Ismail had to protect his mother and sister. Especially since they were too busy playing games. They were all locked in the royal bedroom for three days now, and his mother was still just playing and laughing and lounging.
The two women played chess by tall windows that, by the cruelness of either fate or Roman architects, faced the opposite direction from where Ismail’s father would eventually march back into Hims in the company of his victorious cavaliers.
“I’m going to hang the man who designed this room,” Ismail declared. Lady Ismat returned a smile, amused, but that only made him angrier. She never took him seriously or anything he said. His twin sister, Zumurrud, killed a pawn with her queen before looking up at him with her sharp green eyes. Barely eight years of age and she already had the stare of an unimpressed Qadi. Ismail wished people reacted to him the way they did to her.
“You’re two hundred years too late, brother,” Zumurrud said.
“I know,” Ismail replied.
“Meaning, he’s dead.”
“Yes, I got that, thank you.”
Zumurrud’s lips twitched a hint of a smile and then she was back to staring at the board in front of her. She always played white, and always took her queen out too early. Lady Ismat could handle her calm aggression, but Ismail always had trouble surviving the first few moves with her. She was ruthless.
“Come play. You can take over for me, Ismail,” Lady Ismat said as she held out her jeweled hand.
“I don’t have time for girlish games,” Ismail replied.
“He’d rather be on the hunt, bird-mother,” Zumurrud said sarcastically.
Their mother gasped playfully. “You’re going to hurt bird-mother’s innocent creatures?”
“Not innocent!” Ismail said. “Blighted! Father said he’ll take me on a Blighthunt when he returns.”
“Father doesn’t have time—“
“Shush now, Zumu, it’s your turn,” Lady Ismat told his annoying sister. What did Zumurrud know of the world outside, Ismail thought. They were women. Completely unbothered with being locked in a room for two days, playing games and brushing their hair. Ismail wanted to be roaming the marshlands, capturing waterfowl, or as his father had promised him, take his first Kreke or some other Blighted small-game. He dreamt of stumbling on something bigger though, a maneater or even a Deathstalker. He knew it would be unlikely to see such creatures so close to the walls, but he imagined cocking his crossbow as he handled his mare with one hand. The other cavaliers would watch with awe as his shining bolt ripped through the air and slammed into a Tuqtuq’s face. Right in the eyes.
He would become the best cavalier in middle kingdom, Ismail thought. Although one day, he’d have to outgrow his horse. Just like his father, who stood over ten-feet tall. Ismail wasn’t ready for that, however. He enjoyed riding with the other boys.
“Someone’s at the door,” Hisham said suddenly. He was the only one in the room that was not a member of the Zengi family. A muscular footman with a great-axe called a Tabardariyya; the preferred weapon of Ismail’s father and the royal guard.
Hisham shifted the half-moon blade to his strong-arm and crossed the room, his heavy chain-mail clinking in the quiet room. Lady Ismat was staring hopefully at the door and even Zumurrud left her board and turned around in her chair.
Hisham placed a hand on the tall doors. Had he heard a knock? Ismail dared to step closer and strained an ear.
“Hafsa?” Hisham called the name of their maidservant. Her name was on the list of approved persons allowed in the room. Ismail’s father had been explicit with his directions in his last letter.
Ismail heard it now; shuffling of boots from the other side, followed by a light rasp of fingers on the door. “Who is it?” Hisham bellowed. Ismail’s heart quickened despite himself and he looked to his mother. She was standing in front of Zumurrud, now.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“Rashid Ibn Hakim,” answered an elderly voice. “Ra’is of Hims.”
“It’s the city-master,” Ismail said with a sigh. “Open it!”
Hisham ignored him and looked at Lady Ismat for direction. Ismail’s mother shrugged, “I don’t think his name was on the letter.”
“Listen to me, Hisham,” Ismail said and pulled at the guard’s sleeve. “Let the city-master in.”
“He’s not loyal to Yaruq—“
“My father is not here, I’m your master right now,” Ismail cried. This was their chance to be out of this god-forsaken room. “He could have important news.”
The Ra’is spoke again, this time a little clearer. He was speaking into the crack, “I bear a letter from His Grace, Emir Yaruq al-Din Zengi.”
“Open it!”
Hisham pushed Ismail back and he stumbled. The guard didn’t mean for it to be a rough shove but Ismail felt the weight of his armored chainmail as it landed on his shoulder. “How dare you!” Ismail cried.
“Hisham,” Lady Ismat scolded.
“I didn’t mean to, Ismat,” the axeman said quickly. “But the Ra’is is not allowed in here.”
“I will decide who is allowed and who isn’t,” Ismail snapped. He did his best to channel his sister’s imperious look. “Open the door, Hisham” he ordered.
Hisham licked his lips. “Stand back, young prince,” he finally said and picked up the iron bar off its hook. The door groaned in relief as the guard twisted several bolts out of their socket along the edge. Slowly and carefully, the guardsman pulled back the heavy doors. Ismail held his breath.
Something whizzed past Hisham’s face. It clattered against the stone walls, with enough force to leave a crack. It rolled away under Lady Ismat’s bed. Ismail knew it was a crossbow bolt, but he couldn’t think of how or why it had appeared. For a split second, nothing made sense.
Hisham closed the door awkwardly. He placed his great-axe against the door, moving strangely but quickly. His hand stammered as he let go of the handle.
“Hisham?” Lady Ismat’s small voice called worryingly.
Hisham turned, a jet blood spurting from his neck.
Ismail’s heart beat out of his chest, and with every drum, Hisham shot blood to the exact rhythm. The man seemed unfazed, though, until he noticed the red spray himself. He placed a hand on his neck in a futile attempt to stop it. “I think I’m hit, Ismat-t,” his voice an odd gurgle.
He walked normally to Ismail’s mother, but at the last few steps, he fell to his knees. Lady Ismat’s yellow dress soaked astonishingly fast as the guardsman crawled into her lap. She cradled his head, “What… Hisham!”
“Lock it!” Zumurrud yelled, “I said lock it, Ismail!”
Ismail realized the door knob was turning again, and the axe trembled as someone banged against the wood. But Ismail was frozen. He felt a wetness in his breeches and he looked down to find that he had pissed himself.
Ismail started as the axe smacked into the floor and sent specks of marble debris sliding past his feet. He refused to move, no matter how much his mother and sister screamed at him.
A shadow stepped into the room. It took a moment for Ismail to notice the humanness of the invader. The black clothing was just leather, with patches of dark-chainlike material. His metal face, a golden mask. A death-mask, Ismail recognized; like the one’s Shayzari cavaliers donned in times of war. But they largely wore silver, and the only one who wore golden was their champion, Balak.
“Ismat ad-Din Zengi,” Balak addressed Ismail’s mother as she shielded his sister. “Aleppo or Damascus?”
Hearing the human voice behind the metal mask shook Ismail out of his fear. “My father… was going to kill you,” Ismail muttered.
“He didn’t,” Balak replied.
Lady Ismat charged with a dagger, her red and yellow dress flapping wildly as she closed the distance and ran past Ismail. Balak didn’t move a step. He pulled his blade upward, smacking Ismail’s mother in the chin and her head jerked backward as crumpled to the floor.
“Umma!” Ismail cried.
It looked like she was sleeping on her side, but her arm was bent awkwardly behind her. Ismail wanted to run to her, but Balak stepped over her body and blocked his path. Ismail’s fear was back, clutching his body like a vice, clenching his throat with horror and pain.
“They want us alive,” Zumurrud shrieked. “The Atabegs would want us alive!”
“Wait, Sayyid, please wait,” the old city-master stepped into the room. He paused to look around at the murders and wiped his sweaty brow, addressing Balak again, “she’s right, Unur had strict orders for bringing the…entire family into the field.”
“Take the girl,” Balak replied. “The boy dies.”
As he took a step towards Ismail, Lady Ismat groaned. She turned, showing her ruined face, and reached out to clasp Balak’s ankle. The noise she made sounded inhuman, like the whine of an old wagon creaking under a heavy load. She croaked helplessly as Balak kicked her hand away. He flipped his blade over and struck the point viciously into her back.
“Ismail, run!” Zumurrud yelled. His sister ran up behind him and shoved him violently.
The push was all he needed. Ismail broke into a sprint, dodged Balak’s outstretched hand and bolted past the startled Ra’is. He ran into the empty corridor, turning towards the kitchens, his feet seeking the quickest way out of the Citadel all on their own. The tears that he could feel running down his cheeks; he knew in his heart they weren’t tears of loss or pain. The fear was still there. Making him run the hardest he’d ever ran in his life. He ran from his sister and mother like the coward he’d finally come to know he was.