The Brothers’ Feud

Ghazni, 997

The grand halls of the Ghaznavid palace were silent except for the steady crackling of torches lining the walls. Mahmud ibn Sabuktigin, now a towering young man of twenty-one, stood in the royal court, his hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was set, his dark eyes sharp with an intensity that only years of training and war had forged.

Before him, on the grand throne of Ghazni, sat Ismail, his younger brother.

The air between them was thick with unspoken words. Their father was dead. And now, the throne was in dispute.

Mahmud inhaled deeply, his voice measured but firm. "This throne was never meant for you, Ismail."

Ismail, a slender man of nineteen with a face far softer than Mahmud's, smirked as he leaned back against the velvet cushions. "Father named me his successor, brother. His word is law."

Mahmud clenched his fists. "Father was weak when he made that decision. Influenced by men who feared me."**

Ismail's smirk faltered for a brief moment. He knew the truth of it. Sabuktigin had indeed favored Mahmud for his strength, his victories in battle, his knowledge of strategy. But the viziers, particularly Abu'l-Abbas Isfaraini, had convinced the Sultan that Ismail would be more pliable, easier to control.

Ismail sat forward, his fingers tapping against the armrest. "Perhaps they feared you because you are a brute. A man of war, not of wisdom."

Mahmud's lips curled into a half-smile. "You mistake wisdom for cowardice."

A tense silence fell over the court.

The nobles in attendance exchanged nervous glances. Some supported Mahmud, the warrior who had fought alongside their father, who had earned victories in battle and secured Ghazni's borders. Others sided with Ismail, preferring a ruler who would govern with diplomacy rather than the sword.

The vizier Abu'l-Abbas, standing behind Ismail, cleared his throat. "Prince Mahmud, your father's decree is clear. Ismail is to be Sultan. You are welcome to serve under him as his general."

Mahmud let out a low chuckle. "Serve? Under him?" He stepped forward, locking eyes with his brother. "Would you command me, Ismail? Would you sit here and order me to fight your battles while you remain in this palace, drinking wine and writing poetry?"

Ismail's face darkened. "You underestimate me, Mahmud."

Mahmud shook his head. "No. I know you well. You were a boy who played with books while I trained with steel. You studied poetry while I studied war. And yet, you believe you can rule?"

Ismail rose to his feet, his voice cold. "Ruling is not about war alone. It is about governance, diplomacy."

Mahmud tilted his head slightly. "You forget one thing, brother."

"And what is that?"

Mahmud took another step closer. "A throne is only as strong as the man who sits upon it."

There was a long silence.

Then, Ismail smiled—a forced, uncertain smile.

"We shall see, Mahmud. We shall see."

---

A Mother's Plea

Later that evening, Mahmud walked through the palace gardens, his mind a storm of thoughts. His father had died only days ago, and yet a battle for power had already begun.

He had no intention of kneeling to Ismail.

As he paced, the sound of soft footsteps approached. He turned to see his mother, Mahmudra Khatun, draped in an elegant white shawl.

"You met with your brother today," she said, her voice carrying the weight of both grief and concern.

Mahmud exhaled sharply. "You know what he intends, Mother. He wants to keep me under his rule as a mere commander. I cannot allow that."

She sighed, reaching out to touch his arm. "Your father wished for peace between you two."

Mahmud shook his head. "Father knew I was the rightful heir. He knew that Ismail was weak. But the viziers and court officials convinced him otherwise."

His mother's eyes softened. "Then do not let them divide you, my son. Ismail is still your brother."

Mahmud stared at her for a long moment. "If he does not move against me, I will not harm him."

She studied his face, searching for any sign of hesitation. She found none.

She sighed once more. "Then I pray that Allah guides both of you."

---

The Plot Against Mahmud

That night, in the private chambers of the palace, Ismail met with Abu'l-Abbas and a small group of nobles.

The vizier's voice was low and urgent. "Prince Mahmud will never accept your rule, my Sultan. He will rise against you."

Ismail leaned back, rubbing his temple. "What do you suggest?"

A nobleman, Khwaja Saalim, spoke up. "Have him arrested. Tomorrow morning, send your guards to seize him."

Ismail hesitated. He had never ordered such a thing before.

Abu'l-Abbas pressed further. "If you do not act first, he will. His soldiers are already stirring. He has the loyalty of the military. If he marches on the palace, your rule will be over before it begins."

Ismail swallowed hard. He knew they were right.

"Fine." He exhaled. "At sunrise, have Mahmud arrested."

Abu'l-Abbas smiled. "An excellent decision, my Sultan."

---

The Night Escape

That same night, Mahmud sat in his chamber, sharpening his sword. His instincts told him something was wrong.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Malik Ayaz."

Mahmud opened the door to see his father's most trusted general, his face tense.

"Prince Mahmud," Ayaz said in a hushed tone. "Ismail's men are coming for you. They plan to arrest you at dawn."

Mahmud's grip on his sword tightened. "So it has begun."

Ayaz nodded. "We must leave now. Your soldiers await outside the city."

Mahmud took one last look around his chamber. This palace had been his home. But he knew he could not stay.

He turned to Ayaz. "Then let us go."

Under the cover of darkness, Mahmud slipped out of the palace, accompanied by a handful of loyal warriors. The streets of Ghazni were quiet, the city unaware that its fate was about to change.

As they rode into the night, Mahmud's mind was clear.

If Ismail wanted war, he would have it.

---

End of Chapter 3