The night was quiet, too quiet. A warm breeze blew across the streets of Assyria's capital and brought the scent of jasmine and spice. Inside the palace, King Zarhaddon stood on his balcony. He held the stone railing and looked out over his kingdom. The lighting on the streets were the same showing the peace his people had enjoyed for a very long time.
But he felt it in his bones. Something was coming.
Then, like thunder, it arrived.
A horn blasted outside the city, it was deep and scary. The sound swept across the city, followed by silence. And then a war cry.
As the eastern skies lifted up in flames. The Parakshan army moved in, carrying fire torches to help them see in the night. They came with thousands of soldiers marching as one. The were holding spears, shields, swords and all kinds of weapons, explosives, black magic and ellite warriors, the Immortals, never defeat in battle. War drums were heard in the distance, their sound deep and steady, like a beast ready to strike.
At the front of the army was, King Azaroth himself, sitting on his horse, in his golden armor shining in the firelight. He looked through the city, his eyes desperate to seize it.
"Assyria belongs to Parakshan." His voice was loud, charging his men forward.
The first wave of the attack moved so fast, arrows were falling like rain, setting houses on fire and hitting anyone in sight. Many people screamed and ran for their lives. Some people carried their children. Others carried what ever they could. The smell of smoke and burning was filling the air through out the city.
On the city walls, Assyrian warriors were fighting hard. Spears clashed against shields and swords flashed against swords and blood soaked the stone. But the Parakshan soldier, were too many in numbers, and for every Parakshan soldier that died, three more took their place.
The Parakshans then ramed the city gates with a heavy strike, shaking the ground. They slammed again and again, until the gates shattered into pieces.
The Parakshan army rushed in.
Their swords cut down any man they could find, and the streets turned red.
Women and children cried as soldiers rushed into their homes, taking down anyone they could find. The lively city of Assyria that was once a centre of culture and wisdom, turned into a nightmare.
From the palace steps, King Zarhaddon refused to run.
He called upon his most trusted servants. "Take my son, Prince Amir, and flee to the coast, and sail to Greece." he instructed, his voice trembling with emotion. "Save him, no matter the cost."
The servants nodded, with determination and a duty to protect the young prince.
As they fled through a hidden tunnel below the city. Prince Amir held onto his father's parting gift, his father's father's sword, the legendary "splasher," symbolizing his family's honor and legacy. "Every thing will be made new the king told Amir, take it, you will need it some day".
Standing firm with his royal guards, he drew his sword. And with a calm but strong voice, he spoke to his men.
"If this is our last night, let it be one to remember."
His men of war cheered, raising their shields and getting ready. Then, they charged.
King Zarhaddon fought like a lion, cutting down many Parakshan soldiers with his sword.
But even lions fall when they are outnumbered.
A Parakshan spear from the immortals struck his side, bringing him to one knee. Another sliced his chest. His golden armor became stained with red. Still, he refused to bow.
The Assyrian king looked up, breathing heavily, and he saw a black horse beside him. Alighting from horse was Azaroth.
The Parakshan king looked at his fallen enemy. "You are beneath me"
Zarhaddon, seriously wounded, managed to smile. "You haven't won yet."
Azaroth raised his sword. "I always do."
The blade fell, taking with it the hope of Assyria.
Then he rounded up the people and took them as slaves back to Parakshan.