Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 1

650 AD, 28 AH

"I knew a Persian once." I steadied myself on the prow's railing, the invigorating smell of saltwater washing over me and renewing my resolve for the coming slaughter, my thirst for blood to be shed.

Piruzan, Mu'awiyah's slave soldier of Persian ethnicity, raised an eyebrow.

"You were friends?" he asked incredulously.

I shrugged. "He tried to have me killed, I drove a sword through his heart. The usual."

Piruzan nodded. We were not friends, but he understood me. I needed not to elaborate my words to the young man nor was he intimidated by my presence. His was a refreshing company. And the gods knew I needed as many allies as possible in order to survive in this hive of villainy and intrigue that was the midst of the Umayyads, Mu'awiyah's kinsmen.

"Come here, boy." I called out to 'Abd al-Ka'aba.

There was a long, unresponsive pause before I remembered. I sighed.

"Come here, boy!" I requested his presence louder. Ever since the...accident at Mu'awiyah's palace, he was harder of hearing. It was a blessing, I suppose; who knew that a man without ears was capable of hearing at all?

The ship's floorboards thumped and creaked with his approaching heavy footsteps. He was not quite yet a man, but he looked the part. 'Abd al-Ka'aba was a big boy and growing larger still.

"Father." He grumbled, flanking me. Not only was he hard of hearing, he was of scarce speech as well.

Muhammad the Morbid, men called him. He was known to the public as Muhammad, because his real name, the one I gave him, was heretical, one considered to belong to a time long past, when the Arabs worshipped Arab gods.

But to me, he was 'Abd al-Ka'aba. His long black curls were capped by a red turban that was in fact meant to hide a thing much more hideous than his face. And that was saying something. For, he was the very image of myself. Not too dark-skinned, more the shade of a date. Square-jawed, with a looming presence and two narrow, dark eyes that radiated hatred and boundless anger.

I clouted him on the back of his head. There was no particular reason for that, but he needed to learn respect for his father. And he needed to become a man. Raising the boy was turning out to be a more laborious effort than I had previously assumed. Often, I would beat him bloody, but the thick-headed lout would return just as troublesome as before. It almost mad me pity his mother; piss be upon her lousy soul.

"What is it that you needed me for, Father?" he rasped. There was no way this boy was three and ten. He would grow to become a bloody menace.

Piruzan muffled a laugh at my side.

"What is it that you needed me for, Father?" I mocked his inquiry in a cartoonishly whiny tone. I smacked him on the back of his head again. "Look there, boy? What do you see?"

I pointed to the horizon.

'Abd al-Ka'aba narrowed his eyes and leaned forward on the rail.

"Seems misty," he answered before continuing. "Birds. Pelicans?"

I cuffed him on his head again.

"Yes, birds. And what does that mean, you useless shit?"

'Abd al-Ka'aba gave me a blank look and recoiled at the sight of my forming fist. He held up both hands to shield himself from any potential blows.