The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  ‘What is it? Jinn? Shaytaan?’

  ‘I cannot be certain. Tread carefully.’

  “Tread carefully,” Mukhtar muttered sarcastically, as he cut through the slaughterhouse, trying to keep from stepping into muck and animal waste. Large iron hooks hung from wooden beams above shallow pits where the animals were slaughtered and hung until their blood ran out. The air was heavy, putrid, and filled with the buzzing of flies.

  At the end of the slaughterhouse, Mukhtar became still and silent. A shimmer of light peered through the tiny crack under the wooden door. He paused, heart hammering against his chest, dreading what he might find beyond it. Dagger at hand, firm but flexible enough to yield, he edged closer to the door.

  I pray to thee Almighty, the most Beneficent, the most Merciful. Guide my soul through all atrocities, and protect it from the evil beyond this door. He took a deep breath and opened the door by a tiny crack. The room beyond was empty. He stepped through the door and shut it.

  The light was coming from a dying fire pit to his right. To his left was an expanse of the royal kitchens, the far wall dissolving into darkness. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling. Cutlery, fruits, and vegetables lay upon large tables. Heaps of various colored spices and seasonings sent appealing aromas up his nostrils, and the air hung with a distinct scent of a scrumptious meal only recently served.

  Before taking a step further, he was struck by a sudden notion.

  He held out his hand, shut his eyes, and focused all his thought and energy on his clothes, imagining what he wished to be done to them. Adva had said that his thought was her command, but it was no simple task. It drained him of his energy, but he was determined, and just as the thought became clearer, so did it materialize.

  He felt the water part with the fibers of his apparel, accumulate before him in droplets suspended in midair. The droplets fell to the floor, and he had to suppress a yelp of awe at what he had just accomplished, as his clothes became warm and dry again.

  However, the sense of power and exhilaration was only short-lived.

  ‘Someone approaches,’ Adva’s hiss made him jump.

  His eyes darted to the door. Swiftly, he blended into the dark stone wall, drew his dagger, and waited. The door creaked open, slowly, steadily. A figure stepped in, a few inches shorter than him, covered from head to toe in long, dark, and sweeping robes. Mukhtar held his breath. He moved forward stealthily, a mere shadow in both appearance and motion. But he was not unnoticed.

  The figure turned with speed and agility. There was a flash of silver, and Mukhtar had but his instincts to defend him, as he raised his own dagger to ward off the attacker. A clash of steel reverberated across the kitchens, but his attacker was an amateur, and did not possess the ability to fortify the strike.

  Mukhtar wrestled with the assailant, twisted, turned, and pinned the cloaked and veiled figure against the wall of the kitchen. Large, almond-shaped eyes gleamed back at him in the dull firelight, horrified and terrified, fearful and hateful. He stared deeply into them, but it was not the eyes that aroused his senses. It was the flowery scent of lavender and Oudh.

  Something was indecisively wrong. When he left the cabin, every step was unforeseen, unpredictable. He expected the unexpected, but this was a paramount turn of events. For several long moments, he remained rooted to the spot, staring at the one individual whose presence there was utterly inexplicable.

  She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, yet her gaze refused to leave his.

  “It cannot be!” he gasped.

  ‘I see it now,’ Adva filled the silence in his thoughts. ‘It writhes and coils itself, caressing her soul. A phantom of fire and shadow. A Qa’reen is bound to every human by divine link. To break the link bears horrendous consequences. The girl is not a sorcerer, but she has done something terribly wrong. She is alive for as long as the contract lasts, but she will be consumed in a most inhumane manner once it is fulfilled. Be wary. Such a monstrosity is not to be trifled with.’

  “What have you done, Nuzhah?” he asked, as calmly as he could.

  “Step away from me!” she growled and brandished her dagger.

  Mukhtar took a step back and lowered his guard, sheathing his dagger.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said. “You once helped me. Let me help you.”

  “You cannot help!” she shrieked, “Step away!”

  “Nuzhah!” he raised his voice but a little. “There are powers here beyond your control. You must listen to me! Do you understand what you have done?”

  Her horrified eyes began to fill with tears. She slid back against the wall and collapsed to the floor. “Ussam forced me to partake in the rituals!”

  Mukhtar’s expression was stony. “Where?” he asked simply.

  “In the Throne Room. They were drinking, intoxicating themselves and indulging in— in— horrifying acts of—”

  She fell silent. Mukhtar noted the distressed tone in her voice. He gave her a moment.

  “What then?” he pressed.

  “I was overcome with delirious thoughts and illusions. Then, something spoke to me, as if from within my mind. I was frightened. I ran. I must leave this place! You must take me away from here!”

  Mukhtar stepped forward and leaned in. “My brother has been taken prisoner,” he asserted, more forcefully than intended, “along with Ghasif and Rauf. Do you know where they are being held?”

  Her eyes shot up to him in disbelief. “If they are Ussam’s prisoners then they must be held in the dungeons!”

  “Can you take me to them?”

  “No!” she shrieked even louder than before, and Mukhtar shut his eyes, praying that no one heard it. “There is evil within these walls! You cannot ask me to remain here!”

  “You would let them perish?” he pleaded. “You would let Ussam spread his darkness? If we cower, then countless others will fall prey to his wickedness. We must be strong. Muster your courage. Help me as you once did, Nuzhah. You must!”

  “No!” She shook her head in frightful plea. “You cannot ask me to return to those horrors! You cannot! I beg you!”

  Mukhtar felt a rush of empathy for her. Whatever it was that had driven her to such terror, he was strongly overcome with an urge to reach out, grab her hand and take her away from the palace, somewhere far, perhaps far from the city, even further away from the Empire. However, the evil afoot could not be ignored. Could not be run away from. He needed to muster his courage. He needed to take the step forward. He needed his brother and his friends, and for that, he needed her in sobriety and sound of mind.

  “Nuzhah,” he lowered his tone to its utmost humility. Her gaze moved up to meet his. “I have always known you to be stronger than many. Stronger, even, than I. In times of darkness, you were a beacon of hope to me. I still see that beacon, even now. I too am filled with terror and uncertainty over what lay ahead. But if I do not take a step forward, if I do not overcome my fears and brave this evil, by God Almighty, there won’t be a corner left on this earth to seek sanctuary. I plead your allegiance now, more than ever.”

  She eyed him for a long while, gazing deeply into his eyes. He could not help but reminisce the chains that bound him to the wheel, and those fleeting moments of her precious company that almost seemed to make them vanish, almost forget his enslavement. She gave a brisk nod, severing the unseen link between their eyes.

  She led. Mukhtar followed. Or rather, Mukhtar took cautious steps forward, while she trailed behind, pointing him in the right direction. As they lurked the dark and silent but magnificent hallways of the Royal Palace, Mukhtar could not help but wonder if he had done right by asking her to accompany him when she was so prepared to escape.

  Was it selfishness to want her by his side, as he walked toward what felt like doom? Perhaps her presence helped overcome his concealed fears. Or perhaps she had yet a purpose to fulfill, one that would determine the aftermath of this night.

  Adva made no objection regarding his decision in allowing Nuzhah to
stay, and he suspected why. With regards to Adva’s warning about the Qa’reen, Nuzhah’s involvement in the night’s activities may have some significance, and her separation from its confines could critically destroy her unless the predicaments were resolved. She silently guided him through the palace, surprisingly versed with its layout.

  “When did you arrive at the palace?” Mukhtar whispered.

  “Ussam sent us ahead several days ago,” she replied in an equally hushed tone. “A handful of servants to attend to his personal delegates. He and his host of Assassins arrived tonight.”

  “I witnessed their caravan earlier,” Mukhtar nodded. “They entered a wealthy merchant’s mansion close to the harbor. We have been following a trail of conspiracies and plots to overthrow Azhar Babak’s rule. This must be their final ploy. Whatever they intend, it will happen tonight, and I must do whatever it takes to stop them.”

  “I caution you, Mukhtar,” Nuzhah’s voice shook slightly, “much has been happening in Ghuldad since you left. I have not an ounce of understanding what it is, but I cannot free myself from the unsettling feeling that this is beyond any of us. I strongly urge you to escape while we still can.”

  “I have known you to be strong of faith,” Mukhtar eyed her, “and those strong of faith must always be willing to stand up against evil. How can you choose to abandon hope now? Have you forgone your faith?”

  “Do not judge me, Mukhtar,” her voice became stern with warning. “Do not patronize me. You know not what I have been through!”

  He fell silent. She had agreed to aid him thus far, and he knew she was on edge. To push her over would be a most foolish thing to do. It was true, he did not truly know what she may have been through. He was to blame. He had left her in Ghuldad, purely because he had not wanted to jeopardize his own freedom, and the guilt of doing so had been boring into him since.

  “Forgive me,” he said solemnly. “I did not mean—”

  “Don’t,” she interrupted. “You are right. I am overcome with much right now. I have no intent of abandoning my faith. I only pray for strength to carry me through.”

  “I pray the same,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  They continued along dark corridors in silence, passing lavish rooms with lush rugs and silk drapes, open halls with marvelous displays of art and sculpture, further and deeper into what appeared to be a suspiciously deserted palace.

  “Where are all the guards?” he asked, questioning the absence of arm-bearers within the walls. “I spotted some outside, assassins and mercenaries mingling with the Royal Guard.”

  “All the guards were sent away to await further orders,” she replied. “All the servants were ordered to partake in the rituals.”

  “Why?” Mukhtar enquired. “What rituals are these?”

  “You will soon see,” she replied grimly. “As much as I know, the King possesses something of value. The rituals are meant to force him to willingly relinquish it.”

  “Amulet,” Mukhtar muttered. “And what of Ma’alim?” he asked. “What does he intend on doing about all this?”

  To his utter surprise, she nearly laughed. “Ma’alim has not been sighted for months! Not since your escape from the fortress.”

  Mukhtar froze in his tracks. “How can this be? He sent Ghasif a letter, not ten days ago. He had a plan to end Ussam’s vile ambitions. Is it that he has forfeited his profound quest for liberation?”

  “Perhaps,” Nuzhah replied, urging him forward. “He has been unheard of, and many have lost their faith in him. Whatever his efforts, they have failed to prevent Ussam thus far. He disbanded us when we needed him most.”

  Mukhtar gave her a puzzled look. “You believed in him as your leader, and now you mistrust him?”

  The corridor they were stealthily creeping along, opened out to a grand balcony with marble flooring, polished railings, and silky drapes, all overlooking a large Entrance Hall lit with intricately designed lanterns on either side. Tall, circular, stone pillars held up the high ceilings, garnished with Khalidan architectural carvings that were even more pronounced by the dancing lights of the lanterns. Large stone statues, of both man and beast, filled in the gaps between the pillars, casting deep shadows on the silk-draped walls behind them, and the marble floor was bedecked with expensive and exotic rugs.

  Nuzhah’s footsteps slowed to a halt and her voice trembled with a distinct dread. “I know not what to believe anymore,” she raised a shaky finger, and pointed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  OF SIN AND THE SINNER

  Mukhtar was drawn away from the allure of the Entrance Hall, to two magnificent doors of highly polished mahogany inlaid with gold. A deep rumbling chant, effortlessly blending with the rhythmic procession of musical instruments, was pouring through the open doors. The symphonies were dark and daunting, clawing and gripping his heart with terror. It sickened him, but the feeling was nothing compared to what he felt when he approached the doors and peeked around them to connect sight with sound.

  The Throne Room was much larger than the Entrance Hall, similarly embellished with silk drapes, palatial ornaments, and opulent artifacts on grandstands and pedestals, with several exquisite rugs and exotic animal skins spread out over the gleaming marble floor. The King’s throne was erected atop a raised platform of several steps at the far end, set in stone between two large pedestals boasting elegant flames of a bright fire.

  None sat upon the throne, but below it, at the foot of the steps, four hooded figures in dark robes were gathered around something, engaged in some sort of devilish worship.

  Intricately embroidered cushions were sprawled all over the entire floor, their occupants male and barely clothed. He spotted ministers and viziers, members of the King’s Court, prominent figures who had made several public appearances and even more false promises to the betterment of their people. Hovering above and around them, were women of even fewer garments, swaying to the sinister symphonies of the instruments and chantings, serving the occupants with varieties of wines and an array of intoxicants, or else indulging them in acts of prurience and salacity. The air was heavy with the scents of khamr and khat, and smoke from hukahs impaled with opium and hashish.

  It was repugnant and outrageous, unlike anything he had ever seen. He averted his eyes and leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily to combat the nauseous feeling. Is this what had truly become of those who ruled this nation? How then could a dark storm not gather over such evil?

  “Have you seen enough?” Nuzhah’s voice trembled.

  “I do not see Ussam,” he craned his neck slightly. “Nor the King.”

  “Will you not leave now, while your sanity still permits you?”

  “I will not leave without my brother!” he responded, rather harshly. “Take me to the dungeons!”

  She threw him a scathing look, and led him to the lower levels of the palace, through hallways and corridors that may not have been as lavish as the upper floors, but were surprisingly just as destitute of guards and soldiers. The rough stone-walls were lit by torches on brackets, and the air felt cooler and damper the deeper they went.

  The smell of human waste and decay informed them of their arrival at the dungeons. Despite her veil, Nuzhah still held up a handful of her robes to mask the stench. They stopped at the end of a long and wide corridor with several narrower ones branching out in either direction. Mukhtar picked up a torch from its bracket and began his search, while Nuzhah kept watch.

  He crept stealthily, from cell to cell, peering through the bars for a familiar face. Prisoners, both young and old, some asleep, others shivering in the cold, some quiet and sound, several others beyond the grasp of sanity. Those unaccustomed to light, shied away into the deeper shadows of their cells when he passed them with his lit torch. Mukhtar wondered what these souls may have done to be barred in the dungeons beneath the palace, rotting away in filth and gloom below a carnal splendor so close yet so far beyond their reach. What heinous crime differentiated them from those
locked away in the prison tower outside, where the convicts at least had a tiny window to bring them light and air, a ray of hope that perhaps freedom would one day come. The further in he ventured, he could not help but wonder where his father may have been held. Which was the infamous cell he had mysteriously vanished from?

  Row after row, cell after cell, every step forward was breathtaking, horrendous, and frightening. Every gaunt and withered face squinting at his burning torch was a pitiful sight, yet disappointing that none of them yielded any familiarity, until a voice spoke from a cell behind him.

  “Took you long enough!”

  He turned and peered through the bars. “You seem disappointed!” he grinned.

  Zaki’s hair was matted with blood, a dark bruise under his left eye, and Ghasif was sporting a bloody nose. Beside him, Rauf looked the worst of the lot, with several cuts and bruises on his face, and what appeared to be a twisted left ankle.

  “I will find the keys,” Mukhtar stated.

  He searched around and found a large wooden board pegged against the wall of the main corridor. On rusty old nails, hung rusty old keys, sequentially arranged to correspond with the cells. Mukhtar hurried back and counted the number of corridors and cells to the right one, then back to the board where he found the key, and after a loud clanging of heavy bolts being undone, the iron bars swung open with a grinding, screeching squeal.

  “Alas, the scent of freedom!” Rauf remarked as he limped out, leaning on Zaki’s shoulder.

  “We were only in here for hours!” Zaki said pointedly.

  “What happened?” Mukhtar asked him.

  “Abunaki’s men,” Zaki said. “They must have followed me from the Souk. We fought hard.”

  “So I see,” Mukhtar eyed their injuries. “The fight will only be harder from hereon,” he unslung the crossbow and returned it to his brother. “Ussam is here with Thamir and Abunaki, and the one they call Master. They are all gathered in the Throne Room, in an evil ritual of witchcraft and sorcery. I know not what they mean to achieve, only that we must end this devilry before it is too late.”