Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 28

June 628 AD, Muharram 7 AH

Single combat duels were a tradition in Arab warfare. It was a display of swordplay, prose and reputation. The Arab warriors would leap forward, singing to their own praises in colorful words and vivid boasts. This poetic boast of prowess and strength would be followed by the clamor of steel on steel, and only one man would emerge from the duel drawing breath.

Ibn Maslamah, however, spoke no words and recited no poetry. He did not introduce himself nor did he boast of his reputation.

Marhab and Harith were splendid in their polished mail and unscathed iron helmets, glinting prettily under the blistering sun. They towered over any opponent who dared face them.

Ibn Maslamah, on the other hand, was sinewy and his physique was not one to give pause. He wore no helmet nor turban, revealing his short shock of dark brown hair. He wore nothing but a rusted mail shirt that had belonged to a Qurayzi tribesman. On his face, was an emotion I'd become all too familiar with.

Sheer anger.

His face was beet red and his venomous gaze was fixed on Marhab as he shoved his way through the throngs of soldiers, striding up the slope, sword in one hand, shield in the other.

I should have been glad to see the end of the man that had killed Qusayy. But that was precisely why I yearned to lurch forward and yank Muhammad ibn Maslamah back to camp. He was not al-Harith's to kill.

He was mine.

For the thousandth time in my short life, I dropped my head in despair and the rage surged through me. I felt it pricking up my spine, prodding me, threatening to consume me. I began shaking.

Muhammad ibn Maslamah was mine to kill. Yet the gods saw fit for him to elude me? Where was the justice?

"Who is he?" one of the archers whispered.

"Muhammad ibn Maslamah," I answered, my voice tight with fury.

"What is he doing?"

Another man answered him.

"It is a blood feud. Marhab killed his brother. To get to Marhab, he must kill al-Harith. The man has no choice. Pray Allah to forgive his sins and secure him a place in heaven."

"He's mine!" I screamed, as ibn Maslamah trudged up the hill to his death. He hefted his shield and clung to his blade, while my mind-numbing rage jarred my head.

Then, an idea struck me.

"Mine!" I shrieked.

The area at the foot of the hill where we set up camp was flanked on either side by palm groves. There were strands of thickets and bushes at the foot of these trees.

I unslung my bow and shoved my way through the crowd of onlookers. I nocked an arrow to my string as I crouched up the hill, the leaves of the thickets that concealed my movements rustling softly.

Ibn Maslamah and al-Harith had already begun their duel once I reached the summit. The tangle I was embroiled within pricked at me, the thorns scratching me, scoring my flesh, burning my skin.

But whenever I felt a tinge of weakness creeping in, threatening to have me flinch and expose myself to the three men on the summit of the hill, I remembered the shock on Qusayy's face, his last gurgling breaths and ibn Maslamah's apologetic smile. I remembered all the times I felt helpless, every time those I cared for were snatched away from me, while I was unable to interfere.

I remembered the elation I felt at the memory of Habib's death. I remembered stabbing over and over. I remembered the sheer glee of taking a man's life. A man that wronged me. The beast within clamored for blood. It screamed and clawed inside, demanding to feel that same elation once more. To take control, to consume, to make the plains run red.