Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

       Wahshi ibn Harb hefted his javelin, crouching behind the throngs of charging Qurayshi warriors.

       Wahshi ibn Harb, he thought. He sucked in air through his nose in disgust.

       It meant 'the monstrous, son of war'. It wasn't even his real name. He did not know his real name. This is the life he had been born to; all he had ever known. One of degradation and humiliation. One of servitude. Slavery.

        He was a man of Abyssinia, the lands to the west past the Red Sea. Yet, he had never seen this storied land of his ancestors. It was when Abraha, the Abyssinian governor of Yemen, sought to expand his realm further into Arabia by overrunning Makkah and destroying the Ka'aba. The campaign ended in calamity and the Meccans emerged victorious.

       Wahshi's parents had been enslaved, forced to serve the Qurayshi elite.

        And that was the life he had been born to. One of no identity and no lineage. Nameless. Faceless.

       All he had to his name was his strength. Fighting was all he could do. Wahshi did not know if he believed in Christ or in the gods of his masters, but whoever resided up there had blessed him with arms taut heavy with muscle and extraordinary height. He had proven his savage prowess in battle many a time, and the Qurayshi had taken a bizarre infatuation with him.

       That was how he earned his name.

       To them, he was a monstrosity. To them, he was the son of war.

       No longer. All he had to do to earn his freedom was perform this one simple task. And so, he clung to the tails of his comrades' gowns, studying the berserk Hamza ibn 'Abd al-Motteleb. Hamza, a resplendent figure straight out of an epic poem, was carving a gaping hole through the center of the Meccan army from atop his saddle.

      Hamza bellowed and roared, swinging his blade in savage arcs. The power behind each blow was enough to make even Wahshi wince. Men shied away from this frenzied warrior, hacking and striking amok. Some tried yanking Hamza's gown, to pull him off his saddle, but they only earned a smack on their head by the butt of his sword.

      His horse was in a similarly hysterical state, kicking and whinnying wildly at the scent of blood and death, froth emerging from the corners of its mouth. Its hooves smacked against the jaws and foreheads of those near enough to earn its wrath.

      No wonder they call him the Lion of Allah, Wahshi thought as Hamza beckoned for the Qurayshi to come forward. He will fall all the same.

      For freedom.

       It was what he had been promised. By his mistress. That vicious woman, Hind bint 'Utbah, sought to avenge her uncle's death at the Battle of Badr at the hands of this wild beast.

       And the prize was intoxicating.

       Wahshi saw his opening. Hamza had slammed his shield into the face of an aggressor, sending him sprawling away. Hamza's left arm was wide, his abdomen and chest unprotected.

       And so, Wahshi hefted his javelin once more. He put his left foot forward and stepped on the tips of his right foot's toes. He extended his left arm forward and pulled the javelin all the way back over his right shoulder.

      He ground his teeth and twisted his hip.

       "FREEDOM!" he bellowed, hurling the javelin with all the might whatever creator existed blessed upon him.

       The javelin struck true. Hamza wobbled in his saddle but kept his seat. The long haft protruded from the center of his chest. It would not be a painless death.