Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 11

I unsheathed my sword and raised it to the heavens. It was curved at its end and engraved with letters of the Persian script on its blade and again on the other end, on its pommel. A sword ransacked from the corpse of a brigand, yet fit for a warrior.

With a wordless roar, I leapt forward and pushed through densely packed bodies of men heaving, grunting, dying. I set foot into a haven of utter turmoil, a world within a world that knew naught but the shrieks of the afflicted, the bellows of the frenzied and the berserk, the sheer, unadulterated chaos of snarling, seasoned warriors penetrating ranks of frantic men, weapons glistening, eyes ablaze with a desire to scorch whatever landscape stood in their place to wreak unmitigated carnage.

Seeking me out.

I adored every moment of it.

I crossed swords with the enemy for the first time during my stint with the imperial army. And so, I bloodied the valley of Yarmouk with my wrath.

More shrieking Muslim warriors found their way to my path, and they met their fates at the end of my blade, only to be replaced by another once they fell. Yet, most were not defeated so easily.

There was a vigor to the rampaging Muslim troops that had been absent three years prior, I noticed.

But the determination and growls adorning their faces were obscured to me beneath a haze of blind rage. In place of their features or the cheek plates of helmets, I saw a dagger driven through Qusayy's neck.

I saw Mother wailing, dragged across the city by an unapologetic captor, shoved to her knees, clinging to a shrieking child all the while. I heard the rumbling of the skies and the bellows of gods resounding through the cracks of thunder as three heads rolled to the bottom of a ditch. Their inevitable splashes gentle and slight, in disparity to the event that saw them plummet in the first place.

My blade rang against that of adversary. I swung, and I lunged, I swept my sword about in broad arcs, I parried and sidestepped, ducked and heaved and pushed, kicked, swung my fist and headbutted. I bled and I killed.

Yet, before long, I found myself exhausted of mind and body before.

My sword was heavier and my grip on its hilt became increasingly tenuous; the resolve of the Muslims only seemed to mount while mine waned with every sliver of resistance they demonstrated. I felt my hip ache and my left arm waver and tremble. My wounds, though shallow, had not been properly treated, I remembered.

But a breakthrough must have been imminent, I thought, determined to rid myself of this valley once and for all. We were pushing the Muslim center back. The Nubian himself was performing an ample job of relieving the rest of us of substantial pressure, carving a gaping hole in the enemy ranks.

My blows grew increasingly lethargic and sluggish all the same. I lunged at a foeman's chest, but the strike was ill-timed and languid besides. It only served to expose me, and my opponent leapt at the opportunity, scathing me across the left arm, near where I had already been injured.

The blow stung and I yelped in agony. He slashed again and he would have sliced my chest had I not raised my sword to block the blow at an opportune moment. He released one hand from the grip of his hilt and struck me across the face.

I heard a crack, even over the din of thousands of men slaughtering one another but felt only numbness at first. Then, a gradual and incessant throbbing in and around the vicinity of my nose.

Then I screamed.

I licked blood that had evidently splattered all around during the initial impact as pain I could only describe as the swarm of a thousand livid bees bursting into my nostrils washed over me. My breathing was beginning to betray me, I noticed, and my vision was hindered with rogue splatters of blood.