The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  Several derisive laughs and cackles followed the statement. There were others in the room, how many others, he did not know. The voice that spoke sounded horribly familiar, but dare he trace it to its origin? Dare he question and face its owner?

  Cold water clung to his skin, making him tremble silently, but little did he believe it to be the cause of his shivers. It was fear. A dark, unnerving contemplation of what was yet to come.

  Then he felt it.

  A piercing pain, newly inflicted upon his chest. He screamed in agony as a sharp blade cut slowly through the skin on his right breast, and warm blood trickled down his torso.

  “No! I beg you! God, I beg you!” He writhed against his holds.

  Another cut. Another scream of pain.

  “There is a culture, somewhere far beyond the Barren Plains of the Uzad Peninsula—” the man spoke slowly and deliberately, his voice filled with awe and excitement.

  “—that has a rather... unique form of torture—”

  Another cut on his torso.

  “—They cut their victim, slowly and painfully. Deliberate—”

  Another cut, another scream.

  “—small cuts, just on the surface of the skin— an enduring process until eventually, the victim...”

  Cut. Scream.

  “...surrenders...”

  Cut. Scream.

  “...all!”

  He paused. Mukhtar whimpered, dreadfully anticipating more.

  The man spoke softly now. “It ends when you want it to end. So, tell me… where have you hidden the Keystone?”

  Mukhtar shuddered and trembled under the pain, struggling, recoiling, and writhing like a trapped animal. “I do not know what you speak of,” he whined helplessly. “Please, let me go!”

  “Do you take me for a fool?”

  Another cut. This time on his leg, forcing him to thrash uncontrollably and instinctively under the pain. The struggle only engendered immense torment, as the man’s hand slipped and drove the blade deeper than his intent.

  Mukhtar wriggled and wrestled against his holds, as the suffering attained unfathomable heights. His eyes shut, and the last remaining sounds of agony escaped his trembling lips in a grappling groan.

  Darkness beyond darkness. A void he could not dream of escaping. What did it feel like, to lose hope, to give up and accept your end? Is this how he would depart from this world, lying naked on the floor, cold, bleeding and hurting? His own dignity abandoned him, and he relieved himself where he lay, unable to move a single muscle in his body, weak, hungry, broken, and bent. How long had it been since he smelt fresh air, ate food, or drank water?

  Soon after, they fed him. Moldy bread and stale water, food fit for rodents and maggots, given to him once a day through the dark gap beneath the door. Aside from this small act of mercy, he was deprived of any human contact. The ramification of it, was that he began to have random conversations with himself in an attempt to keep insanity at bay. Little did he realize, by doing so, insanity was slowly becoming an inevitability. The days passed on in this manner, and he slowly lost all sense of himself. He could not tell when the day ended and night begun. He slept when sleep came. When he woke, the darkness was no different than when his eyes were shut. How long he was there, he did not know.

  “How long your stay, matters not if it ends with your death,” a voice whispered in his ear. A female voice he had never heard before. It was cool, melodious, yet eerie and had an unidentifiable accent.

  “Wh— who’s there?” he whimpered.

  There was no response. Only a deafening moment of silence, punctured by a vicious sound. Hissing and spitting, constricted and irregular, halting at spontaneous intervals, until he realized with horror, what he was hearing.

  It was laughter.

  He lifted his head an inch off the ground, searching the gloom for its source, but could determine nothing. Terrified, he began to pant heavily, and scrambled up against the cold wall, drawing his knees closer to his chest. The laughter grew louder and louder until it had completely engulfed him, and he pressed his palms over his ears to shut it out, but it did not subside.

  The laughter suddenly ceased and he whimpered. Something slithered across the room with the dry noise of cloth scraping against the ground.

  “Do you not recognize me, Mukhtar?” The voice grew closer and closer. “It was you who freed me... from my cage... from the prison I was bound to...”

  The sounds of tiny bells, like those of anklets, jingled and echoed across the walls, and the edge of something silky soft brushed his foot, touching the raw flesh of his inflicted wounds, and he remembered the horror he had seen in the Souk.

  He had seen the slave-girl. How could this be? Had she betrayed him after he had risked all to liberate her? That was impossible. No. It had to be a trick, an apparition of some sort. This was sorcery.

  “You c—cannot b—b—be her—” he slithered back against the wall, “not p—possible. This is all in m—m—my head—”

  “I am in your head! In your heart, your flesh, and your bones. I have never left you, never will. I can cure your suffering, or worsen it!”

  Mukhtar pressed his hands firmly on his ears and muttered feverishly under his breath. “The cripple— the beggar— the slave—”

  “Abandon this turmoil, and join me, Mukhtar,” the voice was as clear as though it came from inside his head. “Together we will pierce the very veil of heaven itself— or hell; whichever you desire.”

  “Get away from me!” he shrieked.

  The laughter rang in his ears, burying him in fear. Sweat dripped down his forehead and chest, leaving his skin colder than it already was. Amidst the overwhelming emotions and agitations, it was a while before he realized what the unseen presence was.

  “Bones, bones, cold bones,” it sang. “Soon you will meet your maker. Soon you will die!”

  “You are a Jinn!”

  “That I am, my love, my sweet...that I am...”

  “Kill me then! Be done with it!”

  “To kill... now that would be tempting, it would. But senseless,” it hissed. “There is yet a purpose to your being. Your father’s debt must be paid, son of Zafar!”

  “I owe you nothing!”

  “That is but an illusion you have projected to sway me away from you, but sway I will never. Choose it or not, we are bound and burdened by divine purpose!”

  “Go away!” he screamed.

  “Stubborn, stubborn creature!” she clucked her tongue. “There is none here to impress! Your life here will pass unseen. Have a little pride and end it on your own terms, or accept mine and live to see tomorrow.”

  “Your terms are lies!”

  “You would not know the truth, if it seduced you!” her tone was becoming melodramatic as she continued to toy with him.

  Mukhtar began to pray, but it seemed to have no effect. He raised his voice louder and louder, and yet she remained.

  “You are forsaken, son of Zafar!” she cackled. “Abandoned by your fathers, and forced to bear their sins. The hunt will never cease until you relinquish what your captors desire. They are men without moral or virtue, for they are servants of Azazil, practitioners of evil. Theirs is sin, and in it shall they abide. Do you truly believe that he who is reading the stars and worshiping the devil, cares if you live a traitor or die a martyr?”

  “I am no traitor,” Mukhtar mumbled between a continuous ramble of supplications.

  “Denial!” she shrieked. “You think we have just met? I have been with you all your life, the little whispers in your veins, numbing and keeping you within the confines of your own little prison. I have been the nightmares that wake you in the night, reminding you of your own wretchedness!”

  “I refuse to believe you!”

  An angry hiss.

  “If you knew what to believe, you would not be here. Faith has always been the greatest weakness of your kind. Blind faith and the illusion of hope. Part of you still has hope, and that hope makes you be
lieve that the door will open and you will walk out of here with your sanity intact. It is that part you must kill if you want to survive. Prostrate before me, Son of Adam, and live. Or die in here, and rot.”

  The laughter came again, the air grew colder and thinner, and he shivered uncontrollably.

  Faith. Hope. He thought desperately. Was there hope? Our greatest weakness and also our greatest strength. Remember, remember, He who created you from a clot of blood, and the Jinn from a smokeless fire. Faith. Pray with your heart, Mukhtar. Pray to Him.

  It became evident to him. He sobbed and prayed. With all his heart, he recited, “I seek refuge in The Almighty from the Shaytaan, the accursed one. Say, I seek refuge in The Lord of the dawn. From the evil of what He has created. And from the evil of the darkening night when it settles. And from the evil of mortal witchcraft. And from the evil of the envier when he envieth.”

  The laughter turned into a shriek that rose to an unnatural decibel, rattling the room in fading reverberations, until it became indistinguishable from the ringing inside his own head. He ran out of breath just as the door burst open, and light poured through. His eyes shut slowly, unwillingly embracing the dark abyss.

  He struggled to open them, but felt that his eyelids were made of lead, as were his arms when he tried to lift them. His senses were slowly coming around, and he realized he was lying on a soft surface. His head hurt terribly, and all he wanted to do was to lay there until it all stopped.

  A prickling sense of reality descended upon him, flashes of his memory playing piece by piece in his mind— the beggar, the armed men, the chase— he became restless— the voices, the terror, the pain— he moaned— screams; his own screams of agony. The turmoil continued while his consciousness slowly resurfaced.

  It was dark, and he gasped in horror. Had nothing changed? Was all that an illusion? He was unable to move his limbs, and for a moment, thought that he was still bound to the chair. Then his eyes slowly adjusted. A window to his left brought in the dull moonlight, and he was lying flat on what appeared to be a woolly mattress on the floor. He cried in pain as he attempted to move his head and look around.

  “Calm yourself,” a soft whisper came from somewhere in the dark.

  “Who is th —that? Where a— where am I?” His voice was croaky and dry, and his throat hurt with every sound he made. Pulses of pain were firing through his head.

  “We must bring down the fever...” the voice said again, sounding muffled and distant, “...bring the pail...”

  Mukhtar groaned. He felt very weak and feverish. More words were spoken, but he paid them no heed. The pain became unbearable. A few moments passed, and an orange glow flickered to his right where someone was lighting the wick of an oil lamp. Seasoned rough hands reached under his head and back, lifting him up into an upright position. The motion alone drained him of all energy, and he felt the world darken again.

  “Drink this. It will ease the pain,” the voice was soft and soothing, and carried with it a scent of lavender, which instantly diminished when a small clay pot, emitting a very foul smell, touched his lips. He tried to push it away, but was met with resistance. Reluctantly, he took a bitter tasting sip, causing him to vomit all over his front. He was forced to take yet another sip, and felt the medicine tear at his throat and chest. His soiled shirt was forced over his head, and his chest wiped clean with a warm damp cloth. His scars burned and seared, but he did not even have the strength to scream in pain. When he overcame his grogginess, he sat up against the wall, head hung to one side, sweating and breathing heavily.

  The room was a tiny square with a single wooden door and barred window. The walls were made of bare stone, as was the floor and ceiling. A man sat, cross-legged, on a thin cushion across from him. He wore a white thaub under leather armor, his face concealed beneath a white cowl.

  Mukhtar turned to his right, where an elderly, slightly stooped man, tore leaves and crushed them into a paste in a small bowl. He had a long gray beard, and wore a white cap over his equally long gray hair, his sunken eyes concealed by the deep shadows on his gaunt face. The light from the oil lamp brought into effect the wrinkles on his face, etched with the shadow of an aged wolf.

  Looking down at his own body, he noticed the various bandages around his leg and torso. With sensitive fingers, he traced the one around his head until he felt the swelling. It stung at his touch and he flinched at the pain.

  “Do not aggravate the wound,” the old man warned in a hoarse whisper. “If you do not heal in good time, you will be rendered useless. And those rendered useless, face the gallows.”

  Mukhtar blinked. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “I am tasked with keeping you alive, and you are. Only just. At dawn, they will come for you. Unless you give them what they seek.” The old man turned and spoke to the other by the door. Beside him was a fully robed and veiled woman, so that all Mukhtar could see of her was a set of gleaming eyes adorned with Kohl. They both gave curt nods to show that they had understood the old man’s instructions, and left.

  “Who are you?” he asked again, confused and frightened. Was this a trick? Were his captors preparing to enact some new form of torture? He remembered the blood-curdling voice that preyed upon him in the darkness. “I refuse to be haunted by your devilry!” he shrieked, and as he did, his throat burned and he coughed and spat out blood.

  The old man stroked his beard, but otherwise remained silent, as though he had not heard him. Just then, the door opened and the woman reappeared, bringing with her a strange whiff of lavender mingled with boiled potatoes, fresh bread, and spicy lentils. She placed the tray on the ground beside him, and left again. Mukhtar looked at the tray suspiciously. It is most certainly poisoned. He would not touch that. However, the savory aroma and uncomfortable pang in his stomach assured him that if he did not eat, he would eventually die of hunger.

  “The devil has sworn to haunt mankind,” the old man stated, eyeing the manner in which Mukhtar ravaged the dish of food. “Why should you be any different?” And he left, shutting the door behind him, leaving Mukhtar with hundreds of unanswered questions.

  As soon as he put down his empty vessels, he felt a surge of drowsiness. With his head and body still aching and throbbing, he lay back down, listening to a cricket chirp outside his window, and slowly descended into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  It was morning when the door burst open, startling him awake. Clad in white robes and armor, three men stepped in, barely giving him a moment to contemplate his surroundings.

  “Haul that swine to his feet!”

  SIX

  THE FORTRESS

  His hands were shackled, feet chained and an iron disk clamped around his neck. Mirthlessly, he was dragged through the dark, stone corridors and out into the brightly lit world where a blazing morning sun burned through his eyelids. His head throbbed, his leg hurt and every wound on his body screamed. He was greeted with a frenzy of shouts and screams, jeers and scorns, name-calling and insults.

  They lead him past enclosures where men were furiously engaged in training battles. Past archery ranges where arrows blurred through the air before tearing into targets of hay. Dark, loathsome eyes and loud flagrant derisions followed him with every step.

  They flung him through the air and he landed hard in the dirt. Sand filled his eyes, nostrils, and ears, bringing him even more discomfort, but his captors showed no mercy. Their intent was vile and apparent, and the realization tore through him viciously— if he did not adhere, he would cease to exist.

  Was there need to exist anymore, to live without his will? Is this what the remainder of his life promised to be? Would he ever escape it? Would he ever return home?

  The whip cracked through the air and lashed on his back. He screamed. Images tore through his mind, bringing back memories, bringing more pain. So it began.

  Every day, from that moment, Mukhtar became what he had never before dreamt of being. He was one of three others who pushed a massive wooden whe
el that turned a complexity of gears which powered a gale of cool air into an even larger forge, while a whip occasionally lashed their backs, coercing them onward. Twice a day, they were relieved with bread and water to replenish themselves, only sufficient enough to sustain their task.

  The days persisted. His mind and body were tested upon sand, rock, cedar, and iron. Two of his companions, Baqil and Khurn, were anglers from northern Hizak. The fourth, Dymek, was a basket-weaver from Suria. Far from learning their names and origins, conversations were forbidden. Even a hushed whisper was enough to earn ten lashes. As time went on, Baqil and Khurn were replaced after the burden of the wheel surpassed their will to live, and Mukhtar soon realized the bitterness of loss.

  Eventually, he became just another face, another able-bodied slave, and was only alive for as long as his limbs continued to push forward. The guard who stood watch over them was a large man, ruthless to the bone. Shahzad the Impaler, as he was known by his peers. No one knew his lineage, not even himself, and many others called him the Son of No Man.

  Theirs was not the only forge in the vast, immensely large courtyard, its boundaries vanishing into a distant blur, at least from where he sat and slept, outside in the open, chained to the wheel with nothing but a woven sisal shroud to keep away the cold. Under starry skies, he thought of home. He thought of his mother, uncle, and aunt. His friends, Adil and Saif. He wept to grief’s end, as day by day, the fleeting hope of ever seeing them again, slipped through his fingers. He prayed, in whatever state of purity he thought his prayer may be heard. He prayed for forgiveness, repenting, crying, pleading and begging to his Creator, to save him from this nightmare and return him home to his kin. Whether his prayers were heard or not, he did not know, but it was all that he had left of his consciousness that kept him human. Kept him from losing himself to insanity.

  Soon he became accustomed to his environs. On the far side of the courtyard was the large enclosure where men fought against other men, with the simple air of sport and an unwavering affinity of brotherhood.