Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 13

The witch in this chapter is a tribute to kidochoi 

It took the better part of two days for the first stage of the plan to come to fruition. We successfully traversed the plains north and east of the valley without attracting the attention of the Bedouin sentries, effectively finding ourselves camped a short distance east of our target.

I did not intend to initiate hostilities. The chief of the tribe could well be innocent of the allegations leveled against him, and should any harm befall him or his, it would be my head. It never hurt taking precautions.

I resolved it would be a fool's errand attempting to capture the woodlands north or south of the dwelling. There was a massive hill to the west blocking any advance. The only feasible option to enter the camp was to the east – through the narrow gorge. We had massacred scores of Persians in a gorge not unlike this a short while ago.

I raised my head to search the heavens just in time to see a sole eagle make flight to the general direction of the Bedouin camp.

A good omen, I thought, smiling to myself.

The time for omens and superstition is past. The need for action is nigh.

Nodding to myself, studying the sliver between two hills, I took a deep breath and kissed the stick hanging on a cord at my neck. It was the same stick my son had been playing with before...

In one quick movement, I hopped onto Arslan's saddle, raising my arm above my head. Arslan whinnied, tossing his head left and right. I patted his neck with my other hand, calming him. I dug my knees into his ribs, spurring him forward.

And I let my hand fall.

It was the call to action. It was pitch dark, the black of night. Well past midnight. The hour of the wolf, when all the world was asleep. There was no illumination to the night but that of moon and stars. Vague outlines of the planets would be visible to the trained eye.

There were vibrant fires visible on the hills to the west. Their smoke clouded the air above them. There was a raucous of laughter spilling down the hills from the sentries above. I grinned. They were careless. They were some obscure nomadic tribe. Enemies were far and few between to them. No enemy in their right mind would storm this natural fortress. Much less at dark. They were lax, unworried, laid back.

But the enemy was nigh.

With the signal given, Mundhir sprinted away with twenty-three men behind him. They hurried forward, crouched low, keeping to the shadows. They made for the slope to the right.

The sentries to the left would be dealt with by Piruzan at the head of an identical number. These men would also have bows strung to their backs; the archers would need the high ground if it came to conflict. Both groups were under strict orders to avoid bloodshed at all costs. They were sent out in overwhelming numbers – nearly double the size of the enemy – to incapacitate them and secure a foothold to the east of the camp. No Ghassanid would die unless their chief initiated hostilities. I trusted Piruzan, Mundhir and the other boys to be shrewd enough to carry out the order.

They were lost to me in the darkness. The scuffle of their sandals on sand was studiously silent and threw no dirt clods back to form clouds of sand that would alert the men atop the hills. Their huddled figures were lost to me only moments later. I grunted at their competence and courage.

I whistled softly. On cue, 'Abd al-Ka'aba, my son, trotted to my right and Tariq to my left. Sufyan and Mahmud formed my rear. 'Abd al-Rahman, my half brother, would be leading a separate detachment, some one hundred men lagging farther behind.