It was widely disputed by most local authorities, tribes, clans and religious societies, condemning it to be a mark of wickedness and sorcery, and the fact that Arammoria, a nation known as the enemy, could even be considered to be part of this unified Empire.
“Is that why they seek the Amulets?” Mukhtar asked. “To summon Jinn? Is that their weapon?”
“That makes little sense,” Rauf argued. “Ussam has his sorcerers for that. Even so how many Jinn can they possibly summon?”
“An entire army?” Ghasif gave them a grim look. “A powerful but unseen force? No man would dare oppose him. The question is— how does one control such a force? Listen to this:
Very little is known of the Fundamentals of Creation, for very little has ever been understood. Fire, Water, Earth, and Air are the physical elements that embody our world, yet seldom does mankind appreciate such abundance. Grievous it is, that those who seek out the knowledge of these elements, seek them for personal ambition, and not for knowledge’s sake—
“Those are four,” Mukhtar interrupted. “What of the fifth?”
“Patience, Mukhtar!” Ghasif gave him an irritated look, and continued to read;
Knowledge, however, is only a piece of what construes the complex being that is the creation of the Almighty- mankind. There is good in man as there is evil; and evil is always conquering. Jealousy. Lust. Greed. Overpowering temptations. Witchcraft will forever remain the most common way to draw a vile satisfaction from the turmoil of others. Throughout history, mankind has delved deeper and deeper in its quest to seek out the extraordinary. The aspiration to be better than others, purely out of a desire to become more prominent. Before mankind, there roamed on this earth, beings created from smokeless fire, living beyond an Unseen Veil, in civilizations, nations, tribes, religions—
“I know about the Jinn,” Mukhtar interrupted again, and Ghasif shut the book with a snap.
“Would you prefer to recount then?” he asked as if he were offering a cup of tea, and Rauf gave a silent snicker.
Mukhtar scowled at him. “Elements and Jinn. I fail to see any relevance to Ussam, the Assassins, or my father!”
Rauf answered instead. “Witchcraft evolved as sorcerers began to find ways to manipulate the elements. If man could do so much, then it was assumed that Jinn could do a hundredfold. The four sorcerers found a way to bridge our worlds, and entrap demons, whose sole purpose was to manipulate the four elements. Four elements. Four Amulets.”
“You spoke of a fifth?” Mukhtar pressed his question.
“It is mentioned, but is unclear,” Ghasif replied. “Listen;
The human soul is a power beyond reckoning. It can cross to the heavens and return, a breath of life divine. The element of Creation itself.
The Element of Life.
“The fifth element is a human soul?” Rauf frowned. “Speak sense, Ghasif!”
Ghasif shrugged lightly. “What happens to our soul after death? What happens when we sleep? Of our very existence, our souls are the most perplexing of all. It is, indeed, Knowledge Divine!”
Mukhtar was very distracted while returning home that evening. The blazing sun had baked the walls of Khalidah’s mud, clay, and brick buildings all day, such that they continued to radiate heat despite the approach of a cooling dusk. The dirt and sand on the streets were still hot and they burned through his sandals. Much of the populous walked with exhaustion, feet trailing in the dirt, backs hunched, worn by a long day of toiling.
In an attempt to escape the heat, Mukhtar took secluded and narrow alleyways, where the sun had not had much of a chance to fully exert its wrath during the day. His mind was a hive of activity, for the more that made sense, the more that did not. The more answers they uncovered, the more questions they raised.
How could this even be possible? How could such common aspects of everyday life, fire, water, earth, and air, become associated with elements of sorcery? How could such a thing as sorcery even exist? It seemed utterly impossible. Something unseen and unfelt, yet clearly and undoubtedly, known to tarnish everyday life. In the hands of vile men, such treacherous powers existed to serve their own evil thoughts. How could such men even exist? He felt anger. He felt hatred. These were wicked men who brought nothing but misfortune, ruining the lives of others for nothing but greed. These were men who needed to have their heads parted from their bodies, to be hunted and destroyed, so that their evil would have no chance of spreading.
These thoughts were coursing through his mind with the zeal of an agitated beast, and he lost track of time and place, allowing his lower limbs to guide him along instinctive paths, barely flinching against the hot sands burning the soles of his feet.
“You must keep your focus, Mukhtar,” someone said to him, “lest you step into a pile of dung.”
It was a moment’s notice. He leaped as soon as he realized, and bumped into a passerby. After receiving his share of scorns and insults, he searched his surroundings for the Good Samaritan who gave him fair warning.
Leaning against a wooden pole holding up a canopy, was a man concealed beneath its shade. Clad in the armor of the Khalidan City Guard, his curly hair fluttering with the wind, his scimitar hanging loosely by his side. His grin was remarkably comfortable and ordinary, as though his friendship with Mukhtar had lasted long years. But it hadn’t. Mukhtar felt a rush of poisonous hatred as he stared at the one person whose existence he had almost forgotten many months ago.
It was Hassin.
“You!” Mukhtar forwent all prior gratitude.
“I just saved you from soiling your feet,” Hassin remarked lightly. “Is this how you thank me?”
Mukhtar gave a hysterical chuckle. “Save your false piety!”
“Harsh,” Hassin replied coolly. “Why do you insult me?”
“Why?” Mukhtar threw him a dirty look. “If you have to ask, then you are just as foolish as you are traitorous!”
Hassin showed humility by holding up his hands and taking a step back.
“You have only ever sought personal benefit,” Mukhtar scoffed, “even if it means stepping over the dead bodies of those you falsely claim to be your friends. Tell me then, why have you come to me?”
“I wish to look upon you, Mukhtar,” he replied calmly. “I have heard tales of your misfortune.”
“Is not my misfortune, your muse?” Mukhtar challenged. “Show your pretense to another, Hassin. I have no need for it!” He turned and continued to walk down the street.
Hassin jogged behind him and caught up. “I come with glad tidings, Mukhtar,” he said. “I have heard of your woes, and wish to empathize.”
“You robbed us!” Mukhtar yelled angrily. “Our entire livelihood! I cannot trust anything you say!”
“Mukhtar!” Hassin pulled him by the elbow. “I wish to relinquish this enmity, and reunite the brotherhood we once had.”
“Unhand me!” Mukhtar shook him off furiously and glared at him. “I have held myself for long, but push me, and you will learn the meaning of pain!”
“You must listen!” Hassin pleaded. “I have seen the error of my ways! I seek absolution.”
“You seek absolution?” Mukhtar’s eyes narrowed. “Was it not you who traded weapons with mercenaries? Did you not betray us when you took away our livelihood? Not absolution! You deserve to have had your hands cleaved!”
Hassin turned red with anger. “You know nothing of my struggles!”
Mukhtar, however, was beyond sympathies. Over time, he may have forgiven Hassin, but when their sustenance was taken from them, Mukhtar had vowed never to let go. Too much had happened to turn back time. Too much had changed. Shaking with anger, he took a menacing step forward. “You want absolution?” he snarled a whisper and pressed a threatening finger onto Hassin’s chest-brace. “Prove that you deserve it!”
With that, he turned on his heel and left Hassin by himself with his head hung.
TWELVE
THE CRIMSON WARRIOR
His anger ha
d not subsided, and it took immense effort to escape Suha’s continued attempts to have him eat before retiring to his room, for he wanted nothing but to be left alone with his thoughts. He sat on the stone ledge of his window, allowing the cool night breeze to toy with his face.
In his hand, he held his father’s Amulet, its icy-blue gemstone reflecting the moonlight like an orb within an orb. Below him, a black cat scratched the wall with its pink paws, sharpening its claws for the night hunt. Mukhtar knew the cat, somewhat. It had lived in the alley for as long as he could remember, and when he called to her, she gave him a long, curious stare, her yellow eyes gleaming in the dark.
Misbah had often suspected the cat to be a Jinn in animal form, a notion she had come to learn through tales of old tinged with a trickle of knowledge she gained in Madrassa. Although, Mukhtar knew that the Ustaadhi in the Madrassa’s often refrained from divulging too much unless they wished to give the children nightmares. He too had heard the same tales, the same cautions, to speak the name of the Almighty in true faith when a Jinn crossed your path. To seek refuge from the devil when a donkey brayed in vain or when a dog howled endlessly into the night.
Indeed such beliefs were true, and were awed upon when read in books or discussed in sessions. But when faced with its reality, be it but a glimpse, fear became a hungry beast, feasting upon one’s very essence. It is how he felt when he stared into the glowing allure of the Amulet, a tangible testimony to that which was beyond the comprehension of man. Palpable evidence that the Unseen, may be unseen, but existed nonetheless, perhaps even in equal magnitudes to the ambiguous actuality of mankind.
The moon was slowly waning behind light clouds, as Mukhtar intently studied the mysterious object in his hand, pondering, his thoughts drawn deep into its enigmatic charms. Why did he feel so enticed by it?
The cat stopped scratching, licked its paws, barred its teeth at him, and slunk away, disappearing along the dark alley. The hour is late, he decided, and he stepped down from the window, returning the Amulet to its place around his neck. Tired and weary, he lay on his bed and within moments, fell into deep sleep. His dreams were irrational and illogical, reflecting bizarre occurrences in his daily life, and as a bright day wanes to an end, a night sky slowly imposing darkness unto all, the lucidity of his dreams slipped through his grasp and he was forced to endure a trying ordeal.
Along the streets of Khalidah, he walked with a sense of purpose, heading for his place of work. His heart was filled with joy, for he had heard the good news— that Mika’il had found success in reopening the forge.
He arrived, pulled on his tattered and stained leather apron, and began to search for his tools.
“They are outside,” Mika’il told him.
Mukhtar turned and beamed at his uncle, who sat upon the back of a cow, holding a rooster in his hands. They both laughed heartily, sharing a long, deserving and delightful moment, after which he opened the door to go outside, and found that the alley was no more. Instead, he stood before a large, empty field. The ground was freshly cultivated, and there he found Saif and Faraj, digging and pulling a plow. He knew very little about toiling the earth, and chose a large hammer to join Saif in digging, hoping it would suffice.
Instead of working, however, they leaned casually against their tools and talked about Adil, about Jinn, about Ussam and Ghulam Mirza, until Mika’il approached them and said, “Mukhtar, Hassin has come to visit,” he pointed at the door of the forge. “He brings you glad tidings, and hopes to bargain for your Amulet. You must not deny him, for I fear his malice. He may harm you!”
Mukhtar tensed. He had no desire to surrender his amulet. He will never surrender it. It was his, and his alone. He tugged on the golden chain, pulled it over his head and held it affectionately. After securely storing it in the pocket of his thaub, he stepped inside. He would speak to Hassin and reason with him first. He would fight him if he had to, but would not yield his precious Amulet.
It was in that moment that he realized he was not in the forge.
Fear gripped him. Darkness engulfed him. His screams were muffled. A deep rumbling sound shook the ground as the walls began to close in. Slowly but surely, he felt the approach of death.
The very air around him seemed to have been sucked out. He gagged. Instinctively, he struggled against the confining space, wriggling for room only in an attempt to bargain a few more moments of life. But the walls drew closer and tighter, closer and tighter…
Then it stopped.
Silence endured. It was a while before he realized that he could reach out into empty space. The walls were no more.
He sunk to the depths, further and further below, fathoms and fathoms deep under water. He struggled for breath. He felt something chained to his feet, dragging him down.
There was laughter, eerie, irregular, and agnate to the hissing of a snake.
Fear and panic flooded into him in a rush of reminiscent horrors. ‘Not this again!’
The screeching laughter of the dreadfully demented entity rang through his eardrums. ‘It is this!’
The cackling continued the deeper he sunk. He looked down and screamed soundlessly. A hand. A veined, bony, cold hand had wrapped itself around his ankle, its pale fingers stretching into long, translucent, gruesome talons, digging into his flesh. The rest of the hand, a horrid pale arm, dissipated into the darkening depths, beyond which a starling, icy-blue gleam hinted from a pair of snakelike eyes.
‘There is a morbid sense of satisfaction in watching you succumb to your own deliriums,’ it hissed.
‘I have done nothing to deserve this!’ Mukhtar thought desperately.
‘You reap what you sow, sinner!’ it shrieked with hatred, and the hand dug deeper into his flesh, inflicting a new kind of pain.
The searing agony of thousands of needles prickling every inch of his body. He writhed and squirmed in anguish, wriggling his limbs, struggling to escape. The hissing and spitting, screaming and cackling, dug deeper and deeper into his skull.
Then it ceased. Despite the crushing depths, there was a hollow silence, followed by a horrid whisper, ‘It cannot be!’
There was a struggle, and the gruesome hand clutching his ankle, relinquished its hold, but even though he sensed his freedom, he could not move. Fear was paramount in him.
There was another whimper. ‘You were destroyed with the ring,’ the voice screeched in denial. ‘I was there! I was one of them! Unless… but… impossible!’
‘Inevitable!’ the response was roaring and shattering, as heavy as thunder, as piercing as lightning, commanding, assertive, and dominating.
Then there was a rasping, spitting sound, as if something struggled to speak but could not. There followed an ear-splitting scream and a powerful rush of water. Mukhtar was taken against his will, forcefully carried by a powerful source. After several failed attempts to struggle, he conceded to its might. Water is a powerful entity. To fight would be futile. He allowed it to exert its will, until its will was done. Until its tempers were allayed. And silence descended once more.
Mukhtar peered through the waters and saw a figure swim toward him. Was this an illusion? Were his eyes deceived, or was the creature before him, truly of beast and man?
Scorched and scaly wings spanned far wide into nothingness. Long, muscular arms with foot-long claws for fingers, hung on either side of the torso of what appeared to be a man supported by the legs of a mule, furry and matted with blood, its hooves upsetting the cold wastes of the ground it trod upon.
The waters had long vanished. There was only sand and dust. He was engulfed by a sandstorm, unlike anything he had ever seen, for the grains appeared not to shift with the wind nor the pull of the ground, rising instead in defined paths toward treacherous skies.
Glaring eyes of a goat’s head described what could only be a nameless impiety, as the creature shifted and Mukhtar saw what lay at its feet, bound in chains. The wind screamed and he screamed with it. The sound burst forth from his lungs and mout
h, with a decibel high enough to wake him from his nightmare.
Terror and panic gripped his heart. His immediate thought was to reach for the candle by his bed, and ignite it to bring light into the room, but was afraid to even try. He remained there, his mind still trying to comprehend what he had just seen and heard. It was long before he could convince himself that it was only a dream.
When he became aware of his tongue and his lips, he prayed, uttering strings of Divine Verses.
A series of loud knocks echoed through the room, and he froze. Something unnatural was about to happen, and he was unprepared.
Another set of knocks on his door made him jump and pray feverishly, and it took him several moments to muster the courage and investigate.
God Almighty, give me strength! He grabbed the dagger on his bed-stand and took a cautious step forward.
The door swung open before he reached it, and his heart almost stopped beating. Saif stood before him, drenched in sweat, his clothes stained with what could only be blood. He was heaving, his fingers trembled, and upon his face was etched a horror quite unlike Mukhtar’s.
“You must come with me! Now!”
“Saif? What is the matter?”
“A most disturbing thing has happened,” Saif’s voice shook. “Hasten, Mukhtar! You must come with me!”
It did not take Mukhtar longer than a few seconds to tie his trousers and sandals. Panicky and breathing heavily, he followed Saif with only his dagger in hand.
They peered through the front doors before exiting the house, and aside from the lone horseman further down the street, there was not a soul in sight. With a cautious peek around every corner, they silently crept along the dark, empty streets, and arrived at Saif’s tiny house, unhindered. Saif fumbled about in the dark and lit an oil lamp, enlivening a most horrific sight.
The Amulets of Sihr Page 17