The Silver Sparrow

An Impossible Task

There was a suffocating thickness in the air as the hunting ground came into view. At the first sound of the horn, the riders immediately picked up speed and one hundred horses thundered up the hill, racing each other toward the bowl that lay up ahead. Hasheem drew a long breath to steady his nerves as the ground underneath him rumbled, and was hit with a raw, overpowering scent produced by a mixture of sweat, saliva, and freshly oiled leather that mingled with the horses' strong odor. Nothing raised your pulse and snapped your mind into place faster than that stench of excitement. 'Men,' Dee had once said, 'are creatures driven by a desire to prove themselves through danger, more so in the presence of other males.'

It was stupid, but true nonetheless, and why he was where he was, riding at killing speed to catch up with Nazir, not quite to get out of danger, no, not completely. There was an undeniable yearning in the pit of his stomach, a thrill so close to seeing a beautiful, naked woman that made it near impossible to retreat in the face of danger. He could see fear in the riders around him that matched his—fear, of course, was what made it so exciting. It was written on their faces, in how tightly they held the rein, in the stiffness of their shoulders. They were all smiling and breathing as hard as their horses, almost as if they were riding a woman and were getting close to reaching climax.

The horn continued, piercing through and rising above the deafening roar of the stampede and the hammering beat of his heart, carrying with it a promise of death that awaited them in the valley, of madness that was about to erupt.

They reached the top of the hill, and Hasheem realized with a punch of disappointment in his stomach that the plain below was empty. Not a single gazelle was seen on the ground or around it. Not a soul.

Where are they?

Just then, another horn sounded from the opposite direction, and the rider next to him smiled, showing a full row of teeth as he shortened the reins and secured it onto the saddle.

From the eastern slope, the gazelles poured in, numbering near a hundred. Behind them, a different group of riders was driving them hard, pushing them forward into the valley. Hasheem turned and looked around him for a signal to slow down to give the hunters time to ready their bows and didn't find it. The riders continued at full speed as they descended into the plain, heading straight for the herd. One hundred galloping horses were about to clash head-on into as many gazelles on a stampede. On purpose.

This is suicide, Hasheem swore under his breath, staring in disbelief at the catastrophe that was about to unfold.

At the very front, about a hundred paces before they clashed into the herd, Nazir unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. He did so on a galloping horse, while standing high on the stirrups, back straight as a spear. The action was followed promptly by the riders behind him who appeared to have copied the stance with incredible ease without slowing down. They watched in silence, bow in hand, steering the horses with their knees as their khumar made his aim. The feathers were painted blue and gold, Hasheem noticed, like the sash he was wearing. This was, after all, a ceremony as much as a game. The gazelles were to be offered to the goddess tonight. It was why they hunted only adult males.

Hasheem held his breath as he watched, still galloping hard toward the herd, and realized that the other riders, too, were all staring at Nazir. It was the first time he was leading the hunt, and the first ceremonial shot had to be done right. A defining moment for Nazir that would stay with him for as long as he was their khumar, and most likely as kha'a. A test he had to pass in front of a hundred spectators. Hasheem's stomach churned at the thought. Don't miss, he caught himself praying—something he didn't do very often. Don't fucking miss.

Nazir's hands shook a little. He paused. Checked himself. Drew a breath. Exhaled. Those hands were steady now, gripped tight and sure on the curve of his bow and the shaft in it. High on his galloping stallion, his body barely moved with the motion as he fixed his eyes on the target. A gust of wind rushed through the valley, and Nazir's long silver hair danced wildly behind him as he pushed forward, his attention focused only on one thing and one thing only—the life he was about to bring to an end.