"I do not wish to fight a man of Qurayshi blood," Called out 'Abd al-Wudd. "It is sacrilegious to shed the blood of a tribesman."

          'Ali descended the slope, his hands clasped around the hilt of his sword, still sheathed on his hip.

         "There are no tribes. Only believers and infidels," he shuffled toward 'Abd al-Wudd. "Let us duel. The embodiment of all faith in an encounter with the embodiment of all disbelief."

        'Ali did not give the nonplussed Meccan champion time to react. He drew his sword from the scabbard and steel scraped against leather.

        It was unfathomable how 'Ali approached this brute of a man so calmly, so utterly confident. How did he believe he could overcome this warlord, this god?

         The sheer contrast between their sizes was enough to conjure amusement. The polytheist warrior towered over the shorter 'Ali. The former was bulging with heavy muscle, his impressive physique evident beneath layers of cloth, leather and mail. 'Ali, on the other hand, was lean and willowy. His head was on the same level as that of his adversary.

        Blood dripped from 'Abd al-Wudd's sword.

        "Retreat from this duel, for you are my kin. By the gods, I do not wish to shed your blood."

        'Ali hefted his blade in both hands, half-crouching. He wore a woolen brown coat over a mail shirt and a white gown. A bronze pointed helmet sat perched atop a fluttering turban.

        "As for me, it would be a pleasure to shed yours, enemy of Allah!"

        'Ali wore his beard short. The upper lip was vacant of any hair. It was another contrast between these two unlikely foes.

        Thunder crashed in the background and roared; lightning flashed in the sky, and 'Ali lurched forward with a series of strokes that were all parried by 'Abd al-Wudd, driving him back.

        The god of war, looming and splendid and terrible, managed to sidestep the last of these strokes, and smashed into 'Ali with a huge shoulder, sending him toppling to the ground. The god of war stomped his exposed stomach and raised his sword high, the decisive blow impending.

        But 'Ali threw a handful of damp sand into his eyes. He rolled away from his vulnerable position, retaining his hold in hilt, as the Meccan scrambled at his face, rubbing the specks out of his eyes.

        'Ali leapt to his feet and with one quick slash, he raked 'Abd al-Wudd's knee with the edge of his blade. Blood spurted from the wounded knee and our line of archers let out a gasp of surprise in unison. The god of war's aura of invincibility was wavering. He made two of 'Ali, yet he was staggering backward all the same, grunting in pain and limping.

        'Ali lunged at him but 'Abd al-Wudd ducked beneath the blow, recovering momentarily, before crashing into 'Ali with an arm. Again, 'Ali was sent tumbling to the ground back-first. Only this time, the Meccan champion was sprawled over him.

        The position reminded me of Sumayya. An absurd thought, I knew, but it sprang to mind all the same.

        'Abd al-Wudd began pummeling the paste out of 'Ali with his massive fists, sending spittle and blood splattering from the Muslim's mouth.

        This 'Abd al-Wudd is a monster, I remember thinking. His knee is cut yet he continues to fight.

        "He cannot hope to best him," I told 'Amr at my side, referring to 'Ali, the warrior I deemed inferior.

        'Amr shook his head vigorously.

        "You have not seen 'Ali fight," his voice was firm. "He is the greatest swordsman in all of Arabia. And he has the blessing of Allah as well."

         "So did the others," I muttered, remembering the sprawled ibn Mu'adh and the screaming ibn 'Ubadah, with his ruined leg.

          As if on cue, 'Ali grabbed the god of war by colossal shoulders. They struggled together for long minutes, wrestling under rain and thunder and gloom. Finally, 'Abd al-Wudd seemed to budge. The rest of the fight was lost to us as both warriors rolled back and forth on the ground. Their struggle was obscured to us by a shimmering cloud of sand that emerged as a result of the rolling.

        "'Amr will win," I muttered, hoping against hope it was true. Perhaps if the confederates stormed the city, they would slaughter all on the hill, myself included. But they worshipped the gods. The true gods.

       "No," 'Amr shook his head vigorously, as if trying to convince himself.

        It was then that the movement of the struggle ceased. The fight was over, but we could not see who emerged victorious. The dust yet hung heavy in the air.

        Let it be so, I prayed to Hubal, chief of all gods. Let it be ibn 'Abd al-Wudd.

        Before the cloud of dust faded to reveal the victor, we heard the cry herald the epic duel's result.

         "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!"

         Fuck, I thought.

         The cloud of dust settled down. It cleared to reveal a triumphant Muslim champion, his bloodied blade raised toward the grey sky. At his feet was a sprawled giant, a man that had been as a god of war only moments before. 'Amr ibn 'Abd al-Wudd's throat was cut open and his knee wound was still gushing blood.

         Thunder cracked again and lightning flashed off the blood dripping from 'Ali's blade.

        "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" he continued to yell incessantly, like a madman.

        The men atop and below the hill took up the chant. The warriors who had accompanied 'Amr 'Abd al-Wudd, demoralized and frightened, finally broke, running in disarray, retreating down the bank of the ditch.

        "Nock!" our commander yelled over the din of cheering Muslim warriors. "Draw! Loose!"

        We poached down the retreating disparate polytheists, those warriors that seemed so disciplined and capable a short while before. Now, they were hunted down like rats, our arrows sticking out of their necks and backs as they tumbled and flailed in a flooded ditch.

        The remaining Muslim warriors on the bank below, reinvigorated, their thirst for battle renewed, shoved over one another to harry the fleeing enemy, but 'Ali barked at them to halt, holding up a palm.

        "We do not pursue a retreating enemy!" he commanded. "It is not the righteous path."

         Thunder cracked again and the hill rang with cheers and chants.

         "He is marvelous," 'Amr was staring in dumbfounded awe at his victorious champion.

          'Ali ibn Abu Taleb wiped the blood off his sword on his own gown, sheathed it and clambered up the slope of Sala'. His face was plain, placid and untroubled, as if he had just returned from a morning stroll.

         The attacks ceased after that. The vicious winds and the unrelenting rains, however, did not. Though the death of their most prized asset must have demoralized them, the confederates did not retreat.

        Worse still, there were rumors of betrayal. Spoken in whispers at night, when the chances of attempted crossing were scant, the archers in my unit would speak of the Banu Qurayza's alleged negotiations with the confederate army. No one knew the right of it nor did any of the senior leaders confirm or deny the rumor. It added to the misery of our situation; it only served to demoralize us further. If the Qurayza did indeed attack us from the rear, I would not be recognized. I would not be shown any succor.

         "Rations are shrinking by the day," Mundhir exclaimed, his eyes bloodshot red. "Any more of this and I'll have to drink camel piss if I'm thirsty."

         "If  the camels piss," I replied morbidly.

          Our supplies continued to dwindle, and our bodies were beginning to give way. The majority of the food was prioritized to the women and children in the inner city. We were soaked to the bones.

         The only solace we were given was that the confederates bore the brunt of the inhospitable weather. The winds sent their tents flying on more than one occasion, some of them torn without hope for repair. The thunder terrified their horses and camels, sending them into hysterical fits, kicking and shrieking. Some of the mounts died before our eyes, starved to death, gaunt with their ribcages showing. Their campfires were extinguished or blown away by the violent gusts.

         It was the question of who would survive. Who would wither and collapse before the other?

         We were at the very edge of endurance; our bellies empty, our eyes red with sleep deprivation and our movements obtuse with fear, chill and exhaustion. The idle chatter that kept us company as we stood watch dwindled and died as our lips parched and our eyes burned. Our throats were dry, and our bellies cried out for any scrap of food. More than one of us collapsed.

         I shivered again, in equal parts fear and cold. If the Muslims were convinced of the Jewish tribe's malfeasance, would that spell the end for me? What of my mother? I shook my head to clear it of those thoughts. I prayed to Hubal and al-Manat that I would live to see the end of this siege.

         My thoughts were slurred, and I had a hard time processing the words.

         I woke from my slumber at dawn, caressed my bow and strode out to the summit of Sala', ready to relieve the night shift of their duty.

         "Allahu Akbar!" I heard one man exclaim from the edge of the hill. He must have been an archer from the night shift. "Allahu Akbar!"

          More men took up the chant, probing my curiosity further. Others still emerged from their tents, shoving their way to the edge of the hill to see what the commotion was all about.

          On weak knees, I shuffled forward and saw clouds of dust hanging heavy in the air as horses and men retreated. The enemy was withdrawing.

         The siege was ended, but my battle not yet begun.

   Found this on Google Images lmao