“I did not expect to see the leader of the Sand Walker Swords here,” the old man said, a man who had retired long ago, though he carried upon his back a large blade, one that was more like a giant slab of bone, for it was that kind of blade. He was old, almost ancient, adorned within loose white robes that danced in the wind, the hat upon his head wrapped within a scarf, the ends falling over his wrinkled ears.
The elderly man’s eyes were upon the approaching figure, adorned in a breastplate, a long cloak over his shoulders, a helmet atop his head like that of a turban, a scarf wrapped around it, chain dripping down over his shoulders, as well as a beautiful curved blade at his side, the kind that was probably made by the likes of Uncle Ali of Arisa, Mohammad Talib of Jabal Adh Dahab, or Brother Majid, Smith of Dusk.
If it had been anyone else, the other old man, who was much younger than the elder, but well within his fifties, would have asked if there was any other place for someone like the leader of the Sand Walker Swords to be rather than the temple of Lady Arya, she who was of war, whose most favoured weapon was the sword?
Makdur hadn’t survived this long by talking back to someone like Zaki in such a manner, however.
“I am no longer the leader of the Sand Walker Swords,” Makdur admitted, reaching out with both hands, the elderly Zaki taking his hands within his own. “May I sit?”
Zaki motioned a hand towards the seat opposite, leaning back within his chair. “You retired while the Reavers are causing such trouble all throughout?”
“I retired quietly last year,” Makdur said, glancing aside towards the nearby Iyrmen, as well as a particular devilkin child who was built as wide as a well. ‘Aryahabi, what are they feeding that girl?’
“Who is it now?”
“My nephew, Isa, has taken the role.”
“Your nephew? Not your son?”
“Abdul has his mother’s looks, but he inherited only half my intelligence,” Makdur admitted, letting out a troubled sigh.
“Your father, is he well?”
“He passed away early last month,” Makdur said.
Zaki let out a surprised sigh, taking a moment to compose himself. “By Lady Arya’s will, I hope he passed peacefully.”
“Shukhur, I am ever grateful he did.” Makdur smiled awkwardly, for his father had begun to lose his memory in the last few years, though he was thankful the old man had been able to walk around still even in his last few years.
“I should pay him a visit.”
“I would be blessed to accompany you.”
An awkward moment passed between the pair, who had met a few times previously, though in the most awkward way. Zaki, also known a the Skull Sword of the Coast, had long retired, but Makdur had slain his nephew during a skirmish twenty years ago, when he had begun to rise. He had been lucky, beyond lucky, for never in a thousand years could Makdur have slain the man, who was almost as strong as Zaki was at his height.
Makdur could never forget. He had been fully prepared to see his home burnt to a crisp, his father’s ashes buried beneath, but his father had been plucking the vegetables out slowly, and when he had gotten to his fruit, he had picked the largest watermelon he had ever grown. His father had been disappointed in its flavour, but to Makdur, it had been the sweetest watermelon. As far as he knew, Zaki, nor the various warriors his family led, had ever come to bother his father.
‘Bastara,’ Zaki had said, looming over the young man, who may have defeated his nephew, but could not cross blades with the man who had terrorized the coasts so thoroughly, he had been named the Skull Sword of the Coast, and yet had never stepped upon a ship. ‘You think it was easy for your father to raise you to someone who could kill my nephew?’
“What is it?” Zaki finally asked, noting the way the fool was looking at him.
“I was just wondering, have you come to retire, ahm?”
“Is there a better place to retire than within Black Mountain?” Zaki asked, though the pair noted the Iyrmen to the side, Zaki noting one in particular especially. “I came to see brother Isam.”
“I heard the Poison Sword Dragon had made his way through,” Makdur confirmed.
“Did you wish to speak with him?”
“It would have been an honour.”
Zaki grunted affirmatively, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea, taking a bite of the biscuits before him. “What is it?”
Makdur wasn’t sure if he should speak up, but since he had been caught, he decided he may as well. “You never troubled me about killing your nephew.”
“How could I trouble you, when your father worked so hard so you were raised so healthy?” Zaki replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“You think every farmer raises a warrior who is so well known?” Zaki asked. “Almost all the warriors you see, they were born with golden spoons. Some, silver, but all so rich. My father, he was rich too, he raided the coast so well, they called him the Corsair of Bones. He gifted me all this wealth, this sword, and I did as was expected, I caused trouble all along the coast, and they called me the Skull Sword of the Coast. They called me Man Who Wields the Sabre of Death. They called me Brother Who Brings Blood.”
Makdur had recalled the other epithets, but it was his first epithet which was the one he preferred, and the one that was most famous, even long after he had retired.
“I fought for very few years, before the pain could set within my bones, and with all the wealth I had, my children, their children, they would all be fine, and my brothers and sisters, they all were fine too. My nephew, the son of a Mulazim, shukhur, he had all he needed to succeed.” Zaki held up his hand and dismissed the air, representing that his death was simply so.
Makdur noted the old man’s eyes, seeing the way he fell into thought, towards another time.
“My grandfather was a farmer,” Zaki said. “My father did not get along with his father, he was too strong willed, his heart was born to wield the blade. My grandfather, he could not wield a blade, he was strong, but his hands were not calloused like that of a warrior, but that of a farmer. My father would go, he would travel and fight, he would cause such trouble, but when I was young, every noonval, instead of training under all these mentors, instead of studying within the academy, he would leave me with my grandfather. My grandfather would work all through noonval, and when he could, he would pluck the watermelon, some of them bigger than his head, and he would cut the watermelon in half, and he would give me the bigger half, he said I would need it because I was still a growing boy. He was not allowed to pluck so many watermelons, but what could the Saib say when my father said he could?”
Zaki chuckled lightly, and it was only then realised that Makdur realised this monster, who had beaten him so viciously all those years ago, was a human too.
“He bought me a metal spoon from the market, he called it Zaki’s special spoon, and he would let me eat half the watermelon myself, and he would eat the other, and he would speak of how his father would cut the watermelon like this and let him eat it in the same way, and how his mother would cut the rind and salt it and ferment it, and how he grew up eating so much watermelon it made him sick.” Zaki continued to think of the old man who was so sweet and gentle, so unlike his father, who had beaten him countless times.
“He hated watermelon,” Zaki said, the words so much heavier. “One day, when I was older, I caused trouble as my father had, as my father would. I returned back to the farm, I found my grandmother had passed. He was so thin then. He was so old, his face so wrinkled, his hair so white. I cut the watermelon in half, and I gave him the bigger half, but he said I should eat the bigger half, because I was a growing boy. We ate together, and I salted the rinds, and I tried to ferment it, but since that day, it tasted so different.”
“Hello,” the little blue skinned girl said, holding up a tray of fruit for the older men, who noted the particular glare of two fellows, both half blooded. The pair could feel just how strong the two were, and the gasp between themselves and the half dragon and the half elf.
“Thank you,” the elderly man said, reaching down to rub the girl’s head, and watched as she returned, the girl beaming so proudly towards the half elf, who praised her in Elementi. The old man stared at the fruit, pausing a moment, before sticking his fork within the cube of watermelon.
“How does it taste?” Makdur asked.
The old man continued to chew, before swallowing the fruit. He sighed slightly, but he reached down to take another bite of watermelon.
PATREON LINK
These Iyrmen sure kill a lot of people...