Mirah, the Sila, stooped ever so slightly, as though to bow was against the very essence of its existence. Then, it slithered away and vanished behind the forlorn walls of the mausoleum.
The four men exchanged grim and silent nods, and then followed stealthily in its wake, Khuru supported by one arm around his brother’s shoulder.
Mukhtar turned to look upon the equally awestruck faces of Ghasif and Rauf. They were silent for several moments, each one contemplating the reality of what they had just witnessed.
Rauf was the first to speak. “Witchcraft!”
“The demon will become the least of our worries if it arouses other entities to our presence,” Ghasif said grimly. “We will be safer once we reach the mountain pass of Khamur.”
“And what monstrosity does the mountain conceal?” Mukhtar tried to keep the shiver from his voice, remembering what Nechem had said.
Rauf gave a hysterical laugh. “Monstrosities, wild mountain folk, a tribe of Jinn, or a herd of sheep! Does it matter? Whatever resides there is an evil that can frighten men capable of witchcraft, and we are foolish enough to walk into its den!”
Ghasif was unimpressed with his lieutenant’s wit. “Steel yourself, Rauf! I too dread what we might find in the mountains, but we have no other way now. Come, we must make haste. And pray the remainder of our journey goes unnoticed.”
Pray, oh pray they did, but the hunt was not abandoned. Several more hooded-figures had joined their earlier counterparts, slithering silhouettes against the fogs in the distance. The pursuants, however, soon became the least of their worries.
A greater peril arose ahead of them. Beyond the fog and mist, towering into the blotted skies, was a monolith of darkened stone, hewn as if from the very rocks it was built upon, spawning the fabled might of Arammoria. Even at a distance of what seemed to be half a day’s ride, the clarity of its facade alarmed their impression of its enormity and awe. The sheer heights of its walls were marred with battlements and parapets, manned with archers and strange devices of war. The precipitous towers, with long pointy tips, vanished into thick dark clouds above, and were, without a doubt, fortified with watchful eyes tearing across the horizon in every direction. Tiny flickers of orange and yellow adorned the perimeter, indicating guard patrols, and a low rumble suggested perpetual activity. Not as abandoned and ruined, nor as desolate as the stories told.
“Keep out of sight,” Ghasif warned in a low whisper.
“What now, Captain?” Rauf had a hint of panic in his voice. “We have ventured right onto the devil’s doorstep!”
Mukhtar glanced at Ghasif, and became frightened with what he saw. There was doubt on his face, uncertainty too. Ghasif, their assumed leader, was without guidance, without a heading. What now?
“What now?” Mukhtar echoed Rauf.
“We must take a different path,” Rauf stated. “We should never have come this way.”
“There is no other road!” Ghasif argued impatiently.
“What of the desert road?” Rauf held up an arm and pointed west.
“What of it?” Ghasif demanded.
“We can take the road east to the Desert City of Hanan-Sula. From there we can take the Sultan’s Pass to Dunhah and south to Khalidah.”
Ghasif shook his head without a moment’s thought. “The desert road takes us too close to Ninya, and the oasis town of Dunhah will be crawling with Ussam’s spies.” He gestured for them to sit before him, and drew a rough map in the desecrated dirt. “This is Arammoria. This is where we are. If we keep our current course, we should reach the foot of the Simnian Escarpments in two days or less.”
“Lest we be discovered,” Rauf hinted. “Are you willing to take that risk?”
Ghasif eyed him for a moment, then sounded his argument. “Every road we take bears risk. Trust me as you always have, Rauf. We can use the cover of the mists to carve a safe path to the mountains. Every step, a cautious one. Fate has brought us thus far, and I refuse to believe that we cannot make it further. Come!”
Unconvinced, Mukhtar and Rauf both followed Ghasif as he led them further away from the fortress and closer to Simnia, the escarpments that marked the borders of Arammoria and Ahul-Hama. They did not dare make camp, nor stay any longer than was necessary. After only brief moments of rest, they continued afoot, worn and exhausted, sore in limb, body, and mind. The need to distance themselves from the dark lands, gave them the strength they required, and by dawn, the colossal citadel and its prodigious towers became shadows in the distance.
As they ascended the rocky slopes of the escarpments, the sun’s rays peered through the clouds, brighter and warmer than Mukhtar had ever felt before. Mirzaan would avail itself on the other side after a two-day journey through the pass of Khamur. Tired and laden with sleep, they finally stopped to rest. They had eaten nothing since the day before, and Rauf took off to hunt while Mukhtar and Ghasif remained behind to make camp.
“You are troubled,” Ghasif said to him while they enjoyed the soft meat of the birds that Rauf had hunted.
“‘Troubled’ is an understatement,” Mukhtar replied.
“Do not allow the gloom of this barren land to inhibit your thoughts,” Ghasif spoke softly, and Mukhtar understood that he was only trying to comfort him.
He was far from comfort, however. “I too have become burdened with a greater purpose,” he echoed Ghasif’s own words.
“What do you mean?” Rauf enquired. “Have we not witnessed wicked man, beast, and demon, all in one night? Have we not seen and survived what very few ever have?”
Mukhtar gave him a sideways glance. “Have you then seen a symbol so strange, it burned through your conscience and capsized your very existence?”
“A symbol?” Ghasif raised an eyebrow.
“An eye, enclosed in a shell, like this...” he held up both his hands and touched the tips of his forefingers and thumbs to form a triangle, “...branded on the arm of the man who summoned a demon before our very eyes.”
“A symbol of his faith to his masters,” Ghasif shrugged. “Or to the demons he worships. A pagan symbol. What of it? Why does it trouble you?”
Mukhtar hesitated. He stood, walked a few paces away from the campfire, and then back. “It had nearly faded from memory until I saw it again. Tucked away in a tiny box beneath my bed, at the end of a golden chain hangs an amulet that resembles that very same symbol!” He squatted on the ground and drew a tiny circle inside an enclosed triangle. “Coincidence? Or fate?”
“Or perhaps the very reason we are on this road?” Rauf stared at Mukhtar’s sketch in the dirt. “It could very well be what the enemy seeks.”
“All the more reason to hasten our journey!” Ghasif pressed.
The Pass of Khamur may have been the most trying part of their journey yet. Whether it was indeed a tribe of Jinn, or the witchcraft of evil and wild mountain people, Mukhtar did not know, but barely an hour into the pass, they were overcome with unfathomable grief and depression.
Without admonition, Rauf would drop to the ground and succumb to tears, whimpering about all the wrong he had done to his parents, blaming himself for their deaths. Barely able to lead the way forward, Ghasif would speak with himself in angered whispers, aggravating into temperamental outbursts. When Mukhtar was not comforting the Lieutenant or calming the Captain, he was battling his own inner demons. Childhood memories haunted his every step. Several times, he could have sworn to an apparition of his father or grandfather, urging him to kill Ghasif and Rauf in their sleep.
Ghasif’s ring may have concealed them from watchful eyes, but the gloomy and depressing effect that the mountain pass foisted, deterred them from normalcy.
After two long days of enduring unnatural despondency, with most of their sanity still intact, they stood at the edge of a low cliff, overlooking the prosperous mining town of Mirzaan.
“Such is the monstrosity of Khamur,” Rauf mumbled. His eyes were puffy with lack of sleep, his nose runny with the cold.
Ghasif fidgeted with the
ring on his finger, rubbing the obsidian stone with his thumb. “It could have been worse.”
“Shall we vow never to make mention of it?” Mukhtar suggested.
Rauf nodded. “It would be best.”
“We can seek assistance in Mirzaan,” Mukhtar attempted a reassuring tone. “I know a man, Jawad Banu-Darr, a miner, merchant, and close friend of my uncle’s.”
Eager to escape the mountain and recover from its adversities, they made their way into town, taking caution not to draw any attention.
Mirzaan was a small, densely populated mining town at the foot of the long escarpments of Simnia. Its wealth came from iron ore and coal, amidst other minerals, but the skill of Mirzaan distinguished them above all others, for they were well versed in the art of forging steel.
Merchants were just about closing their businesses for the day and heading home, as night approached with a cold and fiery wind that thrashed against the escarpment wall. Cloaks held close against the chill, hoods drawn to keep away prying eyes, they made their way along the narrow, winding lanes, between double-storied buildings of rough-cut stone, quite unlike the mud and clay structures of Khalidah.
After asking around, they were shown the way to Jawad Banu-Darr’s warehouse, a large stone building with heavy oak doors and a smoking chimney. Mukhtar swung the brass knockers on the door and they waited patiently, throwing cautious glances over their shoulders. A series of locks were undone, and shortly after, a portly, thick-bearded man appeared through the door.
“We are closed for the day,” he grunted. “Trades will resume after dawn tomorrow.”
“We do not need to purchase anything,” Mukhtar said.
“Why are you wasting my time then?” came a blunt reply.
“Forgive me, Jawad,” Mukhtar said. “I did not properly introduce myself. I am the nephew of Mika’il Abaraina.”
“Mika’il Abaraina of Khalidah?” Jawad grunted.
“The very same,” Mukhtar replied.
“That man owes me money!” Jawad claimed, and Mukhtar’s face fell. “Have you come to pay his debt?”
Mukhtar shook his head. “We are in need of assistance, Jawad. For the sake of your friendship with Mika’il, will you help us?”
Jawad folded his arms and leaned back against the doorframe. “So finely do you boast your uncle’s name, if you but knew how tainted it has become.”
Mukhtar was unable to disguise his bewilderment.
“You do not know?” Jawad raised a dubious eyebrow.
“It matters not what my uncle’s misdeeds are,” Mukhtar said boldly. “Whenever he speaks of Mirzaan, he speaks of the kindness of Jawad Banu-Darr. Will you not, out of the decency of your heart, give us aid— be it but a little?”
The portly miner gazed at him for a long while, then eyed Ghasif and Rauf, as though sizing them up. “You have traveled long, and your journey still remains. I cannot provide you with beasts to carry your burdens, but I can give you a place to rest for the night and provisions for the long road.”
Mukhtar let out a sigh of relief. “We cannot thank you enough—!”
Jawad held up a seasoned hand that looked more like a thick glove than anything. “You need not thank me.”
Mukhtar looked confused, but Ghasif seemed to have understood. “What can we do to repay your kindness?” he asked.
“One of my men has been severely injured,” Jawad stated. “The other is out of town, and I have three wagons that need to be loaded with iron ingots before dawn, or else I will have lost a fortuitous trade.”
Mukhtar glanced at Ghasif and Rauf. They both gave two short nods, and Mukhtar shook hands with Jawad.
Loading the wagons, however, was no simple task. It was at the stroke of midnight when they finally laid their heads to rest, well fed and warm. It may not have been comfortable on the straw hewn floor of Jawad’s storerooms, but the closed walls gave Mukhtar a sense of protection from the outside world. This was a relief he would not take for granted, for it was the first time in many months that he had found sanctuary from the howling winds.
It was close to midday when they woke. Jawad’s daughters had prepared a decent meal of rice and chicken with an array of flavors and spices.
“How far have you traveled?” Jawad asked as they ate from a large dish before them.
“From the open stretches of Alhram,” Ghasif replied. “Ask us not our true origin, for it may cause you to be displeased with our company.”
“I do not need to,” Jawad replied. “Your attire says it all. Your kind has a widespread infamy of inciting dread. However, a man’s business is a man’s business, so long as it does not affect mine. I would not have trusted you had Mukhtar not mentioned his uncle, regardless of my relationship with him. So tell me, by which road did you come? One would think you crossed the gates and followed the wall to Ninya and south to Hanan-Sula, but I suspect otherwise, for you are far wearier than any traveler I have seen.”
Ghasif eyed him cautiously. “We journeyed west to the borders of Rhudah and took the road south, past the Peaks of Aftara and through the Cedars of Zila—”
“And through the Dead City!” Jawad gasped, his hand halfway up his mouth with food. “Only fools take that road! Fools who never return, and those who do, bring nothing but despair and talk of war. If at all they return with sanity.”
Ghasif smiled. “Had we a choice, we would not take that path.”
“I would think not,” Jawad said, “for you do not seem like fools to me. Indeed the Pass of Khamur has been riddled by an unknown evil, causing the Simnian Mines to be abandoned. This has disrupted the wealth of Mirzaan. Tradesmen such as I, suffer greatly due to a scarcity of iron ore. So, tell me,” he turned to Mukhtar, “how long has Mika’il Abaraina’s nephew been a slave?”
Mukhtar turned his gaze.
“You have trekked through dangerous lands of cut-throat thieves, devious sorcerers, and blood-thirsty assassins,” Jawad stated. “Which of those are you?
“Neither!” Mukhtar replied, a little harsher than he intended to.
“Then you are a slave to one of their kind. The irons on your wrists and ankles are not for adornment, of that I am certain. How long were you a slave?”
“Too long,” Mukhtar struggled to avoid eye contact with Ghasif and Rauf.
Jawad nodded slowly. “Then I am glad it is no longer.”
An hour before their departure, Jawad did them a final act of kindness and cut the iron shackles from Mukhtar’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Despite his earlier statement, he also assisted them in bargaining for three strong horses.
Mukhtar’s spirits began to soar as they crossed over familiar landscapes. They were passing through villages, fishing camps closer to the river Hubur, farms, lumber mills and tropical terrains. They approached the outskirts of Khalidah at noon on the second day, its vast infrastructure and tall buildings looming closer into view.
TEN
THE PARTING OF FRIENDS
A mile or so, north of the city, concealed by overhanging palm trees, tamarisks and mild shrubbery hugging the banks of the Hubur, was an array of mismatched shacks and cabins of wood and straw. One of those shacks was in dire need of repair, neglected for years since the death of Salim Zafar, Mukhtar’s grandfather.
Mukhtar guided the Assassins to the cabin. It seemed a safer refuge than his home in the city, isolated in the woods, further away from the prying eyes of any authorities and enemies alike.
The floorboards creaked under their feet when they entered the desolate shack. A large chest sat at the foot of a simple, wood-frame bed against the wall. Beside it was an antique bedstand, marred with dripping candle wax and an assortment of scrolls and books. Such assortments were hewn across the entire floor, piled up by the chest of drawers, and all around the worn floor desk that sat upon a tattered sisal mat. The air was damp and heavy with a distinct decaying stench of some dead animal. Ghasif threw open the window above the bed, while Rauf unlatched the one on the opposite wall, and c
ool, fresh air rushed in with the pleasant sounds of streaming water, the rustle of the forest and chirping of birds.
“No one has been here in a very long time,” Rauf commented, eyeing the buildup of cobwebs and layers of dust.
“A favorable fact,” Ghasif responded. “It will do us well to clean it.”
“There is a woman, further down the pathway, who sells good food,” Mukhtar pointed toward the door. “A taste of her famous Falafel, and you will never eat anything else in Khalidah!”
“Not while our enemies are afoot!” Ghasif stated. “Lead us to the Amulet, Mukhtar. With haste!”
Mukhtar shook his head calmly. He had expected this, and did not wish for them to accompany him home. “The City-Watch will recognize your armor. Remain here. Rest. I will return with the Amulet before dusk.”
“We cannot risk losing you to Ussam’s agents!” Rauf stated.
“This is my city!” Mukhtar argued. “I know the streets well enough to avoid conflict!”
He could see the uncertainty on both their faces. They would not abandon their mission. They would not abandon him, but he detested being in their debt, and the longer they remained to protect him, the more he owed. In truth, he still did not trust them, and there was only one way he could think of to ascertain for himself that they were not aligned with the enemy.
“You are weary,” he tried to convince them. “Rest now, and trust that I will return safely with the Amulet.”
Ghasif eyed him dubiously before finally understanding his plea, and he made a quick motion to keep Rauf from bursting into arguments. “Very well,” he agreed. “Return with haste and steer clear of any trouble. We do not wish to raise attention to ourselves.”
Taking care to avoid the watchful eyes of the city’s archers, and the brutish glares of patrolling guards, he headed into the city, steeling the excitement in his heart. He was home at last. How he had longed for this, fantasized about it over and over again. The excitement, however, was short-lived.
As he walked the streets, he realized how much of the city had changed. Fewer people were about, engaging in trades of both the legal and illegal kind, the latter being far more dominating and perceptible than ever. Women wept and wailed at the mercy of barbaric men, while corrupt city guards stood aside and did very little, if at all. Mercenaries and slave-traders roamed the streets, unchecked, unquestioned, and those who did not comply with their demands, were met with due savagery.
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