June 628 AD, Muharram 7 AH

Single combat duels were a tradition in Arab warfare. It was a display of swordplay, prose and reputation. The Arab warriors would leap forward, singing to their own praises in colorful words and vivid boasts. This poetic boast of prowess and strength would be followed by the clamor of steel on steel, and only one man would emerge from the duel drawing breath.

Ibn Maslamah, however, spoke no words and recited no poetry. He did not introduce himself nor did he boast of his reputation.

Marhab and Harith were splendid in their polished mail and unscathed iron helmets, glinting prettily under the blistering sun. They towered over any opponent who dared face them.

Ibn Maslamah, on the other hand, was sinewy and his physique was not one to give pause. He wore no helmet nor turban, revealing his short shock of dark brown hair. He wore nothing but a rusted mail shirt that had belonged to a Qurayzi tribesman. On his face, was an emotion I'd become all too familiar with.

Sheer anger.

His face was beet red and his venomous gaze was fixed on Marhab as he shoved his way through the throngs of soldiers, striding up the slope, sword in one hand, shield in the other.

I should have been glad to see the end of the man that had killed Qusayy. But that was precisely why I yearned to lurch forward and yank Muhammad ibn Maslamah back to camp. He was not al-Harith's to kill.

He was mine.

For the thousandth time in my short life, I dropped my head in despair and the rage surged through me. I felt it pricking up my spine, prodding me, threatening to consume me. I began shaking.

Muhammad ibn Maslamah was mine to kill. Yet the gods saw fit for him to elude me? Where was the justice?

"Who is he?" one of the archers whispered.

"Muhammad ibn Maslamah," I answered, my voice tight with fury.

"What is he doing?"

Another man answered him.

"It is a blood feud. Marhab killed his brother. To get to Marhab, he must kill al-Harith. The man has no choice. Pray Allah to forgive his sins and secure him a place in heaven."

"He's mine!" I screamed, as ibn Maslamah trudged up the hill to his death. He hefted his shield and clung to his blade, while my mind-numbing rage jarred my head.

Then, an idea struck me.

"Mine!" I shrieked.

The area at the foot of the hill where we set up camp was flanked on either side by palm groves. There were strands of thickets and bushes at the foot of these trees.

I unslung my bow and shoved my way through the crowd of onlookers. I nocked an arrow to my string as I crouched up the hill, the leaves of the thickets that concealed my movements rustling softly.

Ibn Maslamah and al-Harith had already begun their duel once I reached the summit. The tangle I was embroiled within pricked at me, the thorns scratching me, scoring my flesh, burning my skin.

But whenever I felt a tinge of weakness creeping in, threatening to have me flinch and expose myself to the three men on the summit of the hill, I remembered the shock on Qusayy's face, his last gurgling breaths and ibn Maslamah's apologetic smile. I remembered all the times I felt helpless, every time those I cared for were snatched away from me, while I was unable to interfere.

I remembered the elation I felt at the memory of Habib's death. I remembered stabbing over and over. I remembered the sheer glee of taking a man's life. A man that wronged me. The beast within clamored for blood. It screamed and clawed inside, demanding to feel that same elation once more. To take control, to consume, to make the plains run red.

"Mine," I whispered to myself, as the sound of the two men's blades ringed the air. Ibn Maslamah would not elude me.

Al-Harith slung no shield over his arm; instead, he swung his blade in great arcs with a firm two-handed grip. Ibn Maslamah seemed to be dancing rather than fighting, his speed and agility staggering even for his reputation. He never went on the offensive, instead letting al-Harith's sword hiss incessantly in the air. Ibn Maslamah sidestepped, lurched away from those swings gracefully, a spring to his step. There was the occasional thump on his wooden shield.

Al-Harith thumped on the shield again, wrenched his blade and struck again, shattering the wood of the board around the iron boss, forcing ibn Maslamah to give ground. Al-Harith struggled to wrench the sword free this time, and ibn Maslamah did not show a moment's hesitation.

Ibn Maslamah ducked forward and slashed at al-Harith's thigh. Blood spurted from the Jew's leg as ibn Maslamah whirled behind him and lunged again, only to be denied by a parry this time.

Al-Harith did not cry in alarm nor did he show any sign of feeling the pain. His injured leg did not buckle, nor was his stance compromised. Ibn Maslamah hefted his own blade with both hands now, his battered shield discarded.

"Your brother did not last a minute," Marhab rasped, spectating the duel. "He had no skill. Any man who cannot wield a blade is not fit to call himself a man."

It was the first time Marhab had conversed with any of his opponents.

The thorns continued to scrape my thighs. I felt warm blood well from the wounds, trickling down to my ankles. The blood mingled with lukewarm pool water. I bit back any protests or yelps.

Al-Harith bellowed and swept at ibn Maslamah's feet, but the latter only hopped over the blow, inching closer into al-Harith's reach. In close quarters, al-Harith's wide swings would be rendered ineffective. Almost instantly al-Harith began inching away backward, but not before ibn Maslamah's sword grazed his throat.

Al-Harith clutched his wound and his hand came away bloody. It was only aa scratch, but the hesitation was all that ibn Maslamah needed. Before al-Harith removed his hand from his bloodied throat, ibn Maslamah was already behind him, moving in a flash. His agility was astounding.

He struck at the back of al-Harith's thigh, only this time he lunged, and the blade pierced the leg entirely.

Al-Harith roared in pain as he stumbled to one knee. His brother started toward ibn Maslamah, hand on his hilt. But al-Harith was not yet ready to lie down and die. He kicked at ibn Maslamah with his good leg, sweeping the latter off his feet.

Ibn Maslamah fell back-first on the ground. His sword skidded away beyond his grasp. Al-Harith exploited the weakness. Teeth ground through the pain of his wound, he pinned ibn Maslamah to the ground and sat on top of him.

In a moment of euphoria, the world froze in its place. The two men did not move. Al-Harith's sword was raised high in the air, ready to be rammed down and finish his foe off.

It was then that the rage retreated. In its place was only clarity. And a memory.

A memory of simpler times. When I had been the ward of 'Umar ibn al-Khattab. When I had chafed under the disapproving eye of Zaid ibn Haritha.

It was when Zaid was instructing 'Amr on archery. Zaid would fret endlessly at his posture, but 'Amr would always slouch slightly; his thin shoulders would strain against the weight of the bow. It would shake in his hands and the arrow would skitter uselessly on the ground, far away from the palm trunk that was the intended target.

I would mock his failed attempts on many occasions but one time, Zaid turned toward me, furious.

"If you believe you can do any better, Hanthalah, then come have a jab at it," he said.

I hesitated and he raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head, clearing it of thoughts. Zaid assumed I shook it in refusal of his offer, irritably smiling that obnoxious arrogant smile of his. I surprised him when I stamped forward and snatched the bow from 'Amr's hands.

I took a deep breath, grabbed an arrow from a quiver on the floor. I placed the arrow on the bow and drew all the way back to my ear; the wood creaked under the strain.

"You can't do it," Zaid had said. "Step aside."

Zaid flashed a frustrating smile. I flushed in embarrassment.

I held up a hand to keep him in check.

Zaid's smile only widened, his eyes mocking me.

"No," he said. "You believed you could do a better job than-"

"Step aside!" I snapped at him.

Back then, I channeled Qusayy's voice. I channeled it again at Khaybar.

The old man did not teach me how to wield a bow; but the sound of his voice in my head was soothing, one that put me at ease.

"Square your shoulders," the words resonated in my head. "Advance one foot more than the other."

I propped the bow up and shifted my feet to adjust the stance.

I ground my feet, focused hard to stabilize my frustratingly shaking arms and held a tighter grip on the bow with one hand, drawing the arrow further backward with the other.

"Transfer the load to your back,"

Back at the stable, Zaid had crossed his arms.

At Khaybar, al-Harith ibn al-Harith's sword was at its zenith.

"Keep your aim steadfast, do not let your eyes flicker away from the target." Qusayy's kindly voice rumbled again inside my head. I acquiesced.

My shoulders and back muscles ached as all the tension rested on them.

"Take a breath,"

I did so.

"Now, extend your chest. Yes, very well."

I rounded my shoulders backward, the blades rolling closer together. I pulled gently on the string.

The entire world around me diminished; there was only the trunk of the tree back at the practice yard.

There was only the figure of al-Harith ibn al-Harith, looming over Muhammad ibn Maslamah. Seeking to deprive me of deserved vengeance.

There was only the hard wood gnawing at my bare hand, the strain of the string, the tension on my back and shoulder blades. There was only my ragged breath, heaving in and out.

It was only then, with a bow in my hand, did the rage cease pestering me.

It was only then that I knew peace.

"Now take another breath," Qusayy's voice instructed me.

"Now in the moment you're supposed to let out that breath, release."

One last breath.

The arrow whizzed through the air.

"A man's word is as an arrow parting a bow," 'Umar had said. "Once he sets it loose, there can be no reversing it."

The arrow struck true.

In the yard, it thumped into the trunk of the palm tree.

At Khaybar, it lodged into al-Harith's chest.

It did not pierce the mail, leather and cloth. It did not even wound al-Harith, who looked up, bemused, blade frozen in the air.

But the moment's hesitation gave ibn Maslamah much needed succor. One that he would exploit.

Ibn Maslamah conjured a dagger and ripped upward, striking al-Harith in the groin. The latter's sword dropped from his hand and he grunted. Ibn Maslamah sat up and twisted.

Al-Harith let out a surprisingly high-pitched shriek that did not suit his hulking figure. His life's blood dampened the soil of Khaybar, as thousands watched in a stupor.

Marhab unsheathed his sword and stepped forward. Ibn Maslamah was on his knees, hunched over the twitching body of the former's brother.

"Muhammad!" a voice rang like thunder from the midst of gathered Muslims.

'Ali sprinted forth, shield and sword in hand. He was clad in a mail shirt over a white tunic and trousers, a pointed bronze helmet crowning his turban.

Ibn Maslamah turned to see him just as 'Ali hurled his shield at him. Ibn Maslamah caught it in both hands as 'Ali darted toward him. Ibn Maslamah rested both hands on the inside of the shield; the wooden board was facing upward so that the iron boss at its center glinted.

'Ali hopped lithely onto the shield. With one foot, he sprang off, hurling himself forward in the air, his sword pointed downward at a gaping Marhab ibn al-Harith.

'Ali bellowed in the air as he reached his zenith; for a moment, it seemed as though he was frozen in the sky. For the briefest of heartbeats, he lingered up there, motionless, refusing to soar further upward or descend.

But 'Ali was pulled down. He fell sword-first into Marhab's chest. There was a deafening crunch as his blade bit through the armor and flesh, buried deep inside what had once been a formidable warrior. Marhab did not let out the slightest hint of a cry as 'Ali twisted the sword inside.

One man's bellow roused the remaining Muslims from their enamored stupor.

War cries and epic verses were the order of the day as a swarm of Muslim warriors sprinted up the hill, their morale substantially boosted.

I dropped my bow and fell to my knees in the pool. I slumped back, watching ibn Maslamah charge forth, participating in the breeching of the final Khaybarian fortress.

Mine, I thought, Mine.