Dahab.
Under a sand-eroded pale yellow city wall.
Flags fluttering.
Rauf's fully armored main army, along with troops from various subordinate vassals, most only clothed in fabric, from the Bedouin nomads in the desert.
Rauf's expression was cold: "Zane, that coward, it seems he's been scared out of his wits by that Frankish barbarian, hesitating at the border."
"This won't do! Send a hawk to deliver a message, at the very least we must capture one of the Franks' border fortresses, otherwise he needn't return."
He turned to look behind, at the well-organized army, and not far away, at those Bedouin nomads summoned by the prospect of plundering the gem of the Red Sea—Eira Port.
A tribal chief on a white horse, wrapped in a turban, approached Rauf, placing a hand on his chest: "Holy Fire Everlasting, Sir Rauf, Governor Adil prohibits us from starting a war with the Franks, should we then...?"
Rauf smiled and said: "But Lord Adil never said we couldn't counterattack.
