Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

February 630 AD, Shawwal 8 AH

Wahshi ibn Harb rested his hands on the rail of the wooden palisade. With trepidation, he eyed the streams of Muslim warriors trickling through the gates of Ta'if at the foot of the walls.

No matter where he ran, the Muslims would follow. Wahshi knew that his name was part of a list of people to be shown no succor once Makkah fell. Wahshi imagined he would be safe further south.

But Ta'if fell all the same.

Wahshi rushed away from the ramparts, descending the wooden stairs to return to city proper. Wahshi walked past a ruined building; demolished by a massive boulder catapulted into the city at the height of the siege.

For two or so weeks, the Muslims had cut off the tribes in Ta'if from food or fodder. They employed unique battle tactics to breach the gate. They hurled large stones into the city or to smash the walls using catapult or trebuchet. Yet, the walls held firm all the same.

The army of Muhammad camped outside Ta'if had been twelve thousand strong. Of those, two thousand were fresh converts from the Quraysh. Tribesmen that embraced Muhammad's religion after the fall of Makkah. Wahshi had not believed his eyes when he saw Abu Sufyan among them.

Though they did not breach the walls, the chieftains inside the city agreed to surrender. They agreed to embrace Islam.

Perhaps I should run away south still, Wahshi thought, walking to his shed. To Yemen. Or cross the sea to Abyssinia. The land of his ancestors. They could not find him there. He knew that if they found him –

"Wahshi!"

Shit.

"Wahshi!"

He turned around to see Bilal ibn Rabah rushing forward toward him. Wahshi tensed, falling into fighting stance. But he relaxed seeing the ear to ear grin drawn on his countryman's face.

Wahshi jolted as Bilal slammed into him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Wahshi groaned.

"I thought I told you I do not enjoy human contact," he complained to his fellow Abyssinian. "Besides, you and I both know I am destined to die."

Bilal pulled back. The grin did not fade.

"No, Wahshi, there is yet salvation for you. The Messenger of Allah preaches forgiveness."

"I killed his uncle. I was among a list of people sentenced to death no matter what."

"Some of those people converted. They were spared. Wahshi, the woman who ordered you to kill Hamza was spared!"

"Hind was spared?" Wahshi exclaimed, taken aback. The vile woman had eaten Hamza's liver!

Bilal nodded vigorously. "Convert, Wahshi. Convert."

"How could he spare me? How?"

"A man's sins are cleansed once he takes Allah as his sole god and Muhammad as his prophet. It is as if you are born anew."

I do not know if I wish to live...

"Bilal, I..."

"Say the words! I do not wish you to see you dead. I will vouch for you myself."

Wahshi hesitated. He contemplated all the possibilities. He looked around at the swarms of Muslims striding into the city, a spring to their step. They were so determined. So full of life. Wahshi did not remember a day he had been so jubilant. So set in his ways. All his life, he had been deprived of opinion. Of choice. All he had done was to serve others' interests. Others' motives. Others' beliefs.

And then he looked up at Bilal.

They had once been the same, Wahshi and Bilal. They were both born to vicious masters. Though Wahshi had been more of a slave soldier while Bilal a domestic slave, they had chafed in their bonds in different ways. Bilal had long since embraced Islam. Wahshi was left to rot and wither in Makkah.

Now, Wahshi studied Bilal's face – so full of life. Full of hope. Could this have been him had he accepted Muhammad?

Hope. It is a dangerous thing. Especially when all one knew was servitude. Wahshi had known hope once. When he yet dreamed of cultivating a family for himself. When he yet had a purpose. Now, hope was a fading memory. A foolish prospect for the naïve and privileged.

Wahshi felt more than a pang of envy as he studied Bilal. So full of hope. He had purpose. He had people who cared for him. People who loved him as a brother.

"I killed the best of men," Wahshi heaved with barely contained sobbing. "I did not want to kill anyone."

A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. He began sobbing openly.

"Come," Bilal laid a hand on his shoulder. "To put your mind at ease, I will present you to the Apostle with the delegation of Ta'if. Surely you have heard that the Prophet does not kill messengers?"

Wahshi attempted to cringe away, but Bilal's grip on his forearm was firm as he hauled him forward. Determined and hopeful as ever. Wahshi felt hundreds of eyes on him as the delegation of messengers spilled forth from the gates of Ta'if.

Wahshi's gaze was fixed on his sandals. He only halted when Bilal obstructed his path with an outstretched arm.

Wahshi looked up to see the man he knew to be Muhammad.

Wahshi gasped, taking a step backward.

"Apostle of Allah," Bilal inclined his head. "Wahshi ibn Harb has uttered the shahada."

"You are Wahshi?" Muhammad addressed him. His eyes were hard on him. Wahshi cringed away under his gaze.

"Yes."

"You killed Hamza."

Wahshi hesitated. Finally, he nodded. "It is as you heard."

He's going to kill me.

"Can you stay away from me?"

Wahshi started; his jaw dropped. He's going to spare me?

Wahshi nodded. Muhammad waved a hand at him in dismissal and turned to the messengers of Ta'if.

Wahshi, nonplussed, turned to a grinning Bilal.

Wahshi's pounding heart finally began steadying. He felt a rush of blood flow through his head. He had been given another chance at life! To make the best of it as he could.

I will not squander this.

He had been wallowing in misery and self-pity far too long. Aimless and useless. Indulging in his guilt and the ghosts of the past. Now, he resolved, he would make up for his bleak past. He would strive until his final breath to repent. To make it right with himself, and this new god he was about to worship. And to the souls he reaped in his ignorance.

It was time to collect freedom. True freedom – from the pain. From the guilt. From the crippling loneliness.

But first, he needed to retrieve a javelin.