Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 5

          Thick tendrils of smoke whirled lazily through the air at my side, obscuring my sight of the raging crowds. Hundreds of berserk men and women in tattered rags, homely, drunk beyond salvation and gleaming with thick sweat. The sharp, foul stench to them added to the pungency of this underground hub of barbarism, this savage hive of base desire and primitive human nature.

The lighting was dim, almost nonexistent. The smoky fingers twirled about, rising to a seemingly boundless darkness above, the roof of this abode of blood and death plunged deep into the darkness beyond. The roof of the pits, however, was no roof at all. For the pits were submerged beneath the ground common civilians tread upon.

Decades ago, in my youth, Yazid ibn Mas'oud, who had been my master, spoke to me of this place. A place of unchecked villainy, where rogues clung to the barbaric practices of the past. The Romans at their zenith orchestrated duels between criminals where men would fight to death to the delight of adoring crowds and indulging nobles. This practice was all but eradicated with the tight restrictions of Christianity; unbeknownst to the masses, however, this only created a thriving underground community where the legacy of these duels lingered in the shadows.

The pits, as they were called, provided an opportunity for corrupt official and lowly peasant alike to earn a fortune in betting on these duelists, these gladiators, at the risk of death. Or fates much, much worse.

Where Yazid once threatened me to hurl me down to this foul den of feral cruelty, I now stood with my own two feet. Of my own volition.

The crowds in the pits were anything but adoring. They raged on, their slurred chants incoherent and messy. They tossed a number of items at me and my competitor for the evening.

The man was colossal, so dark-skinned that all I could make out of him was the whiteness of his teeth and the reflection of dim light off his blade. He was stark-naked, it seemed, with a broadsword in one hand and iron chains in the other – a monstrous piece, flowing with jingling links.

Such exotic choices of weaponry were not uncommon in the pits. The competition here was, after all, to please and entertain.

My equipment was far more mundane. I hefted my usual shield and curved blade, donning my usual Arab gear of a turban and a tunic, as well as draping the turban's tail about my face to mask my true identity from any probing eyes.

Five years I had frequented the pits, and they never failed me once.

It was the confined space of this damned city. The docility of palace life. Where were the sands that once baked the soles of my feet? Where was the arduous terrain and the ferocity of unrelenting foe?

Men coming at me with swords and spears was something I could understand.

But palace life? Daggers brandished in the dark?

The subtle intricacies of political intrigue irked me to my core. My heart beat faster and a growl escaped my lips as I remembered Mu'awiyah's treachery. He made me look the fool. How should I anticipate tricks such as that for the remainder of my life? Why couldn't it be as simple as the rush to butcher the adversary?

I knew the patrons betting on this match would be favoring me. They would risk thousands of dirhams on the outcome of this matchup, that 'The Veiled Barbarian', as they called me, would emerge triumphant as he had for years prior. I would not disappoint, not that I cared for lining the pockets of the foolish and the privileged.

The dark-skinned man roared as he spread his arms wide, triggering the crowd into a wave of bellowing of their own. The deafening noises were tuned out of my mind, however, in favor of the distinct beating of my heart and the pounding of my brain. I was only vaguely aware of these sounds, as though I were beneath the surface of the sea, my hearing clouded, the world above a haze.