Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 30

September 629 AD, Jumada al-Awwal 8 AH

Yazid was cinching his father's saddle girth outside, while Mas'oud fastened his mail coat. My quiver full of newly fletched arrows rested on a hip while I clung fiercely to my bow.

For we were leaving Arabia.

"What is it?" I asked Ruqayya, who was studying me intently. Her eyebrows were arced.

Without prior warning, she sprang forward and threw her arms around me. Her embrace on me was as tight as my own to the bow.

"Uhh..." I mumbled. I did not know what to do. She was not usually one to convey emotion and neither was I. My arms hung to my side for a good long while. But slowly, I returned the embrace.

"You will recover from this," she whispered.

"I've been to battle before," I reassured her. "I know what I'm doing. Not all city people are weak."

She pulled me away and I was taken aback to see her eyes glistening with tears.

"It's not battle I speak of."

"Wha – "

I let out a cry as I was yanked backward by my ear. The tugging provoked a sharp pain that made me swat away the hand in reflex.

"Don't touch what isn't yours!" Mas'oud barked. He smacked me across the face. Numbness washed over my nose as I felt liquid trickle down from my nostrils.

It was useless to react or retaliate through word or force. My stint as a slave taught me patience. It is best to bide one's time, suffering the torment and affliction rather than act on impulse and risk festering one's woes.

"Are you not coming?" I asked her as I moved to follow Mas'oud outside. The tears lingered in her eyes.

He would usually take her with him on campaigns and she would share a tent with him; he refused to let any of his wives leave the shed.

"I can't come this time," she whispered in despair. "I'm sorry."

"She won't be coming because she'll make a red mess out of the tent, if you know what I mean," Mas'oud rasped a hideous laugh behind me.

Mas'oud finally trudged over to the camel. There was a rusty steel sword slung over one shoulder, sheathed in a baldric. He put one foot in the stirrup of the saddle and hopped onto the saddle.

He clapped me across the back of my head and snapped his fingers, kicking the mount into motion.

I was following on foot, one hand on the saddle girth to keep up with the pace, my bow slung across my back and my quiver bristling with arrows on my hip. A dagger was wrapped up in furs inside of the quiver as well.

Mas'oud looked down on me and clapped me across the back of my head again. I learned to ignore his insolence but tearing him apart was a thought that never strayed from my mind.

"Hop on," He said, patting the empty space on the saddle in front of him.

I stared up at him, puzzled. He had never shown me kindness. This was a man that cared only for coffers, belly and loins. There was a glint in his eyes, a slight parting of his lips. I could not read the expression and so I was only left staring back at him in shock.

"Lost your wits, Jew? Climb the camel, boy, or I'll whip you bloody. You're not marching with the archers this day."

Reluctantly, I acquiesced. I mounted the camel with one brisk movement – just like Zaid taught me.