Chapter 66:The Standoff of Two Armies

Dear River_Stenberg, Ridwan_Nugroho_0749, Kameron_Krueger, Muhammad_Al_Aizat, daoist_northsky07, Sniper_Dude, 00Zero, Nirvana_homeless, Mustifa_89, Daoist8ZKfWR, Oxsinus, and Falken19,

Thank you all so much for your incredible support and for sending Power Stones to my book Osman II: Rebirth of a Dynasty. Your encouragement inspires me to continue writing and sharing this story with you. It means the world to have such wonderful readers backing my work!

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At a time close to sunrise, along the foothills of Iran's vast, endless mountains, a cold wind slowly swept through the valleys, accompanied by the morning mist. The army of Shah Abbas advanced, accompanied by the reverberating sound of drums echoing through the mountains. The thousands of footsteps falling on fresh snow seemed to shake the earth itself, forcing it into submission. The clinking of horseshoes on the frozen ground resembled a march whispering the Shah's dominion.

Shah Abbas rode at the forefront of his army, mounted on a white horse. His piercing gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon, radiating unwavering determination. His armor, embroidered with gold, and his deep red robe shimmered in the rising sunlight. The plume on his helmet stood tall, as majestic as a mountain peak. Around him, his commanders reined in their horses, awaiting his orders.

"I marvel at the audacity of these rebels," Shah Abbas said to one of his loyal viziers, Emir Rustem, who rode by his side. His voice was as sharp as the edge of a sword. "They dare disturb the peace of my state. I will show them the meaning of justice."

"My Shah," replied Emir Rustem, bowing his head slightly. "The Turkmen rebels are but a handful of bandits. They stand no chance against our armies."

Without turning his head, Shah Abbas continued to gaze at the horizon. "Every rebellion has its roots, Emir Rustem," he said. "If we do not uproot it, it will rot the foundation of the state."

At the end of the valley, smoke from a Turkmen village came into view. A rider sent as a messenger from the Shah's army approached swiftly, dismounted, and knelt before him, bowing his head. "My Shah," the messenger said, his breath uneven. "The Turkmen rebels are setting villages ablaze and inciting the people against us. Soon, they will move to join a larger force."

The Shah's brows furrowed. "So they not only rise against us but oppress my people as well." His voice carried such anger that it seemed to cut through the air. Spurring his horse, he gave the order to advance at a faster pace. "Our army shall march! Whoever raises a sword against the innocent shall be deprived of our mercy."

The sight of the advancing army winding through the valley resembled a dragon disappearing into the mountains. Every soldier had sworn to fight in the name of the Shah's justice. Those who lived in the shadows of the empire's walls knew this oath well: Shah Abbas ensured justice, but in his hands, justice could transform into a merciless sword.

That day, not only did the sun rise over the horizon, but so did Shah Abbas's mighty army, bearing down upon the Turkmen rebels. One fact was known to all: when Shah Abbas's army set forth, there was no turning back.

As signal fires lit one by one, the darkness enveloping the slopes of the Taurus Mountains was pierced by sparks rising into the sky. Each fire was a call to another encampment. For years, the Turkmen clans had been crushed under the pressure of Shah Abbas. Taxes, the confiscation of their lands, and the Shah's tyranny had tested their patience to its limits. Now, they had no choice but to unite.

On the slope of a mountain, a large tent was set up. Adorned with ancient Turkmen motifs, it spoke volumes about its occupants: the leaders of the Oghuz clans had gathered in a war council under the cover of night. Inside, steaming bowls of kumis bore silent witness to this historic moment that brought together the old and the young.

Among the crowd, a man clad in a black fur coat and appearing to be in his thirties stood up. This was Halil Khan, known among his people as "The Flaming Sword." His broad shoulders and piercing gaze bore the marks of not just a warrior but also a leader. Plunging the dagger in his hand into the ground, he began to speak:

"How many years have they stolen from us? How many lives have they taken?" he asked, his voice slicing through the silence of the tent like a blade. "Shah Abbas's armies water their horses on our lands and enslave our children. How much longer will we remain silent? How much longer will we bow?"

The men and women in the tent exchanged glances at Halil Khan's words. An elderly man, with a white beard and leaning on his staff, known as Koca Şerif, broke the silence.

"Halil Khan," he began, his voice steady, "you must temper the fire of youth with the wisdom of reason. Shah Abbas's army is vast. We have little more than courage in our hearts and a handful of weapons. To win such a struggle, we will need more."

Halil Khan listened patiently to the elder's words. Then, speaking in a calm tone, he replied:

"Koca Şerif, you know better than I how sacred these lands are. We are not a fearful, scattered people. We are the descendants of the Oghuz! The courage of our ancestors guides us. Our weapons may be few, but our strength lies in our unity. If we dedicate ourselves to this cause, not even Shah Abbas can stop us."

These words echoed through the tent. The young raised their heads; the elders sighed deeply. Halil Khan spread his arms wide and continued:

"Tomorrow, the Turkmen who gather on these mountains will become an army. We fight not just for ourselves but for our children and grandchildren. If we decide here and now, no one will stand in our way!"

A young man with a determined look, one of Halil Khan's most loyal followers, named Davut, stood up. Drawing his sword and raising it high, he declared:

"Halil Khan is our leader. Following him is our duty!"

Cheers erupted throughout the tent. Swords were raised into the air, fists clenched, and oaths of victory were sworn. The Turkmen were no longer isolated clans but an army prepared to rise against Shah Abbas.

Later that night, as fires still burned, the Turkmen leaders began laying their plans in a clearing amidst the mountains. Halil Khan, his eyes fixed on the horizon, murmured to himself, "No matter how vast Shah Abbas's army may be, these lands will one day be ours again."

A deadly silence reigned in the valley. The wind rustled gently through the branches of pine trees on the ridges, but no one doubted the deceptive calm. The Turkmen army waited on the slope of the valley, lined up and ready. The frosty breath of horses mixed with the cold air, and the weapons in the soldiers' hands gleamed under the first rays of morning sunlight. All were braced for the enemy's arrival.

By noon, the distant sight of rising dust clouds signaled that the awaited moment had come. One of the Turkmen soldiers, his face filled with worry, approached Bayram Khan.

"Bayram Khan," he said, pointing to the horizon, "they are coming."

Straightening on his horse, Bayram Khan focused intently on the dust cloud. His battle-hardened eyes quickly discerned that this was no ordinary force. The enemy approached with their usual grandeur. As the vanguard of Shah Abbas's army slowly emerged on the far side of the valley, the sound of drums and horns began to echo. A wave of fear could have swept through the hearts of the Turkmen soldiers, but Bayram Khan calmly drew his sword and raised it.

"This is not fear," he said softly to Davut, standing beside him. "This is the calm before the storm."

On the other side of the valley, Shah Abbas, astride his white horse, observed his army. Beside him stood Emir Rustem, both scrutinizing the Turkmen formation carefully. Narrowing his eyes at the Turkmen lines, Emir Rustem spoke:

"Bayram Khan is a clever leader," he said, turning to the Shah. "He has stationed his army along the valley slopes. He intends to halt our cavalry in those narrow passages. Their goal is to use our own strength against us and disrupt our ranks."

Shah Abbas nodded with a composed smile. "But he must know we are too experienced to fall for such tactics," he said. "We have another plan to corner them."

The Shah spurred his horse and advanced to the front lines of his army. One of the commanders greeted him with a bow. "My Shah, what are your orders?" he asked.

The Shah remained silent for a moment, surveying the Turkmen formation once more. "Have our light cavalry infiltrate from the flanks," he finally commanded. "Our infantry will advance and hold them in place. But the decisive blow will come from the forces circling around the other slope. I know Bayram Khan is intelligent, but he has one weakness: he is too bold."

Emir Rustem bowed in acknowledgment. "And the Turkmen's smaller cavalry force, my Shah? If they launch a direct counterattack, it could jeopardize our plan."

Shah Abbas smiled faintly. "Then we shall be prepared for them. Remember, Rustem, in every battle, the first move is important, but the last move secures victory. Before we deliver that final blow, we will test their patience."

The two armies, positioned at opposite ends of the valley, observed each other. The Turkmen held their defensive stance, carefully designed to counter the massive enemy force, while Shah Abbas's army silently continued its preparations.

Bayram Khan watched Shah Abbas, resplendent on his white horse, with a surge of anger. "That man's eyes are full of arrogance," he murmured to himself. "But in this valley, that arrogance will cost him dearly."

The tension in the valley grew so thick that even the wind seemed to halt. The Turkmen soldiers held their breath, while Shah Abbas's troops awaited orders with patience. The two armies, locked in a silent stare, looked like pieces of a frozen tableau amidst nature.

At that moment, no sword was drawn, no arrow loosed. Yet the silence was destined to be short-lived. The shadow of battle had already fallen upon both armies.