Dedicated to an amazing writer who helped fan the torch of my love of 1001 Arabian Nights.

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13th Century AD

 The Black Sea

Theodosia

It was a long and windy night when a stranger pulled up to a tavern in need of nourishment.

Knocking thrice, he was let in.

Alas, how was he to know he had just entered a robbers den?

"Surely, that is the last one we have to write, Leo?", a young black Turk asked, curious on when their never-ending hunt for history's fables would end.

"I am afraid not. These fables are trickier to pin down to a certain region than most. We may have to seek out help in making a proper account."

A Moor companion of theirs, Aban, spoke with a hushed tone. "Is it safe to speak of these stories aloud in a haram place like this that sells alcohol? Should the rulers we pass through on this Silk Road be enraged at the positive description of their enemies in one of these fictional stories, we could happily lose our heads or worse...have our precious texts stolen from us."

He gestured towards the densely populated tavern, itself an abandoned fortress, the mud-brick walls accompanying nicely with the yellow-tinted lighting from above to cast a dark complexion upon all the current residents.

Even those not originally from the scorching desert sun.

All reaching for their necks, Caspar changed the subject lest he continue to think about an untimely demise. "Ishraq al-Masud, where is the elder you promised us? As I recall, you mentioned he could lead us to ideal searching grounds for these lost gems as you called them?"

"Prey do tell... Indeed, what a curious bunch you make," said a grey-haired wrinkled old man trembling as he faced them, he soon leaned against a table for comfort as he regaled them.

He added, "Never in my years have I seen a Turk, a Moor, a Byzantine and a man from the Roman Empire sit at table and eat bread together peacefully. Definitely not since the Crusades started."

"Sire, it is the Holy Roman Empire you must be referring to, the Eastern Roman Empire belongs to those Byzantines..."

Scoffing, Leo neared his fist to Caspar's nose, as the Israelite descendant rose to his feet, panic clearly visible on his face. "Watch it, I belong to those Byzantines...", Leo snapped.

Aban remarked, "Sit down Jew before you hurt yourself. Must you keep the old man waiting?"

Caspar clicked his tongue, indignant of the statement, but curious on what the senior had to say.

Masud, the oldest among them, stood and kept watch by the door as the trio scooted closer on the tight bench, eager to hear words of wisdom from the elder.

"There are many objects in this world worth craving, but the notes you hold in your hand...are dangerous, and I suggest you get rid of them at once."

The youngest, Leo said, "But sire, we have done well to keep account of the stories locals spread throughout their lands and have journeyed far and wide in our travels from the far reaches of North Africa to the ends of the Caspian Sea. Why would we trash our most valiant efforts?"

"Those stories...are more than mere stories. They are historical accounts of events that actually happened."

Caspar guffawed. "You mean to say Rocs, caves filled to the brim with diamonds, Magic Carpets, faeries, sea monsters, and wealth beyond our wildest dreams exist...existed?"

The Old Man chuckled. "Even Sultaness Scheherazade as mentioned in these tales, recounted from stories that had been passed down from the common folk. Did you believe all these stories were the mere imaginings of hundreds of peasants? Each repeating the same thing...eventually it turns into a mythos. And myths are powerful indeed-for belief is what rules our world."

Looking around the tavern, the Old Man murmured, "Be cautious of those who seek interest in your notes. They may be on the prowl for power and riches beyond their wildest dreams."

SHHHH!! swayed beads dangling from the ceiling as others brushed against them, the air now shimmering with a sparkle as golden particulates dispersed through the air. The foreigners almost jumped in their seats at the sound but settled down upon hearing the nightly bustle of the belligerent crowd once more.

"Heed my warning, fair travelers. The magic of legend is nothing compared to the power of word, the secrets the stories you keep tell, and the truths they foretold back then and now."

"Do you suggest we burn it before it is taken from our hands?", asked one of the traveling party, Aban, glancing around the tavern worriedly as if someone might overhear.

Ignoring Aban, the Old man continued. "For instance, Jinn. Jinn are not docile creatures loyally waiting to grant wishes and serve their master like some have assumed. They are as likely to grant you your wish as you are to live a long life. It is more probable that they shall let you indulge in a fantasy only to transform your present into a bitter reality, left worse off than before."

The young men swallowed nervously, concerned with their orders to gather these fables, and bring the completed collection into an affluent prince's library.

Had these historians been lied to on the true purpose of their mission?

"Tarry not long here, my friends. Some Rus principalities here are vessels to the Mongols, and I do believe the Turks do not share the best history with them or the Byzantines for that matter."

"Masud!", they cried, grabbing their packs with them, and rushing to the main hall.

"If only matters could turn out differently...well I did warn them after all," he muttered, turning, and leaving the establishment forth haste.

Returning to their table, the four struggled to drink and chow down normally for a few minutes till Masud inquired on what they had learned.

Another scholar who had accompanied them while on the Silk Road suddenly burst into the tavern.

"THE MONGOLS HAVE INVADED!"

Every child, women and men present in the establishment girded their loins. Men were seen leaping over tables for cover, brandishing shields, and readying their spears for action.

Meanwhile, the five scholars trembled in fear. Fa Chao, the scholar who had warned them, hiccupped. When the Mongols had invaded the late Song Dynasty, his noble family had been slaughtered, while he himself was smuggled into the Byzantine empire where he had met Leo.

If there was one group in the world which he hated the most, it was the Mongols.

And here they were-barging through the front door.

"Ready your arms, men!", yelled a fellow Byzantian in Greek as he barreled through and struck swords with a Mongol.

"Aban," whispered Caspar.

"What?", he squeaked.

"Take the notes and hide them in your tunic. At least one of us must not be caught with our letters."

Aban stared at the Christian. "Caspar, we cannot leave you behind. You are..."

"Forget it," barked Masud. Caspar nodded, and left them, distracting soldiers now entering the tavern.

Already Masud was on the move, shattering a window as quietly as he could, and placing fabric from his head garment on the windowsill.

"It is not that far to jump," he asserted to Aban.

"We are in the tower! I...I cannot..."

"You must," said Fa Chao, taking initiative to be the first to demonstrate it was safe.

Only to be captured by the Mongols down below, his screams the stuff of nightmares.

Aban suppressed a shriek of terror, heading down the tower, and clearing a path for Masud and Leo.

"I have traveled far and wide. It has been an honor serving with you," he claimed, pushing the notes to Masud as he rushed into the battle like Caspar had done.

"Soldiers till the end," Masud mused, taking Leo in hand and dragging him through the back exit.

Hopefully, the Mongols would be too busy burning down the city to notice two scholars.

"Stop, Turk!"

Apparently not.

"Leo..."

The Byzantian stared at him, worry etched into his face.

"Guard these with your life. Give them to the right person...in time."

Letting the notes be transferred from his hand, Masud eyed the chaos outside warily.

Grabbing a pouch off his waist, he brought the bag up to his face.

Dousing his lips with the fermented liquid, he closed them rapidly.

Without hesitation, he swallowed the contents whole.

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Historical Note: Caspar is Jewish by ancestry, culture and heritage, but is a practicing Roman Catholic. Many Jews converted, or were forced to convert during this time in Europe. However, Aban, is a practicing Muslim and still seems him as a Jew regardless. (Not that Caspar doesn't see himself as Jewish, he does, it's just that's no longer the religion he practices. That's why he got mad.) So the scholars were two Christians (one Catholic, one Orthodox), two Muslims, and an atheist, all from different backgrounds and ethnicities.

Author's note: Another one bites the dust...*hums* (This is the song I now use during action movies to feel less about character deaths. Does it work? Maybe.) This first chapter is sort of a prologue. It takes place quite a bit before the main story, but is related to the main story. (and extremely important as it drives the plot...catch my drift?)

As the story mentioned, in this 'universe' 1001 Arabian Nights Tales are all true, and magic exists. Our scholars in this chapter are not the main characters of this story, but their work highly matters to the plot. (So much so that the main characters face peril because of it.) This story was inspired by my avid love of reading 1001 Arabian Nights and Sinbad's Voyages so that and Medieval Middle East/Central Asia history have formed this story. Quite a bit of historical research is done for this story, especially for this first chapter.