Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 35

5 November 644 AD, 29 Dhul Hijjah 23 AH

I stood by the caravan, tugging the reins of Arslan. My warhorse was in a feisty mood today, rowdier than usual if that was possible. He tossed his head and swayed, whinnied and bit the hides of female beasts. He bared his fang-like canines at me and foam spilled out of the corners of his mouth.

This is no horse, I thought. It was indeed a demon. I remembered the stories of the veterans of the battles against the Persians and how they fielded great grey mounts the size of bulwarks with heavy fangs and swaying noses tall as a man and then some.

We were on the outskirts of Madinah, to the north of the city. We had attended 'Umar's funeral and burial, but Mu'awiyah insisted on lingering until a new Khalifa had been selected. That day was rumored to be this one. Mu'awiyah ordered us to exit the city and wait for him at the peripheries.

It was a nerve-wrecking few days following 'Umar's death. Should 'Ali emerge Khalifa this day, I would be condemned to a horrible fate; any chance of succor Mu'awiyah may have offered would surely evaporate.

In the off chance his kinsman, 'Uthman, ascended to the Caliphate would be the only outcome where I would emerge drawing breath. Assuming Mu'awiyah could pull a few strings in order to repay his debt.

But I also knew I held no future in Madinah any longer. The Persians were resented by a segment of the ummah, but many Muslims had befriended the likes of Hormuzan while others found them useful in the ongoing campaigns in Persia and beyond. I would not be shown clemency this time; I wondered what had become of 'Ubayd-Allah.

The fact that Qasim had been of scarce interaction also did little to settle my agitation. At all times, I surrounded myself with friends and allies, lest he appear out of thin air and butcher me. I knew not who or what he was, only that he was capable of undefinable, seemingly impossible acts. He could be a sorcerer. He could be of a race superior to mere humans. I did not know; all I knew was that he wished for my demise.

I clung to Arslan's neck and spoke to him in a soft tone. I described the gleam of the sea to him, its soft sparkle as though it housed pearls beneath waters. I described lush meadows and sprawling flatlands and sand dunes, disturbed only by towering brown and reddish cliffs far to the horizon, blocking a portion of the setting sun. I brushed his mane and patted his muzzle. That seemed to calm him. I wished someone would do the same for me.

A rider emerged in the distance, his camel throwing up dust clouds behind him, heralding his approach. Men all around tensed and held the hilts of their blades while others half unsheathed them or nocked an arrow to their bows. Their posture eased when the rider revealed himself to be none other than Mu'awiyah, attended to by two other servants following close behind.

More attendants scurried off toward Mu'awiyah as he approached the edge of our camp, helping him off his mount, watering the camel or tending to the saddle.

"Well?" I approached him, as he hopped off the saddle.

"I don't know how to tell you this..." he hung his head as if in despair.

My heart skipped a beat. "'Ali? Is it 'Ali? I'm dead, then."

Mu'awiyah raised his head and threw his head back with laughter, that insufferable wheeze of his as though he were sucking in breath.

"What?" I demanded as he struggled to retain his composure, both hands clasped on his belly as his face turned beet red.

Mu'awiyah wheezed some more until he could properly form a sentence.

"No, it's 'Uthman," he waved a hand in dismissal. "You're safe."

"That wasn't funny."

"It was to me," he dabbed at his eyes, wiping away tears of laughter.