The battle came swift and brutal. Arrows whistled through hot air. Spears clashed. Dust rose in choking clouds. Anna tended the wounded under a date palm, her hands red with blood.
At dusk, when the last mercenaries lay dead or fled, Amastan found her kneeling beside a dying boy, whispering prayers.
The sandstorm came first, howling like demons. When it cleared, mercenaries appeared on the horizon – hired men from Algiers, mounted on lean desert horses, blades flashing in the sun.
Anna watched from the ridge beside Amastan as their warriors prepared.