Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 11

And reap the spoils, I thought.

With that, Mu'awiyah stalked off, his step sure and brisk even though he seemed to be accumulating more fat by the day.

The miserable city life does that, I thought grimly to myself. I won't be like that. I can't.

Determined, and with a renewed vigor, I hopped off the bed. Of course, my stomach lurched, and my vision swam again. I vomited but I do not remember my fall to the ground. I did not wake again that night.

***

I did leave Damascus and all its vices behind the very next morning. I had to endure eighty lashes first, of course, as was the Islamic penalty for consumption of alcohol.

My hangover was fierce, and I could barely gather a coherent thought. My head was pounding as though an enemy were smashing my skull with an axe over and over. I tried shaking my head as I walked to the open courtyard where such affairs were usually conducted, but I ended up doubling over and clutching my head as the pain only worsened.

"What?" I growled at a guard that barred my path through the narrow hallway leading to the courtyard, stopping in my tracks. I was in no mood for formalities.

"You have visitors...sire."

He briskly spun on his heels and started walking firmly down the hall. I assumed I was to follow. I grunted in approval at his discipline, his powerful, long strides, his firm and steady posture as he walked, head held high, eyes never resting in one place, hand clasped to his belt, ever ready to draw his sword. Perhaps not all of ibn Qays' men were useless louts.

He stopped abruptly before a door; his movements stiff. I was about to ask him if he wished to relocate to the northern mountains, but he shoved the door open before I could speak, and with a sharp gesture, invited me inside. He broke off in a quick stride, leaving me with these guests. I would inquire after him, I supposed.

I stepped into the dim room, pausing for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The shutters were closed, so there was no sunlight washing in as opposed to the sunlit hallways.

I grunted, recognizing three Asadi chieftains moments later. There were other boys with them. One was tall, proud, daring. He had the graceful build of a swordsman rather than the obtuse look of a solid warrior. I smiled, assuming this was my son, 'Abdullah. He would fight side by side with his brother, 'Abd al-Ka'aba, if the gods willed it.

Look how he meets my gaze without tremble, defiant and fiery, I thought to myself, eyes shifting to the others in the room.

There was a massive boy with powerful shoulders, clad in a flowing white gown not too dissimilar from the one I favored, and a white turban wrapped around his head. He had full lips, a prominent nose and a strong, shaved jaw. His skin was of a dark brown, similar to the shade I shared with 'Abd al-Ka'aba. A sword and a dagger would have rested on the baldric strapped around one shoulder, but they were doubtless confiscated outside of palace grounds.

I raised an eyebrow in confusion. I had sent a boy and a girl to the Assad – Abdullah and Umaymah. And I assumed the latter was Abdullah; so, this must have been some Asadi tribesmen. A sturdy warrior with an impressive build.

"Where is my daughter, ibn 'Abd Shams?" I demanded of one of the senior chieftains, inclining my head to him in respect.

He returned the gesture before raising a bushy white eyebrow.

"She stands before you, friend," he answered, waving a hand toward the beefy dark-skinned warrior.

I gaped at the warrior, who was now grinning at me. His teeth were very white, in peak condition. I narrowed my eyes, returning my gaze to the tribal chieftain in irritation. I felt my anger swell.