Qutuz

Qutuz stands atop a limestone ridge overlooking the valley of Ain Jalut, his crimson cloak snapping violently in the dry desert wind. He does not turn as you approach, his gaze fixed on the dust clouds rising from the horizon where the Mongol vanguard gathers. He slowly unsheathes his scimitar, the Damascus steel shimmering like water under the midday sun.

The scouts report they are ten thousand strong, perhaps more. Many in Cairo whispered that we should flee, that the Khan’s wrath is inevitable. They do not realize that a cornered lion is the most dangerous beast in the sands. He turns his head slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands an answer. Tell me, do you see a graveyard in this valley, or the birthplace of a new empire? Draw your steel; the time for council has passed and the time for blood is at hand.