Borders of Aryan-Tarlarn Caliphate, 4th April 2018
In the wake of the chaos from the collapse of government authority, warlords have arisen to stake their claim over lands in their next bid to be the next ruler of Tarlaria as the next Caliph or become the Supreme Sultan of the Middle-Eastern world. For those who’re less ambitious, content with the holdings as their petty fiefs. The rest tried their best to salvage what’s left of the nation’s authority for the people. By the time of 2018, the once-mighty Tarlarn Caliphate was nothing more than shadow of itself, so much it is considered to be the ‘Sick man of the Middle-East’.
Emir Abu-Hamza of the Thuraq tribe, one of the incredibly wealthiest men in the country and governor of Iraq province, a powerful oligarch who happens to be a virtual warlord who pays lip-service in his fealty to the Caliph of Al-Qahirah, even in the peaceful times before the Tarlarn Springs – a series of peaceful protests against government corruption before spiralling over into beginnings of the civil war. A very ambitious man at heart, Emir Abu-Hamza has built up his army in secret, purchasing arms all over the world, whether legally or blackmarket arms deal. He had become the warlord when the Caliphate’s government authority broken down and he spend time building up his power base at the same time. He knew the central government couldn’t do anything much to restrain their own governors who’re acting like independent warlords than their supposed roles suggests.
In a scheme to expend his ambition, he made his decision to invade Parthia (also known as Aryan) itself. The country Abu-Hamza’s about to invade is ridiculous rich in wealth and filled with Shiite ‘heretics’ thus he saw fit to attack the country without being branded of ‘attacking fellow Muslims’. With an army under his command, he mobilized all of his forces towards Aryan. While his troops as a whole consider it to be a holy war for most part, however, they’re mostly in it for petty glory and looting, rather than for God. All in all, the entire warband of renegades are confident that they can conquer Upper Iraq from the Parthians. Altogether in numbered over 500,000, which is about more than a half of million – whether they’re irregular militias or mercenaries alike. His mechanised forces comprised of technicals, T-90 MBTs, diverse assortment of mechs from dinosaurs to bipods.
The bulk of his ground troops and logisitic equipment were carrying inside the Ruuzian hand-me-downs airships, all twenty of them. In the fantasy-reminiscent world of Iclamia, airship travel is common, even in modern age. But for Emir Abu-Hamza, it’s enough to conquer the land of Aryan as one step towards his ambitions. Now confident of his strength and no longer tied down by the debauched Caliph Court in Al-Qahirah, the warlord thought it’ll be easy to defeat the ‘decadent’ Parthians. He’ll conquer the land of Aryan just as his ancestors have done three-thousand years ago, toppling the ‘heretic’ Aryan in order to make way for a new empire of his own.
Piloting in his gorilla-like mech, Abu-Hamza started fantasies himself as a Supreme Sultan of the world. He imagined himself on the throne, surrounded by piles of gold and a harem of nubile girls in the scanty dresses, until one of his lackeys hailed him on the radio.
“Your excellency!”
“What is it, colonel?” The Emir growled in annoyance.
“Your excellency, we have contact! Radar shows seven Aryanian signatures.”
“What!?”
As if on cue, the entire warlord army can see flying objects approaching them.
They’ve never seen anything like these machines before. Seven altogether, the Aryanian mechs seemed to be quite sleek, more slender than those imported and produced by the Tarlarnians. Two of them are flying in the skies while the other five were hovering over the sands. The differences were two were giant humanoid robots and the rest seemed to be literally 34 metres tall. Following behind the flying bipedal mechs is a single squadron of twelve Aryanian combat witches, wearing in their high-tech armour system that covered their entire body all the way to their strikers.
The two flying mechs and the Aryanian witches swooped in and making their strafing run, firing lasers of death from their respective weaponry, decimating many of Abu-Hamza troops by half in one big strike. They also shoot down seven of Abu-Hamza’s airships down to the ground.
While the 34 metres tall mechs in spite of their giant size dodged the enemy fires like a troupe of theatre dancers. The black and green one among them has fired its massive artillery gun at Abu-Hamza’s aerial fleets, downing three more. The rest, with their bladed weaponry, just simply hack, stabbed and diced Tarlarn mechs, airships and ground vehicles like paper. Despite the size of Aryanian mechs, they’re too agile to get hit by Abu-Hamza’s forces. As if problematic enough, the Aryanian witches have been harassing his troops in support of the accursed Parthian mechs.
Needless to say, the entire Tarlarn warband were caught off-guard.
“Get the troops to regroup-!” Abu-Hamza barked his orders.
“Your excellency, we’ve detected several hover skiffs by the east!”
“What!”
As if the timing couldn’t worse for the renegades, several hover transports have seemingly appeared out of nowhere in the vicinity of Abu-Hamza’s forces, hovering over the sandy grounds towards them. The warlord’s radar has identified them as Aryanian. What’s more surprising to the warlord, they’re transporting soldiers dressed in what seems to be powered-armour suits with a distinctive emblem on their pauldrons – a simurgh. Abu-Hamza’s eyes widened in realisation, these soldiers are actually members of the famed Aryanian Immortals – elite warriors and imperial guards of the Parthian Empire. Once the immortals reached their destination and surrounded Abu-Hamza’s troops, they’ve immediately disembarked and unleashed their barrage of bullets, lasers and spellcastings.
“Ya Allah! (Oh God!), all troops regroup and make for counter-attack!” Abu-Hamza ordered. His troops tried to reform their ranks but their exposed cover has left them wide open to Aryanian attacks. His view gave way to Aryanian immortals made short work of the Tarlarn troops with magic spells and state-of-the-art weaponry. Needless to say, it is chaos for the Tarlarns, struggling to defend themselves. He can hear their panics, cries, explosions and distresses from the radio transmission.
“Ya Allah! (Oh God!), we’re going to die!”
“This is Major Al-Ahdal of 1st Iraq Combat Witches Squadron, we need support- AHHH!”
“This is Captain Walid of Airship Abdullah, we’re under attack-“
“Tch! All airships, split-up!” The warlord then saw more of his airships shot down by missiles, magic spells and laser beams to his horror.
“Ya Rab! I’ve spent a whole country on these ships!” Abu-Hamza complains.
Suddenly, a Aryanian girl leapt by over his view. He has sworn he’s seen a blonde-haired girl leapt up like aerobatic dancer and then began slicing his soldiers on the ground apart with the large blade. Magical circles have appeared underneath the front ranks of the Tarlarn forces, causing them to freeze. This left the front ranks as easy targets for Aryanian troops.
Losing his composure, Abu-Hamza began shooting all of the weaponry of his mech like a crazed maniac until his mech suddenly halted in its movement. He fell in the same trap as his frontline troops, trapped by the magic circles.
He can feel his body froze, he helplessly watches most of his forces annihilated in the face of Aryanian onslaught. He cannot believe himself that his own army - a force of over half a million, a regiment of mages, forty-six tanks, twenty-three mechs and five squadrons of witches, defeated by a small Aryanian force of seven mechs, a single squadron of combat witches and a full-battalion of mages and soldiers! The Parthian ‘weaklings’ have cut down his army like a hot knife through butter! This isn’t way, this is a massacre. The Aryanian dogs were destroying his army at their leisure in spite of few numbers. This isn’t how he plans it out to be.
As it turns out, the Emir has underestimated his foes. Realizing his folly, he is going to pay for his mistakes. Before he tries to sound the retreat, he suddenly felt his mech being shot down and fell down on the ground like a demolished building.
“GAH!”
As if a stroke of luck, Abu-Hamza popped out of his mech like a jack-in-the-box. He unceremoniously crashed down onto the ground. Grunting in pain, he tries to stand up. As soon as he straightens himself, his bodyguard team in their raptor-like mechs approached him.
“Your excellency, are you alright!?” His bodyguard captain asked him.
“Praise be to God, I am alright.” The emir grunted. In the backdrop, a Tarlarn airship falls down onto the hill.
“My emir, look!”
Appearing out of the dusts and smokes of the battlefield is a lone beautiful, young woman, clad in her powered-armour digitally-painted in desert camouflage. The corrupt emir recognised her; she’s none other than Crown Princess Fatemah Safavi, older sister of the Shah and one of Aryanian’s greatest warriors. She is not alone; two girls have appeared and stand by her sides. One is a ponytailed redhead wielding a scythe and the other is darkskinned who doesn’t seem to be using any weapons in hand.
In the rush to protect Abu-Hamza, His bodyguards in their mechs made their attempts to kill her but ended up vaporized by her lasers before the warlord’s very eyes. The sight made him petrified in his nerves.
“Aww, did you see his look~?” the redhead crooned. “Emir Thuraq just looked like he lost his marbles~.”
“He was just shocked, Mohammadi.” The dark-skinned replied.
Fatemah stepped like a dignified lady in the ball, accompanied by said girls trailing behind her.
“Peace be upon you and the blessings and mercy of God Emir Abu-Hamza Al-Thuraq, you and your men have trespassed in our lands, violating our territories with armed military force. For that, we responded in kind in defence of the people of Aryan. You are beaten. Surrender now and we will give you mercy. You have my word, God Willing.” She said without any trace of emotion. “What says you?”
Abu-Hamza was too shock to respond immediately. This is the man who has his plans and all of hard-work and effort ruined. His eyes looked down to the ground as if contemplating his choices in the world. Looking up at Fatemah, he has made his word known.
“I’d say…”
Drawing out his sword, Abu-Hamza then lunges at the princess with bloodthirsty hatred. This is his answer.
“You go to hell, bitch!!!”
The warlord screamed out his primal rage and curses. His own masculine ego will not allow him to surrender to the likes of strong women, let alone a Parthian. Emir Abu-Hamza intends to take the Parthian ‘whore’ down with him. But he’s too late upon facing Fatemah’s laser drones.
“May God grant you mercy and forgive your sins. Ameen.” The Aryanian princess simply said as if she almost pitied him.
Without hesitation, she fired the lasers, incinerating what’s left of Abu-Hamza. What’s left of the Tarlarn warlord troops, numbering in thousands, put down their weapons and surrender for they do not see any point in fighting any more. Watching their fellows burned by Aryanian lasers has given them enough incentives to surrender. They’re clearly not jihadists, only bandits and opportunists taking advantage of the anarchy wrecked in Tarlarn Caliphate.
“Wow, that was dramatic.” The redhead Aryanian commented, sounding unimpressed by the warlord’s recklessness.
With a soft sight, Fatemah pressed the communication ear-piece on her right ear.
“All units. Do not kill those who surrender. Take the prisoners to Baghdad. They are to be treated with care in accordance to Lasa convention and the law of our land. Do I make myself clear?” She instructed her officers.
“Yes, your highness.” The Aryanian leading officers responded in unison. The battle is over, ended with less than a half of warlord troops taken into Aryan’s custody.
Province of Eraq, Empire of Aryan, 5th April 2018, night-time
It has been one day that the battle has ended, the whole Aryanian strike-force are either resting or celebrating their victory over the rogue Tarlarn warlord. Either way, they have their reprieve for their hard-work. This is one of the rarest moments when one side didn’t suffer any casualty.
Princess Fatemah had a nice bath after completing rounds of paperwork and e-mail reports to be sent back to the Aryanian High Command. A flag of Aryan is hung inside the tent behind her large set of silk cushions. The princess, dressed in her bathing robes, is drying her hair with the towel. In the background, a holographic television screen is being projected in the middle of the tent.
“This is Aryan News, I’m Maryam Mohammadi. Sporadic violences have occurred in Aryan-Tarlarn borders, situated between the provinces of Eraq and Tarlarn province of Iraq. A rogue warband has attempted to cross the borders only to be stopped by soldiers of our noble Imperial Aryanian Army, commanded by Her Imperial Highness Princess Fatemah Shahdokht Safavi. While her efforts are applauded in defense of Aryan, Grand Vizier Al-Maliki condemned Her Highness for ‘Aryanian Imperialism’ and ‘humiliation’ of the Tarlarn people. Al-Maliki haveily condoned in his words, ‘murder’ of Emir Abu-Hamza Al-Thuraq at the hands of Princess Fatemah. The Grand Vizier also extends his accusations towards the Aryanian government of ‘Parthian heretics’. Bilateral talks have been held in Istanbul to discuss in order resolved the alleged ‘accusations’ of the incident. On other news-”
“Turn it off.” Fatemah sighs, sounding morose.
With that said, Ali Farrokhzad, Fatemah’s assistant and lover switched off the hologram television with the remote control.
“How was back home?” She inquired, sitting down on silk cushions.
“Half of the seats in the Majlis favoured interventions in Tarlaria itself. Another half favoured limited interventions or none at all. It is the vultures who’ve probably want a piece of the Tarlaria when the Tarlarns were at their weakest. They’ve decided the Abbasis is their best people to support.” Ali gave a mirth smile, sitting down next to her.
“Ah yes. That is troublesome, such is the burden of being a royal. They seemed to have a good time.” The blonde woman harrumphed. She doesn’t enjoy politics. By Aryanian tradition, only the male heirs ascended the throne as the ruling monarch of Aryan. While Fatemah is believer in equal opportunity for all, she’s actually glad that she didn’t have to inherit the throne herself. Fatemah doesn’t consider herself worthy enough to shoulder the responsibilities as the leader of the country. Even though she’s more than qualified to be one, Fatemah is a capable stateswoman in her own right; she was just being humble about it.
“No doubt they’ve been waiting for a chance to intervene in Tarlaria. Not for right reasons. It’s bad enough for the Hashemids having their hands full on their plate. Politics is no child’s game. Neither is war. These donkeys have made things difficult for my poor little brother. The last thing our great Aryan needs is total war, God forbid. When the time comes, I’ll rein the hawkish fools in place myself.”
“Will that be okay, your highness?” Ali spoke with concern in his tone.
Noticing his concerns, Fatemah gave him a warm smile in response, “It’ll be alright, Ali my love.” She gave him an affectionate peck on her cheek. “I’m used to such farce of politics. If the time comes, let me handle politics. While the politics can be tiresome, this doesn’t mean it makes me complacent. You forget that I’m the Lioness.”
Relations between her country and the Arabic-Tarlarn Caliphate aren’t always easy since hundred years ago. In spite of nationalistic rhetoric, neither sides want war. Another reason is Aryan can’t act against Tarlaria directly, partly the Caliphate holds two Holy Cities of Islam – Mekkah and Madinah. And not to mention, the Aryanian government in Isfahan didn’t wish to create an International incident. Until Tarlarn Spring, a series of anti-government uprisings in 2015 and it all started with the corruption scandals of Grand Vizier’s administration and reactionary crackdowns on protests. And calls for intervention in the Imperial Majlis have been growing stronger as soon as the Tarlarn Caliphate’s government have lost most of their reins over their warlord emirs, causing an economic and refugee crisis. Aryan has already accepted streams of refugees within their borders, thanks to the generosity of Fatemah’s little brother the Shah and the compassionate elements of the Aryanian people.
Knowing that, Ali gave his woman he lives a weak smile in response, “If only that is easy. But in my eyes, you are gift from God. You are one amazing woman in the world. All praises to God. You deserved better than foolish politics.”
“Flattering me? This is not you. You weren’t like that when we first met.” Fatemah teases. She raises her hand, caressing Ali’s cheeks and then kissing him in the lips in a passionate embrace. After a minute passes, they stop kissing.
“It’s the truth, not flattery. I’m merely complimenting you because I love you. I swear to God.” The pony-tailed chuckled. This earned a soft laughter from his lover. “Beg your pardon, isn’t this one of rare moments we got time to spend time together after work?”
“Very well, in this case, we should go out together more often~. It is been a while since few days ago. God willing, we shall have a chance. Oh which reminds me, do you have something to do, hm?” The crown princess hummed.
“On your behalf, I will personally inform His Majesty, the Shah.” Ali simply replied, straightening up from the cushion. “His Majesty may want to see your reports for himself.”
“Thank you. Please send my personal regards to my little brother. Tell him, big sister is looking forward to see him again.” Fatemah calls after him. Smiling, the servant bowed before leaving the tent.
The Aryanian Crown princess then turned her gaze towards the full-moon from the window slit of her tent. It’s as if she’s pondering about the event to herself. After all, her country Aryan is the most powerful nation in the Iclamian Muslim world. No doubt, Aryanian prominence will invite envy from other nations in the Middle-East. An ancient country seems to make their comeback to reclaim its’ legacy, supplementing the position of their former Tarlarn conquerors as a Muslim superpower in Iclamia.
Unfortunately, the sectarian differences between the two great nations of Middle-East don’t make anything easier despite their common religious faith. Not to mention, the cultural differences between the Persian Aryan and Arabic Tarlarn. Such is history and politics, even in modern-day, the age-old rivalries in Iclamia’s ‘Cradle of Civilizations’ did not changed much. Fatemah recalled the saying from her history tutor, at the time when she inquired about the current affairs. Her tutor had simply answered her with a straight answer - ‘history repeats’. She cannot help herself feeling the sayings have resonated true with the recent events.
“…I seek forgiveness from God…” Fatemah finally utters a religious phrase, closing her eyes in a silent prayer for herself and for the dead. “Oh All-merciful one, when will this ends? The tragedies?”
While she may not have the answers, Fatemah and many others have hope for peace to be return to the Middle-East. For all her martial skills as an exceptional mage-warrior, she detested war. If things come to the push, Fatemah will fight for her country to ensure the well-being of her people.