The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  Contents

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  THE UZAD PENINSULA

  AHUL HAMA

  CITY OF KHALIDAH

  WHEN IT BEGUN

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  PART TWO

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  PART THREE

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  GLOSSARY

  Names of Characters

  Names of Places

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Text Copyright © 2018 by AbuBilaal Yakub

  Illustrations Copyright © 2018 by AbuBilaal Yakub

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transfered, scanned, copied, distributed, leased in printed or electronic form without written permission and consent of the Publisher and Author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission and consent of the Publisher and Author.

  The following publication is a work of Art and Fiction. Any Names, Characters, Places, and Events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-9993870-3-7

  Hard Cover ISBN-13: 978-1-9993870-1-3

  E-Book ISBN 13: 978-1-9993870-2-0

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Iron Heart Publishing House.

  www.ironheartpublishing.com

  PART ONE

  THE DARK CON OF MAN

  20 YEARS AGO

  Azhar Babak, General of the First Legion, was in his tent that night, pacing back and forth with the air of a man desperately awaiting important news.

  “Farid!” he stopped and called, facing the entrance of the tent.

  The tent flaps withdrew and an armed soldier stepped in, his heavy armor chinking as he came to an alert halt.

  “General.” His head inclined slightly.

  “Any sight of them?”

  Farid shook his head. “It is difficult to see through the dust clouds.”

  The Legion’s camp, a large settlement in and of itself, had been struck by the most terrible storm yet, and even after the sands had somewhat settled, the winds were still high, howling with rage against the canvas tarps and tents of the encampment.

  “Have Captain Dimah’s scouts returned yet?” Azhar asked.

  “No word from them either, General,” Farid replied. “However—” he hesitated, jerking his head in an odd way. “It must be nothing,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Speak with ease, soldier,” Azhar urged him. “What is it?”

  Farid’s tense shoulders relaxed a bit. “One of the party you had sent into the Dead City,” he said, “the one who arrived unconscious.”

  “What of him?”

  “He woke about an hour ago,” Farid said. “I hear word that he is speaking to himself, uttering in devilish tongues while the infirmary struggles to attend to him.”

  Azhar gave a curt nod to acknowledge Farid’s concern, but chose not to address it any further. When it came to subordinates, certain things were best left undiscussed. Especially things that tend to vex edgy soldiers who clung to superstitions tighter than their shields and swords.

  Over the past several days, in rapid succession, the sandstorms continued to wreak havoc across the dunes of the Khabara Desert. As if that was not enough, a most dismal plague seemed to emanate from the west, engulfing the Legion with a gloomy ordeal, shattering the spirits of his men. If Azhar did not know better, he would have concluded, as his men did, that some devilry was at play here. Most of his cavalry was still recovering from the damage of the storms, and as much as they pleaded and begged, the Legion could not move on— not just yet. Something else was afoot, and he was compelled to see it through.

  “Return to your post,” Azhar instructed him. “Alert me when the delegates arrive.”

  Farid inclined his head again and exited the tent. Alone once again, Azhar returned to his pacing, recollecting the events of the previous day.

  He sighed with exhaustion. It had been a long and very trying day. After fending off two short skirmishes at the borders of the Dead City, he had to contend with representatives from the Elder Council, who were demanding that he pull back his forces and attack from the south instead, where their spies had reported a weaker defense.

  Had it not been for the delay caused by the sandstorms, he would have had the delegates sent on their way. Back to Aztalaan. Back to their Council Halls and courtrooms where they belonged. Despite his outlook on politics, he had to endure several hours of strained diplomacy before they finally understood why he was camped out by the Wells of Ninya. Mere miles from the Dead City, his Legion had conquered, and currently occupied, the only source of water across the Khabara Desert. This was a strategic point on the map, and if he was half the competent man he thought he was, he would not so easily abandon it.

  There was another reason why he refused to abandon the Wells of Ninya. A more reticent reason.

  A fortnight ago, in the form of a rather vague and imposing message, General Ussam Bashiri of the Third Legion had requested an urgent meeting with his delegates. In his letter, he claimed to have found a way of defeating the enemy and putting an end to the war. It was certainly not the first time that someone had approached Azhar with dubious notions of vanquishing the Dark Prince. A considerable measure of such schemes were more than often voiced around the campfires, and it was a gamble he took when he sent his quartermaster beyond enemy lines, into the Dead City, as per General Ussam Bashiri’s letter. In truth, when that expedition yielded strange and unexpected results, he was forced to accept the word of his fellow General. As such, he made all the necessary arrangements. He dismissed the Council delegates earlier in the day and instructed his men to keep an eye out for any approaching emissaries.

  Azhar was a tall and muscular man, renowned as a fierce swordsman, a steadfast and disciplined leader. His dedication had more than once nominated him for a seat on the Elder Council of Immorkaan, which governed the nation of Aztalaan, their allies, and all their armies.

  The Aztalaan banner commanded three Legions; the second led by General Murad Surukh. Fighting alongside Aztalaan was the Empire of Din-Galad, their forces led by Emperor Adad Babati, and the Kingdom of Aghara whose ranks were led by Queen Sitra. They called this union the Elder Council of Immorkaan, and the truce was forged when it became known that the Nation of Rhudah and the barbaric tribes of Rhunga had pleaded allegiance to Arammoria and sworn their servitude to the Dark Prince.

  The wind beat against the tent and Azhar shuddered, glancing at the single candle’s wick gradually melting away to the bottom. Dawn was soon approaching, and if Ussam Bashiri’s messengers did not arrive before daybreak, he would have to make some very calculated decisions regarding his Legion’s progress in the war. General Bashiri had assured him that this would be the night. Alas, it seemed a dim prospect, considering that the storms had caused huge delays for anyone
hoping to cross the desert. He had half a mind to call it a night and perhaps catch a few winks before sunrise, but ahead of arriving at that decision, he heard a small cough behind him.

  His back stiffened, shoulders tensed, and hand instinctively reached for the hilt of the scimitar by his side. Cautiously, he turned and spotted the silhouettes of two figures hidden in the far shadows of the tent where the candlelight could not reach them.

  “Reveal yourself!” Azhar growled menacingly. With a faint chink, his scimitar unsheathed by an inch. He was merely steps away from them, and nothing would hinder him from making a swift attack were he to be provoked. “Sorcerers are unwelcome here!”

  Hands raised in quick surrender, the first figure hastily stepped forward into the light so that Azhar could now see his hooded, watery eyes. “I assure you, we intend no malice,” the man said. “I am Laban Varda,” he gestured to the second figure, who also stepped forward as he was introduced. “This is Ussam Bashiri. We are your allies, not foes.”

  Disguised as mere travelers, both men wore long, tanned robes and white turbans, hardly besmirched by sand or dust— rather atypical for travelers who had just arrived. Azhar’s grip on his scimitar slackened, and he returned it to its sheath with a light snap, but did not unhand the hilt.

  “Why would you not announce yourselves like normal people?” he asked. “How did you even enter my tent without my consent?”

  “Our presence here must remain a secret,” Ussam Bashiri, dark-skinned and taller than either of them, gave a short bow and touched his forehead with his right hand to show his respect. It was an unexpected gesture, and Azhar was prompted to do the same, but exhaustion clouded his mind, and the moment passed.

  “Hence our unannounced intrusion,” Laban said, somewhat apologetically.

  “Your unannounced intrusion warrants an explanation,” Azhar demanded, exerting a controlled amount of sternness in his voice.

  “Sorcery, General,” Ussam replied with equal rigidity. “Laban Varda is well-versed in the Dark Arts. Long has he spied on the enemy for us, and without his assistance, we would have been massacred at the gates of Ghuldad. I owe my victory of the ancient fortress to him.”

  “An Arammorian spy,” Azhar eyed Laban curiously, throwing subtle glances at Ussam, wondering if his fellow General had utterly lost his mind. How dare he bring an Arammorian sorcerer into his camp? “A most precarious task,” he added, trying not to display any form of antipathy. A strong and competent General would slay them where they stood, but a wise one would ascertain their true intent before doing so, and he aspired to be the latter.

  Laban’s fingers were interlaced, his thumbs rubbing against each other. “Indeed it is,” he said, sounding indifferent.

  “You must forgive me,” Azhar said. “I did not expect you, but your messengers, and have therefore not made the appropriate preparations for your welcome.”

  “The blame lies with me, General,” Ussam bowed, and Azhar was once again caught in an awkward moment. “But the urgency of the matter could not be left in the hands of an emissary.”

  “You must be weary from your journey. I can make arrangements, should you wish to rest your eyes and limbs.”

  Ussam declined with a brisk shake of his head. “As I said, General, our presence here must remain a secret. If the Elder Council were to catch wind of what we are about to propose, our hope of winning this war will be lost.”

  “We must also make haste,” Laban added, betraying a slight sense of unrest. “Alas, I fear we may have arrived at an hour too late.”

  Something was evidently afoot. Whether he was fomenting ill will, or was he was prey to some form of malice, Azhar did not know, but he sensed dire urgency in Laban’s voice. He was surely troubled, at the very least. Then again, these were uncertain times. No man could evade the dark shadows of angst and despair.

  “Very well,” Azhar gave a brisk nod.

  “Sit, General Babak, for what I am about to tell you will require your full attention,” Laban gestured at the cushions that lay around the tent.

  Azhar’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Who did this man think he was? To order Azhar Babak, a General of the Aztalaan army, in his own tent? Azhar was not a proud man, but he did not appreciate his authority abrogated, not by his own men, and much less by someone he had just met. The Arammorian certainly assumed his role with confidence and a good measure of condescension. Azhar knew he would have to establish some clear boundaries before any further ventures were discussed. He sat down across from Laban, keeping a meticulous eye on him.

  “Did you procure the items we requested?” Laban asked Azhar, as Ussam joined them.

  “If I did not?” Azhar challenged.

  Laban raised a dubious eyebrow. “I was under the impression that everything was ready?” He glanced from Ussam to Azhar with uncertainty.

  “I was very definitive in my letter, General Babak,” Ussam stated. “Did you not heed my instructions and warnings?”

  “Heed your instructions?” Azhar’s temper attained a delicate edge. “General Bashiri, we are at war. You are in my camp, so allow me to emphasize that I do not take instructions from persons unknown,” he glanced at Laban, “much less from those who fail to recognize my stature.”

  A stony silence followed and lingered, while the two generals exchanged cold and reserved expressions.

  “I beg your forgiveness, General Babak,” Laban was first to speak, indeed sounding genuinely apologetic, “I will be honest with you —”

  “I would very much appreciate that,” Azhar interrupted, not quite prepared to relinquish his displeasure.

  “As we have only just met,” Laban continued, a touch of impatience in his tone, “much must be discussed before trust can become mutual. I cannot, however, emphasize enough on the severity of this matter. We have to act on what we have discovered, and with haste. Therefore, much of what courtesy would dictate must be overlooked for now. You have to understand and accept that we are just as determined in ending this war. If you believe, for whatever reason, that we cannot work as one, then we will respect your decision. As such we will simply find other means to fulfill our objectives.”

  Azhar’s jaw clenched. “Is that so?” He faced Ussam. “Did you not approach me solely for the position I currently hold at the borders of Arammoria?”

  “Does it appear as such?” Ussam countered.

  “It certainly does,” Azhar tilted his head slightly, giving him a stern look. They needed him. Of that, he was certain. The question was why? Were they to just use him to their advantage and discard him thereafter? He hoped not. Not for their own sake. Not if they hoped to survive his wrath. “Who else will you send into the Dead City to raid desolate tombs? And what, if I may ask, do you hope to achieve from this venture you propose?”

  The wind howled against the canvas tent, masking the distant murmur of soldiers on guard outside, unaware of the ongoings in their General’s tent. Azhar studied Ussam with an unwavering attention, who avoided his eye, appearing impassive and unmoved.

  Laban exchanged a brief nod with his partner and said, “This war has been raging for close to a decade, and we are no closer to defeating the Dark Prince than we were when it began. He will become the destroyer of worlds if not stopped, and if you would rather continue to fruitlessly fire arrows and brandish steel at him, you are free to do so. Although we can clearly see that it is hardly making a mark.”

  Azhar gave him a long hard stare. Did he trust them? Certainly not. Should he? Perhaps. It would be foolish of him to discredit a genuine armament against the wickedness of war, without giving it due consideration. He must first assure himself that their intent was untouched by personal and ulterior motives.

  “Is it that you fear his retribution for conquering his second-most prized stronghold?” he challenged Ussam, searching for a reaction.

  “He is the Dark Prince,” Ussam remained composed, but the glint in his eye became colder with every word his spoke. “His retributions
are ever swift and ruthless. If there was a way of forestalling his wrath, would you not take it? General Azhar Babak, would you rather allow countless more souls to endure his endless persecution?”

  Ussam was questioning his intent, something Azhar would never tolerate, but he restrained himself from lashing out. Perhaps it was time to lend them an ear at the very least.

  “We did indeed procure the items you requested,” he said. “They are as you described.” He noted the look of relief on their faces and continued, “I am curious, however. Why did you specifically ask me to send a man who is hardly a soldier? He is a simpleton. A blacksmith!”

  “Alas, General,” Laban replied. “There is more to this blacksmith than meets the eye. We have burned the bones, and the wisps of smoke whispered to us. The man you have in your service is the son of a sorcerer.”

  Azhar was unable to hide his bewilderment. The son of a sorcerer serving in his ranks? He struggled against the impulse to leave the tent and confront Harun Zafar.

  Laban, it seemed, was rather surprised at his reaction. “Ah…” he let on softly, “...you did not know?”

  Azhar felt the color drain from his face. It was enough to know that his fellow General employed a sorcerer, but to have one in his own ranks without his knowledge... This was utterly unacceptable. “It does not matter,” he tried to counter. “Harun is no more sorcerer than I.”

  “It does matter,” Ussam said to him. “Think, General Babak.”

  Silence endured, during which Azhar gave the matter deep thought. He considered what this information meant, what it could do, and the devastation it may bring upon those he would have to involve. He did not wish to admit, but it did indeed matter that Harun’s father was a man embroiled in the dark arts. Azhar had always known Harun to be a devout man, faithful to his wife and son. Soon he would have a second child. Did Harun know of his father’s ties to the occult? Was there a life secret to him, a life he did not wish the world to know? And if not, was it fair to drag him into the midst of all this? Would it be fair to intentionally lead him upon a path of destruction?