Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 2

When your life is hanging in the balance, there is little distinction between fog and smoke. The thick tendrils curling upward and shifting about only add a layer of morbidity to the event.

Fortunately, I am a man built for smoke and blood.

As the battle raged on, the scorched carapace of one of our vessels lying discarded and emitting dark smoke in the midst of the sea, I unsheathed my sword.

Like Piruzan, it was Persian, curved and gleaming with inscriptions in the Persian tongue engraved on the steel. It whistled as it departed the baldric that was its home; the sweet scrape of steel against leather that was the sword song. Strapped to my left arm was the complimentary wicker wood shield, one that had belonged to me since my days in Madinah, the thriving capital city of the Caliphate. A token of 'Umar's patronage.

The approaching Roman ship was close enough that I could make out the snarling features of the enemy soldiers and sailors, the resplendent gleam of the enemy officer's scaled iron plates that made up his elaborate suit of armor.

The ship sliced through the water, looking to crash into the flank of our own and sink it as it had torched another. To one side, Mundhir hefted his twin short swords, falling into battle stance. On the other, was my son, 'Abd al-Ka'aba – known to the Muslims as Muhammad the Morbid. Piruzan the Persian slave soldier would not be too far behind.

The sailors heaved on their oars and strained themselves to meet the incoming collision head on, but I would not dally behind, muttering my final prayers as better men risked their lives in the melee.

I would be at the thick of it. As the gods meant it to be.

With a quick prayer to the gods and goddesses of war and fate that 'Abdullah ibn Abu Sarh, the useless governor of Egypt, would meet a slow and painful death in the coming battle, I bellowed at the top of my lungs and sprang forward, hopping off the rail of our own ship and into the vacant air beyond.

Resting atop two ships in the midst of carnage on the shores of Cyprus that day, I experienced a moment of euphoria. Much needed clarity. I hung in the air for a brief moment, as though mine was the weight of a feather, my screams ringing against the ears of foemen, the steel of my blade gleaming bright beneath the sun, the iron boss of my shield glinting softly and spelling doom for any who dared obstruct my path. I registered the beauty of it all. I wished to be nowhere else.

The moment of epiphany passed. The screams of the dying, the crackling of fire and the shattering of wood resumed. My weight reoccupied my body and I found myself plunging down into the enemy vessel. I landed on a terrified looking young man, the tip of my sword painting his face and neck red with his own blood.

I buckled my knees at the impact of landing on deck, as several Roman warriors charged forth in order to intercept my streak of death. They raised their swords and their axes high above their heads, and in that moment, I felt my stomach churn with pure energy.

The enemies' movements became predictable and laborious, their mouths freezing open in a snarl or a bellow. It was as if time was stopping and not even a god could intercede on their behalf.

It was the drunkenness of battle.

The thrill.

The rush all men wish to experience in the thick of an onslaught. It was the key to survival and only the most skilled were able to temper it.

My adversaries came crashing in on all sides in a raging storm. I put all my weight into my right shoulder, shoving the Romans aside and sending one splashing into the water. Swords sang against thin air and axes splintered the wood of the deck.