March Through the Souk

The dawn broke in Damascus amid the sharp metallic clang of hammers striking iron. The artisans, still buzzing with vigilance after last night's intrusion, had stubbornly refused to sleep despite the guards' assurances that it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was their duty. "Rest now—that's our job." I agreed with the guards, but the day had already dawned. No choice now but to march on with them as planned, before their adrenaline crashed and exhaustion set in. I felt bad for the guys, but reality offered no luxury of downtime. Just like iron had to be hammered while red-hot, rumors needed to blaze through the city before cooling off. Hesitation wasn't an option.

"Kalim, how's the Sirion holding up?"

In response to my question, Kalim roughly wiped down his chest plate. "A few scales got scratched, but not a single dent or puncture anywhere. Just clean off their bloodstains, and it'll shine like new, master."

Kalim's eyes gleamed no less fiercely than the others', laced with excitement and unshakable confidence. The worried, vengeful artisans of yesterday were gone; in their place stood men brimming with certainty and resolve.

I ordered the ragged mercenaries tossed into the cart and grabbed a plank of wood, scrawling a crude message in blocky letters.

I'd packed it with rough, illiterate words—perfect for illiterate fire-starters. Raw and unpolished, it would hit the kids and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠merchants harder than fancy prose. Exactly what we needed.

"Let's move out. Destination: the Malik's Palace. Route: big loop through our village souk, then skirt Damascus's busiest streets."

No sooner had I mounted my camel and spoken than the prepared artisans tossed aside their rags and clustered around the baggage camels and drivers, camels in tow, falling into march formation.

It pained me to drag these all-nighters on an outing that'd take over ten hours round-trip, so I glanced back—but quickly faced forward again. Their raw excitement hit like a wall; even just six pairs of eyes felt overwhelming.

With my head firmly reset forward, we set off from Souk Wadi Barada toward Damascus.

Clack, clack. The wheels ground over sand-mixed gravel, drawing eyes through the souk. Normally a riot of haggling, today vendors and shoppers alike forgot their pitches, staring at us.

The pillory parade made quite the spectacle.

Basking in the villagers' gazes, we looped the souk and followed the Barada River road southeast toward Damascus.

As I pondered, a sigh escaped me—this was the first time leaving Souk Wadi Barada. Contrary to desert stereotypes, the riverbanks offered lush greenery worth a look.

'Hm, not bad at all... Wait, does this mean I'll finally see old Damascus with my own eyes?'

That thrill settled quickly into boredom. Hours on camelback loomed; of course it'd drag.

Even calling it a "nearby village," 12th-century backwater meant six-plus hours for under 30 kilometers. Camels made it tolerable—think Busan to Seoul traffic.

We'd left at dawn and only hit Damascus soil near noon. Despite the blazing sun, the souk lived up to its fame with overwhelming crowds.

Veteran merchants bellowed for their wares, pulling in pedestrians like a medieval mall. But our arrival plunged the chaos into eerie silence.

Vendors leaned on stalls, forgetting their calls; walkers gawked at our big-road procession.

Eyes flicked to the camel cart's cage, then scattered to the artisans. Sirion gleamed under the noon sun, outshining spices or silks for attention. Each camel step clashed scales with heavy clinks—pure crowd-magnet.

Clack, clack, clack. Rattle, rattle.

In the heat haze rippling off the ground, Sirion-clad figures blurred like mirages; some rubbed their eyes. Couldn't ask for better reactions.

Whispers rippled through Damascus's souk.

"That's... the One-Eyed Hawk mercenaries, right? Why're they trussed up?"

"Who cares? Those armors around them—that's the real shocker! Like wearing a live dragon!"

The air heated up fast. A few noted the name-brand mercs, limbs shattered in their cart-prison. But as hoped, Sirion stole the show.

Merchants huddled behind stalls; curious kids trailed the cart, chucking sand clumps or rotten veggies at the mercs for fun.

"Arsonists! Caught red-handed again, huh?"

"Trying to torch a place those guys guard? Insane. Evil's evil, but gotta respect the guts."

"Look closer—no real damage, just scratches."

Rumors outpaced us. By the time we'd crossed half the massive souk, crowds jammed the streets for a peek.

From my camel, I soaked in the stares; folks fixated more on our bold strut than the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠prisoners' misery. The artisans, far from cowed, squared shoulders and lifted chins.

I could practically hear Sirion's image skyrocketing. No stronger ad in the 12th century, I was sure—right as camel hooves kicked dust, scattering folks, and a cavalry squad blocked our path.

"Halt! Halt! Don't know the details, but under high noon sun, hauling corpses and near-dead? What's the meaning of this?"

The camel rider's command and question were fair. Rolling into Damascus's heart with bodies and battered men toward the palace? Shocking from their view.

We were a stone's throw from the Malik's residence—panic made sense. And I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hadn't sent word. Blasphemous? Sure, but I could smooth it; no warning meant maximum buzz and impact.

With rivals lurking, this bold show would force a private audience with Duqaq, right? As we halted at the soldier's block, their superior appeared: Hakim, Damascus security chief.

His sharp gaze swept us, lingering last on the cart's corpses and iron-barred half-dead. Deep wrinkles furrowed; a heavy sigh escaped with a scolding roar.

"Parading blood-soaked spectacles like this—what insolence! Defiling the sacred souk wasn't enough; you plan to drag it to the Malik's door?"

His bellow aimed to assert captain's dignity, but I caught his eyes wavering on the artisans' armor first. A warrior's gaze, hungry despite the stern glare.

I dismounted leisurely, bowing politely. "Spectacle? This march reassures the citizens and proclaims the Malik's mighty authority. See how it's spreading the word to every passerby?"

My casual smile and glib excuse twitched his brow. He glanced between the mercs' wreckage and unscratched Sirion, swallowing hard.

"How do those wrecks and corpses reassure anyone or honor the Malik? Blood trails from your wheels would shame his authority at best!"

"Last night, these scum tried torching the workshop built by the Malik's grace. Criminals aiming for massive damage and grief. They drew steel on workers fulfilling his direct order, disrupting it. Isn't that enough?"

I approached the cart, nudging the still-trembling merc captain's jaw with my boot-tip. The "Arsonist" placard on his neck rattled noisily.

"Maybe we got carried away—two deaders—but the artisans handled it themselves, capturing them outright. Casualties happen in a fight, right?"

As my voice rose, so did the crowd's murmurs. "Artisans took down mercs personally"—prime gossip fodder.

Citizens lapped it up, but Hakim's face twisted in conflict. Dragging us off now? Looked like oppressing the captors—bad optics, especially with crowds. Public opinion could sour fast.

"...Procedures exist! We'll collect the bodies, search your cargo—"

"If procedure means reporting straight to the Malik, that's quickest. Today's the deadline anyway; brought the goods myself."

I pointed to the neatly stacked crates at the cart's rear—not battle-dinged, but factory-fresh premium: gleaming silver Sirion sets and weapons.

"Think meeting the Malik's like chatting with village headmen? Even for a delivery, an audience...!"

"Aren't you curious? The Malik's keen on my wares; won't deny an audience. Add battle-tested proof? He'll summon us for sure. Join me in delivering news that'll thrill him, Captain?"

Hakim agonized. Warrior curiosity drooled at it; as chief, blocking the Malik's pet project? Bureaucratic nightmare.

Stubbornness cracked; path clear. He adjusted his reins, mounting a camel. "...Fine. Keeping the Malik waiting's disloyal. Permitted under my escort. But ditch that ugly sign before the gate. No respect for his abode."

"Grateful for your consideration."

The board vanished without regret—mission accomplished. Damascus's thousands of mouths were already spreading the tale.

Passing the souk, the vibe shifted: low, cramped shops yielded to high walls and ornate facades. Highlight? The massive, thick-walled Damascus citadel looming above.

Or rather, atop its outer battlements, nobles in silks and foreign envoys clustered like ants, peering down—drawn by the commotion.

One figure snagged my eye. Pristine white cloak. As envoy staff trickled to balconies, a chilling stare prickled my neck.

I looked up. Amid the finery, a tall, broad-shouldered man bored into me. Instinct screamed: the white-silk mastermind the merc captain spilled about.

My unscathed state irked him; bloodshot eyes dropped to the cart, face flushing purple at his strung-up crew.

I didn't know his name—Justus de Rethel—but that pinched scowl, realizing his perfect ambush had cratered? Proof he was my hunter.

Our gazes clashed mid-air. I twisted my lips in a feral grin, bowing with mock courtesy—as to a dear comrade.

'Got your gift. My turn now.'

His shoulders visibly shuddered at the silent declaration of war.

"Well, Captain? Clear the way. Can't keep the high ones waiting under Damascus's fierce sun, right?"

Hakim cleared his throat, taking point. "If this sours the Malik's mood even slightly, you'll answer for it. Understand this is high-stakes gamble?"

"No worries. Not a gamble—certainty. I'll bring him joy."

I resumed the march. Gate cheers faded behind closing citadel doors. No pressure; pillory perfect, cause just. Just whisper good news about that white-cloak owner to Duqaq. Simple as that.