Two men emerged from the fort's gates, side by side. They stood in the face of the gathered infantrymen.

Both were indistinguishable in their glimmering mail shirts, polished to a brilliant sheen, and pointed iron helmets with cheek pieces that shrouded their faces. They were of impressive builds, broad and tall, evidently warriors.

One of them stepped forward and spoke.

"Khaybar knows that I am Marhab. Marhab ibn al-Harith. When war comes, spreading its flames, I am death clad in armor from head to toe, I am the reaper of souls. Is there any man among you who wishes to die?"

He spoke in an emotionless, monotonous tone. It was as if he were speaking an irrefutable truth, no discussion allowed.

Immediately, a man from the ranks ahead rushed forward, blade and shield in hand, clambering up the slope.

"I am Mahmud," he introduced himself. "Mahmud ibn Maslamah. By the grace of the Merciful, the Most Merciful, I will smite you this day."

"Ibn Maslamah?" I mused aloud. "Is he Muhammad ibn Maslamah's brother?"

Tulayha did not respond.

With a great bellow, ibn Maslamah's brother hacked at the huge man called Marhab. Marhab evaded the blow by sidestepping, swiping his blade at the stumbling Muslim duelist. There was a spray of flashing blood as Mahmud tumbled to the floor.

Blood glistened on the tip of Marhab's blade as Mahmud began wailing at his feet, writhing. There was a gruesome gash in his abdomen. Several men in our unit gasped or averted their gaze in horror as Mahmud's entrails began leaking out. With a great scream of anguish, he tried shoving the entrails back inside, his face twisted in torment. His fingers flowed red with his own blood.

As Mahmud lay discarded, dying, at the foot of the Khaybarian fortress, Marhab sheathed his sword and stepped back. The man at his side, almost identical to him, resplendent and fearsome, stepped forward in his place.

"Khaybar knows that I am al-Harith. Al-Harith ibn al-Harith. When war comes, spreading its flames, I am death clad in armor from head to toe, I am the reaper of souls. Is there any man among you who wishes to die?"

Even the tone in which he challenged the spectating ranks of Muslims was identical to that of the man who was apparently his brother. His skills did not fall short of Marhab's either. Al-Harith made short work of the man who answered his call.

And so it was for weeks afterward. The siege adopted a routine of sorts.

Every dawn from that day forth, the Jews of Khaybar sallied out of the fort and took us by surprise. I was kicked awake to a raucous of bellows and cries of alarm; the archers that shared my tent would be fumbling to place arrows in their quivers. Others were busy rousing their comrades by booting them awake.

Our unit weathered the storm of the sally. Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas was sturdy as a bull, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He bellowed orders to his underlings; I wondered if the man ever slept. We managed to form a ragged formation as the campfires illuminated the faint shapes of mounted men in the distance.

"Nock!" Ibn Abu Waqqas cried hurriedly. "Draw!"

The riders approached, conjuring bows of their own as they trotted downhill.

"Loose!"

We fired at them, our disarray and panic retreating in the face of the reassuring feel of wood and string between fingers. The ability to do something rather than huddle up in a corner and pray.

In the gloom, we were not sure whether our arrows hit their mark, but the volleys served their purpose in hindering the advance of the cavalry charge.

The mounted men did not come any further. Instead, they shot their own wayward arrows at us, hissing past our ears or clattering uselessly to the ground at our feet. They spun their mounts around and galloped back to their fortress.

Mere hours later, at first light, the gates of the fort would creak open again, revealing two monstrous warriors, resplendent in all their glory.

"Khaybar knows that I am Marhab," he would recite the same exact speech. "Marhab ibn al-Harith...."

And he would easily cut down his foe in seconds, the body of the defeated warrior limp and bleeding before Marhab, already attracting flies. Then, he would step back and allow his brother, al-Harith, to put on a similar performance.

The mounted Jews came again and again, and we were kicked awake one dawn after the other. The Jews never charged at us; they only maneuvered their horses so that neither side could boast of significant casualties. We wasted our arrows before they abruptly turned and galloped back to the safety of their walls. Our feet would splash and plod upon the shallow pools of the marshland, soaking us to the bone. We would return from the ordeal damp and chilly.

It was never their intention to attack, I now realize. They were keeping us constantly alert, depriving us of sleep, exhausting our bodies and our quivers.

They wanted to instill fear in our hearts; and it was working. The supplies dwindled; our rations depleted. At dawn, no man needed to kick me awake any longer, for none of us slept in anticipation of the inevitable dawn raid. We clung to our bows at all times, our quivers strapped to our belts or our backs. We were wasting our energy as well as our ammunition.

Each day, one of the Muslims would answer his challenge with their own boasts and prose, rushing forward to meet Marhab at the summit of the small cliff. Marhab's brother, Harith, would stand vigilant to one side, observing his brother's duel. Marhab slashed and lunged and made short work of any warrior that faced him. None of them lasted more than a few minutes before Marhab skewered them.

After Marhab completed his gruesome business, he would slowly sheathe his bloodied sword, and calmly step aside to where his brother had been.

Al-Harith would take up the mantle then and echo the same cry to arms with little to no variation. His prowess was identical to that of his brother, the same brutish certainty that the day would be his, that his sword would reap the souls of the Muslim warriors. The Al-Harith brothers were prolific in inspiring terror in our hearts. They were indestructible, gods of war, demons born and raised for nothing but butchery.

How would they ever be struck down? It was not their prowess that was the most intimidating, it was the easy serenity to the slaughter, their nonchalant behavior, as if sheering through the ranks of the Muslims until none remained was inevitable.

Food was scarce, though we did not wont for water – we had captured all the water sources, depriving the Khaybarians of that commodity. Day by day, our supplies dwindled, and the rations afforded to the archers grew more meagre. My stomach rumbled and churned, complaining sharply. But I ignored it. I needed to prove myself; I needed to harden myself, batter myself into a warrior as a smith hardened the steel of a blade.

I've grown used to poor nutrition under Mas'oud, I told myself. I can fare better than any under pitiful meals.

I would not show weakness, I resolved. Never again.

"You are a boy," Ruqayya had said. The words stung. But I knew there was truth to them. I needed to become a man. A warrior.

The man to save Mother would not be a green boy. He would not be a weakling. He would be a warrior hardened in fire and blood. The veteran of a hundred battles.

Eventually, the portions of food became so precious, we were reduced to two dates a day. Our skins of water were filled with enough liquid for a few sips.

One man proposed cooking his mule, but ibn Abu Waqqas forbade it. It was against religious doctrine to eat the flesh of any animal that can be ridden.

After the first week, a man in my tent suffered from dysentery. His incessant moaning was a nuisance to us. The moaning never ceased until he succumbed to the fever.

Dysentery is a common illness among camped armies; one of its symptoms is the loosening of the bowls, which is why it's frequently referred to as 'the shits'. He didn't die before he plagued our tent with the foul smell of his defecating, the awful stench driving us away and out of the tent. We did not return for several days, not until the corpse was buried and the tent was sufficiently cleared of the smell of shit.

Little over two weeks in, we were reduced to eating the flesh of our horses. Muhammad had linked up with us, accompanied by his own force and the baggage train. Their force had been successful in taking another, lesser fortress.

I rolled my eyes when ibn Abu Waqqas forbade the consumption of donkey flesh; but we had gotten to the point of desperation that Muhammad conceded to allowing the consumption of horse flesh.

A strange creed, I thought, but it mattered little as long as my belly was warm for once. I'd forgotten how it felt not to be hungry all the time. All the vigor had left my body, and I would have liked nothing better than to sag in a corner and never wake again. My eyes burned and my arms were heavier than lead; I was light-headed, and ofttimes delirious. But I was determined to show no weakness to myself, let alone to grown men who looked down upon me as an inferior being. A little boy. A weakling.

A slave.

I would not be delicate, nor would I be fragile. I gripped my bow and ground my teeth, as we were served the first morsels of the horse meat. I drew strength from the feel of my bow in my hands. I shivered as the food plopped into my empty belly, after scraped against my dry throat.

Tears glistened in my eyes, and I whispered a silent thanks to Hubal. Reenergized, I grinned as I felt newfound power surge through me and I leapt to my feet, eager for the bloodshed, proud of my resilience.

Al-Manat did not weave an unkind for us any longer. The first of the Khaybarian forts had been successfully infiltrated elsewhere; we were joined by the remnants of the victorious force who reimbursed us with supplies from their captured forts.

More victorious forces followed, and we were relieved of our duties to fend off the sallying Jewish horsemen by other archer units. Some horsemen were afforded to pursue them after the raid, but they were not quick enough; the Jewish horsemen returned to their fort, and our own cavalry were picked off by archers on the ramparts.

The Khaybarians had devised a clever plan in those raids, it seemed, but time was not on their side. The Khaybarian fortresses were too far away from one another, isolated. They had not been prepared to establish methods of communication or transport between the forts while under siege.

Their frequent raids no longer imbued us with fear nor panic; we had enough men so that we established a system of shifts, each group weathering the maelstrom of arrows by raiding horsemen, approaching down the slight cliff, braving the freezing pool water and the aching of bones, while the others rested in their tents.

Marhab and Harith never ceased challenging the Muslim warriors, and never once did they falter. Marhab would brutally slaughter one, while his brother would step forward and butcher another. The brothers grew to become so baleful, that none answered their challenge for two consecutive days.

"Let it be known among the tribes of the Arabs that the dogs of Muhammad trembled at the sight of Marhab ibn al-Harith," Marhab proclaimed before he spun on his heels and returned inside the fort, the gate slamming shut behind him.

The next day, it was al-Harith that stepped forward first.

"Khaybar knows that I am al-Harith. Al-Harith ibn al-Harith. When war comes, spreading its flames, I am death clad in armor from head to toe, I am the reaper of souls. Is there any man among you who wishes to die?"

The air was very still for a good long while. None of us expected that any man would be foolish enough to walk willingly to their deaths. Marhab and al-Harith were glowering bringers of demise. They were everything I wanted to be; powerful and confident, so menacing.

I stared at them in awe. They were as still as idols, and in that moment, I knew they were gods. They were infallible, immortal; no man was fit to meet them blade to blade. I vowed that when they slaughtered the last of the Muslims, I would join their ranks. For once, I would be under the guidance of figures I admired.

My gaping at the warriors resplendent in all their war glory was interrupted by the parting crowds gathered at the foot of the cliff. The Muslim troops murmured among themselves as their lines rippled.

I squinted to see the mad man who would be dead within seconds.

And my jaw dropped.

The man who answered the challenge was indeed mad.

He was Muhammad ibn Maslamah.