river, into the lands of Kafiristan to preach to the people of the Geiselne. 

The tribes of Kafiristan had a reputation among the people of the Caliphate as violent and savage, even more so after the war with the Khanate. Few in Sham had ever seen a Weiskin or Chwarkin in person, knowing only of them from stories of veterans who fought in the last war. 

“Indeed! It will be a great deed to go and spread the word of the Prophet to the people of the wastelands” Yahya was a young man, 24 years old, graduating only a few months ago from the madrassa. His best friend, Muhammad had dreaded the day his friend was to venture out in the wild lands. An ex recruit into the military, he worried about this man, as soft and coddled as he was, going into wild lands. 

It seemed that there was no way that he could stop Yahya from traveling west, and so, he would have to go with him. As unpleasant as it would be, his friend needed all the help he could going outside of the civilized lands.