Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 27

Two men emerged from the fort's gates, side by side. They stood in the face of the gathered infantrymen.

Both were indistinguishable in their glimmering mail shirts, polished to a brilliant sheen, and pointed iron helmets with cheek pieces that shrouded their faces. They were of impressive builds, broad and tall, evidently warriors.

One of them stepped forward and spoke.

"Khaybar knows that I am Marhab. Marhab ibn al-Harith. When war comes, spreading its flames, I am death clad in armor from head to toe, I am the reaper of souls. Is there any man among you who wishes to die?"

He spoke in an emotionless, monotonous tone. It was as if he were speaking an irrefutable truth, no discussion allowed.

Immediately, a man from the ranks ahead rushed forward, blade and shield in hand, clambering up the slope.

"I am Mahmud," he introduced himself. "Mahmud ibn Maslamah. By the grace of the Merciful, the Most Merciful, I will smite you this day."

"Ibn Maslamah?" I mused aloud. "Is he Muhammad ibn Maslamah's brother?"

Tulayha did not respond.

With a great bellow, ibn Maslamah's brother hacked at the huge man called Marhab. Marhab evaded the blow by sidestepping, swiping his blade at the stumbling Muslim duelist. There was a spray of flashing blood as Mahmud tumbled to the floor.

Blood glistened on the tip of Marhab's blade as Mahmud began wailing at his feet, writhing. There was a gruesome gash in his abdomen. Several men in our unit gasped or averted their gaze in horror as Mahmud's entrails began leaking out. With a great scream of anguish, he tried shoving the entrails back inside, his face twisted in torment. His fingers flowed red with his own blood.

As Mahmud lay discarded, dying, at the foot of the Khaybarian fortress, Marhab sheathed his sword and stepped back. The man at his side, almost identical to him, resplendent and fearsome, stepped forward in his place.

"Khaybar knows that I am al-Harith. Al-Harith ibn al-Harith. When war comes, spreading its flames, I am death clad in armor from head to toe, I am the reaper of souls. Is there any man among you who wishes to die?"

Even the tone in which he challenged the spectating ranks of Muslims was identical to that of the man who was apparently his brother. His skills did not fall short of Marhab's either. Al-Harith made short work of the man who answered his call.

And so it was for weeks afterward. The siege adopted a routine of sorts.

Every dawn from that day forth, the Jews of Khaybar sallied out of the fort and took us by surprise. I was kicked awake to a raucous of bellows and cries of alarm; the archers that shared my tent would be fumbling to place arrows in their quivers. Others were busy rousing their comrades by booting them awake.

Our unit weathered the storm of the sally. Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas was sturdy as a bull, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He bellowed orders to his underlings; I wondered if the man ever slept. We managed to form a ragged formation as the campfires illuminated the faint shapes of mounted men in the distance.

"Nock!" Ibn Abu Waqqas cried hurriedly. "Draw!"

The riders approached, conjuring bows of their own as they trotted downhill.

"Loose!"

We fired at them, our disarray and panic retreating in the face of the reassuring feel of wood and string between fingers. The ability to do something rather than huddle up in a corner and pray.