Soldiers Of Storm

The air in the caravansary had changed. It was subtle at first—an unease in the way people spoke, the glances they exchanged when they thought no one was watching. The merchants who had once bartered in the courtyard now whispered in hushed tones. Travelers who had lingered for weeks suddenly packed their belongings and slipped away before dawn. Even the beasts of burden—camels and horses tethered in the stables—were restless, shifting uneasily as if sensing something unseen.

Ishaq felt it too.

For weeks, he had thrown himself into his work, shaping stone and mortar, reinforcing the walls, training the unskilled hands that now labored beside him. The caravansary was stronger than it had been when he arrived, but was it strong enough?

He stood atop the highest wall, his hands resting on the cold stone. From this height, he could see the vastness of the land beyond—the rolling plains stretching toward the horizon, where the sky met the earth in a thin, wavering line.

Somewhere beyond that horizon, the Mongols moved.

"Ishaq."

The voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see Suleiman approaching, his expression grim.

"They are coming."

Ishaq's stomach clenched. "How do you know?"

"A rider arrived this morning." Suleiman gestured toward the main courtyard. "He came from the east, a scout from one of the border villages. He says the Mongols are only days away."

Ishaq exhaled, his breath turning to mist in the cold air. Days. That was all the time they had.

He followed Suleiman down from the wall, moving quickly across the courtyard. A small crowd had gathered near the entrance. At the center stood a man covered in dust, his clothes torn, his horse trembling with exhaustion. He was speaking in hurried bursts, his voice raw from the wind.

"They burn everything," the rider said. "They take what they can carry and destroy the rest. The villages near the river are gone. There is no one left."

A murmur spread through the crowd. Fear. Some stepped back, hands gripping the hilts of their weapons. Others looked toward the gate, as if already considering escape.

Nasir Al-Din stood at the edge of the group, his expression unreadable. When the rider finished speaking, Nasir stepped forward.

"How many?" he asked.

The rider swallowed hard. "Hundreds. Maybe more."

Silence.

The weight of the words settled over them like a shroud.

Ishaq clenched his fists. The walls were strong, but they were not meant to withstand an army. Not for long.

"We should leave," someone muttered. A merchant, pale with fear. "The caravansary cannot stand against them. We must go now, while we still can."

Nasir's gaze swept over the gathered men. "And go where?" he asked. "To the mountains? To the cities that have already fallen? There is no safety beyond these walls."

"We cannot fight them," another voice argued.

"No," Nasir agreed. "But we can slow them."

The words hung in the air. Ishaq saw the way they unsettled the crowd. The Mongols were not men—they were a storm, a force of nature. To stand against them was to court death.

But what choice did they have?

Nasir turned to Ishaq. "The walls?"

Ishaq straightened. "Stronger than before, but not invincible."

Nasir nodded. "Then we will make them stronger still."

The Work Begins Again

The next hours passed in a blur of motion. Ishaq led his men to the weakest points in the caravansary, reinforcing the gates with iron braces, piling stones against the walls to form a second layer of defense. Every able-bodied man was given a task—some to build, some to gather supplies, others to prepare weapons.

The merchants, reluctant at first, soon saw the wisdom in preparing. Those who knew how to fight were given bows and swords. Those who did not were taught how to pour boiling water and oil from the walls.

They worked through the day and into the night, stopping only when their bodies refused to move. The fires burned long past midnight, casting flickering light onto exhausted faces.

And all the while, the thought lingered: Would it be enough?

The Sound in the Night

Ishaq woke to the sound of hooves.

At first, he thought it was a dream—the rhythmic pounding in the distance, steady as a heartbeat. But as he sat up, the cold air sharp against his skin, he knew it was real.

Others had heard it too. All around him, men stirred, rising from their beds, reaching for weapons.

He stepped outside, the night air heavy with anticipation.

Nasir was already there, standing at the main gate, listening.

The sound was distant but growing louder.

"They are coming," Ishaq murmured.

Nasir nodded. "Yes."

No more time. No more preparation. The storm was here.

***

Nasir Al-Din stood at the gate, his breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sound of hooves echoed in the night. His men stood behind him, silent, waiting for his command. Ishaq was at his side, his presence steady and unwavering.

The Mongols were coming.

Nasir had known this day would come. It was inevitable, as all things were. He had spent years preparing for war, learning to command, to build, to lead. But he had never wanted to fight.

He had only ever wanted to save them.

Nasir had been a boy when he first saw war. He still remembered the heat of the flames, the acrid smoke curling through the streets, the screams of those left behind.

His father had been a merchant—a man who traveled the roads of Persia, selling silk and spices, speaking in many tongues. They had lived well, moving from city to city, never staying in one place for too long. Nasir had loved the roads, the endless stretch of land, the shifting faces of strangers who became friends.

But then the Mongols came.

He had been ten years old when his father's caravan reached the city of Nishapur. It was supposed to be a short stop—just a few days to trade, to rest before moving on. But on the third night, the watchmen on the walls shouted warnings that sent the entire city into panic.

Nasir had stood in the marketplace, clutching his father's robes, watching as torches appeared on the horizon like stars fallen to earth. They came like a wave—merciless, unyielding. The walls of Nishapur were high, but they were not enough. The Mongols broke through in a single night.

Nasir never saw his father again.

He remembered running. His mother's hand was in his, pulling him through the alleys as the streets filled with fire and blood. He remembered the faces of people he had known—merchants, soldiers, beggars—collapsing around him, their bodies trampled beneath the hooves of foreign horses.

Somehow, they had escaped. His mother had hidden him beneath a pile of cloth in the ruins of a spice shop. She told him to stay silent.

He did.

And when he finally crawled out, the city was gone.

The bodies were piled high in the streets. The Mongols had left nothing behind—no houses, no temples, no names.

Only ashes.

Nasir never forgot Nishapur.

He never forgot the sound of swords cutting through flesh, the sight of fire swallowing homes. He never forgot the people who had trusted their walls, only to be buried beneath them.

For years, he wandered, moving from one ruined city to another. He saw the same thing wherever he went—destruction, despair, lives stolen in the blink of an eye.

He saw men who had once been scholars forced to beg for scraps. He saw mothers weeping over graves that had no names. He saw children staring blankly at the sky, as if waiting for a god who had long since abandoned them.

And he made a promise.

Never again.

If he could stop this—if he could save even one city, one village, one life—then he would.

He had no home, no family, no fortune to his name. But he had his hands, his mind, and the fire that burned in his chest.

So he became a builder.

He learned the secrets of stone and mortar, of gates that could withstand battering rams, of walls that could defy even the fiercest siege. He traveled to distant lands, seeking out those who knew how to make fortresses unbreakable. He studied under architects, soldiers, warlords—anyone who could teach him how to defy the destruction he had once witnessed.

And when he returned, he built.

The caravansary was meant to be more than just a place of trade. It was meant to be a sanctuary—a refuge for those who had nowhere else to go.

Now, standing before its gates, listening to the approaching hooves, he wondered if he had done enough.

"We Will Stand"

Ishaq watched him carefully.

"You've been quiet," Ishaq said. "You are afraid."

Nasir exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air.

"Yes," he admitted.

Ishaq nodded, as if he had expected that answer. "Fear is good. It keeps a man alive."

Nasir turned to him. "Do you believe we can win?"

Ishaq did not answer right away. He glanced at the walls, at the men standing with weapons in hand, at the torches flickering in the night.

"No," he said finally. "But I believe we can stand."

Nasir closed his eyes for a moment. He thought of his father, of the merchants who had once laughed and bartered in Nishapur. He thought of the mothers and children he had seen wandering the roads, searching for homes that no longer existed.

This time, they would not run.

This time, they would not be swallowed by the fire.

He turned back to his men. His voice was steady when he spoke.

"We will stand," he said. "No matter what comes."

And as the sound of hooves grew louder, as the torches of the Mongol vanguard appeared on the horizon, he felt no regret.

He had built this place with his own hands.

And if this was where he would die, then so be it.