Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 38

          My breath was muffled, and my vision obscured beneath the burlap sack draped over my head. I chafed at the ropes that bound my hands together, but they would not budge. I yearned for the comforting clutch of an idol, but my alabaster sculpture of Hubal had been robbed from me along with all possessions I had on my being.

When I took to flight from the field of battle at Buzakha, fleeing the onslaught, I found succor during dusk with a group of fugitives that escaped the same fate. They were cowering in the shelter of a gorge between two hills.

"Hawazin," one of them said. He was referring to his tribe that lent aid to the Asad this battle.

A lump formed in my throat when I thought of 'Abd al-Ka'aba. I prayed to every god that his was a just end, with sword in hand and curse upon lips.

Why did everyone I held dear either die or get torn from me?

The group of fugitives had been severed from their tribesmen in the disarray and sought to link up with them the following morning. They did not greet my presence with open arms or hospitality, but they suffered it all the same.

The sight of me, tattered, furious and soiled with the crust of dried blood must have been one to give pause.

One of the fugitives conjured an idol of Hubal manufactured with dates from his saddlebag and tore a large chunk of it off in order to quench his hunger.

"What are you doing, you ignorant bastard?" I demanded of him. "Hand over the idol. I would not risk Hubal's wrath!"

His companions tensed, and I rose to my feet, feeling the fury of a thousand suns surge through me. The man himself paused in the midst of chewing and looked up at me.

"And who are you to speak to me in such a manner?" he spat at my feet.

"Your death."

I leapt upon him in a flurry of fists. I elbowed one of his companions that wished to interfere, breaking his nose. I punched the man who had disgraced the gods again and sent a fresh spurt of blood spluttering from his face.

Eventually, I was restrained by the overwhelming numbers of his friends; I struggled in their grasp, but alas I was overpowered by sheer numbers. They threw me to the ground, kicking and stomping my vulnerable figure.

Ironically, it was the Muslims that saved me that day.

One of my assailers cried in alarm and pointed in the other direction, causing the others to pause my torment. I heard the thunder of hooves and the battle cry of a man yelling for blood.

The first of the riders spurred his mount into the gorge and skewered one of the fugitives, heaving the sword straight through his chest and out the other side.

The remaining fugitives struggled for their lives, yet to no avail. They were eventually overwhelmed and disarmed, their arms fettered with ropes and sacks donned over their heads.

I was not spared capture.

'Abd al-Ka'aba's sacrifice was for naught, I thought gloomily, resigned to my fate.

I lost another loved one at the hands of the bloody Muslims.

"The eyes swell with tears and the heart aches with pain at your parting," I muttered to myself, attempting to form 'Abd al-Ka'aba's rough features in my mind's eye; they would not come, and my heart was only swelled with more sorrow for the effort.