Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

You're the man, they say, Ja'afar thought, struggling to avoid spilling too much of the milk over the top of both pails in each hand. I am a man. Not a donkey.

It was a concept his mother seemed to struggle to understand. He hurried past the bleating of goats, trudging through the thick sands. His arms burned with the effort of hauling around those two monstrous pails of milk; his hurried movement resembled the waddling of a midget. Soon he was struggling for breath and his arms threatened to buckle, emptying the buckets of their precious contents. That would earn more than a beating from Father.

It became more of a chore weaving through the bodies of the thick tribesmen once he returned to the rows of tents. Why did it seem like they were intentionally slowing down or blocking his path? He winced as he felt more of the liquid splash against his calves.

He was a man grown now, twelve now; almost old enough to be betrothed. He may not have been the largest of his friends, but he possessed undeniable prowess with the sword.

The most promising prospect in all the Banu Asad, he knew.

But everyone was too busy fawning over that wretched girl who fancied herself a warrior. A woman! Thinking herself fit to wield a blade, like a man. It was preposterous, comical. Yet, the tribesmen tolerated it as a sort of absurdity only because this Umaymah was so young. They even instructed her in proper stance.

And that fucking brother of hers.

Ja'afar shivered as he remembered Muhammad. So much younger than the rest, he could not have been more than eight. Yet, he stood head and shoulders above the other boys and twice as barrel-chested. He was not a gentle giant, either. There was a darkness to Muhammad ibn Hanthalah that everyone sensed; that was why he was better left to his own devices. The other tribesmen, even the adults, preferred avoiding the boy's disturbing eyes.

Ja'afar shivered again, remembering the darkness he sensed within the boy. It truly was best to just leave him alone.

Ja'afar shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts, as he finally returned to his family tent, the pails intact and filled to the brim with the required beverage. Perhaps Father would spare him his fists tonight. Maybe even allow him to heft his sword, feel the cool flat of the blade.

Ja'afar rested next to the tent as he eased the pails of milk down, grateful for the opportunity to fill his nostrils with a deep breath of fresh air. Instead, he was only greeted with the only smells he had ever known – shit, manure, muck, leather and the stench of beasts mating.

Ja'afar decided that the way of the Bedouin would not suffice for him once he grew. He would build a reputation for himself as a feared warrior, perhaps offer his sword in exchange for money, or earn a fortune in plunder and abandon the old ways for the lifestyle of the sedentary.

The nomads would boast of their superior fortitude and strength at arms borne of the difficult desert life, but who were they fooling? They would all lap up at the opportunity to cease living like wild animals and retain a semblance of civility, perhaps some luxury.

Ja'afar licked his lips, imagining himself a man wealthy beyond wildest dreams, only the finest of silks gracing his skin and the most beautiful of women taken as his concubines. He would live in a large dwelling, the stone tents they called houses, tended to by his slaves, the property of his right hand that he had earned in his long years of warfare. He would indulge himself in the rarest of fruits and a vast harem of women until the rest of his days, dying at a ripe old age.

Ja'afar sighed, returning to bleak reality. Why could life not be so simple? Why must he have been born and bred in this shithole? His vexation only increased when he saw the spindly figure of 'Abdullah ibn Hanthalah cross by.