As the Mughal forces stood in their square formation, Phalanx, with Badshah Afzal at its centre and the commander serving as his bodyguard, a palpable tension hung in the air. They remained alert, their senses heightened, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them.
Suddenly, the distant clamor of voices reached their ears, growing louder with each passing moment. Soon, a crowd of local people, armed and visibly enraged, surrounded them on all sides. With roughly 3,000 men closing in, the Mughal soldiers felt a surge of panic, beads of sweat trickling down their faces as they realized the gravity of their predicament.
In the face of imminent danger, Commander Shoeb Ali's voice cut through the chaos, firm and commanding. "Remember your training," he shouted above the din. "They are nothing but a bunch of untrained men. Not a single one of them should breach our defenses, and we shall emerge victorious."
His words acted as a rallying cry, infusing the small army with renewed determination and resolve. With their morale bolstered by their commander's reminder, they braced themselves for the impending impact, ready to defend their sovereign and their comrades against all odds.
As the men at arms rushed towards the surrounded Mughal forces, their lack of formation became apparent. They charged haphazardly, driven by sheer numbers and fury, but their disorganized approach proved futile against the disciplined defense of the Mughals.
As they drew nearer, they collided with the Mughal shields, only to be repelled with force. Yet, undeterred by the initial setbacks, they continued their onslaught, determined to break through at any cost. However, their efforts were met with a sudden and unexpected resistance.
From the gaps between the shields, spears emerged like deadly serpents, halting the momentum of the charging assailants. Time and again, the spears struck true, piercing through flesh and bone with lethal precision. The frontlines soon became littered with the fallen, their bodies serving as a grim testament to the futility of their assault.
Despite the mounting casualties, the crowd persisted in their frenzy, driven by desperation and a thirst for vengeance. Like moths drawn to flames, they hurled themselves at the Mughal formation, heedless of the consequences.
But as the losses mounted and the survivors began to come to their senses, a shift in tactics ensued. Recognizing the futility of their frontal assault, they withdrew slightly, regrouping to reassess their approach.
Some resorted to hurling stones, while others threw whatever weapons they could find, only to have them deflected by the steadfast Mughal shields. In response, the Mughal soldiers unleashed a barrage of spears, each one finding its mark amidst the chaos, painting the battlefield crimson with blood.
With their ammunition depleted, the surrounded Mughal soldiers took up their swords, and bashed it to their shields as if taunting the enemy to come close again.
Tan! Tan! Tan! Tan!
Amidst the chaos of battle, a cry of despair pierced the air as one of the rebel survivors lamented, "It's impossible! We cannot defeat them! Retreat!"
Upon hearing the cry, a ripple of panic spread through the rebel ranks, prompting many to turn and flee from the incredible defence of Mughal forces. Sensing an opportunity, Shoeb Ali, the Mughal commander, raised his voice above the din, commanding his soldiers with authority.
"Inner squad, hold your ground! Outer line formation, advance and scatter the rebels! Take any prisoners you can!"
With steely determination, the 200 Mughal royal guards comprising the front line surged forward, their expressions filled with grim resolve as they prepared to engage the retreating rebels. Their movements were precise and coordinated, a testament to their training and discipline as they moved to intercept the fleeing insurgents.
As they closed in on the rebels, the Mughal royal guards wore expressions of grim determination, their eyes locked on their targets with unwavering focus. With swords drawn and shields raised, they moved with purpose, ready to fulfil their commander's orders and bring an end to the chaos that had engulfed the battlefield.
making the their defiant shouts ringing out defiantly as they advanced with shields raised. The clash of steel filled the air, accompanied by the resounding cries of combatants locked in a deadly dance of death and defiance.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
As the chaos of battle raged on, suddenly, two units of phalanx clad in the uniforms of the Samrajya forces emerged onto the scene. Their arrival was marked by the thundering beat of war drums and the triumphant cheers of the surrounding crowd, who eagerly made way for their allies. With their well-equipped and armoured ranks, they presented a formidable sight.
From the plains, the leading figure of the phalanx came into view. This individual bore the appearance of a Muslim warrior, clad in leather armour and wielding a bow and quiver of arrows. He sported a distinctive pointed beard, marking him as Istafa, the seasoned archer. Behind him, overseeing the phalanx from the rear, was another soldier donned in armour. This figure wore a distinct turban atop his head, with his face obscured behind a mask, yet there was a sense of familiarity about him. Both soldiers of the phalanx were fully equipped with armour, spears at the ready, and swords sheathed at their sides. They donned saffron uniforms adorned with the flags of the Samrajya forces.
The first unit advanced from the rear, effectively blocking off any avenue of retreat for the mughal forces, while the second unit positioned themselves strategically on the other side of a large trunk, poised to flank the enemy. The Mughal soldiers, already engaged in combat, found themselves facing a new and daunting challenge.
Afzal's expression shifted from surprise to anger upon discovering the presence of the Samrajya's forces. He turned to his commander, a mixture of confusion and fury in his eyes, and demanded an explanation.
"Why?" he questioned. "I don't understand."
The commander's response was grim, his tone heavy with implication. "Perhaps they planned to bury us here on our border, to erase any doubts of their possible assault."
The revelation only fueled Afzal's anger further. His fists clenched, and his jaw tightened as he vowed, "I want to see the end. No matter what, we must survive."
His resolve was unwavering, his determination clear as he prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead. The atmosphere around him crackled with tension, each soldier bracing themselves for the impending clash with the enemy forces.
Upon seeing the arrival of these reinforcements, the advance royal guards hesitated, their assault momentarily stalled. Sensing the urgency of the situation, Commander Shoeb Ali quickly assessed the changing dynamics of the battlefield. With a note of urgency in his voice, he issued swift commands to his men.
"Assault groups, fall back and split the formation into squads. Make a tortoise formation with eight warhead formation upfront. Protect your allies' backs." Shoeb Ali's voice rang out above the clamour of battle, his words carrying the weight of authority.
In response to his orders, the Mughal soldiers swiftly adjusted their formation, transitioning into a defensive posture. The 300 men formed a tight circle, three rows deep, their shields interlocked to create a formidable barrier against the encroaching enemy. Meanwhile, the assault group of 200 men regrouped and divided into eight smaller units, each consisting of twenty-five soldiers.
With practiced precision, these smaller units positioned themselves at the forefront of the defensive circle, resembling the 8 warheads of a mighty tortoise shell. Their resolve unwavering, they stood ready to repel any threat that dared to breach their defenses.
Amidst the din of battle, Shoeb Ali's commands reverberated through the ranks, guiding his men through the intricate maneuvers required to adapt to the shifting tides of combat. In the face of overwhelming odds, the Mughal soldiers remained steadfast, their determination unyielding as they prepared to confront this new and formidable challenge.
The commander with the distinctive turban atop his head shouted, "It's time to claim our freedom, to take revenge! Charge!"
The Mughal royal guards , lacking their horses and spears, yet armed with an effective formation, braced themselves for the impending impact. As the pincer attack of Hemu's forces commenced, the Mughals stood resolute, their defences impenetrable. Despite the assailants' efforts with spears, their attempts proved futile, unable to breach the stalwart defence of the Mughals.
The Mughal forces, though outnumbered, stood resilient, their formation unbroken despite the relentless onslaught of rival army. Under the steadfast leadership of their commander, they were still able to weathered the storm of battle, fiercely defending Badshah Afzal from harm.
With precision and determination, they repelled wave after wave of attacks, their movements fluid and coordinated as they fought with unwavering resolve to protect their sovereign and their comrades. Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against them, they refused to yield, standing their ground with unwavering courage and resilience.
Each clash of swords, each clash of shields, reverberated through the air, echoing the fierce determination of the Mughal warriors as they battled against the relentless tide of rival forces. Though outnumbered, they fought with a valour born of loyalty and duty, their resolve unshakable even in the face of adversity.
However, due to their lack of spears and numerical disadvantage, the Mughals struggled to hold off the advancing enemy forces, who wielded the advantage of spears to exploit gaps in the defence lines. Additionally, they had to contend with the sudden, deadly strikes of Istafa, who seized every opportunity to exploit any opening in their defences. The pressure to survive amidst such relentless attacks was immense. Gradually, the Mughals found their defence lines shrinking under the relentless assault of their adversaries.
Amidst the chaos of battle, Istafa's heart raced as he witnessed the tide of the skirmish teetering on the edge of favoring his forces. However, his relief was short-lived when he spotted a dust cloud rising from the plains, heralding the arrival of the Mughal cavalry of 2000. With a glimmer of hope, Istafa initially believed they were reinforcements from his own ranks, sent to ensure victory. "Don't panic, they are allies!" he shouted, hoping to bolster the morale of his men.
Yet, his hopes were shattered when the cavalry charged not towards the Mughals, but towards Istafa's rebel forces, disguised as soldiers of the Samrajya. The shock and betrayal rippled through Istafa's ranks as the Mughal cavalry mercilessly attacked, their swords flashing in the sunlight.
Abdullah Khan Azbak, leading the charge, bellowed his command with unwavering determination. "No mercy to the enemy! Kill them all, none shall survive!" Istafa's blood ran cold as he realized the extent of the betrayal orchestrated by Bairam Khan.
With the arrival of the cavalry, the Mughal army erupted into cheers, their spirits lifted by the sight of reinforcements. Meanwhile, panic spread through the ranks of the rebel forces and the surrounding crowd. Desperate attempts were made to halt the advancing cavalry, but the combined might of mounted royal guards and infantry proved formidable and difficult to counter.
Turning to the turban-wearing commander beside him, Istafa's voice trembled with rage and desperation. "They will catch me and won't let me go," he muttered, his eyes ablaze with vengeance. "Go to the Samrajya, find Prince Aditya. Tell him of the atrocities we've endured. Bairam Khan is responsible, and he must help us seek revenge."
With a sympathetic glance, the turbaned commander nodded solemnly before disappearing into the fray. Left to face his fate alone, Istafa drew an arrow from his quiver, his hands steady with resolve. Taking aim at Abdullah Khan Azbak, he unleashed the arrow with all his might, intent on taking the Mughal leader's life in one decisive shot.
Yet, Abdullah Khan was prepared, deflecting the arrow with expert precision. With a silent signal, the royal guards surrounding him swiftly closed in on Istafa, thwarting his attempt to flee after his failed assassination. The weight of betrayal and defeat hung heavy in the air as Istafa's fate was sealed, his dreams of vengeance shattered amidst the chaos of battle.
In a secluded area of woods, Abdullah Khan Azbek prepared to deliver the final blow to Istafa, his sword poised for the fatal strike. However, before he could enact his vengeance, an arrow streaked through the air, finding its mark in Abdullah's neck with deadly precision. Caught off guard, Abdullah faltered, unable to deflect the sudden attack.
Seizing the opportunity, Istafa swiftly drew a concealed dagger from beneath his cloak, driving it into Abdullah Khan's heart with lethal intent. Shock and disbelief washed over Abdullah as blood gushed from his wounds, his strength waning with each passing moment. Yet, even in the face of death, Istafa remained defiant, a maniacal grin spreading across his blood-stained lips.
"If I can't claim victory, neither will you," Istafa's voice echoed with eerie resolve as he faced his imminent demise. With a final breath, he uttered his chilling declaration, "Let us descend into hell together."
As the life ebbed from Istafa's body, his assailants, the escort royal guards of Abdullah Khan, descended upon him with ruthless efficiency, driving their spears into his back with brutal force. Amidst the chaos of battle and the grim inevitability of death, Istafa's defiant spirit remained unbroken, a testament to his unwavering resolve in the face of adversity.