Dohares kirs Uin

Ibn dho-Khali slammed the stone cup down before him. It met the wooden table with a bang. The wine was too cheap, even for him, but Ibn didn’t care. It helped him clear his head. The sun was coming up and the dirty, chalky streets of Khoares Xub were growing noisy. Normally, Ibn might have leaned out his window and cursed at some merchant setting up shop below, but today was different. Ibn hardly heard the noise outside at all. All he could think of was his sister. Poor, poor Adira.

Ibn stood up from his splintery desk, pushing his wobbly wooden chair up against the wall. When he turned, the backs of his legs pressed up against the lip of the seat behind him, while his nose nearly brushed against the sandy stone wall ahead. Normally, he might curse this tiny room and kick at the warped chest at the foot of the bed, but not today. Poor, poor Adira.

He pulled his sword belt down from its spot on the wall, the sword itself still attached in its sheath. At the very least, the Silk Snakes had given him his sword. It wasn’t lordsteel, but it would hold. It would kill. As he buckled the belt around his waist, he noticed the badge sewn to the breast of his sky-blue tunic; a snake slithering through the sand. The emblem of the Silk Snakes. He tore it off and threw it on the ground. I am not a mercenary today, he thought. I am merely Ibn dho-Khali. I am merely Adira’s brother.

Ibn stepped outside his room, pulling the rugged wooden door softly behind him. It shut with a click. His rough leather boots scuffed against the buckled planks that formed the dusty landing outside. To his right was the door to his mother’s room. It had been painted once, he remembered, but now all that remained was bare wood mottled with flecks of white.

The mercenary looked to his left. His sister’s door was squeezed in crudely at the top of the stairs, which themselves were too small by half, and crammed up against the wall. Adira’s door had been painted more recently, with only a few chips here and there. The floor was scratched where the door scraped against it. In the center was a red hand print. That was new.

Three nights ago, Adira dho-Khali had been beaten bloody in the streets. Someone had carried her home, laying her at the foot of the door and disappearing into the night, leaving her to be found by their sick and aged mother, who had called the mystery man a kind soul. It seemed to Ibn that a kind soul would never have allowed harm to come to his sister in the first place. He shrugged it off, putting it in the back of his mind. Soon enough, it won’t matter.

Ibn had been confused and angry. Who had done this to his beloved sister, and why? They had nearly killed her, and for what? She was well loved among those who knew her, no one wished her harm. Or so Ibn thought. He had spent the past two days prowling the streets, asking everyone he saw if they knew anything about his sister’s attacker.

On the first day of interrogating, Ibn learned that the man responsible for beating his sister had drunkenly mistaken her for a w***e, spilling coins from his purse and trying to have his way with her there on the street. What a disgusting prick, thought Ibn. I will piss on his grave. The beggar woman who had given him the information threatened to tell the guards that he’d been asking suspicious questions if he didn’t compensate her. Alms, she called it. Ibn had spit at her and thrown a penny at her feet.

On the second day, Ibn had gained some more valuable information. Though nobody knew the man that had brought his sister back home after the attack, a few were able to put a face to the attacker himself. His name was Zhar khan-Il. He was the sellsword son of a minor merchant who had gained some small fortune across the Sea of Sapphires, selling silk and dye to the Aistrialingen upper class. A hedge knight with pale blue eyes and a scar across one cheek said he often saw this Zhar khan-Il at the water-gardens, just south of the bazaar. That was all Ibn needed to know.

Something told him that this Zhar would be at the water-gardens today. As he stepped into the single room at the base of the creaky wooden steps, Ibn prepared himself to say goodbye. He loosened his sword in its scabbard anxiously and took a deep breath. The words Dohares kirs Uin had been carved along the top of the only door in the room. Family comes First. All the Houses across the sea had mottos that men read and pondered and respected. Here in Khoares Xub, those few words crudely etched into the door were the closest thing the dho-Khalis had to a motto. They were not a House, but they were a family.

Ibn loosened his coin purse from his belt and set it down on the old, round table at the center of the room. His mother and sister would make good use of the coin, he was sure. Dohares kirs Uin. He knew what he had to do, yet it may mean that he would never see his family again. Even if he survived, which he had every intention of doing, Ibn could not stay in Khoares Xub. The Xubian Guard would be after him; he would be a wanted man.

The sun was shining bright by the time Ibn stepped outside, and the streets were as loud as ever. Merchants dotted the sidewalks, shouting out to passersby “Come and view my wares!” or “I have the best prices in the whole city!” or “I am the fairest merchant in all of Xubia!” Ibn inhaled, taking in the scents of his neighborhood, called Taquora Zhul. It was Xubian for the Rat’s Nest. He smelled fresh-baked bread, aged cheese, cheap wine. And s**t. A covered wagon driven by a fat merchant in a turban and lead by a sickly looking camel was rolling along the road. Ibn spat at the turning wheels and began to walk.

He had only to leave Taquora Zhul through the north-east exit, cross the Green Canal, and head straight through Vaeharys Dhuna, the Weavers’ District. The water-gardens stood between it and the bazaar. When he got there, he would find Zhar khan-Il, and he would end the b*****d’s life. Naehuna ohre al dohares, he thought. No one harms my family.

The water-gardens were quiet when Ibn arrived, save for the sounds of birds chirping and water flowing from the fountains. He fingered the simple, circular pommel of his sword nervously. The metal was hot from being exposed to the sun. After a moment of collecting himself, Ibn stood as straight and tall as possible and took one last deep breath. He had come this far, there was no going back.

He looked around quickly as he stepped through an archway into a shaded garden. Two women in long, satin gowns sat whispering to each other on a bench to his right. Further off, to his left was a group of three Xubian noblemen, wearing silk turbans and colorful robes. In the center of the garden was a grey stone fountain, a man sitting on its edge. He was dressed well enough, though his garb did not compare to the elegance of that of the nearby noblemen. He had a whetstone in hand and was sharpening a gleaming steel b*****d sword, not unlike those used by the Silk Snakes. Ibn knew him at once.

“You there!” Ibn’s voiced disturbed the silence of the gardens. “You are Zhar khan-Il, are you not?”

The man by the fountain stood cooly, placing his whetstone down beside him and holding his freshly sharpened blade up as if to show it off to the world. “Indeed, that is my name. Pray, who are you? A beggar, come merely to disturb my thoughts?”

“My name is Ibn dho-Khali. You attempted to rape my sister, and when she resisted, you beat her savagely and left her in the streets to die.”

The man by the fountain looked shocked. “You dare accuse me of murder? Do you know who I am?” Though he had the appearance of a Xubian, with olive skin and black hair, he did not speak like one. Ibn decided that he must have spent time abroad, in Estydus.

“Not murder. My sister is alive, thanks to the efforts of a stranger who delivered her home. I’m afraid the same will not be said of you, however.” At this, the people in the garden began to clear out quickly, leaving only Ibn and his foe.

“I ought to call the guards,” Zhar taunted. “But I think I’ll finish you myself. Draw your sword.”

“Gladly.” Ibn’s sword let out a metallic shing! as he unsheathed it and twirled it about in a bold show of agility. In a moment, Zhar khan-Il had approached, his legs bent slightly at the knees  and his sword ready to strike. With a flash of steel, the merchant’s son thrust forward, but Ibn jumped back, dodging the blade before rushing forth with a series of feints to confuse his opponent.

Zhar khan-Il staggered backwards and barely recovered in time to parry a slash from Ibn’s brand. Regaining his composure, the pompous sellsword put himself back into the fight. The two stood in one place, trading feints, thrusts and parries. As their swords danced in their hands, their legs moved gracefully beneath them, circling around each other.

For many moments more, the fighters blocked, dodged and slashed away, until finally Ibn moved to claim his victory. Upon parrying a blow from his opponent’s blade, Ibn rolled across the ground, landing behind his confused foe. He moved swiftly, before Zhar khan-Il could turn, and thrust his sword down through the back of the leg and out just beneath the knee. Zhar screamed in pain, sending his sword flying through the air. It landed well out of reach, behind a large planter.

Ibn pulled his blade from his rival’s leg and watched him fall to the ground, examining the blood that covered the end of his sword.

“Mercy! Please!” Zhar cried. Ibn only smirked.

“Mercy? Did you show my sister mercy when you tried to rape her? Did you show her mercy when you beat her bloody in the streets?”

“Please, don’t kill me.” Ibn thought he saw tears in the sellsword’s eyes. “I… I’ve never killed anyone in my life. I’ll give you anything you want. Silk, gold. Anything.”

“Keep your gold, and your lies. You may never have killed a man in honorable combat, but I have no doubt that my sister was not the first poor girl to fall prey to your sadistic habits. She’s lucky to have kept her life - a boon I won’t grant you.”

With that, Ibn raised his sword above him and thrust it downward. “Mercy!” cried Zhar once more, but his pleas were ignored. The end of Ibn’s sword found his heart, and the merchant’s son let out one last indiscernible scream as the blade twisted about. Blood gushed forth from the wound, and his head fell back onto the stone with a crack.

“Dohares kirs Uin,” said Ibn.

Author's Note

General feedback and suggestions are appreciated.