Fifty minutes.
Fifty minutes of slaughter and steel, where every second felt like a lifetime. The breach was choked with bodies - friend and foe alike - the stones slick with blood and ash. The Azabs, though battered and breathless, refused to yield. Their shields bore the scars of endless strikes, their swords chipped but still deadly.
"Hold! Hold the line!" My voice carried above the chaos, hoarse yet unrelenting.
A Safavid officer lunged toward me with a curved blade - I turned my body, parried the strike, and rammed my shield forward, sending the man sprawling into the carnage.
Then came the sound that I longed to hear - the sharp blare of bugles.
Ta-rahhhh! Ta-rahhhh!
Two resounding calls, one from the north, another from the south.
From the clouded haze emerged ranks upon ranks of fresh troops - the Janissaries, Sekbans, and more Azabs from the flanking walls, around three thousand men from each side, their banners fluttering like wings of salvation in the torchlight.
"Reinforcements!" a soldier cried, voice cracking from exhaustion.
A roar rose from the defenders, echoing through the streets of Tabriz.
The newcomers surged forward in disciplined lines, their officers shouting orders. Musketeers advanced behind shielded Azabs, readying their matchlocks.
"Make way! Push forward! Clear the breach!"
Ulugh raised his sword high. "Now, brothers! Drive them back!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
From atop the walls, the freshly rearmed cannons unleashed their volleys, hurling round shot into the clustered Safavid reinforcements outside the walls. Shrapnel tore through their lines, sending men and horses crashing to the ground in bloody ruin.
The cannon fire was the signal - and the Ottoman counterattack began.
With a resounding cry, the reinforced ranks surged forward. Shields slammed, swords flashed, and the weight of fresh steel pushed the invaders back step by step. The Safavids, fierce as they were, faltered under the renewed onslaught.
The Janissaries, calm and methodical, fired in rolling volleys.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each shot carving a path through the enemy ranks before they reloaded and advanced.
The Azabs on the front line shouted, "Glory to God!" as they pressed the assault, hacking and shoving through the breach. The once relentless tide of Safavids now turned chaotic, their lines buckling under the sheer momentum of the Ottoman resurgence.
Hossein Khan tried to rally his men, waving his sword and screaming orders "Form ranks! Don't Fal…" - an Ottoman bullet silenced him mid-sentence, dropping him onto the rubble.
"Don't let them breathe!" I shouted, leading from the front – now that there were reinforcements I could finally jump into action. My sword cleaved through another enemy, the impact jarring my arm, but I pressed on. "Push them to the rubble! Break their spirit!"
The sound of clashing steel, musket fire, and shouted orders blended into one thunderous cacophony. We, the sons of Osman, once on the brink of collapse, now surged like a tidal wave of iron and steel.
And as the Safavid banners wavered in the smoke, the breach that had once seemed their triumph now became their tomb.
Seeing the situation - their commander dead, enemy reinforcements pouring in - the Safavid front wavered. One of their officers realized the direness of the situation, raised his blade and shouted something I couldn't make out through the chaos. I didn't need to. However, I didn't need to, the relief on the Safavid soldiers told me - retreat.
But when the front ranks started stepping back in formation, they found their backs against their fellow allies. Perplexed they looked behind them and saw lines of grim faces staring back. Confusion rippled through their formation, then panic.
That's when I noticed it - the distant rumble beneath the earth, faint but steady.
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.
It wasn't the rhythm of marching men. It was faster. Heavier.
Cavalry.
I craned my neck over the horizon, squinting past the haze of smoke and torchlight. For a brief second, all I could see was the shimmer of armour under moonlight - then the glint of Ottoman banners, cresting the rise like a wave of steel.
By Allah… it must be him: Ibrahim Pasha.
The wolf had said he would only command the battle, yet there he was riding a warhorse into the Safavid flanks.
He must have gathered every cavalry in our army - sipahis, akinjis, timariots - and driven them out through the western gates gate. I could see it now as the plan unfolded before my eyes. They had ridden wide, splitting into two wings, sweeping east across the flowing plains outside Tabriz like a sharp blade.
And now they were closing in.
The Safavid rearguard turned, their fear plain even from afar. They knew what was coming.
"Sir! Cavalry charge incoming!" one of my officers cried out beside me.
I nodded. "No fear son. It's ours."
The Safavids had been trapped. Pressed between our walls, our infantry, and now Ibrahim's cavalry storming down from the rear - they were caught like lambs between wolves.
"Sound the horns!" I ordered. "Press the breach - give them no escape!"
The bugles wailed across the walls, sharp and clear.
Ta-raa! Ta-raa! Ta-rahhh!
Our line surged forward, the Azabs roaring as they advanced with shields raised. The clang of steel and the thunder of hooves merged into one terrible sound - a storm of death bearing down on the enemy.
Crash!
The first impact came from the west - our sipahis slamming into the Safavid flank, sabres cutting down disordered men. From the east, akinjis swept in, their lances piercing through those who tried to flee.
Caught in the vice, the Safavid army broke.
"Push forward!" I shouted, raising my sword. "They're finished - drive them into the dirt!"
The air filled with screams and smoke, blood and dust. Men fought, stumbled, fell, trampled underfoot. The smell of iron and powder hung thick as fog.
And above it all, I saw our banners rise - the crescent and the tugh - fluttering proud under the moonlight.
The siege was broken. The field was ours.
But even as the Safavids began to scatter, a chill crawled down my spine. Ibrahim Pasha's plan had worked, flawlessly - but the sight of so much blood, so many broken bodies beneath the walls…
With the Safavids broken and routed, the battlefield settled into a grim rhythm - the clash of steel fading into the cries of the wounded and the distant thunder of hooves. Through the smoke and haze, Ibrahim Pasha emerged astride his stallion, his armour streaked with mud and blood, eyes sharp and unyielding.
He reined in before me, voice cutting through the noise.
"Pasha!" he called out. "Now is not the time for sentiments. Shah Tahmasp has been spotted retreating with this Safavid host. I will take the cavalry and pursue him."
He leaned closer, his tone resolute.
"You will take command of the field. Secure the breach and capture every Safavid who still draws breath."
I straightened, my hand in salute.
"As you order, Pasha!"
He gave a single nod before wheeling his horse around, rallying his riders with a shout. Moments later, the ground trembled once more as the Ottoman cavalry surged forward, banners snapping in the wind, chasing the fleeing Safavid remnants across the plain.
And I - left amidst the ruin of the walls and the cries of the captured - turned to my men.
"Round up the survivors!" I called. "Prioritize the wounded for treatment!"
Urgh! Ah!
Groans of injured men filled the wasted battlefield, sighing at the sight I left the area and head back to the treatment facility at camp.
"Doctor, we have thousands of men wounded. What do you need?" I spoke to the doctor in charge.
Combing his hair with his hands the man was clearly distressed about the situation. "I need beds, medicine, and manpower. Everything! Currently the Eastern camp only has supplies for a few hundred men."
"Understood, I'll coordinate with the north, south, and west camps for more supplies. I'll assign soldiers to guard you when treating the Safavid combatants. As for more manpower, are the citizens of Tabriz sufficient?"
"Although it is not ideal, it is the best we have. Thank you for your understanding, Pasha." The man heaved a sigh.
"You're welcome doctor. You can focus on taking care of the patients, I'll take care of the hassle." I said with a smile
With that I left the man to work. There was much to do, I have learned that in a war fighting and winning is just the first thing you need to do. After that were taking care of what you won, whether that was the injured soldiers or the territory you fought over.
Sigh
Still, I prefer this hassle. Because it means that my side won.
An hour prior
POV: Ibrahim Pasha
I wasted no time, leaving the eastern command tower I head to the main camp. Messengers were sent to the north and south walls; their orders clear as day: reinforce Ulugh Pasha. three thousand men from each side - they were to converge on the breach, strike hard, and hold until the Safavids were repelled.
But even then, I knew it would not be enough. The Safavids were relentless, their ranks thick with zeal, their commander still alive to keep their will unbroken. A push from behind would break them - crush them in body and spirit.
That was when I gave the command.
"All cavalry, rally at the west gate! Every man, every horse!"
The call spread like wildfire through the ranks. Soon, the roads near the gate thundered beneath the weight of thousands of hooves. The banners of Sipahis, Timariots, and Akinci riders fluttered above them like storm clouds gathering.
When the last rider fell in line, I raised my sword toward the horizon.
"By Allah and by the Sultan's will - ride!"
The gates groaned open, and we surged out into the open plain. The wind tore past my face, carrying the roar of the army behind me. Once clear of the walls, I gave the signal - my right arm sweeping upward.
"Split! Left and right! Wheel east and strike them down!"
Like waves parting around a rock, our force divided into two sweeping lines - one curving north, the other south - before curling back toward the Safavid host pressing the walls. They never saw it coming.
Their rear ranks barely had time to turn before our charge hit.
The crash of lances against armour. The screams of men trampled under hooves. Steel flashing in the dark. The Safavid host, once fierce and unbroken, buckled under the force of our assault. We pierced through their formation, cleaving down any man that were in range and trampling anyone in the way.
Smoke and dust cloaked the air, but through it, I could see them routing - the breach secure, their will shattered. In the chaos, their commander fell. His sword dropped, trampled into the mud. The cry went up soon after - a desperate call for retreat.
Knowing that trapping the beast would only make it bite in desperation, I had left the rear of their central wing open, giving them hope of escape and therefore choose to run rather than do a last stand. However, I wasn't going to allow the remnants to regroup around Shah Tahmasp and attack us on another day. But first, I needed to leave the battlefield in competent hands.
Through the crowd, I caught sight of a familiar figure on the battlefield – Ulugh Pasha, rallying the defenders, steady as a mountain amid the storm. I spurred my horse forward, breaking through the scattering Safavids until I reached the breach. I relayed my orders to him and gave him command of the battlefield.
With the battlefield taken care of I could pursue the routing Safavids.
The Safavid host scattered like leaves in the wind. Broken banners, abandoned shields, and riderless horses marked their retreat. My cavalry cut through the fleeing columns with precision, not a pursuit of bloodlust but of duty - to ensure no blade regrouped, no banner rose again.
We pressed northeast, our formation steady and swift. The drums of pursuit echoed in the hollow night - the rhythmic pounding of thousands of hooves driving the enemy further into panic.
Then, ahead, a ridge rose from the earth - a long, gentle slope that crested into a shadowed line. The fleeing Safavids disappeared over it, their silhouettes swallowed by the dim haze. I thought nothing of it, we were right behind them - until the horizon itself lit with fire.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The world erupted.
Flames burst from the ridge, hurling iron and smoke into our midst. The earth shook beneath the blasts, and screams cut through the air - men and horses torn apart in the first volley. Dirt and shrapnel rained down like hail.
I pulled hard on the reins, my horse rearing as the shockwave washed over us.
"Hold! HOLD THE LINE!"
Barely managing to halt after passing the top of the ridge I saw what was happening.
Through the drifting smoke, I saw them - rows of Safavid cannons, black iron muzzles still glowing red from the blast. Behind them, Shah Tahmasp's banner, proud and unyielding. The truth struck me then - the Shah had never joined the assault. He had hung back with the heavy guns, slow in nature but devastating in power.
And when he saw his own army in flight, he'd unleashed hell itself upon them - friend or foe, it made no difference. The way he tried to siege his own capital with exploding battering rams already told me that he had went mad. But to fire upon his own men because they were routing? It was beyond madness, either that or he was trying to replicate the battle of Mohacs.
My instincts screamed to retreat, but reason cut through the haze. Turning back now would only invite slaughter. We were caught in the open - the barrels of death staring dead straight at us. The only way out was forward.
So, I took the gamble.
I drew my sword high, catching the glint of torchlight upon the blade.
"Split the wings! Left and right! Sweep around them - take their flanks!"
Bugles blared the order, sharp and resolute. The cavalry broke apart in twin streams - the right wing veering east, the left west - splitting wide across the plain. Another volley thundered overhead, the cannonballs whistling death, crashing into those unfortunates enough to be in their line of fire.
The Shah's men scrambled to reload, their crews shouting and fumbling in the smoke. The first blast had blinded them - black powder, dust, and fire cloaking the field. From his vantage, Tahmasp saw only confusion, his view of our maneuver cut by the veil of smoke.
And by the time his gunners saw what was coming, it was far too late.
"Forward! Charge!" I bellowed, spurring my steed.
The ground trembled as the wings crashed onto the sides of the Safavid battery - a thunderous roar of hooves sweeping in from both sides. Our lances lowered, our sabres gleamed. The first Safavid gun crews turned just as we struck - their cannons still locked in place, too slow to pivot.
We hit like a storm.
Steel met flesh. Horses crashed into gunlines. Men screamed as they were thrown from their posts, trampled beneath hooves or cut down where they stood. The first cannon fell, its powder wagon igniting in a violent KABOOM! the explosion tearing through its neighbours.
The Shah's rear lines wavered, panic blooming among them. Through the smoke, I could see Tahmasp's banner flicker - uncertain now, trembling in the wind.
The trap he'd set had become his own undoing.
The battlefield burned around us - fire and smoke twisting together in violent dance. The Safavid guns lay shattered, their crews scattered or slain. Amidst the carnage, one banner still stood tall - crimson, embroidered with the Lion and Sun.
The banner of Shah Tahmasp.
There, astride a white steed, sat Shah Tahmasp. Young - no more than twenty - yet he carried himself like one born to rule. His armour gleamed even through soot, and his dark eyes held the quiet fury of a man who would not bend, even in ruin.
As I rode forward, he dismounted, his movements calm - not the panic of a broken commander, but the solemn grace of a ruler ready to die with honour. In respect I followed suit, dismounting from my trusty steed.
I drew my sword and stepped into the clearing. "Shah Tahmasp," I called, my voice carrying over the field, "your army lies shattered. Yield, and I give my word - you and your men shall live."
He studied me for a moment, hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his blade. "An honourable offer," he said at last, his tone even, his voice steady. "But a lion backed by the sun does not kneel before the crescent."
He drew his sword with a whisper of steel. "Come, son of Osman. Let history decide."
So, it would.
We circled one another, the battle's noise fading into the distance. Only the wind spoke now - brushing ash and embers between us.
He struck first - a sharp cut at my flank, quick and precise. I turned it aside, answering with a cut of my own. Our blades met - CLANG! - ringing through the smoke.
This was no reckless fighter. Each swing was measured, controlled - a duellist's form, honed and confident. We traded blows, testing one another's guard, neither yielding ground.
"Your stance," I said between strikes, "reminds me of Ismail. He too fought with pride - before Selim the Stern humbled him."
His eyes flickered, but his strikes did not falter. "Then it seems history repeats itself," he replied coolly, "once again shall and the lion and the crescent clash."
Our blades locked - steel grinding, muscles straining. For an instant, our eyes met. I saw no fear there - only defiance with a tinge of madness.
He shifted - feinting high, then cutting at my torso. I twisted, letting the blow glance off my cuirass, and countered with a rising stroke. He parried - sparks flew - then riposted with a thrust to my shoulder. I barely turned it aside.
"Impressive," I muttered. "You've got steel in you."
He pressed forward, each motion fluid, elegant. But war is not won by elegance - and a duellist is ever betrayed by stamina. His breath grew shorter, his movements a shade slower.
I stepped inside his guard - too close for a full swing - and drove my knee into his abdomen. He staggered back, his defence faltering for a heartbeat - one heartbeat too long.
My blade came up in a swift arc - clean, precise.
He froze - breath caught - as crimson bloomed across his breastplate. His sword slipped from his fingers, falling with a dull clatter to the bloodied earth.
Tahmasp swayed, then sank to one knee. He looked up at me – desperate madness in his gaze, an oddly calculating one.
"So, falls… Persia's lion," he whispered with a chuckle at the end.
I lowered my sword in respect. "And rises the iridescent Crescent once more."
He bowed his head - and the young Shah breathed his last.
The wind stilled. The field, for a moment, was silent - soldiers on both sides watching in respectful silence as a ruler fate was sealed.
I turned to my men, voice low but firm.
"See that he is buried properly - not a single disrespect to his body."
Turning around I looked to the battlefield around me - the smoke clearing, the stars faintly glimmering through. Another war ended. Another enemy slain. And in the quiet after, I felt only the weight of history pressing down - as it always did.