The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  “I brought food,” Mukhtar held up the package his mother had wrapped.

  “And the Amulet?” Ghasif woke sharply when he heard Mukhtar’s voice.

  Mukhtar nodded and pulled the golden chain over his head to show them the gleaming icy-blue stone. Before returning to the cabin, he had retreated to his own room to retrieve the Amulet. Upsetting clouds of dust under his bed, he breathed a sigh of relief to find it untouched and undisturbed. He had thought of waiting for the cover of darkness to smuggle it out, but was overpowered by the uncomfortable silence that lingered around the house.

  “By God, it is a beauty to behold!” Ghasif whispered, eyeing it with interest.

  “Its resemblance to the symbol is irrefutable!” Rauf snatched it from his hand.

  “Indeed it is,” Mukhtar responded.

  Ghasif snatched it back, giving the Lieutenant an angry scowl. “We have discovered more about the symbol.”

  “What do you mean?” Mukhtar asked.

  “Have you not noticed?” Rauf gestured around the cabin, at the neat piles of books and scrolls beside the floor-desk. “We cleaned while you were gone, and began to read whatever was legible. They contain an abundance of the Occult, Black Magic, and the Dark Arts. But there is more to it than mere symbolism. Sorcery, witchcraft, idolatry. What was your grandfather involved in?”

  “I too have questioned the same,” Mukhtar eyed the books and scrolls. “I have read most of them, yet I have never truly understood their meaning, or why they ever belonged to my grandfather.” Or did he understand, but was never prepared to accept that sorcery had always tainted the bloodlines of his forefathers? Texts depicting the Dark Arts lay abundant in his grandfather’s cabin, and an amulet presumed to be a weapon of sorcery passed down to him by his father. What more was there to the name of Zafar that he did not know of?

  “There is a passage here —” Ghasif held up a tattered book, titled The Disguise of The Unseen, and read aloud;

  ...of an entity as ancient as the world itself, so gruesome, so evil, so corrupt! It is said, that since the beginning of time, this entity, favored by The Heavens, corrupted by its own arrogance, vowed to lead mankind astray and claim dominion over them as a superior being. He is named Shaytaan. He is named Iblees. He is named Azazil. He is named The Deceiver. He who has claimed the Throne of Ithm, is named The Hand of Azazil.

  PART TWO

  THE NEW WORLD

  TWENTY YEARS AGO.

  The quartermaster’s tent was surrounded by stockpiles of weaponry, spears, shields, and swords, amidst supplies essential to the advancement of the Legion. Large fluttering tarps shielded them against the pernicious adversities of the recent sandstorm. Farid arrived at the quartermaster’s tent to relay the General’s orders. A lone soldier guarded the entrance, leaning against his spear to ease his exhaustion.

  “Galel,” he inclined his head in greeting.

  “Farid,” slightly groggy, Galel responded in kind, “how fares the night watch? I haven’t left my post since dusk.”

  “Cold, gloomy and somewhat troubling,” Farid replied.

  “Indeed,” Galel said. “That last storm has been the most devastating, and the eeriness of Arammoria...” he gave a shudder. “I long for an end to this war, that I may return home.”

  “The end will come soon, my brother,” Farid assured him.

  It was the tone with which he said it that made Galel raise his eyebrows. “What news from the General’s tent?” he lowered his voice, putting on a grave tone.

  “Nothing in stone yet,” Farid replied with equal solemnity, “but there seems to be something at play. We will speak later. Wake the blacksmith,” he nudged at the tent’s entrance. “He has been summoned by the General.”

  He left, and Galel, mildly confused and curious, poked his head through the tent flaps and searched the darkness.

  “Brother Harun,” he whispered, and the man closest to him grunted in his sleep. “Brother Harun!”

  The man stirred slowly and opened his eyes. “Galel?” he whispered groggily, not intending to wake his companion. “What is it? Has something happened?”

  “General Babak requests your presence,” Galel said.

  Harun sat up, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Galel’s outline in the dark. “Why?”

  Galel shrugged

  Harun sighed wearily. “Very well.”

  Galel left the tent, and Harun remained seated for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. The wind lashed against the tent with dreadful intent, but it held resistantly. He prided himself on pitching it well, and was not at all eager to leave it for the chill outside. It was dreadfully dark, but much of the night had passed. Dawn would be approaching soon. What did Babak want to see him for at this hour? Even as he asked himself that question, he already knew the answer to it. This certainly had something to do with the unsanctioned, secret expedition into the Dead City. Azhar better not be considering it again. That haunted wasteland was the last place Harun wished to set foot upon. Not something he had bargained for when he accepted the army’s proposal to serve as quartermaster.

  Mika’il was snoring gingerly on his mat across the ground, his dark silhouette moving up and down with deep breathing. Should he wake him? Perhaps not. There was no need to trouble the man. Azhar relentlessly searched for every opportunity to discuss the expedition’s findings, and keeping it all a secret from Mika’il was no simple task.

  He pulled on a thaub and cloak to shield himself against the ghastly gale, stifled a yawn, rubbed his drowsy eyes, and reluctantly left the warm and cozy tent. Cloak tightly drawn, he made his way to the center of the camp where the General’s Pavilion stood tall, easily distinguishable with Aztalaan banners caught in the high winds.

  Guards on duty were patrolling the maze of canvas tarps and fluttering banners, while others stood alert at stationed posts. Tasked as quartermasters, Harun and Mika’il not only supplied weapons and armor, but also food and bedding. Ghulam Mirza had secured them a healthy compensation for their services. Regardless, Harun had to admit he was growing weary of his tasks, and dearly missed his home and family in Khalidah. Almost as if to exacerbate his dilemmas, the location of their camp was hardly an exotic haven of tranquility.

  He arrived at the General’s tent, and Farid stood aside to allow him through.

  “Salaam, General,” Harun aired a greeting, stifling another yawn as he stepped in.

  Azhar sat in the company of two other men, on cushions surrounding a tray laden with dates, cups, and a steaming pot of spicy cardamom tea.

  “My apologies,” Harun glanced at the two men. “I did not mean to intrude upon your company.”

  “Ah— Harun,” the General stood to receive him, which Harun found to be unusual. Azhar was not widely known for subtlety or courtesy, unless he wished to draw some benefit. “Come, join us. There is something we must discuss.”

  He caught a brief glimpse of the wooden box on the far side of the tent. It was all too familiar, for he had packed its contents himself and surrendered it to Azhar, who had further placed it under heavy guard. Indeed, only a mere handful of the entire legion knew of its existence. Why then was it unguarded and out in the open? Harun tried not to betray his curiosity. He did not wish to reveal his thoughts until Azhar had ascertained his true intent behind its purpose.

  “Laban Varda, and General Ussam Bashiri of the Third Legion,” Azhar gestured at the two men.

  Harun felt drained and sleepy, and swallowed the yawn that was yearning to escape. He nodded courteously as they were introduced, and took a seat beside Azhar, who poured him a cup of the sweet and spicy tea.

  Laban excused himself to find a lavatory, and Azhar called for Farid to escort him. While they waited for him to return, Harun could not help but notice Ussam’s eyes on him.

  “I must commend you on your victory over Ghuldad,” he said in an attempt to break the awkward silence.

  Ussam gave a courteous nod.

  After another long and silent mom
ent, Harun asked, “What will become of the ancient fortress?”

  Ussam gazed at him thoughtfully. “Ghuldad stands upon Alhram. In No Man’s Land, Aztalaan alone cannot claim it.”

  “Will it be left abandoned then?” Harun enquired.

  “The Queen Sitra and Emperor Babati will soon convene with the rest of the Council,” Ussam replied. “They will decide the fate of Ghuldad.”

  Harun shrugged indifferently. “It would be a shame to leave it to the ruin of the desert. The fortress may prove to be a powerful front beyond the Wall.”

  Ussam tilted his head slightly and gave him a strange look. “Indeed, it would.”

  Laban joined them shortly, and Azhar refilled their cups with tea before offering Harun a plate of dried dates. Another unusual gesture from the General. Harun gave the plate a mildly apprehensive look before helping himself.

  “Laban and Ussam have come to me with an astounding proposition,” Azhar told Harun, who tried to listen attentively. “Would you care to elaborate?” he added to Laban.

  Laban took a short sip of his tea and cleared his throat. “The artifacts you procured,” he gestured at the box behind them, “are ancient relics of a very powerful nature. No other magical instrument can even remotely come close to their abilities. Legend has it that these items were crafted beyond the Veil.”

  “The Veil of the Unseen?” Harun nearly choked on a date seed. “The World of the Jinn?”

  “Do not be startled,” Ussam said.

  Do not be startled? Harun gave him a long hard stare. How could someone discuss the occult and the evil so casually and calmly, without so much as a shadow of qualm?

  “The crafts and skills of Jinn-kind are unknown to humans,” Laban continued with the same composure as his companion. “The Amulets and weapons you acquired are ancient crafts that can be used to rival the Dark Prince’s forces.”

  Harun stared at him. Drowsiness clouded his mind. They found weapons to defeat the Dark Prince, and it sounded like good news. But what does it all have to do with me?

  “When a Jinn—” Laban went on.

  “This information is sensitive,” Ussam interrupted his companion. “What we discuss, must remain within this tent.”

  The air was steadily becoming chilly and crisp with the approach of dawn, but the winds were still high and they beat against the tent, threatening to uproot it.

  Laban returned Ussam’s caution with a curt nod. “To be a sorcerer, is to submit one’s soul to the will of the Jinn, the demons, and the devil himself. Very rarely can a Jinn be enslaved, but when it is, it owes allegiance only to its master, and to those true in blood. There are rituals and sacraments involved, both irrevocably arduous and taxing to body and soul.”

  Harun frowned and shook his head. “I do not understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Azhar added. “Come clear, Laban.”

  Laban gave a slow nod as if requesting their patience. “Each of the four Amulets binds an Elemental Jinn, first brought into existence to further the Dark Prince’s wicked ambitions. However, with the right rituals and sacraments employed, the same Elemental Jinn can also be used to debilitate him.”

  Harun’s attention was now fully drawn. Sleep had long abandoned him.

  “The Dark Prince’s most trusted,” Laban continued to explain, “the Hand of Azazil, commands hosts of evil Jinn, and draws power from witchcraft. Need I elaborate more?”

  Harun did not care to hide his uncertainty. Did these men truly believe that witchcraft could win the war for them? The lands of Arammoria had been home to sorcerers since ancient times, and every battle was tainted with witchcraft. Hundreds of sorcerers from Imar and Uduff have been tasked to find a way, yielding murky and mediocre results. And from the mists emerge two men with an averred elucidation? He scoffed loudly.

  Laban became offended. “Incredulous as it may seem to you, blacksmith; our claim is true! If you have the luxury to scorn so blatantly, then you have not fully realized the gravity of the matter. The Dark Prince’s forces and allies grow ever stronger and powerful. Our provisions run thinner by the day, and our foothold in this war weakens irreversibly.”

  “Our? When did it become our?” Harun protested. “Arammorians were the first to give him sanction because he promised you power above all others. Now this war has become your concern as well? We are surrounded by betrayers and usurpers!” He looked at Ussam, “You. Galadian. Are not the rumors true that Aghara and Din-Galad seek secret allegiances with Arammoria on similar promises? What will your Emperor say when you come to him with this proposal?”

  “I may be born of the Mountain, but I command an Aztalaan banner,” Ussam declared. “Therefore, I cannot speak for Emperor Babati. Din-Galad has its own standing in this war and little can we gain by brooding over politics. If the rumors are indeed true, then we must look to our own.”

  Harun glared at him. “Why have you come to me? You three are capable soldiers. Why do you need a blacksmith?”

  Laban and Ussam glanced at each other. Azhar folded his arms and leaned back slightly. “They carry with them a bold claim.”

  “Do they?” Harun raised his eyebrows.

  “Your father is a sorcerer,” Azhar said.

  “And what of it?” Harun asked harshly. “His foolishness of indulging in despicable acts is driving him to his own destruction.”

  “There is more to it than mere stargazing or palm-reading,” Laban said. “Your father had discovered the existence of the Amulets long before your birth. It was he, and three others, who buried them in the Dead City.”

  Harun blinked. An odd ringing filled his ears. “Careful, Arammorian,” his voice became dangerously soft. “I may be a simple blacksmith, but I know how to wield a blade. You are making a very serious allegation!”

  Laban gave a soft chuckle. “I do not threaten, Harun Zafar. And I do not twist lies. Your father discovered those Amulets and hid them, for their powers are too great to be wielded by man. We have come here tonight for a very specific reason.”

  Azhar reached out and touched Harun’s trembling hand. “Steel yourself, Harun. There is sense in what they say.”

  Harun took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

  “We must face fact,” Ussam urged. “The only way to end this war is by use of the Amulets. And the only way we can control them is by true blood. Your blood, Harun Zafar. Your father commanded one of the Amulets, and you have inherited the same legacy. Whether you choose it or not, the same blood flows through your veins. The same fragility. You can allow that weakness to consume you, or you can claim your birthright and use it for good.”

  Harun said nothing. He shot a glance at Azhar, who had focused his gaze on the teapot.

  “Look around you, Harun,” Laban pressed on. “War and corruption are consuming our very existence. What more evidence do you require?”

  “What do you seek to gain from all this?” Azhar asked him simply. “We have spoken for a long while now. Dawn has come and gone, yet I fail to perceive your true intent.”

  Laban looked abashed. “An end to war,” he blinked. “Is that not all there is to gain?”

  “An Arammorian does nothing without first securing his own interests,” Harun stated. “Even the spoils of war are a profit to your kind! It is a shame to see one of our own, side with the enemy!” he added to Ussam.

  “Side with the enemy?” Ussam made a sudden sharp move, reaching under his cloak, only to be stopped by his companion. “Is this how you would treat your guests? You insult us when we bring glad tidings?”

  “That is not our intent,” Azhar’s expression was impassive. “We are not dishonorable men, but if you want us to plunge into the depths of witchcraft, you must first earn our trust. And you will not earn it by the edge of a blade, General.”

  Ussam gave him a long, hard stare. Harun did not think he was foolish enough to threaten Azhar while the entire Legion stood at his command just outside the tent, but his mistrust in the man grew with every passi
ng moment.

  “What you say is true,” Ussam spoke in a restrained tone. “Babati and Sitra seek to lay down their arms and join forces with Arammoria. They are desperate and they see surrender as a means to survival, but they only face betrayal, and they know it not. Their lands will crumble into scattered tribes and leaderless clans, and the Dark Prince’s forces will tear at them even more until they no longer exist.”

  “They must stand united,” Laban said. “Under a single banner. Behind strong leadership. We will unite them!”

  Harun nearly scoffed again. “They will never follow a single leader,” he stated. “And what makes you think that the other nations and kingdoms will accept a unified Empire? It is an absurd notion!”

  “He is right,” Azhar nodded slowly. “Our focus is this war. Our focus is to bring peace to the land.”

  “Peace is beyond your reach,” Ussam gave him a grim look.

  Azhar’s eyes narrowed and his beard twitched slightly.

  “General Babak,” Ussam leaned in an inch closer, “a host, larger than any you have ever faced before, approaches from the west. We have seen the banners of forty-thousand strong, thundering the earth on their way to annihilate this legion. Another force, twice as large, marches from Rhudah to General Murad’s camp outside the Walls of Murfaqat. My Legion marches to the Wall to join forces with his, but if our defenses fail, then so ends this war with Arammoria as the victors, and the streets of our cities turned to rivers of blood.”

  Silence deafened the tent. Although nearly diminished, the single candle’s wick continued to boast a strong flame, but that was not the only source of light. As the winds fluttered the entrance flaps of the tent, a thin slither of gold appeared and disappeared, growing larger upon the rugs and loose sand as the desert sun began impending itself upon the lands. Dawn had broken into first light, and if Ussam’s claim was true, before nightfall, the camp will be deserted, as the First Legion will either be marching out to meet this force, or retreating in shameful surrender. Retreating, because the enemy was not known to take prisoners of war. The enemy was not known to leave any survivors. Azhar and Harun exchanged nervous glances.