Consider This, The Hint of The Centuries

The Fortress opened to a colonnade of rotted pylons. The remnants of a pier in a dry river bed, surrounding it were the desolate sunbaked ruins of a city now soaked in water. The procession did not dare travel through the robber and ghost infested ruins of the city. Instead they descended from the dock to the muddy bed below.

Dehistan was only spoken of to describe the immensity of The Sassanid Glory: a place where one could reach and fall off the earth. Yet now this region was the last place where the fire still burned, and the Commander was convinced it was not worth speaking of. There was no reason to make this home. There was no reason to stay or look further out. It was here that His army dared to push out. From the edge of the earth back.

"Look at this canyon. It's still winding, and it has water inside of it. To your mind, it is still a river!" The old hag in brown looked out at the muddy highway and cackled.

Their feet sucked and splotched through the water-strewn puddles made by the recent rain. The riders walked alongside their legless weary birds. The priests pushed their sacred steeds on carts on each side of the canyon, carefully conserving their Huma's fortune. While their colorful Humas kept watchful eyes on the fossilized city.

The procession buckled as one side fell into mud up to their knees. The priest's son saw from the top of the canyon. Entrusting his steed to his Daena, he slid down the canyon to join the procession. The woman who looked like it could be his wife watched him while continuing his procession with the great winged beast.

The old commander swatted away both the charge and the fly buzzing towards his neck.

"This wasteland is where we rebuild Persia. The Potential is there. Once we show our military prowess to the Scythians, we will build this city into a proper town. Trade will flow again here in the presence of the eternal flame, too far for the Mohammedans to reach."

"You have spent your life fighting the Tāzīg, Commander, yet all you have to show for it is a list of strategic retreats. What is different now?"

"You forget, beautiful companion of mine, that I fought the Tāzīg before their Prophet. I remember when they worshiped our gods, Rome's gods, their own gods. They were pot-bellied merchants and mercenaries. I remember when they were weak."

"Then I must commend your strategic brilliance, Commander. By letting the Mohammedans take all our cities, you have ensnared them into a trap of decadence."

"You courtiers are all the same, you stand from the palace on high and mock the soldiers fighting for you in the mud. Well, now, all Persia stands in the mud with me."

The old hag scowled as she trudged through the muck, but kept her head down. Grimace tucked tightly behind her protruding tooth.

The procession of men and beasts marched through the canyon towards the great tower of a ruined fortress. One of the ancient Dariush erected this tower, or at least that is what the carved markings on the walls would say if anyone could read them.

Much of the wall had slid into the riverbed, both damming the river and forming the staircase. The Daena kept silent here, both out of reverence for the tower of silence she was now standing near and dread. The ruined staircase was the Commander's favorite symbol for how Persia's past glories choked the life out of it.

The commander turned and raised his hand. The trumpeters behind him heeded the message and blasted their horns. The procession grinds to a halt. The footmen in the front came to a halt. The commander watched from atop his horse as the armament of infantry parted like a sea for the body of the concubine. The processor's white robes were all but soaked in mud.

From the top of the tower descended an elderly priest dressed in white. The man was older than the commander, but his back stood upright and strong. His right eye was missing and wrapped in white cloth. The processors brought the body towards a suspended bed.

Once the body was laid on the bed, the commander turned to give his speech. "Men, we stand at the edge of the world, we bury the last of the ancient Kingdom, and we stand to face a new enemy. We will be the first of the new, the first to not make our ancestors' mistakes. Let the fire in the temple burn away any weakness you have left and prepare yourself for the challenges to come!"

The men stood like statues, their companions alongside them. Some young, some old, some beautiful, some not. The priest's son mounted his Huma again and picked up the bed with the concubine's body, taking it to the top of the tower. The men and women watched in silence as it flew up to the tower before returning their gaze to the commander. The commander, without speaking, dismounted from his horse and gave the reins to his second in command. Silence followed him with the priest to the tower.

​The commander and the one-eyed priest walk up the staircase to the tower roof. The steps are narrow and covered in sand.

"You seem to be of strong back and arm. Why won't you join us on the battlefield?" "Because my duty is here to the tower, Commander. You supply the dead, I ensure their souls go to Chinvat Bridge, and when my duty is done, I will set myself down with the others."

​The Commander snorted. The priest reached the top of the tower and opened the trap door. A second waft of stench poured down through the tower, forcing the commander to pause. The One Eyed Priest allowed himself a soft smile of amusement.

​Corpses covered the roof of the tower. The Vultures and Corvids feasting on the bloated remains began to panic at the sight of strangers. That was until the one-eyed priest ordered them to calm themselves. With a few gestures of his hands, the birds abandoned their flight out and returned to the feast.

​"You have your underlings, Commander, and I have mine." "Your command of the carrian birds is impressive, Priest. If only your kind could command that unity in men. You may still be in Merv."

"Commander, I beg you, this is a place of burial, do not relitigate the crimes of the past dead here."

"The trial was never closed, Priest! What judgment was rendered? We soldiers spent our years fighting Persia's enemies, while you priests spent your years making new ones." He stood silent while the Commander surveyed the dead. "Our frontiers thinned, but instead of reinforcements, detachments were peeled away from us! One to hunt Mazdak, another to fight Mani!"

"Commander, Ohrmazd has judged them all. You are the only one who remembers their names and holds them in such esteem. Perhaps they would have succeeded if they had had such devotees as you."

"I hold one name with me - Artashah. Who knows who holds it now? Maybe no one. “

The commander scowled, hand on the pommel of his sword as the vultures moved away from the half-picked elders and a scouting expedition.

“No matter, our enemies fatten themselves and bicker like your Shahs and priests did. While we rebuild in the wastes. We will take from the Scythians their horses, and their women. With them, we will make a new Persia. The eternal flame will burn them."

​The priest redirected some vultures back, while others eagerly unwrapped the concubine.

"Save the speeches for your living troops, Commander. These men have heard enough!"​

The cloaks of the Commander and the Old Priest were caught in a gust of wind, as a great being approached the tower with a mighty flap of its wings. The Chamrosh descended upon the roof of the tower. The great creature with the wings of an eagle and face of a wolf. The creature landed on the roof of the tower on its hind legs, whimpering as it did so.

The one-eyed priest rushed to the aid of the creature. Finding the arrow lodged in the creature's calf.

"Only the sons of the steppe have bows strong enough to strike the Chamrosh, is that who you are sending our men against, Commander?"

The Priest shuddered as he gathered materials to tend to the creature's wound.

"Horsemen. A welcome relief after the frenzy of my old enemies. If they only know power, then they will respect ours. They do not hate us as the Kristiyan or Tāzīg do."

The old woman wrapped her filthy shawl around herself to keep warm, strands of her white and grey hair dangling down her hairy brow.

"Hatred offers a peculiar form of reverence. They know you enough to hate. You should fear indifference more." She said, seemingly only to the bodies and vultures around her.

The one-eyed priest watched as the Chamrosh's breathing slowed and calmed, its ribs showing even when fully exhaled.

"Commander, The Chamrosh needs rest.”

"Ohrmazd saw fit to have his troops march on empty stomachs; his beings can too." The commander fished the letter out of his knapsack, then walked towards the creature.

“Do you realize what its death will do to your troops?"

"The army will not see it, its mission is across the sea. It can seek rest there."

Saying this, the commander strapped the letter to the panting wolf. The priest offered a prayer as it flew off; the vultures stopped their feasting to watch it leave.

The Commander moved to the opposite end of the tower, where his battle flags had all been arranged on poles. He surveyed the field, then pulled the flag for the army to halt. Once he saw his troops from on high get into position, he waved them. They obeyed.

"The terrain favors us, the mountains prevent flanking from either side, and the mud will slow the assault of the horsemen. They can not play their little ring games. They must throw themselves into Persian spears."

The commander held the banner in his hand. The cloud of dirt and horses marked by blue and white banners charged into a glimmering steel block standing in the valley below. Softly shining in the overcast matte grey sky.

"Hold!"

Cried out the commander, in the emptiness of the tower, his voice cracked. He waved the banner and heard the distant trumpets match his flag. The mud and blue mass collided with the grey lines. The mass broke through the first line with almost no resistance.

"Hold!"

He cried again. The trumpets blared. The wave swept into the line, the Huma circled around the mass, and arrows passed between the beasts of the air and the beasts of the earth. The unstoppable wave of horse and rider reached the fourth spearline and began to slow.

"Hold, damn you, Hold!"

What was once a hooved stampede became a tide as it was caught in the mud and Persian linemen. The arrows moving towards the Humas slowed, but not enough for the cavalry to be safe. The commander waved his banner as he saw the priest's son and Huma falter. But rather than fall into the distance, they fell into the center of the tide. Creating a crucial moment of collapse. The commander cheered and laughed at his sudden burst of good fortune.

"Godspeed! There goes the last Persian to cross the Bridge."

"How dare you say that?" The old woman called out to the commander, who was in too good a mood to entertain her.

"What's to complain about? He got what he wanted, no? He will cross his damn bridge a hero. The little sob never had the temperament to survive a new Persia. But he redeemed himself today. Let the old ways die nobly."

The old woman stood frozen as stone, her eyes looking up to the faint red sun poking through the clouds.

"Rhahzadh, Son of Balaam of Artashah, watch your actions and words now, I beg you." The commander watched the horde erupt in chaos as he picked flags to restore formation.

"No, I am finished treading carefully for the sake of ghosts. I have given my life to protect the flame of Persia from going out, only to be chastised by women and boys in white robes. Men lost in pious vanity, when we needed soldiers." He danced with his banners, watching like a child seeing his pet dance.

"Persia will survive, and I will not let the cancer in again. We will have new stories. Stories of warriors, and sacred feasts for them. The fire will burn with weakness and warm a Persian warrior."

The old woman looked away from the sun and back towards the man, her eyes now covered in film.

"You are wrong, Rahzadh. There is no flame, and the fire will not give you warmth. And I am ashamed that I must remind you what Kiristiyan and Tagi know. What you forgot."

The commander paid no attention to her, focusing on his more nuanced commands. "All must cross the bridge; the bridge will be there whether you prepare for it or not. I wish you safe travels, Commander. For I will not be there to guide you."

And with those words, the old hag in black vanished.

He sees the tide shift, the glimmer of the armor and purple banners move forward. Free from arrows, the Huma and their riders now moved closer and flew lower, blessing the army with their shadow.

The commander laughed. "See that! For all your complaints, the fire will burn another day."

He says to the empty wall to his left. The commander turns to his trumpeter as the horsemen move away from the battlefield.

"Command them to pursue! Let us finish this! The horde is retreating!"