The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  “Mukhtar Harun Zafar,” he said, stealing a glance over the guard’s shoulder with the hope of spotting his brother.

  “Zafar?” The guard narrowed his eyes. “You are kin to Zaki Harun Zafar?”

  “My brother,” Mukhtar nodded. “He is a Captain of the Red-Guard.”

  “Ah, Captain Zafar is an honorable man,” the guard stated with a raised chin. “We will inform him of your arrival. You may wait by the wall there.”

  Mukhtar shuffled back to where Ghasif and Rauf sat with their horses by the wall, covered in large blankets to disguise their Assassin uniforms.

  “Well?” Ghasif enquired.

  “They have sent for my brother,” Mukhtar said.

  “Then we wait.”

  “How long are you willing to wait?” Mukhtar asked.

  “Long enough to meet your brother and explain to him the gravity of the matter,” Ghasif replied.

  “I hardly believe he will be pleased to see you!” Mukhtar raised an eyebrow. “He was only recently tasked with hunting your kind. Are you willing to risk meeting him?”

  Rauf scowled at him irritably. “You ask too many questions for a slave!”

  Mukhtar threw him a scathing look. “I truly despise that word.”

  Ghasif kept a wary eye in the direction of the gates while Rauf threw a rock at the wall and watched it interestingly, as though wondering how many he would need to bring down the massive stone structure. This irritated Mukhtar even more.

  “You need not remain here,” he declared. “My brother will come soon.”

  “We will leave when our task is done,” Rauf stated.

  “I can fend for myself!”

  “Fend for yourself?” Rauf mocked. “You would not survive a day in the desert on your own. Still be shackled were it not for us!”

  Mukhtar’s nostrils flared. “I need not saviors who are arrogant and keep secrets from me!”

  “You are truly an ungrateful—” Rauf started forward.

  “Keep your voices down!” Ghasif warned in an undertone, his eyes narrowed, scanning something over Mukhtar’s shoulder.

  A young Red-Guard approached them and they tensed. Mukhtar distinctly noted Rauf’s arm reach for a dagger inside his cloak. The assassins would not yield without a fight. They would die before facing the horrors they would be subjected to in the dungeons of the Aztalaan citadel. How would they contend with Zaki, and why they would even risk coming this close to the wall, was beyond him.

  This guard, however, was not a soldier of rank. He wore the colors and the armor, but aside from a simple short sickle-sword by his side, he carried no intent of a fight. He was a messenger.

  “You there!” he declared when he was only feet away from them. “Who among you is Mukhtar Harun Zafar, brother of Captain Zaki Zafar?”

  “It is I,” Mukhtar responded.

  “I have been tasked to inform you that Captain Zafar will be unable to avail himself,” the guard stated, reciting what he had obviously memorized on the way there. “You must come to the gates with me to be questioned by his Lieutenant for your reasons of crossing into the Empire. Lieutenant Sameer has expressly declared that your needs will be catered for by the Red-Guard under the Captain’s honors, and you will remain in Aztalaan until he arrives. Please, accompany me to the gate.”

  Mukhtar nodded and almost instinctively started forward, but was held back by Ghasif’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait!” he warned in an undertone, then spoke to the guard, “Allow us a moment to make farewell. Inform Lieutenant Sameer that we will bring him to the gate within the hour.”

  The guard looked confused. His jaw was clenched. He was unprepared for such a response. “I was instructed to bring the Captain’s brother with me.”

  Ghasif returned what Mukhtar assumed was a friendly smile. “Long will it be before we see our cousin again. Good soldier of the Red-Guard, will you not give us the hour to make farewell and exchange parting gifts? Perhaps sit down for a final meal?”

  The guard shuffled on the spot. “But I have been instructed...”

  “Only an hour, O’ Soldier of the Wall,” Ghasif’s voice had become humbler than Mukhtar had ever noted. “I am certain the good Lieutenant will understand. After all, you are a man of honor, are you not? You are a man who understands virtue, are you not? Know that Captain Zafar will most certainly hear of your hospitality for his brother and he will, without doubt, show his gratitude.”

  The confusion on the guard’s face could not have been more evident. He was young, perhaps even a mere apprentice. He yearned to be ambitious, to prove his worth to his superiors so that one day, he too might be given Captaincy. Ghasif had pleaded the right note.

  He nodded curtly. “Within the hour then, citizen.” And he left.

  As soon as he was clear of them, Mukhtar wheeled around to face Ghasif. “Explain what you have just done! Why did you turn him away? Why did you lie to him?”

  Ghasif did not take his eyes off the guard, and only replied when he was a fair distance away. “They are lying to you, Mukhtar. Your brother is not here!”

  Mukhtar shook his head disbelievingly. “I know that. The guard said so. He also said that they will give me sanctuary until Zaki returns.”

  “Into a trap!” Rauf stated. He was already packing their belongings. “It is as we suspected. Ghuldad has infiltrated Aztalaan as well.”

  “What do you mean?” Mukhtar became angered again. Why were they speaking to him in riddles? Why the secrecy?

  “We must come away from here, immediately!” Ghasif warned.

  “No!” Mukhtar stepped away from Ghasif. “Enough of this! I demand—!”

  “And you have every right to demand so,” Ghasif pleaded, “but not here. Not now. They are watching us. They are waiting for you. As we stand, we are still in Alhram, No Man’s Land. They cannot do anything to you while you remain on this side of the Wall, but once you cross the gate, you will become their prisoner. We must leave. Now!”

  EIGHT

  THE DEAD CITY

  The sun’s fiery hot glare tore through his thaub, searing his shoulders and neck. His head was throbbing, his heart filled with emotions he could not understand. Fear for his brother. Disappointed that he was not there to receive him. The dread of what lay ahead or what might follow, and disdain that he was yet again at the mercy of Ghasif and Rauf. Helpless and desperate, he followed them through the winding village lanes. Agitated, he waited while they procured supplies for the journey.

  What journey? Mukhtar wondered. Where will they lead him now? How far will they take him, and will he survive it? He leaned back, slid down against the mud wall of a bread-maker’s stall and buried his face in his arms while a mule, laden with heavy sacks, passed them by, braying loudly.

  “Further west, past the Peaks of Aftara,” Rauf told him without him asking. “South through the Cedars of Zila, the tallest, most ancient forest in those lands. Seven days to the edge of the cedars and Arammoria will avail itself. It is the road we must now take to the Immortal City.”

  Mukhtar raised his head sharply, squinting at Rauf’s silhouette against the midday sun.

  “You will lead us through the wastelands of Arammoria?” he growled. “Have you lost all sense? Those lands are riddled with wickedness!”

  Rauf chuckled, as did Ghasif. “Only the strongest will survive, Mukhtar!”

  Mukhtar stared at them disbelievingly. “You would jeer? I have heard the tales! And what of Aftara and Zila, the Gods of old? They are known to plague the mountains and the forests! We cross their lands and they will slaughter us!”

  “Pagan gods, or ancient Jinn worshipped as gods,” Ghasif stated. “Both the mountain and forest tribes were forced to submit to the Dark Prince, and their demon-gods became mere servants of his. Their worship is idolatry and their faith is profane, unworthy fear. The can do us no harm.”

  Mukhtar avoided his gaze. He did not wish for them to know, nor did he wish to further the conversation, but
he had more reason than many to fear the Unseen. They had not heard, not felt, what he had in the darkness.

  “Whom did they worship after the Dark Prince fell?” he asked.

  Ghasif gave him a dark look and said, “The Priestesses of Aftara, and the Sufis of Zila, still hold their beliefs of old. Their sacrilegious rites and rituals only pave a path to the Abysmal Flame. Pity them for theirs is a fate of sin.”

  Their seven-day journey began as soon as the sun sank beyond the horizon and the stars availed themselves to light their path. After the first night, they continued to travel only by day. It would have been more sensible to travel by night and escape the scorching sun, but Ghasif simply refused. Deserts were known to play host to Ghuls among other mischievous entities. They could not risk wandering into something unnatural in the darkness.

  The barren landscape of Alhram was rocky and uneven, unlike the massive, smooth dunes and soft sands of the Khabara Desert south of Aztalaan, or the empty vastness beyond the horizons of Rhunga. When the sun scorched the earth, the sky was reflected against the sands in shimmering illusions and mirages, sometimes giving them false hopes of an oasis in the distance. When the inky blackness covered the skies, when the stars above twinkled in divine harmony and the sands beneath their sandals became cool and soothing, the desert upheld a beauty that was ethereal. Silent and calming, where one would find themselves in solitude only with their Creator.

  Odd formations of towering rocks, molded by thousands of years of treacherous winds, safeguarded the illusive distances from the road, playing host to foxes and hyenas. Eagles and falcons soared high above them, scanning the hot and dry sands for their next prey. Ravenous vultures sometimes hovered close by preying upon their will to surrender to the desert.

  They wore headdresses and turbans to shade them from the scorching sun, drawn tight over their ears to keep at bay the hollow, howling wind, and over their noses to filter out the dust blown up by the constantly passing gales. Although weary and exhausted, Ghasif, on his white mare, silently but vigilantly led the way past desolate and fallow rocks, Mukhtar followed in equally scorned silence on his chestnut, and Rauf, on his black steed, brought up the rear.

  The silence was not mutual, had endured since they departed from Murfaqat, and was one of the reasons why Mukhtar was upset and contemptuous. All attempts to seek out answers fell on deaf ears, while Ghasif and Rauf continued to discuss their plans in hushed tones. Frustration continued to fill him as he pondered over how much longer he would need to remain at the mercy of the two assassins, and several times he had to fight the urge to escape on his steed and find his own way back to Khalidah. If only he knew the way.

  They took the road west as Rauf had indicated, maintaining their disguises as mere travelers. The closer they approached the borders of Rhudah, the harsher the desert became, but to their utter surprise, not as abandoned as they had assumed.

  Bedouin tribes were scattered all over the rocky vastness, their tents fluttering in the winds, veils drawn close to keep away the drifting dust and lingering smell of waste from their camels. Some of the tribes welcomed and gave them sanctuary, while others made it very clear that they were not taking any visitors. One particular tribesman was banished by his own people when he allowed Mukhtar, Ghasif, and Rauf to follow him back to his camp. The chief of the tribe, a gaunt man with a pet falcon on his shoulder, released the bird with instructions to peck at them until they were clear of his sight while his warriors brandished their spears and shields, arming their bows with crude arrows. It was only when Rauf fired a warning shot from his bow, as they rode away from the camp in haste, that the bird was called back. Mukhtar wondered what would have happened if Rauf’s intent was to kill it.

  If the desert was harsh, the Cedars were no less. Towering high above them, the ancient trees created a canopy of shade from the sun, but the cold mist hovering above the ground concealed more than just wild predators. Eerie and gloomy, they felt watchful eyes on them, as though whatever resided there, be it Jinn or the forest tribes of Zila, only waited with bated breath to attack them were they to be provoked. Once again, Mukhtar only suspected that their passage remained unseen because of the ring Ghasif wore, and the more he thought of it, the more distant he felt from divinity and true faith. Having spent his childhood with Saif in Madrassa, he had acquired enough knowledge to distinguish evil from good— and there was no doubt in his mind with regards to Ghasif’s ring.

  Eight days later, they made camp at the edge of the forest. Mukhtar completed his task of tending to the horses, and climbed over a large rock to scan the ghastly landscape. The wind howled eerily across the barren lands, bringing about a dry and destitute stench of decay. Even though they were still miles away, he could sense the uncanny, mysterious aura of the ruined and desecrated wastelands, something he had only heard of in tales. “Strange,” he squinted. “Not a soul in sight.”

  Below him, Ghasif pitched their tattered tent, while Rauf prepared some meat to roast for their meal.

  “No one dares venture here,” Ghasif stood and pointed to the east. “Those watchtowers outside Ninya are manned by the Red-Guard. It is difficult to see much from that distance, but as long as people know that the wastelands are being watched, they keep away.”

  Ninya was a once small military camp that bordered the Dead City, and the only safe haven between Arammoria and the Dunes of Khabara. It became a settlement when the Aztalaan army remained there for too long during the Great War. Mukhtar had heard several rumors claiming that Azhar Babak had built himself a private home in Ninya, a secret retreat for when he sought solitude.

  “Tall tales and rumors,” Ghasif responded when Mukhtar mentioned it. “There is no such retreat for the King. No secret coterie of exotic concubines or hidden treasures. Ninya is just as daunting and bleak as the wastelands it neighbors, and the garrison only remains there as it is commanded. No one would dare venture close to these lands, no matter how insane they are.”

  “How insane are we then?” Mukhtar asked.

  Rauf chuckled. “Come down. Let us eat!”

  The night sky was cold and dark, devoid of the moon or the stars, but they had the crackling fire to give them light and warmth. After setting up their tent, they settled down around the fire and helped themselves to roasted meat and bread.

  “I understand your urge to seek answers—” Ghasif began.

  “You need not explain it if you do not want to, Ghasif,” Mukhtar stopped him there. “I care not anymore, only that I return to Khalidah in one piece. We can go our separate ways then.”

  This was the first time they had spoken openly since their departure from Murfaqat, and he did not wish to destroy it by engaging in heated arguments.

  “No, Mukhtar,” Ghasif held up his hand, and Mukhtar sensed the urgency in his voice. “That is untrue. We do not wish to part ways with you, at least not in bitter faith. Rauf and I have discussed at length, and realize that our mission does not truly end when we enter Khalidah. We are all faced with a calamity, and only with unity can we overcome it.”

  Mukhtar, who had now finished his meal, hid his astonishment at this abrupt divulgence by casually leaning back against the large rock. He folded his arms and gazed at Ghasif for a long while.

  “The tales of Ghuldad are as ancient and obscure as the mists of the Dead City,” Ghasif began explaining. “No one truly knows how Ussam defeated Idumea, only that he led a small group of his most skilled warriors and conquered the fortress from within. Some say High Chancellor Laban Varda, who at the time was an Arammorian spy, fed Ussam with crucial information that aided him in his mission. Upon succeeding, Ussam and Laban discovered the means by which Idumea and his brethren, Ahumai, Eth, and Elzafaan, became powerful. Ussam wasted no time in forging his alliances, Azhar Babak who was camped at Ninya, being the first.”

  “Who recruited my father,” Mukhtar gazed into the fire.

  “They found the magical objects and weapons they needed to win the war,” Rauf continu
ed.

  “Magical objects,” Mukhtar murmured, his thoughts wandering to the box Suha had given him. The peculiar items Harun had found during the Great War. He refrained from saying anything. Could this perhaps be the reason why the two assassins were adamant on escorting him to Khalidah? Tread carefully, Mukhtar.

  “When Azhar became King,” Ghasif continued unwarily, “he named his Council of Elders. Himself, his brother Abidan, Adad Babati, Laban Varda and—”

  “My father,” Mukhtar finished.

  Ussam was cast aside. Discarded and left to roam the desolate hallways of the conquered Ghuldad. Just as Mika’il had described Ghulam Mirza’s motives, Mukhtar was slowly beginning to understand Ussam’s thirst for revenge. He sought to overthrow Azhar Babak and claim the throne for himself. All it takes to conceive a war is the whim of a madman riddled with wicked thoughts. However, Mukhtar sensed a greater power at play. The Jinn in the cell and by the wheel, only a few days ago, could not have been a solitary ploy of Ussam Bashiri.

  Mukhtar leaned forward, stroked the fire, then scanned the darkened landscape in the direction of the Dead City, and could not suppress the shudder that ran up his spine at the mere thought of venturing there. These were lands accursed to be lifeless, home to evil Jinn and wicked men.

  “Is there no other way?” he asked grimly.

  For all his talk of strength and bravery, Rauf kept hidden a similar expression of concern behind his curtain of long hair.

  “Khabara is a desert impossible to cross without proper provisions, of which we now have very little,” Ghasif explained, “and we cannot risk coming too close to Ninya or Aztalaan. All is lost if we are discovered.”

  Rauf remained unconvinced, as did Mukhtar. He suspected that the Lieutenant might attempt to talk his Captain into pursuing an alternative route, and Mukhtar was dearly praying for his success.