It began as many stories begin —with war. A war that would reshape the face of Western Africa, leaving scars upon the land that would endure for generations to come.

In the waning years of the 15th century, the vast empire of Sultan Mahmoud al-Ghazi stretched from the scorching sands of the Sahara to the lush forests of the south. The Sultan, a man whose very name struck fear into the hearts of his enemies, ruled with an iron fist and an insatiable appetite for conquest. At his side stood his son, Prince Rashid, a young man who had inherited his father's ruthlessness but none of his restraint.

Their eyes had turned to one of the few remaining unconquered lands - the proud Hausa kingdom of Garin Gabas. This jewel of the savanna, with its imposing stone walls and bustling markets, stood as a defiant city against the Sultan's ever-expanding empire.

Sultan Mahmoud's army was a sight to behold - a sea of men that stretched beyond the horizon. Cavalry mounted on fierce desert horses, their scimitars glinting in the harsh sun. Archers whose arrows could blot out the sun. Siege engines that could reduce city walls to rubble. But most terrifying of all were the Sultan's secret weapons - cannons, brought from lands far to the Mediterranean seas, their thunderous roar a harbinger of doom for any who dared stand against them.

The Emir of Garin Gabas, Abdullahi ibn Musa, was a man of peace, but also of pride. When the Sultan's envoys arrived with their demands - surrender or face annihilation - the Emir's response was swift and resolute. "We will not bend the knee to tyranny," he declared, his voice echoing through the grand hall of his palace. "Let the Sultan come. We will show him the strength of free men."

And so the siege began. For three long moons, the army of Sultan Mahmoud battered at the walls of Garin Gabas. The air was filled with the screams of the dying, the clash of steel on steel, and the earth-shaking booms of the Sultan's cannons.

Within the city, the people of Garin Gabas fought with the desperation of those who knew defeat meant enslavement or death. Women and children joined the fight, hurling rocks from the battlements and tending to the wounded. But as the days bled into weeks, and weeks into moons, their situation grew dire.

The Sultan's massive army had cut off all supply routes. Food became scarce, then non-existent. Clean water, once plentiful from the city's wells, turned foul and disease-ridden. The defenders, once proud and strong, became gaunt shadows of themselves, their eyes hollow with hunger and despair.

Yet still they fought on. The Emir, though his heart ached at the suffering of his people, knew that to surrender would mean the death of everything they held dear. Their culture, their traditions, their very way of life would be erased under the Sultan's rule.

As the third moon waned, the situation seemed hopeless. The walls of Garin Gabas, once thought impregnable, were crumbling under the relentless assault of the Sultan's cannons. A thunderous crack split the air as another cannonball slammed into the wall, sending an earthquake through the ground that knocked men off their feet. Stones tumbled like hail, the gritty dust stinging the eyes and choking the lungs. The once-mighty walls, symbols of their invincibility, crumbled into a jagged heap. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and sweat, mingling with the coppery taste of fear on every tongue. From the battlements came the screams—sharp, high-pitched, and unrelenting—as the defenders clung to hope, their knuckles white around their swords.

In the dim light of flickering oil lamps, Emir Abdullahi ibn Musa sat with his most trusted advisors in the inner chambers of his palace. The sounds of distant cannon fire punctuated their grave discussion. Around him were gathered his Waziri, Usman al-Fulani, and the council of amirs (the Arabic term for nobles or lords) and elders.

Emir Abdullahi, his dark face etched with the weariness of three moons of siege, spoke first, "My brothers, the situation grows dire. Our walls crumble, our food stores dwindle, and our people suffer. What counsel do you offer in this dark hour?"

Amir Hassan, an elderly man with a long white beard, replied with a trembling voice, "My Emir, the children starve. The women can barely lift their heads. How much more of this can we ask of our people?"

A murmur of mixed agreement and dissent rippled through the room. Amir Yusuf, a battle-scarred warrior, slammed his fist on the table, "You'd see us chained like animals under that tyrant! Better to die with a sword in hand than live like cowards." The fervour in his tone stirred the assembled nobles.

The Waziri, Usman al-Fulani, the Emir's trusted advisor for more than two decades, sat unusually still, his fingers tracing the edge of his worn robes as if seeking comfort in the familiar texture. Abdullahi watched him closely, noting the furrow in his brow and the slight tremble in his hand—a man who had seen countless battles, yet tonight, something was different. The room was thick with the smoky scent of the lamps, but the unspoken tension between them hung even heavier.

"My Emir, honored amirs, there may be another way." The Waziri said, "One that does not require either our immediate surrender or our certain doom."

All eyes turned to the Waziri as he continued, "I propose a meeting with Sultan Mahmoud, away from the battlefield—in Filin Kasa. If we could arrange a parley there, perhaps we could negotiate terms that would spare our people without sacrificing our honor."

The Emir leaned forward, intrigued. "And you believe the Sultan would agree to a parley?"

The Waziri nodded. "He is ruthless, yes, but not without wisdom. He knows that even if he takes our city, holding it will cost him dearly. A peaceful resolution might appeal to him."

An elder named Ibrahim spoke up, his voice quavering: "But can we trust the word of such a man? What if this is a trap?"

Usman replied, "We have little choice but to take that risk. Our alternatives are grim - slow starvation or swift annihilation."

The Emir sat in contemplative silence, the faint crackle of burning oil in the lamps the only sound in the room. His eyes traced the cracks in the stone walls, fingers brushing absently against the cool surface of the table, as if seeking strength from the solid stone beneath him. The weight of his ancestors seemed to press on his chest, each breath a conscious effort. "Usman"' he said at last, his voice low and measured, "your counsel has never led us astray. We shall attempt this parley. Send word to the Sultan under the flag of truce. If he agrees, you and I shall ride to Filin Kasa at midnight."

Amir Yusuf interjected, "My Emir, allow me to accompany you as guard. I would lay down my life to ensure your safety."

The Emir raised a hand. "No, Yusuf. If this is indeed a trap, Garin Gabas will need your sword arm more than ever. The Waziri and I shall go alone."

As the council dispersed, a mix of hope and trepidation hung in the air. The Waziri quickly penned a message to be sent to the Sultan's camp. Hours later, as the moon rose high in the horizon, a reply came:

The Great Sultan Mahmoud al-Ghazi accepts your invitation and would meet your Emir at Filin Kasa when the moon has reached its peak.

As night thickened, Emir Abdullahi and his Waziri prepared for a journey that could determine the fate of their people. They donned simple robes, mounted their swiftest horses, and slipped out of the city through a hidden postern gate.

The desert night was cool and clear, the stars above twinkling like scattered diamonds. As they rode towards Filin Kasa, both men were acutely aware that they carried the hopes and fears of all Garin Gabas with them into the darkness.

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