Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 23

          The three of us lay shivering on the summit of Sala', the fierce winds biting at us, piercing my bones. What I had just witness difficult to process, to say the least. It still felt surreal, as if I were afloat, or as if my life was one horrible nightmare. Stunned, I gaped at the pools of blood staining the edge of the trench.

        The drops of rain trickled down my cheeks as my thoughts stammered, one numb thought drowning out the other. The gods had abandoned me and had taken away everything I held dear.

         I cared little for my family, but I did not wish them this fate. Worse still, I knew what was to become of us now. Exile would have been a kinder fate.

        I thought I would become a warrior, that I would pursue a lifetime of bloodthirst and vengeance, but instead the life I had known had been swept from beneath me like a rug. Where were my brothers to spare me this misery? I did not hold out a candle of hope.

         "Trust no one in this life," 'Umar once told me. "Least of all those who call themselves friend or kin."

        The world is a grim place and bleak. Only death and betrayal are certain, I realized, laying there helpless. I would never become a warrior, only a damsel in distress, swayed this way and that by fate and the capricious, fickle nature of gods. I cursed Hubal and al-Manat. I cursed the whole lot of them, residing up in their precious heavens, capricious and fickle, laughing at my misery. I hoped that the Muslim god would emerge triumphant from this battle of the supernatural and crush the Arab gods that were so callous. Just to spite them.

        The women and children were divided among the Muslims, the spoils of battle. The plumpest, well-endowed women were awarded to the chieftains of newly converted nomadic tribes, a gesture that was meant to woo them and strengthen their collective faiths. My mother and Dawood's girl were dragged off and claimed by a chief of the Banu Ghatafan. The Banu Ghatafan were a large Bedouin tribe from the Najd region. They were allied to the Muslims, but many of their clans had defected to the confederacy. Some of those clans, however, were successfully restored to prior alliance toward the end of the siege.

        Now, they were collecting the bulk of the plunder.

        I was ten years old then, yet I was broad of shoulder, taller than most boys my senior. I would be seen as a valuable slave, no doubt, and so it would have been likely that I would be gifted to one chieftain of fragile faith or the other.

        Instead, a stocky man approached me, putting himself between me and any other. His sleeves were rolled up revealing hairy forearms. His large belly protruded before him, jingling as though it were a being in its own right. His beard was unruly, and unkempt, a tangled mess of curls, greasy and littered with crumbs. To top it off, he was balding as well.

       "This boy is mine," he rasped. "Anyone who desires him must meet my sword."

      "Peace, Mas'oud," another deep voice called out from behind me. "You are speaking to your brothers in faith. There is no need for aggression."

       I saw 'Umar ibn al-Khattab walk to his side. I felt my temper begin to flare.

      "I will not tolerate any more of the booty we earned handed to these strangers. I was here from the start, I tell you. I journeyed here from Makkah. I risked it all. And all I have to show for it is a lame camel and a blunt-edged sword." the man called Mas'oud blurted out.

       I thought 'Umar would strike him then, as his face flushed red with anger. But he managed to collect himself.

      "I will make sure it is known that he belongs to you," 'Umar replied.