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Clearly, I have gained some favour in a life lived before. There is a gap between creeping ivy vines and close huddle branches. One I can pass without a crack or even a rustle if I angle myself right. A sidewards torso twist, my eyes still fixed on the creature preoccupied by turning Zakariya into what is coming out of its rear. I lift my left leg and twist it to clear a grasping thorn-covered vine. Stretch out and down. The right is kicked back. Horizontal. A pivot on the left leg led by the shoulder. And I am back, planted square on two legs, my sword in hand.
And the shadhavar none the wiser.
I’m not far from it. Probably ten large strides...if I were foolish enough to advance towards the creature in such a loud and ungainly fashion.
No. I am cautious. Careful. A foot lifted. A knee rotation, slow and soft. No whistle of fabric. No clicking of bones. I’ll not risk even my own skeleton betraying me.
Zakariya wails again, and I use the cover to plant my foot. And then it all goes the way of what drops from the shadhavar’s behind.
Because Zakariya’s eyes, closed previously in agony, come open. Perhaps jolted by the horn’s intimate internal examination. Perhaps just because I clearly also did something wrong in a previous life, and Zakariya is my punishment for it.
Either way, his gaze, rolling around in his face, fixes on me. And locks there.
‘Aicha, lalla, save me!’ He shrieks at the loudest volume his voice will allow. How he manages it with all the noise he’s been making, I have no idea. One would have thought he’d have gouged out all the sounds his throat could make. But no. Somehow he is louder still than when he screamed. An impressive feat.
Of course, it’s more than enough to alert the creature whose horn he is impaled upon.
Chapter Five
Mount Lebanon, 3 May 1211
I have no idea if it speaks our language. If it can parse the meaning from the words. I am sure it isn’t a necessity. Zakariya couldn’t have given me away more if he were my father handing me off into marriage. Nor as quickly as that particular moment happened either.
My only slight satisfaction is that Zakariya pays for it more instantly than I do. The shadhavar rears onto its back legs and wheels around. As it does so, its impaled victim clearly slips another inch or two farther down. The accompanying noise sounds like the jointing of mutton for the fire. Zakariya’s expression – and accompanying wail make it obvious how pleasant an experience that was for him.
All my efforts ruined. I purse my lips. Vexatious, to say the least. Now I face off against a legendary beast. Sword against horn...and hooves. And muscles behind them the size of my whole body bunched to stomp me into a tiny little Aicha puddle.
There is only one comfort in that. If the Caliph, ruler of the Islamic world, owns a horn of a shadhavar, they must be killable. I will not be less than one of the soldier men of the Caliphate. Not in this lifetime. That much I swear.
And if I am that bad, this will probably be my last action of this lifetime. So I won’t have time to rue the breaking of my vow.
Looks like taking the creature by surprise has won me some respect, at least. It doesn’t just charge, aiming to add me to its meat skewer. Instead, it keeps its eyes on me, its head twisting to make sure of it. That’s not a delight for Zakariya. Shame. Maybe next time he’ll be less blasted obvious.
I make a few testing swings of my blade. Sure enough, the creature is clever enough to understand. Each time the blade probes, the shadhavar twists back, and Zakariya’s body is there to block my path. Each time, I pull back and start searching again.
‘Aicha! Aaah!’
Well, almost each time. The shadhavar put the idiot too quickly in my path, so the sweeping sword has just cut a crease across his buttocks.
‘It’ll heal, Zakariya.’ My sympathy levels are low. He will reform instantly from what happened. I will not if it happens to me.
‘It still hurts!’
I am almost impressed. I’d imagine with all the agony he’s in right now, he’d struggle to notice a little bit more.
‘I can’t help it.’ The shadhavar is regaining its confidence. Now it is not simply blocking my testing forays. The horn’s movement is more planned now. It looks at me from under the body-shield it has made of Zakariya, and I can see it’s looking for a gap of its own.
I will not survive if it finds one. ‘Get out of my way!’ If I can get a clean blow in, we might still stand a chance.
‘I can’t!’ he shrieks at me, wailing sobs breaking the syllables up.
‘Use your hands. Push against the horn. Get yourself free.’ If he tears himself off it, he’ll be healed in an instant. Then we can be two versus one. Then we stand a chance.
‘I…I can’t… I can’t!’ He just keeps gabbling, blood flicking away from his mouth each time he does.
I spit. I can’t help it, though I don’t look away. Again, not stupid. But I find this display distasteful in the extreme.
Perhaps you stand in judgement of me. See me as lacking empathy. Uncaring. Fine. I care even less for that than I do for Zakariya’s cowardice. For cowardice I name it.
