Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

Abu Sufyan sat atop his saddle, agape. His heart pounded harder than a horse's hooves during full gallop.

Abu Sufyan was a man well-traveled. He boasted of years of valuable experience roaming the gods' world with meager escort as well as cumbersome caravan. He had seen the lands of the Romans in Syria to the north and the Mediterranean their coast ran along. He had crossed the Red Sea and seen Egypt and Abyssinia.

He had gone south to the coast of Yemen and bore witness to the ocean that knew no end.

That day, on the peaks around Makkah, he laid witness to a sight he had never seen before. A boundless ocean of flickering fires dotting the landscape, as far as the eye could see. Thousands upon thousands of campfires dotting his eyesight, crackling lazily like tiny dust motes set ablaze.

An army that knew no end. An army that sought his people's blood.

"How many?" Abu Sufyan demanded. "Twenty thousand? Twenty-five?"

How did Muhammad muster such an incredible force?

"This is still reversible," al-'Abbas said at his side. "I can help rescue the tribe."

Al-'Abbas was a Muslim; in fact, he was one of Muhammad's uncles. He sought Abu Sufyan out of his own volition, seemingly with the best interests of the Quraysh at heart.

"Why would he?" Abu Sufyan stuttered. "Why would he spare us?"

"Convert, Abu Sufyan, or your neck shall be struck. A man's sins are cleansed once he converts. His past is forgotten."

Abu Sufyan gulped, shaking his head. His eyes were fixed on the great host above.

"Come," al-'Abbas waited for no response. Instead, he spurred his mount forward, making for the vast swarms of Muhammadans. The sight of them was enough to sink Abu Sufyan's heart.

A city with walls, Wahshi ibn Harb mused as his camel trotted forward. Like the cities of the Romans. A novelty.

The wooden palisade that sheltered the city of Ta'if from potential danger loomed above, casting long shadows on the grand mountainous terrain of the surrounding region. The ground beneath the camel's hooves was uneven and rocky, sending Wahshi bouncing in his saddle.

The peaks were impressive; towering and dark. The pillars of the earth that kept the sky erect. They were larger even than the mountains back at Makkah. The curious landscape even boasted of brief plots of cultivated land – vineyards and lush orchards that Wahshi had never seen the like.

He had found succor at one such orchard on his way south from Makkah, a hectic journey. His host was hospitable and benevolent, but the rolling plains, the lush greenery ... it was enough to take Wahshi's breath away.

Now, he was under the shade of Ta'if's walls. He had planned to run away to this city long ago with his love. Now, the dream was fulfilled, though under drastically different and sour circumstances.

As soon as Wahshi saw the vast Muhammadan host hovering over Makkah, he immediately spirited himself away with what meagre belongings he could fit on a single camel. He was wary of these Muhammadans, their alien ways, odd beliefs.

Even more so, he was terrified.

Wahshi ibn Harb remembered the day of Uhud. When his javelin impaled the monstrous Hamza, uncle to none other than the self-proclaimed prophet. It was the price for his freedom.

And what a bleak reward it was.

He had not counted on answering to that crime. For the thousandth time, Wahshi felt a pang of guilt for those poor souls he reaped. The lives he took on behalf of his masters. He had once yearned to repent. To live out a life as a free man, a good man. But that option had been taken away from him. Now, his was a life bereft of purpose.

"When did she leave?" the man called Malik ibn 'Awf inquired at his side.

Malik was a chieftain of the Banu Hawazin, a tribe local to Ta'if. He was the man who extended this branch of hospitality to Wahshi.

Wahshi arced his eyebrows and grunted in annoyance at Malik. The man was grinning widely as his mount skirted away from a rocky outcrop.

"Your woman," Malik continued. "When did she leave?"

Insufferable bastard.

"Who told you this?" Wahshi demanded shortly.

"I know a heart that needs mending when I see one."

Perhaps your heart requires skewering, Wahshi thought. He shook his head, relieving it of violent thoughts. I'm not that man anymore.

"Well, I've always thought all a man needs in his hands is blade and shield," Malik spat on the ground.

Wahshi shook his head as the gates of Ta'if creaked open before him.

Maybe I should have given myself over to Muhammad. He would have done what I am too much of a coward to do.

"Muhammad, I beseech you," Abu Sufyan pleaded. There was only a handful of men in Muhammad's tent. "Do not let the Arabs know you as the man who killed his tribe."

'Umar ibn al-Khattab grinned, put a hand on the hilt of his sword and stepped forward. "And why did you not caution yourself against killing your own tribesmen?"

'Umar unsheathed his sword.

"Allah has delivered you to us. You are under no oath, under no truce."

"No, 'Umar," the Prophet's uncle, al-'Abbas put himself between the two men. "This matter can be resolved without the shedding of Quraysh blood."

"Muhammad, I beseech you," Abu Sufyan continued. "Do not soil a ground most sacred with blood."

Abu Sufyan, in his mind's eye, saw Makkah overflowing with blood. He saw the white draping of the Ka'aba washed red. He saw the corpses of his massacred people piled atop one another.

"What am I to do? What am I to do to spare my people?" he demanded.

"Suck on Allat's teat," wizened old Abu Bakr said from the corner of the tent. It provoked gales of laughter from men all around. Even Muhammad smiled.

Abu Sufyan's face flushed red with embarrassment.

'Umar shoved past al-'Abbas and placed his blade on Abu Sufyan's neck. Abu Sufyan felt the cold steel on his skin and shivered despite himself.

"Apostle of Allah, allow me to strike his neck," 'Umar addressed Muhammad.

"By Allah, 'Umar, if he was a man of your clan, you would not have done this," al-'Abbas grabbed 'Umar by an arm large as a tree trunk.

"Today is the day of massacre!" Sa'ad ibn 'Ubadah called out. He had once been a formidable warrior, Abu Sufyan remembered. Now, he was a shriveled greybeard, spindly and withering.

Abu Sufyan shut his eyes and saw the future unravel in his mind. He saw his wife skewered. He saw his dear sons in a pool of their own blood. He heard the terrified screams of the harried, the moans of the dying. He saw glassy eyes, staring at the sky, blank and unblinking. Red streams flowing through the sacred ground of the Ka'aba.

He saw his people butchered and pursued. It was then that he made his decision. He knew it would be an unpopular one among his tribe. He knew that they would ridicule him, call him a coward or a number of uncouth accusations. He knew his own wife would disapprove. Her uncle had been slain at Badr.

But what he was about to do was for the sake of his own people. Even if they disapproved.

With a resolve, he spoke, voice unfaltering.

"You cannot kill me, 'Umar."

"Why's that?"

"Because I testify that there is no god but Allah," Abu Sufyan steadied his ragged breathing. "And I testify that Muhammad is the Apostle of Allah."

And Muhammad smiled.