Chapter 22
Rachid seldom expressed rage. Even if angered, he was measured and calm. He would close his eyes, breathe deeply, and reopen them with a newfound clarity.
He had Fouad to thank for that.
But witnessing a dagger lodged in Aicha’s chest had elicited a feral, towering fury that he did not possess the ability to control.
He had never before been within touching distance of losing her.
Despite knowing their borrowed time, despite being certain that he would not live to see the sunrise for the last time, his incessant need to keep Aicha safe did not abate.
She was the sun, his sun. Despite her strong belief that she would be dying that night, Rachid had no intention of letting it be so.
And Duarte bringing her close to such a fate triggered spots of crimson in his vision.
“Get up,” Rachid spat, standing before Aicha and bending to pick up her discarded sword. His own had been lost at the docks.
As Duarte crawled onto his knees, reaching across the floor for his own, Rachid attacked.
His blows were heavy, with a force Duarte had not been prepared for, looking up to Rachid with a vicious sneer as blood fell from his open mouth.
He was missing a few teeth thanks to the punch Rachid had gifted him.
A large cut on his upper lip accompanied the gaps.
A wide gash ran from Rachid’s left temple, across his nose and cheek to end on the right side of his jaw. It had only narrowly missed his eyes, but the sting of an open wound was muted by the adrenalin and anger that burned through him.
Duarte favoured his left leg, limping on the other as he stood. Blood leaked from a wound on the back of his thigh, and Rachid openly smirked. Aicha’s doing.
“That looks painful.” He motioned with his free hand, pivoting to the side to avoid Duarte’s almost lazy attempt at the swing of his sword. “Is my wife not incredibly skilled with a sword?”
“Not very smart, though,” Duarte countered through gritted teeth, standing still as he breathed heavily. “She abandoned all sense when I spoke of her family.”
“Speak of the Sanhajis again, and I will cut out your tongue before I kill you.”
Rachid’s only response from Duarte was a loud cackle, ignoring the blood and saliva that dripped down his chin. When Duarte struck it was with a lack of precision, amusing Rachid when he blocked it. The stench of Duarte’s blood and sweat invaded Rachid’s nostrils as they stood closely.
“Her body will burn with the rest of the citadel.”
Rachid’s snarl was loud as he pushed him away, and leapt to attack with full force.
Duarte had held up for far longer than Rachid could have anticipated, driven by hate, anger and a stubborn unwillingness to admit defeat.
There was a wildness in his eyes, one that would have scared Rachid if he had been younger.
It was the wildness of a man who clung to power desperately, a man who would incinerate everything that surrounded him before loosening his grip.
Rachid slashed across Duarte’s chest, and the man stumbled away as he pressed a hand to the wound, breathing heavily.
Rachid took the moment to briefly turn his head to the surrounding battles around him.
A mix of Portuguese and Maghrebi bodies littered the ground, but a handful still held strong, yet still, they were outnumbered, and the streak of worry that lashed at his heart indicated they would need to retreat soon.
Quickly, he realised that Aicha had not stood back up.
As he blocked another advance, he called to her.
“Aicha, you must get up!”
She was unresponsive, remaining curled in a foetal position.
He barrelled forward and swung at Duarte’s wrist, slicing his hand off, and as Duarte screamed, he forced the commander to the ground.
He bent over Duarte. And then he delivered a final blow, plunging the sword into Duarte’s chest and pushing with both fists to drive it through to the hilt.
He kept going, until he knew it had cut through his flesh and skin and emerged from the other side.
Watching the blood pool around the wound on his torso, the dirtied, white uniform stained beyond recognition.
He left the sword lodged in Duarte’s chest, abruptly turning and rushing back to Aicha. He pulled her onto her back, lifting her so that her shoulders were pulled into his embrace.
“Retreat!” he yelled, throat raw from the smoke he had inhaled and from the cried orders he had given throughout the night. “Pull back!”
Shaking Aicha gently, he watched as she pulled her eyes open. He thanked Allah for this last answered prayer as he pulled her close, inhaling the scent of her hair and battered cloak.
“You’re hurting me,” she coughed out, and though he chuckled, unease coursed through his veins. Her breathing was erratic.
“I can’t breathe.”
The dagger had punctured a hole in her lung, something that—by Rachid’s limited understanding—could be fatal.
He caressed her face for only a moment before heaving her into a sitting position.
“We must leave; I must get you to a healer.” He pulled her closer as he bent on one knee, sliding his other arm beneath her thighs.
“But the gate—” she protested weakly, clinging to his frayed leather tunic.
“The gate is lost. I know you did your best, habiba.” He looked her in the eye as he said it, and was unable to fight the guilt that plagued him at the deep sadness in her eyes. “We must go.”
She nodded, and the pride that erupted in his chest at her quick acceptance could have almost choked him.
She used him as an anchor as she attempted to stand by herself.
His last memory would be of Aicha’s eyes, flooded with both the warmth and ferocity that had compelled him to fall in love with her.
Eyes that changed hue depending on her level of irritation with him, as well as her adoration.
Eyes that he could see as clearly as a cloudless sky on the brightest day when he dreamed of her.
He would also, briefly, remember the screaming.
Aicha’s screaming.