The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  He slung the crossbow over his shoulder and rushed out of the cabin to search the bodies. He must ascertain that Ghasif, Rauf, and Zaki, were not among the dead, and he moved from one to the other, overturning the bodies. Each one filled him with apprehension and dread, followed by immense relief, as none yielded any familiar faces. In addition to the two on the porch, he counted five bodies on the ground.

  Captured? He thought. Or escaped?

  They could not have escaped. The cabin was in disarray, the lantern was not extinguished. If Mukhtar was certain of one thing, they would not leave the bodies lying about. If anything, they would have dumped them in the river.

  Captured, then. By whom? The host of assassins accompanying Ussam and Thamir to the Royal Palace? But these were not assassins.

  He knelt down to reexamine the body closest to him. Although blood had stained the tunic under the armor, he could still distinguish the difference in shade from the one he was used to seeing on Adil. His eyes widened when he remembered where he had seen the navy-blue fabric. It was the same shade as the tunic he had been forced to wear, and the very same worn by the guards at Thamir’s feast. These were Abunaki’s men.

  Mukhtar collapsed to the ground and buried his face in his hands. It felt as though he no longer knew who, or what, he was dealing with. His hope was to seek his brother’s counsel along with Ghasif and Rauf, but if Abunaki’s men had taken them captive, and Abunaki owed allegiance to Thamir, then that could only mean his brother and the others were being held captive at the palace.

  How would he penetrate the Royal Palace by himself? It was an impossibility. Even the notion of seeking his brother’s help now seemed far-fetched. Alone, the battle would be short-lived. He would not make it past the front gates.

  He stood up. Now was not the time to falter. Zaki was in need. Ghasif and Rauf were in need. Ussam had to be stopped, and if he did not muster the courage to do what needed to be done, the evil of Azazil will endure. He knew what he must do.

  He needed weapons. And he already knew where to find the perfect craft. He left Riah at the cabin and continued afoot. He felt terrible leaving her amidst the dead bodies and desecrated cabin, but it would be easier to navigate the city without her.

  The city was quiet and asleep, and a later hour meant that much of the city guards and archers would most likely be groggily unaware at their posts. Even so, he swept his feet stealthily, creeping in the shadows like a predator. The streets were calm and deserted, devoid even of guard patrols, save for stray cats and dogs, and homeless citizens hurdled in dark corners and alleys, covered in rags to keep themselves warm.

  Breaking into the forge was simpler than anticipated. The vicinity was suspiciously unguarded, warranting crucial investigation, but he was desperately pressed for time. Even so, he maintained caution as he slithered towards the rear entrance of the forge. He required very little effort in overcoming the lock on the door. Cautiously, he stepped into the stale but familiar scent of his former workplace. In the darkness, he made his way to the front counter and groped for the corner where a torch bracket usually hung. With its tip ignited, he familiarized himself with his surroundings.

  He gasped. It was just as abused as the cabin, save for the dead corpses and puddles of blood. Every inch had been violated, from the tools on the benches to the storage crates under them. Every object in the forge was sprawled over the counter, benches, and the floor. Ghulam’s men had searched desperately for the Keystone and what it concealed, but they seemed not to have found it. The reason was apparent enough to Mukhtar. They did not know what he now knew. They were driven by greed and hunger for power, blinded by their own arrogance, which prevented them from looking in the right place. Prevented them from seeing what he saw.

  He glanced at the cold, damp furnace in the corner of the forge and could not suppress a shudder of excitement. Childhood memories flooded into him in a rush of emotion, making his heart beat in a frenzy. Unattended for so long, the coals had burned to cinder and ash. Regardless of Mika’il’s claim, since the forge was first built, the furnace had run cold on only one other occasion. Mukhtar remembered a time when Mika’il and Harun needed to replace the bricks around its mouth. He was constantly running in and out of the forge, screaming and yelling with an excitement elevated from playing with his peers. He remembered Mika’il angrily brandishing a long wooden stick kept specifically for the purposes of discipline. He had chased away his friends for causing too much commotion, distracting him from his work.

  Mukhtar could not help smile, gazing at the spot under Mika’il’s bench, where he remembered hiding away, distraught after his uncle had scolded him. He remembered Mika’il softly ushering him to come out from under, and when he stubbornly refused, his uncle handed him a pair of carving tools and a freshly baked brick, urging him to channel his creativity in a more constructive manner.

  He gave another chuckle as his heart skipped a beat, picturing his youthful self. He had pushed aside the tools and the brick hatefully, wanting no pity from his uncle. Mika’il had walked away, leaving him be. After a long while, Mukhtar’s limbs had started to ache, his backside feeling sore. But his pride prevented him from coming out. In an attempt to shun away the boredom, he pulled closer the brick and tools, and decided to give his uncle’s suggestion a try.

  Mukhtar turned his gaze away from the counter. With the torch held high, he approached the furnace, taking caution with every step. Mere inches away, he ran his hand over its open mouth, large enough to comfortably accommodate a small man. The textured brick at the apex of the furnace was blank, but as his fingers moved further in, he felt something.

  On the inside of the brick was a small gaping hole, about the size of his finger, and felt triangular in shape. Below the hole was an unmistakable indentation of two lines, crisscrossing each other. He turned around, leaned back into an arc and slid his head through, carefully bringing the torch with him. His head rested on a pile of undisturbed ashes, taking short and controlled breaths to avoid inhaling the toxic dust. Above him, the furnace dissipated into a dark chimney, beyond which a discreetly howling wind attempted entry.

  The blackened brick, endlessly scorched by the furnace for years, would reveal nothing to an unsuspecting eye, but to him, it was as clear as he first remembered it. Fingers trembling, heart hammering against his chest and a sudden clench in his stomach were all but a fraction of the excitement and nervousness he felt. He pressed two fingers on the indentation and waited patiently for a dramatic event to follow.

  Nothing happened. He exerted more effort on the entire Keystone, and yet nothing happened.

  Frowning, he brought the torch closer to look upon it with better light. With his free hand, he reached for the Amulet on his chest and brought it closer to the Keystone. Both were exactly the same shape and size. He inserted the Amulet, maneuvering the golden chain to make a perfect fit, and pressed it into the hole.

  There was a click and a groan.

  The furnace gave a threatening tremble and he jumped, nearly breaking his back. Dust and debris rained down on his face, and he withdrew from the furnace instinctively, almost setting himself ablaze with the torch.

  A few moments passed and the furnace continued to vibrate with an aggressive admonition of erupting with fury, and suddenly, two objects descended, successively rooting into the mound of ash, prominently proud in a perspicuous incarceration of an engraved symbol.

  Eyes wide and gleaming, heart furiously hammering in his chest, he took a cautious step forward with his arm outstretched. Both blades stood, crisscrossing each other, twins in every aspect. He returned the torch to its bracket and pulled out the swords, fingers trembling, steeling the tingling sensation coursing through his body. He gazed at the silver, engraved handles, jagged but sharp edges, and nearly wept. The Keystone was true. The first of the otherworldly weapons had been revealed.

  It was long before he remembered his true purpose, and hastily gathered his thoughts to further his ploy of infiltrat
ing the Royal Palace. He groped for the Amulet still embedded into the hole in the brick, hung it around his neck, and searched the forge for more wares that would aid him.

  He sifted through the littered and desecrated forge, picking out usable armaments such as sheaths and greaves, braces and an array of throwing-knives, all in preparation for his toughest battle yet.

  An hour later, he had scaled up to the minaret of a two-story building across the street from the large iron gates of the Royal Palace. Lightning flashed, thunder roared overhead, and moments later, heavy droplets fell like pebbles from an enraged sky. Mukhtar was drenched within seconds, but regardless of the bleak deluge, he grinned with confidence and touched the Amulet on his chest.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE PALACE

  Rain fell in torrents. Thunder boomed overhead. On the street below, a dog slithered away, whining in protest of the deluge. Across the city, oil lamps and lanterns were lit by the occupants of the mud and brick structures, as Khalidans were woken to address the detriments of the abrupt deluge upon their properties.

  The pattering rain formed gushing streams, and in the distance, waves crashed upon the shoreline in a sudden turn of the tide. Anglers and sailors alike would pull into the harbor the following morning, with substantial damages to their vessels and wares. If at all they would survive what the night threatened.

  Mukhtar drew his gaze away from the harbor, and scanned the stronghold of King Azhar Babak, chinking away at the sheer might of the force that guarded it. Small fires were lit every few feet, illuminating even the darkest corners. The large engraved oak doors that linked the palace to the grounds, were shut and well-fortified. The tall citadel cast a gloomy duress on the lesser guard tower and prison hold beside it, and the plush grounds stretched out far behind to the kitchens and slaughterhouses all enclosed within an expansive perimeter of a ten-foot thick and forty-foot high wall. The Palace served, not only as the Royal Family’s abode on the eastern front, but as barracks for the Royal Army and the City Watch on western side, along with its arsenal and weapons-hold, prison-holds, war chambers, accommodations for resident dignitaries, and Immorkaan’s court and council chambers. This was stronghold that had governed the Empire of Ahul-Hama for close to two decades.

  From his perch, he observed with a keen eye. Visibility may have been greatly reduced due to the stormy deluge, but there was no mistaking the perpetual and heightened sense of activity and security. Rasha had cautioned him against Jinn guarding the palace, but the human guards alone were enough to make even the bravest man lose hope. Unperturbed by the deluge, archers crept silently along the parapets and battlements, scanning their surroundings as far out as possible. Sturdy and alert, armed guards moved in batches of eight or ten, each patrol spaced just a few feet away from the next.

  Every archway, every corner, doorway, and pathway was guarded by upright soldiers armed to the teeth. Several more moved around in random patterns, and Mukhtar realized his futile visions of penetrating the palace. It would take weeks, if not months, of reconnaissance just to study the guards’ movements, let alone work out a strategical plan of slipping in and out unnoticed, without possibly getting lost in the maze of rooms and corridors of the massive structure.

  However, impossibility was not a word he could afford at this point. A bright white flash of lightning dashed across the sky, and he sensed a presence behind him. He knew what it was.

  “I need your powers,” he demanded.

  ‘Yours by right of birth,’ she replied slyly. ‘Your thoughts are my command.’

  “If you betray me, I will destroy the Amulet and you with it!” he threatened angrily.

  ‘Many have said the same before you,’ she sneered.

  Another flash of lightning, followed by thunder, and her presence vanished. A third flash illuminated the palace and its grounds, giving him enough time to spot a weakness in the fortifications.

  He descended from the minaret, slow and steady, and as soon as his feet touched the ground, he set off toward the eastern walls of the palace, his swords and knives tingling softly, as he sprinted in the gloomy shadows. Guided by the sounds of gushing waters, he arrived at a point where a narrow man-made stream flowed under a low arch that allowed the Hubur to run through.

  He stood at the edge of the bank, and stared into the dark waters. He had no intention of climbing the walls and risk being spotted by the archers, nor did he look forward to the alternative. His sandals sunk into the muddy slope, and he fumbled to keep his balance. With a quick prayer, he shut off his mind, took a deep breath, and plunged.

  Every nerve in his body screeched in dissent. The water was cold, its icy chill drilling into his bones. The current was strong, and it put up a difficult fight. Only his determination to remain alive drove him forward, but it was not long before his lungs desperately cried for air. He pushed, kicking his legs as rapidly as he could. Two more feet of struggling against the current and he felt his lungs deplete whatever oxygen was remaining. Even though it was truly dark under the water, tiny spots began to appear and disappear before him like floating bubbles of light.

  A rush of water, almost as solid as a human hand, grabbed him by his hair and pulled him upward. Coughing and sputtering, he tore through to the surface, taking in huge gulps of air. He swam for the bank and grabbed hold of a rock, resting his arms, breathing in deep. His teeth chattered against the cold and his body begged to be retired.

  From between the rocks and shrubbery, he scanned his surroundings. There were no guards in the vicinity, but there was no mistaking the patrols in the distance, and the archers on the parapets far above.

  The landscape was level but uneven due to the exquisite and exotic flowers, plants, neatly-trimmed bushes, and trees, adorning the fictitious replication of a paradise that served the Royal Family’s recreational strolls. Several illuminated pathways and walkways cut through the gardens in random directions.

  ‘How can the lanterns burn in such a deluge?’ he thought.

  ‘They are not flames of this world,’ Adva warned. ‘Caution, Mukhtar. Follow the pathways, but stay away from the lights.’

  The closest illuminated pathway stretched into the distance, and through the grainy screen of rainfall, he could see, though not clearly enough, several distant figures in motion.

  ‘I can use the trees, bushes, and statues for cover.’

  ‘Stay away from the lights,’ she repeated.

  He pulled himself out of the water, crawled over the bank, and did not stop moving until he was hidden behind a large stone statue of a rearing horse. Leaning against the foundation of the statue, he shivered uncontrollably, as the cold water clung to his skin, aggravated by the searing wind.

  Taking care not to be seen, he peeked around the corner of the statue to peer through the darkness and rain, and map out his course. In the far distance, the illuminated facade of the Royal Palace stood firm and resolute under apocalyptic skies.

  Something moved just a few feet to his left, and he tensed. His hand edged slowly to the sash around his waist, and pulled out a throwing-knife. It moved again, rustling the grass beneath its feet. Mukhtar was able to roughly estimate its position in the dark, just behind a bush ahead of him, and he readied the knife, holding it by the tip of its blade. He was on the verge of flicking his wrist, when the thing came into view, and he was caught in awe of the magnificence of its snowy white tail feathers, glowing despite being drenched in the rain. It was a peacock, strolling with an air of sovereignty, proud and boastful of itself.

  Rather than slither away, it stared at him for a long while. There was a peculiar moment when Mukhtar’s hooded brown eyes were locked into its proud black ones. It seemed to read his thoughts, studying him carefully before turning away and disappearing among the shrubs.

  The storm roared above him, louder and more sinister than ever. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, reaching for the earth, threatening to set ablaze anything in its path. Time was running short, urging hi
m to keep moving. Steering clear of the main trail proved more difficult than anticipated, as the illuminated pathway twisted, turned, and bridged into a network of winding lanes around the landscape. Several times, he was forced to either stop dead in his tracks, or alter his course entirely to avoid encounters with randomly strolling creatures, employed by the King to roam free in his garden.

  He saw more peacocks about, exotic birds on high, sheltered perches, even a fox, and what he suspected may have been a sleeping panther on a low branch, which made him back away slowly and cautiously, and map out an alternative route. At one point, his foot fell into an unsuspecting pond, and he woke a sleeping alligator that nearly snapped his foot clean off, causing him to scramble away to safety.

  The immaculate guise of the marble and brass-adorned palace walls, loomed closer into view. Elegant lampposts illuminated the lower levels well enough for him to see how difficult it would be to gain entry through the front.

  Peering through the bushes, he watched how alert the guards stood, sturdy and brutally armed, prepared to cleave any who dared challenge them. Their counterparts, equally armed and alert, patrolled the area in pairs of twos or threes, pausing every now and then to gaze out over the gardens. Whether this was how they normally functioned, night after night, Mukhtar did not know. Clearly discernible from the burgundy of the Royal Guard, hooded and clad in white robes under light armor, were Assassins of Ghuldad and the unmistakable navy-blue mercenaries under Abunaki’s employ. Mukhtar’s suspicions had been true. Ussam’s corruption, it seemed, knew no bounds, if assassins and mercenaries mingled freely with the King’s guard.

  He drew away from the bushes and mapped a path to the rear of the palace. Protruding from the smooth wall was a rough, stone structure with a thatched roof, door-less and windowless. Only when he came closer to the structure, did he understand why this area remained unguarded. The stench was unbearable.

  ‘Do not lower your guard!’ Adva cautioned, as Mukhtar’s hand shot up to block his nose. ‘I sense a darkness behind the doors.’