Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 31

          "Loose!"

Frantic screams, the thundering of galloping hooves, the clamor of steel on steel, the twang of arrows parting bows. Raucous was the order of the day.

The throngs of Romans and Ghassanids were harrying our retreating cavalry. In truth, our foe was being lured to the gorge where my unit and the infantry grit our teeth in preparation for the pending impact.

The strategy was to use the narrow confines of the gorge to negate the Romans' vast numerical advantage. It was a desperate tactic, but it was unraveling as we were ordered to let loose one more volley from the valley's mouth. Our horsemen were twisted in their saddles, using their own bows to harass the swarms of pursuing Romans and Arabs behind. Among them was one banner perched atop a pole.

On a stark white field, the words 'There is no god but Allah, Muhammad is the Apostle of Allah' were etched onto the rippling cloth. The bearer, I knew, would be the field commander of this expedition; Zaid ibn Haritha.

In my advanced age, I listen to the tales of Mu'tah, and how the brave Muslim soldiers held steadfast in the face of death and their leaders urged them on to martyrdom and a guaranteed path to paradise. Yet, all I remember was looking around at men barely old enough to have grown a strand of hair on their cheeks trembling with fear, their bows slick with sweat and quivering.

Men and boys who had not been given the chance to live, preparing to shed their mortal coil in such a malignant manner. It is a sight I have become all too accustomed to now. Their dying screams are horrible, the finality of their toppling bodies absolute. They leave behind grieving mothers, distraught widows and lost orphans.

Such is the reality of war.

But me? I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b. If I died, none would mourn my passing. None would pray for my wandering soul to find peace; not a tear shed. No grand ceremonies or funerals conducted, nor would any woman beat her chest, wailing in grief. If I lived, I had no one to return to. I didn't even know if there was life after death.

All I owned. All I had to my name. The sole thing I was certain of. I clutched it in my hands. My bow. It reminded me of who I was.

A warrior. Through and through.

And so, I grabbed another arrow from my quiver and drew it to my ear.

The Muslim cavalry was arriving at the gorge. Brisk orders were called out for us to retreat to the depths of the gorge, back to the very rear of our ranks. The whinnying horses and the bleating camels followed us as we raced away from the charging Romans.

Finally, we pulled to a stop as we shoved past the last infantryman. Two hills towered over us to either side like foreboding walls overgrown with dangling greenery.

It was not courage that steadied my fingers and stayed my heart, nor was it prowess; bravery is not the inability to feel fear. To be truly brave, one must master fear. Harness that terror into action and limitless energy that would drench your foes in blood.

But I felt nothing at all.

Only the numbness.

The front ranks had engaged. I could not see, yet I heard. The usual chorus of battle raged on in all avenues; the thud of blades on wooden shields, the crunch of a sword or spear piercing mail links, accompanied by a shriek of agony. Sounds horrific enough to make a grown man huddle in a corner and weep, yet I watched on, unflinching, with dead eyes.

The sharp screams of horses reverberating on the gorge's high walls, the rippling of columns, the final agonized shrieks of dying men.

But I kept plucking arrows from my quiver, placing them on my bow, drawing them back and letting loose all the same; even after my own unit had succumbed to frantic disarray. It was as though my arms and fingers were of a mind of their own. Mindlessly, I plucked another arrow. It was a rhythmic tune.