The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  “I assure you, I will fight you to my death!” Mukhtar responded boldly.

  “There is no sense in killing you—” another voice echoed off the walls.

  It struck him like a bolt of lightning. In his rush to battle Ussam, Mukhtar had failed to notice the gaunt old man who stood beside the throne, stroking his long gray beard, watching the events unfold with interest in his deeply sunken eyes. He wore a black cap, which held his equally long gray hair in place. His long dark robes swept the floor as he stepped into the light of the burning pedestals on either side of the throne, the wrinkles on his wizened face bringing into effect the distinct shadow of a once fierce wolf.

  The old man leaned against the throne, ringed fingers lightly tapping on its elegant gold ornamentation. Mouth slightly ajar, Mukhtar stared into those sunken eyes. They tore into him, unearthing a most tormentous statement from the deepest trenches of his thoughts.

  The devil has sworn to haunt mankind with his wickedness.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE TEACHER

  Wordless. Speechless. Thoughtless. Mukhtar felt his world darken. His vision blurred and refocused. His mind deadened and sprung back to life with a rush of memories, and he realized all his suspicions and doubts about the elusive leader of the rebels of Ghuldad. He recalled the wizened man tending to his wounds. Staging his escape. Urging them forward to further a rebellion. A revolution.

  “Bind him!” Ma’alim hissed, and Ussam took a brisk step forward, raised his arms and brought his palms together viciously. The magnificent mahogany doors slammed shut with a thunderous clap, deafening the battle cries from the Entrance Hall. He waved his arms about in several more fiendish gestures. Ferociously clanking and echoing across the throne room, heavy, iron chains flew forth from the dark shadows in every direction. Forcefully, they attacked Mukhtar, gripping and binding him firmly. His short-swords cluttered to the floor. His limbs were bound together, utterly immobilizing him. He felt constricted, gasping desperately for breath. He fell hard on the floor, screaming himself hoarse. Thrashing and flailing about like a wild animal was all he could do until he ran out of breath and strength, and lay there on the floor, staring at Ussam through watery eyes with nothing but loathe and hate.

  Unable to move, unable to speak, he continued to struggle desperately, hoping and praying that this was only a dream. An illusion. A vivid and horrid replication of the many nightmares that have haunted him since he was a child. The air felt thin and cold. It chilled the sweat clinging to his skin. The fire on the pedestals burned fiercely. They blinded him when he glanced at them. It all felt all too real to be ignored. The truth— the thunderous, mind-numbing truth, descended upon him with an irrefutable reality.

  Ma’alim stepped forward and sat on the Throne with an obvious display of frailty, jolting Mukhtar’s mind to reality. “There is no sense in killing you,” he said, eyeing Mukhtar with mild interest over his laced fingers, adorned with jeweled rings gleaming in the firelight. “Your purpose has yet to be served.”

  “This is all your doing?” Mukhtar managed to utter with a slight quiver in his voice. “Flaunting your righteous fight for freedom while using your puppet Ussam to spread your doctrines of war!”

  “You dare call my son a puppet?” Ma’alim asked calmly, his expression impassive, his eyes inscrutable.

  Son? Bewildered, Mukhtar looked from him to Ussam. Had Ma’alim not declared it, Mukhtar would not have been able to distinguish the likeness, if but one was older than the other.

  “My bastard son,” Ma’alim explained to him as though they were friends of old, meeting after long years. “Conceived during a ritual. His mother, a Galadian whore, died while giving birth to what was only meant to be an object of payment to a most powerful entity. Who could have foreseen his triumphs?” He raised his chin proudly. “Fate saw him conquer the fortress of Ghuldad. Fate saw him reunite the Amulets. Fate, Mukhtar. Who knew, that four decades later, we would be reunited, with a world amiss and a chance to rebuild!”

  Mukhtar was dazed. His neck cringed and pained, and he allowed his head to fall to the floor for a moment as he tried to piece together what Ma’alim was saying. “You are deluded, old man!” he finally mustered the courage to respond.

  “Deluded?” Ma’alim sneered. “There is no delusion, Mukhtar. Open your eyes and you will see. Or shall I open them for you?” The old man was nearly skipping with excitement. “Fate! Fate saw me captured by slavers, and fate brought you to me!”

  “My actions are my own!” Mukhtar yelled. “I walk this path by choice!”

  “Fate and destiny are always intertwined, Mukhtar,” Ma’alim said. “Fate has set you upon this path, but destiny is yours to shape, and you chose to unlock the cage and set me free! Think, Mukhtar, think! Do you see it now? Had you chosen to leave me to my fate, I never would have escaped those slavers to reunite with my son!”

  Silence deafened him. The fire on the pedestals blinded him. He became lightheaded again. The chains constricted, tightening their hold, threatening to absorb him into a dark abyss. It could not be! It was not possible! How could he have been so foolish not to have foreseen this? Haim Tuma’s slaves?

  Mukhtar wished the chains would just swallow him whole. Erase him from this world. He wanted to turn his face in shame and defeat, and brood over how his ignorance had brought about all this death and destruction. He caught Ussam’s cold eyes and saw malice in them. The sorcerer seemed to be reading his thoughts, controlling the chains with his sheer will. They coiled and curled over Mukhtar’s neck and head, forcing him to face Ma’alim and the throne, and he remained there, drained of all energy and pride.

  He could do nothing. Say nothing.

  The old man’s deceit had conquered and triumphed. Only moments remained until the King died and Ma’alim claimed the Throne.

  No! Mukhtar desperately tried to strengthen himself. The time to brood over his mistakes will come, but now was not it. The King’s brother was battling his way to them. There was still a fight to be had. He only needed to keep the old man talking and distracted long enough.

  “So what is your intent then?” he tried to keep his voice steady. “What do you mean to do with the King?”

  “Not just the King, Mukhtar,” Ma’alim responded in a tone that suggested mockery. “Every living man, who has ever come to bear an Amulet of Sihr, shall endure what the King endures.”

  “Your son as well?” Mukhtar challenged.

  Ma’alim gave a delirious chuckle. “Alas, my son has already fulfilled his purpose. Ard, the Ghul of Earth, serves my will.” He held up his hand and allowed a golden chain to drop and suspend from his fingers. Held within the glimmering gold frame was a stone of emerald glow. “He willingly surrendered his Amulet to me and embraced the Mighty Azufil,” he went on. “An ancient being. A behemoth among the Jinn. With the aid of its powers, as the ritual comes to an end, Agni, the Ifreet of Fire, will be forced to abandon the King and his Amulet, and succumb to my command, and I will bring upon mankind what it has long deserved.”

  His vision blurry and tilted to the side, Mukhtar eyed the Emerald Amulet with a distinct dread. “More death and destruction?” his voice was clipped and filled with a dark rage.

  “Order, Mukhtar! Control!” Ma’alim emphasized. “Have you learned nothing since I freed you from your holds in Ghuldad?”

  “You imprisoned me in the first place!” Mukhtar struggled with animosity.

  “To teach you the true meaning of freedom!” Ma’alim argued. “To teach you the true meaning of power! Man has never truly had the right to rule. Man has always abused power. People need order, need to be ruled, to be controlled and commanded.”

  “Even if it means sacrificing your own blood?”

  Ma’alim gave another cold chuckle. “Even if it means sacrificing mankind itself!” he declared.

  Ussam’s dark eyes were cold, icy, and lifeless, even though he stood upright. What gazed at Mukhtar, with heinous raptness, was no man. It was Jinn.


  A cold chill crept up his spine. Struggling to keep his fears contained, Mukhtar turned his attention back to Ma’alim. He needed to keep him talking, and despite his situation, he could not help but ask the questions that have plagued him for a long while. “Why did you free me when you knew who I was and what I had?”

  Ma’alim laced his fingers again, gazing at Mukhtar thoughtfully. “Yes, I did indeed know who you were. Unlike my son and this false king,” he gestured at Azhar’s limp body, “you did not truly possess the power of the Amulet. You were, however, bound to it. This bond kept it concealed from all eyes, in this world and the other. I tortured you to awaken the protection of the Ma’arid of Water. To break that bond, and force it to reveal itself.”

  Mukhtar’s bewilderment was a reflection of Ma’alim’s.

  “Curious, yes. Very curious,” Ma’alim said. “But necessary. The Ma’arid was protected, guarded by something so dark, so powerful, it was beyond my abilities. I was forced to summon the Four Sahir,” he coughed heavily, clutching his chest, bearing the burden of old age. “It was an uncalculated gambit. A desperate one. The Four are ruthless, merciless. They do not owe allegiance, but unto he before whom they bow in worship. Azazil. Iblees.”

  He turned his head to look at either pedestal for a moment, then at the King and again at Mukhtar, tapping his fingers with a subtle hint of nervousness. Mukhtar understood immediately. Even this ritual was beyond the old man’s abilities. It was yet another of his desperate gambits.

  “It was only after, that I realized the complex sorcery your father had done,” Ma’alim went on. “In order to awaken the Jinn, I had to imprison and torture you, to incite fear within your deepest and darkest thoughts. However, to truly summon the Jinn, I needed to set you on a path of trial and tribulations, and give you the free will to make your own choices between good and evil. I set you loose before the Four arrived to take possession of what they believe to be truly theirs.”

  Once again, Mukhtar found himself trapped in a void of Ma’alim’s deception. “You did not set me loose!” he denied with bitterness and disbelief. “I chose my own path!”

  “Indeed, you did,” Ma’alim assured him. “To kill Ghadan. To plot against Ghulam. You were faced with a choice, and you chose to murder! It was far simpler than I had anticipated,” he gave a small chuckle. “I only needed to guide and aid you, to remove the barriers in your path. Did you think it mere chance that your uncle’s forge was unguarded tonight? Mere good fortune that nothing hindered your path, that you were unwatched and unseen? I observed your every step, marveled at your determination to save your kin and your conviction to stand in battle tonight. You persevered through all trials, emerged a victor through all tribulations. You have become a man driven with reprisal, your hands soaked in bloodshed, your mind confounded with vengeance. You walk a sinner in body and soul. Do not flatter yourself, Son of Zafar. You were never a master of your own destiny. You are merely a pawn in a much greater, cosmic ploy of deception and chance. Such are the fundamentals of sorcery. Illusion. Deception. I merely set the stage, and watched you do the rest!”

  Mukhtar wished that the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. Every word pierced him with poison, tearing his insides. An even greater remorse was slowly beginning to seep into him. All along, he had been led to believe that Ghulam was an agent of Ussam. Ma’alim himself had sanctioned his death. Who then did Ghulam serve? Was his death truly deserved?

  The sounds of battle in the Entrance Hall reverberated behind the shut doors of the Throne Room, which meant that Mukhtar would have to keep Ma’alim in conversation a while longer, until the reinforcements arrived.

  Ma’alim stood and descended the steps, bringing his attention to Azhar Babak’s limp body. He muttered a few words to Ussam, who nodded curtly and shut his eyes, as if falling asleep where he stood.

  A sudden chill swept through the Throne Room, and lingered for a while, nearly dousing the flames on the pedestals. The moment passed, and they burned brighter and fiercer than before, restoring warmth in the room.

  Another trick of Ma’alim’s, or a true feat of sorcery? Mukhtar was not sure, but he had an ominous feeling the answer would reveal itself soon. Perhaps this was the opportunity he sought. With Ussam, or the demon Azufil absent, he might be able to come free of the chains and prevent Ma’alim from progressing any further.

  Vision tilted and angled, his head and neck pained and ached. He could no longer feel the rest of his body. The marble floor spread out before him, riddled with stained and desecrated cushions, discarded wine pitchers and hukah vials, all left behind when the ritual turned into a massacre. The Teacher stooped to look closely at Azhar Babak’s body, and Mukhtar took the opportunity to try and free himself. He writhed and struggled, but the chains only seemed to tighten their hold.

  He paused to catch his breath, keeping an eye on Ma’alim and Ussam’s seemingly absent self. He tried again to free himself, clenching his jaw, summoning every fiber of his body to fight. The chains fought back, constricting tighter and tighter. His world darkened as he was subjugated against his will. His eyes darted across the Throne Room, searching for anything that could aid him. Ussam still stood lifelessly, his father was still stooped over Azhar’s body, neither paying him much attention. The bright fires, burning yellow and orange, were slowly changing their shade to emerald flames, becoming larger and fiery.

  Ma’alim’s lips curled into a malicious grin of self-satisfaction. He held up a gnarled hand, and pointed at them. “Look!” he whispered hoarsely and Mukhtar’s eyes darted to the lambent, scintillating flames. “A testament to my accomplishment. Years it has taken me to achieve the impossible, and now… witness the union of the Elements of Creation, bound with sacrament and infinite power!”

  The flames turned into a sparkling, raging shade of red, and grew even larger, reverted back to a green blaze, and again to red. Mukhtar had a strong hunch as to why that was.

  Ma’alim was speaking to himself, but Mukhtar could hear every word. “Together they will open the Eye of Hurus, and he who commands the doorway, commands the forces of Azazil. The Prince of Darkness. The Destroyer of Worlds. He who welcomes the devil, only welcomes the end. He who has sworn to haunt mankind...”

  “This is your madness,” Mukhtar could not help but answer him. “This is your insanity.”

  Ma’alim sprung on his heels like an overexcited child, cackling loudly and mirthlessly. He squatted beside Azhar, and continued to examine him, all the while squinting up at the flames and muttering to himself, “...Earth bears all... Fire consumes all... When the King has served his purpose...” he pointed at the pedestals, “...chained as you are, in ethereal bonds, and I will draw from you the Ma’arid of Water, as poison is drawn from a wound. You will endure heightened pains. You will attain the pinnacle of penance. Alas, like your father, your sacrifice will pass into the unknown.”

  Mukhtar felt the decimating heft of a mountain crushing down upon him. His mouth became dry. An icy cold feeling dropped into the pit of his stomach, shock and awe etched on his face. Ma’alim continued to destroy him with words alone, tearing him bit by bit.

  Without an ounce of remorse, the old man pierced the wound deeper. “In his final days, he sought me out, weary unlike any man I had ever seen, claiming to have been deceived and betrayed. He placed his suspicions on Laban Varda, the only Arammorian among them,” he laughed mirthlessly. “Little did he know, it was I who discovered the Amulets with your grandfather! I urged him to reform the Order of the Four Horsemen, and claim the powers of the Amulets! We could have achieved the impossible!” he spoke with loathsome ferocity. “But your grandfather lacked the nerve and ambition. He claimed to have found piety! He claimed to have found divinity! Determined to destroy the Amulets, and expunge the book from existence. Your father set out to right his wrongs, but in the end, even he outlived his usefulness!”

  “Murderer!” Mukhtar screamed at him.

  “I am many things, M
ukhtar,” Ma’alim did not care to show subtlety. “But never a murderer! I bear no guilt, nor remorse, for he who decimates his own soul. Sorcery is not for those bound by righteousness,” he said in with utmost condescension, “and those who bear not the strength, the weak and fragile, the cowardly, falter and face only annihilation.”

  Mukhtar was unable to think anymore. Blood boiled in his veins, and he trembled uncontrollably, with a rage he had never felt before. Such was the hate and loathe tearing through him, he failed to notice Ussam’s body awaken. Ma’alim uttered several incantations, turning all the jeweled rings on his fingers. As a result of his conjuring, despite the tall and fiery flames on the pedestals, the air in the room became cold and bitter.

  Mukhtar could only think of murder. The murder of Harun Zafar, his father. The murder of Salim Zafar, his grandfather. And the murderer who stood before him. How he desperately hungered to drive his short-swords deep into Ma’alim’s gut, to sink his teeth into the old man’s throat, to make him pay and suffer for what he had done.

  Something else was afoot in the Throne Room. The air stank of death and decay, as entities of another world emerged from the shadows and enclosed him. Their dark skins glimmered like oily reptilian scales. Their tall and towering bodies hunched over him like hungry predators, brandishing their long, steely talons, gnarling inch-long fangs, their yellow, snakelike eyes beholding him with a grotesque plague.

  These were not just Jinn of the Unseen World. These were monstrous deformities of Ma’alim’s own doing, by-products of his vile attempt at playing god. A horrible breed of animal and Shayateen, of beast and demon, given physical form through satanic powers.

  “Bring him to me!” Ma’alim’s hiss reverberated across the walls and pillars.

  Mukhtar was gripped with a fear that almost became tangible, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He writhed and squirmed, doubling his efforts to come free of his bonds. The old man cackled at his helplessness. His Jinn-possessed son smirked mirthlessly, and Mukhtar felt his strength failing, his hope fading, his will abandoning him, the grim and dark prospect of death, or worse, dawning upon him inevitably.