Ummatul Iman: The Greater Trials

18 Rabi' Al-Awwal, 1664

The heavy hooves of two coffee-brown horses treaded through the desert sands. Their riders sat atop them, rocking along in a steady pace. Behind them trailed a plump, young camel, carrying all of their equipment and supplies for the journey. The midnoon sun was high above, just about to begin its slow descent through the sky.

Both men, rotund in stature and of middle-ages, had cloaked themselves in thin cotton fabrics of light and dark colors. The lead man, a man known as Sulayman Abu Uthman, wore a black gauze turban on his dark and bald head, shielding his eyes from the sun. Slightly behind him was his heavier companion, Umar Abu Bilal, a fairer and slightly younger man, wearing a brown and white ghutrah over his head. He squinted his eyes as he looked on ahead, raising a hand to block out the glaring sun.

"Ya Sulayman," he called out in exhaustion. "Shall we not stop for rest already? This heat is too much; I'm beginning to feel lightheaded."

"Why don't you speak the truth instead, ya Umar?" Abu Uthman replied with a shake of his head. "You want to break to eat again, don't you?"

"And what issue is there if I do? I did not get to be this size by starving myself you know."

"Ah, but for your horse's sake perhaps we can afford to skip a few meals and go on further."

"You speak as though you yourself have not put on more weight in recent years. You're not as fit as you once were in your days of fighting, Sulayman."

"Perhaps, but I could still take you down with ease I'm certain."

"Is that a threat?"

"It is whatever you make of it."

"Then let us settle this; draw your weapon."

"I don't need to; you draw your weapon and I will take it from you."

"Oh, we shall see then," Abu Bilal replied as he unsheathed a small blade from his side. He and Abu Uthman stopped their horses and turned to face one another. Abu Bilal raised his blade and pointed it straight forward, but Abu Uthman remained undeterred. Abu Bilal tightened his grip and Abu Uthman held his breath. The two men glared in silence at one another until smiles spread across both of their faces and they burst into laughter.

"I knew that your threat was empty," Abu Uthman laughed. "After all these years you wouldn't dare try to fight with me."

"Don't tempt me," Abu Bilal replied with a smirk. "My blade's not put away just yet. I'd hate to have to bury you before you get to visit your son."

"Don't worry, you wouldn't have to. The only thing that would be buried would be your pride."

"I-"

"And maybe the rest of your hair," Abu Uthman quickly added, referring to the thin ponytail of hair reaching just below his neck.

"No, I'd rather keep my hair, unlike you."

"Eh, we all lose it some time or another."

"In any case," Abu Bilal began, putting his blade away and dismounting his horse. "Since we're no longer moving anyways, I think here is a good place to rest and eat."

"That's fine enough," Abu Uthman agreed, dismounting his horse as well and heading over towards their camel. "We still have hours of day to travel later."

"Indeed, and we can still manage to reach this village in a decent time."

"Muhammad does not live within the village; I told you that."

"Oh, right, right. But how'd you send a letter to him then?"

"We don't communicate often, but I know that he has good relations with the people of the village, and I happen to know a man from amongst them. I sent the letter to him and he was the messenger to my son."

"Ah, that makes sense. Tell me though, after this visit will you go and see the others as well?"

"Uthman and Tariq? I'm not quite sure. From what I understand, Uthman has volunteered himself to an expedition in the Northern Continent, and Tariq has undertaken a voyage to the Southern Continent for the Amir's sake. They are both too far and too busy. Alas, Muhammad seems to be the only one who has not become busied in important matters these years. He is isolated with his wife, disregarding the affairs of the Ummah."

"Hmph. What a waste of potential. In our days young men trained and fought no matter where they were."

"Yes, and I have trained all three of my sons."

"As have I with my own. In fact, Nuh and Shu'aib are currently serving as recruits in one of the armies near the mainland, fighting against the Kwaadi. May Allah bless them, they were amongst the men who fought to expel the Kwaadi from the Peninsula."

"Ma Shaa Allah. Perhaps hearing of the actions of his old companions may encourage Muhammad towards action."

"Is that the intention of this journey?"

"No, but I will most certainly address the matter. No son of mine will be a coward or a hermit; it is about time for Muhammad to go out into the world and do something of benefit for this Ummah of ours."

"Indeed."

The two sat to eat as they continued their conversation. In less than one week, they would at last reach their destination. There, on the outskirts of a small town in the Nubian desert, they would find Muhammad ibn Sulayman. And great surprises awaited them indeed.

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19 Rabi' Al-Awwal, 1664

The sun-baked sands melted into the horizon as the afternoon heat intensified. Though most of the village had gone into their homes seeking shelter from the sweltering heat, one young man was out and about, leading a flock of sheep to a pasture outside of the village for grazing. With a water jug slung over his shoulder and a small walking staff in his right hand, he ventured outside of the village gates, giving a respectful salute to the two guardsmen stationed at the entrance. They nodded in acknowledgment and he continued on about his way, the docile herd following close behind.

As the one man passed from the village, another soon approached. Standing at nearly twice the size of the former, the new man towered over him with a daring glare on his rugged face. At first, the young shepherd merely stepped aside, seeking no confrontation with the statuesque stranger; but one challenging step in the way made it all too clear that a confrontation was exactly what the man had wanted. Looking up at his apparent adversary, the shepherd gripped his staff and drew a deep breath before pausing in his tracks.

"A-As-Salaamu 'Alaikum," he stuttered, hoping for a peaceful reply. Instead, there remained a deafening silence between the two, broken only by the sound of sand crunching beneath the heavy boots of the tall stranger as he moved to close the gap between them. "As-Salaamu 'Alai-"

"You can save the pathetic greeting," the man spoke, his voice deep and haughty. "I am not interested in your peace at all."

"Wh-who are you?" The shepherd gulped as he looked upon the man. Despite seemingly having marched out of the desert alone and on foot, the man showed almost no signs of travel or fatigue. His aloof composure oozed confidence, but his menacing scowl was a threat without a doubt. The jet-black hair on his head reached down his back in a spiked fashion like a wild man, yet he the tailored uniform in which he was dressed indicated otherwise. He wore plated armor on his torso and forearms, his lower half being covered with a pair of fancifully woven black pants. With two sharp-edged sabers strapped to his lower back, and a fiery insignia on his right breastplate, it was clear that he was no less than a mercenary from the Kwaadi nation. "What do- what do you want from me?"

"Calm yourself boy; I am neither here for you nor your livestock. However, I will be taking whatever wealth and traveling supplies you have on you. That is, unless of course, you think you can keep them from me."

"I- I haven't got any wealth; nor have I a-any traveling supplies. I am but a mere servant-boy hired to tend to my master's herd in repayment of a debt."

"Is that so? Hmph. You should know that I am not interested in hearing lies and false tales. I have no patience for a cowardly whelp who refuses to cooperate, so I will put this very clearly for you: hand over the water-skin and any coins you have with you or I will take them by force."

"S-sir, sir, I haven't g-"

"Last warning," the man hissed as he reached for one of the blades at his waist. The young shepherd watched frightfully as the gleaming steel was unsheathed. The murderous glint in the man's beady, black eyes had almost stopped his heart and took his soul away in that moment.

"I- I..." With both hands shaking in terror, the shepherd reached to remove his water skin and take out a small sack of coins he'd earned from earlier work. A despicable grin spread across the tawny face of the ruthless mercenary as he slid his saber back into place.

"A wise decision," he spoke, stepping forth to retrieve his prizes. Taking both the jug and the sack, he place them over his armor and folded his arms as he looked down at the young shepherd. "I'm glad to see a Muslim who knows his place. Now, get out of my sight before I decide to take something more valuable."

Having lost his water, wealth, and pride all at once, the young man did not hope for anything further to be taken. All that he had left to lose were the sheep of his master and his own life. Still, as the foreign man stood before him, arrogant and hateful, the Muslim couldn't help but feel an overwhelming anger come over him. He did his best to seek refuge in his Lord from the Devil and the feeling of rage, but as the two men parted ways, one final insult from the Kwaadi man spurred him on and sent him over the edge.

"You Kwaadi scum," the young man shouted, turning on his heels with his staff at the ready. He leapt for his opponent and swung his wooden weapon as straight for his head. In the less than a second, a dry, cracking sound echoed through the air as the staff snapped in two. With his armored forearm raised up in defense, the Kwaadi man sighed as one end flew past him.

The shepherd had hardly landed on the ground before a swift, powerful fist knocked the wind from his gut and sent him flying backwards. Crashing into the hot sand a great distance away, the shepherd winced in pain, clutching his stomach and squinting his eyes shut. The tall mercenary stalked over slowly, with the sheep bleating on in distress. He stood over his fallen foe, one hand gripping tightly to his deadly blade.

"In one single strike, I could have ended your miserable life," he spat. "You would do well not to try anything so foolish again."

Without a single word further, the man turned back and headed on past the sheep. Still on the ground, writhing in agony, the shepherd watched as the towering aggressor made his way towards the village behind. He knew not who the man was, nor why he had spared him despite such claims of being able to end him with ease. There was no mercy in his words, nor any kindness in his actions. No, his only purpose and intention was to do evil. But to whom was a matter yet to be revealed...
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20 Rabi' Al-Awwal, 1664

The sounds of laughter filled the room as Muhammad ibn Sulayman played with his young son. At just four months of age, young Ahmad was delight and a coolness to both of his parents eyes. He giggled and squealed as he sat in his father's lap, with Muhammad pulling faces and making noises to entertain him.

In another area of the hut, Munirah stood, preparing a small meal for she and her husband to enjoy as lunch. As she mixed a pot of stew, she was suddenly alerted by the sound of a someone knocking at the hut's entrance. "As-Salaamu 'Alaikum," came a call from just outside.

"Muhammad," Munirah called for her husband. "There is a man here at the door."

It wasn't long before Muhammad emerged from the back, with baby Ahmad still in his arms. Munirah smiled as she greeted them both and reached her arms out to take Ahmad from his father. Reluctantly, Muhammad handed the boy over and went to speak with his visitor.

"As-Salaamu 'Alaikum," he greeted the man as he emerged from the material opening of the hut.

"Wa 'Alaikum As-Salaam, ya Muhammad," the reply came from an older man standing before him. He reached a hand out to shake with his host before pulling out a paper scroll to hand over to him. "I have come bringing a letter for you."

"For me? Who from?"

"Ah, it is another letter from your father, Ma Shaa Allah."

"Oh, Alhamdulillah. Jazakallahu Khairun for bringing me this."

"Barakallahufik. Anything for the man who helped save our people."

"Ah, no, it was merely by the Mercy of Allah and after the strength of your people who fought off the treacherous Ikeqi. I am but a man defending his home as you all are."

"Ma Shaa Allah, you and your companions did more than we could have asked of you. We ever most grateful to Allah for sending you to protect us, and we pray that He blesses you and your family with good in this life and in the Hereafter."

"Ameen."

"Tell me, how is your son doing?"

"Alhamdulillah, he's a growing boy. He's strong and healthy, Ma Shaa Allah."

"Ma Shaa Allah, may Allah bless him and keep him as such for all his life. May he grow into a brave warrior like his father."

"Ameen," Muhammad added again, this time with a bit of a chuckle. "Though I think his mother might sooner kill me before even entertaining any thoughts of him being a fighter just yet."

"Perhaps," the man replied with a laugh. "She is a mother, what else could be expected of her?"

"Fair enough. In any case, would you like to come inside and have a meal with us?"

"No, rather I must return to the village now. I have come only to bring you this letter, but I have work I must complete back at home."

"Are you sure? There's plenty to eat and you look tired."

"Alhamdulillah, I am fine, Akhi."

"Then at least allow me to give you water. I must repay you for delivering this message."

"Alhamdulillah, your du'ah will suffice In Shaa Allah."

"Then I shall pray for you as much as Allah wills for me to."

"Ma Shaa Allah. Jazakallahu Khairun."

"Barakallahufik."

"I must go now, As-Salaamu 'Alaikum wa Rahmatullah."

"Wa 'Alaikum As-Salaam."

The two shook hands before the man mounted his horse and set off. Muhammad stood by for a moment, holding the scroll in his hands before he turned and headed back inside. Munirah was by with Ahmad in her arms. When Muhammad approached them, Ahmad turned away before noticing the new object in his father's hand. Intrigued, he leaned forward to reach for it and Munirah brought him closer.

"Trade?" she suggested jokingly. Muhammad gratefully accepted and as Ahmad leaned further forward, thinking that he would be getting his little hands on the paper scroll, he was promptly handed over to Muhammad and the letter was given to his mother.

"That's not for you," Muhammad laughed at his young son. "I don't think he knows who you are."

"He will soon enough," Munirah interrupted.

"Hm?"

"This letter is from your father."

"I know," Muhammad replied nonchalantly. He had sat down once again and gone back to playing with Ahmad as Munirah silently read over the scroll.

"He says he's coming to visit soon."

"Hm? Who is?"

"Your father," Munirah replied as she glared at him with her hands on her hips. Muhammad was only giving her a fraction of his attention, with most of his focus on playing with Ahmad. The boy had taken hold of his father's beard and was lifting his head up to look under his neck. It was then that Muhammad noticed the stern look on his wife's face from the corner of his eyes.

"Oh, right. Sorry. I'm listening. Um... Is that all the letter says?"

"Just about. He says he will be arriving shortly after this letter reaches you, so we should prepare in advance."

"Does he intend to stay for an extended period?"

"How should I know? He's your father."

"Eh. Fair enough. Well, I'm going to assume that he sent that a few days ago, in which case he may be arriving tomorrow or the day after. I will go to the markets to buy a few things after we eat In Shaa Allah."

"Okay then."

"In the meantime," Muhammad said, turning his attention back to his baby as Munirah returned to cooking. "You may let go of my beard now. Perhaps someday you will you grow our own, but you can't have mine."

Despite his playful tone, Muhammad's words seemed to upset baby Ahmad, and as he began pouting and whimpering, Muhammad laughed heartily. A quick compromise was struck when Muhammad offered to him his turban instead. Reaching over for one of his pre-wrapped turbans on a stiff-cotton kuffi, Muhammad distracted the boy by covering his head in the cloth. Ahmad laughed as the light tail of the turban draped over his eyes and he reached up to remove it.

When he could see his father again, baby Ahmad giggled hysterically before pulling the cloth back down to hide. He waited in silence and then Muhammad lifted the turban tail, earning another outburst of laughter from his son. The two continued on playing as such until eventually Munirah emerged from the kitchen area with a single plate of a meat stew poured over steaming bread.

As she moved to set down their meal, Muhammad Ahmad aside to play a little longer. Soon enough, the entire wrapped turban was sitting on Ahmad's head, and Muhammad threw his head back in laughter at his silly-looking son. The turban, much too big and heavy, slumped to the front of Ahmad's head and covered his eyes. He raised it up with both hands and laughed with his father before Munirah came over to join them.

After taking his turban back, Muhammad handed Ahmad over to Munirah and went to wash his hands. Munirah decided on feeding Ahmad first, and so Muhammad chose to wait for her. They sat in casual conversation while baby Ahmad nursed away, until eventually he had had his fill of milk.

However, instead of sleeping as he usually did after feeding, Ahmad decided he wanted to continue playing. "He's got so much energy today," Munirah commented.

"And why shouldn't he?" Muhammad asked with a smirk. "He's got an active life ahead of him In Shaa Allah. Someday he'll grow into a young man and learn to be a warrior like his father."

"Absolutely not."

"Munirah we don't want the boy to-"

"I take no issue with him learning to defend himself, but that's as far as it will go. I admire your bravery in going out to fight in the lands but there is no way that I would allow the same for Ahmad. My son will not be some fighting warrior who goes off into battles and leaves me at home worried sick."

"I don't mean as a young man; someday he'll be fully grown and-"

"And he will become a scholar In Shaa Allah."

"Hm? What was that?"

"That is my du'ah for him. That's what I prayed for during all the months he was in my stomach. In Shaa Allah when he gets older we are going to start him learning early and then get him a teacher so he can get a great education and learn to practice and preserve this Deen all throughout his life. Ahmad's going to serve the Ummah in a way that even a warrior couldn't, that's how he'll protect Islam."

"Well when you put it that way," Muhammad laughed, trailing off as he scratched the back of his neck. He looked at his son who was sitting in his mother's lap. Munirah reached for a bite of food and Ahmad followed her movements, grabbing at the bread in her hands.

Though he missed his initial target, he succeeded in making himself fall over and almost land face first in the plate of food. Thanks to the fast reflexes of both of his parents, the boy was spared from a messy demise and ended up with only his hands being dipped in the meaty broth. Munirah sighed as she sat him up, and Muhammad chuckled a little as Ahmad let out an innocent laughter.

Munirah reached to wipe his hands and he fought to move away. Despite her efforts to stop him, Munirah failed to prevent him from stuffing his little fingers in his mouth. Munirah sighed once again and Muhammad shook his head in laughter.

"He seems to be good at fighting and getting his way already," Muhammad joked. "Maybe he'll be a warrior and a scholar."

Munirah glared up at her husband but didn't say a word. Instead, there was silence until the excited babbling of young Ahmad erupted from below. He raised his tiny fist above his head and smiled at his father almost as if in agreement with him, and Munirah shook her head. Though both parents had their hopes and dreams for their son, only their Lord knew what would become of him. Only Allah could know his true destiny.

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Elsewhere in the lands, there marched a malevolent mercenary out on a mission. His armored boots pounded the ground in a heavy rhythm as he journeyed toward yet another village. The winds blew up dust behind him as he looked dead ahead, peering into the distance.

There were no guards on duty at the village's entrance, and indeed, the place seemed almost deserted. He balled his fists in frustration, knowing that he would not find his target within the village he approached.

As it was, the village had long since been abandoned. The people had been slaughtered and run off after a betrayal by their supposed allies nearly one year ago. The mercenary strode through the open path with disappointment rife on his face. He approached one of the empty huts and raised a fist to the door.

Slamming the side of his fist into the door, he angrily called out for any inhabitants to reveal themselves. No answer came and he huffed in annoyance, until suddenly with the heavy wind came the sound of fluttering cloth. He turned upwards and despite the glare from the sun, he could just make out the silhouette of a Muslim man standing atop the roof.

It was a rather lanky figure of average height; clad in a simple Islamic garb of a brown thobe and black pants. Half of his face was covered by a part of the tawny turban that was wrapped on his head, and behind his back he wielded a long wooden staff. The loose ends of a black sash around his waist blew in the wind along with the open tail of his turban. Clear as day, the man was none other than Ishaq Al-Ghareeb, The Wandering Fox.

"You call upon an empty residence," he declared. "There is no one to answer you in this village, so leave from here, assassin."

"So you say, and yet you are here yourself," the mercenary replied. "And what makes you suspect that I am an assassin?"

"You are an armed man from amongst the Kwaadi, traveling alone though your people are abundant in the lands south of here. Your armor is not that of an official soldier, and yet, it is not that of an ordinary man seeking only to protect himself. No, rather it is clear to me that you are a man seeking out a fight to satisfy your bloodlust and appease your greed for wealth."

"Hmph," the man snorted with a chuckle. "You are very observant, and your knowledge of Kwaadi customs and armor is rather surprising. However, that is neither my concern nor my interest. Perhaps, though, maybe you can tell me something of benefit and spare us both an unnecessary confrontation. I am told of a man native to these lands, a peasant who is well-known amongst the people. He-"

"I know no such man, and even had I known him, I would never betray a fellow Muslim or an innocent to a Kwaadi murderer such as you."

"Ah, but you've yet here my request. You seem to be alone yourself, and I can tell from the rags that you are dressed in that you are a poor man of little wealth. The man I am after, he is also poor and insignificant, but the price on his head is a handsome one. He has fought in a recent battle in this land and several others, most notably in Spain where he was spotted wearing a black cape with three Arabic letters drawn on the back. Should you offer any information which leads to his capture, I will-"

"Leave from here," Ishaq commanded at once. "You have no business here and nor will I allow you to seek out this man."

"Oh? It seems as though you DO know him. Perhaps you are protecting him?"

"Assume what you will; regardless, your search ends here. This is your last warning: turn back and leave this land."

"I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be diverted in any way from my mission."

"Then I shall stop you myself."

Before the man could give any further reply, he was met by an incoming attack from the young warrior. Ishaq leapt from the rooftop, quickly drawing out his staff in midair before flipping and spinning over, coming down swinging the weapon overhead. The man raised up both of his arms, blocking the attack with the metal bands on his forearms. The loud clank was all that filled the silence as the two fighters glared at one another.

As the dust settled, the man pushed off Ishaq's attack and looked him dead in the eye. Not a word was spoken before Ishaq suddenly unleashed a barrage of heavy blows, flipping his staff over and striking this way and that. Despite the lightning-fast attacks coming one after another in an unpredictable fashion, the man managed to block and deflect every strike.

Ishaq swung overtop and the man parried with only his forearm. Ishaq spun the staff over struck the bottom end upwards but that too was knocked aside. He spun himself around, bringing his staff at waist-level as it twirled from hand to hand. Quick on his feet, the man easily managed to jump back and evade every end of Ishaq's staff.

Ishaq spun over into an upwards flip and brought the staff slamming down hard. In a fraction of a second, the man leapt back and side-stepped the attack. As the wooden staff hit the ground with a thud, the man prepared his attack. Alas, Ishaq was quick to recover; he dropped himself lower to the ground, sweeping his leg behind him and spinning around to knock the man over.

The attack proved useless as the man leapt up, tucking into a back-flip before he landed a few paces back. Ishaq spun into a standing position, and just as he caught sight of his enemy once again he prepared to continue the fight. The man's confident smirk challenged him to attack, and for the sake of keeping the fight short, Ishaq did just that.

With a watchful eye and careful guard, Ishaq dashed straight toward the man. He gripped his staff and swung it from down low; the force of the attack brought a curve to the bow itself. The man dodged with ease and thereafter Ishaq followed by striking out forward with his staff. Left and right the man narrowly avoided a painful prodding, until at last on one attack reached his arm across and caught hold of the end of the staff.

Ishaq barely had time to react before the man snatched him forward and bashed him across the side of his face with the back of his face. Ishaq flew towards a nearby building, crashing into the hollow wall as the man stood wielding his staff. The unsturdy wall crumbled upon impact, and Ishaq fell down right before it. Tossing the staff aside, the man grinned to himself. The tide of battle was turning and he was ready to go on the offensive.

Drawing out a hidden blade from the metal cuff on his arm, the man charged at once. Despite the overwhelming pain he felt all throughout his body, Ishaq managed to sit himself up in a kneeling position, quickly pulling out his own blade from the sash around his waist. Steel clashed with steel as Ishaq promptly brought his weapon up to defend himself. One hand held the back end of the handle while the other reinforced his resistance, holding the dull end of the blade from faltering.

Drawing in a deep breath, Ishaq readied himself before pressing forth to push back his attacker. He overcame the downward force and pushed off the man's blade before diving over in a diagonal handspring. With the man's guard forced back, Ishaq managed to swing both legs across in successive kicks to his face. It was a direct hit, and as the man stumbled backwards, Ishaq came down in a crouching position.

Stilling himself, the man smirked and rubbed his chin. "Ah, so you've actually managed to hit me," he declared with surprise. "Hmph. I suppose you are just as swift and agile as they say, O Wandering Fox."
Ishaq gave no reply, only a further glare upon being recognized by his title. The man wiped his mouth and there appeared a smirk as he continued speaking. "It is unfortunate for you," he said as he leapt forward with his blade at the ready. "I am just as swift, and FAR more powerful!"

In just four simple moves, it all changed. Ishaq dived to the side to avoid the initial attack, and when the man brought brought his blade back around backwards Ishaq ducked beneath it. It was then, however, that the true attack was swung. The man swept Ishaq over and before he even hit the ground, he threw him back into the wall with a powerful punch, knocking the wind right out of his body.

Standing still in his place, the man watched from the corner of his eye as Ishaq landed inside the empty house. His head slammed into a wall and his head crashed onto the ground. With pride and certainty of himself, the man left Ishaq to be inside, knowing that the fight was indeed over.

"All of this, and for what purpose?" he questioned. "You do not know the man, and yet you futilely attempted to stall me from him. I commend your loyalty but I laugh at your foolishness. You could never have beaten me and you should have realized that from the start. Perhaps this would have ended differently for you. Nonetheless, I will not kill you, for it is my policy: I will not take a life that I have not been paid for. So consider yourself lucky, and stay down this time."

With that, the man began his departure. His target was not to be found within the village, and so he had elsewhere to search. As for Ishaq, he could only watch helplessly as the evil assassin headed off to complete his task. The mysterious mercenary knew not the name of his target, but Ishaq knew all too well. Muhammad ibn Sulayman was surely in for a dangerous surprise upon the arrival of his new foe...