The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  ‘Ghulam is a trained swordsman. Avoid any form of open conflict with him.’

  The footsteps grew louder…

  ‘His strength is his sheer size. Avoid his grasp.’

  …and louder…

  ‘Steady yourself, don’t be hasty. Calculate your reach carefully. You have only one chance— make it count!’

  An orange glow grew closer and brighter as its bearer approached. Mukhtar readied himself silently behind the door, and remained still.

  ‘Aim for the neck. Do not slice or swing. Stab!’

  The footsteps stopped. Mukhtar peeked through the crack of the door to make sure he had the right target. There he was, the man he despised, the man responsible for the death of Hassin.

  Tall and bulky, with a short brown beard, wearing elegant robes of dark turquoise and a ceremonial, jeweled sword. His thick, ringed fingers were wrapped around a brass candlestand. He took a quick glance down the corridor, and stepped into the room, unaware of his predator lurking behind the door. Mukhtar breathed in slowly, as beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he squeezed the handle of the dagger between his sweaty fingers. He found an opportunity in the moment when Ghulam was placing the candlestand on the table and was reaching out to some raisins while his back was turned.

  Mukhtar stepped forward.

  And froze.

  The hem of his ridiculous tunic had caught on a rusty nail protruding behind the door, and the sound of ripping fabric almost deafened him.

  Ghulam turned around sharply, astonished, bewilderment etched on his face. “You!”

  Mukhtar became dumbstruck.

  “I should have known not to trust that pompous girl!” Ghulam growled, his eyes shifting between the dagger and Mukhtar. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Instinct took over him.

  While Ghulam fumbled for the ceremonial sword at his side, Mukhtar sprung forward.

  And struck.

  When he pulled back, his dagger was embedded into Ghulam’s belly, and its prey was at a loss for words.

  “Wh— why?” Ghulam stumbled back against the wall, one arm reaching out for support, the other wrapped around the dagger, blood gushing forth through his ringed fingers.

  Mukhtar trembled where he stood. “Because you deserve nothing less!”

  “I—” Ghulam sputtered, his eyes became bloodshot, “—do not understand—” he stumbled and crumbled to the ground, upsetting the table and all its contents. Mukhtar instinctively reached for the candlestand before it fell over.

  “You are the reason why Hassin is dead!” he growled. “The reason why many continue to lose their lives!”

  Ghulam pulled himself up and rested his head against the wall, heaving. “Vengeance will lay waste to your soul!”

  “Justice. Not vengeance,” Mukhtar replied harshly. “Justice for those whom you have oppressed!”

  “You know very little, child!”

  Mukhtar shook with hatred. “The artisans you overtax. The citizens you oppress. The sons and daughters you have robbed from them and sold to slavery! I know more than you think!”

  Ghulam forced a laugh. “How very little you know. By my death, you have opened a door to wicked men!”

  “Liar!” Mukhtar remarked. “Your lies will not save you now! You are an advocate of evil!”

  “You have become—” Ghulam coughed more blood, “—as deluded as your father!” A dark scarlet stain had spread all over the front of his robes, and his skin was becoming paler and colder by the passing minute. He had very little time remaining.

  Mukhtar was startled at his statement. “Speak then,” he urged.

  Ghulam shook his head defiantly.

  Mukhtar reached for the dagger and gave it a little twitch. The resultant was a strained scream from Ghulam. “You have spent a lifetime serving the needs of wicked men. By your dying breath, redeem what little honor you ever had, or pass into the unknown, a traitor and an advocate of the Shaytaan!”

  Ghulam coughed and spat out blood. His life was fading, and Mukhtar could see the conflict etched on his pale face. His eyes skirted over Mukhtar’s shoulder for a brief moment, and Mukhtar gave a solemn nod to assure him that they were alone.

  “Your father— made a grave mistake,” Ghulam sputtered, and Mukhtar’s eyes narrowed. “The Eye. The Doorway. The Amulet. All evil.”

  “What mistake?” Mukhtar urged again. “What did my father do?”

  “Find— the Keystone, boy!” Ghulam struggled with breath, choking and drooling darkened blood. “The weapon to defeat them— lies beneath the Keystone.”

  “And the Amulet?” Mukhtar grabbed his robes and shook him desperately. “What of the Amulets?”

  “They— will use the Amulets—” he croaked, “to reign— with the powers— of Pagan Gods. United— the Amulets will open—”

  A cough. A sputter of blood. A final breath. Ghulam’s head fell and hung to the side, his eyes cold and empty. Dead.

  Mukhtar took two steps back, slid down against the opposite wall, and stared at Ghulam’s dead body. Weapons under a Keystone? Doorway? Eye? What was happening? What was happening?

  Mukhtar shook his head violently. The more answers he uncovered the more questions that arose. How long he sat there, he did not know. He searched the body and found what he was looking for. The piece of parchment contained a list of names, including those of Haim Tuma and Ghadan Lahib, among many others he did not recognize. He tucked the parchment into his tunic, and with great effort, dragged and heaved Ghulam’s heavy corpse into the large wardrobe by the corner, after which he sunk back against the wall and thought deeply about his next move. The hours swam by, and he waited patiently, hoping that the others had escaped successfully.

  He heard footsteps approaching, and he hid behind the door again. The footsteps were light, evenly spaced, and brisk. He knew whom they belonged to.

  The scent of her exquisite Bakhoor reached his nostrils before she entered the room, and he emerged from the shadows, gripping his dagger firmly.

  “You were to find me!” she turned and confronted him. “Is it done?”

  There was a reason why Mukhtar had chosen to wait for her instead. Impatience led to recklessness, which led to error. He intended to use that to gain an upper hand.

  Calm and composed, he held forward the bloody dagger.

  Her lip twitched slightly. Other than that she showed no signs of satisfaction. “Where is the body? Did you search it? Did he have anything on his person?”

  Mukhtar smiled inwardly and did not reply.

  “Speak, murderer!” her voice became harsher.

  He turned and shut the door, bolting the lock in place.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  “This is retribution,” Mukhtar replied simply. “This is what you miscalculated when you decided to hold us ransom.”

  “Do you think you can threaten me, murderer?” She held up a ringed finger at him. “Do not forget, your brothers are still my captives.”

  “Is that what you think?” Mukhtar challenged.

  “It is what I know!” She removed three daggers concealed in her silk robes, and placed them on the table. Zaki, Ghasif, and Rauf’s daggers. “Are you willing to gamble their lives?”

  “Are you willing to gamble yours?” Mukhtar struggled to maintain calm in his voice. “Tell me, your Ladyship, how did you know what Ghulam concealed in his pockets?”

  “Do not toy with me, peasant!”

  “You really should consider how you respond,” Mukhtar removed the piece of parchment from his pocket and held it closer to the candlestand on the table. “I can assure you, I am not one to toy with! You will answer my questions, or I will turn your precious parchment to ash!”

  She fell silent, watching him with hateful eyes.

  “Why does an aristocratic woman, such as yourself, seek such information?” Mukhtar went on. “Seek it with such determination as to kill a man, and gamble with the lives of so many others, includ
ing her own?”

  “Why do you care?” she asked scathingly.

  “Your motives are questionable,” Mukhtar smirked. “It cannot be for justice. It certainly is not for the betterment of humanity. Which only means you seek vengeance. The real question, is why?”

  He watched her expression transcend from hatred to horror.

  “They took something of yours,” he pressed on, “or someone,” he edged the parchment an inch closer to the candle.

  She bit her lip, eyeing the flame of the candle and the parchment. “My sister,” her whisper was barely audible.

  Mukhtar eyed her suspiciously. “You are lying!”

  “I am not!” she remarked.

  “And you just happened to discover that the man responsible for your sister’s enslavement is your master’s guest?” Mukhtar stepped forward menacingly. “That is why you blackmailed us into doing your dirty work, and since you did, you will speak the truth, or I will burn the list! Now tell me, did Ghulam serve Ussam Bashiri? Does Thamir also serve the assassin warlord? What do you know of the Keystone?”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave him a vindictive look. “What absurdity is this?” she asked, and Mukhtar tried but could not detect a lie.

  He sighed and shook his head slowly. “You are masking the misdeeds of evil men,” he tried to sound solemn, “I urge you, your ladyship, disband your aristocracy and humble yourself, or such men will reign atrocity over innocent lives! Did you think our presence tonight was mere chance? Did you think we were merely here to prey upon your master’s wealth?”

  A stony silence lingered. She stared at him with hatred in her eyes. He stared back impassively, maintaining his composure.

  “Last night,” she said finally, “I woke to a letter embedded into my bedpost with a dagger, stating the whereabouts of my sister and the man responsible for her enslavement. Earlier today, one of my spies confirmed that Ghulam had a list of his slavers on his person.”

  Having witnessed Haim Tuma and Ghadan Lahib’s brutality first hand, he was almost compelled to empathize with her. He gazed at her for a long while, reading her. Despite her stony expression, there was a piercing glint in her eyes that he could not particularize, a fierce beast hiding behind an irrevocable beauty, and he tried his best not to allow it to divert his focus. There was still the matter of his escape, and he would not allow her a victorious hand on him. He extended his arm and allowed the candle’s flame to caress the parchment. It seared and set ablaze. Fragments of dark ash fell to the floor, and the air stank of acrid smoke.

  “The parchment!” She gasped and started forward. “You said—”

  “I lied!” he challenged, and the look of exasperation on her face was almost satisfying. “I read the names and etched them in here—” he raised a finger to his temple, “— and as I see it, you have but one choice. My brothers and I will walk out of here, untouched, and—”

  She made a quick motion for the daggers, but Mukhtar was quicker. He had already moved forward with his own dagger, pinning her against the wall, the scent of her Bakhoor toying with his nostrils.

  “Do not test me!” he growled.

  She heaved, her eyes wide in horror. “Kill me and your brothers die!” she croaked.

  “Is that so?” He pressed the blade on her neck.

  “Wait!” she gasped. “I know what haunts you!”

  He loosened his grip ever so slightly.

  “I know what haunts you!” she repeated. “I know about the voices and the dreams.”

  He relinquished his hold and took several steps back. Now he wore a look of utter bewilderment.

  “How did you—?”

  “You reek of tainted witchcraft!” She eyed him shrewdly. “There is a presence about you that casts a dark aura!”

  His eyes were wide. His expression betrayed everything.

  EIGHTEEN

  FALSE PIETY

  The city was still. The waters of the Hubur, calm. The darkness never-ending. Low-hanging clouds foretold a day of downpour. Dogs howled in dissent against the rhythmic croaking of river toads, as the distant yelps and cheers from taverns and brothels, carried across the city.

  Their escape had been successful. Rauf had reluctantly heeded Mukhtar’s instructions, and he and Zaki had managed to free Ghasif from Kazimi’s grasp. It had been a simple of matter of distracting him while Ghasif slipped away. The Assassins returned to the cabin. Exhausted, Zaki had fallen asleep in the courtyard, awaiting Mukhtar. Rather than wake him and indulge in a lengthy conversation, he decided to climb the roof to seek some solitude.

  It was close to dawn. He paced in a small circle, his thoughts drawn far from his environs, as the events of the night unfolded in chronological order.

  Falling for Nabiha’s contrivance was an unprecedented contingency, but a miscalculation on her part. Or was it just an abrupt decision; an impulsive response to a fortuitous opportunity?

  A rather short-lived fortune, Mukhtar thought.

  A salty breeze shuffled the leaves of the overhanging palm trees, caressed Samiya’s lavender pots, and carried their scent to his nostrils. In a strange way, it reminded him of his murky, filthy station, chained by the wheel in the large courtyard of Ghuldad.

  He gave a small laugh and welcomed the scent, the fleeting moments of joy it had brought at a time when he had forgone all hope. It reminded him of the girl who brought him food and tended to his wounds, but spoke very little. Never had she provoked him. Never had she deceived him. Nuzhah, a young woman he knew very little about, whose every aspect remained veiled, but commanded all his respect.

  He shook his head. Being ridiculous! She was no longer by his side. What must have become of her? Did Ussam Bashiri learn of her motives to help him escape? Was she persecuted for her act of goodwill? Did it even matter?

  What mattered was the trail of bloodshed he found himself on, this endless cycle of the powerful oppressing the weak, and the rising tide of corruption and wickedness consuming everything in its path. He had to find a way of destroying the beast, the evil that had come to manifest itself in the likes of Ussam Bashiri. Only then could he ascertain a way of saving those like Nuzhah.

  His thoughts went to the butcher and the guard. They had anticipated Ghulam’s death, even plotted it, and for reasons not so distant from his own, Nabiha also plotted the chief’s death. Someone planted that note and dagger. Someone led her to believe that Ghulam was responsible for her sister’s enslavement. Even if that were true, Mukhtar could not help but wonder— who else would benefit from Ghulam’s death?

  He yawned heavily. Exhaustion was dawning on him. His limbs tired and longed for rest. He glanced in the direction of the cabin, where Ghasif and Rauf were either asleep or huddled over in whispered conversation. He could picture them discussing Zaki’s untimely flaw, and their complete lack of faith in the brothers’ abilities.

  Mistrust for the Assassins had manifested itself in Mukhtar since Ghuldad, and showed no reason to ebb. The secrecy behind which Ma’alim veiled himself was continuously aggravating his disappointment and frustration. Would the old man be pleased when he heard news of Ghulam’s death? What other scheme did he have planned? What more to his rebellion did they need to partake? In truth, Mukhtar only entertained Ghasif and Rauf for as long as their interests were aligned. For as long as the truth about the Amulets and Keystones remained obscure.

  He remembered what Ghasif had read from The Disguise of the Unseen. The Dark Prince. The Destroyer of Worlds. Harbinger of Evil. The very thought of the Hand of Azazil, whatever wraith or demon espoused that title, sent shivers up his spine. Whenever the horrid sights of Arammoria loomed into his vision, he wondered who, or what sat upon the throne of the ancient fortress.

  There was a sound, and he froze. A distinct rustle on the ground, mere feet ahead of him, moving against the wind. It was artificial. Deliberate. Something was there.

  His hand instinctively released the mechanism holding the dagger under his sleeve. It sprang forth with
a distinct click, and he caught it smartly, twirling it in his fingers, ready to assail. Alert, he peered through the darkness, his breath held, waiting to hear the sound again. Was it absolute, or a mere figment of his already exhausted mind?

  “Show yourself,” he mumbled to himself.

  ‘Here!’ A voice whispered so close to his left ear, he swung the dagger wildly and aimlessly.

  There was no one there.

  “Reveal yourself!”

  That laughter, that eerie, maniacal laughter, shifted with the wind and sent shivers up his spine.

  ‘You already know what I am, do you not?’

  “A deceiver! A spawn of the devil!”

  ‘I sense a greater wisdom in you tonight,’ she mocked. ‘You have learned much, son of Zafar. You have seen much. Done much. The question is, how much more are you prepared to do?’

  The laughter faded, its decibels decreasing and vanishing with the wind. Mukhtar remained rooted to the spot, unable to establish his next move. He knew what it was, what the voice belonged to. The Jinn had been haunting him since his capture.

  The sky was beginning to change shade. Dawn was approaching. He silently snuck downstairs to his room to change his attire and waited until sunrise before leaving for Saif’s house. Saif had maintained a cold shoulder since Hassin’s funeral, and Mukhtar had strongly avoided speaking to him, hoping to give him the time and space he needed to recover. But he was desperate. If anyone could help explain his asomatous problem, it would be Saif.

  True, he could have just returned to Thamir’s mansion and confronted Nabiha for the answers he sought. She did claim to have knowledge of what troubled him. However, he did not know how much he could trust her. Whether there was a purpose to her involvement or not, or she was just an unanticipated impediment in a much larger ploy, he did not know, but the less he involved her, the better.

  A substantial amount of rain had fallen in the hour before daybreak, and the streets were muddy and runny in several parts. The populous was already showing their frustration, cursing and swearing, struggling to navigate through loose, slippery soils and sloppy, murky puddles.