Empires of Faith

Chapter 1: Summons To Battle

17 Jumada Al-Awwal, 1663

The desert sun was relentless in beating down heat upon the sands. Not a cloud could be seen nor any sign of refuge from the trials of travel. Wrapped in cloaks of white and turbans on their heads, two men road atop strong, bronze-colored horses through the Nubian Desert. Between them paced a healthy she-camel, carrying a small supply of food and water, along with camping materials.

As they neared their destination, the two men felt relieved. Over the horizon appeared a single mud-brick hut on the outskirts of a small town. They spurred their horses to hurry on towards it and their camel followed suit. It was only a matter of moments before the two had reached their target. Standing less than a story high, the hut was built between a pair of date palms. While the structure itself had been built of mud and stones, the roof and entrance had simply been two plain colored cloths draped over and held in place.

One of the men rode up to the entrance and pulled out his bow from off his back. He knocked it against the hard wall and called out to the hut's inhabitants, "As-Salaamu 'Alaikum.*" There was no answer. "As-Salaamu 'Alaikum!" he called once more.

"Wa 'Alaikumus Salaam; who goes there?" came a reply from a man inside.

"Why do you not come out and face us," the man on the horse retorted. "Come and see who it is that calls you with your own eyes, ya Muhammad." There was silence in the hut. After about a minute a young man of twenty-six years emerged from the tent, gripping a large curved blade in his dark hands. He was of an average height, robust in stature. His hair was black and curled, and his beard short, though untrimmed, reaching only the length of a fist on his chin and half of that on his jaws. Despite his youthful appearance, there was a slightly intimidating air about him due in part to his more reserved stance.

His dark, black eyes held a steely gaze as he examined the two men with an intense scrutiny. The nearest of the two looked at him with a smirk on his wheat-brown face. He was of a medium build, muscular but not bulky, neither short nor tall. He had a large, black beard, two fistfuls long.

Muhammad knew immediately who that man was, and he turned to face the other rider, already having an inkling of his identity. He raised his hand above his eyes to block out the glare of the sun and took a more intent look at the second man. He was a shorter man, and his build was more bulky. His black beard was wide and bushy from his cheeks to his chin. A wide grin came over his ruddy face, nearly causing him to squint his black eyes. Noticing a small birth mark just above the man's large nose, Muhammad knew exactly who he was as well.

"Usama bin Shameem," he declared.

"Yes," the man replied, beaming at Muhammad. "And I have with me-"

"Imran ibn Ali no doubt," Muhammad continued, looking back towards the first man.

"Yes."

"Ma Shaa Allah*! I haven't seen you two since my walimah*!"

"Indeed," Imran said, putting his bow away and dismounting his horse. "It certainly has been quite a while, hasn't it?" Usama hopped down from his horse as well and the both of them shook hands with Muhammad. "You got married and you abandoned us, ya Muhammad."

"You don't care for your friends anymore now that you've got your beloved Munirah?" Usama asked, teasingly.

"Oh, Munirah, that reminds me," Muhammad said, turning back towards his hut. "Wait just a moment, my friends." He pulled back the hanging cloth and reentered his hut, being met by the sight of his curious wife, Munirah. The graceful young woman sat in the middle of the room, the dusty floor covered by a simple tanned rug. She was just two years younger than her husband, and looked as beautiful as ever. The dark brown material of her modest abayah* complimented the honey brown complexion of her hands and face, as well as the chestnut curls that reached down her back.