Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 36

September 1 632 AD, 10 Jumada al-Thani 11 AH

Now, the opportunity was ripe for Muhammad's life's work to tumble, the labor of years withering in moments. Now was the chance for Tulayha's and his ilk to strike.

The moment word of Muhammad's death reached the tribes, chaos spread like Greek fire. The impressive feat of binding hundreds of warring tribes, bickering over age old disputes – uniting them under a single banner, was one unprecedented. It took Muhammad and his followers the better part of a decade to establish one encompassing nation, one great tribe of all Arabs.

And the death of one man saw it crumble.

The peninsula erupted into chaos. All over, pretenders sprang from every corner of Arabia, inspired by Muhammad's meteoric rise preaching prophethood and monotheism.

A man called Maslamah, derogatorily nicknamed Musaylimah the Liar, was among the most prominent of those who followed suit and named himself prophet in the region of al-Yamamah, further to the east. They claimed he was a skilled sorcerer that attracted followers using breathtaking tricks.

Sajjah, a woman rumored to sully her soul with the dark magics rallied her own tribe in support of her claim to prophethood. She had been a soothsayer, a witch of sorts, they said.

And, of course, there was our very own Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid ibn al-Asadi. Our camp grew in numbers every day, virtually unhindered by casualties since we hadn't a taste of battle in those three long years.

There was another man in Yemen, though less relevant the others.

And those are only the individuals that claimed prophethood.

The political landscape was about to shift once more. The peninsula was full to bursting with rebellious tribes; as the Muslims like to say, 'those who spread mischief in the land.'

Those tribes refused to pay the alms tax to Madinah, refusing to recognize their authority. Others reverted from Muhammad's religion, returning to the practices of idolatry of old.

And all these chieftains leapt out of the woodworks, mobilizing their men for war. The phenomenon of unity among the Arab tribes introduced by Muhammad and his new creed was quickly crumbling, and his memory with it.

"Arabia erupts in uproar," Tulayha told us. "Pretenders and infidels lurk in every shadow, and it is up to Allah's warriors to quell the unrest and slaughter the heathen."

And so, we burst into a flurry of swings, lunges and strikes, the crash of our wooden swords ringing across the dunes and hills of Buzakha – the region we occupied. The muscles of my arms and abdomen straining to keep up with the strenuous daily exercise, my head pounding under the heat of a thousand suns and the strikes of my opponents aimed at it, yet I would not relent. 'Abd al-Ka'aba or another battle hardened warrior would sweep my feet from beneath me with sword or shield, or slam me to the ground or pummel me to my knees.

But each time I fell, I rose once more with a renewed vigor and a thirst for reputation.

Each time I failed, I learned from my previous shortcomings. I would take great pains to ensure that I did not repeat them. And repeat them I did not.

"I'll bury you in the fucking sands, you shriveled corpse," I yelled at 'Abd al-Ka'aba, as he gave ground.

I advanced, using my momentum to pound and clabber at his shield, splinters flying in every direction. 'Abd al-Ka'aba staggered but regained his balance, and he parried my next lunge.

I lunged at his upper body but that was a feint. At the last moment, I maneuvered to strike at his knees. I lunged again and again, at his chest, his throat, his belly.