Umaymah patted the neck of her stolen horse, 'Antara, and sucked in a breath of the fresh evening air through her nose. Beneath her the tail of her turban slung over her face, underneath the loose garments and mail coat of a warrior, she was indistinguishable from her father's men. She was hidden in plain sight.
Her father's cold demeanor toward her had nearly crushed her spirit all those days ago. She cried herself to sleep every night, and once or twice to her shame, contemplated driving her blade through her heart. The act would displease Allah, she knew, and so drove the notion out of her mind whenever the Devil attempted to weasel through by reciting Qur'anic verses.
It was true that she had dreamed of this encounter ever since she was a little girl; dreamed of the wind lapping against her face as she crashed into the flank or rear of an enemy, her father howling encouragement at her side as they slew a common foe alongside one another. She wished for nothing more than to fight with honor by her father's side.
Yet, she was never one to be knocked down and remain seated or huddle up in a corner and weep. It was what distinguished her from so many of the other boys in the tribe; her willpower.
"Just because you've fallen on your arse, doesn't mean you have stay there," old man Haydar used to say. He was a mentor to her and the man who guided her for years in honing her skills.
So now, she was flat on her arse. And all she could hear was Haydar's harsh voice hurling foul insults at her, accusing her of cowardice and weakness. But she would not remain in a state so indisposed. She was finding her way back to her feet. She was proving herself to the man who mattered most in the world.
That was why she robbed some merchant in Damascus of his horse and snuck into her father's camp, disguised as another one of his men. The task was invigorating, every moment an experience of heightened senses and a thousand heartbeats. Yet, it was much more difficult than she had anticipated. She avoided contact with the others as much as possible, lest she be discovered.
In the military camp, it was an environment of discipline, and everything was accounted for. Every man had two or three others that shared a tent with him, and they were as brothers. The nights were rough and cruel as she was forced into a half sleep in the biting night cold, harassed by scorpions and mosquitoes and a thousand other insects. It would only seem like a few seconds prior that she had gone to sleep before she was awakened rudely by a boot to her chest.
But it would be all worth it. She knew how high the stakes were, yet she grinned at her realization that this was her first adventure with her father. She resolved that she would distinguish herself in battle for her prowess and courage. There was a unit of Father's that was arrayed in a neat column in full view of the pass that led into the Ghassanid dwelling. Umaymah sat stiff-backed and unmoving on her saddle, hidden in the shadows; the very image of a disciplined warrior.
A gust of wind sent the tail of her turban flapping and the tail of her turban slapped against her chin and lips. She ignored the inconvenience, keeping her eyes peeled on the pass. The commander in charge of this unit had not moved them since her father had ridden through and she was not entirely certain of their purpose. She did not think herself a seasoned commander, but surely it would be prudent to block that pass?
But she did not balk at her commander's lack of action.
"A warrior is more than the steel of their blade," Haydar once said. "It is the warrior that must be as steel. Unwavering and unrelenting in the face of all odds and any challenge."
She kept those words close to heart as she suffered the odd weather. One moment, the wind had pierced her layers of clothing and thick skin; the other, it was unbearably humid and dry. Allah was testing her, she knew. She was determined not only to prove herself to Father, but to wage war against the infidel and expand the borders of the Caliphate and the domain of Islam, in the name of Allah.
At the thought of the Almighty, she felt a pang of guilt, remembering ''Abdullah. It was her primary purpose on this earth to protect her brother at all costs, she knew. It was the purpose of the strong to protect the weak and less fortunate. It was what she had done all her life. But 'Abdullah was strong in will if not in body, and hard-headed. Was it truly her fault that he spirited himself away to Allah only knows where?
''Abdullah had never been fond of Father, thinking he had abandoned them as suckling babes. No amount of arguing from Umaymah could dissuade him of his ridiculous, heretical even, thoughts. She reminded him that it was man's obligation to obey and seek the approval of one's parents, even if the parent believed not in the one God. Even if one was being mistreated by the parent. It seemed 'Abdullah was eager to heed Allah's words in all things but this.
She shook her head, clearing it of all thoughts of her lost twin brother, but not before whispering another prayer to her god, seeking his safety. She knew Allah would not let any harm befall him, despite all his flaws. He had Allah's protection, she was certain; if so, why would he ever need hers?
A hint of movement near the pass caught her attention. It wasn't her imagination either, as a number of other men stirred in their saddles. Some stood up in their stirrups to get a better look. She did the same, her extraordinary height helping her further.
There was a cloud of dust being thrown up not too far away. In the silence of the column, she could hear the faint thunder of hooves. A single rider, she judged. By the chaotic frantic of his gallop, and the fact that someone would even push a mount so hard in near pitch darkness, risking a broken ankle or worse, she surmised that this was a fleeing man. She knew this unit was meant to block the pass. What was wrong with Father's commander?
It seemed her concerns were shared among others. There were sharp murmurs in the front ranks, suggesting there was a deal of arguing going on. Men were talking over each other, their voices rising and hardening.
"Someone is fleeing, 'Abd al-Rahman!" one of them managed to be heard over the din.
"Silence!" with one gruff command, the commander – this 'Abd al-Rahman, ceased the bickering of his underlings. Silence did indeed envelop the flat plains around Umaymah once more.
Open-mouthed, Umaymah watched the events of the evening unfold, uttering not a word. Her mind raced with the possibilities. Her father had obviously ordered this 'Abd al-Rahman to guard the pass for whatever reason, and through either incompetence or negligence, he was failing to follow through on the order. Her father must have needed 'Abd al-Rahman there to prevent someone's escape. This looked to be it. The man her father needed was fleeing, while 'Abd al-Rahman sat there motionless, oblivious.
Yet, the day could still be saved.
All semblance of discipline or subordination was shed. Umaymah dug her knees into 'Antara's side, and with a snort, her beloved horse spurred into a canter that developed into a gallop at break-neck speed. 'Antara's hooves trotted against the sands of the flat land, the cries and shouts of her superiors lost to wind and distance behind her.
It was a perilous task she set herself to. In the off chance that she could successfully pursue and catch this individual without seriously hurting 'Antara or herself, she still needed to face her father's wrath. Would he accept her if she saved this quest of his, this night? She needed to believe so. She needed to believe that this feat of heroism would impress her father and topple the barriers of society and belief that blinded him to his daughter's talents and abilities.
And so, she ground her teeth and prayed to Allah over and over in her desperation. She needed this. She needed this. If she couldn't ride and fight next to Father, then what was this all about?
Her target was a mere silhouette in the darkness; she followed his trail of thrown up dust and sand instead. She prayed again that 'Antara's ankle would not snap and toss her to death or serious injury. The man was aware of her, it seemed. Whenever 'Antara started gaining on him, he would spur his mount harder, accelerating ever more.
After minutes of pursuit, she felt at 'Antara's neck, sensing the wetness of his sweat. She would need to catch up soon or risk bursting the mount's heart. She did not know how accustomed 'Antara was to galloping this quick. There was also the impending doom of a hoof snagging, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Her lower back, hips, knees and calves ached after what seemed like a lifetime of pursuit. She sighed, realizing what she ought to do. It would be an awful waste of a good horse.
She unstrung her bow from her saddle, plucked an arrow from the quiver hanging on her back and nocked it to the string. She took a deep breath and prayed to Allah for forgiveness. She cleared her mind as she drew the arrow all the way back, the string growing taut. She was now in sync with 'Antara's movements, each beat of his hooves on the earth in rhythm with the beating of her own heart.
She remained very still for a good long while, composing herself. Her shoulders began to ache, her arms flaring, beginning to burn up with the pressure of the drawn arrow. She timed her shot perfectly, waiting for the brief heartbeat when 'Antara's hooves were off the ground, an intermediate period during the gallop when the horse was flying in the air.
And she loosed.
Almost instantly, before she heard the shriek of a horse or the rider's cry of alarm, she yanked her reins sideways to avoid collision, urging 'Antara away from the sprawling mess of rider and bleeding mount. 'Antara, panting and nickering, finally ground to a halt as Umaymah spun him around to survey the scene.
Nocking another arrow to her bow, she dismounted, approaching the fallen rider warily. She prayed to Allah he did not snap a neck during the fall. All that suffering would have been for naught. The horse was wild-eyed and flailing, snorting and nickering, frantically grasping for life. There was foam building up in the corner of its mouth and a great dust cloud lingering in the air as though it were a halo.
Umaymah did not take another step forward until the angel of death plucked the poor animal's soul from this world to the next. She prayed to Allah for forgiveness. This was necessary.
Thankfully, the fleeing man did indeed survive the fall. He was trying to crawl away from the approaching Umaymah, coughing up sand as he struggled with the weight of an entire horse that crushed his leg.
"Is it broken?" she asked him.
He ceased his feeble attempts to free himself of the horse's corpse and glanced up at her, breathing heavily. She could not make anything of him out. Like her, he was wearing the tail of his turban over his face to obscure his features.
I'm not taking any chances, she thought, laying her bow and arrow down. She approached the sprawled rider and decked him across the face. She began pulling him out from beneath his horse, the task seemingly monumental. But she managed to free his useless leg. 'Antara was still panting nearby; she would need to drag him all the way there and toss him on the saddle like a bundle.
But she was disturbed by the nickering of what seemed like nearby horses and the thud of their hooves; sounds she was getting used to on this dreadful night. Within moments, the horizon was swarmed with rows of densely packed horsemen, all clad in traditional Arab garments or in plain mail, nearly invisible in the dim light.
The first riders ground to a halt as they came before Umaymah and her prisoner. The man who she supposed was chief among them raised a hand to order those behind to follow suit. He was gaunt and grim, with a shock of grey hair and a long face. His beard and lack of moustache marked him as a Muslim. He did not dismount, nor did he address her; instead, he studied her and the unconscious man in her arms with sullen, cold eyes. He then turned in his saddle to confer with the man to his right.
Satisfied with whatever they conversed, he turned back toward her and gave a sharp gesture with a hand. Immediately, a dozen drawn bows were aimed directly at her. Two men with drawn swords dismounted and strode forward, flanking her on both sides.
"Let go of the chieftain, young man," the commander of the men ordered her. "In the name of the Commander of the Believers."