Ghasif shortened his heated conversation with Nuzhah and returned to them as Mukhtar tied the straps of his sandals.
“What of Dymek?” Mukhtar asked him, nudging his head at the Surian also chained to the same wheel. He was snoring lightly, his limbs continuously twitching from exhaustion.
Ghasif shook his head. “We cannot take anyone else with us. The journey is perilous. Leave him be.”
Mukhtar wanted to protest, but his desire to be free prevented him from arguing with his rescuers. He threw a final pitiful glance at Dymek, silently praying for his burdens to be eased.
“How will we escape?” he asked.
“Did you not hear what the servant said?” Rauf remarked.
Mukhtar shook his head.
“Are we to hold his hand every step of the way, Captain?” Rauf complained to his superior.
“Enough, Rauf!” Ghasif ordered the Lieutenant. “We have no time to bicker amongst ourselves. Come!” He ushered them to follow.
“Try to keep up, slave!” Rauf snarled.
The more Rauf used words like servant and slave, the more Mukhtar disliked him. His jaw was clenched, but he decided against retaliation. His eyes were fixed on Nuzhah. She had not taken a step forward. Her almond eyes shimmered in the moonlight, her expression unreadable behind her veil. “Will you not come with us?” he asked
She shook her head jerkily.
His eyes widened. He remained rooted to the spot. “They will know you helped me!”
“Our road is treacherous and perilous,” Ghasif answered instead, a slight quiver in his voice almost betraying his true intent. “She is safer here. Ma’alim will protect her. Come now, we haven’t much time!”
Mukhtar refused to move. He did not know who this Ma’alim was, nor did he care. He suspected some treachery afoot but could not bring himself to saying anything at that moment. Much was obscure, much more may be at stake, and his freedom was at hand. He did not wish to compromise that for anything. Instead, he gazed at her earnestly, struggling to find the right words. “I cannot thank you enough for what you have done—”
“Enough with the pleasantries!” Rauf interrupted harshly.
Mukhtar ignored him. “Farewell,” he said to Nuzhah. “Peace be upon you.”
“And upon you, Mukhtar,” she responded kindly. “Until our paths cross again.”
He regarded her with a final, amiable gaze, and followed Ghasif and Rauf across the unmanned, unguarded courtyard to the other side of the field. When he glanced over his shoulder, she had already been swallowed by the darkness. Despite his heightened sense of freedom at hand, Mukhtar could not help but feel heavy at heart. He would dearly miss her.
He was surprised to see guards and slaves alike, asleep and oblivious to the three of them. When Ghasif said they had sedated the guards, Mukhtar did not take it to mean all of them.
Rauf slipped him one of his daggers as they approached the gates. “Be vigilant,” he muttered under his breath. Mukhtar tensed and held up the dagger firmly.
“I said vigilant, not ‘prepare to strike!’ Keep up!”
Mukhtar lowered the dagger and cursed Rauf under his breath.
Contrary to what he had assumed, not all the guards had been sedated. Four, strong and heavily armed men barred their path under the large stone archway. Behind them, at twenty-feet tall and as wide four horse-carriages, was a heavy iron gate. A dancing flame threw their shadows against the stone walls in a frenzy of darkness over light.
“Who goes there?” The call came from a fifth guard hidden in the shadows.
“One who will not look back,” Ghasif responded. “Will you see us passage, or will you spill the blood of kin?”
“Kin does not betray kin,” the guard declared, still hidden in the shadows.
“Long have we been betrayed, brother. I have seen it, you have not,” Ghasif said as they came closer to the gate. “What will it be, Iyad? Will you see us passage?”
“To abandon your creed, bears great consequence,” Iyad warned and stepped forward into the firelight. “To free a slave without the Master’s permission, and to escape with him... even greater. You tread on loose sands, brother.”
“Do not assume that I have taken lightly your counsel, brother,” Ghasif responded with equal acerbity. “But I am burdened with greater purpose. I must see it through.”
“Then you have made a decision that is sound by you,” Iyad folded his arms and leaned back slightly. “You bear, not only the consequences of your own, but also the actions of those who accompany you. Their loss will be your responsibility, mark my words.”
“Consider them marked,” Ghasif’s tone remained as cold as ever.
Upon Iyad’s silent command, his companions unbolted the gates. In a low squeal of metal on metal, the ancient gates swung a fraction to allow them through. As he came closer to Iyad, Mukhtar was able to fully look upon him, wondering why the Gatekeeper had not been sedated like the other guards, as Ghasif had claimed.
He stood taller than his peers, his knitted eyebrows and cold dark eyes against a scarred and beardless face made him look very perverse. It was enough to deduce from his features alone that Iyad was a ruthless, stern and sharp leader, one who obeyed orders without question and held a high regard for rules. Perhaps his willingness to help Ghasif may only have come from a love of coin or a favor owed. Either way, it seemed to be wearing out, and Mukhtar hastened behind Ghasif, with Rauf bringing up the rear. As soon as they stepped beyond the gate, he breathed an air that felt lighter and cleaner. The air of freedom.
They trekked along a wide, rocky path down the hill, and Mukhtar threw a final glance over his shoulders to the gates closing behind them. Somehow, Iyad’s cold eyes continued to gleam at them from beyond the iron bars. Never would he return to those gates. Never would he allow himself to be enslaved by them. And what of Ghasif and Rauf, the disparate two who were so willing to risk all to help him? What truly lay in their hearts?
Be wary, he cautioned himself. Vigilant. You only need them as far as Aztalaan.
However, restraint had never been Mukhtar’s strength, not when curiosity stung him like an angry bee. They had barely walked a few paces and he asked, “Why are you helping me?”
“Keep your questions to yourself, slave!” Rauf warned in an undertone. “At least until we are clear of the village!”
“I am no slave!” Mukhtar retorted angrily.
“You will always be a slave!” Rauf remarked. “Be it by chains, or your own thoughts!”
“What is your—?” Mukhtar rounded on him.
“Keep silent!” Ghasif hissed at them. “We have a long road ahead of us, and if we cannot journey as one, then all our efforts will be for nothing! Wait until we have passed the village and then we can converse!”
There was nothing but the sounds of fluttering shrubbery along the path and the crunch of dirt beneath their feet, and in a few short moments, tiny flickers of lights appeared before them. Against the darkened horizon, Mukhtar saw the silhouette of short mismatched huts and cottages.
The village was silent and asleep, and their path to the other side remained undisturbed. Here, three horses had been made ready for their journey. The stable-boy, young and scrawny, was handed a small sack of coin which he hurried away with, hardly giving them a second glance. It was an action that raised suspicion and warranted scrutiny, but Mukhtar remained as silent as he had been instructed. He was slowly beginning to contemplate how much effort the two assassins had put into his escape.
Their journey, as Ghasif explained, was a two-day ride west, and three days further south to the Walls of Murfaqat, an ancient structure built to protect Ahul-Hama from the northern realms. The Wall was famously guarded by the formidable Army of the Red-Guard, soldiers of Aztalaan, feared and renowned in every battle ever fought. Ghuldad was their greatest foe, which made Mukhtar wonder what Ghasif and Rauf really intended. What mysterious strategy did they have in mind when they arrived at Murfaqat?
; “Am I allowed to speak now?” he asked when they were barely an hour into their journey. “Or must we still be cautious lest the scorpions overhear us?”
Ghasif gave a nervous chuckle while Rauf muttered, what Mukhtar assumed were only more insults under his breath.
Angered, Mukhtar pulled the reins of his horse and rounded on Rauf. “Why do you resent me?”
They all halted. Rauf opened his mouth to argue, but Ghasif replied instead, “He does not think you worth the effort.”
“Rescue a slave, when we could be doing far more important things!” Rauf announced.
“Turn your horse around then!” Mukhtar retorted.
Rauf opened his mouth but Ghasif intervened again. “He hasn’t a choice. We follow the orders of The Teacher. It is he who finds you important.”
“A ridiculous notion!” Rauf commented blatantly.
“Rauf!” Ghasif warned him again. “Refrain from such talk!”
“Greater perils are afoot, and the Teacher places more importance on this slave!” Rauf retorted back.
“No man is unimportant! Not slave nor master!” Mukhtar glared at him.
“It is that very thought that has brought you thus far!” Rauf did not care to disguise his sneer. “Ask yourself— was it worth it?”
Mukhtar fell silent. Rauf’s words struck him. He had been asking himself the same question since he woke in the dark cell.
They rode on in silence until dawn approached, and before mid-morning, they stopped for breakfast. Ghasif pointed due west and explained their journey further. They would ride to sundown, through two more villages before the road took them south across the Plains of Zarzara. Mukhtar had heard tales of the Plains, rumors that an ancient Kingdom once thrived there, overrun by an army of Jinn who still haunt the plains and prey on unwary travelers. He made no mention of such tales to Ghasif or Rauf. The last thing he wanted was to be ridiculed by them.
“Who is this Teacher you speak of?” He nudged his horse forward to ride beside Ghasif.
“He is our true leader,” Ghasif answered. “A man of spirituality and wisdom. We call him Ma’alim, The Teacher. You have met him. He tended your wounds before you were cast to the wheel. He has secretly risen against the unjust authority of Ussam Bashiri, the Master of Ghuldad.”
Mukhtar recalled the old man who had promised to visit him but never did. So he was Ma’alim. Indeed, he felt a rush of gratitude for him. He had both healed Mukhtar of his injuries and aided his rescue from slavery.
“Your conversation with General Masri...” Mukhtar began.
Ghasif cursed loudly, and behind them, Rauf did the same. “Masri is a vile and ruthless man!” Ghasif said bitterly. “He arrived with Ma’alim, as humble as a lamb, seeking asylum. God only knows the devilry that man has embraced, that has seen him rise to the rank of a General, while Ma’alim struggles to free us from the tyranny of his kind!”
Mukhtar kept secret his engagement with Masri in the cell, as well as their much earlier encounter in Khalidah. He was not prepared to trust the Assassins just yet. “And the slavers who captured me?” he asked instead.
“They sold you to mercenaries from Din-Galad,” Ghasif explained. “They did not know your true identity, and only meant to recover what you cost them.”
“And what is my true identity?” Mukhtar asked curiously.
“The name of Zafar is known to Ussam Bashiri,” Ghasif gave him a sideways glance. “Your father aided him, Azhar Babak and the High Chancellor Laban Varda, in ending the war two decades ago.”
And they betrayed him after, Mukhtar thought to himself. “What does he intend with me?”
“Little do we know,” Ghasif replied, and Mukhtar sensed a lie, “only that Ma’alim saw a deeper motive behind your capture and instructed us to take you away from there. We are to leave you at the gates of Murfaqat, under the care of your brother. You must make your own way from there on.”
Mukhtar gazed at the open, rocky landscape under clear blue skies. An endless barren stretch lay before them, hot sands gathering into a fiery storm far behind, the horizon ahead smeared by a thin dark line of distant mountains.
“We must be vigilant,” Ghasif warned. “Ussam’s sorcerers will already have caught our scent.”
“Sorcerers?” Mukhtar raised an eyebrow.
“Four sorcerers of a demonic race,” Rauf replied from behind them. Despite his earlier outbursts, he seemed to be coming to terms with his designated mission. “Fallen agents of a fallen Dark Prince. Sahir Idumea, Sahir Eth, Sahir Ahumai and Sahir Elzafaan. For reasons and circumstances that do not make sense to anyone, they now serve Ussam Bashiri. That should speak for how powerful and wicked he has become.”
Ghasif nudged his horse forward. “Come, Mukhtar, we must hasten to Aztalaan. Pray the enemy has not yet infiltrated the Red-City.”
“And what of the sorcerers?” Mukhtar threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, trying to disguise his trepidation. “How will we escape them?”
Ghasif held up his left hand and touched the ring on his forefinger. The gold band reflected a glint of sunlight into Mukhtar’s eye. On its crown sat a polished red stone. “It was given to me by Ma’alim. It is a Ring of Power that will keep us masked from the eyes of Ghuldad for as long as I wear and command it.”
Mukhtar fell silent and nudged his horse forward. Protected by a magic ring provided by an unknown savior, and hunted by assassins and sorcerers with demonic powers. If life had been difficult enough in chains, why did freedom suddenly seem worse?
‘They will never cease the hunt!’ A whisper echoed around him and he shuddered, suddenly overcome with immense fright and anxiety. They had made camp for the night, and as per their arrangements, he had taken the third watch. He shivered, pulled his cloak tighter, and continued to stare into the crackling flames of the campfire, uttering strings of divine supplications to keep his fears at bay. The sooner he returned to Khalidah, the better he will be, safe once again behind the four walls of his home.
The journey through the Plains of Zarzara was uneventful and, contrary to all popular beliefs, did not avail an army of Jinn. Perhaps, and Mukhtar was very skeptical about it, Ghasif’s ring may have truly masked their presence from preying entities.
Two more days under the scorching desert sun, with very little food and water remaining, the renowned walls loomed closer into view. They entered the village bordering the Wall after dusk, worn beyond imagining, longing for nothing but a hot meal, cooling water to drink and a place to rest their heads.
Torches in brackets illuminated the red stone as far as the eye could see. Its thickness measured a ten-camel caravan, and its length ran from escarpment to escarpment, east to west. The only way in was through the King’s Passage, an elegant archway of intricate architecture, and large iron gates manned by the Red-Guard. Several watchtowers stood tall at regular intervals every mile or so, each with a beacon at its peak for signaling at times of siege.
It was built during the reign of King Hamasi, some four centuries prior, as a defense against northern foes. Now it was only used as a poor excuse to extort taxes from anyone entering or leaving the Empire.
Like so many others, they made camp by the wall, awaiting dawn when the gates would open and they would be allowed in. Mukhtar could hardly remember the last time he crossed over. When he was barely conscious, and the Red-Guard was bribed to allow them passage under cover of darkness.
“Why did he yield so easily, I wonder?” He heard Rauf whisper to Ghasif while they ate.
Ghasif did not reply and Rauf, it seemed, did not wish to press him. However, Mukhtar was curious, and he knew exactly what the subject matter was. Rauf was referring to Iyad’s leniency at the gates.
“I have wondered the same,” he joined the conversation. “Why did he give us passage so easily? I did not hear the jingle of coin.”
Ghasif’s beard twitched and his eyebrows curled. Anger flashed in his eyes. “Captain Iyad is not a petty thief. Do not impugn his honor,
especially when you know nothing of the sacrifice he has just made only for your freedom!”
Mukhtar was slightly taken aback, but did not show intimidation and instead humbled himself. “I did not mean to insult. I only meant to understand how we escaped. Why did we not take a more secluded pass? Why the front gate?”
“Ghuldad is an ancient fortress, once the stronghold of the Dark Prince’s most trusted ally, Sahir Idumea,” Ghasif replied after a brief hesitation, while Rauf turned away and became busy with sharpening his daggers. “Idumea was defeated by General Ussam Bashiri, and he and his brethren were forced into servitude. Over the years, Ussam has learned from them the Dark Arts and amassed his powers. In order to keep Immorkaan at bay, he forged Ghuldad into a sanctuary for those who lost their ways and sought asylum, secretly building his army. As such, its greatest weakness became its doorstep, but its greatest strengths are men like Captain Iyad. If he has seen us passage, then he has also understood the truth in our purpose.”
“I fail to understand—” Mukhtar began and hesitated, unable to phrase his query.
“You fail to understand why a man such as Ussam,” Rauf interrupted, “a General of the Aztalaan army, would defeat a Dark Sorcerer and force him into servitude for his own benefit, while proclaiming himself a saint to the world?” He exchanged a grim expression with his Captain.
“A man’s true faith is tested when he allows the devil to manipulate his thoughts,” Ghasif stated, which seemed to put Mukhtar’s query at rest. Ussam desired power, has desired so from the very beginning. He would stop at nothing until he has conquered all, no matter the cost, no matter the detriment.
Dawn came with haste, leaving behind a sleepless and restless night, that when Mukhtar woke, he was still instilled with the fear of being chained to the wheel. He stood in the long queue leading up to the gate, awaiting his turn to be interrogated by the guards, while Ghasif and Rauf lingered patiently nearby.
“State your name and business!” The guard barked at him when his turn came.
“Mukhtar.”
“Your full name, peasant!” The guard barked at him again. He was beardless, clad in a crimson tunic under heavy armor, and held an intimidating spear in one hand. Mukhtar drew his cloak closer to conceal his shackles. If the Red-Guard suspected him to be an escaped slave, they would chain and imprison him no less, forcing him into servitude at the wall, like his brother.
The Amulets of Sihr Page 10