Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 8

652 AD, 30 AH

* southern Anatolia (modern day Turkey) *

"Tariq!" I cried to my young disciple. "To me!"

The Roman outpost was sprawled before us, a pitiful fort on the Caliphate's northern border with what remained of the Roman Empire, some leagues north of Antioch. The outpost was an accurate depiction of the status the Romans had fallen to.

Battered and meagre, a shell of its former self.

Circling foundations that were doubtless crumbling was a garrison of soldiers that were far too few to put up any meaningful resistance – the ranks of the Emperor were stretched far too thin. Bearing the brunt of decades of warfare and changing of hands with the Persians, the walls of the fortification were in disrepair; my scouts hours earlier had informed me of my opening to the lands beyond and all the spoils they entailed.

The weakness in the structure.

A great dent in the stone wall, no doubt shattered by some dispute between Roman and Persian some years earlier, was visible on the southern wall, the one we intended to strike from. It was hastily patched up by timber. My guess was that it was far from robust, certainly not as effective as the stone that had once adorned the gap.

Now, emerging from the expanse of thickets and tangles and thorns that obscured our swift and subtle approach, we broke into a sprint as a cohesive group, one of the many tactics meticulously pounded into the thick skulls of these young warriors through hours of rigorous, painstaking labor spent baking in the sun at the very fringes of Muslim dominion. On the peaks we called home, I had observed the honing of my boys' lethal abilities to a scrupulous sheen with grudging approval. Now was the time to put those abilities to the test.

"Shields!" I bellowed, noticing the faint figure of a Roman soldier high above and yards away hop in surprise as he caught sight of our advance. He would alert his comrades and within seconds we would be bombarded with a hail of arrows seeking to check the thunderstorm that was to come.

With a unanimous shout, dozens of men hefted their monstrous shields of wicker and leather, each embedded with a massive iron boss at their center that gleamed prettily in the light of the rising sun. Some were decorated with incoherent streaks of paint, most were embellished with the hides of oxen or cows or a half dozen other domesticated animal; mine was plain wicker, unornamented and unyielding.

Much like myself.

I gave a sharp cry, peaking over the iron rim of my shield.

"Archers!" I howled.

I was at the head of the file, eyes fixed on the impending danger ahead. Yet I knew that a substantial chunk of my retinue halted in their tracks and unstrung their bows from their backs, steadied the quivers that were likewise strung on backs or hips, awaiting the command from Piruzan, my Persian officer.

The area surrounding us was lush with cultivated greenery, wavering grass blades that heaved and shook at our rush, stampeded by the weight of scores of sandals. Merely a sample of the rich valleys strewn beyond, hording unimaginable treasures. The Romans had cut down the trees and thickets that obscured the sentries' view of the landscape some miles to the south so that the area before the fort walls was entirely flatland.

We were within range of bowshot and a number of the defenders were beginning to form a cluster on the southern wall. My gaze flickered this way and that, searching for the storied dent in the stone.

Yes, I thought, veering slightly to the right, my men in following in sync. I see it now. It was, indeed, a substantial chunk of the wall, and it was reinforced with a crude patchwork of wood.