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Lightning played upon the rooftops, their contours reminiscent of ancient palaces and temples, adorned with intricate patterns that seemed to come alive with each flash. The rooftops, crowned by ornate finials and spires, reached skyward like the minarets of a grand mosque. The copper elements gleamed in the electric light, casting reflections that danced across the surfaces in mesmerizing, irregular rhythms.
The storm's fury unveiled the tortured trees below, their branches twisting like anguished spirits in the depths of hell. Amidst this tumultuous scene, the mountains, particularly the regal form of Mount Damavand, stood as stoic sentinels in the background, their peaks touched by the ethereal glow of the lightning.
As the rain descended in torrents, propelled by the relentless gale, the architecture harmonized with the surrounding chaos. The figures, draped in darkest green, moved with silent purpose against this dramatic tableau, their approach shrouded by the elemental rage of the storm.
No lights illuminated the American mission complex as the first of the dark-clad, hooded figures reached the outer gate. He paused, waiting for others to join him, then allowed a small smile of satisfaction to curve his thin, determined lips. It would be effortless! The foolish infidels would pay for their lack of vigilance, and the noble land of Persia would be cleansed, once and for all, of their unwelcome presence. True, the Shahanshah, the Sovereign of Persia, would be disgraced due to this night's actions. Yet, what significance did that hold compared to the generous rewards promised by the satrap of Hormuz for ridding the sacred kingdom of these heathen infidels? With silent gestures, he directed his men to their assigned tasks, each step calculated to bring about the desired outcome and uphold the honor of their land.
Grappling hooks, fastened to sturdy yet supple cords, were deftly thrown over the fortified wall and firmly secured. A multitude of men, clad in dark green attire, ascended with calculated precision, smoothly descending into the muddy courtyard below. As the last member traversed the wall, their leader seamlessly joined their ranks. From bags slung over the shoulders of three of the group, they extracted the components and expertly assembled an iron-headed battering ram adorned with brass accents. At a subtle, silent cue, they swiftly advanced toward the imposing main entrance.
Wood splintered from the sturdy bar of the door, and the hinges emitted a mournful groan as the ram delivered its initial blow. Stirred from his uneasy rest, the porter sprang to his feet at the resounding echo of the second strike reverberating through the corridor. With the force of the third attempt, the modestly secured portal burst open. The porter's eyes widened with terror, and he instinctively turned to flee, his mouth agape, ready to unleash the final scream of his mortal existence.
"Rahbar-e Penhan!"
Three tirkas, the deadly flying knives, gleamed in the torchlight as they found their mark, embedding into the back of the fleeing man and causing him to stagger. The viscous, dark, venomous substance coating their tips swiftly began its insidious work on his nervous system. One of his hands convulsed spasmodically toward the source of pain as the agile and sinewy leader of the raiders closed in. A slender ribbon of light danced on the sharp edge of the leader's shamshir----his great, formidable sword---- as it descended in a flawless arc, cleanly severing the porter's head from his shoulders. The shouted warning, though effective, stirred the household into frenzied activity. Lights flickered to life, and the air became charged with shouted inquiries and hurried movements.
Two marines clad in blue-and-white uniforms materialized in the hallway, swiftly drawing back the hammers of their short-barreled muskets. Surprisingly, neither man discharged a shot. Instead, the first guard relinquished his weapon, his anguished scream piercing the air as he grasped at the slender, lethal needles that had found their mark in his throat. A cloud of crescent-shaped throwing darts sailed through the space, enveloping the corridor, and the second marine crumpled to the floor, contorting in torment. As resistance crumbled, the leader gestured for his men to advance. The only audible sound in the hallway was the muted shuffle of their sandals as they silently navigated their way into the interior of the building.338Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡo9IR17pE2s
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Donald West dozed lightly, hovering between the realms of sleep and wakefulness. A lover of thunderstorms, he found solace in their chaotic beauty. In his younger years, as a child in Kansas, he would sit by his bedroom window, nose pressed against the glass, marveling at the tempests that unleashed their fury upon the rolling plains of his family home. Yet, those were the musings of a bygone era, a time when he was but a small kid. Now, as a nearly grown twelve-year-old midshipman in the United States Navy, detached from Admiral Potter's flagship, he felt compelled to set aside such childhood delights. This sentiment became even more pronounced in light of his recent elevation in status — his assignment to the newly formed American mission in the exotic and intriguing land of Persia.
For the moment, he found contentment in the distant rumble of thunder, his consciousness drifting in a half-world of insubstantiality. A smile graced his face with each recorded flash of lightning on his eyelids. However, the porter's terrified shout and the agonized screams of the dying shattered his euphoric reverie.
Shrill cries persisted, and the unsettling sound of lacquered room dividers tearing assailed his ears. A sudden wave of fear sent chills across Donald's bare skin. Hastily throwing back the bedcovers, he hurried to the door. Cracking open the lacquered wooden door just enough to peer out, he surveyed the hallway. Donald's eyes widened as the reality of the danger became clear — a horde of dark-green-clad figures swarmed down the passageway toward him. Swiftly, he closed the door and dropped the locking pin into its bottom frame, knowing it would buy him only precious seconds.
Anxiety coursed through him, yet Donald's response remained controlled and disciplined—an attitude instilled during the lengthy months under Admiral Potter's command. Acting swiftly, he paused only momentarily to don a pair of shalvar, the knee-length breeches commonly worn by Persian laborers associated with the mission. These breeches, which had become a personal preference for Donald, mirrored the style of the local commoners. Alongside this sartorial adaptation, he had embraced another aspect of Persian custom—sleeping in the nude. The loose-fitting pantaloons provided unparalleled comfort on sweltering, humid days when respite from his naval duties allowed him to discard the confining, itchy embrace of his woolen navy uniform. His choice of loose trousers wasn't driven by modesty but rather by practicality and a logical pursuit of coolness in the oppressive climate.
Despite the urgency of the escape he envisioned, Donald took a moment to evaluate the advantages his appearance bestowed upon him. His black hair and equally dark, almond-shaped eyes, inherited from his Sioux ancestors, could afford him the advantage of blending into the local population, at least until he discerned the cause of the sudden attack and could plead his case to the king, or Shah, as the locals addressed him. However, he couldn't overlook the fact that his untanned skin below the navel, if exposed, would betray his foreign origin. Similarly, his uniform might prove perilous. Thus, he purposefully attired himself to enable easier concealment among the natives. Satisfaction with this decision settled upon Donald as he fastened the cord securing his sole piece of attire. Springing onto the bed, he surveyed the arched rectangle serving as his window, contemplating the challenges that lay beyond.
Bending his knees, he propelled himself upward and seamlessly dove through the shattered glass pane. Simultaneously, the door splintered inward. Donald landed in the mud, sliding forward on his belly. In the background, the commanding voice of Silas Howell, head of the mission, resonated.
"Donald! Run! Don West, run for your life, boy!" The benevolent, gray-haired man's words abruptly ceased in a chilling, gurgling silence, the razor edge of a shamshir severing him from life.
Emotion overwhelmed Donald West for the first time. A desperate sob broke free from his lips, and unshed tears blurred his vision as he compelled himself to stand. Now, bewildered and terrified, he trudged through the clinging, sucking mud.
He stumbled twice more before reaching the outer wall. Employing a sturdy vine and securing his toes on protrusions in the plastered mud-block palisade, he ascended. Near the summit, he halted abruptly, a chill sweat breaking out as an arrow clattered just an inch from his extended right hand. More projectiles rattled in close proximity, and he strained to surmount the barrier.
The boy sustained cuts to his leg and stomach as he navigated over the wall. These wounds resulted from the sharpened clam shells and bits of iron embedded at the top to deter intruders. Blood mingled with the relentless rain as he descended into a foreign and suddenly hostile city. With a swift turn left, then right, Donald plunged into the darkness, running without a plan or destination.
Donald's mind swirled with doubts and uncertainties as he fled an imminent and dreadful demise, seeking refuge in an unknown place.
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