Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 21

Thirty or so men clung to the shade of the walls to obscure themselves from any sentries or dwellers that might alert the rest of the defending Romans.

There was a long-haired man in a dark gown, a turban and a stubble speaking to Mu'awiyah in a hushed tone at the edge of the wall's shadow. More men emerged dripping and gasping for breath from the grate behind.

I stepped forward and clutched Mu'awiyah's arm.

"This is cowardice," I said.

Mu'awiyah raised an eyebrow.

"You are suggesting that we are inferior to these Romans in prowess," I accused him. "I, for one, am not afraid to face any foe in open field."

"A pitched battle is not an option now, you blind fool," Mu'awiyah snapped back. "This is war. War is deceit."

"Deceit?" I demanded. "You would earn glory from the filth of traitors?"

I turned to the man Mu'awiyah was speaking to, evidently the informant that betrayed the hidden grate to the foe. I spat in his face.

"You are a rat," I barked at him.

The man merely smirked and wiped the spittle off his face. He extended his arm to me amicably.

"Yusuf," he introduced himself. "May I be of service?"

Mu'awiyah intervened, putting himself between me and this Yusuf.

"Yusuf is Arab to the bone. Our victory is nigh, and it is thanks to this man. Now, I will not tolerate insubordination any longer. Return to position, ibn Ka'b."

I spat at Yusuf's feet. "Yusuf is a snake. Beware of this man, Mu'awiyah. One who betrays one master will betray another."

I spoke from experience.

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A bell chimed vigorously deeper within the city and screams lent it a diverse tune. Roman soldiers hopped off the ramparts and sprinted toward the chaos we had wrought upon their city. Dozens of them had already fallen without realizing the enemy had infiltrated Caesarea.

I was crouched atop a roof next to a marketplace, sweating and panting, nocking another arrow to my bowstring. Two other archers flanked me and three more were perched atop another roof on the other side of the narrow street. We rained down death upon Romans.

The city had been as gloomy as the uninhabited plains yonder when we emerged from the grate. Houses were dark, torches unlit. Now, our presence alerted the now terrified inhabitants into providing illumination.

And the great infernos we conjured ourselves played no small part.

I sat up, drawing an arrow, pushing it to my ear. I basked in the creaking sound of the string. I held my breath for a heartbeat and loosed the arrow with a twang before the next, when I released my breath.

"I am the death of pale faces!" I bellowed at the foe beneath. My voice was drowned out by the clamor of battle. "I am the killer of Romans!"

I remembered the boast from a Muslim duelist at Yarmouk, a man who called himself as Dhirrar.

The screams of men were now interwoven with the shrieks of women and the wailing of infants, as a number of buildings near the melee caught fire. A monastery was set ablaze, the flames leaping eagerly at the wood and thatch, sleek orange and yellow fingers radiating the heat of a thousand suns, consuming the structure inch by inch, a rapid expansion only rivaled by that of the soaring Caliphate.