You're the man, they say, Ja'afar thought, struggling to avoid spilling too much of the milk over the top of both pails in each hand. I am a man. Not a donkey.

It was a concept his mother seemed to struggle to understand. He hurried past the bleating of goats, trudging through the thick sands. His arms burned with the effort of hauling around those two monstrous pails of milk; his hurried movement resembled the waddling of a midget. Soon he was struggling for breath and his arms threatened to buckle, emptying the buckets of their precious contents. That would earn more than a beating from Father.

It became more of a chore weaving through the bodies of the thick tribesmen once he returned to the rows of tents. Why did it seem like they were intentionally slowing down or blocking his path? He winced as he felt more of the liquid splash against his calves.

He was a man grown now, twelve now; almost old enough to be betrothed. He may not have been the largest of his friends, but he possessed undeniable prowess with the sword.

The most promising prospect in all the Banu Asad, he knew.

But everyone was too busy fawning over that wretched girl who fancied herself a warrior. A woman! Thinking herself fit to wield a blade, like a man. It was preposterous, comical. Yet, the tribesmen tolerated it as a sort of absurdity only because this Umaymah was so young. They even instructed her in proper stance.

And that fucking brother of hers.

Ja'afar shivered as he remembered Muhammad. So much younger than the rest, he could not have been more than eight. Yet, he stood head and shoulders above the other boys and twice as barrel-chested. He was not a gentle giant, either. There was a darkness to Muhammad ibn Hanthalah that everyone sensed; that was why he was better left to his own devices. The other tribesmen, even the adults, preferred avoiding the boy's disturbing eyes.

Ja'afar shivered again, remembering the darkness he sensed within the boy. It truly was best to just leave him alone.

Ja'afar shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts, as he finally returned to his family tent, the pails intact and filled to the brim with the required beverage. Perhaps Father would spare him his fists tonight. Maybe even allow him to heft his sword, feel the cool flat of the blade.

Ja'afar rested next to the tent as he eased the pails of milk down, grateful for the opportunity to fill his nostrils with a deep breath of fresh air. Instead, he was only greeted with the only smells he had ever known – shit, manure, muck, leather and the stench of beasts mating.

Ja'afar decided that the way of the Bedouin would not suffice for him once he grew. He would build a reputation for himself as a feared warrior, perhaps offer his sword in exchange for money, or earn a fortune in plunder and abandon the old ways for the lifestyle of the sedentary.

The nomads would boast of their superior fortitude and strength at arms borne of the difficult desert life, but who were they fooling? They would all lap up at the opportunity to cease living like wild animals and retain a semblance of civility, perhaps some luxury.

Ja'afar licked his lips, imagining himself a man wealthy beyond wildest dreams, only the finest of silks gracing his skin and the most beautiful of women taken as his concubines. He would live in a large dwelling, the stone tents they called houses, tended to by his slaves, the property of his right hand that he had earned in his long years of warfare. He would indulge himself in the rarest of fruits and a vast harem of women until the rest of his days, dying at a ripe old age.

Ja'afar sighed, returning to bleak reality. Why could life not be so simple? Why must he have been born and bred in this shithole? His vexation only increased when he saw the spindly figure of 'Abdullah ibn Hanthalah cross by.

The wretched shit was another outsider, the brother of the vile Muhammad and the pathetic Umaymah. He was Umaymah's twin, yet nothing like her. He lacked her ferocity and willpower, and most prominently, her desire for sword skill.

'Abdullah spent more time confined to the shelter of a tent, his frequent ailments tended to by a midwife. He was a weakling. Scrawny, round-shouldered with an abnormally large skull. His skin was yellowish and parched from whatever sickness weighed him down so. He was nothing like his brother either; easily cowed, submissive, preferring a position at the feet of religious taletellers rather than one on the field of battle, preferring the pen of poetry to the sword of slaughter. And more recently, he had lost a finger in some freak accident, adding to his vulnerability. He would never effectively wield sword or shield in his life.

The only thing that spared him the fists and kicks of the other boys was the constant presence of his sister. Umaymah was always about her brother, ever vigilant in her protection of him, favoring onlookers with threatening glares and coarse words should they ponder harming 'Abdullah.

She left his side only when she was practicing her sword skill. Without her shelter, he was easy prey. And Ja'afar enjoyed toying with him all the more every time.

"Ibn Hanthalah! Here, you city boy!" Ja'afar called out to the wandering 'Abdullah, tossing a stone at him. It struck him in the forehead and the boy staggered, clutching his head. His hand came away red, a steady trickle of blood spurting from his forehead.

"What did I do?" 'Abdullah whimpered in a broken, small voice, his eyes beginning to well with tears.

"What did I say about ever seeing you again?" Ja'afar yanked him by the collar and swung him about.

'Abdullah began openly sobbing now. Ja'afar punched him in the gut, and the boy began coughing and gasping for breath.

"Ja'afar!" his mother's voice called out from behind him. "Ja'afar!"

He rolled his eyes and tossed Abdullah away, the boy landing side first, and curling up in order to protect himself; his knees touched his stomach and his hands shielded his face. He had become quite adept at the position, Ja'afar noticed. Experience born of necessity.

"Have you no respect for hospitality, boy?" his mother demanded, striding toward him.

"He's annoying!" Ja'afar complained, his anger flaring. He kicked 'Abdullah's spine, and rolled him over so that he could take a good look at his craven face.

"Stand up and face me coward!" he demanded of the yellow-skinned boy.

Abdullah only stared up at him with frightened eyes begging for mercy and lurched forward, spilling the contents of his belly on Ja'afar's feet.

"These are my only pair of sandals, you shit!"

'Abdullah was a remarkably quick runner for his size, Ja'afar noted. He darted away, vowing to chase the wretched 'Abdullah to the edges of the earth if need be.

"Ja'afar!" he heard his mother's waning voice call out from behind him. "Ja'afar! Ja'afar!"

He ignored her, shoving past tribesmen and women, the playing children and the stray lambs. This ibn Hanthalah would pay once he got ahold of him.

The two boys raced through the confines of the Banu Asad encampment, toppling over one tent and leaving a little girl sprawling on the ground in their wind. On more than one occasion, Ja'afar came as close as yanking 'Abdullah's cloth gown, but the weakling proved ever elusive, always at least two steps ahead.

With dread, Ja'afar realized where 'Abdullah was leading him. With Umaymah in sword skill practice, there was only one other person who could easily pummel Ja'afar to a bloody pulp.

Ja'afar contemplated abandoning the pursuit and return to the safety of his mother's embrace, but it was far too late.

'Abdullah had lured him to Muhammad.

'Abdullah skidded to a stop behind a tent at the very peripheries of the camp, taking Ja'afar by surprise. He stumbled, attempting to halt next to 'Abdullah or tackle him, but he tripped on a boulder and fell face first on the sands.

But 'Abdullah was no longer interested in the hot pursuit. Something else had caught his attention. Ja'afar noticed the weakling was staring wide eyed, open mouthed at something beyond...

Ja'afar's breath caught in his throat and he scrambled back to his feet, ready to return to his family's tent.

Muhammad was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a bloodied corpse with a gaping hole in its chest sprawled before him. It had the build of a man, swaddled in black robes and a dark cloak of the same shade, its shawl covering the dead man's face.

The edges of Muhammad's mouth were dotted and tinted with blood. Ja'afar assumed it had splashed from what seemed like Muhammad's supper, for he was feasting on a heart. A heart.

Ja'afar's knees buckled and his stomach churned. He fell to his knees and vomited, but Muhammad ibn Hanthalah remained nonplussed, pleasantly resuming his meal of human heart.