A scathing, steely talon caressed the exposed skin of his neck and face, reaching further along his enchained body, sinfully plunging his dignity to abysmal depths. His eyes burned with woeful tears, his heart sinking to forlorn fathoms. Would this truly be his end? Would everything he had accomplished thus, mean for nothing, if his death came under subjugation at the hands of one as vile and wicked as Ma’alim?
No! He was a son of Zafar. He bore his father’s weaknesses, but his strengths too. He would not succumb to Ma’alim’s will without a fight. To die on his feet, than to live on his knees. He felt his strength returning, his will inspiriting. Protect me, O’ Almighty, from the malice of Shaytaan, empower me to withstand this wickedness. He shut his eyes, embracing the inevitability, realizing one thing. When he infiltrated the palace, he had forsaken every intent of surviving the night. He was prepared to die.
Show them no fear.
As such, he did not even flinch as one of the demons leaned in and breathed ferociously, barely an inch from his ear, spraying him with acidic spit that burnt his hair and scalded his skin. The nauseating scent of his own burning flesh reached his nostrils and triggered an inner instinct.
“Adva,” he called confidently. “Come to me!”
A cooling sensation came over him, and she whispered from within, words that were not of any human tongue.
‘Will you help me?’ he reached out to her. ‘Will you free me from these infernal chains?’
‘I am you, as much as you are me. By the will of He who grants us life and death, I now bleed through your veins.’
The chains began to ice up. He could feel the cold seeping through his skin and flesh, deep into his bones. Frozen beyond their will, they were no longer alive and they shattered to bits, relinquishing their hold. Life flooded into Mukhtar’s body in painful pulses, tingling and prickling. He submitted to the pain, revering the freedom it came with.
“This cannot be!” Ma’alim’s disbelief aroused Mukhtar’s inner fortitude.
He felt a strange sensation fire through his body, and a sudden strength came over him, a lethal force, balancing ardently on his fingertips, itching to be unleashed. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before. Was this the power of the Amulet? Is this what it felt like, to have another entity fill his body with its essence? He adored it. He loved it. He would never part with it.
He stood and braced himself for a fight. This was it— there was no turning back now.
‘To death!’ he whispered to himself.
The demons attacked in unison, surging with unnatural speed, their powers unrivaled, their intentions fierce.
Time slowed down for him. He saw their every move, their every strike, slicing and cutting through the air. He sensed their attacks before they even thought it. He smiled. This power was prodigious, colossal, and monumental. It was intoxicating.
His instincts told him exactly when and where to strike. He pulled out two throwing-knives and flicked his wrists. He did not wait to see if they made impact, for he was certain of striking down two, before turning to the others. The demons moved, and he moved with them, matching their lightning speed with his own. They thought him a mere human; he was far more than that now.
He picked up his fallen the short-swords, twirled them skillfully and exerted his attack. Their steely talons clashed with his blades, sending fiery flares into the air. He dodged their swift and powerful strikes, but could not evade them all, suffering several cuts, searing through his flesh. He chose to ignore the pain, keeping his focus on his prey, returning fire with powerful strikes of his own, inflicting painful slashes on all within his reach.
Several of the demons now fell back in fright, while one of them boldly swung from behind him. He sensed its scaly arm approaching, and ducked just in time to elude the foot-long talons from cleaving his head. He bent low, swung around, and cut through its mid-section, its scream of agony mounting a decibel so high, it shattered the glass panes of the high windows.
Two more demons were already on him, and he stepped back, throwing one of his swords forward with a powerful swing. It struck the first one on its skull, and he watched its essence bleed through the cut, its fiery, snakelike eyes wide in horror. His free hand drew out a throwing-knife with speed he had never felt before, and flung it forward. It struck home, deep into the chest of the second demon. The force of the impact, crashed it into a stone column.
Five demons now lay dead on the marble floor. Several others were acutely wounded. Their essences oozed onto the rich and lush rugs and animal skins, burning with an acrid and putrid odor. They backed away, their snakelike eyes fixating on Mukhtar with loathsome glares.
“No!” Ma’alim screamed beside the still body of Azhar Babak. “Stand and fight! I command you!”
The demons refused to obey. Did they fear Mukhtar more than their master’s whip? One by one, they vanished into the dark shadows, with putrid stenches of rotting eggs. They were abandoning him.
“You will all burn for your disobedience!” Ma’alim was beside himself with rage. “You will be punished for your insolence! Attack him! I am your master, and I command you!”
Mukhtar’s confidence rose, and he strode forward fearlessly. “They flee because they know, as well as I, how this will end. Who then will you send in your stead? Ussam? And after I have killed your son, will you pick up a sword and face me? Will you then beg for mercy?”
‘Do not exert yourself,’ Adva warned. ‘I can only hold you together for so long. We must flee while we can!’
‘Do not fear for me,’ Mukhtar assured her, and hastily wiped the dark-crimson trickle down his nostril. ‘The battle is not over. I will see this to the very end. Stay with me, Adva.’
“Bring me the Amulet,” Ma’alim’s whisper in Ussam’s ear, carried across the room. “Destroy him!”
There was a flash. An empty moment. Ussam, or as Ma’alim had claimed before, Azufil the demon vanished, and Mukhtar blinked as fear gripped him once more.
A searing pain tore through his left arm, deep and gouging, forcing him to drop his swords and scream in excruciating agony. Azufil’s blade had pierced his arm, almost cutting all the way through. His eyes burned and blurred with pain, searching the shadows for the balding man— or Jinn.
‘Slow your mind.’
Mukhtar calmed his breathing and tried to ignore the blood trickling from the wound, and the searing pain that rippled through his arm. He picked up his swords, barely able to hold them steady, and scanned the room for his adversary.
He felt it before he could even see it. Azufil’s blade cut through the air, creating ripples that his senses picked up, and he turned instinctively to meet the steel with his own, barely an inch away from his neck. Sparks flew, as both swords clashed in the air, and Mukhtar’s fiery eyes met with Azufil’s hateful ones.
The fierce battle shook the very walls of the Throne Room, fracturing and shattering the marble and stone. They exchanged lethal blows, unpredictable feints and parries, their swords swinging with grunts and ending with clashes. Azufil attacked, and Mukhtar dodged and blocked. Mukhtar attacked, while Azufil did the same, neither yielding to the other; neither prepared to surrender. Mukhtar exerted all his efforts in fighting back, but his body was wearing out faster than his opponent’s. Soon he began to tire, but now was not the time to give in to exhaustion. Now was not the time to step back with debilitation. Now was the time to push harder and faster than ever.
Azufil dropped its sword, drew its arms out and clenched its fists, as if summoning something. Indeed it was. Dark powers.
Two columns closest to Mukhtar, exploded in a colossal outburst. He cowered to protect himself from the debris, but the damage was still detrimental, lethal fragments of rock and stone raining upon him with calamitous propulsion.
He was not without powers of his own either. When he recovered from the aftermath of the explosion, he focused every fiber of his body on his surroundings, and felt Adva’s abilities surge through him
. Moisture was drawn, and the air in the Throne Room became misty, as droplets of water gathered before him and formed into razor-sharp icicles. With a wave of his swords, the icicles were flung through the air.
Azufil defended itself by using its powers once more. Upon mere gestures, all the rubble from the collapsed columns flew forth and formed a temporary wall to protect the demon from the icicles, shattering them upon impact.
Mukhtar took his opportunity before the wall fell.
He threw both his short-swords into the air, and with unmatched agility and velocity, he sprinted in their wake, while simultaneously pulling out all his remaining throwing-knives and flinging them at Azufil. As its defensive wall crumbled, the startled demon picked up its sword, swinging it wildly, in an effort to ward off the knives rippling through the air.
With increased velocity, Mukhtar sprung into the air, in wake of his short-swords. He reached for them by their hilts and swung forward, his body bent in a graceful arch and a brilliant display of athleticism. Using every ounce of potency left in him, he thrust forth both swords. All within a fraction of an impulsive moment, Azufil’s eyes widened with dread, terror, and apprehension, as it witnessed the approach of death. Mukhtar’s blades reigned down and sunk deep into its upper torso.
Their screams were mingled. The pain mounted and blood splattered, as Azufil twitched violently, life detaching itself from its body, its essence pouring out of the open wounds, and they both crumpled to the ground.
It was over, Mukhtar thought. It was all over. The puppet was dead, the puppeteer screaming in disbelief. It was his turn now. Mukhtar only needed a short moment to catch his breath, then he would rise up again, and Ma’alim would face his own death.
However, he was having trouble breathing. The air felt thin and hollow. He coughed and gasped, desperately trying to draw air, as the pain attained heights beyond his imagination, driving him to the brink of insanity.
A deafening crash echoed off the walls. The flames on both pedestals died out, plunging the Throne Room into darkness. A faint light emerged from somewhere else and all around him, he heard screams and shouts, mingled with the thundering of heavy footsteps. Someone was crying. Someone else was cursing. Mukhtar choked and spat out blood. His vision blurred, becoming steadily murky, and within moments, he was engulfed by an even darker abyss.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SECRET SISTERS
A blinding white light brought pain to his eyes. He could discern no shape nor form. No shadow. Not a flicker. Nothing but an endless sear of whiteness tearing into his eyes. What was this new form of torture, and what had he done to deserve it?
He tried to blink, tried to shut it out, but could feel nothing, do nothing. It was certainly strange, a strange kind of strange, one he could not comprehend, and curiosity jolted his mind to work for some answers.
His first thought, his only thought— was this death? Is this what it felt like to look through his soul instead of his eyes, just a blinding white light? Is this what it felt like to linger without a body? If this be death, then he wished nothing but to remain there, untethered, unburdened, and untroubled— that wretched, abhorrent light!
It pained. It confused and disappointed him. If he was dead, how could he feel pain? This made very little sense. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps it was so dark that it was light. But that made even less sense, just another infuriatingly unhelpful thought. Darkness is inexistent. Darkness is an immeasurable and unquantifiable anomaly, merely used to acknowledge the absence of light. Just as cold is a void for warmth.
He applauded and commemorated himself for his wit and continued contemplating the existent and nonexistent, that he simply strayed from his current conundrum. Light. Energy. What was energy? How could one relate to something that existed in so many forms? Heat, strength, speed, power, the forces of nature. What then was the purest form of energy? He pondered over this for a long while, before the answer came to him. It was light. Intangible, unbeatable, the fastest, most accurate thing in the world, for without light, how could man see? How could man discern and comprehend his own existence, and all that prevails around him? That damned light!
In an effort to shield himself, he felt something. He felt his eyelids. It was a strange and unexpected feeling. Could a soul beyond death, feel its body? What was the human soul? It was a question, so simple, yet so extraordinarily empyrean. A phenomenon beyond the grasp of man’s comprehension. Knowledge divine.
He pried open his eyes by a tiny fraction, exposing them to the light. They burned and watered. Various colors blurred beyond the tears. The blurriness faded. The tears flowed through and dripped down the sides of his head.
In what appeared to be a distant horizon, set against a white-washed background, was a series of dark lines, crooked and webbed like the tangled branches of a withered tree against the pearl white of the moon. His gaze followed a long and thin zigzagging line across the ceiling to where it met with the wall, a section that was notoriously infamous for concealing spiders. He stared at the crevice for a long while, until realization dawned on him. It was the same crack. The same ceiling. The light came from the same window. He was in his own bed, in his own room.
No wonder he felt so comfortable. Life slowly tingled through his body, touching his fingertips, igniting his bones, arousing his senses. Yet he remained there, motionless, strangely afraid of what would follow.
He felt the soreness, the searing burns and cuts, the overwhelming fever, and he became restless, trembling where he lay.
“He is awake!” someone whispered. “By God Almighty! He is awake!”
“Send word to Sheikh Ruwaid!” another whispered, a little louder, more commanding, more demanding.
A door slammed. Something was knocked over. Someone yelped. Someone else spoke angrily.
Vivid images flooded into him in a rush of memories, and his vision blurred again. His head pained beyond reckoning, blackness threatening to engulf him. He could not allow it. He would not allow it.
A pair of soft hands reached under his head and lifted him up. Instinctively, he struggled and fought back. Even softer hands touched his chest and held him back. A flowery scent of lavender and Oudh cosseted his nostrils, persuading him to cease his struggle.
Words were spoken, instructions were given. Footsteps thundered about, yet no one did anything about the accursed light, endlessly burning his eyes. The door opened and shut again, the sound of it reverberating through his head like a thunderclap.
Enough was enough. He had to find peace, and if no one there was willing to grant him bliss, he would have to reach for it himself. His attempts were met with resistance. Whoever was holding him down, did not seem to understand his need.
His limbs felt heavy, laden with soreness and exhaustion. His body screamed in agony. Still he struggled. It was his stubbornness, the infamous stubbornness inherent of the Zafar bloodline. He only surrendered to the calming, soothing fragrance of lavender and Oudh, sweet in its intoxication, euphoric in its vivification, taking him back to that blissful place.
He abandoned his skirmish and allowed himself to be pushed back onto the bed. A wet cloth was placed over his head, cool water dripping down the sides. Despite the soreness, despite the aches, he felt serenity. His fever eventually subsided and his mind focused. When the cloth was lifted, he opened his eyes slowly.
Mika’il’s face swam into view, slightly scruffy and deeply concerned. His arm was wrapped around Fariebah’s tense shoulders, whose puffy eyes were a sign of tears and several sleepless nights.
Beside her, Suha dipped a cloth in cold water and wrung it thoroughly before placing it on Mukhtar’s forehead. Eyes as teary as her sister’s and a smile just as warm, she gazed at him with the fondness of a mother, and within his heart arose an aching sorrow. How long had she remained awake, weeping and begging the Almighty to save her son? Tears burned his eyes. Wearily he shut them, succumbing to a dreamless sleep.
When next he woke, it was night. Rain hammere
d against the shut window. He raised his head slightly and scanned the dimly lit room. An oil lamp in the far corner spirited a flame meek enough for him to trace the voices conversing in hushed whispers.
Rauf sat on the floor, massaging his foot, his staff set against the wall behind him. Ghasif and Zaki were seated beside him, sporting identical bandages around their heads. Nabiha wore a loose scarf, partially covering her sleek hair. She was deep in conversation with Nuzhah, whose veiled face revealed only her almond-shaped, kohl-lined eyes.
Saif was seated on a low stool beside the bed. When he realized Mukhtar was awake, he reached forward and slid a pillow beneath his head.
“I praise the Almighty for your betterment,” he whispered.
Mukhtar responded with a weak smile. “Water,” he requested in a dry and hoarse whisper.
Saif brought the cup close to his lips, and he drank heartily. The others abandoned their personal engagements and surrounded the bed, wearing looks of concern and relief.
Mukhtar was struck by an immense pain in his chest when he tried to sit up. Saif and Nuzhah reached forward and straightened the pillows for him. While they did this, he ran a hand to trace the source of pain and realized a swollen, bandaged region in the middle of his chest. It stung at his touch and he winced in agony.
“You were pierced,” Ghasif told him. “We found Ussam’s sword deeply entrenched into your chest.”
Mukhtar stared at him with a horrified look. Indeed, he had difficulty remembering much, and any attempt to trigger his memory, aggravated the pounding in his head.
“And Ussam?” he asked.
“Dead,” Zaki replied.
“And his father?” Mukhtar’s voice became hoarse again, and Nuzhah helped him drink some more water.
“Father?” Ghasif frowned at him. “Ussam’s father?” He shook his head and curled his lip. “There was none other when we entered the Throne Room.”
The Amulets of Sihr Page 37