THE MEDITERRANEAN COAST
the horse is made
ready for battle but
victory belongs
to the lord
– proverb
SHRILLS OF AGONY AND GROANS
of pain shattered the stillness of the land. The atmosphere thickened with cold despair as a grim shade of grey cast over the clear skies. Strong winds howled and swept in every direction as if trying to discern order amidst the brutal chaos. The mountains reclining on the horizon were obscured by vast forests of trees surrounding the outer fringes, whilst the battleground, the heart of the extensive plains, bore the remains of barren grass and arid sand.
Only the sands were no longer dry, gaudy scarlet flowing over scorched earth like streams of blood.
Pitch-black eyes observed the carnage from a distance as more cavalrymen are wiped out by a unit of skillful archers, followed by swift attacks from both the western and eastern fronts. Hussam knew the ambush wouldn't go unanswered, so he waited with unrivaled patience whilst absentmindedly tightening the reins of his beast in anticipation.
A fog lurked ahead and ominous clouds gathered as the roar of charging men drew closer, the earth trembling with terror.
Suddenly, a lone arrow pierced through the air and bolted past the foot soldiers on the defense toward enemy lines.
The sharp steel held one name and hunted its target like a crazed serpent. With uncanny speed, Hussam captured the arrow in mid-flight—a hairs breadth away—before it could strike between his eyes.
Rage simmered in his veins that threatened to erupt at the audacious attempt of their foe. Hurling the accursed weapon aside, with a menacing growl he ordered, "Draw!" His archers assumed their offensive positions once more as he bellowed, "Aim!" Just as the defense draw close enough the command comes just as fast, "Release!"
Endless rounds are shot following every order, obliterating the footsoldiers. Seconds later, the Qaysi knights bombard their adversaries in a ceaseless fire, showering debris from all sides as the men become cannon fodder. All that remains of the air is dust and rubble.
Hussam glances to his right where his companion Aabid stood, blade in hand, waiting for a final signal. With a curt nod, Hussam nudges his horse on the underside of its belly and the beast broke out into a sprint. It takes all of seconds. Fueled by vengeance and the company of his sword, he vanished alongside his men amid the spiral of brutality.
His sword, a sacred gift, is a refined steel that slightly curves at the edge. It snaps into bones and sinew like twigs, severing limbs from bodies and slicing through flesh like ripe tangerines. It's nectar—a bitter, crimson rage.
Just beyond the chaos, a dagger intended for Aabid whirled with precision, but before it could even graze its mark, Hussam impedes the blow. He rips his sword out of an enemy's skull then lunges it at the culprit, stabbing the young boy in the jugular and splitting his neck in two. He could hardly be considered a man but had confronted death like a true martyr.
Even empty of mercy, Hussam uttered a silent prayer for the boy. For a fraction, both he and his comrade locked eyes in gratitude before sending more souls to the afterlife. Following their leader, the rest of his men became unhinged all at once, clamoring for blood.
Alas, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. The skies tear open and wept for the fallen men as the head of the enemy's chief rested high on Hussam's spear. Doom descends the wet plains. Shields hit the ground with deafening thuds, and swords fall limp in callous hands. The hunger for victory is no more as egos shed like snake skin, shame taking its place.
The field is now littered with the dead and the dying, for it was now a gravesite of the unburied.
The fight in the men had died and along with it their pride. Courage was a distant memory. Without the guidance of their leader, they fell to submission and surrendered their conquest.
Blood drenched Hussam's hands, some of it beginning to dry on his face as he traced his steps back to his men before departing for their post.
"Assalamu Alaikum Warahmatullah," Hussam concludes in the softest whisper before bowing his head in an earnest du'a.
Nothing else existed at that moment other than his creator, his master; his ultimate judge and executioner should the piteous stone residing in his chest cease to draw breath. He was a man feared by many, yet he did not possess the heart to fear another man. In fact, very little terrified him, yet in the presence of his maker, the mere mention of his lord caused his form to quake in submission. He felt so small, so insignificant and prayer was one of the rare times he allowed himself to be vulnerable.
"Ya Amir, I bring grave news."
Hussam's ears perk at the company, recognizing the voice from anywhere. Having finished his prayer, he sauntered to Aabid and inquired of matters he was sure to dread. "How many casualties?"
"About a thousand on the offense,
Ya sheikh."
"What of my men?" Hussam asks, unlatching the armor encasing his chest and forearms.
"Roughly five dozen," Aabid offers despondently. "There are others whose deaths have yet to be confirmed."
He watched his leader's expression sink and take a similar shift as he spoke, "Summon the nurses. Have the physician tend to the gravely wounded. See to it the knights retire for the days to come." Hussam is silent before he continues, "I will make the arrangements for the fallen martyrs. They shall receive a proper burial once the tribesmen arrive."
"For the council meeting?"
"Indeed."
Aabid offers a brief nod. "What of our captives?"
"I shall greet them personally. In the meantime, ration what is left of our supplies and see them fed."
Aabid scratched at his dark beard, unease tightening his form. "The men and I fear there is a shortage of food."
He gestures behind him. "There are extra canisters in the back. However, they cannot remain here. We must take them to the city before sundown, for further consideration." Hussam considers his friend thoughtfully. "You look weary."
With a shake of his head, Aabid corrects, "I am famished. However, food must wait, there are more urgent matters."
He merely offers his silence in agreement.
"And the others?"
Hussam knew Aabid spoke of the strays who bordered city limits and lurked in the woodlands. It was not uncommon for spies to remain in the outskirts and attack the enemy in discreet. It was a tactic some commanders used at their discretion. However, Hussam was far too shrewd.
"Take a half a dozen men and scour the east for roving bandits. They shouldn't venture that far, not when their men have thinned considerably." Placing his items on a stool, he asks, "Is that all?" When silence answers back, Hussam turns to Aabid, expectantly.
"There is...one pressing matter," Aabid simply gestures to the opening of the tent. "Bring him in."
Two of his knights still clad in armor haul in a stout middle-aged man. Murad Ahmed ibn Bashir. He appears unharmed, save for the dried blood coating his mouth and grizzled beard. Through his dealings, Hussam knew the moor was the offspring of a poor shepherd and seamstress, before deserting his roots to rise to prominence. He was chief advisor to the slain leader of the tribe they defeated whilst he quietly arranged his departure during battle.
The man was nothing short of a two-headed snake who had been playing both sides, inciting conflict, all while devising a plan to slither his way up in rank as prime minister. Not only had his actions cost Hussam invaluable men, his own people starved within his walls while he wasted the gold needed to supply their knights.
The man spat, "Ya Ibn al Kalb! I am
a man of rank! You dare have me kneel before you like scum? Your father and I had a truce!"
Stoic as ever, Hussam disregarded the insult. "One you broke the moment your lips unsealed, or do you not recall your actions? Shall I prompt your memory?"
"You are mistaken—"
"I am mistaken?"
"I ensured peace for both your people and mine for many years. I have bent to your every whim to sustain our treaties and to uphold my honor, however, some faults are unforgivable."
"Indeed, some faults are unforgivable." Hussam stalked toward the vile man and hauled him up by the collar as he seethed, "You hoard your wealth and have the gall to flee while your king lies headless and your people starve. You abandon defenseless women and children, leaving them to be raped and murdered!? Where is the honor in that? Tell me!"
"What do you speak—"
"Aabid." Hussam interrupts sharply, loosening his grip to distance himself. He takes a deliberate step back before he strangled the lying coward.
Aabid acknowledges wordlessly.
"This hound looks quite better without his head." He turns to his right-hand man and flicks his hand toward the opening of the tent. "Join him with his maker."
"Gladly."
Fury shrouds the reddish rim around the traitors's pupils, his eyes bulging and shooting daggers into Hussam's back. "No! Please! No!" Ambling back to the stool at the end of the tent, Hussam dips his hands into a bowl of water and washes the sweat from his face before snatching a clean rag to dry them.
"No! Please! Mercy!" The traitor cries, "Mercy!"
Hussam snickers to himself, wondering just how much mercy a son of a dog like himself could possess. Tossing aside the sullied rag, he does not bother facing the brute as he answers, "Mercy is not granted to cowards."
His incessant pleas for clemency and errant insults go unheard as Aabid drags his form out of the tented space like the dog he is.
Shortly after, the flap of the tent stirs and in rushes an adolescent boy, urgency dazzling in his wide, shifty eyes. Adnan, the son of his 'aعm, and one of his many young cousins. He was but seventeen summers, yet his lanky form had already filled into that of a man's. His voice had deepened, shadows darkened his boyish chin, and he'd grown substantially in height.
Hussam frowned, reminded of his presence. "What is it?"
"It is uncle. He commands your presence at once."