Built on top of a soaring hill and surrounded by lofty mountains, the White Castle was guarded day and night by trained soldiers. As its name suggested, the fortress was built from white adobe and shined gloriously beneath the shimmering sunlight. The guardian and commander of the fortress was named Hojir, a renowned warrior whose valour had inspired many men. He was the son of Gostahem; who although robbed of the glory of his youth, still retained the shadow of the warrior he once was. Years of experience and the passing of time had sharpened his senses and deepened his knowledge. The true jewel of the fortress, however, was not among its men. Akin to a lioness in bravery and lethal in the battle field, Gostahem had a daughter by the name of Gordafarid. She was skilled in the arts of war and was the fortress’s pride and joy.
As the dusky mass approaching the castle took the shape of a fatal army, Hojir gathered his soldiers and struck forward to meet Sohrab and his men. When the two armies collided, Sohrab drew his sword and yelled menacingly,
“You ignorant, insolent fool, how do you dare challenge me like this in a fight with nothing for support but a pitiful army of a few dozen disgraceful men? This place shall become your grave and the site where your men come to meet their end.”
And so Sohrab charged forward and a breath-taking combat broke out* between them, their swords clashing together so loud* and so fast, leaving behind only trail of flashing steel cutting through the air. Their bodies became a tangled mass of shifting muscles, the sound of their howls blending in the roars of cheer. Hojir was strong but Sohrab’s strength was otherworldly; drenched with sweat and covered with blood, Hojir soon fell to his knees and his men, robbed of their leader, were defeated.
When the news of the commander’s captivity broke in within the walls, a wave of grief and terror washed over the residents. Gordafarid, too, was heartbroken when she learnt of her brother’s doom; a part of her, however, was ashamed by his downfall and her dignity was tainted. Yet she was divergent and unlike the rest of her kind, with shame rushing through her veins, fuelling the flaring fire of anger in her heart, she clad herself with an armour and hid her long locks of hair under a helmet. She swung on the saddle and her steed took off in the manner of thunder.
When she came amid to the Turanian army, she challenged the men to a man-to-man combat. Her identity concealed and her tell-tale marks hidden, she exuded an aura of confidence and courage. From a grand army of men, no soul dared to step a foot forward.
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