Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 30

          These walls have evoked a number of emotions from me over the years.

Rage was obviously one. Lust. Affection. Grief. Frustration. The irksome prick of betrayal. Jealousy. Hunger.

I never thought I would feel relief.

But when the whole world seemed hostile and its people reduced to mere strangers when once they had been close kin – when I had been torn down to nothing more than a wayward traveler...

Anything was possible.

The Green Palace in Damascus welcomed me once more in the thirty fifth year. I had made it out of Roman and Armenian lands alike unscathed. My followers had dispersed to their respective strongholds once we set foot in friendly Syrian territory.

It was a sad state of affairs when this was the only place I had left.

But there was a positively surprising weight lifted off my shoulders. Qasim was dead. He was the mastermind of my torment – he had long been so. I killed him with my bare hands in a brutal fashion, unfit, inappropriate even for this chronicle.

That was the al-Khalidun threat dealt with. They'd taken everything I'd ever cared for from me. They'd achieved their goal. Now, I lopped the head off the snake.

There was still Zayn of course, the one they called the Crow. The son of my second slavemaster, Yazid, whom I had slain some decades prior in this very city.

But he was a useless brat, groomed by Qasim in the treacherous ways of their creed. No doubt support for my torment would cripple now the old man was out of the way.

I knew that Mu'awiyah had coordinated a land attack on Constantinople. But that was months ago. With the fleet smashed to bits, the siege was rendered impossible. He must have returned to Syria eons ago.

Why, then, were his troops readying the wagons outside in the yard?

The hallways were empty. The teeming bustle characteristic of the palace was concentrated entirely without the walls. Where was Mu'awiyah going?

Two guards barred my way from entering the governor's living quarters.

I growled at them, depleted of both the mood and the energy to confront their petulant sense of duty. I held a threatening hand to my hilt as they stiffened.

But the doors burst open, saving them from a certain battering.

"My lord," I greeted him gruffly.

Mu'awiyah ibn Abu Sufyan narrowed his eyes at me. He'd grown even fatter since I was away.

"You're alive," he accused me.

"Guilty," I admitted. I patted the bulk of my arm. "Healthy as well."

"More's the pity," he replied, a brief smirk of admiration adorning his rough face.

"Are you off hawking, my lord, or is there a pretty maiden that caught your sight?" I jerked a thumb behind my back, referring to the obvious logistical preparations for a march.

Mu'awiyah stared at me blankly for a moment, as though judging whether I was genuinely ignorant or merely jesting.

Finally, he broke out in a deep chuckle, hand on a massive belly. He stepped forward and draped a hand over my shoulders as I turned, walking down the hallway with him.

"Hanthalah, my boy," he roared. "We're at war."