Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 37

Yet, the following morning was one to drum the ears of Allat rather than the al-'Uzza, goddess of love.

All I knew of the gods were of Qusayy's mentorship, but the years I spent among the Bedouins of Banu Asad educated me further in the religion of the Arabs.

Allat, another daughter of Allah, was the goddess of war and combat, the deity Arabs pleaded to in times of battle. 'Abd al-Ka'aba confessed that on the eve of every battle, he would privately partake in a sacred ritual dedicated to Allat in the shelter of his tent. However, he remained secretive of the details of the ritual, no matter how much I prodded him.

And it was to Allat that I dedicated what may have been my final breaths on the summit of a hill in the region of Buzakha, to the north of Arabia.

I recited prayers to Hubal, the chief among gods, and Manat, the third daughter of Allah, and the goddess of destiny and fortune.

Watch over me, Hubal, or I'm damned and doomed to die.

I used my newly acquired wealth of theocratic knowledge, and addressed Shams, the goddess of the sun, Nasr the eagle god of victory, Yaghuth the lion god of courage.

I hammered the ears of every god I knew and found myself at ease now that I began to grasp how many deities watched over me and kept me from harm's way.

The three years I spent among the Bedouins bestowed upon me clarity of mind; now, I was determined to rectify the error of my ways, the venom I felt toward the gods when I was yet shackled by slavery.

The gods never forsook me; they only used the likes of ibn Maslamah and Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad to temper my resolve and forge a warrior out of me.

Hard circumstances breed hard men.

And now, I thought, was the culmination of the gods' grooming of me. Now was the time to unleash the warrior so many years of suffering cultivated.

The Battle of Buzakha was the first large scale encounter where I used a longsword rather than my bow. I was an infantryman, under the command of 'Abd al-Ka'aba – my mentor for three years and the man who was as a father to me.

I held naught but a longsword in one hand, a shield in the other, a quiver strung to my hip and my bow over my shoulders. My tumbling curls were worn in a tail draped past my shoulders. I wore a knee-high gown over tunic and trousers. A turban was perched over my head. I used its tail as a litham of sorts; the tail was draped over my face, obscuring my features and my neck.

I watched the approaching swarms of Muslim troops approach the foot of our hill. We vastly outnumbered them, fielding almost twice their number. The rest of the Muslim forces were stretched thin, otherwise occupied elsewhere to quell one troublesome chieftain or the other. We held the high ground. More favorable terrain.

But the Muslims had one distinct advantage.

Khalid ibn al-Waleed.

The battle began with the traditional challenge of single combat. It was Khalid ibn al-Waleed who emerged from the ranks of enemy troops, the general in command of the enemy forces.

There was an eerie atmosphere about Khalid that exuded death. His mail shirt was painted to a vivid dark hue; the cloth and leather he wore beneath were of plain black, dark as a raven's wings.

He was mounted on a monstrous warhorse that matched his dark style of clothing. Its mane was pitch black; its eyes a red that matched the shade of blood, two rubies set in a snarling face.

The beast was sturdy and far more robust than any I'd ever seen, and its front teeth jutted out like fangs. It was more akin to a demon possessed than a horse.