Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

December 629 AD, Ramadan 8 AH

Ghawth ibn Luhay basked in the calm serenity of the night's atmosphere. He grunted in satisfaction as a light breeze washed across his face. He led his camel by the reins at the head of a Banu Khuza'a trading caravan. His kinsmen followed close behind, tending to the cattle and the camels transporting their goods.

It had been a rough day's work and they were all glad to see its end. The moon hung as a faint crescent in the sky and the trek home to their valley was gentle. The winter was not particularly harsh on his clan, though Ghawth supposed they would soon pack their belongings and relocate somewhere else with more favorable access to water source.

Ghawth longed to be away from the shadow of the Ka'aba, to return to his plump infant back home; her laughing eyes and blissful demeanor. Fatimah was everything he had hoped for and more. She was his pride and joy, the glimmer in his eye.

He had once dreaded the responsibilities of fatherhood, the burden of protecting a creature much tinier than himself. Yet now he welcomed fatherhood with open arms and a smile on his face. There was nothing quite like hearing his little girl's laugh. Now he knew why his own father had been so harsh on his sisters. It had been a strictness fueled by love.

Perhaps now that there was a peace between the Muslims and the Quraysh, ridding Ghawth of his fears for looming turbulence and a need for the bearing of arms in the future, he could raise his daughter in a fit and peaceful environment. He did not know if the Banu Khuza'a shaykhs were exercising the wise decision in taking the Muslims' side, nor was he entirely convinced of the choice of many of his fellow tribesmen to adopt this new creed of monotheism as their own.

Ghawth did harbor some resentment toward the Quraysh, who had long been the nemeses of his tribe, but he had his reservations about this new religion as well as its adherents. A man in Arabia must earn trust in order to be accepted.

He reminded himself that many of these Muslims were also of the Quraysh. But then again, so were many of his kinsmen. In fact, most of his cousins trailing behind him as part of the caravan, had adopted the faith of their allies in Yathrib.

As long as a reign of peace ruled the tribes, what more could I ask for?

Perhaps then he could see his daughter blossom into a fine young woman. Perhaps then he could see her wed and bear him numerous grandchildren that he could fawn over in his old age. Perhaps he could provide her with the life she deserved.

"Ghawth!" Abu Mazen called out to him from behind. "Halt the caravan. It is time for night prayers."

Hashim ibn Nu'man felt his blood boil as he remembered all the misery his tribe suffered at the hands of the Banu Khuza'a. For decades, the Banu Bakr and the Banu Khuza'a had been embroiled in a blood feud that saw the lives of many of Hashim's close kin bleed and perish.

The audacity of the Khuza'a! Hashim thought to himself, sharpening his blade with a whetstone as his companions readied themselves, cinching the saddles of their mounts.

They were all fine warriors of the illustrious Banu Bakr – a tribe that could chronicle its vast lineage back to the time of the storied 'Adnan, father of Arabs, son of Isma'il, grandson of Ibrahim.

Not a day passed that Hashim ibn Nu'man did not swell with pride at his tribal affiliation. His was a lineage of grandeur, valiant warriors and wise shaykhs. He intended to etch his name onto the lips of the coming generations of Bakr tribesmen this night by shedding Khuza'a blood.

Any Bakri tribesman worth the air he was allowed to breathe would spit at the mention of Khuza'a. The bastards had killed far too many of their best warriors for them to abide by this ridiculous peace. His father, a paladin of the Bakr, had been among those that succumbed to Khuza'a villainy. And this Muhammad fellow dared besmirch the tribe's honor by suggesting that they make peace with scum!

The truce was a slight to Banu Bakr. True, they were allies of the Quraysh, and needed to refrain from shedding the blood of Muhammad's allies, but Hashim's blood boiled at the thought of it. Making peace with vile enemy.

Besides, Muhammad was a heretic! Yet he dared prop himself up as a chieftain! Hashim ground his teeth in anger at the Banu Quraysh, chief tribe among Arabs, for bowing down to this misguided pretender.

A peace? Hashim spat at the ground between his feet. He had no idea why his shaykhs chose to embroil themselves in this petty feud between Qurayshi and Muslim.

It was a poor decision they had taken to ally the Banu Bakr with the Quraysh. Ten years, they said! They required of them ten years of peace not to harm any Muslim or the allies of the Muslims.

Heretics, the lot of them! Heretics with no zeal for their lineage or fervor for their own flesh and blood. What would they know of the anger boiling inside Hashim and each and every one of his companions who had lost a brother, a cousin or a friend to the Khuza'a?

This night, Hashim ibn Nu'man resolved that he would lay his father's soul to peace. He sheathed his blade in a wooden scabbard and hopped onto his saddle. He wore no litham nor did he don a turban; he wanted the Khuza'a cowards to witness firsthand the wrath of the Bakr. He wanted the last thing they saw to be the howling faces of real men.

Ghawth slipped away from the dirt path, using his camel to shield himself. He saw his cousin Abu Mazen fall to an arrow in the cranium. What had been a blissfully calm night a moment before was now soiled by the frantic shrieks and screams of brothers and cousins, taking shelter from the shower of arrows loosed at them from pitch darkness.

Ghawth whispered a prayer for salvation to the gods as he heard the sound of approaching hooves. Rushing toward them at full speed, emerging from the crest of a nearby hill, were dozens of horsemen. Their battle cries reverberated in the night and Ghawth felt a pang of fear.

Not fear for himself – he was more than capable of defending himself – it was fear for his daughter.

He had assumed these were raiders, highway robbers, enticed with the promise of easy plunder. They struck them when they were at their most vulnerable – when his kinsmen were praying.

But now that the attackers were near enough to discern faces, he could also make out the words of their battle cries. They recited poems of epic heroism, bravery and valor. Every verse boasted of the deeds of Banu Bakr tribesmen.

There was a long-standing enmity between the Bakr and the Khuza'a, Ghawth was fully aware of that. But there was a peace! A peace for ten years! Why were they violating it?

Ghawth had no time to think. Already, his kinsmen had abandoned the sides of their mounts and emerged to face the incurring Bakri scum, sword in hand and curse upon lips. Ghawth set his teeth and resolved he would stand his ground in the face of treachery. He unloaded the crates from atop his own camel carelessly, shattering the wood and spilling its contents on the sand.

He grabbed the cowering boy Mazen by the collar and hauled him over a shoulder like a burlap sack before tossing him atop the camel's back.

"Return to 'Amr ibn Salim!" Ghawth yelled at the frightened youth over the din of heightened battle. "Tell him of what you saw here. Tell him the Quraysh have violated the truce!"

The boy gulped in fear, snatching a quick glance at the gruesome fighting that had developed into a melee. Finally, he nodded and set his eyes on the horizon.

He was a good boy. Ghawth knew he would grow to be a fine Khuza'a man. Ghawth needed to allow him the chance to grow. Perhaps he would take his daughter's hand in marriage.

Perhaps he would be the one to provide her with the life she deserved. Ghawth slapped the animal's posterior, sending it wailing and trotting away from the scenes of blood and agony.

"Fall back! They can't fight us in the shade of the Ka'aba!" he bellowed to his cousins. "In the meantime, let's show these bastards what befalls those who challenge the men of Khuza'a."

He unsheathed his sword and charged into the heart of the bloodbath.

His final thoughts were of Fatimah.