1. The Discovery

Rising his eyes from the right of passage treaty proposed by the Spanish diplomat, his Majesty Francois the First, High King of the French Empire by the will of God and the Roman Catholic Church, fought to repress an annoyed tssk already forming on his lips.

"We are afraid that treaty requires more thoughts before We can decide further. In any case, We don't want to hold you here while other duties surely await you." Here, let that sink into the diplomat that whatever the treaty proposed between "brother nations", they will be the lesser of them. Isabella of the Spanish might have sent her younger brother here in Paris to act as "extraordinary embassador" with full power to sign treaties, but he would give his sacred golden crown before that treacherous woman be allowed to get her troups within France again. The war between the two countries was not that old enough to allow that and more.

The diplomat bowed deeply: "By your leave." and completed the ritual of a diplomat leaving a king with no apparent concern about the treaty issue. King Francois sighed, resettled the golden crown that tended to slip from his royal head. "Burn the Spanish" he muttered through clenching teeth, quietly enough so that the diplomat one door away could not get it, not loud enough as he would have it. "Burn those barbarians led by a witch!" Barbarians that have ransacked all of Burgundy before the Royal Ost could stop them, destroying all the countryside around Bordeaux. True, he did had things in return during the peace parlay, but that city would contribute nothing to the Royal treasury for years before all is mended.

A squire entered and introduced Leonardo Da Vinci. "Now, that man is a treasure walking on Earth." thought King Francois, watching the old man, dry as a stick, that came in the throne room with a strange stick with a wooden end, the other metallic. "How are you my friend? Doing fine I hope? What about your workshop?" King Francois had a building made for him in Paris. Whatever the cost of such an undertaking, it had actually quite repaid itself with the ingeniousity of the man rised to new heights. The cleverness of refitting outdated military units with bits and parts to create up-to-date ones had saved his Treasury quite some cash.

"- I fare well your Majesty, and my workshop is quite satisfying. So generous of your Majesty to had that built to allow me more working space." The dry old man was actually trotting to the base of the throne.

"- Do you require more funds?" asked King Francois, "We are afraid the Royal Treasury is a bit light, but We shall grant you whatever can be diverted from the expenditures."

"- Mmm... More funds would be most welcomed. I was just passing to describe your Majesty my new device."

Da Vinci's devices were somehow quite surprising. The man made drawings, sculptures and mechanics; he dabbled in mathematics, physics and chemistry. The outcome was sometimes useless if quite beautiful: what to do with a painting of a smiling woman? Nobody would find it any interesting , let alone pay to watch it. Others were tremendious: a new kind of stirrup that helped keep knights on their warhorses was the advantage that ultimately discouraged the Spanish armies and ended the war with France on the winning side.

"- What is your new creation, then? That strange stick?" asked King Francois.

"- Yes that stick. It's a shooting stick, I have decided to call it a musket. Let me show your Majesty how it works."

Da Vinci rose the stick horizontally and caught the wooden end. A thundering noise and an acrid smell filled the room. Guardsmen erupted from the door.

"What was that?" asked King Francois after quieting the guardmen and sent them back out.

"-If your Majesty would see for himself..."

One of the statue in the room was broken, there was something metallic glinting from the crumbling marble. "It's a compound that allows the propulsion of a small object over quite a distance with quite an impact strength. I thought it better for hunting than a simple bow and even crossbow. Reloading the musket is quite long though..."

The following words were lost to King Francois. Something shooting farther than a crossbow was a tremendious advantage in war!!! He would found a new military order: the King's Musketeers with men trained both in the use of the sword and the musket! With an army of these, he could... "What did you just say?"

"- Your Majesty?" asked the old man, stopped in his full length explanation of the physical and chemical description of the process to produce the compound.

"-What did you said the main thing this compound was made of?"

"-Well, saltpeter of course, your Majesty. It's a whitish substance found mainly in caves though some have been found in desertic parts. This can be bats' poo as far as I know, but -"

"Where is there that... saltpeter in France?" asked rudely King Francois, interrompting the old man. Da Vinci, unsettled by such a behavior, blinked one or twice before finally answering.

"- Why, there is no saltpeter in France your Majesty. I used a sample provided by a Spanish merchant who claimed there was a cave around his native Barcelona full of it. I can bring him to your Majesty if you wish."

"- Kings don't mess around with merchants." answered tartly King Francois. "How much of this substance does he have now?"

"- Here in Paris, your Majesty? Almost nothing for any practical purpose, the amount needed to make that display have taken almost all of what I got, and I bought most of all from the merchant."

"- Well, We guess We'll have to have the Royal treasury buy out that merchant's stock. What was his name again?"

"- I didn't told you, your Majesty, his name's Gonzale. He has actually come to Paris with the Spanish delegation with different products hoping for some new markets now that the war is over."

King Francois frowned. That could be a problem, having someone of the Spanish delegation disposed of.

"Old friend, We'll set some thoughts about your new creation and We'll see to it that funds for your researches are never lacking. We do have some things to ponder right now."

"- Well, more funds are good your Majesty, I'll go and strive to create more useful and beautiful things. Did your Majesty know I'm working on a flying device?"

King Francois let Da Vinci leave, his mind was furiously spinning: how to get the hands on that saltpeter source? Buying it from Spain was plainly impossible: they would suspect that substance was of use and protect it at the first attempt to buy it. That left only one way to get it...

Pulling the bell for a squire, he started organizing the thing. First, get that merchant to reveal the exact location of that cave. The Spanish embassy would soon learn that one of its members would have caught a very infectious disease requiring full quarantin; then that he sadly passed and that the body had to be burned to stop the spread of the disease, not destroying any traces of the "questioning". Then, well, there was the matter of this right of passage...

Chuckling to himself , he waited patiently for the squire to require the coming of the Army Marshal and the Intelligence Master.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Liked it, to bad it was the end :(

The setting sun was dyeing bloody red the Alhambra Palace. This high above the ground, the evening breezes were already cooling the over-heated air. A lone falcon overhead screeched a call to its mate, maybe to call it a day and return to the nest. The Alhambra Palace was built on a small mesa atop a hill along the Guadalquivir River, and the vista available from the Palace walls was breathtaking, encompassing the bustling activity of the city below and the silvery lash of the river through the green of the surrounding countryside.

This view, the sight of her people living in trade and peace, was usually enough to soothe the nerves of Queen Isabella the First, Ruling Queen of Spain, by the will of God. That was before that ill-fated decision to send her brother Manuel to France. Her face betrayed nothing of the worries that gnawed at her belly since his return. Queens and Kings commanded by divine rights, their true blood and crowning setting them above any commoners; theirs decisions were the will of God, so were neither faulty, nor questioned.

But Isabella knew the truth about that, she was as human as her chambermaid and as prone to make mistakes. Her first political act as Ruling Queen had proven that. Apart from a very few, none knew why the friendly Aztec tribes beyond the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, have revolted and waged war against the small holdings Spain had over there. Only her and Dom Gonzale, the then Marshal of Foreign Affairs, had known. The last one was, sadly, a recently widowed new nun of the convent of Santa-Maria near Barcelona. Thanks to God, they didn't have any children. Isabella wouldn't have forgiven herself orphans. That was how she had learnt that her decisions had lives for stakes.

No, that remorse was not what had her so unsettled. Errors made could not be unmade, and theirs consequences had to be lived with. What worried her was that right of passage treaty signed between Spain and France. By that proposal, she had meant that, despite some borders clashes, she was still believing in peaceful co-existence between them. She never expected those Frenchmen to accept it, not after the last skirmish near Bordeaux. The French might have thought they had the upper hand in that conflict. Plain truth was that the Spanish Army was twice theirs size, and France would be smoldering ruins if her hands were not full enough from the Aztecs oversea.

The obviousness of that refusal by itself, should have expressed that she wanted some treaty hammered between them. Any skillful leader should have deduced as much. Why did Francois of France accept it? She was still wondering. Could he be that mad? Once more she regretted sending Manuel to Paris with just that proposal and a recommandation about hearing carefully the point of view of the "merchant" Gonzale. Manuel, though he never figured it, was just to be the figurehead of the embassy, with Dom Gonzale just a merchant coming along hoping to make a profit. How did it come to this? Dom Gonzale, dead of a mysterious disease, unable to counsel the Prince. Manuel, trapped without any advisor, with a offer he could not refused because he was the first to propose it.

Damn Manuel! Why did he have to blunder into the throne room while she was preparing that diplomatic move and demanded, demanded out of her! to be the leader of the embassy? And why did she agree? What had begun as a small gesture from her, had blown out of proportions and was taking more and more of her thoughts. With a growing incertainty about Francois' plans. Yes, her diplomatic opening had backfired in some way. The quizziness in her stomach, that feeling of a storm breeding, could be felt in her bones.

She did what she had to do to prevent any rashness from French troops on her soil. She have pressured the Royal Treasury to limits to hurry the making of new troops. Those troops were now sealing the border conducting "training missions" so no great number of French units could pass in Spain, she was not in the least surprised by the news that the French Army was doing the same on their side of the border. This was just fair. Spain's coasts were too extensive to make an effective blocade, but so were France's ones. That was a draw in her point of view. In military things, she depended upon the War Marshal Dom Fernando, a quite capable grizzled old man with the experience from the Arab Wars. She was told that, though half of the Army was busy fighting the Aztecs, they were on a par with the French Army in Europe. Having set what she could, all she was left to do was waiting. Francois of France would not dare ruin his reputation by attacking Spain during the existence of the treaty. Or would he?

A squire entered the room introducing Dom Fernando. "Yes, Dom Fernando? Are we at war yet?"

The War Marshal replied quizzically: "It depends on your Majesty's will. The French had landed in the Aguila moutain range and founded the town of Toulouse."

Isabella knew the spot, only one place was available for settlement in that stretch of moutains near Barcelona. The place where that town... Toulouse ? must be the only hill of the range with an access to the sea. That was nonsense! Why build a town in a moutainous range with nothing but rocks? Her men had confirmed it many times, nothing of use was to be found there. Nothing of use for her, but for Francois of the French?

"Damn it!!!" snapped Isabella.

"- What your Majesty?"

"- We found out why Francois accepted the right of passage treaty! He wanted to cross our border to settle that part of the range. There's something here that make it worth the trouble! Those moutains are Spanish! That ressource, whatever it is, is Spain's due by the will of God! Dom Fernando, get yours troops near the border moving to Barcelona!"

"- Your majesty is not going to break a treaty, isn't it?" "No, let that treaty end. And then... well, let's say we'll have things to declare to Francois, things he won't like..."

(TO BE CONTINUED)

"Praises be sung to the glory of the Sun God!" The usual mix of chantings and prayers that ended all religious ceremonies rose in the morning brisk wind. Incense fumes overpowered the violent smell of the chacol't beans being roasted and grinded for the morning meal. The temple, always the first building in an settlement, was always filled to brim in the Thanksgiving ceremony.

Qatlencotl was not sure if the human sacrifices were truly necessary for the Sun God to rise again each morning. He had seen enough during his warrior life to understand that the Sun God was not angry if you missed some sacrifices. But, whatever he thought, he was not going to claim it aloud. His chest would then be the first to be ripped open by a sacrificial knife the next morning. Never mind he was now undisputedly the unified warleader of the Nations. Never mind the power of the priests had lessened. Never mind no Aztec chest had been opened since the coming of WarBringer and the advent of war.

Aztecs was not an Empire, not yet, just the Nations. Some twenty tribes with some common sets of beliefs, tribes who raided each other for loot, slaves to tend the fields and sacrifices to the Sun God. Sometimes, a tribe that grew too numerous splitted apart and would wander to settle new lands. New technics was spread from tribe to tribe with the loot, the slaves or both. And so had it been since the creation of the People by the Sun God. They colonized jungles and swamps, forests and valleys, hills and mountains, and wherever they settled, they rose a temple to the Sun God to sing his praises and give thanks every morning with his rising.

Then arrived the Spanish tribes. They came over the eastern great bitter lake, on small moving islands. The Acuatlcan tribe was the first to make contact with them. Some thought them demi-gods with their skin so white, and their fair hairs. Others thought them demi-beasts with hairs all over the body.

The words got through the Nations that those new tribes didn't worshipped the Sun God, a God you sure know exists for He kindly warms the Nations from the cold of the night, but a God made of two pieces of wood tied together. By that time, friendly contacts between Aztecs and Spanish made plain there were human, however strange their beliefs. Their values also were staggering. They were able to kill each other for gold, that metal so soft that you wouldn't use it to make arrowheads, when everyone in the People know that blood was only to be shed for the glory of the Sun God. True, gold was the symbol of the Sun God, and that was why high priests wear it in ceremonies, but since they did not believe in the Sun God, their eagerness was childish.

Then two Spanish of the tribe of San-Martino were caught after the murder of the high priest of the Acuatlcans. Caught with the golden ceremonial trappings in their possessions, they learned the lesson about temple defiling, very sharp, painful and deadly lesson. Then the San-Marino tribe extinguished the Acuatlcans as revenge. The news ran through the Nations that a full tribe had been destroyed. And the Nations grew wary of the Spanish tribes. But none acted against them for the destruction of the Acuatlcans must have been the will of the Sun God, the Spanish being only the mean.

Then came WarBringer, so-called "Extraordinary Ambassador of Queen Isabella of the Spanish" (whatever that meant among the Spanish), with his absurd demands for gold, spices, furs and gems. That night, the Nations leaders had met and swore to destroy the Spanish tribes. Qatlencotl, leader of the Technotitlans was elected to lead the raids. San-Martino held, but Santa-Anna fell. WarBringer was captured inside.

Every prisonner was questionned using the traditional greenbee honey and red ants technic, or with the quicker sharp sticks when time was of the essence. None were allowed to die, except as sacrifice to the Sun God. WarBringer himself howled all night before his blood offering to the rising Sun God. His head was then removed and put into a greenbee honeyjar for preservation. This was left at San-Martino's doors as a warning to anyone who dare bully the Nations.

Time would reveal the fact that the warning was sent to Queen Isabella, and that she was not pleased. Indeed, more Spanish arrived, some mounted above beasts the Nations never saw the likes of. They made the Spanish as quick as the proud Jaguar Warriors, but that was wasted in the jungle. And the fightings were now harder. "But with greater numbers, the Nations will prevail." whispered Qatlencotl under his breath. And now that he led the armies, after the dust is settled, the Nations would be no more, instead would rise the Aztec Empire with him, Qatlencotl no longer warleader, but Emperor, to rule it.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

The winter winds were howling outside, but inside the huge tent, the candles flames were not wavering. Their golden lights illuminated the rich furniture: heavy chests inlaid with gold, Persian rugs thick enough to keep dry even in that downpour, a wooden writing desk and a bed big enough to accomodate for five of the soldiers outside. Incense poured in the small braziers kept the coal smell away. Except for the rain and the occasional crackles of the fires, no sound could be heard inside.

Sipping some wine, Dom Manuel, Lord of Oviedo and Grenada, brother to Queen Isabella, High Queen of the Spanish by the Grace of God, wondered what to do next. His handsome face gave nothing about his thought, a lifetime of pretending helped much in that. His smile, that so much had seen so easy, was only the clever mask he had devised over the years. His light blue eyes under fair hair and a perpetual astonishment pictured childish innocence. Even War Marshal Dom Fernando, sly as he was, fell to that illusion: the old man was used to pet him, even now with him being twenty three, like a puppy he was fond of.

All those years pretending to be the good brother, handsome and nice, but a little slow-witted. All those years of yearning for the throne, so near, so far from him. There was irony in this status, irony to make laugh God himself. He himself could have laughed at the joke if he wasn't the butt of it. Why did he had to be born second? Why was the eldest to have it all? In France, the salic Law would have prevented this. Under that law, no royalty could be descended following the women's line. He would have been King of Spain, with Isabella a token to be married to anyone with political usefulness to seal alliances. And he had to counterfeit the dim-witted to prevent being sent either to the Army, or the Church. True, a Marshal or an Archbishop, did have powers of their own. But he wanted neither the staff of the Marshalcy, nor the trappings of spiritual power. He wanted what was denied from him. His due! His Kingdom!

So he pretended. And everyone at court saw him as harmless. Everyone thought speaking with him present was of no consequence. Everyone thought they could easily manipulate him to influence his sister. He had his share of women around him. From the Donas thinking to use him to get royal-blooded bastards to further theirs plots, to servantmaids blinded by his good look and apparent innocence. Burn them for trying to use him! He would show them!

"Look at that! You ruined another winecup!" Manuel blinked. Once again, lost in thought, he had crushed the delicate golden cup in his fist. The wine was spilling over his glove, staining the dark wood of the writing table. Alma picked the ruined cup from his hand and started to clean the mess. Her dark eyebrows were thunderous but the smile of her lips was pure pleasure to find him again at a fault.

Technically, Alma was the personal bodymaid of Manuel. That no one had wondered about a young girl serving a young prince as bodyservant was the proof in itself that the court counted him as a child. Alma was her foster sister and had taken care of him that long. Manuel liked the way she walked, not enticing like the others maids, no tiny steps like the Donas. Just a purposeful stride with just that oh so little sway that caught the eyes. He liked her voice, rich and colorful; her mischivious smile when she was up to something; the darkness of her braided hair.

In public, Alma dutifully lowered eyes and spoke the "Your Highness". In private, there were no distinction between them. Raised from the same breasts, they liked each other more than Manuel ever liked Isabella. And she felt free to tell him the straight of her thoughts, mainly about his behavior but kept it secret. She had guessed from the start that he was just pretending. She just thought that childish and told him that denying his responsibility both as a man and as a prince of the blood was dead wrong. If only she know why he had to do that.

He trusted her in all but that. He could not discard the possibility that she would betray him for the sake of Spain. What was done before was just bordering treason, what was set into motion tonight definitively was. She wouldn't know about right-of-passage treaties, her only concern was his well-being. But when one's kingdom is at stake... "With you women fussing around like that, no sane man would be able to think clearly!" he told her ironically. "Then why don't you step outside to see if the rain can wash your thoughts clear?" was her bemused reply.

Before he could answer, a wet soldier ran into the tent, with rainy blasts of air extinguishing half of the candles. "Yes Corporal?" "Our men posted in the valley have reported a wide column of pikemen and knights heading toward the pass we hold now." "How many are they?" Manuel asked intendly. "It's hard to tell with darkness and the rain, your Highness. But we can estimate something like half dozen pikemen units and approximatively the same amount of knights".

It has begun then. There was no time to wonder if he has well chosen. "Rouse our men and get them ready. Tonight, we fight for Spain!" "By your orders, your Highness!" And the man hurried out, extinguishing some more lights with his going. Alma's face was nearly unreadable in the shadows, only her dark eyes glinted. He thought he saw worry, or was it sorrow? "Alma, don't leave the tent. If everything is as I think, the fighting won't get anywhere near the camp. You should be safe here."

The dice were tossed. Only God would know the outcome now. Calling for an aid to strap him up into his armor, he started to build plans to set his men to hold the pass.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

dragon.jade asked me a few days ago to take a look at this story, and so I've done so and am prepared to deliver a few comments. I should say for starters that I like this story quite a bit. It covers an interesting subject, a very turbulent time period (the early 16th century is a fascinating era), and has some very interesting characters just from the four chapters written so far. With that in mind, I'll take a look at each of the four sections in closer detail.

The Discovery
Of the four chapters written so far, this one is the sloppiest. Since it's the first one, that's forgiveable and it shows that you've been improving as you're progressed with the story. The errors are mostly trivial, a number of spelling mistakes which can be overlooked, that sort of thing. The use of quotations is sometimes off, and leaps back and forth in a sort of jerking fashion which is difficult for a reader to follow. Here's an example:

"Kings don't mess around with merchants." answered tartly King Francois. "How much of this substance does he have now?" "Here in Paris, your Majesty? Almost nothing for any practical purpose, the amount needed to make that display have taken almost all of what I got, and I bought most of all from the merchant." "Well, We guess We'll have to have the Royal treasury buy out that merchant's stock. What was his name again?" "I didn't told you, your Majesty, his name's Gonzale. He has actually come to Paris with the Spanish delegation with different products hoping for some new markets now that the war is over."

There's nothing wrong with having dialouge that goes back and forth between characters, but this is not the best way to present it. For one thing, it helps to identify who is speaking to keep a reader from becoming confused in the midst of the back-and-forth conversation in passages like this. For another, it is generally not a good idea to crush lines from different speakers together into the same paragraph. If you look at the way novels are printed, a new speaker always starts a new paragraph. Publishing companies use this convention because it's simply easier for the eye to follow; you would probably do well to follow their lead.

Now the subject matter of this section is quite good, making use of Civ3's resource system in an intelligent and beliveable way. Some of the lines show a sly and offhand humor as well: "what to do with a painting of a smiling woman? Nobody would find it any interesting , let alone pay to watch it." Very nice. :) The problems lie more with the presentation than with anything in the story itself. Watch out for errors like a "shotting" stick, little grammatical fixes like "would soon learn that one of its members would have caught" (the second part of that sentence should not use the conditional verb form "would"), and so on. A good setup to the rest of the story if you can work out some of these minor mistakes.

The Backfire
This section has the same kind of problems as the previous one. While there are some nice lines here - in particular, the line "But Isabella knew the truth about that, she was as human as her chambermaid and as prone to make mistakes." stands out as very strong - there are other phrases which don't really fit together or make sense. The following line is an example:

A lone falcon overhead screeched a call to its mate, maybe to call it a day and return to the nest.

The first half of the sentence is good; the second part doesn't fit with the tone of the passage at all. "Maybe to call it a day" snaps the serious and slightly sombre tone of the rest of the introductory paragraph; something else would be a better fit. There's another part where the story is a little unclear:

Only her and Dom Gonzale, the then Marshal of Foreign Affairs, had known. The last one was, sadly, a recently widowed new nun of the convent of Santa-Maria near Barcelona. Thanks to God, they didn't have any children.

I understand what you're trying to do here, imply that something very bad went wrong without explicitly stating what happened. That's a good idea, but this part is just a little too vague to understand. You needed to be a bit more detailed here to avoid confusion.

This is kind of an uninteresting section designed to build up for the events to come in the future. There's nothing wrong with that at all, I just thought I should point it out. Only very poor beginning writers think that there has to be action of some kind in every single chapter. I admire the fact that you've reached the point where a section like this can be written to build up towards a later climax.

The Jaguar
I liked this chapter the best of the four. I felt that the ethos of the Aztecs was captured very well in the descriptions, without going over the line to be too deliberately vague in describing the Spanish. I don't really have too much to say here, other than the fact that the word you want is "incense" not "encens" which, as far as I can tell, is not a word at all. :)

The Prince
An interesting section in that you throw the reader a curve which he would not have expected to see coming. I would have liked to have gotten a little bit more about Manuel though; a lot of the information surrounding him is still left rather vague. Maybe you did that deliberately, I don't know for sure. At the moment, however, it would have been nice to shed a little bit more light on his relationship with Alma (which is somewhat unclear).

The last two sections are written considerably better than the first two, flowing much more easily and with almost no grammatical or spelling errors. I don't know what changed from the first two parts, but whatever it is, don't go back! Your writing in the last two parts was much better and easier to read. This is very interesting and I'm curious to see where you're going to go with it. Presenting the story from four different points of view was a good way to start; now it would probably be good to go back to the characters the reader met earlier and see what they are up to now (having too many points of view can be a problem as well). This is a good effort here. :goodjob:

One last suggestion; whatever you title the first post is what ends up as the title of the entire thread. You may want to go back and edit your first post to change the title from "The Discovery" (which is clearly the title of the first chapter) to whatever the overall title of the story is. I don't think that the story's title is "The Discovery", but I could be wrong. Don't give up writing - you have something good going here. :)

great stories really like them keep going

Hello Sullla, thanks for your help in this. As I told you, your point of view is quite instructive for any would-be writer. Anyone can eat a cake, not much can taste it and provide good specific insights about what make it good or bad. This does not mean I don't like people flattering me for my work! ;) (Keep them coming! The more the better! :lol: )

Originally posted by Sullla
Of the four chapters written so far, this one (The Discovery) is the sloppiest. Since it's the first one, that's forgiveable and it shows that you've been improving as you're progressed with the story. [...]
Now the subject matter of this section is quite good, making use of Civ3's resource system in an intelligent and beliveable way.

Well, in fact, this part was intended to be a one chapter short story. I was merely trying to imagine how, in the game, people were supposed to find new technics without having the needed ressource in the first place. That kind of impossibility tickled me a bit, so that's how I described it.

The part about the King, Da vinci and the Spanish was no more than characterization, adding some soul to the characters. My main motive was to describe a discovery, not create a full-plotted story.

Originally posted by Sullla
The errors are mostly trivial, a number of spelling mistakes which can be overlooked, that sort of thing. [...]
Watch out for errors like a "shotting" stick, little grammatical fixes like "would soon learn that one of its members would have caught" (the second part of that sentence should not use the conditional verb form "would"), and so on.[...]
I don't really have too much to say here, other than the fact that the word you want is "incense" not "encens" which, as far as I can tell, is not a word at all. :)

Ah, sorry about those. I generally edit the posts as soon as I find them to rid the text of those pesky mistakes that distract the readers from the plot. However, as French, not English, is my mother tongue, some can get through.

Well, you're right. "Encens" is the french word for "Incense", no meaning in English.

Originally posted by Sullla
The use of quotations is sometimes off, and leaps back and forth in a sort of jerking fashion which is difficult for a reader to follow.

You're right. I edited all posts to correct that! Thanks.

Originally posted by Sullla
there are other phrases which don't really fit together or make sense.[...]
There's another part where the story is a little unclear (the part about the widow.) I understand what you're trying to do here, imply that something very bad went wrong without explicitly stating what happened. That's a good idea, but this part is just a little too vague to understand. You needed to be a bit more detailed here to avoid confusion.

Right again. When you're the storyteller, you keep on forgetting that what's evident to you can be foggy to your readers. Add the fact that my mood can switch from one line to the next, and any conflicting result is small wonder. This is an definite no-no if you want to be a professional writer (well, I do want it... but I guess I won't be. :( ), I'll try to check it but that flaw is very difficult to track without another reader eyes.

The part about Queen Isabella error was another try at characterization: making her more human; thus the error she made (which was a demand to the Aztecs in the case someone missed it).

Originally posted by Sullla
This is kind of an uninteresting section designed to build up for the events to come in the future. There's nothing wrong with that at all, I just thought I should point it out. Only very poor beginning writers think that there has to be action of some kind in every single chapter. I admire the fact that you've reached the point where a section like this can be written to build up towards a later climax.

Actually, that section was designed to introduced the plot I thought of to continue the story. The Spanish I introduced by happenstance in the first part were used (It could have been Beatrix of the Netherlands, or WhoeverYouKnow of the WhateverYouWant when I was writing the first section).

Originally posted by Sullla
I liked this chapter ( The Jaguar) the best of the four. I felt that the ethos of the Aztecs was captured very well in the descriptions, without going over the line to be too deliberately vague in describing the Spanish.

Here again, more characterization. That part is just some tidbits about the Aztecs. I must have felt somehow that readers would be curious as what Isabella's error could be. So I took a section to describe it (and the Aztecs too). As of yet (but that can change ;) ), the main plot is not centered on the Aztecs and won't probably come back to them.

Originally posted by Sullla
An interesting section (The Prince) in that you throw the reader a curve which he would not have expected to see coming. I would have liked to have gotten a little bit more about Manuel though; a lot of the information surrounding him is still left rather vague. Maybe you did that deliberately, I don't know for sure. At the moment, however, it would have been nice to shed a little bit more light on his relationship with Alma (which is somewhat unclear).

:lol: I'm sorry. Though I have got a general plot to follow, the tidbits are not very detailled in my mind, thus I have to somehow make them as I write. This would account for the vagueness. It does suit my purpose in the way that I'm more free to spin my tale any way I want... So you can say it's equally on purpose and not.

Originally posted by Sullla
Presenting the story from four different points of view was a good way to start; now it would probably be good to go back to the characters the reader met earlier and see what they are up to now (having too many points of view can be a problem as well). This is a good effort here. :goodjob:

Well, I intended to make each section a point of view from a different person for the whole story. No justification: just a self-imposed rule. So if you and I think this is finally too constraining, I shall break it. Right now, I will try to stick to it.

Originally posted by Sullla
One last suggestion; whatever you title the first post is what ends up as the title of the entire thread. You may want to go back and edit your first post to change the title from "The Discovery" (which is clearly the title of the first chapter) to whatever the overall title of the story is.

Well, I changed that. But it didn't changed in the overall listing of the thread. I'm not quite satisfied by that title, so it might change. But I really can't see any title that would suit. So this one would stand. For now. Feel free to offer one ;)

Thanks again for reading.

He told himself softly:"I am too old for this. I should have left it to someone younger. I guess I'll ask retirement from the King's Counsel when that mission is over." He had have enough of it with the thirty previous years. His replacement had been in training for the last five, and was showing good promises. Yes, it was high time to allow his old bones some rest. When that mission is over.

Geoffroy de Crecy, War Marshal to King Francois the First of the French, raised his gauntleted right hand at his eyes level in a unsuccessful try to check it for rust in the night. Despite all the customary oiling, he felt like his whole armor was quickly rusting apart in that downpour. Following the rein being drawn, his horse started to turn right. He quickly let his hand drop and corrected the direction with his knee. The warhorse managed somehow to throw a reprochful glance before he turned his head, a very wet glance.

Icy gusts of wind and blasts of rain kept sweeping the long column of men and horses around him. Through relative calm, Geoffroy caught some grumblings about fire and a hot soup, and dismissed them as quickly as they came. Useless wishes would not make the situation better, but morale was definitively decreasing.

The forest around them was very dark, and the heavy rain prevented any sound to reach them. The soft click of his own mailshirt, the head of his horse, its paws pounding on the path, and some light provided by well sheltered lanterns, was his universe. Those and the cold wetness that was spreading in his body.

Yet the rain and the wind suited his purpose. Stealth was paramount. He rised the head to try a glimpse at the pass. The Pyrenean mountain range darkness overshadowed the night a little. He was not able to tell exactly where he was, but he knew he was in the good direction.

King Francois' scheme had been very devious, and so far, all had gone as planned: the sealing of the border through "training missions", then the settling in the Aguila mountain range. That move was the gamble: founding that outpost had cost dearly with so much unclaimed lands oversea. And with no apparent reason: the fishing hamlet could barely sustain the garrison here, and there was no ressource around to exploit.

But the Spanish Crown could not know that, they had wondered, and finally, had struck Toulouse -or 'BaitTown', as he had nicknamed it- as soon as the right of passage treaty was over, leaving the border unprotected except for the small garrison ahead.

True, he would have laughed himself, thinking about that Spanish witch when she would finally capture BaitTown and find the empty nutshell it was. He would have, if he was in his beloved castle of Crecy, in his rooms, in front of the fire, warming his old bones with an nice Bordeaux vintage, instead of plodding his way miserably through wind, rain and mud.

He had been doubtful about the idea at first, when King Francois had drawn his scheme. Much was based upon the possible attack of the Spanish on BaitTown. Experience in uncountable battles, both military and diplomatic, told him that to expect the opponent to make one move, was to allow to be surprised by another -possibly lethal- one.

He had pointed that out but King Francois had only shrugged it over: "My dear De Crecy, if Spain does not declare war upon us to claim Toulouse, then we would have lost only a settler and a handfull of troups to guard it. Nothing lost but time, and the Spanish won't get anything."

Seeing that his king would not be diverted from his idea, De Crecy had diplomatically refrained himself from adding another warning about that settler cost when oversea, vast lands waited to be claimed before the English. "I will see to it myself, Your Majesty."

They had spoken at length that night about what was to be done, how it would be done. King Francois' grasps on politics was keen. The Intelligence Master's was crafty, if not vicious. De Crecy added some facts from his knowledge about Spanish war tactics. Between them, they hammered the details of the trap. That was when King Francois had put him in charge of the sneaky thrust through the Pyrenean range: "I have every confidence in you, Geoffrey. Only you can lead and bring men to see this task done!"

With such praises from his King, he could not have refused. He had handpicked himself the men he needed for that mission, and trained them accordingly. Those elite troups would get through any garrison left to protect the pass, even without Dom Manuel's aid.

That had been the true surprise: that Dom Manuel, Lord of Oviedo, brother to the Queen himself, of all thing, had accepted to aid them by allowing the passage of De Crecy's units in exchange of the French aid in his seizing of the spanish Crown.
Manuel had managed to have command of the garrison in the pass.

With his elite troups, De Crecy would be able to seize Barcelona before the Spanish troops sieging Toulouse could run back. And hold it against them while more slower troops came from France to strengthen his hold.

"A fool!" thought De Crecy, "A dangerous fool!" Yet a useful fool, who would give up Barcelona to the Kingdom of France for a Crown. Never mind no royalty in Europe would accept his royal Word with such a stain of his name afterward, foolish Manuel would be King of Spain.

Concentrating on a slowly-moving itching cold sensation in his beard -sweat? rain?-, he didn't see that the army was entering the pass itself. The sudden stop of the men around him surprised him. The rain was noticeably lessening. Ahead, the fort holding the pass stood in the dark, with a few torchlights barely visible. The gates were opened and a man was standing in the shadowed porch.

De Crecy gestured to his son Alderic: "Something is wrong here. I want you to get the rear guard, and fight your way out of it if anything is to happen here. Tell the King whatever you can learn."

"-But Father, if something happens..."

"-Do as you are told, soldier!" snapped Geoffroy, "I won't have you shaming me this way!"

"-Yes, General!" answered Alderic de Crecy with that strange look in his green eyes, that look that reminded Geoffroy of his long dead beloved wife.

Alderic left for the rear of the troops. Geoffroy suppressed an urgent need to call him back and hug him. He turned his thoughts to the fort awaiting him and his troops. "Soldiers! March!" he told his men. Whatever happened now, there was nothing else to do but advancing.

The rain and wind had stopped. His men began the steep path to the fort entrance, leaving the protecting shadows of the forest. Geoffroy got ahead of them to get a better view at the man under the gates. It was Manuel, wearing a breastplate and an helmet. Oddly, his childish and handsome face was not really shocking above such a warlike garb. It did fit him.

The last of his men were leaving the forest. Torches were suddenly lit all over the fort walls and Geoffroy knew he had been betrayed. The heavy doors started to close slowly and fiery crossbow bolts began to rain down.

"Treason!!!!!!!" he yelled to warn the rear. "On my orders, first company is to charge! Chaaaaarge!!!!"

Hastening his horse forward and drawing his sword, he sent a prayer to God. He heard the hooves of his knights behind him mixed with the terrified whinings of horses struck by bolts.

His quick reaction to the ambush had prevented most of the front guard from being killed by crossbow fire. They reached the gates before they could be totally closed, but there was already a full squad of pikemen blocking the width of the entrance.

Caught by its own momentum, Geoffroy's horse impaled itself on them, crushing four or five men under its weight. Miraculously, Geoffroy rolled over, found himself standing and still holding his sword, but he felt what were for certain two or three broken ribs.

The entrance was dimly lit, filled with cries and screams of the wounded. That so recognizable smell of battle, an horrid mix of sweat, blood, urine and feces, was building. He lashed with his sword, fighting the pain in his chest, and downed two men busy with one of his knight. He fought wildly with a third that was nearly as good as him in swordmanplay until he fell to the stroke of yet another knight.

Geoffroy knew it was hopeless. The gates had been closed now, effectively separating his desperate charge from his pikemen outside. There was no question that he would die here. Every move took now a effort and gave a searing pain in return. He saw time slowed as if everyone, him included, moved in honey. His right arm rose and fell continuously, hacking at anyone standing in front of him, mowing almost mindlessly.

Then suddenly, he felt a tearing in his chest, taking all the breath he had. I felt himself collapse bonelessly to the floor. His vision blurred, faded to dark. He wished his son had made it through. His last thought was for a gentle maiden in her teens with sparkling green eyes he had seen long, long ago, in another life...

(TO BE CONTINUED)

"Alma? Are you well?"

Rising her dark eyes from the cup she was stairing into, Alma forced a smile on her face, forced herself to look straight at Manuel's blue eyes.

"Yes, I am all right. I was just thinking about... what happened up there in the pass."

They were in the main room of the guest rooms of the castle of Barcelona. Dom Hernandez, Lord of Barcelona, was on the battlefield at Toulouse. As brother to the Queen and only lord present, Manuel had assumed the leadership of the Spanish forces here against the advancing French troops.

"-Don't worry about me. I am fine! Just look!"

"-Yes", answered Alma, "You look fine."

Only the look, and only for outsiders. For anyone knowing Manuel since childhood, he was not fine, not his usual self. There was sweat on his face, too much sweat to her liking. A crease now marred the forehead of his once perfect face and the strain in his voice could be either concentration about his task, or concentration holding his pain at bay.

Manuel had been wounded at the pass, a week ago. A very bad wound in the belly. Only his plate had prevented instant death from a lance of a french knight. As Alma was told, he was commanding the pikemen holding the fort entrance while the gates were being closed. Why in heaven those gates were opened in the night, with enemies approching, was beyond her.

She had been told of his injury only with the morning, after a restless night in Manuel's battlefield tent. The tent had been planted a little afar from the pass, in what she suspected would be a very good place to depart unnoticed from the fort.

She had ridden to find him, lying unconscious in this small room in the fort. He had been already sewn up and was sleeping, sweating with fever. For three full days, she had tended him, forced broth down his throat and held his hand. For three full days, she had taken care of the only man she had ever loved.

Alma had never known her father. Her mother told her, when she was five and she asked the question, that her father was a sailor who loved a castle servant, was sent oversea to America, and that he died of illness there. Later, when she was ten and asked again, she was told he was a soldier that had helped free Spain from the Arab domination and died in the fights.

Alma understood then that her father was a touchy subject and never had asked again. The only thing she knew was linked to her father was a ring her mother wore all the time at her left hand, a ring she wore the other way so only the broad gold band could be seen from the outside. In public, her mother always wore gloves.

Her ghost father never truly disturbed her. Her dark features was clearly her mother's, and suited her well. She had a few proposals from some Doms. Her status as foster sister to the Prince Dom Manuel protected her from being just ordered to their bedrooms, but she grew to like those tributes to her beauty. The Donas were not happy about her being around theirs husbands, like a strange flower with many butterflies around. But try as they may, they couldn't find anything on her. And she was the Prince's foster sister.

Alma and Manuel grew together, played together in the gardens of the Alhambra palace, had lessons together. At first, she knew him to his fingernails, could read his very thoughts by the way he behaved. That changed at twelve, he changed. He became secretive, with a kind a hunger in his eyes, a kind of hunger she could not understood. He started the fakery of being slow-witted. That innocent look she had so liked in her childhood was now a painful sight to her for the deception it was.

But she kept liking him, helping him sometimes in his fakery. In private, she scorned that attitude, asking him from time to time when he would grow up and be the prince he was and get his due. He always answered that he will have his due when the moment is ripe, with yet again that hunger in his light blue eyes.

Alma understood she loved Manuel when they were fifteen. That day, Dona Marguerida, the oldest daughter of Dom Hernandez, -she was twenty-one!- managed to sneak into the young Prince bedroom. She was so jealous she faked the voice of her mother and had the woman fleeing in the hallways half-naked. Alma knew, however, that she would never be Manuel's wife. He liked her as a sister. He was a Prince, to be married with a far away princess to seal political alliance. So she stayed to be his bodymaid, whatever the gossips may be in the servant quarters.

For three full days, she had taken care of him. For three days, the French troops had relentlessly attacked the fort. On the third evening, the Corporal leading what was left of the units protecting the fort decided the odds were against them and that it was time for a ordely retreat. Alma had expressed her concerns about moving Manuel, with him wounded so. "I will not lead men to wasteful death. Beside, neither you nor I wish to stand in front of Queen Isabella, explaining how we allowed her brother to be taken as prisoner." the Corporal had retorted. And so the remaining men had left the fort by night, with some sham soldiers of wood and straw to hold it.

It was during that trip in the carriage to Barcelona, while fleeing the French troops, hot on their heels, that she had learnt it. They were alone and she was washing his forehead of fever sweat when Manuel had started crying pitifully in his fever-induced dreams: "I'm sorry Mama! It had to be done! That was the only way! Don't haunt me Mama!"

At first, Alma had tried to calm him down, but she couldn't help listening. Mama was the familiar name Manuel gave her mother's, their mother. "Shush, Manuel, stay calm..." she had started.

"-Mama! You have to trust me! Don't stay in the nursery, Mama! He'll kill you! It's the only way to reach the Royal Rooms!" he had said plaintively.

"-What? Manuel, what do you mean?" A great ice lump had formed in Alma's stomach.

"-It's her fault's Mama, not mine! She had no right to be Queen! Only a man can rule Spain! She must be evicted of the Throne, my throne! Don't you see Mama?"

"-Keep quiet, Manuel, you mustn't say that!" She had whispered, hoping somehow to quiet him.

"-It was so simple, Mama. I just need someone to take the blame! With me gone to fight for the kingdom, I will be the hero! Hero and King!" Manuel had added weakly. "I love you Mama, don't stay in the nursery!" Then his head had sagged into a fever-induced stupor.

The fever had broken just as they arrived in Barcelona. Prince Manuel had been greeted as Great Leader and Hero of Spain for his defence of the pass. Word had been sent to the siege at Toulouse of the French attack through the Pyrenees. Manuel had taken command of the garrison troups at Barcelona. His fame had convinced two local pikemen units to join its main unit and work as one in a newly co-ordinated fashion. Manuel was now strengthening Barcelona walls to withstand the incoming threat.

"Alma? What's the matter? You're behaving oddly. Don't worry, the doctors here have seen to my injury!" said Manuel. He was lying. She saw that at the way his hand fluttered on the hilt of his sword.

"-I'm behaving oddly because I don't care to see bleeding, beheaded or gutted men. I don't care to see men dying. War is a waste." She answered tartly. "I think I'll join the ladies in the inner stronghold when the battle starts, Manuel."

"-There are worst places than the inner stronghold, Alma." he smiled back. "You have my leave to do so."

"-Thank you, o great lord of Oviedo and Grenada!" she answered, her voice heavy with irony. "I have to gather my belongings now, if I'm to do that. See you later, your Highness!"

Alma rushed to her room in the castle and started to pack a few things. Then she went to the kitchens and got some foodstuffs. One hour later, she was riding hard to Madrid. she hoped Manuel would not find her gone before it was too late to stop her.

"You great fool Manuel! Risking Mama's life like that! I won't denounce you Manuel, but I have to stop that! Whatever the price!"

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Silence.

A chittering sound. Two, three paces on the right? A mouse? A mouse.

Silence again.

Flexing slowly his body, Abdul Arun al-Mashar slowly eased his muscles: it was no use to plan such an undertaking if it was to risk everything on a cramped body. The closet in which he was hiding was not high enough to fit his frame. He was an average man but that closet was intended to hold women's clothes, a small woman at that.

A peek between the closet doors, slighty ajar, showed nothing. Still the same room, lit with a single candle placed atop a richly carved and gilded table. The bed was placed along a wall, with a fireplace opposing it. The golden crown of Spain stitched on the blankets dared anyone except the Queen to sleep in them.

Night had settled five hours ago on the Alhambra Palace and the people in the castle where starting to go to bed. Because of the heat in daytime, not much was made from noon to dusk except the siesta. It was only in the early part of the night that Madrid and the Palace was bustling with activity. In the city, merchants sold theirs wares, beggars sold rumors and extended hands, people went to church. High up in the castle, servants worked in the kitchen and dusted the rooms, Doms and Domnas were being entertained, or entertained each other.

The candle on the table flickered...

To get this deep into the Palace, Abdul have had to get in the Palace the previous night with servants bringing foods from the city. Then he have had to hide in a storeroom until the night. From the storeroom to the low servants quarter, the trip had been easy since no guard was set.

In the smallest cell of the servants quarter, he had to dispose of the teenage boy that lived there. Surprising him in his sleep had been a simple matter and smothering him with his own pillow had made the death seem accidental. Abdul had sent a prayer to Allah at that moment: killing was a necessity when you were an Assassin, but he was a pious man, and even infidels should be granted a mourning and a prayer for their souls.

Close examination of the walls of the cell had show a seemingly wobbling brick. Counting three bricks left from that one, he had pushed the fourth brick. A whole section of the wall had then moved to display an opening that had not been here before. Checking one last time the tiny cell for any traces he might had left, he had got into the moldy and codwebbed secret passage that led to the upper levels of the palace.

Idly, he had wondered how King François of the French knew about this secret way. Francois must have had a highly placed informant to know of such matter. "You might be privileged to know of things necessary to your mission," King Francois had answered when he had tried to pry, "but do no presume on your usefulness to Us."

Reaching this room had not been as difficult as he had expected. King Francois' informant had been exact to the point that he was still wondering if that mission was not a trap for him. He had wondered all of the rest of the night while waiting for the woman sleeping in the other end of the secret passageway to wake and live her rooms. When he had finally been able to leave the passageway, he had checked the secret spot to press to reopen the way for his escape.

He had finally reached the Royal Bedchamber and sneaked in just after the siesta time, and he had been waiting for Isabella since.

The candle on the table flickered...

Voices rose in the hallway outside the royal bedroom. Abdul tensed in the closet, ready to spring and strike. The door opened tentatively, then gave way to what was obviously a high servant, however richly coated: "OK, I'll show you the Queen's Sleeping Room, but be quick about it! You don't want to know what will happen to us if we're caught!"

A young maid, her dark eyes afire with curiosity, stepped into the room. She stopped to drink in the beauty of the dark-wooded bed, the soft shine of the silk blankets embroided with golden threads and the rugs laid on the floors. "That's so beautiful!" she half-whispered.

"- Well, you got your peek on the Queen's Room. Now, let's leave!" The high servant hissed. The maid complied with a last dreamy eye. The door closed quickly.

"Now I have shown what you wanted to see, it's your turn to show me what I..." The high servant voice dwindled in the distance. Abdul relaxed in his closet... Servants!

The candle on the table flickered...

King Francois thought Abdul was his darkhound, a trained killer for murder in the dark but he never knew Abdul was a spy for the revered Osman of the Ottomans. Abdul Arun al-Mashar was born a slave to the Great Calif Osman. At eight, he was selected to become a shadow, a bodyguard to his master. He was so good at it that he was then granted the training of an Assassin. At the age of thirteen, Osman gave him to the French Crown, overtly as a gesture of friendship, and covertly at spy to the French Court.

Then had come the most unexpected, the young Francois took a liking to Abdul and had him trained as a Darkhound to the French Crown, adding western killing techniques to his own previous skills. Calif Osman was overjoyed at that news, apparently blackmailing was the first aim of his plot and his spy becoming King Francois' tamed killer was the perfect setting for premium knowledge and lever.

King Francois had ordered him several times some killings, but it was generally some petty contender for the hand of his mistress of the moment or the woman herself if she was getting annoying or greedy. Nothing political, nothing valuable enough for Calif Osman. Nothing until that big deal with Queen Isabella of the Spanish.

On learning of that assassination attempt to be, Calif Osman had been delighted. He had instructed Abdul to obey King's Francois orders and make sure nothing could be traced to France responsability in the attempt. Assassination of a fellow Christian ruler was frowned upon in Western monarchy, and King Francois would be effectively under Calif Osman's thumb after that, doing whatever would be needed to keep this secret.

The candle on the table flickered...

The door opened with a faint creak. Abdul peeked again through the barely closed doors of the closet. In the candlelight, the woman that came in was beautiful, with dark braided hairs raising to form almost as a crown on her head. She was alone.

She walked slowly to the bedside, apparently lost in her thoughts. She stopped, and looked around at the room, as if checking pensively that everything was at their place. She sighed deeply and sat on the bed, apparently preparing herself to slip into it.

Abdul had thought of killing Isabella in her sleep and leave quietly the way he came, so when his hand started to open the closet door, his own mind was stunned. Straining to stop himself, he realised to his horror that he couldn't stop himself from getting out of the closed, body poised for the killing strike.

The woman on her bed screamed. Her hand rose quickly to a bell and rang it widly. A commotion was heard in the outside hallway. Running steps. He had to act now or he wouldn't have another opportunity. Almost by rote, the dagger in his right hand rose...

The door busted open...

The dagger flew to the woman's throat...

The candle on the table flickered...

(TO BE CONTINUED)