The sun scorched the desert, its heat pressing down on sand and stone until the earth itself seemed to smolder. Yet from the south an icy wind swept in, sharp enough to dry sweat and cool blood. It was as though autumn had wandered into spring, tempering the blaze with a chill that belonged to another season. The Assyrians lay quiet in these days, keeping from war, but men had come from farther north—beyond even their lands. They descended in search of territory, wealth, and slaves, driving their hunger with violence so fierce it seemed unearthly.
Dust stirred at every gust of wind. Upon a flat rock sat a lone soldier, one arm pressed tight to his chest. A deep gash split the muscle of his right bicep, and his hand could no longer close. Blood had poured freely, darkening his tunic and dripping down to stain his forearm in crimson. With a torn scrap of uniform he bound it tight, fighting to stem the flow. Behind him lay the bodies of his comrades—four sentries who had marched at his side—and the carcasses of their enemies, scattered in tangled heaps.
He let out a slow sigh, half relief for his own survival, half grief for the friends who had spoken of home only moments before. They had longed for the shade of village trees, for quiet sleep untroubled by steel, for the laughter of their children. He too had spoken of longing—his wife waiting in the doorway of their house, his children's voices ringing in the goat pens, the warmth of his bed. Rarely had he spoken so openly, even among village friends. Perhaps they had known the truth: that the task General Hanna had given them was one of peril. They had been sentries, scouts, ordered to find the enemy's camp and live long enough to return.
Now only one remained.
His lips cracked with thirst. He forced his eyes from the blood-soaked earth where red stained the dust into dark mud. Searching the dead, he found two wineskins and a jug of water. He drank sparingly—the water to steady him, the wine to keep his failing body upright. He could no longer fight, not with one arm useless. But he could finish the mission. His companions had not died for nothing.
He mounted a camel taken from the enemy dead and set off toward the hills. His pulse quickened with every step. Somewhere ahead, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of northern soldiers camped. Wounded as he was, he could not lift spear or sword. If discovered, he had only flight.
These northerners were no locals. They had bought loyalty from tribes with gold and promises, swelling their ranks with men who lived by war alone. Some carried nothing but spear and sling, bare-chested and unarmored, yet deadly with both. They were hunters of men, born for battle.
The soldier followed a trail cleared by their passing, stones pushed aside for speed. The camel ran surefooted, a brief relief in his day of blood. For a fleeting moment he let himself drift into memory—his village, his children tossing stones at lizards in the alley, his wife at the doorway, hair loose, her smile welcoming him home. He nearly let the mirage carry him whole, until his eyes opened again and fixed upon a low hill an hour's ride away. He urged the camel forward, knowing he might meet his death there.
The climb was slow. Pain gnawed at his arm, thirst burned his throat, yet he pressed on. From the hill's crest he saw it at last—the enemy camp sprawled across the plain like a city of tents, firelight flickering in the dark. Thousands of men feasted and sang, roasting antelope and birds, their laughter rolling like thunder. The soldier's heart clenched. Forty thousand, at least. He had seen enough. His mission was complete.
But then came the sound.
A low growl, deep and rumbling, curled against his ear. He knew it at once—he had heard it before in distant wars. He turned, slow as stone.
A lion stood less than four paces away. The largest he had ever seen. Its mane shimmered bronze in the sun, its body still as carved rock, eyes fixed not on him, but on the enemy camp below. It watched with a predator's patience, as though the army itself were prey.
The soldier could not move. His sword weighed nothing in his hand; his arm refused to lift it. The lion growled again, then turned, padding between boulders. With a flick of its tail it was gone, vanishing into shadow as though it had never been.
The soldier trembled harder than he had in battle. Facing men was one thing. Facing a beast of gods was another. He gathered what little strength remained and urged his camel back toward camp, each step a battle in itself. His vision blurred, sweat and blood mixing on his face. In fever he dreamed of water, of the Caspian's cool waves, of his wife beside him and his children laughing on the shore. Only when the tents of his own people rose before him did he rouse from the haze.
He was greeted with cries of joy. Alone he had returned, wounded but alive, and with the enemy's secrets in his keeping. They rushed him to General Hanna's tent. The great man himself gave the soldier water from his own pitcher and food from his plate, honoring his sacrifice.
"Speak," Hanna said, his eyes sharp with urgency.
The soldier showed his wound, blood still seeping beneath the cloth. His voice rasped. "General… the others are gone. All dead. Only I returned. But I saw the camp. Northmen and tribes together, tens of thousands. Forty thousand, perhaps more. They wait, gathering."
Hanna's jaw tightened, but a grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He questioned further, and the soldier answered with care—every detail of what he had seen. Hanna dismissed him at last to the physicians' care.
In the tent remained Hanna and three of Khalid's sons: Qabbani, robed in crimson, Nazir, steady with knives at his belt, and Attar, sharp-eyed and eager for battle.
"They know of Lake Urmia," Qabbani said, his voice hard. "If they strike there, they cut through our lands and choke our people."
"My family lives in Chokia, near the lake!" the wounded soldier cried, panic breaking through his discipline. "If they march that way, they will burn everything!"
"Calm yourself," Hanna said firmly, though his own heart weighed heavy. He turned to the princes. "If we stay here, they will move on the lake. If we meet them head-on, their numbers will scatter us. We must act first."
Qabbani frowned. "Thirteen thousand against forty? That is suicide."
Attar leaned forward, voice low but burning. "If we wait, we die. Better to strike while they sleep."
Nazir clenched his fist. "Then we fortify. Let them come. We'll be ready, blades in hand. They will find not prey, but wolves."
Hanna listened, silent, his hands circling a cup of tea. Finally, he spoke, voice slow and deliberate.
"When men leave their homes, their children, their wives to fight, they do not do it for merit. Fame fades. Even kings forget. But they fight to protect the elders, the children, the women. To protect what is theirs. That is why we stand. And that is why I will not allow our sons and daughters to be taken, nor our wives defiled, nor our walls pulled down. Not while I draw breath."
The tent fell silent. Even Qabbani lowered his gaze.
Hanna's smile returned, faint but fierce. "We march in two hours. Under cover of night we strike their camp while they dream of victory. Sometimes, to win a war, one need only take the first step before the enemy."
The princes exchanged glances. At last Qabbani clasped Hanna's shoulders. "Then teach us once more, old friend. We will be ready."
Nazir nodded. "My troops will prepare."
"And mine," said Attar, fire in his eyes.
They departed, leaving Hanna alone. He finished his tea, then stepped outside. The camp stirred in urgency, soldiers donning armor, sharpening blades, preparing for a march into darkness. Above them stretched a flawless blue sky.
And Hanna, watching, saw a hawk sweep low across the camp. It dove, vanishing into the sand, and rose again clutching a writhing serpent in its talons. The general's lips tightened as he remembered the soldier's words.
"There are lions on the mound."