Wahshi ibn Harb hefted his javelin, crouching behind the throngs of charging Qurayshi warriors.

       Wahshi ibn Harb, he thought. He sucked in air through his nose in disgust.

       It meant 'the monstrous, son of war'. It wasn't even his real name. He did not know his real name. This is the life he had been born to; all he had ever known. One of degradation and humiliation. One of servitude. Slavery.

        He was a man of Abyssinia, the lands to the west past the Red Sea. Yet, he had never seen this storied land of his ancestors. It was when Abraha, the Abyssinian governor of Yemen, sought to expand his realm further into Arabia by overrunning Makkah and destroying the Ka'aba. The campaign ended in calamity and the Meccans emerged victorious.

       Wahshi's parents had been enslaved, forced to serve the Qurayshi elite.

        And that was the life he had been born to. One of no identity and no lineage. Nameless. Faceless.

       All he had to his name was his strength. Fighting was all he could do. Wahshi did not know if he believed in Christ or in the gods of his masters, but whoever resided up there had blessed him with arms taut heavy with muscle and extraordinary height. He had proven his savage prowess in battle many a time, and the Qurayshi had taken a bizarre infatuation with him.

       That was how he earned his name.

       To them, he was a monstrosity. To them, he was the son of war.

       No longer. All he had to do to earn his freedom was perform this one simple task. And so, he clung to the tails of his comrades' gowns, studying the berserk Hamza ibn 'Abd al-Motteleb. Hamza, a resplendent figure straight out of an epic poem, was carving a gaping hole through the center of the Meccan army from atop his saddle.

      Hamza bellowed and roared, swinging his blade in savage arcs. The power behind each blow was enough to make even Wahshi wince. Men shied away from this frenzied warrior, hacking and striking amok. Some tried yanking Hamza's gown, to pull him off his saddle, but they only earned a smack on their head by the butt of his sword.

      His horse was in a similarly hysterical state, kicking and whinnying wildly at the scent of blood and death, froth emerging from the corners of its mouth. Its hooves smacked against the jaws and foreheads of those near enough to earn its wrath.

      No wonder they call him the Lion of Allah, Wahshi thought as Hamza beckoned for the Qurayshi to come forward. He will fall all the same.

      For freedom.

       It was what he had been promised. By his mistress. That vicious woman, Hind bint 'Utbah, sought to avenge her uncle's death at the Battle of Badr at the hands of this wild beast.

       And the prize was intoxicating.

       Wahshi saw his opening. Hamza had slammed his shield into the face of an aggressor, sending him sprawling away. Hamza's left arm was wide, his abdomen and chest unprotected.

       And so, Wahshi hefted his javelin once more. He put his left foot forward and stepped on the tips of his right foot's toes. He extended his left arm forward and pulled the javelin all the way back over his right shoulder.

      He ground his teeth and twisted his hip.

       "FREEDOM!" he bellowed, hurling the javelin with all the might whatever creator existed blessed upon him.

       The javelin struck true. Hamza wobbled in his saddle but kept his seat. The long haft protruded from the center of his chest. It would not be a painless death.

       The Lion of Allah looked down at the wound that would slay the beast, and then up again, disoriented.

        And for a moment, their eyes met. A man whose life was ending and another whose life had just begun.

       Wahshi ran back to the baggage train to collect his freedom.

       Fifteen archers. Including himself and As'ad.

       That was all that remained from his original fifty.

        Despite the Prophet's orders never to abandon their position on the hill, the hotheaded young fools, blinded by the glint of silver and gold and the sight of women, spelled doom for them all in their vanity.

       Mos'ab ibn 'Umair let loose one more arrow. He reached to pluck another from the quiver on his back, but his fingers found only air. All around, the final volleys of his men were waning both in vigor and in number.

       And the enemy was upon them.

       The Qurayshi right flank had been all but routed only moments before. Now, they yanked the reins of their mounts to spin them back in their direction. They were trotting uphill now. Unhindered by the shower of projectiles that ought to have sent them scurrying back to Makkah.

       Mos'ab barked orders at his men to drop their bows and unsheathe their weapons of close combat. At his side, As'ad conjured a sword. Another unsheathed blade and shield. Mos'ab himself hefted a spear in both hands and fell into stance, bellowing in defiance at the approaching horsemen, laboring up the hill and swinging their swords.

       Him and his men would be made short work of, Mos'ab knew. Worse still, his unit was the only thing that stood between his Prophet and sound defeat. Once the archers on the hill were annihilated, the cavalry of the polytheists would hammer into the Muslims' side.

       But Mos'ab would not grovel and beg for mercy nor would he surrender. It was victory or paradise. Martyrdom or service in the name of Islam.

      Hammanah, he thought, the snarling horsemen only inches away. I'm sorry, Hammanah.

      He would never see his dear wife's warm smile again. He would never hear her sweet laughter after this day. That lovely melody that tugged at his heartstrings and brightened the bleakest of days. He would never again feel her warmth or bask in the plethora of emotions that washed over them when he was in her arms.

      Not in this life, he reminded himself. He resolved to respectfully decline the Houris in heaven, those buxom maidens that awaited martyrs in paradise, in favor of the tender touch of his wife.

      Together in this life and the next.

       His heart ached at the thought of her misery when receiving word of his death. He whispered one last silent apology to her.

       Mos'ab brushed his shoulder against that of As'ad ibn Zurarah.

       "It has been the greatest of honors spreading the word of Allah by your side, my friend," he spoke loud over the din of battle.

        As'ad risked a glance at him.

        "I am not your friend," he shouted back. "We are as brothers."

         Mos'ab nodded, fighting back tears. The first horseman was finishing his climb now and was raising his sword high to take a swipe at Mos'ab.

         "And no," As'ad continued. "It is the greatest of honors to earn martyrdom at the side of a brother."

        Mos'ab bellowed one long roar and lurched forward with his spear, As'ad whirling at his side.

        His last thoughts were of Hammanah.

        Wahshi ibn Harb swept his eyes over the carnage they had wrought. The day was won. Casualties were heavy on both sides, but the Muslims had been humbled. Their archers on the hill had broken, with not a single survivor. The cavalry, led by the fabled Khalid ibn al-Waleed, slaughtered the left flank of the Muslims, creating a mass route. Word was that the Prophet had been slain in battle. That further demoralized the Muslims, who broke and ran, seeking shelter in the nooks and crags of Mount Uhud.

        Now, the field of battle was but a haven for scavengers and feasting carrions and crows. Bodies, bent out of shape, twisted in misshapen ways, sprawled and limp, littered the landscape. There were some who yet lived, crawling and moaning, leaving smears of blood behind as they cried for their mothers and suffered agonizing deaths.

       Many of the Qurayshi warriors sought to ascend the peaks of Uhud and harry the Muslims hiding within.

       But Wahshi cared not. He only cared for his payment. His reward. His freedom.

       Clinging to the haft of his javelin, Wahshi wrinkled his nose and averted his gaze in disgust from his mistress. Hind was stooped over the dead body of Hamza, her arms slick and red all the way to her elbow. She dug her nails deep inside the gaping hole in Hamza's chest, rummaged inside and conjured a morsel of what seemed to be his liver from inside.

        Crazy bitch, Wahshi thought, as she wolfed down the piece of liver, the corners of her mouth, her chin and upper lip smeared red.

        What a horrible existence, Wahshi thought, studying the scene. Monstrosity was not a trait that belonged only to Hind, it seemed. The Qurayshi women were cleaving off the ears of dead Muslims, he saw, fashioning them into makeshift anklets.

        And they called him 'the monstrous'. They called him 'son of war'. So fascinated with his brute strength, his record of killings in battle. The reputation he had been forced to carve out for himself through less than savory means. The reputation he boasted not of, nor took pride in. He took no pleasure in killing. It was a barbaric practice, he knew. But it was his job. What was he to do? He was property. An item. He needed to do as he was told to make ends meet. To have a roof over his head.

      To settle down with his love.

      She was the glint in his eye, his pride and joy. The one person he could be vulnerable with and lay his feelings bare. He needed not to be so stiff and manly with her. He would rest his head on her lap and weep. She would cradle him as a mother would her child and speak words of encouragement to him softly. She picked him up in shattered pieces and assembled him whole again, sturdier than before.

       She had been out of his reach for as long as he remembered. He had mooned over her half his life and spirited himself away in secret in order to fulfill their clandestine meetings.

      Never again, though. He was a free man. He would not kill again.

       "It is done," Wahshi told his approaching master, Jubair.

        Jubair sniffed in disdain at him and nodded hesitantly.

        Wahshi studied the man that had been his master's face, and for the thousandth time in his life, restrained himself from murdering him. Instead, he fantasized about all the different ways he could do so.

        Wahshi had heard that Bilal, his countryman who had defected to Muhammad, had pursued his former master and brutally killed him at Badr. Whahshi longed to do the same. He knew he had it in him.

       No, he shook his head, watching the setting sun paint the cliffs of Uhud a deeper shade of red. I am not that man anymore.

        He hoped it was true.

Footnote:

Slight historical inaccuracy here. As'ad ibn Zurarah did not, in fact, die in the Battle of Uhud. Irl, he died two years prior of an illness. I just thought that I would make it up to him to give him a heroic death since I had been so harsh on him in the first few chapters.

Thanks for reading!