Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 25

627 AD, 6 AH

I sought comfort from the feel of oak and string between my fingers. The gusts of the night winds lapped against my cheeks and sent specks of sand sprawling my way, flying into my eyes and those of my comrades.

There was no sound but the faint murmurs of dozens of men and conferring senior officers. The desolate plains stretched away in all directions; the flatland marred only by nearby reddish hills and towering peaks.

There were only a handful of lit lamps and torches illuminating the tents of the Banu Ghatafan that day. Had it been morning, these tents would have been cast in the shadow of the monstrous palm tree that dominated the center of the Bedouin encampment.

Arrayed in a neat file of a dozen or so archers, whispering among themselves in excited yet hushed tones, I clung to my lowered bow, an arrow nocked to its string.

I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b, slave to Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad. And I would get another taste of battle.

The aftermath of the Battle of the Trench was a busy one for the Muslim community in Yathrib.

The wretched Sa'ad ibn Mu'adh who had sentenced me and mine to slavery or death had succumbed to his wounds only days after the verdict. His funeral was one that featured a great congregation of nearly every resident of the city, followed by a mass prayer service where the neatly packed lines of prayers were so numerous that they spilled out of the Qiblatayn mosque. At their head was the Prophet Muhammad, voice resonant, tone austere, acting as imam – the leader of the prayer.

Meanwhile, the Muslim community had gained great prestige and reputation after the Battle of the Trench. They had evaded the clutches of the illustrious Quraysh once again. And so, some loose ends needed to be tied.

We had ridden hard from Yathrib. We were in the region known as Najd, which constituted the lands around Yathrib to the northwest and northeast. More specifically, we had ventured forth to the mountainous terrain known as Dhat al-Riqa', north and east of the city.

We had taken awful pains to avoid being spotted by the tribe's sentries. We marched by night and set up camp in the shelter of valley or ravine at day. Now, a force of over five hundred hardened warriors set their sights directly on the Bedouin encampment, unchallenged, unseen.

The Prophet had gained intelligence that the troublesome nomads of a Banu Ghatafan clan had been recently assembling troops from other clans and sub-tribes. It was definitely cause for concern, especially after the mass defection at the Battle of the Trench that made many question the sincerity of Bedouin tribes' conversion or alliance.

And so, they needed to be subjugated again.

But this expedition was of particular interest to me. I remembered that my mother had been taken as war spoil to a Ghatafan chieftain. The chances of her being here were slim, I knew; the Ghatafan were a large tribe. But it was a chance I wished not to squander. I thanked the gods Mas'oud allowed me to take part.

My unit of archers was commanded by a man called Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas. He was a relative of Muhammad and one of his earliest converts, renowned for his skill with bow and arrow.

Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas was a soldier to the bone. Men said he was the first to kill in the name of Islam, back in Makkah when he had been defending himself against a group of polytheists that meant him harm.

He had a fuzzy grey beard with only a hint of black. There was a patch around his skull that was crowned by a bald scalp. He was short, yet bulky with large forearms. He had an aura of authority about him. The men in our unit shrunk away from his piercing gaze and hastened to do his bidding.