Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

30 September 644 AD, 23 Dhul Qi'dah 23 AH

Piruz rubbed his slumbering daughter's forehead, feeling a tear roll down a cheek despite himself. It was never his desire to abandon her among these savages, but...it was what was needed to be done. The helplessness. The anger...

          It was unbearable.

          By what right did these half-starved beasts in barely human skin treat them so poorly? How was it fathomable that the Arabs of all people would prop themselves up as superior beings than those of Iran?

These savages practiced what was not ordained by Ahura Mazda. And it was Piruz who paid the price. He would have gladly slit his own throat rather than act the part of a palatable servant to these bastards. But he did what he did for his daughter. The girl they called Lu'lu'a. They bestowed upon him the epithet of Abu Lu'lu'a, adding further insult to injury. As if he were an Arab, as if they were equals. They could not even pronounce his daughter's name right so they gave her an Arab one.

          No more.

          He was of Iran and he would show them that his people would not go down easily. No longer would he succumb to the degrading bonds of slavery. No longer would he stand by and watch his people, once so ancient and proud, grovel to a pack of uncivilized sub-humans.

          He walked out of the tiny hut the leader of the Arabs allowed him and his daughter to settle in. They took his life away from him and gave him a rotting abode instead and called it benevolence.

          The world can rumble with thunder and gush rain and these Arabs would calmly tell you it is a warm summer day, Piruz thought sourly as he walked through the streets of this poor excuse of a city, remembering the injustice he suffered when granted audience with the king of Arabs.

          He remembered when he once lived in a real city. Nahavand had been his home for his entire life. It was where he was born and bred, where he met his wife and sired his daughter. It was where he learned the skills of his numerous crafts – chief among them the construction of animal mills as well as the craft of black smithery.

          The latter had provided him with an opportunity to give back to empire and Shah, for he was recruited by the local garrison to work tirelessly in his forge in order to manufacture the arms required for the brave defenders of his homeland to prosper.

          It had been a simpler time. One of bliss and satisfaction. He had been shown gratitude by his superiors and was rewarded amply for his work. Now, he boasted only of scraps to show for all his labor, while his bastard of a master reaped the reward.

          In the beginning, he swallowed his pride and performed the back-breaking work required for him to stand out as a master craftsman among these odd people. He ignored the fleas, the lice, the awful smells of manure and foreign perfume, the pungent stench of their poor drinks. His days in the newly erected tent city of Basra were miserable. He supposedly enjoyed a higher standing than his countrymen, being slave to the governor of the city himself, thought it never felt that way.

His master was avaricious as he was a barbarian. He knew naught but the sword and the spoils of war it entailed. Day and night, Piruz had labored in isolation in order to distinguish himself. It was all for his daughter. He needed to earn a living for her, in order to provide her with at least similar circumstances of life she was accustomed to back home.

But his efforts were in vain. His master, Piruz learned, was entitled to the lion's share of his earnings, leaving Piruz and his daughter to live off a meagre income. He demanded two silver coins of Piruz everyday.