Seven Words of Power

by James Maxwell

  “Gugan!” Luka called again.

  Ten men walked out the arched doorway, down the stone steps, and stood facing the young smith. Gugan stood with his lieutenants, smiling at Luka, his bald head glistening. Luka knew his position here was untenable, but he felt the rage and held on to it; it was the only thing that gave him the courage to face his enemy.

  It was the first time he’d seen Gugan in the flesh. He was older than Luka had thought he would be, perhaps in his forties. He was shirtless, with a muscular chest scarred, bronzed, and made lean by a lifetime of combat. Gugan carried an axe at his belt. Each of his men had a weapon of some kind.

  “Do I know you?” Gugan said, resting his hand on his axe.

  Luka looked with fascination at the melding’s arms. They were made entirely of black metal, all the way up to past the shoulder, half-way to the melding’s neck. Luka could see little symbols inscribed in the metal. He’d heard about the powers this gave the melding – incredible strength, lack of fatigue, and the ability to block sword blows, impervious to pain.

  These arms had struck Senna’s face.

  “You beat my wife,” Luka said.

  Gugan paused for a moment, as if thinking. “I’m sorry,” he said. He grinned. “Which one was she?”

  “Senna.”

  “The wench from that stinking whorehouse? She’s your wife? Girl like her, I thought she’d have better taste. Nice breasts, though.”

  “I hear you fought in the Rebellion,” Luka said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Kill many?”

  “Plenty,” Gugan said.

  “Of women? Because I can’t really see you fighting a man. You can’t even keep your body in one piece. What was that, gangrene?”

  Gugan and his lieutenants stepped forward.

  Luka held up a hand. “I’m calling you out, Gugan. You’re an old man now, but you think you can still fight, otherwise you wouldn’t be throwing those fists around the amount you do.”

  Gugan sniggered. “You, boy? You’re calling me out?”

  “A fight,” Luka said. “One on one.”

  Gugan looked at his men. Luka could see what was going through the melding’s head. In the clans, no one could be perceived as weak. Luka had been careful to only address him, and Gugan was the one who would have to deal with him.

  One of the men in Gugan’s group spoke up. “Give up, boy. The last thing Seranthia needs is another dead body.”

  Gugan silenced the man with a glare. “Fine. I’ll even fight unarmed.” There were sniggers from his men. The term meant little to a melding. “You can have your choice of weapon.”

  “Three hours,” Luka said. “In the square outside the burlesque house. I’ll see you there.”

  ~

  A crowd had gathered; news traveled fast in Seranthia, and the melding had few friends outside the streetclans.

  Luka stood in the dusty street, his heaving chest betraying his anxiety, legs spread apart as he waited. In his right hand he held the end of a great bar of black iron, nearly as long as he was and as thick as his thigh, the other end resting on the ground.

  “Get yourself a sword,” an old man from the crowd called out. “You can hardly lift that thing, let alone swing it.”

  Luka saw Unga, his neighbor, arrive, and recognized Erelin Osta and some of Senna’s friends from work.

  Then Gugan arrived with his men. The melding strode toward Luka and the crowd immediately drew back. Gugan made some mock punches in the air, his fists driven forward by the powerful lore in his metal arms. The air fairly sizzled with his movements.

  There was no preamble; the fight began as soon as the two men were within spitting distance of each other.

  As Gugan came forward Luka tried to lift the iron bar. He didn’t know how to fight, but he was big, and he was strong. Even so, it was like lifting a mountain. He managed to get the end of the bar a little way off the ground, his muscles groaning as he grunted with the effort.

  Perhaps the bar was too heavy.

  “Defend yourself!” someone yelled. Luka saw Unga hide her eyes behind her hands.

  Gugan was suddenly in front of him. He came forward with a jab that sent lights bursting in Luka's head and split the skin on his cheek to the bone,. Then the melding’s right hook hit Luka's chest.

  Luka was lifted physically off the ground, losing hold of the bar and flying through the air to come crashing down to the earth, the wind knocked out of him. He lay flat on his back, feeling so much pain in his chest that he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

  Luka tried to lift himself up, the muscles in his abdomen tensing with the effort. Scanning, he saw Gugan coming forward; he would be on Luka in moments.

  Luka lifted his head off the ground as he started to rise.

  Gugan grunted with effort as he kicked into the side of Luka's head, sending the young smith down to the ground again.

  “Get up!” someone from the crowd pleaded.

  Gugan raised his arms into the air and walked around Luka in a circle.

  Fighting the pain, Luka rose unsteadily to his feet, though he was weaving. "I'm not finished," Luka said.

  At the sound, Gugan turned. He looked surprised and then smiled. “Here,” he gestured to Luka’s heavy bar of iron. “Be my guest.”

  His eyes never leaving the melding, Luka walked over to the iron bar, ignoring the chuckles of Gugan’s lieutenants and the perplexed whispers of the crowd. He breathed in, feeling strength slowly return. Luka crouched and grabbed one end of the bar in each hand. He lifted slowly, feeling the blood rush to his head and the skin of his face grow hot and red. Finally Luka stood, holding the bar above his head with a supreme strength of will, like a weightlifter at the Imperial Games.

  Gugan came at him with both fists raised, and with a huge effort Luka threw the bar at the melding with every ounce of strength he possessed, praying his opponent would react the way he thought he would.

  The melding raised his metal arms to block the great iron bar, and metal struck metal as they came together with a mighty clang.

  The next moment was the one Luka had been waiting for. Gugan’s eyes opened wide with shock as the magnetized bar of iron stuck to his arms, refusing to let go. Luka knew no man could hold that heavy bar for long, and the look that crossed the melding’s face was one of pure astonishment as the bar came crashing to the ground, pulling Gugan down with it.

  Luka stood watching him, his muscles aching and breath coming fast. Gugan tried to free himself, but the great magnet was too strong to resist. Luka’s opponent was now helpless, on his knees, his arms pinned to the bar and his legs unable to pull him from the heavy weight.

  Luka regarded the melding.

  Gugan stared back at him, venom in his eyes. “What witchery is this?”

  “It’s called a magnet,” Luka said.

  “Let me go!”

  Luka glanced at Gugan’s men. They started to move forward, but the crowd stirred and they drew back.

  “No,” Luka said.

  He came forward and punched Gugan once, twice, and then a third time. The first punch smashed into the melding’s eye, the second split his cheek, and the third broke his nose. Blood spurted onto the dusty street. “That’s for what you did to my wife,” Luka said. Then, seeing how exposed the melding was, Luka kicked him in the chest.

  “I'll leave your fate in the hands of the people who know you,” Luka said.

  He turned and walked away from the melding. A cheer rose from the crowd, and suddenly a stone flew past Luka’s shoulder to strike Gugan on the forehead. It was soon followed by another and another

  Luka saw his neighbor, Unga, pick up a rock.

  Erelin Osta threw a stone the size of his fist, and the women who stood with him each threw one of their own.

  “Go back to your wife, Luka,” Erelin Osta said. “You can leave – he won’t last the night.”

  Luka walked away without looking back. It was time to take care of Senna, and to
look forward to a life working with the unique properties of metal.

  It had always attracted him.

  The Sins of the Past

  The Kalif of Tarn Bitar was one of the most powerful men in the Hazara Desert.

  Even in his younger days – when as a fearless warrior Kalif Majid and his men had raided and plundered villages and caravans from Petrya to the shores of the Great Western Ocean – he hadn’t had as many fighting men under his command as he did now. Majid’s life had been blessed by the Lord of Fire, and from the recklessness of his youth to the wisdom of his advancing years, his star had shone brighter with every passing moment.

  Now, when Majid left his tents and gathered his wives for a visit to the souk at the Oasis of Touma, the vendors bowed in his wake. Jewel-sellers ran up to his horse, tugging on his robe and displaying their finest wares, while swords were held up for his inspection and horses were paraded by the dusty road-side, their dark coats brushed until they shone like the sun on the waters of the oasis.

  Majid knew he cut a fine figure. His robe was of soft black silk, covered with an outer layer of fine white goat’s wool to reflect the sun’s rays. He was old, nearly seventy years of age, and his hair was entirely white, yet it was trimmed neatly and he wore heavy golden jewelry at his throat and six gem-set rings on his fingers. Despite his age, his bearing was erect, and he rode his proud stallion with the confidence of a man who had spent a lifetime in the saddle, still able to challenge any of his young warriors in a race.

  Yet Kalif Majid Khuzaimah was not a happy man.

  His sword-arm had grown weaker with every passing year, and at the end of a day’s riding the joints in his knees ached.

  As Majid grew older, the glances of his men began to seem resentful rather than respectful, and the looks of those with a claim to rule in his stead became envious. Majid now slept with a dagger under his pillow and a ring of guards around his tent.

  Majid hadn’t survived countless midnight raids and taken a wealth of slaves by being a fool. He didn’t need a confessor to tell him that he didn’t have long left for this world. Yet he was fond of life, and wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  So Majid formulated a strategy for his advancing years, just like he would any other battle. To give him as many years as possible, his guards would protect him from those who thought they would make a better tarn leader than he. In the event that death knocked on his door, he would do what he could to cleanse his soul and prepare for the journey to the afterlife.

  Yet cleansing Majid's soul had its own troubles. As the confessors forced Majid to focus his thoughts on his own death, his great wealth and status and the pleasures of his numerous wives and concubines became as nothing. As he dwelled on the teachings of the elders, who preached compassion and a life spent following hajjariah, the way, he reflected on the life he'd led.

  He knew the commandments; he’d laughed at them long ago, along with the other young men his age. Do not steal? He’d stolen gold and goats, tents and spices. Do not covet another man’s wife? He’d taken his enemies’ wives as concubines, and done with them what he willed. Love thy neighbor? He had raided neighboring tribes, and he had killed cousins who had challenged him for the leadership of Tarn Bitar.

  Do not murder? Majid’s thoughts shied from that one.

  “Kalif, look,” one of Majid’s warriors pointed at a sign in the souk, beside the stall of a spice merchant, “there is a new confessor.”

  Majid searched for any mocking in the warrior’s tone, but could hear none. They knew about his obsession; he’d visited confessor after confessor in his quest for the salvation of his soul.

  “I see the sign,” Majid said. “I will stop here for a while. My wives may buy goods while I am visiting.”

  “Yes, Kalif.”

  Majid’s bones cracked as he slipped down from his horse and handed the reins to one of his men. “Wait for me outside,” he said.

  There was a man outside the tent, a devotee, wrapped from head to toe in the black wool of one who sought atonement for past sins.

  That makes two of us, Majid thought.

  “The confessor awaits,” the devotee said, his voice muffled by the cloth, as he opened the tent. Majid stooped as he walked inside.

  It took a few moments for Majid’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. The tent was small and low, with ragged carpets covering the ground and cushions spread around a table that stood at the height of his knees.

  The confessor was older even than Majid. Her features had been weathered by the sun until the skin of her face was like creased leather. Her startling eyes were half-brown and half-green. She lit a stick of incense as Majid approached, motioning for him to seat himself.

  Majid placed a silver coin on the table as he settled himself and then cleared his throat.

  “I’m troubled by fear,” Majid said.

  “There are many types of fear,” said the confessor. “Many sources. What is yours?”

  “I was never afraid before, but now I sleep with a dagger under my pillow. I have guards follow me wherever I go. At night forty men guard my tent, and I still think it isn’t enough.”

  “Is there one you trust?” the confessor asked.

  Majid hesitated. “The one man I can perhaps trust, my son, has left on pilgrimage and still has not returned.”

  “What is the greatest of the fears?” the confessor asked, drawing out each word as she spoke.

  “I fear the repercussions of what I did as a younger man,” Majid said. "I have killed many."

  “The sins of the past can follow us,” said the confessor. “Yet much time has passed. Why do you fear what happened many years ago?”

  “That is what I do not understand,” Majid said.

  The confessor was silent for a moment. “You are struggling with a guilty conscience. It isn’t this world you fear. Those you fear are all dead. The world you fear is the next.”

  “Perhaps… Perhaps you’re right,” Majid said. “There are commandments I have broken. I haven’t always followed hajjariah, the way.”

  “The best remedy for a guilty conscience is confession.”

  “I have confessed. Yet the feeling remains.”

  “Confess to me now,” the confessor said.

  Majid barked a laugh. “How much time do you have? We would be here for an eternity.”

  “What is it that troubles you the most?”

  Majid wiped his hands over his face. “There is one memory that haunts my dreams.”

  “Tell it to me.”

  It was a long time before Majid spoke, and as he did, he looked into the distance. “I took a small camp. They were lahsar, those without a tarn. I rode in with my son at my side. We killed their men as usual, but I was angry that day, for one of my wives had promised me a son but given me a daughter.”

  “A worthy reason for ill-temper,” the confessor said.

  “There was a lack of spoils – they were so poor – which enraged me further. After we killed their fighting men we rounded up the children, lining them up on their knees in the sand. This is the usual way we judge our captives — which we will sell to slavery and which we will keep for ourselves. We made them watch as we burned the bodies of their parents and everything from their camp that we would not take with us. But I was not well that day, and rather than taking slaves, I ordered their heads cut off, even the little ones. The babes were simply too small, even for this, so I ordered my men to throw them straight onto the fire.”

  “So you killed them all?”

  “One escaped: a young boy. It was hot, and I wanted to take my men back to the oasis. I still remember the way he looked at me. His eyes were cold and dark, even though he was so young. I thought he would never survive alone in the desert, with no food or water, so I let him go. I have cursed myself ever since.”

  “Ah,” the confessor said, “I see.”

  “This is what troubles me. I dream that he somehow survived the thirst and heat of the desert, and that one day
he will seek his revenge. In my dreams he makes it past my guards and into my tent. I am troubled that he will seek me in the afterlife.”

  “I can help you,” the confessor said, “but I will need to pray for the solution. Come back in three days.”

  “If you can help me,” said Majid, “I will shower you with gold.”

  “Your gratitude will be enough, Kalif,” the confessor said. “My devotee will show you out.”

  ~

  The black-clad devotee came back into the tent after the Kalif had left.

  “What are your thoughts?” the confessor said. “You were there.”

  “I am not sure,” the man in black said; his voice was troubled.

  “Do you still seek his death?” the confessor asked.

  The devotee didn’t answer for a moment, placing a pouch that clinked onto the table, which the confessor quickly swept up.

  “He seems repentant,” the man in black said. “Yet he takes pride in the wealth his evil deeds have brought him. I have no wish to become like him; that is not the way. I can remember that day like it was yesterday. But would his death set me free?”

  ~

  “Three days have passed, confessor,” Majid said. “My dreams are as troubled as they always were. I am even seeing that boy when I’m awake. I’ve doubled the number of guards around my tent, yet I still live in fear.”

  “I have prayed, Kalif,” the confessor said, “and I have received an answer.”

  “What is it?” Majid demanded.

  “It is not this life you fear, but the next. Yet you have shown no actions that demonstrate true repentance. You still carry the wealth that you made from deeds such as the one that troubles you. And by seeking the protection of blood and steel, you are showing no faith in the Lord of Fire, who is the only one who can grant the peace you seek.”

  “Yes, yes,” Majid said eagerly. “What must I do?”

  “You must make a choice. If you seek forgiveness and are truly repentant, here is what you must do. You do not have to do it, which is what makes it your choice.”