Chapter 23
The sword protruding from Rachid’s chest had pierced Aicha’s stomach, yet her own pain was superseded by the horror of what lay directly in front of her face.
The blood she tasted at the back of her throat did not matter, nor her difficulty in breathing from her punctured lung and the pain it elicited.
The sword ran through the centre of Rachid’s chest.
His eyes hinted towards confusion, his grip loosening on Aicha as he saw the sword between them.
And then, worse. The sudden withdrawal of the sword from behind disrupted her scream, an eruption of crimson blood spurting from Rachid’s chest and her stomach.
A bruised and bloodied hand gripped onto Rachid’s hair, pulling his head backwards to reveal an equally bloodied Duarte. Rage and malice spilled into the commander’s words as he screamed at Rachid, lips hovering by his ears.
“You missed my heart, but I did not miss yours.”
Duarte yanked Rachid back, snatching away Aicha’s only anchor, and she fell to the floor.
Pain permeated every muscle and bone in her body.
She tried to stay focused on Rachid, using what little strength she had to push herself up by her palms. Watching as Duarte dragged Rachid’s body towards the windlass, she called out to him with no response.
She could do nothing but watch as Duarte forced his men to impale her husband onto the wood of the windlass, his eyes open and unblinking.
He was not moving. A scream ripped from her throat in anguish, and she forced herself to crawl towards him, uncaring of the way the soldiers hacked at the windlass until it was destroyed.
The gate emitted an ear-splitting crash as it descended back down to the ground, forever closed.
The distant sound of a gazelle horn halted the chaos that surrounded Aicha, soldiers stilled and Duarte stood to attention.
Eyes cast towards the gate, as if he would be able to see whatever lay in the distance of darkness.
“Retreat to the ship!” the commander yelled; his limp less prominent as he turned back to Aicha. The relief she should have felt at this retreat, that she deserved to feel, was entirely absent. Her grief became all consuming as she crawled towards Rachid.
“No, no, no…” taunted Duarte. “You do not get the luxury of uniting with him.”
His severed hand was curled close to his chest, loosely wrapped and bleeding profusely.
Despite the severity of his wounds, he moved towards Aicha with purpose, a dark shadow in his eyes as he picked up a stray sword.
Aicha gritted her teeth as he reached her, preparing for her final seconds to be the view of his boots as he plunged a sword through her.
Instead, Duarte began to hack at her legs, slamming his sword into her thighs and forcing a scream from her throat.
White-hot pain consumed her, only agony, a flame that burned through layers of skin until it incinerated the nerves beneath.
The sound of flesh ripping apart, interspersed with Duarte’s grunts, was the only sound that infiltrated her eardrums.
“You will not run to your allies.” He cut. “You will not walk to your lover.” He cut. “You will not stand and watch this city burn.” He cut. “You will lie here and die slowly, knowing that you failed.”
His hacking became monotonous as all feeling faded, and Aicha knew she was beginning to slip away.
The erratic breathing in her chest, pairing with the pulsating pain from her wounds, indicated so.
The dampness that she felt in her hair, her clothing and her mouth was not sweat or saliva.
Blood poured from her wounds, the pace slow enough for her mind to remain and linger in her grief.
A grief so debilitating that it now interrupted the pain of her injuries, taking root inside her, twisting and growing, as she listened to the sounds around her.
Startled by the ghost of a hand on her cheek, Aicha realised her eyes had been closed, and she was met with a gaze so deep and black that it should have scared her.
It was one she was familiar with, a gaze full of fury and pain, of knowing everything that had been stolen and the glee of eliciting terror from those who had stolen it, a gaze that she had found a thousand times in nightmares that plagued her.
And when it spoke, it was with the familiar intonation of rage and desperation that she had only heard within her mind.
The only voice that had kept her company and begged for freedom in her darkest moments.
I can end him.
Let me out.
Its gentleness was false, luring her into comfort before she conceded.
Yet at that moment, she no longer cared.
Her father and sister’s ashes remained in the town square, her childhood friends lay slaughtered around her, and her husband—loyal and devoted—sat dead not but a few paces away with his eyes still open.
All of it will have been for nothing if you do not release me.
At those words, her grief was pushed to the side, and in its stead, rage took permanent residency.
Moments of her life flashed behind her gaze: the first time her baba had taught her to swim, the stories he had filled her head with of what kind of life lay beyond the walls, how different the citadel would feel once their invaders had been forced off their shores.
Samira’s incessant nagging about her positions in combat, and the promises they had made to never let a single memory of their mama disappear.
That they would fight to keep the essence of her alive, whether that be in the citadel or in a new home.
But now, no one would be left to remember her mama, and their family would be a footnote in a failed siege that had left the citadel scarred and in ashes.
Aicha’s fingers shook as that rage fought to burst from her chest, clawing at her from within until it became unbearable.
As she lay there, picturing her baba’s smile, she watched her bloodied, still hand beside her shift. Her nails grew, sharp and lethal.
Lethal enough to slice a throat open.
Let me out.
There was no reason to deny it.