Jaleel marched begrudgingly as Daghir, and the rest of his bandits rode along the road to Nazareth. His boots ached and his back burned, yet compared to the pain he had felt that day, it was nothing.

  The road through Galilee was not what he had imagined. Jaleel had expected vast deserts and endless sand beyond the walls of Acre and the village of Al-Damun. Instead, rolling green hills stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Samira would have liked it. The scenery was nearly as beautiful as the sea.

  The sun dipped behind the western hills, casting long shadows across the stone ridges of Galilee. Dry grass and twisted olive trees clung to the slopes, and the dusty road wound through terraced hillsides. The heat of the day faded with the light, and the land settled into a cool orange dusk.

  The neigh of Daghir’s horse snapped him back to reality, sharp as the whip the Midnight Suns used on the two slaves they dragged with them. Two women, one older and one younger.

  Jaleel sneered whenever he saw them. Their cracked nails, their tangled hair, the way their eyes lingered on him as Daghir or one of the bandits jerked their rope bindings forward. Yet, for all his sneering, the older one kept staring at him.

  She kept smiling at him.

  “Boy!” Daghir shouted from atop his mount. “Try to keep up. We need to reach Nazareth by nightfall and stock up on supplies.”

  The bandit leader tilted his head toward the two women.

  “In shā? Allāh, we will get a good price for these two there.”

  Jaleel trudged forward through the grassy hills, scowling as the others rode in leisure.

  One of Daghir’s men noticed him.

  “Boss,” he sneered, half laughing, “look at the boy. Angry, he has to walk while we ride our hard-earned horses.”

  Daghir stared. Jaleel looked away. He spun his weapon in his hand, a saif, feeling its weight.

  The weight Father had withheld from him for so long.

  Jaleel spat onto the road and ground it into the dust with his boot.

  Father left them. He left Jaleel. He left Khalid.

  His talk of refusing war had torn the brothers apart. If Jaleel had held a saif* then as he did now, perhaps Khalid would still be with him.

  Perhaps Samira would never have had to die.

  As the bandits rose above the last hill, Daghir signaled for his men.

  “We’ll make camp here.” He said, pointing to a nearby encampment.

  Fools.

  That was the only word Jaleel could muster in his thoughts. It was nothing more than foolish to camp in open daylight. Anyone who spent time in the Holy Land knew this.

  Jaleel had been a bandit for a little over a month, since the massacre of Ayyadieh. He picked up how to kill fast, taking the life from a person had stopped being a problem and became a pastime quickly in the Midnight Suns.

  It was nothing special. He watched the life drain from a man’s eyes as the grip on his bow loosened. But it didn’t matter to him; it didn’t matter to Jaleel as he extracted the blade from his gut.

  He was a Frank, he was Nasara. He deserved to die.

  “Looks like a standard mercenary corps.” Daghir continued, “They’re likely tired, too. Franks near Nazareth might be a few Ayyubids, too. Likely deserters from Acre.”

  He winced at the name. Daghir took the opportunity to dismount and, with a large force, firmly pat Jaleel on the back.

  “Boy!” he bellowed, “When night falls, make yourself useful, you’ll scout the area for us, tell us the number of mercenaries, their supplies… any women they may have that we can make some good coin out of later.”

  Daghir grinned as he rubbed his fingers. Jaleel heard the chatters and smirks from the other bandits, how they mocked the women with crude thrusting motions.

  When he slaughtered every Nasara in this land, his next target was men like this.

  “I didn’t join the Midnight Suns so I could be your errand-boy.” Jaleel snapped back, his gaze turned sideways, his hand firmly on his sword hilt.

  Daghir continued to move his head, looking in his eyes, but Jaleel kept avoiding.

  “You’re the newest Sun,” He began, “You are the one who came crying to us, running for his life, for a chance to fight.”

  He leaned even closer to Jaleel’s face. Jaleel could smell the reek of meat and ale.

  “So you are going to be the one who scouts up ahead, A’sar.”

  He paused, letting the words linger in the air. He hated that, A’sar, it stuck ever since they noticed his preference for slitting throats with his left hand.

  “Understood, boy?”

  With that, Daghir switched back to his lighter demeanor, and Jaleel stormed off, preparing the essentials for the night, like provisions and water.

  “Don’t forget the horse when you scout!” Daghir laughed as he shouted, “And don’t be in such a rush to die, boy!”

  …

  The hills of Galilee made for excellent cover beneath the night sky of the Levant.

  Jaleel tied the horse to the remains of a broken stone pillar, one of the many ruins scattered across these lands. His mind drifted briefly to Daghir and his endless lectures about the past, about bloodlines and heritage.

  Each time Jaleel scoffed. The past meant nothing to him. Only what stood in front of him mattered.

  He crept up the slope slowly, careful with each step. Insects buzzed and fluttered around his face, and for all his swatting, he never quite managed to catch them. Bug-catching had never been his strength.

  The glow of distant campfires soon appeared over the ridge. Crackling wood carried through the still night air, followed by drifting voices. Some spoke Frankish, others Arabic.

  The camp spread loosely across the valley floor.

  Silhouettes moved through the firelight as mercenaries wandered between scattered flames. Three larger tents stood near the center beside a pair of wagons, their dark shapes rising against the orange glow. Crates and sacks had been piled carelessly beside them, and a bundle of spears leaned against the side of a cart.

  A few men slept near fires.

  If Jaleel had to guess, there were perhaps twenty, maybe a few more.

  His eyes drifted to the edge of the camp.

  Two sentries stood along the road, though “stood” was generous. One leaned against his spear while the other held a bottle loosely in his hand. Even from the hillside, Jaleel could see the sluggish sway of the man’s posture.

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  He was drinking on watch. Jaleel let out a cruel smile.

  Good, there was nothing Jaleel liked to see more than a sentry drinking on patrol.

  A drunk guard was an easy throat to slit.

  Jaleel scanned the terrain again. The mercenaries had wedged their camp between two low hills. In theory, they could escape by climbing them, but panic did strange things to men. Under the chaos of one of Daghir’s raids, few would have the sense to run uphill into darkness.

  His gaze lingered on the camp a moment longer before drifting upward to the stars above Galilee.

  Samira’s voice echoed clearly in his mind.

  “This land isn’t big enough for the both of us.”

  She had been right all those years ago, back on the shores of Acre.

  It was either them or the Nasara.

  And Jaleel would make sure it was not them.

  …

  “Ah, the boy made it back alive.”

  Jaleel heard the murmurs and whispers of how they expected him every time he scouted to end up with a Frankish spear running through his chest. And Jaleel smirked in defiance every time he survived.

  The night of the Levant covered their faces mostly, only illuminated by pale flickering torches, they cast thin shadows on the bandits, who were sitting on the cool grassy floor.

  “How many fighters do they have?” Daghir began, “Weapons. Provisions. Dirhams. Slaves.”

  The last word out of his mouth caused Jaleel to scowl yet again. His face was usually stern, but whenever Daghir and his men gloated about their love of slaves, especially female slaves, he couldn’t help but relive those memories.

  Even now, he still had the scars from Acre, all forty-five.

  “I estimated they have roughly twenty-five.” Jaleel stared firmly at the sky, “Most of their weapons have been stored in a crate, if I had to guess, their fighting force is mainly Nasara—”

  Daghir raised an eyebrow. Of course, the technical term for those devils was Frank, but that word implied respect.

  It implied they were human.

  “Their fighting force seems to be mainly Frankish,” Jaleel continued, “I did not make out any provisions… or slaves.”

  The rest of the Suns, who were currently eating and drinking, grinned at the last sentence. Jaleel had seen it enough times what they did to their female captives. He looked around as his eyes caught them again, the two slaves the Suns brought with them on the road, how they looked at Jaleel with such pity.

  “Right, men,” Daghir stood, “You know the routine by now, the A’sar will take one of the horses and torch the place, smoke the bastards out, use fire to block any escapees, we don’t want local guards to hear about us.”

  He continued to talk as he strolled through the bandit camp.

  “Kill anyone that looks like a captain, kill anyone that resists, leave any women or children you see alive, they serve us better alive and fit to sell as slaves—”

  “I will have no part in it.” Jaleel cut in.

  Daghir raised his eyebrow, but he continued.

  “I couldn’t care less what you do with the slaves, but I’m only here to kill the Nasara, everything else is secondary.”

  The sun stood in silence until Daghir ripped through it.

  “And boys,” he pointed to Jaleel, “Make sure the boy gets his hands dirty, make him remember what we are.”

  …

  Jaleel sat on his mount, torch in one hand, sword in the other.

  He’d seen the sight countless times, at night, in the pitch-black abyss of the Holy Land. He’d watched as his victims breathed in and out, peacefully, ignorantly, unaware that they were about to sleep their last night on this earth.

  He felt no remorse.

  The torch he’d lit burned bright, full of life as he dipped the tip onto tents and carts alike, the brittle, dry material made for excellent firewood. When the smoke started to catch, the wind took the soot towards the main group. Jaleel knew it was time.

  He threw the torch into the heart of the camp and rode back, meeting up with the Suns halfway as they readied their weapons, axes, spears, and maces. The Suns had been fighting the Nasara for years, according to Daghir, and it showed in their weaponry.

  When Jaleel caught up with them and turned back around, the raid began in full swing. As usual, some bandits began to chant and pray, others smirked and licked their lips. Daghir started it the same way he always did. When the first Frankish fighter spotted him, he drew his axe out and yelled with all of his might.

  “Allāhu akbar!”

  The Suns ran at full speed, horses barreled through the encampment, men and women sent screaming, both Frankish and Ayyubid. Limbs caught on cloth as blood painted the tents bright red.

  Jaleel swatted fiercely, actively seeking any stragglers. He prayed that Allah would not let them die in the fires, for he wanted to fight more and more until the valley they had made camp in ran red with blood.

  …

  It happened again.

  Jaleel did not know how, but whenever the enemy dared to fight back, it always did.

  He panted heavily, his boot crushing the throat of a Frankish soldier beneath him. The man’s eyes bulged as Jaleel bore down, his breathing ragged and uneven.

  Across from him stood another opponent, an older Ayyubid fighter gripping a small axe, the blade held outward in a cautious guard.

  When it happened, when the world seemed to merge and blend in Jaleel’s eyes, the Suns always kept their distance.

  His breath came faster. The fires he had set earlier roared through the camp, and somewhere in the distance steel rang against steel, men shouting, screaming.

  None of it mattered. All that mattered was the enemies in front of him.

  He wiped the blood from his eyes and pushed forward. The man beneath him made a meagre sound as his boot crushed further into his throat as he charged.

  More blood spilled, as he drove his sword into another throat, Jaleel learned that it was the best place; it was fast and precise, like clockwork, sword drawn, lives taken. The carnage continued, all the way throughout the night, as the Suns ransacked and pillaged everything in sight.

  …

  When morning came, the Suns were still hauling loot from the debris.

  The sky was filled with that familiar scent, the mix of oil-drenched rags, the scent of fire, and the stench of blood that had already begun to fester.

  Jaleel sat on the side, on a wooden plank from the remnants of last night’s carnage, and stared at the rising sun as it began to envelop the site in its radiant light. Jaleel scoffed. How ironic that such a beautiful light glistened over a place such as this.

  His sword, the saif*, was lodged firmly in the dirt, one of his knees perched near his chest, his hair was covered in blood on the left side, blood seemed to always splatter on that side, so much so that he could never fully wash it out. Jaleel shook his hair as he looked skyward, but his thoughts could only be silent for so long.

  “A’sar!” one of the bandits yelled, “Come, come quick!”

  He rose, his knees and body aching from the killings yesterday. As he stood, he knew they could be calling him for nothing good at all.

  When he arrived, his heart sank, a feeling he thought he’d forgotten how to feel, ever since the siege, ever since Ayyadieh.

  Three children. Muslim. Huddled together, shaking, terrified even, as one of the Suns lifted a woolen blanket underneath the rubble.

  Jaleel counted, and counted once more, and as he looked to the sky, he questioned if this was a cruel twist of fate from Allah, if his entire life was merely meant to serve as cruel entertainment for Him.

  Two boys, one girl, the girl wrapped her hands around one of the boys, clearly the youngest, and the oldest boy held a sharp wooden stick, pointing it at the bandits. Jaleel did not see it, but he smelled the strong stench from there. He couldn’t blame him; any boy that age would have the same reaction.

  “Yes,” he shot a tired look at the Sun next to him, “What is it, Hassan?”

  The Sun placed his hands on his hip, “Boss’ orders, he said you’re gonna get your hands dirty this raid, he said we don’t hold back in raids, there’s no room for sentiment.”

  He grimaced, and the children continued to hold their ground, quaking and shivering. Of course, this was the sort of job Daghir would give Jaleel.

  “Fine.” Jaleel said, “I can do it, leave us, there’s no need to make a spectacle—”

  “You’ll kill them while I watch, Jaleel.” He interrupted. “We cannot risk these children telling the city watch about our whereabouts.”

  He sighed, scratching his hair as he drew his sword,raising it high above his head. It sparkled in the morning sun, ironic, how his sword, which shone so brightly and beautifully.

  Was about to commit an atrocity.

  “Astaghfirullāh.”

  Silence rattled through the air, as Jaleel’s blade tore clean through the flesh of the boy with the stick, his body went limp as his head bounced on the ground twice, then rolled off further.

  The shrieks of the two children blurred in his mind as he took two steps closer and once again said.

  “Astaghfirullāh.”

  He swung again.

  “Are you happy now, Hassan? Let me at least kill the girl in privacy.” Jaleel muttered.

  Hassan’s gaze went down, he saw the trail of blood left by the two boys, and gave in.

  “Sure, report back to the boss, no funny business.” He said as he walked off.

  Jaleel waited until he was certain Hassan was no longer in earshot range, and then he waited beyond that before he looked at the young girl’s face, blind with rage and hatred; he could see the small red veins that infested her eyes, all converging on her pupils. The never-ending sea of hate that he’d created.

  Jaleel stepped forward and crouched on one knee.

  “What do they call you—”

  “You filthy devil!” she immediately screamed. Jaleel signaled to her to be quiet.

  She went to slap him, but he caught her wrists, restraining her.

  “Your name,” he said, “Or not.”

  Her glare continued, unyielding.

  “I take no pleasure in killing children.” Jaleel began.

  His eyes trailed off to the smear of red he’d created, the source of which lay a still, lifeless head, tongue seeping out partially.

  Jaleel took a deep breath, recomposing.

  “I take even less in murdering young girls, run away from here, wait until we leave, hide in the debris, then find the nearest village to hide in.”

  The shouts of the Suns gradually crept back into earshot; he was running out of time.

  “Do not under any circumstances go near Nazareth, if the Suns spot you, both of us will die.”

  She looked him dead in the eyes, the wrath in her face still present.

  “Now, what do they call you?” Jaleel said once more.

  She spat before the words left her mouth.

  “Nathira…”

  He sheathed his sword before he turned his back on her, as he began to walk, she began to speak, softly, eerily.

  As if she had all the composure in the world.

  “You, they call you A’sar, yes?”

  He nodded.

  “One day.” She continued, “One day, I will kill you.”

  Jaleel looked to the sky. Dawn was still beginning to break; perhaps it was a new beginning for her, too.

  He feigned laughter, and slowly he turned his head, his hair masking the tremble in his lip.

  “I look forward to it, Nathira…”

  With that, he walked back to the rest of the Suns.