“Who are you?” he asked behind clenched teeth. “How do you know about me?”
“We are couriers,” Abrafo replied plainly. “Sent to retrieve and deliver you.”
“Deliver me? To who? Who do you work for?”
Abrafo walked over, bending down to his haunches to meet Makami’s gaze. “The sorcerer who you came upon that night, belonged to a secret brotherhood.” He pulled forth a strip of red cloth tucked into his shirt, opening it for all to see. Upon it in black ink was printed the dismembered hand of a great cat, its claws ready to strike. “They call themselves the The Leopard’s Paw. The sorcerer who died was one of the most powerful among them, and his brothers have been unable to recreate the magic he worked that night. But why recreate, when you can merely steal...eh, thief?” The big man laughed at his own wit.
“They want this.” He pointed to the markings on Makami’s chest. “And they have sent us to find you. Or rather a courier was sent to hire us—the The Leopard’s Paw never shows its true face. The brotherhood could sense you and offer guidance in our hunt...but only when the markings were moving, or when a doorway opened, when the magic was at its strongest.”
“It flared greatly in the trading town you spent time in, about the same time I mysteriously lost three men I had ordered to search for you. You would not happen to know of them?” Makami winced slightly and Abrafo’s smiled widened. “No matter, greed is often the end of fools. But by the time I arrived you had gone into the desert. We followed, only to have the trail end. The brotherhood was unable to sense you, as if the markings had gone silent.” Makami said nothing. Kahya’s tutelage had unwittingly spared him for some time. If only he had known all of this earlier, how much more lives could have been saved.
“But I know little of magics,” Abrafo shrugged. “My business was to find you, with or without the brotherhood’s help. We must have gone through near a score of caravans in this cursed desert, searching for you, killing and taking food and water as we needed, leaving no sign of our passing. But the goddess of the Amazi must have smiled upon us with good fortune today.” He turned to Master Dawan and his family, who remained huddled together, fear painted on their faces. All except Kahya, who knelt before her father and sisters protectively, her dark eyes glinting steel. A pang of regret washed over Makami as he thought of the danger he had brought them.
“These sorcerers,” he said. “They can remove these markings from me then?”
Abrafo laughed, glancing to his companions who responded in kind. “Remove them? Oh yes. That is their intent. My men and I have a wager on how the brotherhood will claim the markings. They think the sorcerers will cut out your chest and mount it on a wall, from where they can call their dark spirits. But I believe they will peel the skin from you, and perhaps wear it over their own flesh.” Makami stared at the man aghast. “As I have said, I know little of magics. But the courier explained to us that the markings and your skin had become one—which is why the brotherhood needs you brought back to them. Whoever controls your skin will hold power over the markings and the dark beings they call forth. You carry with you a weapon thief, which they intend to wield.”
“A weapon?” It was Kahya that spoke, her eyes now wide in alarm. “And you would hand it over so willingly? If these markings hold such power as you say, do you not worry to what purpose these sorcerers will put it?”
Abrafo shrugged. “Perhaps they will wield it against their enemies. Or perhaps they will unleash horror upon the lands. It is not my concern or care. So long as I receive payment.”
“Friend Abrafo.” It was Master Dawan now who spoke, his voice gentle. “Certainly, there are greater things in this world than wealth. What these dark men of foul magics would do to this man, what they would do with this power, surely it must weigh upon your heart.”
“Wealth?” The big man laughed. “You mistake us Master Dawan. Wealth is not what the sorcerers have promised us for this prize.” He moved to kneel and look the old man directly in the eye. “We are to be gifted with magics that will make our skin invulnerable to weapons, our blood immune to poisons, bodies able to heal from any wound or affliction. We will be immortal. Whatever may come, we will survive it—and then we can become as rich as we wish.” He came to his feet and released a lengthy breath. “But for now, Master Dawan, there will be some unpleasantness to come, for your eyes and ears have witnessed much—and the brotherhood greatly values its secrecy.”
As the grim meaning of those words sank in Makami felt his stomach go hollow. A look of horror crossed Master Dawan’s face as he reflexively reached for his daughters. Then just as quickly, he returned to his jovial self.
“Come then friend Abrafo,” he urged pleasantly. “There is no need for such talk. Surely, we can arrive at some understanding. My family and I are but simple traders. We spend much of our lives in the desert. Who can we tell such tales to?”
“Ah, Master Dawan,” the big man smiled, wagging a finger playfully. “But you are a lover of tales. And this story may be too great to keep. No, there is no understanding to which we will come.”
The pleasantness on the old man’s face slowly slid away, and Makami felt his stomach tightening. Abrafo sounded like a man who would regret the slitting of a child’s throat, but slit it all the same.
“Please, I beg you. If you must silence any tongues this day, let it be mine.”
Master Dawan’s daughters screamed as one at his words, clutching and pulling at their father as if he had already gone. Even Kahya looked stunned, her face trembling.
Abrafo stared at the old man, seeming to mull over his words before shaking his head.
“No, I cannot grant that wish Master Dawan,” he said finally. “But you offered me food and drink, and for that I am grateful. So, I will promise that at the least, you will not have to watch your daughters die.” He gave an order and one of the other men grabbed the old man, pulling him away from his family who wailed and tore at his clothing. Kahya rose up, as if she intended to fight all three of their captors with her bare hands alone. But Abrafo caught and easily wrestled her to the ground, bringing his jagged sword to the throat of a younger daughter in threat. Master Dawan was brought to the forefront, and placed upon his knees. His eyes were closed and his mouth moved rapidly, speaking words in his native tongue. A prayer, Makami knew. It came like a song that rose and fell in a rolling fashion.
“Yes, old man,” Abrafo said soothingly. “Finish the prayer to your goddess. You will be reunited with your daughters soon enough.”
Makami watched the unfolding scene in horror. The knife at his neck had been pressed so firmly into his skin that it now drew blood. Catching a glance of Kahya he met her eyes to find she was staring directly at him, her gaze stabbing into him and her mouth moving. At first, he thought the woman was praying as well. But no, she was saying something, directly to him, shouting it in fact, above the screams of her sisters and her father’s sorrowful entreaties. Breathe, she was saying. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Makami listened puzzled as she repeated the words, almost pleadingly. He had heard them before, whispered into his ear during their nightly sessions, as they lay wrapped in each other’s skin. It was how she taught him to slow the markings, to control his skin. He was struck suddenly by his own thoughts, mingling with the words Abrafo had spoken earlier. Control his skin. The markings as a weapon. Whoever wielded it...
He met Kahya’s eyes with sudden understanding, and attempted to do as she asked—breathe.
It took some trying, the chaos about him distracting his thoughts. He had to find a way to concentrate. It came amazingly from Master Dawan. The old man’s prayerful chant flowed into his ears, offering him the bit of peace he needed. The markings shifted upon his chest—only slightly, but enough to give him renewed hope. He did not dwell on the irony that the very curse that had robbed him of so much, might now offer salvation. It is the skin that is magic. That was what Kahya had taught him. Whatever was placed upon it was his to master. Y
et, try as he might, the numbness on his skin robbed him of control. It was like trying to move a boulder. But wait . . . something else moved.
Yes! It was the other markings, the ones just placed upon him. Abrafoa had called them weak magic, and they moved easily. In short moments he made quick work of one, shifting his skin until it broke and peeled away. Sensation returned quickly to his chest again, and his own markings began their familiar dance. Concentrating he worked upon the second symbol. It twisted and then gave, untying like a knot undone and dripping away. And then there was pain. Terrible pain flooded his body as the markings on his chest swirled about furiously. The lines and arcs began to fit into each other, falling into place, creating a symbol before going still. He braced for what he knew would come next.
Makami heard his own screams as fire erupted from his chest. He did not seem to burn, but the heat was more intense than anything he had ever felt. The thing that emerged from him was shrouded in flames, and he imagined that whatever place it came from was an endless inferno. Its massive bulk towered into the night, like a flaming beacon in the darkness. Unknown symbols like writing adorned the skin of its pale and reddish muscled body which slightly resembled that of a man. Its head had no face or features of any kind, only a crown of endless horns. Where forearms should have been, its arms extended into two large blades of bone that glistened like steel.
By now, Master Dawan’s prayers had ended, and all had gone silent, bearing witness in awe to the nightmare before them. The first person Makami heard speak was the man who stood over him. It was a whispered prayer as the great being swiveled a horned head to look down at them with its eyeless face. It raised one of its arms and there was a blur as the great blade came down swiftly. Makami felt the knife at his throat fall away, along with the half of his captor that held it. The man had been sliced in two, the heated blade from the being cauterizing the wound so well that no blood splattered.
At sight of his companion’s demise, another of the men cried in fear and made as if to run. There was another blur of the creature’s arm came down, this time cutting cleanly in one stroke from head to crotch, impacting heavily against the sand which was sent up in a billowing cloud. It shifted its horned head then to Abrafo.
The big man stared up at the behemoth that dwarfed him, his sword hanging limply at his side. He turned to Makami, a look of absolute wonder in his eyes. Then, as a familiar smile crept across his rapt face, he uttered one word.
“Magnificent!”
It was his last, before the great being lifted a thick flaming leg, looking somewhat like an elephant’s only ten times as big, and brought it down, crushing the man beneath tons of flesh and flames. It stood there for a moment, seeming to exult in its kills. And then it turned that horned and faceless head to those that remained.
Master Dawan had long ago scrambled towards his family, and now spread his arms protectively against his daughters, as if that could possibly shield them. The great being gazed down at them hungrily, lifting its blade with murderous intent.
“No!” Makami was surprised that the cry came from his weakened lips. He was even more amazed when the great being turned to stare at him, with its odd eyeless gaze. Whoever wields the magic . . . he recalled.
“It is the skin that is magic. And as the markings are drawn onto my skin, I hold power over them—I hold power over you.” The great being reared up—the flames that shrouded it flaring in anger. It stalked forward, in two giant steps coming to tower above him. Makami could feel its terrible heat fierce upon his skin, but he continued. “I hold power over you! And I command, you leave them unharmed!” Makami knew his words would have sounded stronger if he was more certain, and they didn’t come in ragged breaths. He was not sure what he expected to happen next. This monster could kill them all.
But instead, the great being did the unexpected, suddenly dropping to one knee and bowing deeply. Makami grimaced as words emanated from that face without a mouth, echoing in the still night and ringing within his ears. The language was unlike anything he had ever heard and it pounded against his skull. But he understood it all the same.
As you wish.
Makami released a breath of relief, his body shuddering. “Go back,” he said hoarsely. “Return from where you came. I command you.”
The great being’s return through the doorway in his chest was painful, as it always was. But when it had gone the markings broke apart again and returned to their usual movements. Eyeing Master Dawan and his family he could see their awestruck faces. Kahya too glared with wide eyes. And he thought that perhaps, for the first time, he had impressed her. Those were his final thoughts before darkness claimed him and he could think nothing more.
* * *
Makami fitted the straps onto the remaining mjaasi tightly. They had set the other mounts free into the desert, to erase all traces of Abrafo and his men. But he had kept this giant lizard as his own steed. It would serve well in his coming travels.
“Take more water than that.” He looked to find Kahya offering him yet another pouch.
“I cannot take it all from you,” he said. She wrinkled her unveiled face at him.
“Do not be foolish. I would not have us die of thirst in the desert. I offer it to you because we have enough to last us and know where to find more.”
Makami took it, smiling his thanks. Despite all that had occurred, her demeanor towards him had not changed greatly. He was thankful for that. He might have kissed her openly, if he did not think she might cuff him in turn.
After the happenings of three nights past he had expected Master Dawan and his family to have left him in the desert, and to have fled as far as they could from the madness, he had unleashed upon them. Instead he had awakened in Kahya’s tent, finding she and her sisters had cared for him. Master Dawan had greeted him cheerfully, sharing tea and tales while he recovered his strength. They had not abandoned him, even after all they had seen. But now, he was abandoning them.
“Friend Anseh.” He turned to find Master Dawan walking towards him, his pet hawk Izri on his protected arm. “Can I still not convince you to see us through our travels?”
“I would like to,” Makami replied thankfully. “But it is perhaps best for us all if I went my own way. Besides, it’s time I stopped running, and confronted what has happened to me.”
“You will hunt down this...Leopard’s Paw?”
Makami felt his teeth tighten and he rubbed at his chest. A brotherhood of powerful sorcerers who wielded dark magics was not someone you eagerly sought out.
“Better perhaps than being hunted,” he said. “But first I want to learn more about this skin magic.”
The old man looked concerned but did not voice his disapproval.
“In the southlands, there are a people who scar their whole skin with intricate patterns,” he said. “I have heard they know much of this magic of the skin.”
Makami nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Kahya whose eyebrows as well rose with interest. He had not revealed her secret. He supposed she would tell her family of her abilities in her own time. Or perhaps her father knew more than she thought.
“I will find them out if I can,” he said. South was home—and he had not been there in a long time. He wondered if he was ready. Looking up at the sky he took note of where the blazing sun stood. “It is time I went.” Swinging up onto the mjaasi he sat in his seat, pulling the straps of the giant lizard which rose to its feet, already eager to run.
“Manhada,” Master Dawan said, palming his forehead. “The goddess keep you in her thoughts.” Makami replied in kind, turning his gaze to Kahya. Uncertain of what to say, she spoke for him.
“Farewell. Keep safe, so my eyes can touch upon you again in this life.”
He nodded deeply, deciding he would hold onto those words and the image of her face in the lonely time to come. Veiling his own face, he gave a series of clicks and spurred the mjaasi to action. In moments he was galloping away, the sound of Master Dawan’s daughte
rs Amazi chants of farewell and luck dying in the distance as he rode into the new day.
The Demon in the Wall
By
Stafford L. Battle
The horses wandered about the camp without supervision; but because of weeks of routine and strict discipline they kept their distance from the supply tents and the tempting sacks of oats. Camels used for transporting heavy loads grazed grumpily nearby on the sparse, dry weeds. Goats and sheep huddled in a hungry, noisy mass near the center of the multi-color collection of elaborate shelters. The caravan’s dogs, sharp fanged, ferocious protectors, astute herders, lay clumped together in the shade of a stunted tree along the camp’s perimeter; canine eyes and sensitive noses were fervently searching for their human masters.
The campsite was littered with wool, cotton and silk garments. Newly sharpened swords and spears, sturdy leather sandals, gold-embroidered caps, and prized personal charms were strewn about. Intricately woven bamboo serving platters filled with silver drinking goblets still wet with cactus ale were abandoned on a grassy border where the tropical forest melted into the hot desert. A large royal procession had paused here to make a sheltered temporary settlement and take a well-earned traveler’s supper before moonrise and the desert night creatures emerged to hunt.
Dog tails wagged vigorously as a woman and young male approached fast on horseback. The young man was sunbaked ebony with strong arms and thick muscular legs. Among his people, he was less than average stature; yet, he was considered a phenomenal fighter, and quite handsome by the ladies of the Sovereign’s court who towered over him. The gray-haired matron, long past her years of youthful auburn beauty, was still smooth faced, very slender, agile with a firm countenance.
They both quickly dismounted onto the sandy soil.
“Aieee! Grandmother, what sick nightmare is this?”
“Silence,” the senior woman hissed as she used her long iron staff to probe a pile of cloth stretched along the ground. “Your older brother was wearing this garish travel cape when I awoke this morning,” Makhulu said with remorse. “It’s his favorite, a gift from your father.”
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