Page 9 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“Yes, you did. Father, you could have just texted us good luck,” Musad greeted.
“Text?!Text?!What kind of father, much less a king,textshis sons before they go off to battle?” Hari growled.
Nasser cleared his throat. “Mayhap one that refused to go to bed last night,” he said.
“Bah! I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I have something for you both,” Hari replied.
“Please not the pearls. Please not the pearls,”Musad chanted under his breath.
Hari frowned. “No, not the pearls. You think I know you didn’t take them with you? Plus, they are not what you need this time. This time… you both will need something very, very special.”
Before Musad or Nasser could say anything, their father pulled a short sword from his waistcoat. Musad stepped back when his father swung the blade in his direction, flipped it to hold it by the blade, and offered him the hilt.
“For you, Musad,” Hari said.
“I already have a knife,” Musad replied, patting the modern military-grade blade in the sheath at his side.
Hari scowled. “You have a fancy piece of metal. I have for you none other than the Seax of Dalla Bogadottir.”
“Are you serious? You are saying you have the Warrior of the Sands’ blade? The actual, real blade that she is said to have used killed a hundred men? Where did it come from?” Musad asked, reaching out to take the blade with reluctant awe.
“Look at the etching on the blade and handle! I can’t believe it is over a thousand years old,” Nasser commented, reaching out to stroke the carved bone handle.
“Dalla herself gifted it to our ancestor, King Gerold,” Hari said.
Musad stared back at his father with a doubtful expression before he stroked a finger along the blade. A sense of connection to his bloodline, the ancient pirates who had lived, fought, and died—and believed in the legends—coursed through him as he balanced the sword in his hand.
Every Narvian had grown up with tales of the Warrior of the Sands. The legend said that a beautiful and mysterious woman named Dalla Bogadottir had ridden out of a ferocious sandstorm and slayed the thieves who had ambushed King Gerold, their great-grandfather a dozen times removed, and his best friend, Pascal Marchand—the two men who would one day become the rulers of Narva and Kashir.
“And for you, Nasser,” Hari said, pulling a large gold, silver, and jeweled pin from his coat pocket.
“You get a sword and I get a fancy brooch?” Nasser dryly commented.
“It is more than a brooch. It isthebrooch worn by Dalla when she struck down an assassin sent to kill Pascal,” Hari said.
His brother glanced at him, and Musad shrugged one shoulder. They must have missed that story. Of course, their father and teachers had filled their heads with so many ancient tales of valor that forgetting one didn’t surprise him.
“Well, thank you for the brooch. I’ll wear it with pride,” Nasser hastily replied, taking the brooch out of his father’s hand. He turned it over, running his thumb along the worn edge.
A ridiculous part of Nasser wondered if the blood of the Warrior of the Sands still clung to the metal. The weight felt heavier than gold—it felt like destiny. Shaking off the odd feeling, Nasser looked up at his father and brother. “We need to leave.”
Hari nodded and sighed. “If I were a younger man, I would go with you and challenge Hannibal and Victor to a duel like in the old days.”
Musad pursed his lips. The last thing they needed was their father on this mission. The ‘old days’ would end up getting them all killed. Today’s duels involved automatic weapons. A seax and a brooch were no match against a M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, a SAW M24 Sniper Weapon System, or a M240L 7.62 Medium Machine Gun—and those were just a few of the weapons their special ops were carrying. That didn’t even touch the explosives or military vehicles.
Yeah, a horse and a sword would just get us killed,he mused.
Hari’s gaze lingered on the sword in Musad’s hand, then shifted to Nasser. “Strange, isn’t it… how some bloodlines refuse to fade?” He gave a soft grunt, waving them off. “Go—make yourown legend. Just… be safe. Mario and I will follow along in the command center,” he added in a gruff voice.
“May Dalla protect us,” Musad said with a nod to his father, the old saying automatically rolling off his tongue.
Two
Four hours later, the trawler slowed to a crawl off the coastline of Kashir. Musad signaled Donovan to idle the trawler as a smaller fishing boat drew alongside.
He dropped several large orange fenders over the side to protect the vessels as they came together. Manny, Nanna’s nephew, stepped around the center console, picked up the bow rope, and tossed it to him. Musad caught the rope and deftly tied it with a slip knot to the cleat on the trawler.
“You look like a genuine angler,” Manny greeted with an affable grin, his face deeply tanned from his time on the water.
