literature

Son of a Thief

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Tyre, 1177 CE

The man clouted the boy to the back of the head, pushing him to the ground. Before the boy could get up, the strong muscular arms of the man wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his body. The boy wriggled with all his might. However, the fight was hopeless. He was no match for a full-grown man whose drunken breath he could smell. It gagged him more effectively than any cloth.
“Where do you think you’re going, eh?” the evil harsh voice said in his ear. Usually it roared across half the streets of Tyre when he was in a temper. But when the drink was on him his voice became a harsh whisper, menacing. It did not bode well for any man to cross Latif al Sayr at that point. The man was big and strong. He was also a thief, part of the Guild of Tyre that terrorized the city on a nightly and sometimes daily basis. They preferred the name FreeMen because they could be free with others’ property as they laughingly explained to their victims while robbing, beating, and raping their way through the richer citizenry. The poorer ones they simply bullied or killed.

The boy stayed silent and endured. He’d long ago learned not to talk back or even fight the man who was his father. Any thing could set him off in a rage. Latif let him drop to the ground again after a final rough shake. He had a knife in his hand as the boy slowly got up, feeling his bruises from the beating administered just now. He was a somewhat gangly boy who’d grow up to be a tall man someday. If he lived that long. He faced his father squarely. Black eyes glared at him from under thick eyebrows. There was a drunken feverish flush to his father’s face. The whites of his eyes were yellow – an obvious sign of a heavy drinker.

“The next time you run away…”a pause ensued as Latif gathered his thoughts. The boy watched him, back against the wall of the alley they were in.

“…I’ll kill you with this knife… myself.” The low menacing quality of the voice would have frightened an adult man, but Malik al Sayr had heard it all before. He was not afraid of his father. He hated him. That was why he’d tried to run time and again. Every time he’d either come back or his father’d track him down. Every time he was beaten and threatened.

Without another word his father reached out and grabbed him by the upper arm in a grip so strong Malik had to hold his breath not to scream. There was already a bruise there. Malik thought as he was dragged home that there was not a place on him his father’s hand or foot had not touched today. This was not the worst beating he’d had. He’d gotten used to the pain of it. What hurt was the look in his mother’s eyes and Kadar’s crying. His younger brother could never stand to watch his idolized older brother beaten and always ran to his pallet and hid under the bedclothes to muffle his father’s roaring. His mother Alima had long ago stopped trying to interfere for her elder son. She’d been struck by Latif too and not once. She did what she could for Malik when her husband was not looking – mostly when he was out getting drunk. Those were the only peaceful days they had as he’d be drinking for a week sometimes and then show up when least expected.
Latif pushed aside the sackcloth covering the doorway to their hut in the poorer seedier side of Tyre and threw Malik in. Alima was mending some garments of Malik’s and looked up as they entered, her face filled with anxiety and fear. Kadar peered at them from the bed in the corner that Malik shared.

“Malik?” his mother asked solicitously but did not get up as she glimpsed her husband behind him.

Malik got up from the floor and walked over to her. She embraced him and looked him over, noting the torn clothes and bloodied face. His father loomed like death in the doorway.

“Woman, what kind of a mother are you? You can’t even keep one boy put,” he growled. Malik felt anger rise and fought it down. Now was not the time. He must control himself or Death would come for him. He had no doubt that one of these days his father would do as he’d threatened and kill him. Malik found he did not fear death. The only regret he’d have would be to leave his brother Kadar to face his father alone. And that he simply could not do. Malik knew Kadar could never master enough courage to stand up to the big man that had fathered them. He was young and confused. Malik shielded him as much as he could, put himself before their parent’s anger.

“I swear, woman, you had better chain him to the wall. It’s your fault he is no good to me. You ruined him with your soft words. He’d never be a man now.”
Alima did not say a word but continued her ministrations. Malik took off his shirt or what remained of it. Usually, not much after his father was through. His mother tried to keep her horror to herself but Malik read it in her widened eyes. Every time it was the same: that weary horror that she could do nothing about and regret too as if she felt guilty. Malik did not blame her.

His mother did what she could for his wounds as Latif prowled the small one-roof hut. As a thief he did not have many tools of trade, nor did he leave them lying about. His knife and the pick he kept on his person. His clothes were nondescript – perfect for robbery day or night. Their colour blended with the rest of the people in the poor quarters. So if he was chased he could easily lose his pursuers in the alleyways. He looked just like every other beggar and poor trader around. But finally he’d grown old, his reflexes no longer as sharp as they used to be. He’d been caught and all the stolen property taken from him. If he had been bad before, now he became a nightmare. The lives of his family went from bad to worse to absolute bottom. The drinking became endless. His brutality knew no bounds. Finally the Guild had dropped him from their rolls. He’d been mad. He had no other skills. Thieving was the only thing he could do. He had raged and drank and beaten and killed. He still did it after three years. Now as he was pacing Latif was muttering to himself like a madman and finally strode out without a word. No doubt to drink and rob some poor bastard of what few coins he had, Malik thought wryly. He hoped some one would kill the whoreson by “accident”.

Alima wiped Malik’s face with a cloth. He flinched a little when she came to the cut on his cheek. The hurt was sharp.

“I am sorry, child,” his mother said softly. She was a soft-spoken woman with a quiet voice. Quite the opposite of her loud husband. Malik could never understand how the two came together. Had there been love between them? Malik doubted it. He could not remember a time when his father was not shouting or putting his fists on the boy. Then he felt a hand touch his. He turned and there was Kadar, gazing up at him mutely with his dark eyes that did not hide his emotions. Malik read fear there and love and hate. His little brother should be bursting with all that feeling. He managed a crooked smile. Kadar pressed his hand.

“Here, drink this.”

His mother held out a rude clay cup with something that smelled and tasted foul. Malik drank it all down. Not for the first time either. He was used to medicine now.

“Go lie down.”

She picked up his shirt and resumed mending it. Malik and Kadar went to their bed. They were in no mood for play. So they settled down and went to sleep.
A few days later, Malik woke late at night. He lay silent for some time, listening to his brother’s and mother’s breathing. All was quiet. He slithered out of bed and tiptoed to the cloth door. He opened it a notch. Darkness ruled outside. A clear night with a full moon to illuminate the city. Malik looked back inside at his mother and brother and sighed. None of them knew he took these walks. He himself did not understand why he slunk around the city at night. This night-time adventure would be different: for he was never coming back. Malik’s anger at his father was a deep-seated thing. He hated the man for what he’d done to his brother. His mother knew of his temper and always advised him to keep it in check. His survival had depended on hiding his feelings from Latif. If the man got even a whiff of how his son felt, there’d be no piece for him. The man would taunt him and eventually kill him. Like cat playing with a mouse. Tonight, it ended.

He went back inside and fished out a small bag that he’d stolen earlier in the week. He was surely worthy of his dear father, he mused. The man he’d taken it from had never even seen him, let alone felt the loss. Malik’s fingers were quick. In it he’d put some bread and salted meat. He’d also taken his only spare shirt. He’d found a knife his mother used to cut meat with. He stuck it into his rope belt. His boots were old and worn but they’d have to do.

He shouldered the pack. He was about to walk out when he felt eyes on him. He turned. It was Kadar. His reticent quiet younger brother was watching him. His gaze was knowing: Kadar had learned to read his brother like a book. He was a sensitive boy, which is why his father would pick on him all the more now, Malik was sure. He would have to grow up sooner or later. His elder brother could not always be there.

“I have to go, Kadar. I have to find them.”

Kadar continued gazing for some time. Finally he nodded. And then lay down into his blankets. Malik sighed. It was harder than he thought. He feared deep down he was failing his brother by deserting him. But he’d promised him he’d be back. When he was stronger and could fight, he’d be able to take better care of Kadar and mother. He had found the Assassins. He had seen one today – a white robed man carrying a sword and knife. He’d noticed the man’s left hand – his eyes were sharp. There was finger missing – the fourth finger on the man’s hand was gone. Malik had felt a thrill of fear and excitement run down his back. He’d heard of these men before. He was aware of the stories about them and their fortress in the mountains. He’d followed the man to where he was staying at an inn inside the city gate. Malik had overheard him talking to another man dressed like himself in white. Their hoods were down and the boy could not see their faces. The man informed his companion that tonight he was leaving for Masyaf. At that a plan started to form in Malik’s head. He’d go too. He would learn from them. And then…
He’d gone back home and while his mother was out on errands he’d put together his little satchel and hidden it. Kadar had observed it all. Malik was sure he would not tell mother till it was too late for her to do anything.

He regretted leaving Kadar like this. But there was no choice. He had a life to live and his own choice was made long ago. His previous attempts at escape had not been random: he’d tried to get to the Assassins before but every time he’d make some amateur mistake and his father would catch him. Not this time, though. Malik had bided his time and spied on his father to ensure his plan went off.

Now the moment had come. He stepped out of the hut for the last time in his life. Without a backward look he made his way to the inn where the Assassin was staying. His horse was tied to the railing. Good. Malik hid himself behind some barrels in the courtyard of a barrel maker across the street and waited.

The time stretched. His eyelids were almost down over his eyes before he heard the door of the inn open and the white-clad man stepped out. He was alone. He stood for a moment surveying the street as if looking for potential trouble. He took his horse by the bridle and began walking down the street from the gate. He passed Malik’s hiding place.

Malik waited till the Assassin was twenty paces away and then followed. He walked quietly, not making any noise lest the man hear him. The man traversed the winding streets with ease and at last came to a small opening in the city wall. There were no guards on duty. This part of the city was too unimportant to patrol regularly.

Another man was waiting there. This one was wearing dark clothes and held an open lantern. Malik stood still in the shadow. His heart was beating fast. He was sure the Assassin could hear it. The tales told of their extraordinary skills of detection.

Malik was lucky. The men did not notice him. After exchanging a few words – passwords probably – the locked exit was opened. It was dark – Malik did not know how wide the passage was or how long. The Assassin led his horse in. Malik ran towards them as the porter was about to close the door. This was his only chance.

The men heard him and turned. The boy stopped breathless as the Assassin stepped out. Malik felt his gaze travel up and down and swallowed. The boy felt the unseen eyes measure him and note his poor clothes. No doubt the man saw his bruises too. He felt the man filing the information away. He was afraid now. What if the man killed him? What if he thought Malik was sent to shadow him and decided to get rid of him? Too late now, Malik reflected. Finally, a quiet deep voice asked from the depths of the hood.

“And what might your business be upon a night when all honest folk are in bed?”
Malik sensed amusement. Then the man on his right chimed in.

“Maybe we should just kill him. He’s seen you, dai.”

Malik held his breath. He kept his eyes on the white-robed man. “Dai” – what did it mean? He had no idea, but his mind put that away for future reference.  
“Well?” the Assassin said. “Should I do as Nawaf has suggested?”
Malik decided on honesty. This was a very dangerous man. Malik could lie his way out of any situation but not here.

“I am not sent by anyone,” he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice. “I…”
He stopped. He’d seen Nawaf pull a dagger out of his belt. He was playing with it. Malik wet his lips. The Assassin waited.

“I want to go with you. To Masyaf.”
Both men stared. Nawaf came closer bringing the lantern to light the boy’s face. Malik blinked – his eyes had gotten used to the darkness. The dagger he held was dangerously close to Malik’s throat.

“What would you of the Assassins?” the man asked softly.
It was almost like a ritual. The formality cleared Malik's head of his fear.

“I would be one.” Boldly.

“Dai…”

“No, Nawaf,” the Assassin held up a hand. “We take those who we deem worthy. And that is a highly subjective recruiting technique. However, this boy has tracked me across the city and I never knew he was there till he exposed himself. Either I am getting old or he has the makings of a fine Assassin.”

He looked at Malik again. “Let this be your first lesson then: be discreet. Do not reveal yourself before you strike.”

Malik had stood stock still during this, absorbing it all. Allah the Compassionate, he had done it!

“Dai, if you’re sure about this…” Nawaf still sounded suspicious.

“I’ll answer for him before the Master. I believe he could be trained or I am no judge of men. Or boys.” Again the amusement in his voice struck Malik as odd in a man who committed murder for a living.

Nawaf had no choice but to abide by the Assassin’s will. He sheathed the knife and held up the lantern again. "Safety and peace, dai." The Assassin nodded.

“Follow me, boy, “ the Assassin said as he turned and, taking the lantern, led his horse back inside the tunnel. Malik unlocked his muscles and went after the departing horse. He could feel Nawaf’s gaze on him till the darkness concealed them. They walked for perhaps ten minutes in the stuffy air of the passage inside the wall. The Assassin stopped and beckoned him forward.

“Here. Hold this.” He handed him the torch while he extracted a lock pick like Malik’s father had and used it to open the door. Malik held the torch away from himself so as not to burn. The passage was close – there was not much room. The horse’s flank was inches from his face.

At last the door was open and fresh air rushed in. Horse, man and boy emerged from the passage into moonlit world. The outside market was empty. The stalls closed. Stillness lay over the flat lands stretching to the horizon. Nothing seemed to move except them. The Assassin spoke.

“Since it seems we’re to be companions for quite some time, I believe introductions are in order. My name is Ghalib.” He fell silent and waited.
Malik took a deep breath.

“I am Malik al Sayr.”

“Safety and peace, Malik al Sayr. Such is the Assassin greeting.”

Malik repeated it.

“Now, realize that not all Assassins will give you their name on the first meeting. Not all Brothers are as trusting as I am. In times like these names gain special power. If you can name a man, you can destroy him for you know him. A name defines a man and his deeds.” He walked to his horse and spread a blanket over its croup. “Now, we ride. Get on up behind me. You’re light enough.”

Malik rode away from Tyre, his home and family. He was going to become an Assassin. He felt exultant.  And yet guilt set in his heart. He had failed his brother for the first time in his life. He had left Kadar alone to face their father’s rage. He swore he’d return. When he was a full-fledged Assassin. Then the world would know his name: Malik al Sayr, Messenger of Death, the Man in the White Hood, the Assassin.
this is the Father's Day contest entry: more background story on Malik and his family life.

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KejaBlank's avatar
This "one shot" is a "perfect shot". I could feel Malik with every single heartbeat. :bow: