Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 40

"Piss yourself, then," the Roman guard replied in Arabic. Must have been Ghassanid. "You haven't shied from such an act the entire journey here."

"Have you not grown tired of the stench?"

The guard paused for a long moment, considering. Finally, he put key to lock and swung the door open with a loud creak.

"Make it quick."

I rose and hefted my iron manacles. "Oh, I do not intend it to be so."

I stepped out of the cage and shuffled to the back of the Roman, as he eased the door shut once more. Before he could turn, however, I maneuvered my hands over his head, and yanked them back, pressed against his throat.

I squeezed, twisting the iron shackles against one another so that they began to choke the life out of him.

The man squirmed in my embrace; he gagged, kicked, gurgled and coughed, attempted to pry my hands free of his throat. But on that night, no man would find the strength to overpower me.

I shook him with delight, as his last vestiges of struggle dwindled, and I tossed his corpse away when the life was finally squeezed out of empty vassal.

I used his key to unshackle myself and resolved to assume his identity. Helm, red cloak, armor, belt and tunic were stripped from the Roman's lifeless body and adorned mine instead.

I wore a sword strung to my left hip and a dagger to my right.

I was undiscernible from a Roman guard, features hidden beneath cheek plates.

I walked to the entrance of the mansion. I saw that there were two other mercenaries that stood watch over the mansion's main doorway. They stood barring the way, dressed in an identical manner.

I feigned a limp as I walked toward them.

"Gah!" I gasped. "Ugh."

One of them cried in alarm and rushed toward me. The other followed.

The first man spoke frantically in a foreign tongue. Greek, perhaps. He grabbed my arm, seeking to drape it over his shoulders.

But I slipped my dagger free of its sheath and rammed it into the side of his neck, sending a fresh spray of blood spurting into my face.

The other man's sword was unsheathed halfway out of its scabbard when my dagger was yanked free of his comrade's neck and found its way into an eye.

"Roman scum," I said, standing over the pools of their blood, wiping my dagger clean on their cloaks.

I shoved past the doors to the mansion and was greeted by a large audience chamber that was adorned with silk awnings in all directions but that of the doorway. Lavish furniture and scented candles augmented the lush room, but I paid none of it any heed.

There was a single guard standing before the silk awning opposite the entrance, clad in typical Arab gear. Once he saw me drenched in blood, he jumped and unsheathed his sword and charged toward me.

I stood my ground and welcomed the melee, unsheathing my own sword.

He lunged at me, but I side stepped and elbowed him in the nose with my free arm. He staggered but maintained his footing. With a vexed bellow, he swung his sword at me in a desperate hack, but I took a step backward and his blade hissed through empty air.

I found my opening and kicked him in the gut; he slipped on a Persian rug and was sent tumbling to the ground. I lurched toward him and put a knee on his chest. I raised my blade high, ramming it into an eye, dedicating the kill to foes who shared a similar fate at my hands.