The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  The following morning, they set out again, heading further south. The climate became cooler by the hour, and by the end of the day, all three of them shuddered under their cloaks and blankets.

  Rather than cut through the barren wastelands, Ghasif guided them around its borders. The journey would take longer this way, but they would avoid the eyes of the Ninyan watchtowers and the desecrated gloom of the Dead City, an area Mukhtar came to realize was larger than the cities of Khalidah, Din-Galad and Aztalaan all put together.

  The uneven plains were a canvas of blackened stone, as if razed by flames for days at end, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Much of what they came across was rubble and rock, ruins of the outskirts of the city, and further in, beyond thick strands of unnatural mists, were obscure contours of much larger stone structures. Low dark clouds hovered across the lands, thick and ominous, barely keeping the sun alive.

  The night was swift, and morning approached without any sign of warmth. The horses grew restless, and all attempts to mount them became futile. Rauf was able to keep them calm by feeding them some herbs. They pulled them by their reins, and although this lengthened the journey, they were at least able to leave their belongings on the horses’ backs, and walk unburdened.

  “I have never seen a beast so agitated,” Rauf said with deep concern. “I fear they will not survive the journey.”

  His prediction was right. In the following two days, the effects of Rauf’s herbs began to wane the further they ventured, and the horses were now showing signs of brutality. They had no choice but to release them and continue the journey afoot.

  “They will trample us if not run away with our belongings!” Ghasif remarked as they wrestled to control the reins. “We can procure fresher horses in Mirzaan if, God willing, we make it there.”

  Using the dimmed sun to maintain his bearings, he continued to lead the way in a single file, followed by Mukhtar and Rauf bringing up the rear. With all their belongings strapped to their backs, they trekked along what appeared to be a long, winding, brick-road, something Mukhtar had never seen before. Most of the roads and streets in Khalidah were of plain dirt and sand, mud or rock, but never made of brick and stone. Ghasif explained that they were entering an area known as Mudanisin, Land of the Defilers, a once vibrant town of Arammoria, and home to thousands of witches and sorcerers who supported the Dark Prince’s ambitions. The ground was barren, the soil contaminated with soot and coal, littered with skulls and bones of man and beast.

  A foul stench, the crunching of dirt under their feet, and the distant rustle of dried leaves, filled the air around them. Two days passed on this lonely trail and destitute landscape. Dark clouds blotted out the sun, and soon they lost track of time, for it was no longer possible to tell whether it was day or night. Desperate to meet their destination, they only stopped for short intervals to replenish themselves, and were on their feet after mere moments of rest.

  Rauf was pleading with Ghasif to make a stop, but the Captain insisted they must move on. They had been walking silently for several long hours until Ghasif finally declared they make camp for the night.

  Rauf dropped his supplies and sunk to the ground, heaving. Ghasif and Mukhtar set about gathering firewood and pitching the tent. He had never felt so exhausted before, and struggled to keep his eyes open, peering through the mist and fog. “I can barely see the tip of my nose!”

  “How much further, Ghasif?” Rauf moaned.

  “We crossed the borders of Mudanisin only two hours ago,” Ghasif stated, “and are now in Alshura, Land of the Royal and Loyal. Three more days to the mountain pass of Khamur.”

  “How can you be certain?” Mukhtar squinted at the sky. With such dark and ominous clouds, it was difficult to place the sun during the day and the stars at night, without which, it was almost impossible to plot a heading.

  In response, Ghasif pointed at the only tree within their reach, under which Rauf was now snoring. Its branches hung like shriveled arms stretching out into the night sky, their tips like claws, barren of any leaves. On its withered trunk was tied, a long fluttering piece of white cloth, torn, tattered and stained. “To become an assassin, I had to endure the gloom of Arammoria for seven days, a journey from the Cedars of Zila to the town of Fashaan. This was years ago.”

  “It must have been a tasking journey,” Mukhtar said, silently commending Ghasif’s ability to navigate the labyrinthine landscape of ruins and mists.

  “It was indeed,” Ghasif nodded, “and if I were to be honest, it did not feel as daunting an ordeal as it does now. Get up, Rauf!” He kicked his lieutenant’s foot to wake him.

  They settled down for a silent meal of dried meat and bread. While they ate, Mukhtar could not help but continuously glance over his shoulder. It was a strange feeling, having to search for something that could not be seen.

  All his life, uncanny and otherworldly matters always seemed to lurk nearby. He could not deny his fascination about the Unseen, and never forfeited an opportunity to pour through the numerous subjective books and tomes that lay in his grandfather’s cabin, a simple shack hugging the banks of the Hubur. Perhaps, he assumed, it was the reason why he had more than often been a victim of strange and vivid nightmares.

  As far as his most recent encounters in the darkness were concerned, he was still unsure, and could only explain them as illusive thoughts. His greatest fear, however, his most despised state of existence, was one without knowledge of what guided his hand. What was and why it was.

  As such, he began that night’s conversation with a query he hoped would lessen his burden. “Tell me more about your leader— Ma’alim. When did he come to Ghuldad?”

  Rauf shrugged. “Several weeks before your arrival. He came seeking sanctuary, as do many. By proving his skill in medicine, weaponry, and witchcraft, he secured himself a seat on Ussam’s council.”

  “You would follow a man who practices sorcery and witchcraft?” Mukhtar narrowed his eyes.

  Ghasif held up his left hand to show his ring. “His sorcery has kept us safe from the eyes of the enemy. He has bound a Jinn to this ring, tasked with keeping us disguised for as long as I wear it. Do not be so hasty to judge, Mukhtar. You may disagree with his methods, but they have protected us thus far, kept us from harm.”

  Mukhtar decided not to argue back.

  “Within a few short weeks, Ma’alim began to rally a select few to his cause,” Rauf continued. “Nuzhah and the other maidservants. Ghasif was the first from among the assassins. I followed his footsteps as Ussam’s reign of power grew.”

  “Rauf had much to learn,” Ghasif eyed his lieutenant. “Still has much to learn. And Ma’alim always had much to teach.”

  “He spoke of freedom,” Rauf said. “He spoke of destroying Ussam’s tyrannical reaches, vanquishing his corrupt doctrines, and rebuilding Ghuldad as it once was. He preached a free and united guild of assassins who no longer needed to live in secrecy. He sees no reason why the inhabitants of Ghuldad cannot give up arms to live normal lives and be one with the free peoples of Ahul-Hama and Aghara, in trade and knowledge.”

  Mukhtar gazed into the fire before him. The more he heard about Ma’alim, the more he longed to meet him again. It was as though the Teacher echoed every thought in Mukhtar’s mind. “A leader who values freedom is a shield for his people.”

  Ghasif gave a light chuckle. “Ma’alim believes otherwise. Freedom is an illusion, he always said to me. A sympathy for emotion. A mask of delusion.”

  They cleared away the remnants of their meal, after which Mukhtar and Rauf slept while Ghasif, fully armed, remained awake against the tree to keep watch over the first shift. It was not long before the fog had picked up around them, and he fed the fire to keep it alive, but aside from their brief vicinity, everything else was a dark and misty blur.

  Mukhtar’s sleep was uneasy and horrid. His nights had been that way since he woke in the darkened cell. Before shutting his eyes, his thoughts were abuzz with all what Ghasif and
Rauf had told him. Much of it seeped into his dreams, twisting and coiling into torturous visions. When Rauf shook him, he woke with fright and alarm. “What is the matter, Rauf?”

  “We are not alone!”

  NINE

  THE DEAD CITY

  Dawn was still far off. The crisp chill dug deep into his bones as he tried to contemplate his dark surroundings. The silence was almost deafening, and the only source of light they had was an ember in the ashes of their smoldering campfire.

  “Hurry!” Ghasif hissed, and it took a moment for Mukhtar to find him in the dark.

  Their journey continued without a sound or second thought. Ghasif led, Mukhtar followed, and Rauf trailed behind, his bow armed with an arrow, his eyes peering the darkness for a reason to set it loose.

  The air was brisk, every breath escaping their lungs in a misty cloud. Mukhtar was still unclear as to who or what was watching them, but refrained from sounding his query, making every effort to deter his feet from rustling the ground while his senses vigilantly hunted the gloom for anything that moved. He cursed the mist. He cursed the dark. Without the ability to see, he felt vulnerable and disadvantaged; he tightened his grip on the dagger Rauf had given him at the gates of Ghuldad, and tried to keep Ghasif within his reach. An undesirable sensation stole through him, forcing him to anticipate an imminent and inescapable notion of bloodshed. His innermost urge was to give in to his fears and run. He remembered reading something in his grandfather’s books.

  When the night is darkest, when the silence is deepest, beware the Hour of the Witch. Beware the free will of the Unseen.

  He shuddered.

  Something rustled. An unnatural screech erupted the silence. Its echo of response followed imminently. Ghasif halted, stilled his breath, and peered through the mist and the darkness. The air rang with a deep, horrid, bloodcurdling roar that raised the hairs on the back of their necks. They squatted low and followed Ghasif silently through the maze of derelict tombstones.

  Something rustled again and they froze. It sounded much closer and heavier. Was Ghasif leading them into the path of the enemy, or perhaps into the den of some ferocious beast? An image of several ravenous, bloodthirsty creatures came to mind as Mukhtar braced himself for a fight he was unprepared and untrained for.

  The rasping growl, low, deep, and somewhat strained, drew closer and much faster. Its footsteps were becoming heavier, irregular, and uncontrolled.

  The curtain of mist parted. A large, furry figure caught itself in the path of an unseen rock and fell forward, grazing the ground with its built momentum. It came to a halt merely feet before them, palpitating deeply.

  They all shriveled back and cowered against the ancient stones, eyeing the four-legged, massive beast of thick, black-and-white, striped-fur, and yellowing fangs. Rauf quietly drew an arrow while Ghasif carefully released his scimitar. Mukhtar gripped his dagger with a sweaty palm, watchful of the beast’s claws protruding through thick paws that could crush him to death within seconds. Never had he seen a tiger of such enormity. Would it have stood, it would have looked him in the eye, and with very little effort, torn his neck with a single strike.

  It was injured. Its savagery was painfully suppressed, its muscular body twitched as darkened blood soaked the fur beneath its ribs. It must have been stalking the wastelands, hunting for its meal, treading through the mists like a silent wraith. What atrocity had weakened it as such?

  Despite Ghasif’s silent warning, Rauf set aside his bow and crawled forward. Mukhtar watched with mingled interest and bewilderment, as the Assassin reached out, lay a calming hand over the beast’s head, and whispered unknown words with melodic benevolence. He then removed from his bag, the same herb they had given their horses, chewed on the leaves, and placed them on the tiger’s drooling lips. With his fingers still intact, he cautiously retreated to where Mukhtar and Ghasif squatted and stared in awe.

  Mukhtar realized he was still holding his breath. They watched as the herb began to take effect, dulling its pain and the rush of fear. It rose and stood before them, taller and broader, its striped fur fluttering calmly. It regarded them with its piercing, icy-blue eyes for a long moment before turning and trotting away awkwardly to compensate the pain in its side.

  Mukhtar glanced at the other two. Ghasif’s expression was stony, his eyes locked on Rauf. He sheathed his scimitar and continued to lead the way forward.

  They were only gone a few yards when Ghasif froze again and signaled them to remain silent and hidden. Angered voices, painful whimpers, and muffled cries were coming from a few feet ahead of them where a flickering glow ignited the mists.

  A clearing in the fog revealed three, tall, dark figures, cloaked and hooded. One of them held a burning torch. Ghasif, Rauf, and Mukhtar made every effort to keep their presence unknown.

  “We must move on!” One of the figures snarled and brandished his spear threateningly, a trickle of blood distinctly noticeable on its abnormally long, harsh and crude, steely tip. Mukhtar had never before seen a weapon of such savagery before.

  “Patience, Barish,” his companion responded. On his waist hung an even harsher scimitar.

  “Patience?” Barish rounded on him. “Patience will see you lose a limb like your brother if that beast were to return!” He pointed to a fourth man who was crouched low, clutching a bloody arm.

  “Impatience will not see Khuru’s arm returned!”

  “Stop your bickering!” another gave an angry growl, and they fell silent. He spoke to them in a strange dialect, full of rasping and spitting sounds. Was this their leader? Mukhtar wondered.

  “He is right,” Khuru gasped in pain, acknowledging whatever the Leader said to them. “If they reach the mountains, they will be beyond us.”

  “Then the mountains will take them!” Barish argued. “I say we return to the fortress and leave these rebels to the mercy of the mists and the mountains!”

  “You will do no such thing!” Khuru barked at him. “I would rather die than return to the citadel in shame because you lack the nerve! Use your heads, you fools! Sahir Elzafaan will see us fed to his demons if we return to him with nothing!”

  “I am more than willing to fulfill your desires, my dear Khuru,” Barish sneered blatantly. “It won’t be long before your arm bleeds out. Let us linger a while longer and return to the Sahir with your corpse then!”

  Nechem dropped his torch, brandished his own spear, and started forward.

  The leader stepped between them. “Enough!” his voice echoed off the mausoleum behind them. “Calm yourself, Nechem, and see to your brother! And both of you,” he turned to Barish, “hold your tongues, or the Sahir will hear of your insubordination!”

  They tensed and became silent. None of them desired to face the wrath of Sahir Elzafaan.

  “Send out your Ghul, Barish,” the leader instructed.

  “And allow it to be devoured by the monstrosities of this plagued land?” Barish declined. “Have you not always claimed that your Sila is far more powerful? Send her instead!”

  The leader growled angrily. Within two short strides, he stood so close to Barish, their noses seemed to touch. “Your insolence knows no bounds!”

  “I did not ask to be here, Hitu!” Barish put on a brave face, but still took a cautious step back.

  “Since you are, you will listen and obey, or so help me, when our task here is done, I will see your head on a spike for treason!”

  Without taking his eyes off Barish, Hitu, the leader, rolled up his left sleeve, revealing the golden band of a bracelet embedded with several small, obsidian stones. On his forearm, a scar gleamed in Nechem’s torchlight. It looked like a burn mark in the shape of a triangle enclosing a circle. The symbol intrigued Mukhtar while he watched Hitu rub the bracelet with his forefinger, reciting feverishly under his breath. So tasking was this deed that beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he was heaving and wheezing when he finished.

  A stench of rotting eggs reached Mukhtar’s nostril
s, adding to the already lingering foulness of death and decay. The mist parted in a rush. There was a strange sound, a distant scream twisted into a howling wind, and in the blink of an eye, from the very air before them, materialized a dark smoke, eerily coiling and forming itself as if it were alive. The smoke grew and mutated into shape, and there appeared a hooded figure.

  Its cloak was a shredded and tattering dark fabric, and Mukhtar could hear the unmistakably steady raucous sound of breath coming from under its drawn hood. The hem of its cloak dissipated in a blurry edge of smoke and mist, and against the dark background, its much darker figure was a strangely shaped silhouette. A badly stooped back revealed a hump that was taller than its head, and unnaturally long arms almost scraped against the ground. The figure turned, and twice, concealed eyes swept but did not see the hidden three. Mukhtar caught sight of a gaping hole in the dark shadow of its hood, and felt his stomach churn. It had a mouth and it spoke.

  “You summoned?” Its voice was discordant, crackling, and abnormally high-pitched. It sent shivers up Mukhtar’s spine, and beside him, both Ghasif and Rauf stiffened.

  “Can you see him?” Hitu asked in a bare whisper and a slight whimper, as if he was speaking to something divine.

  “I can smell him,” the Sila hissed. “A Jinn conceals his presence.”

  “Send it to the dark abyss!” Came the order. “Find the boy, and let us be rid of this place!”

  “What of I?” the Sila demanded.

  “A sacrifice in your name, Great Mirah,” Hitu gave a bow.

  “A human child will suffice,” the Sila hissed.

  Mukhtar felt a chill creep up his spine, and he suppressed a frightful gasp as felt Ghasif’s hand grip his shoulder.

  “Your demands are becoming steep!” Hitu remarked. “Very well…” he sighed, “…upon my return to the citadel!”