The walls around them were almost as high as the sky, and the citadel overlooking the training enclosure, even higher. Every day it loomed its formidable shadow over them, that when the sun crossed its apex, it was no longer visible, creating the illusion of night coming sooner than anticipated.
He could not see the gates of the fortress, but deduced its location to the east by following the neighing of horses and bleating of camels. Stables were always built closer to the exits and away from the citadel. It kept the stench and noise away from its occupants. He placed the kitchens to the north of the courtyard by sniffing the air. The aroma of food touched his nostrils thrice a day even if the taste did not.
When his mind did not fixate on the dread of the whips and canes, or the daunting thoughts of facing the gallows, his thoughts wandered. Ghuldad, the atrocious alcazar of high walls and fearsome warriors. He remembered the slavers who chased him in the Souk, Haim, and his brother Gussar. Were they the masters of this great stone structure? Or were they merely cogs that turned a greater wheel? The thought that there were people far more gruesome and powerful than the slavers who captured him, only made him feel forsaken and doomed.
He saw much. Shackled men and women toiled like slaves and servants, most of them covered in filthy rags that barely concealed their shame. Overseers whipped and pushed them to the cusp of their endurance. He saw men who marched like soldiers and others who slunk like assassins, all dressed in short white robes, clad in armor and weapons of the finest steel.
There were those who walked by and snarled at him, spat on him, called him names that were not his own. There were those who whipped him, caned him, and threw rocks at him just for the sport of it. And then, there were those who pitied him.
Her name was Nuzhah, and he associated her with a fragrance of lavender and Oudh, and a pair of almond-shaped eyes that gleamed a light shade of brown whenever the moon waned. Aside from these alluring, intoxicating eyes, her face remained concealed behind a dark veil, always baiting his curiosity. She spoke very little, but tended to his wounds and brought him food whenever she could spare some. He was thankful of her presence. It kept him sane. It kept him alive. Deep within him, her kindness kindled hope and kept his spirit from shattering.
Time passed and the days became almost innumerable. His beard grew into an untethered bush, his hair even longer. His body reshaped itself, grew leaner and muscular. Scorched by the sun, his skin became darker, and every lash of his masters’ whips made it thicker and tougher. He became a man who was stronger than he realized, and his freedom would come soon. He could sense it. However, the wheel needed turning and so he turned. He pressed hard on the wooden handle, dug his feet into the blistering dry sands, every scorch, every splinter reminiscing a life, long lost.
He heard conversations, arguments and discussions, some hushed, others open and loud.
“...the fresh batch will cultivate the fields...”
“...the fields need less cultivation...”
“...and what will he feed his soldiers?”
“What does it matter? So long as they are armed!”
“It will matter not if they haven’t the strength to bear arms.”
“There will be no arms to bear if there remains none to work the forges!”
They needed more men to work the forges. More men like him? More slaves to push the wheels and feed the fires? More men to beat metal into shape?
There were even stranger conversations that took place within close proximity.
“They arrived fewer than anticipated.”
“It must have been a hard battle.”
“No battle is ever simple, Shahzad. That is why they call it a battle!”
“Were I to be schooled by the likes of you, Ghasif!”
The one called Ghasif chuckled. It was a sarcastic laugh. Mukhtar was not too far beyond insanity to perceive it, and could not help but grin. Anything that brought Shahzad displeasure was comforting for him, no matter how small.
Shahzad did not seem insulted.
“Have you ever known anything harsher than a whip, Shahzad?” Ghasif pressed on. He was taller than Shahzad by a few inches, thick bushy eyebrows and a beard that touched his chest brace. “Have you ever known a foe greater than a slave in chains who couldn’t even fight back?”
Shahzad’s nostrils flared. “Were you to meet me on the battlefield, you would know no greater foe, Ghasif!”
They glared at each other for a moment and burst into laughter. “Did you hear the news?” Shahzad asked when the laughter died.
“There is little I have heard while on my mission. What has transpired since?” Ghasif asked.
“The Master has summoned his sorcerers to the citadel,” Shahzad sounded excited, as though he longed to speak of it. “They will be here in two days. Their emissaries have already arrived. There hasn’t been a gathering of such in decades.”
Ghasif’s eyes narrowed and his voice became stony. “No... there hasn’t.”
“You should prepare yourself,” Shahzad continued. “The Captains will be given new orders. Soon, the trumpets of war will sound.”
“That is news indeed,” Ghasif threw Mukhtar a most indiscreet glance as he made his pass. “Does the Master seek a truce with Arammoria then?” he asked Shahzad in an undertone.
Shahzad tensed and hissed, urging Ghasif to lower his tone. He nervously searched their vicinity for any unknown eavesdroppers.
Ghasif did not seem troubled. He knew they were alone. Aside from the slaves, that is. “Well?” he pressed.
“Such are the rumors,” Shahzad whispered. “I heard it from Kassim in the citadel. A truce with Arammoria will give us the strength to advance.”
“But you think otherwise?”
Shahzad nodded. “It bodes ill.”
“Certainly does,” Ghasif agreed.
Shahzad tilted his head slightly, eyes still darting in every direction. “I have never marched to war,” his voice was grim. “Our missions dwindle to the cries of battle and bloodshed. I must admit, I dread the prospect. It will only be a matter of time, though,” he shrugged. “At least I will be able to leave these forges. My duties are lax, I will admit to that, but the smell,” he finished with a lighter tone. “Oh, the smell is a torture!”
They laughed, but it was distorted and unsynchronized. Shahzad nearly wept with laughter, clutching his gut at the wit of what he said, whereas Ghasif only seemed to accommodate his companion’s joke. As he made another pass with the wheel, Mukhtar sensed a discomfort in Ghasif. His slightly raised, bushy eyebrows seemed to indicate a distinct dread, as though the unanticipated had happened.
“What is the meaning of this?” A more authoritative voice called.
Ghasif and Shahzad both stood still. Mukhtar tensed. He would not so easily forget it. It was the same voice that had tortured him, demanding the whereabouts of a keystone.
Two guards escorted him. The manner in which he held the hilt of his sheathed scimitar marked him as not only skilled, but also vigilant and wary with every step. That is not what intrigued Mukhtar though. It was the blank patch of skin on his right cheek where his beard refused to grow, and when Mukhtar made another round, he struggled to suppress a gasp of horror.
“General Masri.” Ghasif and Shahzad both gave synchronized military-like bows.
General? Mukhtar tried not to make eye contact. The slave became a General? A slaver himself?
“You have returned from your mission,” Masri addressed Ghasif. His tone carried an arrogance far more elevated than when he was a caged slave. How he ever came to be a General of Ghuldad was certainly beyond comprehension.
“Indeed, I have,” Ghasif replied calmly.
“Tell me, Captain Majtaba, have you all but forgotten the Creed of Ghuldad?”
Ghasif’s beard twitched. “I was born into it. Raised with it. I will never forget my true creed.”
Upon emphasis of the word ‘true’, Mukhtar made a mental note to ask him, if he ever got the
opportunity; what was the true creed of Ghuldad, if not slavery, coercion, and war?
Masri’s lips curled into a sneering grin. “A poor impression it will cast upon you and your late father, were you to dishonor our ways.”
“Indeed, it will,” Ghasif’s voice remained calm and controlled, although Mukhtar could sense the restraint.
“Why then would you keep the Master waiting after your mission?” Masri asked. “And is it not forbidden to engage in meaningless conversations within the fortress walls?”
Ghasif’s beard twitched again. As Mukhtar made another pass, he noted a glint in the Captain’s eye, a fiery glare. He wished nothing but to spring forth and tear the General to pieces.
“Indeed, it is forbidden,” Ghasif gave another short bow. “Forgive us, General. It will not happen again.”
“No. It will not,” Masri gave a satisfied smirk. “If it does, you will be stripped of your rank. Understood?”
Ghasif’s jaw was set. Wordlessly, he hastened away, and Mukhtar continued to push the wheel.
The Sorcerers had been summoned? The Captains were ordered and the Legions armed? Mukhtar had heard talk of war before. Mere rumors and conversations exchanged between idle men who discussed politics over stale hashish and acrid coffee. However, this was information that instilled fear in him. He cared less that these people were on a path of destruction. He cared less that his own freedom was forfeit. He cared more for those who would fall victim. Whom did Ghuldad intend to wage war against? The brutish hordes of Rhudah? The barbaric tribes of Rhunga? Or the peaceful lands of Aghara? Or, and he thought this with an even deeper fear, the Empire of Ahul-Hama. The cities of Aztalaan and Din-Galad. The very doorsteps of Khalidah. Did Immorkaan know of this advancing army? Were they prepared to face what was coming?
A truce with Arammoria? Mukhtar had heard the tales of the Great War. The dread and anxiety they were told with. It seemed that such dread was imminent in the two-decade, hard-earned peace after the war. For the moment, he could think of little else but to come free of his irons and escape this incarceration. The safety of his kin depended on it.
He curled up in his usual spot by the massive neck of the wheel, shuddered under his sisal shroud, and stared into the inky black sky. The air was heavy with the scent of rain, and a distant rumbling foretold of an approaching storm. He hadn’t yet spent a single day or night under a deluge and wondered how he would survive it. Would he and the other slaves be given shelter, or would they have to cower under their sisal shrouds and desperately try to keep warm and dry? Dymek grunted and mumbled in his sleep while his limbs twitched. He was exhausted and weary beyond either of them. Death was close for him, Mukhtar could sense it, and the thought filled him with grief. It was only a matter of time. He would fall at the wheel or be dragged away to the gallows, for a man no longer able to work the forges was a man rendered useless. And those rendered useless, faced the gallows.
Far across the fields were pockets of light. Fires lit to keep the night guard warm. He glanced at the parapets above. Archers patrolled the top of the walls in every direction. Would he even be able to muster the strength to climb the walls? Or risk death and find a way through the main gates? Mere ten feet away from the wheel and the archers will reign down their arrows on him. He gave a small snort, a tiny chuckle to his own silly thoughts and distant ambitions. He tugged at the shackles on his wrists and ankles, and laughed a little louder. He could not even undo the iron binding him to the wheel. How could he ever fathom crossing the courtyard, the guards, and the gates to freedom? He laughed even louder, but only as loud as he alone could hear. He had not laughed for a long time. Even though his own voice frightened him, he continued to laugh. Then he heard footsteps and fell silent.
Fear gripped him. He was discovered. He should not have disturbed the silent night. Now the whip would be unleashed. He would be punished. Worse, he would be unchained and taken to a more treacherous task. One he would not have the strength to complete, which would only see him to the gallows and hanged until he found death, because those who were rendered useless, were taken to the gallows. His teeth trembled as the footsteps grew closer. He brought his fists to his mouth to keep from crying out. Tears filled his eyes and he began to weep.
‘Why does it cry?’ A voice hissed in the dark. The footsteps grew louder. The sounds of anklets jingled. ‘Is it fear? Why is it afraid?’
It was the same voice. The same sound of fabric rustling the ground, scraping the inner walls of his deepest thoughts.
‘Cold be your heart, cold be your bones, and foolish be your thoughts. Did I not offer you asylum? Did I not offer you freedom?’
“This is the evil of the Shaytaan,” he murmured feverishly under his breath. “This is his vile manipulation, his deliverance of wickedness. I believe in the power of the One true God. Save me from this endless torture, O’ mighty Creator of the worlds, with whom lies the benefaction of life and the sovereignty of death.”
‘Pray, oh pray,’ she mocked. ‘You are nothing but an inferior spawn of a creation of mud and clay! You have no divinity! You have no power!’
“All power belongs to Him,” Mukhtar continued to mutter relentlessly. “He is the Lord of all creation. He who parted the Heavens and the earth. He who created the light, the fire, and the clay.”
“Your thoughts are puny, your efforts futile,” the Jinn cackled mirthlessly. “There is no other power here, save that which trickles from the essences of the ultimate evildoer.”
“Go away!” he whimpered.
The Jinn laughed even louder. ‘Go away?’ it shrieked hysterically. ‘And leave you here to rot in your own filth? There must be a greater purpose to your existence than that. Pray... Pray... Pray. Who will save you now? The Hand of Azazil awakens with vengeance on mankind. Arisen will he, arisen with scars. He will wage his war and become the destroyer of worlds. Who will save you then, Mukhtar?’
‘...Mukhtar...’
‘...Mukhtar?’
“Mukhtar?”
“Mukhtar!”
Someone shook him. He struggled, swinging his arms in fury to fend off an unknown attacker, or so he thought.
“Mukhtar! Cease your struggle—!” A scruffy voice and strong arms tried to restrain him.
“I will not yield!” he yelled. “Unhand me! I will not face the gallows—” the rest of his statement was muffled. A heavy hand had clamped his mouth shut. His shackles clanged, his chains jingled. Eventually, he was subdued and forced to gaze into a pair of brown, almond-shaped eyes belonging to a face hidden behind a dark veil and a lingering scent of lavender and Oudh.
“Calm yourself,” Nuzhah ushered him quietly.
“You said this would be simple!” The scruffy voice spoke to his left. “He will have alerted all the guards by now! Why are we even wasting our efforts on this slave? He knows nothing!”
“Do you know enough to judge?” Nuzhah remarked angrily. “Do as you have been instructed!”
“I do not take orders from servants!” Came a rude response.
“Restrain yourself, Rauf!” Another voice said. A rather familiar voice.
By now, Mukhtar had gained better focus. He recognized Ghasif, who held him firmly by his right shoulder, and another man who could only be Rauf. Rauf had one hand clasped over Mukhtar’s mouth and another that pinned his left shoulder to the ground.
“Unhand me!” Mukhtar tried to yell over Rauf’s hand.
“Calm yourself, Mukhtar,” Nuzhah told him again. “We will remove your shackles!”
Remove his shackles? Was this the rescue he longed for? Was this the freedom he yearned? It was instantaneous. He let go his skirmish and they released him. Ghasif helped him up while Rauf struggled with the shackles. Mukhtar searched the gloom nervously.
“Where is the other?” he asked, unable to keep the quiver from his voice. He realized he was trembling uncontrollably, the sisal rags covering his body were drenched in sweat and the perspiration clung to his skin with an unforgivab
le chill.
Through the darkness, Ghasif gave him a quizzical look, “There is no one else. The guards have been sedated.”
“Sedated?” Mukhtar gasped. “No! Not sedated! Not them! Where is... She?”
“Whom do you speak of, Mukhtar?” Nuzhah gazed at him. “There is no one else here.”
Rauf undid the chain that bound him to the wheel, but was unable to break his braces. Even without the chains, Mukhtar was grateful. He rubbed the skin beneath the iron on his wrists, ankles, and neck, and winced. They hurt with soreness, but a soreness he adored more than anything in that moment. He was rid of the chains.
“This is Captain Ghasif Majtaba and his Lieutenant, Rauf Ibn Anbar. They are...” Nuzhah made an unnecessary introduction, but Mukhtar allowed her to speak. Her voice provided a distraction. A moment for him to consider other matters. The Jinn had come to him, once before and again tonight. His eyes continued to search the shadows, but aside from the four of them, there was no one else about.
“...are you listening?” Nuzhah demanded. He nodded inattentively. “They will take you to Aztalaan...,” she continued speaking. Her voice became muffled by his thoughts, wandering and searching for the unknown, the unseen.
Its existence was inexplicable. Undeniable. He believed it to be a fragment of his imagination, but now it was absolute. It filled him with fear. It would come to haunt him again.
SEVEN
THE RETURN TO KHALIDAH
They had brought clothes. A ragged shirt, worn trousers, tattered sandals and a faded cloak. While he wore them, Ghasif conversed with Nuzhah in aggressive whispers, and Rauf clucked impatiently nearby, which Mukhtar found to be very irritable.
Rauf’s long hair touched his shoulders and partially concealed his pockmarked, unshaven face. He was clad, just as Ghasif, in short white robes and leather armor. A bow and quiver of arrows were strapped to his back, along with a pair of daggers around his waist. The Lieutenant was an archer. An archer with keen eyes, penetrating the dark in every direction. “We must hurry!” he hissed at Ghasif.
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