After what felt like hours, they arrived at a much cleaner area of the Souk, one that was not riddled with the mingled stenches of fruit and vegetables among other noxious bouquets, but filled with the sweet scents of Oudh and incense. It was known only as the Incense Lane.
The shops primarily traded in perfumes, scented oils, frankincense, Bakhoor, Ambergris, Sandalwood, and Oudh, all imported from distant lands. There were also shops that traded hukah equipment, refills, vials, and components.
“The hour is late,” Suha said as they strolled along the aisles.
“I am glad you noticed,” Mukhtar grunted sarcastically, hauling several small sacks of goods, wondering at this point how they would survive, for Suha still did not know that her son was without work. “My limbs are screaming of exhaustion.”
“There is a Musalla up ahead. We should pray before we leave,” she led the way forward.
“Can we not just head home?” Mukhtar pleaded. “I am riddled with the filth of the Souk, and do not wish to offer prayers in such an impure state.”
“One should learn the art of making excuses from you, Mukhtar!” Suha replied over her shoulder. “I wish you would offer your prayers with a devout heart. Perhaps then you would find peace.”
Mukhtar wrinkled his nose and followed her down the narrow aisle to a relatively small, stone enclosure, where men offered their prayers. A walled room next to it was set for women, and there was running water behind the enclosure for devotees to wash and make ablution.
“What of all our belongings?” Mukhtar asked in what only sounded like another feeble excuse. “It is not safe to leave them out here.”
“Everything in your hands has been provided by your Creator,” Suha responded. “No one will steal it if He protects it. Take everything inside with you.”
She removed her slippers and entered the small room while Mukhtar pretended to do the same, but as soon as she disappeared, he remained behind instead and sat down against the low wall.
For reasons he could not quite justify, even to himself, he did not really see the need to enter the Musalla. He did not even realize how ill-advised his own thoughts were.
How his fate would have changed had he followed his mother’s advice.
The overwhelming scents and fumes from the perfume shops, riled by the stifling heat, were beginning to have an influence over him. He felt drowsy, and had to shake himself awake several times. The Souk was not the right place to fall asleep unless he wished to be robbed blindly. He drew the sacks of goods closer and looked around, trying to find something that would keep drowsiness at bay.
He watched the people walk by, chattering away excitedly, laden with all manner of wares, many displaying gleeful expressions to advocate their recent requisitions. Khalidans truly were exceptional folk, always pretending to be concerned only with minding their own business, but ever prepared to scrutinize the misdemeanors of others. In Mukhtar’s case— sitting in the dirt against the wall of a holy place was not something that was socially acceptable. Even a toothless old beggar, across the aisle, cast him repulsive looks.
Uncomfortable under the man’s gaze, Mukhtar stood, leaned against the low wall instead, and ignored him. A few moments later, another beggar approached and rattled an old wooden bowl under his nose. The stench was unbearable; a mixture of bad eggs and rotting fish, and Mukhtar recoiled, wrinkling his nose as he waved her away.
That is when something utterly disturbing caught his eye, and he glanced at the beggar’s legs in fright. Bloody and bruised skin was horribly stretched and mangled over protruding bones that made it look like they were twisted from the knee, so far back, that her feet pointed backward. Beneath the layers and mounds of dirt and mud, behind curtains of long and filthy, matted hair, she looked horribly familiar. Someone dreadful. Someone terrifying.
Was it a trick of the eye? Was it the heat inside the Souk?
The world spun around him. A sudden sharp and burning sensation hit the pit of his stomach, as if he had been stabbed with a hot iron rod. He doubled over in immense pain, searing through his entire body, stifling his very nerves, such that the resultant scream that left his open mouth, was no more than a strangled and muted cry of agony. His eyes were forcibly shut and his face contorted in agony.
For a brief moment, he had all but forgotten where he was, whether he was sitting, standing, lying down, or for that matter, even flying in the air. There were people shouting. There were people screaming. Were they screaming for him, or at something else? Robbed of all energy, unable to keep his eyes open, he fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.
And lay there.
Unknown to Mukhtar, roughly about an hour before, Haim Tuma and his brother, Gussar, entered the derelict hut of an infamous witch, somewhere on the eastern outskirts of the city. She had served his needs before with rather uncanny results.
The witch sat on a worn sisal mat, heavy shawls drawn over her gaunt and hunched body, her skin riddled with leprosy, her eyes yellowing with gray, watery pupils. “Coin the pot, before we begin,” she spoke in a shrilly, crackling, high-pitched voice that made the fine hairs on the back of Haim’s neck to rise in fright.
He nudged his brother to comply. Gussar gave him a flinty look. He nervously tugged at the collar of his armor, struggling to breathe in the filthy, decaying, revolting and stifling stench of the tiny, windowless room riddled with pots of acrid incense and eerily glowing orbs. He removed a few copper coins and threw them into the pot.
“I am in need of your services,” Haim said. “My slaves have escaped.” He threw a blood-stained, filthy piece of cloth onto the mat before her. “That must belong to one of them.”
The witch grinned under her cowl, exposing gaps in her decaying teeth. After a long while of muttering feverish incantations and falling into several trances, she said, “cannot find the slaves... A sorcerer conceals them...”
“I told you!” Gussar snarled at his brother. “We should never have captured him!”
“It was not sorcery!” Haim retorted. “The lock was broken!” He turned back to the witch. “Someone must have helped them escape!”
The witch glanced at the coin-pot, making her intentions clear. With a grumpy snort, Haim tossed a few more copper coins into the pot.
The witch’s grin widened. More devilish mutterings. Chantings. Supplications to evil beings.
“Follow the girl...”
“What girl?”
Heavy beads, amulets, bracelets of bone, and other grotesque artifacts, jingled as the witch raised a gnarled finger and pointed to the entrance of the room. The brothers turned slowly and deliberately. Haim suppressed a shudder. Gussar nearly shrieked with fright. She bore a horrific resemblance to one of the slaves. But she could not be. She was not even human.
The Jinn’s feet were horribly twisted around its ankles and to add to its eccentricity, it turned its head almost entirely without so much as a twitch of its shoulders. Eyeing its mistress and the human slavers, it twisted its lips and curled them into a most devilish grin, nudging the slavers to follow.
FIVE
THE UNSEEN
Mukhtar raised his head an inch off the dirt. It throbbed with unimaginable pain. The beggar had vanished, and Incense Lane had erupted in chaos and disarray, as four, perhaps five men, pushed through the crowd with murderous intent.
“There he is!” One of them screeched, pointing directly at him. “Seize him!”
There was no mistaking the large battle-axe, heavy build and the scar on his face— it was Gussar, the large slave trader. On his heel was his brother, Haim.
Instinct, pure instinct took over Mukhtar. His mind became blank for a brief moment and then sprung back, alive and awake.
Without any further thought, he scrambled to his feet and tore into the crowd, ignoring all the cries, shouts, and insults that followed. Forcefully, he shoved through to make way for himself, fear gripping him like an iron clamp, twisting his insides.
“Seize that whelp!”
A yell followed him from behind.
A man in a faded gray thaub, perhaps thought him a petty thief, attempted to bar his path, but Mukhtar was prepared and feinted left, then right, then left again, twisted and slipped through his narrow grasp.
“Hold him! Hold him!” Someone else screamed.
A city guard appeared before him, spear at the ready. Mukhtar attempted to jump over a stack of barrels on the side, but his foot slipped and caught the edge of a barrel. He fumbled his arms clumsily in midair and crashed into a fruit stall. Covered in crushed oranges and banana paste, he slipped and slid as he tried to get up, hastily glancing about to find his bearings. In wake of the wreckage, stall owners and shoppers broke into a brawl, and the city guard was overcome with the chaos. Further behind him, the agitated crowd slowed his pursuers. Seeing that his window of escape was still open, Mukhtar took the opportunity and continued to pursue the exit.
“I will kill you!” Another scream came from behind.
A crossbow-bolt whirled past his right ear, briefly disorienting him. It struck a wooden pole, and Mukhtar’s eyes widened with horror as he passed the rod lodged into the thick cedar. Drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, his heart beat in a frenzy inside his chest, lungs burned, and legs screamed for mercy. He exerted all his efforts into squeezing through the crowds and maneuvering past obstacles. Adrenaline and fear were flooding through him, but that was all he needed to keep moving forward.
Frightened by the advancing pursuers, the screaming crowds thinned to give them way, and the gap between them and Mukhtar shrunk with every passing moment. His only escape was to lose them in the streets. Another bolt was fired, made its mark and pierced his right shoulder. The force of it threw him several feet forward, and with an agonizing scream, he crumbled to the ground before a fish-stall, as a scarlet stain spread over his thaub and the wound bled out.
Is this it? Is this my end? He thought wildly. No! I will not die this way. Not in this manner! Not in the filth and dirt of the Souk. No! On your feet, Mukhtar! Freedom is not a luxury. You must fight for it!
Swearing in pain, he pushed himself up and glanced back, ducking almost immediately to evade a third crossbow-bolt that brushed his hair as it whizzed over his head, and struck a blue-robed man in his thigh. The man let out a startling howl and collapsed to the ground, while the crowd dispersed in utter disarray, shrieking and yelling. The chaotic Souk became far more aggravated than it ever was, as everyone now charged for the exits, not at all wanting to be the next crossbow victim. This made Mukhtar’s task even more difficult, trying to push his way through with an injured shoulder, the crowd failing to realize that he was the target, not them.
A large man with a thick mustache, unknowingly barred his path, carrying an immensely large basket of vegetables, and Mukhtar blindly ran into him. They both tumbled to the ground in a messy heap of produce. Infuriated, the man groped for him, clutching his injured shoulder. Mukhtar screamed in agony, squirming to escape his grasp. Slippery with blood, Mukhtar’s shoulder wriggled free and he scrambled to his feet once more, slightly disoriented but determined to pursue the exit.
Almost at the gates of the Souk, he caught a brief glimpse of daylight and nearly tasted fresh air, when he felt a dull heavy blow to the back of his head, and as the world spun out from under his feet, a mangy sack descended over his head and absorbed him into a dark void.
A starry night. A bright morning. A cloudy afternoon followed by a stormy night. Iron bars. Neighing horses and bleating camels. It took two days for him to fully regain consciousness. With him were six others, cramped into a caged cart, perhaps the very same cart that once stood in an alley not so long ago. The journey was bumpy, rugged, and rough, along the stony and treacherous Sultan’s Pass. Neither had a clue to their destination, only that they were headed north as they deduced from the slithering shadows of the horses, camels, and carts upon the craggy ground. From tropical lands, over rocky terrains, through scorching deserts and dry climates, seven days into their journey, no one dared speak a single word. They were whipped mercilessly if they uttered even a bare whisper.
Their escorts were ruthless mercenaries on horseback, armed to the teeth with powerful steel and thick armor. When they arrived at the Red-City of Aztalaan, it was nightfall, and their caravan passed through unchecked and unhindered. Sacks of coin exchanged hands under the shadows, as corrupt Red-Guards were bribed to allow them passage through the Walls of Murfaqat, and after six more days under the scorching sun, they arrived at a formidable, ancient fortress. The Assassin Fortress of Ghuldad.
They were dragged out and forced to wear black sacks over their heads. Like he, those who struggled and resisted, were met with heavy blows to the back of their heads. There was no further struggle. Only an endless and dreamless sleep.
When next he woke, it was in complete darkness. The skin on one-half of his body touched cold stone, and blinking did little to acknowledge his environs, leaving him utterly incapable of instrumenting neither form nor the extent of his surroundings. In a frightful flash, he was gripped by the most incongruous thought of being buried alive. He shrieked, swung out his good arm, and touched nothing but the air around him, while his shrill eerily ricocheted off a wall not so far off. Not entombed then; isn’t that a relief? Or was that merely an illusion? Suddenly he remembered, he did not know what it was like to be buried, and fear and panic flooded into him with a pungent broil.
He ran a shivery hand over his sore, throbbing head to discover a swollen and tangled bit at the back, where the skin had been split by a heavy impact upon an already existing wound. The cut had not been treated and was swollen so badly, it felt to him like a second head was growing right where his hair had revoltingly matted with dried blood.
A soft and airy sensation around certain secretive parts of his body told him, with a nasty pang, that he was unclothed, and he frantically ran his hands down his body, relieved to find every bit of him unimpaired. His hand remained at his midsection, hiding his shame from no one in particular. Or were there eyes in the darkness that he could not see? He remained still and held his breath, listening for any concealed company.
It was long before he tried to get off the floor, but his shoulder capitulated excruciatingly, and he fell back down as the image of a crossbow-bolt flashed his mind. He ran a sensitive finger over the wound, which stung at his touch. The bolt had been removed three days into their journey as captives, but the wound was left untreated. A trace of dried blood clung to his skin down his arm, shoulder and back, as well as his chest.
With a sickening howl, he made another attempt at rising, this time succeeding and stumbling forward. He dragged his feet and reached out with his left hand (while his right safeguarded his manhood). His fingers touched cold stone and followed it through two corners, coming to a halt where the stone vanished into a gap of wood and metal that felt like a door. He covered the distance in a few short steps, and the sudden visualization of the room being far smaller than he had anticipated, made him feel claustrophobic and petrified that he was now compactly congested along with all his thoughts and fears. Knowing that crying out for help would avail for nothing, he succumbed to his inner fears and collapsed by the door, pathetically breaking down into a session of tears.
Curled up like a fetus, he faced the door where a fluttering breeze is all that escaped from the gap below it, a scent of freedom behind the mass of wood and metal. How long he cried, he did not know. The sound of his own voice startled him, croaky and parched.
The urge to urinate overcame him, and was enough to venture the darkness to find the closest corner to relieve himself. Here, he shuddered with inconceivable shame and humiliation. A tremulous thought in his subconscious continued to tell him that all this was a dream, nothing but an apocryphal conception; but there was nothing imaginary about this room if the walls felt apparent enough to his touch. There was only the overpowering, gloomy blackness, and the indefinite silence reverberating his introspections in a manner that inst
illed terror in the deepest trenches of his consciousness.
Back at the spot by the door, he shut his eyes in an attempt to sleep off his misery, eventually dissolving into a disturbing slumber of horrible nightmares. When he woke, his sense of smell directed him back to the grotesque corner where he relieved himself again, wondering at this point, how he would replenish his body, if at all his captives would feed him.
Just then, the door unbolted with a thunderous clap, and burst open, making him shrivel in fear and panic. An orange glow covered his shoulders, but before he had time to turn, two pairs of strong rough hands picked him right off the ground. He wriggled his legs like a fish, while a filthy sack descended over his head, filling his nostrils with the stench of rot and decay. He was slammed into a chair, limbs bound firmly against the wood, and without any admonition, several lashes of a whip crackled in the air and seared through the skin on his torso, branding him for a sin he once believed to be an act of nobility.
He screamed, praying beyond his own belief, to be relieved, that they would stop and it would end; but it did not, and when he could no longer think, no longer feel anything, he dissolved into darkness.
Is this it? Is this my death?
Cold water splashed on him, and his body screamed in agony as he woke. Not dead. Not yet? His breath shortened with anxiety, eyes darted in every direction, trying to make out the moving figures beyond the intricate mesh of the filthy sack, while pleas for mercy escaped his lips impetuously until a deep, calm voice silenced him with dread. “We are honored to have you among us.”
The Amulets of Sihr Page 7