The Call

For some reason I wanted to write a Middle Eastern story. Of course, knowing little to nothing about medieval Muslim culture, I probably screwed the pooch more than my fair share. The most glaring, I think, is an empty, yet stocked, bazaar during the adhan. Supposedly you're able to perform prayer wherever you might be able, as long as it's clean, but I decided to alter that, obviously.

Don't think too hard about it. I'll try to do the same.



The muezzin made his call. It floated from the minaret and into the city, a siren's song for the faithful. Turbaned men and veiled women rushed from the busy streets for their homes. Kabeer al Omar moved as well, though his purpose was not so holy. He had completed his prayers before the adhan, a sorry attempt at pardon. Perhaps Allah, Most Merciful and Supreme, would forgive him that one sin.

Perhaps He would forgive the ones that were to follow.

Omar hated the dry heat of the desert, and the thin robes were little protection against its blazing mid-day sun. The sun beat down like a smith's hammer during the day, while winter's fingers clawed at them during the night. No matter the years he spent here, Omar could not adjust. The peace that he had found in his heart never quite transferred to his form. Omar picked up his pace, short legs carrying him into the bazaar.

The shade of stone saved the Troll. The market's ceiling vaunted twenty feet into the air, making the giant feel as but a child in a room for men. The grim purpose on his shoulders did not help the feeling. Omar passed empty stalls, some filled with fruits, others lined with silks, all untouched by the greedy. Thieves knew better than to risk the wrath of Allah, Greatest Protector and Wisest Judge, during the call to prayer.

Murderers were different. While perhaps not brazen in their methods, they planned and plotted easily enough with whispered words in concealed corners. Not that anything was hidden from Allah, the All-Knowing. Still they tried, and it was left to ones such as Omar to find them. As the Troll came short of a fourway path, he could hear the bloody murmur of conspiracy to his left. 

".. must look as if a stroke," continued the fat man, bent with age. His spotted fingers stroked roughly through his beard, a nervous motion that plucked hairs. "A tragedy of time, of a rich lifestyle! Perhaps thabann sinn? Haadi?" 

The other man shook his head, pacing as he spoke. "It is far too late to change our plan, Nasir. Steady your hand and your heart!" cried the youth. His eyes blazed, a fire that only seemed to enhance the beautiful face behind a full beard. "When Selim arrives, we shall come upon him from both sides. His Janissaries shall part for those of our rank, and when they do--"

"We will die!" answered the elder. "We are administrators, Hasan, not warriors! We will be rent limb-from-limb, savaged beyond recognition! Dogs will feast on our bodies and vultures will commence the clean up! And that is only if we are lucky! What if Selim's giant comes for us? You have heard the tales of red rooms and missing men! That alone should have warned us, but here we are! Why did I let you talk me into this madness, this foolishness, hopeless endeavor? Allah, deliver me--"


The sharp sound of an open-hand against flesh silenced Nasir's triade. His trembling hand raised to a reddening cheek as the old man quaked underneath the youth.

"Allah would not abide such a beast on the throne! A man who kills his brothers, his cousins, what sort of man is that, Nasir? If he will murder his relations, then we will be nothing to him should he catch wind of our dealings! Gird your loins, for you sound more like a woman than any man I've yet known!" Hasan spit at the ground, fists tightening. "With Selim dead, we have the chance to rise beyond our means no matter what monster he might command! I swear on my name, Nasir, I will drag you kicking and screaming to the caliphate if I must!"

 So it was true.  They had embezzeled the caliph's money. Worse, they sought to steal his life. Even the smallest sin led to bigger temptations. Once man erred intentionally, it was hard to ever stop. It was a sad fact that they had started large and only had their ambitions grow. Omar had heard enough to pass judgement on the pair. It would be no sin to do his duty this day. Yet the Troll still closed his eyes, muttering a prayer. 

It was still on his lips as he turned the corner. "Gentlemen," boomed the giant. The two men spun in surprise. Nasir's face paled. Hasan's confidence faded. Omar took one step, then another. The old man's back pressed against a stall, while the youth's feet were stuck fast to the earth. They were mice caught in a serpent's gaze. They would not escape.

"I believe I need no introduction. I am called 'giant' by some. Others call me 'monster.' Allah Most High has seen fit to call me Kabeer al Omar. I am a simple man with simple tastes." Omar's lips began to stretch, first in what seemed a smile before too many teeth were on display. His lips parted, his red tongue edged forward, and the black space between beckoned. 

"I am Selim the Steadfast's Sin-Eater, and now I shall feast."

The muezzin made his call. It floated from the minaret and into the city, a siren's song for the faithful. Kabeer al Omar was among them. His heart was as heavy as his belly, but the Troll had done his duty. Prayer would ease his troubled heart -- it always did. As for stomach, time would heal that ache.