Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 9

April 652, Sha'aban 31 AH

It had been well over a month since I had been dispatched to dispose of the Persian rebel that plagued the lands and estates entailing the city of Basra. My quest was a success, though I would have preferred dragging a bound, fettered and humiliated foe to the presence of Mu'awiyah. Yet, I knew my son was volatile and unstable to the bone. I was beginning to believe the tales the Banu Asad chieftains told, of how he ate the heart of a corpse.

Warlordism was plentiful among the remnants of the conquered Persian regime farther east. Generals and Persian men of state who had remained loyal to their defeated Shah roamed the wilderness, stalked the mountains still. Much like myself.

It is the irony of fate that I was habitually dispatched to the lands of 'Iraq and Persia to root out one warlord or the other. It was one of life's dark jests that one infidel warlord would be considered legitimate while the other outlaw.

On the road back to Damascus, I snuck a quick peak at my earless son, 'Abd al-Ka'aba, known to the Muslims as Muhammad. He was atop his stallion, dreary-eyed, caressing his bandaged head.

We had successfully dismantled the Persian warlord's group and captured the man himself. But where my boys were well-trained and disciplined, I knew my son to be...less reliable. My boys knew when to cease the slaughter at command.

'Abd al-Ka'aba didn't.

He would immerse himself at the peak of fighting in enemy blood. He would take great joy in his work. He bathed himself in the battle drunkenness, the fury that befalls a man in the thick of the fray, flushing one's cheeks red and warming his entire body, oblivious to the dozens of bruises and cuts and scabs one suffered in the journey.

It was after the sounds of fighting dwindled down that my massive son began shrieking like a deep throated demon, threw himself at the bound and fettered Persian warlord, ending him with one swift stroke. It was then that he began hacking at the corpse over and over again, showing no hint of mercy or succor.

The Persian's body looked like it was ravaged by a pack of wild wolves but 'Abd al-Ka'aba did not relent, instead raising his sword again and stabbing.

He did not stop until he was smacked with a stone on the back of the head.

I wondered who the boy reminded me of...

I sighed, shaking my head. Mu'awiyah preferred them alive rather than dead. He used a reward bonus to entice me into capturing the warlord rather than slaughtering on the spot.

A severed head would serve the same purpose just as well, I supposed. It would still be a handsome payment.

The Persian's head had deteriorated severely despite our best efforts to preserve the skin through embalming. It had been crawling with maggots and earthworms as well as a dozen other types of skin-shriveling bugs.

We wiped it clean of such abominations to present the head to Mu'awiyah. Some maggots yet crawled through the eye sockets, but it disturbed me not for it was bound in a cloth sack.

Under a fierce gaze, sharp words and a raised fist, the guards at the palace gates let us through. I stalked up to the upper levels of the palace and strode toward Mu'awiyah's spacious audience chamber which I knew he frequented both in times of business and leisure.

There were two guards standing at the heavy oak doors clasped with bronze hinges and knob. They leaned lazily on their spears. Their leather and mail hung loose from their frail bodies. The sight of them, so similar to docile house cats stoked my anger. They were men corrupted by life in barracks, a privileged existence of being provided regular rations, of having servants see and cater to their every need. They were weak and soft, the sort of men I took pleasure in crushing.