The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  Mukhtar gasped and stumbled back frightfully.

  On Saif’s shabby mattress lay a limp body. The left leg was broken, its shard of a bone protruding through flesh, skin, and cloth. Several deep cuts and lashes bleeding into the sheets. The face was disfigured with gruesome bruises, a dislocated jaw, and oozing cuts. It took several moments for Mukhtar to recognize who it was.

  “Hassin,” Saif nudged him awake and began to tend to his wounds. “He is here.”

  Hassin choked, coughed, spluttered, and groaned. “I must— speak— with him!”

  “By God Almighty!” Mukhtar’s voice trembled. “What has happened to you?”

  “You— wanted— proof,” Hassin’s croak was barely audible, his face twisted into what may have been an attempted grin, displaying a bloody mouth and several missing teeth. He stretched out a bloodied hand and extended a tattered, crumpled piece of parchment. “I have— proof!”

  Mukhtar had some difficulty reading the blood-stained scribblings.

  “You fool!” he remarked. “I only spoke out of anger! You needn’t have climbed into the wolf’s den for this!”

  Hassin’s jaw slackened, bloody spit drooling into the sheets. He was utterly pitiful. Mukhtar did not know whether to feel horrified at his state, or startled at what he had procured. More so, he felt guilt, remorse, and a deepening dread that Hassin might not last the night. He read the note again. His fists clenched with rage.

  “Where can I find them?” he snarled.

  “Spice Street!” Hassin whispered hoarsely. “Forgive— me— brother—”

  “Mukhtar! You must not!” Saif warned. “Whatever your thoughts, they are nothing but the devil’s whispers!”

  Mukhtar ignored his admonitions. “Bring him medicine. Tend to his wounds. Tonight, blood will be spilled on Spice Street!”

  “Be it your own blood?” Saif remarked. “Think before you act, Mukhtar!”

  Mukhtar left with an animosity he had not felt since the day they had been coerced into surrendering the forge.

  Spice Street was close to Saif’s house. He sniffed the air, and his nostrils were filled with the acrid scents of clove, cardamom, and nutmeg among various other spices and seasonings. The flame of a torchlight flickered at the far end of the narrow street, and the closer he approached, the better he could see its bearer.

  “Look who comes to us in the dead of the night!” Ghadan sneered blatantly, his smug voice echoing off the walls and shutters of the shops and stalls on either side of the street. “The Bullheaded Blacksmith! Ghuldad hunts your very existence! How have you remained hidden from their demonic eyes, I wonder?”

  “The traitor must have told him everything!” One of the guards grunted.

  “It matters not,” Ghadan sneered. “He will not live to see the light of dawn! We will tear him limb from limb, and then, we will return his corpse to Ghuldad and claim a sack-full of gold!” His grin widened maliciously, and Mukhtar realized the wickedness of the man. He had worsened since the day the forge was surrendered. He had a spring in his step, pride in his voice, and an arrogance that could only have been acquired through wicked and malicious intent.

  What now?

  There was no turning back. No escape. Mukhtar shook his head. He would not run away, not this time. He would not turn his back on his pursuers. He will not cower— not from the likes of Ghadan! He took a step forward and drew his dagger.

  “Have you come to die, boy?” Ghadan screeched.

  To kill! Mukhtar took another step forward, and froze.

  High above, and unknown to them, a figure leaped from rooftop to rooftop. A shadow among shadows. Spice Street was a long, winding lane of merchant stalls and shops of the finest herbs and seasonings in all the empire. A fine place for a fight? Very rash, Mukhtar, the figure thought to itself. Then again, the boy had always been stubborn and thoughtless when it came to picking a fight, and this one was not thought out at all.

  From its perch, it watched, hawk-like, as the two parties approached each other. Threats were traded. Three swords and a dagger were drawn.

  This was it.

  The figure took a few calculated steps back and let out a controlled breath. A quick sprint, an agile leap over the edge, and it sprung forth.

  There was a rush of air and a jingle of metal above Mukhtar, and they all raised their heads to search the night sky.

  It was as if time had slowed. Against the cloudy, moonless sky, there appeared to be a winged creature flying through the air. They took several hasty steps away from its projectile path.

  What devilry is this? Mukhtar thought, and only when it landed, did he become stunned rather than terrified. With a heavy thud and a cloud of unsettling dust, it touched the ground only a few paces before him and remained there, as if a barrier between him and Ghadan. What Mukhtar had assumed to be the wings of an unknown creature, were the deep crimson robes of a hooded figure, sheathed in studded, leather armor. By its side hung a single long scimitar. A crossbow and a quiver of bolts on its shoulder. When it moved, it was a blur.

  It drew the crossbow and set it loose, striking its mark in the chest. One of Ghadan’s men fell to the ground, howling and rasping for breath before succumbing to his death. The second guard fumbled with his sword and started forward. The crimson figure did not have time to load a second bolt, and instead charged forward with a drawn scimitar.

  Surprisingly enough, this left Mukhtar alone with Ghadan, who seemed to have frozen in horror. Taking advantage of this, Mukhtar charged forward, filled with a rush of adrenaline and rage, and plunged his dagger into the crevice between Ghadan’s armor.

  The sensitivity in Mukhtar’s fingers was paramount. He felt the cold steel drive through layers of skin, vessel, and organ, penetrating deep into Ghadan’s belly. A greater terror was etched on the man’s perspiring, trembling face. He wanted to scream in pain, but all he could do was gag and choke, darkened blood drooling from his mouth.

  “How— can this— be?” he croaked, his eyes bloodshot and bulging. “You are— just a boy! A rat! Vermin! You are— nothing!”

  Mukhtar’s lips curled with mirthless hatred. He released his hold on the dagger and allowed Ghadan to stagger aimlessly until his feet gave out and he crumbled to the ground. Behind him, the hooded stranger was still engaged in a fierce clash of steel. His adversary was larger and stronger than him, with heavy armor and no less skilled in combat. His attacks were brutal, but not nearly enough to overpower the Crimson Warrior, who was evidently agiler and quick-footed enough to evade his strikes. While they battled, Mukhtar knelt in the dirt beside Ghadan and held him up by the scruff of his armor.

  “Who are your masters?” he growled. “To whom do you answer?”

  Despite the magnitude of his pain, Ghadan managed to breathe a curse. “You will— never know— cur! Turn back— return to the loins— of your penniless uncle! This— is war. And war— is the province of men!”

  “In this war, you met your defeat by my hand,” Mukhtar said crudely, yanking the dagger out and stabbing him twice more with a surge of loathing. “So it shall be to the disgrace of your name!”

  Ghadan could not even bear the strength to struggle. His body curled up into a fetal position, his arms pressing into the fatal wounds. He trembled and writhed in acute agony, until he breathed his last.

  Mukhtar was not done. His hatred had not dissipated. Rage was still charging through him, and he unleashed it upon the corpse of the vile man who had destroyed their lives, who had spilled the blood of his friend, his brother. He kicked Ghadan’s body several times, grunting with every blow, breathing every appalling insult in every language he knew.

  “— Infidel! Cur! Long have you persecuted the innocent! May you burn in hell for all eternity—!”

  The Crimson stranger rushed forward after defeating his foe, and drew Mukhtar back. “Stay yourself! Death must be respected, not abused!”

  “Respect?” Mukhtar retorted and struggled against the stranger’s hold. “Di
d he show respect when he mauled Hassin like a wild animal?”

  “Hold yourself!” The stranger cautioned again.

  Mukhtar took a step back and frowned at the hooded man. Why would this stranger come to his aid? A stranger both skilled and competent in combat. There was something familiar about him. The way he held himself. His attire. His voice.

  “I must thank you for your aid,” Mukhtar said. “But this was not your battle.”

  The figure drew its hood.

  “My brother’s battles will always be my own,” the man said. “And I will forever come to your aid.”

  Mukhtar gasped, staring at the man disbelievingly. There was no denying the sharp features. He was broad and muscular, with shoulder-length, dark hair, and a beard in dire need of grooming. A scar across his left cheek glinted in the fallen torchlight, and despite a shadow of utter exhaustion, Zaki’s smile was broader than ever.

  “I left Bisrah, my horse, at home and followed you,” he said.

  “The horseman at the end of the street,” Mukhtar stepped forward and embraced his brother. “That was you!”

  “Indeed,” Zaki nodded as they parted. “We must come away from here.” He glanced at Ghadan’s body. “Another guard patrol will have heard all the commotion.”

  Without wasting a moment more, they turned away from the three corpses bleeding into the street, Mukhtar still slightly trembling from the rush of adrenaline he had amassed since he left Saif’s house.

  “How have you been?” Zaki asked him. “I heard you were faced with grave ordeal. Ummi sent me a letter.”

  “Indeed,” Mukhtar said darkly, and he began narrating his tale, just as he done to Mika’il. However, he made sure to give his brother every detail. There was no sense in hiding anything from the one person he knew he could trust his life to.

  “When I arrived at Aztalaan, the guard said you were not there,” he stated. “A lieutenant named Sameer, sought to keep me imprisoned. We hastily slipped away before they could enchain us.”

  Zaki’s expression became stony. “I had already deserted the Red-Guard then. They may have hoped to learn of my whereabouts from you. Alas, it has taken me so long to return to Khalidah. My journey had to be lengthened to evade any bounty-hunters on my tail. It is no simple matter to desert the Red-Guard. I must shed these colors before they betray me,” he gestured at his crimson robes.

  Mukhtar gave an appreciative smile. “Needless to say, I am grateful you are here, by my side.”

  Zaki gave him a pat on his shoulder as they came closer to Saif’s house. “You must now tell me why you pursued those guards.”

  Mukhtar handed him the bloodied piece of parchment he had received from Hassin.

  Master,

  The wisdom of the Dark Prince could never have misled us. We have discovered that the Keystone is not ornamental, but a mark to hidden treasures which will bring us victory and enlightenment. However, we have searched the blacksmith’s forge, but found nothing meaningful. We need a more aggressive approach if we are to see any success. I present this information to you in the hands of Haim, and await your further instructions.

  Ghadan.

  THIRTEEN

  THE BUTCHER OF AGHARA

  Nearly ten years back, while journeying from Aghara, Hassin’s father fell terribly ill and died before his arrival to Khalidah. He was buried along the Sultan’s Pass, close to The Desert City of Hanan-Sula.

  Fatherless like Mukhtar and Zaki, Hassin took to the streets, desperate to earn a living and support his mother. When he was shunned away after continuous honest approaches, thieving became an easy escape. As children, Mukhtar and Saif used to watch with awe and amusement, while Hassin invented creative ways to defraud their Ustaadh or their peers, and make away with his effects. Much to Saif’s displeasure, Mukhtar more than often partook in some of these petty misdeeds, but as time went on, Hassin was slowly drawn to more dangerous crowds. He had faced arrest and imprisonment twice, rescued by the combined efforts of a distraught mother and bitter relatives. In a desperate attempt to save her son from destruction, she pleaded with Mika’il, and in honor of his friendship with Hassin’s father, Mika’il accepted him as an apprentice and gave him the tools to survive.

  A son of Khalidah’s oldest families, Hassin Al-Haddad, the Iron-Heart, died of his injuries close to daybreak when Mukhtar and Zaki returned to his broken, bloody, and lifeless body on Saif’s mattress.

  Saif was beside himself, and it took great effort on Mukhtar’s part to calm him, while not succumbing to tears himself. Together, they carted his body to his mother and three younger sisters, disguised under a heap of random objects, cushions, sheets, and sacks, found in Saif’s house.

  To bring ill news of her son’s death, refrain from telling her the truth, and lie to her only for her own protection, while she is distressed and distraught with a grief beyond imagination. It took Mukhtar, Zaki, and Saif an even greater effort to support the widow and her daughters, until the news had been spread to those of closest kin. He was, as they very well knew, their only source of sustenance. Her daughters were married, were unable to find decent work, and were constantly shunned by even their closest relatives for reasons bound to an age-old family feud.

  Under the supervision of the local Masjid, Hassin’s body was washed, shrouded, and buried, that very afternoon, in the graveyard outside the city. Prayers were later held at their house, and many among friends and families had come to pay their respects.

  Isolated from mourners and well-wishers, Mukhtar’s heart hung heavy, his mind abuzz with what he had faced the previous day and night. He could not bear to remain any longer than the burial. His revenge on Hassin’s killers brought him no comfort, no satisfaction. There was more to his death than just the involvement of Ghadan. What they had discovered, was enough to cause bloodshed, and Mukhtar was now compelled to find and end it before it spread. Ghadan did not act alone. There were others. He would find them. He would bring them to justice. Only then would he find peace.

  Mukhtar acquainted Zaki with Ghasif and Rauf. There was an awkward moment when the Red-Guard and the two Assassins met and greeted each other while struggling to keep their swords sheathed and enmity contained. When the moment passed, Ghasif wasted no time in expressing his displeasure towards Mukhtar’s act of vengeance the night before.

  “That was very foolish of you!”

  Mukhtar glanced at Rauf, who was silently wearing a disappointed look.

  “Irrational and unwise!” Ghasif continued. “There will be repercussions! Their hunt for us will now multiply tenfold!”

  “They cannot possibly know!” Mukhtar argued. He was seated cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the wall, arms folded.

  “You fool!” Ghasif countered. “Have you forgotten how powerful our enemies are? We have remained hidden for so long. You have killed three of their vital acquaintances. Think! Your one act of vengeance will draw all their attention to us!”

  Mukhtar brandished the piece of parchment he had been clutching in his hand since the previous night. “Hassin sacrificed himself to bring us this! We now know what they are after. We know whom to follow next, and battle them before they have a chance to advance their dark agendas, and if you would rather cower, and wait for the world to fall, then you are an even bigger fool!”

  “Are you truly seeking an end to their agendas?” Rauf questioned.

  “How can you ask that?” Mukhtar’s eyes narrowed. “Is that not what we sought since we left Ghuldad?”

  “Is it?” Rauf approached him menacingly.

  Mukhtar gaped at him.

  “Revenge will not bring you peace,” Rauf went on.

  “This has nothing to do with—”

  Rauf shook his head disbelievingly.

  “There were other ways of pursuing Ghadan,” Ghasif added. “Subtle, discreet and far more effective. But you let vengeance cloud your judgment. You let your emotions take a hold of you, as they still are, and your rashness has jeopardi
zed everything we could possibly do to end their vile ambitions!”

  Mukhtar bit his lip. There was no denying Ghasif’s point, but what else was he to have done? Hassin was lying on his deathbed, and had Mukhtar wasted time to seek the Assassin’s aid first, Ghadan would have slipped through his fingers. As he recalled, Hassin had not mentioned Ghadan by name. If Mukhtar would not have arrived at Spice Street when he did, he would never have made the discovery he did. “Read the note again, Ghasif!” He held up the piece of parchment. “They seek a ‘keystone’, and claim to have found it. This information was due to change hands. Had Hassin not intervened, had we not silenced Ghadan, the enemy would be a step further than us. We now know what they do not!”

  “Whatever it is they seek,” Rauf remarked, paying no heed to Mukhtar’s statement, “had you involved us before you struck, we could have subdued Ghadan into divulging more. We now have nothing but a bloody piece of parchment and a vague description of something that may not even exist!”

  “So Hassin died for nothing?” Mukhtar’s throat became dry. “This Keystone is what General Masri tried to torture out of me, and you want me to ignore it all?”

  Silence fell in the cabin. Dusk was approaching and the day was ending, yet it felt to Mukhtar as though ages had gone by since he last spoke to Hassin. He felt as though there could be no more room for happiness in his heart, and the only way to fill the void was to trace what Hassin had discovered. He glanced at his brother. Zaki, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching their conflict with mild interest, chose to say nothing, but discreetly gave his brother an encouraging nod.

  “We share your grief, Mukhtar,” Rauf placed a hand on his shoulder. “But perhaps we should rethink our strategies.”

  Ghasif spoke in a calmer voice. “The killing of three city guards will not go unpunished. Their retribution will be swift, and the people will pay the price!”

  “The people are already paying the price!” Mukhtar argued. “Look around you! We cannot just take matters so lightly anymore. We must do something!”