Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 13

My group of men trotted carefully forward. The campfires atop the hills still flickered. The signal was not yet given, and so the hills were not yet taken. I whispered a prayer to all the gods that came to mind and fingered my dead son's stick. I played with it, mumbling one prayer after the other for the fires to extinguish, rolling the stick through my fingers all the while.

The fires still blazed. There were no screams, no sounds of fighting nor struggle on either side.

And in that brief moment, I knew dread. In one stroke, I could lose dozens of valuable men, brothers. But there were no sounds of fighting. The laughter ceased, though. But the fires still blazed. Where were they?

More than one of those around me let out a relieved breath at the sight of the campfires beginning to douse, one after the other. The right hilltop had gone completely dark before Piruzan's men began putting out their own to the left.

Thank the gods.

It was time.

I prayed again that none of the Ghassanids had been murdered. But that was in the past now. All that mattered was securing the valuables of Rhodes and the Mediterranean. My men would feast their eyes on gold and silver and carry off a horde of riches. They were good boys. They ought to be rewarded.

I dug my knees deeper into Arslan's side. The wind rushed past my ears, tugging at my turban and the cloth of my robes as I cantered to the mouth of the gorge. No cries of alarm sounded from above, nor was there a volley of arrows raining down on me and mine. The Ghassanids were vulnerable. We had shown them the error of their ways. The strong always crush the weak. It was the way of life.

The valley thundered with the hooves of hundreds of horses, as I led my group of generals through the gorge, bouncing atop my saddle all the while.

Trailing us was an entourage of about a hundred and fifty more, led by Sufyan and Mahmud. 'Abd al-Rahman and his lagging forces would block the gorge, the camp's only escape route, and slaughter the Ghassanids should they prove to be enemies and attempt to flee through there.

I was aware that we were still in a precarious situation. In moments, we could be trapped between men to the north and south.

The men in the trees that would potentially flank us supposedly numbered twenty each. To counter this vulnerability, I split my entourage of a hundred men into two parts, fifty each. The first group, led by Sufyan, would trot off to the northern woods, while Mahmud and his own detachment would cover the opposite flank with an equal force. Each group of sentries would be outnumbered by the fifty warriors that would block their path to their families and tribesmen.

Fifty others lingered at my back, all mounted. We marched leisurely into the Ghassanid camp, wary of any foolhardy tribesmen that would challenge our trespass. They would be swiftly cut down where they stood, I was certain, for they faced men of superior skill and grit. In addition to my men's drive and prowess, they were already armed, armored and mounted, possessing the element of surprise. Any hostile tribesmen would be caught by surprise, barely having the time to fit themselves into mail coats or properly equip themselves for combat. Also, the archers above would prove a lethal cover should any heroic Ghassanids wish to engage. We would catch the Ghassanids in a rat's trap.

And so, we marched into their camp confident and sure, heads held high, hands on our hilts. The Ghassanids, though foreign in many of their mannerisms and beliefs influenced by their Roman overlords, were still Arab at heart. They were nomads, dwelling in tents of hides and skins. Some were entirely enclosed by walls, while others were shoddy pieces; a single cloth sheet or piece of carved skin facing the direction of any potential sandstorm, supported by a quivering wooden beam. Of course, these tribesmen would not be vulnerable to any sandstorm in this terrain or among these natural barriers, but some were not wealthy enough to afford cloth tents or the like.