Iblis’ Affliction

by Nero Seal

  “You’re so cruel, Master,” Slater said, then shifted down, taking a position between his tied legs.

  Talha watched Slater’s palms land on either of his shins and caress his skin, but he didn’t sense his touch. He concentrated, trying to feel the warmth of Slater’s fingers, but his nerves remained silent. In confusion, he tried to move his toes but failed. The chilly breath of a new fear raised small hairs at Talha’s nape. How long have I been here?

  Anger, mixing with dread and a settling panic, shattered his self-control, and he yelled, ‘Release me right fucking now!’ The duct tape blocked everything but his angry intonation.

  “Your skin is so cold, Talha.” Talha’s heart stilled in his chest at the desert-like whisper of his name.

  Talha, not Master… He looked up, trying to break through the icebergs of Slater’s eyes, but no curiosity, no testing mockery, no devotion shone within. Stripped of all emotion, Slater’s eyes reflected nothing.

  “Your blood circulation had been cut off for too long. You can’t even feel pain anymore, can you?” Talha dropped his focus to his legs again. Absorbing all lights, the edge of the black claw knife scratched the skin on his left calf; red beaded out at either side of the blade. “If you stay like this all night, the loss of circulation will progress to ischemia and maybe even gangrene. Should I leave you here with your beloved Hanım so you can rot together? You can stay with her till death do you part. Isn’t it romantic, Talha? For such an occasion, I can even retrieve the remains of her body.”

  Word by word, Slater’s speech seeped under Talha’s skin, stripping him of all the illusions and hopes he didn’t even know he’d harbored. The last dizziness the drugs instilled evaporated, clearing his mind, and the gravity of his situation dawned upon him.

  Slater abandoned me. A painful lump in his throat prevented him from swallowing. The air burned his unfocused eyes, and all his muscles stiffened, as the realization blasted through his mind. I will die here. This is the end.

  Many times, he had wondered how his life would end, but never in his darkest forecasts had he imagined such helplessness, such disgrace.

  “Are you scared, Master?” The scorching words inflamed his ear washing Talha in a painfully familiar aroma of cloves and wood, mixed with the sweet scent of sugary treats. His skin prickled, sweat broke out, but he was unable to look away from the red brick wall.

  ‘Live a fast, colorful, fulfilling life without thinking how it’ll end and have no regrets,’ this was Talha’s motto. He’d always known he would die rather young, and most likely from Slater’s hand, but a slow, agonizing death from thirst, gangrene, complete disability, and helplessness had never crossed his mind. The realization that a death reeking of pus, urine, and shit, where pride was erased by disgrace and filth would be his end, instilled a mortal fear deep in his soul.

  “Everyone has fears, right, Talha? You aren’t an exception. I can smell yours streaming in the air; such a potent mix of salt and sweetness.” Slater’s voice lost all liquidity, and for the first time was calm, mortifying. “Come on, tell me your fears. Beg me to spare you, and I might change my mind. Cry, Talha, cry because you are going to Hell.”

  The sharp of the claw pressed to Talha’s temple and outlined the side of his face, stopping below his ear. Talha froze, waiting for icy cold steel to scald his skin.

  This is exactly what you want, right, Slater? You can’t leave… You want to see my disgrace, my downfall, don’t you? Enjoy every moment of your power, as you did with all your previous masters. And once your soul is free from my hold, you will be able to move on. If you didn’t need this, I would have been dead already.

  The blade trembled, dancing over the side of his neck, scratching and irritating his tender skin. One careless move and the blade would slash his carotid artery, making his death fast and painless, therefore unsatisfying for Slater.

  Warm waves of calm and control, returning into his core, wiped his consciousness clean of all fears and confusion.

  I’m sorry, Slater. I’ll never release you. I’ll never let you forget me. I will forever remain your Master. The one whose orders you’ll follow even after my death. You’ll never move on. Only I can control your demons, no one else. You’re mine.

  Staring into the abyss of Slater’s dilated pupils, Talha shifted left. A sharp pain jolted down his neck as the blade cut through his skin. Slater flinched and drew the knife away from his victim, leaving behind burning pain and a warm, tickling stream of blood.

  The cruel smile fell off the reaper’s face, replaced by a deep frown. Eyes dark and hard, he sheathed the knife behind his back.

  “This is what you are scared of, Master,” he said, the liquid notes returned into his voice. He lurched in, and a warm tongue brushed over Talha’s neck, licking the wound clean. “Slater understands. Don’t worry, Master. Slater isn’t cruel. You will die from my hand.”

  A rush of relief prickled Talha’s skin and released the tension from his body. For a moment, he believed Slater could leave him here—tied up, alone with a rotting head—watching, feeling his body decay day by day. Exhaustion washed over. Head falling back onto the floor, Talha closed his eyes. His body ached, screaming for him to move, and he strained every muscle, trying to start the blood circulation in his limbs and move his toes.

  The fire of Slater’s lips stayed on his neck for another moment but soon retreated, leaving behind a wet, cooling spot. Two warm palms landed on his shoulders, traveled down his arms, entwined with his fingers, then instantly let go, jumping to his hips. Greedy and rough—almost possessively, almost painfully—the hand grasped his sides, squeezed his butt cheeks, then followed the zigzag of his tied legs, making Talha glance down.

  Hands working fast, Slater unlaced the ropes around his legs. Talha groaned as blood streamed through his veins. Prickling, burning, buzzing, it inflamed every cell with the fire of life. Connecting the ends of the ropes to the second pair of the wall rings, Slater placed his hands on Talha’s thighs, giving them a few light strokes.

  “Well, then.” A smile returned to his face. “I bet you and Hanım have a lot to talk about. I’ll leave you both to it.”

  He withdrew, leaving behind only a small pull of gravity. Talha growled, then shook his head. Watching the younger man dress, he shouted and tested the ropes, frustration building up in his chest.

  You, son of a bitch! I’ll kill you with my bare hands once I’m free! He jerked forward, screaming for Slater to release him, but the duct tape turned his orders into pathetic growling.

  The muscular abdomen had disappeared under a black hoodie as Slater straightened up and faced him. A razor-sharp smile sliced Talha’s throat, cutting his breath. He had never seen so many emotions written over Slater’s face, and never before had Slater’s eyes shone with such hatred.

  “Sleep tight, Master.” Heavy words echoed in the small chamber. The massive metal door opened, letting in dry, warm air. Slater said, “Happy wedding night,” before closing the door behind his back.

  ‘No, wait!’ Talha screamed, but his mouth never formed words, leaving them trembling in his trachea.

  HIS BODY SHOOK, TEETH CHATTERED, and he desperately wanted to hug his middle to fight the night chill, but the evil ropes tightened around his wrists every time he moved. The annoying sound of trickling water, coming from behind the wall, intensified his thirst and the need to piss. His insides hurt, his back ached from lying in the same position, but the short restraints prevented him from rolling to his side. Occasionally he managed to half twist his body to the left, but refused to look right, fearing that the view of the rotting head would make him puke, and he would choke in his own vomit.

  His mind roiled as the night progressed.

  Why didn’t he kill me? What does he want? To kill me slowly? To insult me, destroy me? No, that isn’t Slater. He would simply slice me piece by piece. This is too complicated for him. If he moved on, he wouldn’t bother. Does it mean he’s still with me?

  ‘It’s C
hristmas, Talha. Make a wish.’ The liquid voice resounded in his head, and Talha frowned. He called me by my name. He intended to kill me… The two chairs with glasses full of… what was it, blood? They were for me and her. We were supposed to sit there. Slater wouldn’t bother with meaningless decorations if he wasn’t going to kill me. That was my last feast and his farewell. Then… Why did he stop? Why didn’t he finish it?

  Unable to answer this question, he stared at the weak light making its way into the chamber through a grate embedded in the ceiling at the farthest end of the chamber. It appeared to be ancient and resembled a vent grille.

  He’d seen red brick like this before. Old and long, with wide cement layers, red bricks had been widely used in architecture since the Byzantine Empire. They were also used to expand some of the under city catacombs. The subterranean noises of leaking water reassured him in his conclusion, but that barely helped him figure out his location. He could be anywhere in Istanbul, but the metal door in the chamber suggested that someone had already used this place as a hideout or prison. If Slater was familiar with this place, it probably belonged to his ex-master. This thought didn’t help much, as Slater had never been good at sharing secrets, and Behçet had been the Reis of Istanbul.

  The night progressing, played tricks with his exhausted mind, and every passing second aggravated the haunting feeling that Camilla was glaring at him. Dead, immobile eyes drilled his temple, boring into his skull as if blaming him for what had happened to her. The howling wind, trapped in the catacombs, echoed his thoughts in a deadly voice, “You will die here. Slater will not come. He abandoned you. He doesn’t follow you anymore.”

  At some point, he started to believe it. Since they bonded, Slater had never rebelled. He’d spun out of control a few times, but it’d been a while since his wrath had been directed at Talha. Constantly testing the limits, Slater pulled many tricks out of his sleeve to kick Talha out of his comfort zone and find his weaknesses, but he hadn’t attacked him in ages.

  During the endless night, Talha wrapped his fingers around the ropes multiple times and tried to break the wall rings out, but only managed to strip his forearms of skin. When the first gray light of the awakening sun sneaked into the chamber through the grate, Talha felt exhaustion taking its toll. His eyes grew heavy, lids closed, and a lucid dream washed over. Through a kaleidoscope of bright, swirling colors, Talha watched time twist, spin back, and stop at the moment he became the sole ruler of Mardin[9].

  5 YEARS AGO

  STANDING AT THE TOP of the rocky hill, Talha greedily sucked in the dry, heated air. The smell of sun and dust enveloped him. Absorbing into his skin, it forever imprinted the scent of his homeland into his soul. The endless sky spilled a riot of colors across the horizon, turning cirrus clouds into watercolor smudges that surrounded the reddening disk of a tired sun. Lazy beams licked the ancient city, enchanting the golden stone buildings with pink and orange, and lavished warmth throughout the boundless Mesopotamian plains.

  That was his home, his empire, his strength. Every day of his life, every road he chose, and every turn he took brought him here, to the top of the hill. He’d earned it with a low whisper of a knife, his spilled blood, his fingers covered with gunpowder, and his never-resting mind.

  He remembered himself being little, living in a tiny, windowless room they had called home. The two cheap kilims[10] on the stone floor worked as prayer rugs when the sun was high and as their beds during long, hunger-torturing nights. His mother worked, but the money she made from cleaning other people’s houses was never enough to keep them fed and dressed. Sometimes, when they didn’t have food for days, and the neighbors couldn’t help, his mother went out at night. The next day they always had food. On those days she never prayed. Talha had never asked where she’d gone. A fatherless family in Mardin, especially the one that ran away from their home, had little chance for a future. A woman, married by Imam[11] but not by law, held no official rights over her kids, therefore, she had no protection from the government. Even with a fake passport, she couldn’t remarry fearing Allah wouldn’t forgive polyandry. Talha had never blamed her, because he remembered his violent father, who whored his own wife out, and the broken ribs Talha received trying to defend her.

  When Ejder started school, they only had one pair of shoes to share. They were too small for one and too big for another. Teachers didn’t let barefoot kids into classes, so they had to split school days. On Ejder’s school days, Talha scoured streets, looking for any kind of odd job. The legal ones hadn’t come often for a twelve-year-old kid, so he’d taken everything that promised a meal. Pick-pocketing hadn’t brought much money, so he started stealing mules, horses, goats, and camels. Rebranded and sometimes painted animals went to local smugglers, before disappearing forever from Mardin. More than often, he couldn’t find an animal to steal, so he went to old cemeteries. Unattended graves with marble tombstones were the focus of his attention. Chiseling down names, he sanded stones before reselling them.

  He was thirteen when his father burst into their home. Huge as a bear, Çelik raged about the room, calling his mother names and beating her bloody. Saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth, he wrecked what little they had. Remembering what Çelik could do and understanding that they had a slim to none chances to win in a fair fight, Talha tried to persuade him to leave but failed.

  Çelik whacking Ejder against the wall and called him ‘Orospu çocuğu[12]’, then hauling his mother toward the door by her hair was the last straw. Talha drew his knife. Without thinking, he jumped his father from behind and sliced Çelik’s throat before the man could reach the door. Towering over the quivering body, Talha watched his father die. Talha hadn’t felt any guilt or fear for committing a deadly sin. He’d only felt satisfaction.

  After the last spasm died and the unfocused gaze froze on the ceiling, Talha’s mother brought a tin bucket brimming with water and washed away the blood before using a piece of cloth to bandage the dead throat. Ejder cried. He called Talha a murderer, and for the first time his mother slapped him, ordering him to keep quiet.

  Hiding in the night, they transported the body to the local cemetery and buried it in a fresh grave, above the other body. The following night Talha couldn’t fall asleep, expecting the police to come any minute. No one came.

  The next day, when Talha kneeled to pray, his mother touched his shoulder and calmly told him not to speak to Allah until he followed his path. Since that day, only Ejder prayed.

  The event changed something in Talha. The man he’d feared all his life died from his hand, making him realize that no one was immortal, and no one was better than him. Also, that day taught him that his life belonged to him and only he could change it.

  At fourteen, he entered the ultranationalist, neo-fascist organization, Gray Wolves. Their ideology of the superiority of the Turkish race didn’t hold his interest for long, but driven and ambitious, he understood the value of the connections he could make. He quickly sorted out the ones who fought for the idea and ones who sought profit. Looking much older than his years, he didn’t have a problem with people treating him as a kid and getting his voice heard. Flexible, he found the common language with both groups, and while the first helped him gain connections, the second brought him money. He orchestrated bribery, forgery, and sold information making him influential, and it paid well. His mother didn’t need to leave at night anymore, and Ejder transferred into the best school.

  Watching people, he realized that desires ruled the world, and the one who understood people’s goals and motivations held the power. At sixteen, he left Gray Wolves and joined the biggest criminal organization in Mardin—the Sayın Group. At first, it felt like a step back. Drug-smuggling, robbery, murder—he didn’t get to choose. Small, dirty jobs became bigger, cleaner ones, as his reputation grew, his hands gained skills, and his body—muscles. At twenty-two, too many people had supported him for Talha to stay the second-in-command, so he took what belonged to him by the right of t
he strongest and became a new Reis of Mardin. His ‘eyes’ were everywhere, but it still took him too long to notice that his mother was suffering from leukemia.

  His faith in Allah died with her, and with her, he lost his last fears, because fearing someone meant admitting their superiority. But in the godless journey his life became, he’d decided to never bow to merciless gods or human beings again.

  Now he had everything. The Empire he’d built with hard work, blood, and sweat. The loyalty and support of his people and his brother. Yet, it wasn’t enough. As soon as his foot stepped on the top of the hill, he understood—he merely took the step of an ant, who had reached the top of an anthill. Dressed in golden and brown, the immense space sprawled under the endless sky. There, beyond the horizon, under foreign stars, where people obeyed different rules and spoke different languages, he was still no one.

  He stretched out his arm, causing the red eye of the sun to land on his palm. Hand forming a fist, he squished it in his fingers, and strong, intoxicating power flowed through his veins, installing the idea that his destiny lay somewhere beyond this land. As if echoing his thoughts, the suddenly awoken wind stirred his hair and breathed his name. Dragging it around, it guided him north-west, calling him to follow and repeating a low, barely audible, “Talha-a-a-a”. There, between two seas, where the Blue Mosque punctured the eternal sky with minaret spires, lay the Capital of Three Empires and his future—Istanbul.

  Filling his lungs with the dry air, he closed his eyes and held his breath, wondering if he would ever inhale this air again.

  IT TOOK HIM THREE WEEKS to gather his army. Many of his followers stayed in Mardin, but he had enough arms and men to enter Istanbul like a rightful heir and shatter its shady world with brute power. Having flexible morality, Talha feared no man, no god. His arms were open for all kinds of criminals, from drug dealers to murderers. His influence grew as his drugs and weapons flooded the streets. But even if he’d become the main competitor of the Asani Cartel—the largest criminal organization in Istanbul—Talha knew, he’d only began his way toward the heart of Europe—London.