The Silver Sparrow

Retribution

The man wearing a red and blue sash was young. His dark chestnut hair had been shaved two-finger's width on either side above his ears. Over each of those shaved lines was a single braid that had been twisted together with colored threads matching in color with the sash he wore. There were two stripes painted on his left cheek, a thicker one in red and a thinner one just under it in blue. He was clean-shaven, like all young Shakshi men were, with a strong jawline that spoke of years of hard training in combat, matching the outlines of his harshly chiseled, massive figure. His deep-set eyes—a piercing shade of green—were intense, unyielding. The khumar of Kamara, also wearing a zikh, looked like a seasoned warrior who spent most of his days wielding that massive axe on his back to hack off limbs.

And Nazir...

Nazir looked like some vengeful spirit you didn't fuck with who'd just been thoroughly and deliberately fucked. Which wasn't at all far from the truth, if one had seen the exchange of looks between him and the man who'd done it before shit started raining from the sky. Khodi might as well have thrown a spear at Nazir and it would have resulted in something a whole lot less complicated.

The more he thought about it, the more he'd wanted to shoot the arrogant prick who was standing, still straight-backed and overly proud, between the five zikh-clad warriors that had escorted him up to the slope. Khali, however, had chosen a place by Nazir's side, away from his brother. Hasheem would have done that too if he were in the boy's position. It was better to be seen as far removed as possible from the idiot in white given the circumstance. For the first time since they'd met, he felt a little sorry for the boy.

There were twenty paces between the two parties. Each group formed a half-circle on opposite sides of the big rock on the slope, facing each other with their khumar at the center, flanked by a similar number of warriors in a mixture of white and gray robes. All were still mounted, except for Khodi and two of the men who'd brought him out that now positioned themselves on either side of the chief's son.

Hasheem looked around, noted the number of bows that had been drawn on both sides, each already fitted with an arrow, and realized that Nazir was about three bows short in comparison. It would have helped if he also carried an extra set of arrows, but Hasheem, being the only one not in white or gray and without any real skills in particular as far as everyone was concerned, had been considered both unimportant and unqualified to guard the khumar and therefore left uninformed of these protocols. In other words, he was a useless figure on that plain except if they needed a runner to deliver a message.

A message containing news no one wanted to hear, he thought with a frown. It wasn't an easy thing to swallow, and Hasheem found himself grinding his teeth once more at the lightness of his quiver. He'd been used, or cheap, and sometimes even offered for free in exchange for a favor or two, but never useless. There was a price to the comfort anonymity offered, and he might have to pay for it that day.

On the ground next to the khumar of Kamara was the body of the gray who'd fallen. He'd been laid carefully on his back, his limbs arranged neatly on a saddle cloth that had been spread with obvious care. Now that they were closer, Hasheem could see the young man's face more clearly and realized he couldn't have been much older than he was. His hair was a shade or two lighter than that of the khumar and had been shaved in a similar fashion. There were also colored threads in his braids, Hasheem saw for the first time, swearing more profusely in his mind now that he could guess what those meant.

"The boy was my father's favorite nephew," said the khumar of Kamara with a voice as harsh as his features and the confidence of a man used to issuing commands. "His death will be answered for appropriately as a member of the kha'a's family. I await your proposal, Nazir khumar."