Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 14

Ibn Qays was a dull man and sour. I don't think I ever saw him smile before. Yet the sparkle in his eyes betrayed a hint of amusement as he trotted toward me to gloat in his victory. I regretted not battering 'Abd al-Rahman to a bloody pulp.

It was the morning after our failed attempt to capture the Ghassanid chieftain and no one in the dwelling had slept. Mundhir reported two Ghassanids accidentally killed on his hill, Piruzan only one. The sentries in the woods were all ambushed and captured without casualties, courtesy of Sufyan and Mahmud.

Throughout the night, I'd sent search parties out into the plains past the gorge to scour the land for the bastard who ran. I decided to reprimand 'Abd al-Rahman some time else. For now, I sulked in the chief's tent, the soothsayer who called herself Amina by my side.

"You said I would not go to Rhodes."

"Not yet," Amina replied.

"So...I will."

"Not yet," she repeated.

For 'Abd al-Rahman's incompetence, I had to suffer the boasting of a lesser man. I sighed, resigning myself to whatever was to come. Ibn Qays dismounted and pushed his way into the tent, his arm extended. I rose to my feet in a display of respect and clasped his arm.

"As-salamu 'alaikum w rahmat Allah," he spoke the Muslim greeting in the faintest of whispers. A miracle was about to happen then as the edge of his mouth curled up ever so slightly in what seemed to potentially blossom into a smile. But it evaporated as abruptly as it appeared.

"Wa 'alaikum," I answered gruffly and shortly. There was no mirth to my tone nor my face. I barely contained hostility. "Where is he?"

Ibn Qays slithered his arm away from mine and turned to the open slit in the tent. He put two fingers to his lips and blew; the whistle was some sort of signal, as two men came forward, dragging an old man in a pitiful state. His dusty face and clothes were besmirched with mud and muck. Was that blood? I noticed how he clutched one leg in agony every once in a while. There was no hatred in his eyes, only resignation.

"This is how you treat the elderly?" I demanded, waving a hand.

"This is how I treat the infidel," ibn Qays replied, the sparkle returning to his eyes. When he said that, his eyes were fixed on me, as though he were implying something.

"Speak freely, ibn Qays. Speak your mind or are you too craven to do so?"

Ibn Qays did not reply. Instead he snapped his fingers at his men.

"Get the other one and leave us in peace," he ordered them.

"Other one?" I asked.

"One of your men, I presume," the glimmer in his eye made me want to punch him in the fucking throat.

When they returned, they were dragging a much younger, fitter and more powerfully built man. His clothing and the mail beneath were in a far better state, his jaw set and his eyes proud and defiant. A stark comparison, it seemed...only the young man was no man at all.

"You petulant little shit," I spat at my daughter. "You disobedient, sparrow-headed moron."

You could pinpoint the exact moment her heart shattered into pieces. The pride and defiance in her gaze were replaced with agony and hurt. Her shoulders slumped and she was visibly fighting back tears.

"What are you doing here?" I bellowed at her.

She flinched and shut her eyes tight. The Ghassanid chief shot her a sympathetic glance. Ibn Qays was only watching the interaction unfold with unrestrained amusement.