The sky was coal-black, a crescent moon hanging faintly above. The desert air was strange, heavy with heat despite the night. Not a cloud marred the sky, and every star glittered like fire. The thunder of thousands of boots across the sand kept predators at bay. At last, King Khalid's army had reached the distant hill—men well-rested, disciplined, and eager despite the long march.
Before the final climb toward the enemy, Khalid and his sons gathered the commanders. Two thousand men with bows and swords, and a thousand with spears and slings, would take the hill's near slope, where Attar would join them at the base. Qabbani would sweep around the enemy camp on the right with three thousand men: two thousand with spears, a thousand with swords, bows, and slings. Nazir mirrored the strategy on the left. Every soldier knew the plan: no enemy could escape left or right.
The general claimed the northern approach himself—a longer, trickier path. He gathered four thousand men: three thousand spearmen to form a solid human wall, a thousand archers to flank the camp. Unlike Qabbani and Nazir, whose forces would storm inside, his archers would remain outside, an invisible cordon ready to strike any fleeing enemy.
Khalid's soldiers wore little armor—thin leather across their torsos, some leather helmets. Most dressed in simple desert garb, scarves wound around their heads, skin dark and tanned by the sun.
Three hours passed as the army crested the hill. Not a single enemy or wild beast noticed them.
"Strange… no one sees us," Attar murmured, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "These northerners are getting sloppy."
Nazir caressed the blade of his knife, calm. "We should be grateful for their carelessness. It gives us the advantage."
Attar glanced at the enemy camp. "Still… no movement. Just a few fires. Where are the men?"
Qabbani chuckled. "They're used to snow most of the year. They must be homesick for their frozen lands, tired of our green valleys and flowers."
"I'm homesick too," Nazir said with a grin, eyes gleaming. "If we survive this, we'll need a proper celebration."
Attar's voice softened, almost conspiratorial. "We'll celebrate in our own way. After all, tonight, we fight."
Qabbani gave the order. "Split up. Move to your battalions. Make sure the plan works." The soldiers slipped through the rocks like shadows, silent, crouched, evading the few guards, moving almost as if crawling. Despite the danger, their spirits were high, ready for the night's deadly dance.
At the hill's summit, Attar positioned himself among the archers. Silent. Hidden. Spearmen nestled among the rocks below, poised to strike.
General Hanna surveyed the darkened camp from his black horse, red trimmings glinting faintly. His group would be last to strike. A horn or drum would wake the enemy too soon; timing was everything. He sent mounted messengers to Khalid's sons: advance once our soldiers reached you. Hanna exhaled slowly. Dawn would come in less than an hour, but for now, the enemies slept, lulled by the heat.
The archers readied their arrows, spearmen tightened their grips. Hanna studied his men: fresh, confident, each with orders to fell five enemies. Anxiety trembled in their hands, but it only sharpened resolve.
"Forward. Execute the plan," Hanna commanded.
The soldiers moved like shadows. Sentries, asleep in their blankets, fell silently to sharpened steel. Spearmen encircled the camp, forming an unbroken northern barrier. The archers awaited fugitives with a deadly patience.
Inside the camp, the calm shattered. Screams pierced the night as spears tore through tents and bodies. Fires flickered against blood-soaked cloths. Chaos erupted. Soldiers stumbled from sleep into sudden death. The clash of steel and cries of terror echoed across the desert.
Nazir's unit took position behind tents, strategically firing arrows, defending, and baiting enemies. Though vastly outnumbered, they held firm, creating openings for the spearmen to advance.
At the camp's center, Hanna's small group carved a path of confusion. Tents became corridors of death; leather armor slowed but could not stop them. Among the enemy, one figure towered above all: a giant, over two meters, blond hair and beard, eyes like frozen steel, swinging a sword twice the size of a normal blade. Spears shattered like reeds beneath his strikes.
Hanna approached, sword drawn. The giant grinned, daring him: "So you are Hanna. I've heard tales. I am glad to meet the fearless man."
"In war, fame means nothing," Hanna said, advancing. The giant's blade came down in a terrifying arc. Hanna leapt aside, nearly losing an arm to the icy edge. The giant's power was immense, yet his speed betrayed an animal agility Hanna had seen before, from African hunters and warriors trained in the wild.
Steel clashed. Each strike tested strength, skill, and nerve. Hanna feinted, baiting the giant back. At the perfect moment, he drove his sword under the armor, into the giant's belly. Blood spattered, a scream tore through the camp, and the man crumpled, only to feel Hanna's sword end his life moments later.
Fear spread. Enemies dropped weapons, fleeing north—straight into Hanna's prepared archers and spearmen. The battlefield erupted anew as Khalid's army pressed their advantage.
Attar's archers rained death on those who tried to climb the hill. Spears struck at any who survived the arrows. Silence, strategy, and deadly precision ruled the high ground.
Meanwhile, eight more giants appeared among the enemy ranks, some armored, some bare-chested, all over two meters tall, eyes gleaming with rage. Fires, blood, and screams filled the camp, but Khalid's army surged forward, unstoppable, inspired by Hanna's ferocity.
Arrows flew through tents. Spears shattered shields. Nazir's group held a defensive line, using terrain and shadows to their advantage. Each slope, each rock became a weapon. Every soldier was part of a machine of death, moving, striking, surviving.
The battle had become more than skill—it was will, courage, and cunning, a night of fire and steel where the desert itself seemed to burn beneath their feet. And at its heart, General Hanna led them, relentless, unflinching, a storm incarnate against giants and men alike.