Dakkoul
His brother. The thought sank into his heart even as he tried to brush it off. Malek just wanted to find his father not claim a brother. He ordered Malek to sit up and began binding the wounds on his body, the wounds he had made.
"Why was I punished?"
"Consider it an initiation," Dakkoul said the side of his mouth twisting. "All new slaves must be beaten by the Hattavah and flimsier the excuse, the better. It's so you hate and fear me. It's supposed to keep you obedient."
Malek digested that in silence.
Dakkoul added, "When you report to Lord Rustavan, you must make it clear that you hate me. He trusts hatred. It will make him believe all you say. And if you're convincing enough, he'll stop ordering me to hurt you." He stood to his feet.
With a groan Malek copied him. "That burned. You didn't hold back at all."
Dakkoul doused the lamp and the room plunged into shadows. "He'd have liked a whole cup better. You should be grateful I kept it short."
Malek did not reply.
That night, as Dakkoul lay on his straw pallet, he made loud snoring noises to see if Malek would sneak in after all to kill him or steal from him. By the time he was convinced Malek was not coming, Dakkoul could not sleep. The shadows, as they so often did, seemed to have faces that whispered against him. If he entertained them long enough he would see their features and remember their names. The one hovering by his stool had spiky auburn hair, a kitchen slave with the fever whose death had been ordered by Lord Rustavan. She'd opened her eyes right before he plunged his knife in, begging for her life. She often returned to whisper curses against him.
But it was the newly dead Captain Tanaach that demanded his attention now. Every time he shut his eyes, he could sense him approaching and the urge came to get his dagger. He rolled off his pallet, lit his lamp and found it.
Malek barged in, did a double-take, then lunged for the dagger wrestling it from his hand. It clattered to the floor. With his foot, Malek shoved it so it slid out, past the tattered curtain, into the hallway.
"How dare you?" Dakkoul shrieked, so overcome by fury that Malek had time to back against the wall before Dakkoul launched at him, aiming punch after punch that sometimes connected and sometimes missed. Malek had a knack for dodging blows but he did not fight back. Finally Dakkoul landed a punch to Malek's stomach that crumpled him to the ground.
Malek staggered to his feet. "I follow my owner's orders, Hattavah."
The coolness in his tone sliced through Dakkoul's anger, although shame made him say, "I'll cut myself if I want to".
Malek gave him a derisive glance then hobbled out, spots of fresh blood appearing on the back of his tunic. Dakkoul followed him, saying, "You can't stop me," as Malek picked up the dagger and slung it through the belt of his tunic.
"And it's not like that's my only blade," Dakkoul added. Only it was the one he usually used. He liked the feel of the hilt and the engraving of the Fox on it seemed fitting. All he had to do was demand it back. He knew that. Yet did he really want to?
Malek ignored him, put the dagger on the ground and stretched out over it, his hands behind his head as cushion. "This ground is cold, Hattavah," he said in a tone of mild complaint.
"Don't sleep on it then," Dakkoul snapped. "Lean against the wall."
"I've tried that. I fall over when I go to sleep. It's a shock, waking up after a crack to the head."
"Your head's already cracked."
"This dagger's all knobby too. Not comfortable at all. At least in the kitchen Cate let me sleep by the stove.
"You're supposed to have a blanket."
Malek shrugged. "Had one. Sold it."
"Then ask your owner for a new one"
A grin flickered across Malek's face. "I thought I'd ask my master instead."
"You don't deserve a blanket," Dakkoul replied, with all the dignity he could muster.
The grin became a smirk. "You got more blades, did you say? Should I do an inspection?"
"Stay out of my room." A heaviness was growing in Dakkoul's chest. He backed into his room, and found his second best blade from under the clothes box. It would have to do.
A figure appeared at the door and he cursed. "Get out, I told you."
Malek stood his ground, all trace of amusement gone. "Give the dagger to me."
"I have to do this. I have to satisfy the Fox." The hysterical edge to his tone made him wince. How stupid he sounded.
Malek came over to him and held out his hand for the blade.
Dakkoul stared at the open palm of his hand, so like his in color, before placing the hilt on it. "And now what do I do?" he said, his voice cracking.
"You don't harm yourself. No god's worth your blood."
"I have to do this," Dakkoul muttered, hanging his head. "You don't understand. It's the penalty required when a life is taken."
"I don't understand. But I'll stop you giving your blood as I've been ordered." Malek's quiet insistence and the confidence of his stance, made one thing clear. The only way to stop Malek would be to knock him out. Dakkoul bunched his fists.
Malek sighed and pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. "My blood instead then. That's what he said."
Dakkoul swallowed. That was the order Lord Rustavan gave. They would both suffer if he ignored it. Yet could he really offer Malek's blood for his own? Would that satisfy the She-Fox? He looked at the smooth, unmarked skin on the underside of Malek's arm. His brother's skin. He'd already marked a lot of it. He couldn't hurt the rest.
All his anger, his baffled fury vanished leaving behind a cold, choking despair. He dropped to his pallet and covered himself in his blankets. In the doorway, Malek crouched down on his haunches. "I'll watch all night."
Dakkoul did not answer, but a tiny silver of warmth snaked through him at Malek's words. After he rolled around for the sixth time, he sat up.
"Too warm, Hattavah? I can take a blanket off you, if you want."
Dakkoul ignored him, lit the lamp and slid out two swords from beneath his pallet.
Malek rose to his feet.
"No sleep for me now," Dakkoul said with a weak attempt at cheerfulness, passing the hilt of the lesser sword to Malek. "Let's fight."
Malek took it with eagerness. "Looks like it's my day to get beaten up."
A grin almost appeared on his face but Dakkoul suppressed it. Malek was still in pain from his back, his movements stiff but his face glowed with anticipation. He'd have to go easy on him.
Usually Dakkoul trained outside with one of the soldiers, but since it was night he went to the very spacious library that was filled with books on one side and on the other a huge rug. He told Malek to roll it up and put it to one side.
"Let's see what you can do," he said holding the sword in his most relaxed grip, waiting.
Malek held back. "I don't know anything."
"A young man your age, newly captured and you've never held a sword," Dakkoul scoffed. "How is that even possible? Where did you grow up? Under a starberry bush?"
A flush of red washed over Malek's face and his grip tightened on the sword he held so awkwardly. "My father was not around to teach me and no one else wanted to either."
A complete raw beginner. He never would have suggested this if he'd known. "I probably should get the wooden swords," he said in all seriousness. "You'll just hurt yourself."
"I don't care if I do. I want to learn to use this."
Dakkoul sighed, and started teaching him the absolute basics, starting with simple defensive moves. Malek was obviously in pain from his wounds, but still light on his feet.
"You move quickly," Dakkoul observed. He'd noted that speed at the Fox-dance. But how had someone as hopeless as Malek at fighting hurt the She-Fox so badly? A lucky accident?
"I had six older brothers who liked to torment me. I'm a very fast runner."
"Six brothers, and not one of them would teach you?"
Malek's lips pressed together. "In my village it's not like here. The word for brother is the same as the word for rival. Each brother competes to be named the father's chosen one."
"What happens to the brothers that lose?" Dakkoul asked.
"They serve the winner. There can be only one heir."
"But why would your brothers fight you over a father that wasn't around?" Dakkoul asked genuinely puzzled. "Couldn't you all just help each other out?"
"I said I didn't have a father; they all had one." For second, something dark and strange crept into Malek's expression. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then he spoke in a lighter tone. "They weren't all bad. One of them would help me out sometimes, when he could do so without the others knowing."
Dakkoul snorted. "How brave of him." Even as he said the words, his conscience attacked him. Wasn't he planning on doing the same? It was the most sensible course for himself and for Malek but he found himself wishing that Malek had at least one brother who would openly claim him.
By the time dawn crept in through the windows, Malek looked far less ridiculous holding a sword but he was a long way from being useful with it.
On his way back to try sleeping again, Dakkoul bumped Coleus who told him to set up a meeting with his contact from the palace, to work out how to get Keilah accepted in the Vixen Trials.
Dakkoul did so before settling down for a sleep. He woke feeling more refreshed and ready to meet the day than he had in a long time. Malek was curled up in a ball on the floor, and underneath his belly the handle of his dagger poked out. Dakkoul prodded him with his foot, until he sprang to his feet. "You'll stay away all night watching me?" he mocked, but he hummed an old ballad in honor of the Fox as he accepted the dagger back from Malek.
"I hope it kept you awake," Dakkoul said, tossing it on to his pallet.
"My stomach's all bruised," Malek replied, lifting his top so Dakkoul could see the purplish marks from where he'd hit him the night before and a unexpected feeling of shame crept over him. All of Malek's wounds were from him. He was exactly like all his other brothers. All he'd done so far was hurt him.
How do you think Malek will change Dakkoul? And the big question - can Malek be trusted? Comments, votes and shares are all appreciated!