Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

The bandit squirmed beneath Umaymah's heel. He kicked and struck at her foot with his fists, he tried to wriggle free of her grasp on his throat, all to no avail. He attempted cursing or spitting but it was all he could do to gasp for breath and gag beneath her smirking presence.

"Be done with it," Ja'afar called out, ramming his own sword into another bandit's throat. He continued searching for those who lay wounded, dying or yet drawing breath on the dystopian battlefield. Umaymah spared him a glance, appreciating his impressive figure.

She loved how he had developed both as an individual and a warrior in the past few years; she loved how he had all these curves protruding at odd angles. Umaymah was grateful that he had grown from his phase of tormenting her brother, so that he could be worthy of her.

"I want to toy with him some more," Umaymah responded, removing her heel from the bandit's throat for a brief moment, allowing him to suck in just the right amount of air before suppressing him again.

Instead of relinquishing her hold on her defeated foe, she winked at Ja'afar and dug her heel deeper. Ja'afar sighed again and began to walk away.

"Alright, alright, have it your way," she acquiesced, hefting her blade and finishing the man off.

Much had changed in the five or six years since Muhammad left to reunite with Father in Damascus. She had gotten stronger, more skilled. Yet, the eyes of the tribesmen were more apprehensive now.

In the past, they had taken her promising prowess as a novelty, a sort of entertainment to provoke laughs whenever she bested one of the boys. But now, she was emerging into womanhood, a woman flowered already with thirteen winters to her name.

There was confusion as to whether she would be allowed to mingle with boys now, as that was seen as promiscuity. Most were of the opinion that she needed to adhere to the womanly ways, instead. To learn the ways of appeasing the husband and to bear his children. But none dared voice these concerns to her face.

She was like her father. Her sword was her word. She yearned for the day she would finally meet the man she'd heard so many stories of. His latest antics in Cyprus intrigued her the most. She had only known these harsh desert plains, only braving the outskirts of the tribe's dwelling in the event of harrying a group of defeated bandits. Cyprus seemed as though it must be a different world entirely.

Father must be a man wise as he is strong, she mused, trudging her way through the corpses, heading for the camp. He served Allah in jihad during the conquests of Egypt and Syria, they said. He was a man well-traveled. He must be wise!

But there were those who did not paint her father in such a favorable light. Those were forced to eat their words at the pain of forfeiting the luxury of an intact nose. Father was a man who served Allah dutifully for years in Madinah and again in Damascus. She envied her brother Muhammad for his proximity to him. Thumping her sword on her thigh, she wondered when she would be allowed to leave the Banu Asad in favor for Damascus.

***

'Abdullah suppressed his groans, only letting out the most wistful of gasps, as a sharp pain struck him in the belly. He leaned on the tree trunk, breathing heavily, weary of body and mind now.

His tutor paused his reading of the Qur'an, and looked down at 'Abdullah, squirming cross-legged at his feet. The old man sighed and dropped his head. He lowered his copy of the holy scripture.

'Abdullah's mouth watered again at the sight of the precious thing, the pain of his many illnesses a fleeting memory now. Master 'Awf was a novelty, a gem! Very few people here knew the art of scripture and letters. Though many had memorized the entirety of the Qur'an, only Master 'Awf owned a copy.