The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  Behind her reflection was a swaying flame in the fireplace, and a simple wooden floor-desk atop a sisal mat.

  Her gaze was drawn to a shimmering blue light emitted by an ancient stone entrapped within its glistening golden frame. The Icy-Blue Amulet of Sihr. On the table beside it, was a cluster of strange objects. A pair of short-swords with jagged edges and silver hilts were laid next to several silver throwing-knives, a pair of rings with red and black obsidian stones, and a book.

  Bound in darkened, tattered leather, as thick as a brick, as large as a slab of stone, and covered in stains of blood and worse. Of all the objects that lay there, the book drew her closer by a mystical bond, uncanny and unexplainable. Its existence affirmed how she came into servitude. Its sacred sanctity was responsible for the transgression of her bond and allegiance, from a vile sorcerer to a most inconceivable one. Be it as it may, it was servitude nonetheless. Enslaved to man.

  From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the man sitting cross-legged in the far corner of the room with his back turned. He was entranced in meditation. Or so it seemed. She chanced forward, her footstep a mere glide over the stone floor.

  “Ever so daring, my dear Adva,” the man spoke.

  Adva froze, shoulders slightly tensed. He knew. He had sensed her motives as he always did. If she were not bound to the Amulet, whether he wore it or not, the man would have suffered a most terrible adversity, a most disastrous infliction upon his living soul. Such was the hate she felt for him. But he was master, she was slave. And to slave was to obey and protect said master.

  “Daring, yes,” she responded. “But curious, also.”

  “Ah…” the man sneered, “… you wish to know your fate?”

  “And of my kin,” Adva replied curtly. “Of Avira. Of Ard and Agni. My brothers and sister are enslaved by your ilk, no less than I.”

  “And you seek answers from the Book?”

  “The Book contains much more than just answers,” Adva replied. “Its weight cannot be realized over a thousand lifetimes, and a thousand more. Its sanctity is sacred to Jinn-kind.”

  “Which is why it must be destroyed,” the man spoke softly, as if only to himself. “To breach its verses into the world of man, only paves the way for wickedness to prevail.”

  “To destroy the Book is not without destroying all else,” Adva warned, unable to keep her voice from quivering.

  “It would destroy you as well, yes. And your brethren,” the man said. “A shame and a loss indeed.”

  “Free us then!” she remarked. “Speak to your fellow sorcerers, and convince them. There are other ways to cripple the Hand and his master, Azazil. The Four have the ability to—”

  “Do you take me for a fool, precious Adva?” the man chuckled. “I will never, in an eternity, risk the Amulets within a thousand leagues of the Four Sahir!”

  “They no longer need the Amulets!” Adva stated. “There are other ways to open the Doorway.”

  “Indeed?” the man glanced over his shoulder. “And what of the Book?”

  “We will take it with us,” Adva suggested desperately, “and hide it in our world. We will guard it for as long as we exist.”

  “Beyond which it will become unprotected,” the man responded and stood, taking a step out of the shadows and into the firelight. “And another will rise to claim the Throne of Ithm, and he will bear the mark of Azazil. He will gather all the armies of the Jinn, and the book will once again fall into evil hands.”

  He was just as pale as ever, with streaks of white in his jet black hair and brown, wrinkly eyes. His beard, also black with white streaks, had grown longer than his collarbone. He was slouched and gaunt, looking like a man who had aged greatly in a very short time. It was strange indeed, for Adva had known him no more than a decade.

  “I have never trusted you,” he said simply. “Nor your kind. I never will. The Book will be washed from existence. To bar Azazil from furthering his vile ambitions, it must be destroyed. That will be its fate!”

  Adva was most displeased. She glared and barred her razor-sharp teeth menacingly. “Fool!” she shrieked. “You think you can hoodwink Azazil? Mankind is weak! Time and again, he will conquer you! It his destiny. It is the very essence of his being!”

  The man reached for the Amulet. A string of incantations escaped his breath, and the effect was immediately pronounced. The room was filled with thick, billowing smoke, engulfing everything into nothing.

  When he woke, it was with another furious frenzy of vomiting, groaning and cursing. His senses returned to him in a rush of painful memories, and when his vision cleared, it was to find an awestruck look on Nabiha’s beauteous face, and a most condescending grin on Rasha’s.

  There was another face among them. A pale face with darkened lips and piercing, snakelike eyes, dark hair flowing in thick long strands, just like her tattered white robes.

  Mukhtar grimaced, and glanced furiously between Rasha and Nabiha, torn with disbelief.

  “They cannot see me,” Adva spoke in an eerie, shrilly voice. “They cannot hear me.”

  Mukhtar’s gaze froze in the gap between Nabiha and Rasha’s heads.

  “The ritual has begun,” Adva went on. “You must save him. You must save my brother, or he will be wiped from the existence of this world and the other.”

  She vanished in a blink, and Mukhtar gave a start. Searching the room availed nothing. He groped for the Amulet on his chest, recalling every dream he had just been forced to see. Had he indeed witnessed a memory of his grandfather?

  “I must leave,” he stood, and started forward. Pins and needles pricked his legs with every step, causing him to stumble awkwardly.

  “But—” Nabiha tried to help him, “— you cannot just leave!”

  “I can!” he replied determinedly. “And I will!”

  “You must tell us what you saw!” Nabiha protested.

  “No!” he pushed her aside clumsily. “Get out of my way!”

  “Leave him be, Nabiha,” Rasha clucked in a most offensive way. “He is just as ungrateful and selfish as his father.”

  “Do not impugn my honor, witch!” he yelled at her, drawing his dagger as he did. “You know nothing about me!”

  Rasha remained unmoved, and almost seemed to be enjoying herself. “Humble your heart and listen, child. Listen intently to what I am about to tell you about your bloodline.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE KEYSTONE

  The hour was close to midnight. Dark, heavy clouds were swelling across the inky-black sky, blotting out the distant stars. Rasha escorted her guests out of the stifling room into the open courtyard, and an air, heavy with the scent of rain, filled their lungs as they crossed to the other side. The guards pulled open the front doors for them, and they walked along the dirt path, while Rasha explained what Mukhtar had long been itching to hear.

  “The Amulets are very ancient,” she said. “Almost as ancient as the age of the earth itself. Some claim they descended from the heavens, relics brought to earth by Azazil when he was cast out. No one knows their true origin, but they are famously associated with the Dark Prince’s Four Sorcerers, Sahir Idumea, Sahir Eth, Sahir Elzafaan—”

  “And Sahir Ahumai,” Mukhtar finished her sentenced grimly.

  “They are of the Western Tribes of Arammoria,” Rasha wrinkled her nose, looking slightly irritated at his interruption, “devout worshippers of the Sun God. Their people built magnificent tombs, in replication of the Amulets, to immortalize their gods. According to their scripts and beliefs, the Sun God had a son named Uzuris, and he was the guardian of his father’s secret armies of Jinn. He entrusted this right to his own son, Hurus, who built what is known as the Eye of Hurus, the doorway to the Other Side. The Four Sahir, misguided by the whispers of Azazil, devised a way to harness this army.”

  Mukhtar exchanged a nervous glance with Nabiha. Rasha seemed to be enjoying herself. She spoke of the occult with a deep fascination in her tone, and hardly a trace of unease.
The cut on her throat had stopped bleeding, but she had not even bothered to clean the traces of blood. Nabiha had been right in describing the priestess as perilous.

  “Dispelled from the heavens,” Rasha went on indifferently, “Azazil swore vengeance on mankind to the end of times, and will stop at nothing to achieve it. In their quest to attain power, the Four were tasked by the Hand of Azazil to serve his Throne of Ithm. Arrogant and corrupted by power, they recklessly discarded the Amulets deep within the caves of Simnia.”

  “Who is the Hand of Azazil?” he pressed curiously. “I keep seeing the name in scripts and scrolls, hearing his name uttered in frightful whispers.”

  “Azazil’s most trusted,” Rasha said. “An ancient Jinn with incredible powers, said to be the most devious and malicious of their kind. His true origin is vague and obscure. No one has ever set their eyes upon him and lived with sanity.”

  Mukhtar stared at the cloudy night sky and breathed in the moist, chilly air. “But he is only a Jinn,” he said. “How can he be so powerful as to be feared even by men of utmost spirituality and holiness?” He recalled how Sheikh Ruwaid had spoken of the Unseen. Although he had seemed certain of himself then, Mukhtar had still sensed a suppressed trickle of dread in his voice.

  “A Jinn can defile everything with its sheer will,” Rasha went on. “Jinn have not an ounce of good in them. They denote the pinnacle of all that is evil. Do not underestimate him, Mukhtar,” she added grimly. “One cannot even begin to comprehend how he has earned the right to claim Azazil’s Throne of Ithm, and become the Dark Prince’s most trusted. His wickedness corrupted the Western Tribes, and he used them to wage his war on the world of man.”

  “The war endured because the Amulets lived on,” Mukhtar filled in the gaps, “but without them, Azazil’s ambition was crippled, until my grandfather and his companions chanced upon them,” he remembered the book that sat upon the table in the dark room. “What of the Book, though?”

  “The Book of Kufr is fabled to contain a thousand and one days of the knowledge of the Jinn,” Rasha replied with a trail of fascination in her voice, as though she longed to hold it in her hands. “A day beyond the Veil is a thousand lifetimes in our world. Your grandfather, intelligent as he was, deciphered its text and used its knowledge to awaken the Amulets.”

  “Until he realized what he had done,” Mukhtar stated, gazing across Rasha’s date-palm orchards, while dark clouds continued to loom overhead with unnatural zeal.

  “He destroyed the Book,” Rasha continued, and Mukhtar eyed her cautiously. If this was true, then what they had found in the study may not have been the same book. But if this was only an assumption...

  A thundering of hooves approached them, unearthing clouds of dust billowing with the winds. The rider dismounted his horse and rushed forward, breathing heavily, drenched in sweat.

  “High Priestess,” Fusan bowed curtly.

  “What news?” Rasha demanded.

  “Thamir has left his mansion in the company of Ussam Bashiri and another,” he spoke feverishly.

  Mukhtar tensed.

  “Who?” Rasha asked sharply.

  “Never have I seen him before, and they did not call him by name.”

  “They must have called him by something!” Rasha remarked.

  “They only called him ‘Master’.”

  Rasha cursed loudly.

  “Who is this ‘Master’?” Mukhtar asked her desperately.

  She shrugged and shook her head disappointedly. “He has evaded my spies for too long. What else?” she asked Fusan.

  “They were escorted by a host of Assassins. I followed them to the gates of the Royal Palace.”

  Rasha cursed again.

  “They intend an attack upon the palace!” Mukhtar growled.

  “Far worse,” Rasha stated grimly.

  “I saw a caravan arrive at Thamir’s mansion,” Mukhtar said. “It must have been Ussam!” He turned to Nabiha for confirmation.

  She blinked, then shook her head. “I saw the caravan, but did not see Ussam. Kazimi covered my tracks while I slipped out through the kitchens.”

  “How could you not have seen him?” Mukhtar remarked. “I could have ended him there and then!”

  He turned away in frustration and gazed into the dark silhouette of the Sweet Orchards.

  “And what would you have ended him with?” Rasha mocked blatantly. “That rusty blade under your sleeve can barely cut through cabbage!”

  Mukhtar did not argue with her. From the corner of his eye, he noted Nabiha looking slightly crestfallen, and he wished he hadn’t shown his disappointment. It was not her fault.

  “What more can you report?” Rasha demanded from Fusan.

  “They were barred entry into the Palace,” he said. “Thamir went in alone and requested an audience with Azhar, and after a short while, the King welcomed them as old friends. Our man at the palace reports that Ussam presented himself to negotiate a treaty with the King.”

  “The deluded fool!” Rasha cursed under her breath.

  “Indeed,” Fusan said.

  “This makes no sense,” Nabiha said. “If it is a treaty they seek, why is the Elder Council not included?”

  “They may be, for all we know,” Fusan replied. “Our spy did not mention any members of the Council, save for the King. This only means one thing.”

  “That the King has been deceived into Ussam’s ploy,” Nabiha stated.

  Rasha shook her head. “No,” she said in a distant voice. “Not Ussam. Ussam is no threat to Azhar. He commands an amulet, as does the king. They are bound to their Order. However, his other man they call ‘Master’... There is a greater ploy afoot here. You know what you must do?” she added to Mukhtar.

  Mukhtar gave a curt nod.

  “You must not let them further their cause,” she warned. “If they succeed this night, then all is lost. If the King falls under their reign, nothing will stop the Hand and the Dark Prince.”

  Mukhtar gave her a steely look. “I will need that steed!” he turned and reached for Fusan’s horse.

  “This is my finest horse!” Fusan protested angrily and tried, but failed, to wrestle back the reins.

  “He is indeed a fine steed!” Mukhtar gave him a victorious grin and mounted the horse.

  “It is a Mare, peasant!” Fusan glared at him. “And her name is Riah!”

  “Come, Riah,” Mukhtar kissed her affectionately on the neck, and whispered in her ear. “We must ride with haste!”

  He tugged the reins, and just as he was about to turn, Nabiha called, “Wait!”

  As she approached, he was drawn to the frightful expression tarnishing her dainty face. The wind was gaining strength, and a passing gale fluttered the unbound locks of her sleek hair in a most graceful manner. She hesitated at first, then said, “I thought you to be a hollow and selfish man. I was wrong. Forgive me.”

  He could not help but smile. “You need not seek forgiveness from me. It is I, who must beg your forgiveness.”

  She returned a smile of relief. “I now see the grave path you walk. I wish you strength and courage in overcoming your battles hereon.”

  “Do not despair, Lady Nabiha,” he tried to assure her. “If you know your enemy, and trust in your Creator, you need not fear a thousand battles. This is only the beginning.”

  He rode with nothing but the wind howling in his ears, urging Riah to double her efforts. She was a strong mare, elegant and beautiful, obedient and ardent. She gave him the confidence to further his quest, but as his destination came closer, he realized the gravity of his task. Charging into the Royal Palace was a foolish and impulsive thing to do. He was unprepared for such a feat. He needed guidance. He needed his brother.

  He was not enthusiastic about it, but he also needed the skills of Ghasif and Rauf. A reconciliation was imminent whether he desired it or not, and he guided Riah past the farmlands and through the shrubbery that hugged the Hubur.

  They navigated the narrow winding trail
with slight unease. The engulfing darkness and silence amidst the shrubbery, swaying palm trees and tamarisks, carried an air of gloom and stank of death. When he emerged into the clearing, he was greeted with a sight that confirmed all his fears.

  The wind rustled the branches overhead, and the branches shook their leaves in an eerie melody of death and destruction. The fading stars and orange flicker of light from the cabin, did nothing to conceal the bodies sprawled over the uneven ground.

  Horrified, Mukhtar dismounted Riah and clumsily sprinted up to the porch, where two more bodies lay, one hanging over the railing like a limp sack, blood dripping steadily into the ground below. With every step he took, the wood screeched uncannily, devilishly adding to the already pernicious symphony of the creaking branches. Arrows stuck out of the wooden walls and poles in odd angles, and the front door hung delicately off its hinges. A soft push and it gave in with a moan and a creak, falling to the cabin floor with a deafening thud.

  The inside of the cabin was in utter disarray. The bed was overturned, the mattress ripped to shreds, its insides scattered all over. The ancient chest that stood beside the bed had been ransacked, its contents displaced. The floor was littered with ripped parchment and desecrated books. Dark traces of blood were splattered across the floor and walls, and the air hung with the foul odor of death.

  If he had felt fear in the dark and dingy cell of Ghuldad, it was nothing to what he was feeling at that moment. Lightheaded, he swayed on the spot, threatening to collapse.

  He picked up the only source of light in the cabin, a knocked-over lantern. Cautiously, he searched the cabin and spotted a crossbow with the Aztalaan insignia of a wolf on its stock.

  Zaki was here! He thought. He must have escaped the Souk and returned to the cabin to await me.