Chapter Three The Al Mezzat

  Adnaán snaps his fingers and digs his hands into the sand near the fire, making a pattern of swirls and and jagged shapes. “Henaah, zahir, yes? Your grey man is zahir. A conjurer?” he asks.

  “In a fashion. Cyril was a mystic. One who is learned in the esoteric forces of the Orbital Realm.” Adnaán draws a wide circle around his pattern with his finger and points to me.

  “Magiks. I know of this. We have many zahir in the Al Sudan. You know this, O’rantz?” I hesitate to respond as I sense the weight of his question. The Al Sudan is long-known as the home for the most ancient order of mystici. This particular branch is famed for skills that cater to rather questionable pursuits.

  “The ones vowed to black.”

  Adnaán smiles patronizingly. “Black, grey, blue, it is all the same, O’rantz. The al mannab, the source, grants all zahir power and freedom to use this gift as they choose. The color makes no difference. Only the vessel. The person.” He notices that I am impressed and, chuckling, taps a finger upon his smooth forehead. “Now, I am giving you wisdom.”

  His assumption is accurate. I am intrigued by his response and yearn to ask him many questions. “You have been playing the fox, as I suspected,” I tell him, coolly. He rolls his eyes and heaves a dramatic sigh.

  “Hanaah shannat ay’ish. I am myself and knowing what I know and knowing what I do not. Nothing more. Your king-friend, he sleeps with a tenna’kwyi. You say a witch. This is a bad thing for him. My brother, Ah’Mat, may he journey across a thousand sands, loved a tenna’kwyi, too. She sucked his thumb and gave him pleasure until his body wasted into skin and bones. The night he died, she flew across the sky like a god and threw pieces of him down like rain. Tenna’kwyi do not love. They only pretend.”

  Memories of his brother draw Adnaán’s words to a pensive close. Unsure of what to say, I turn my gaze up to the glistening firmament whose stars flicker a soundless lullaby to all who sleep below. In that sparkling pitch, I sense a formless face, and, eyes still transfixed, recoil in fear that it is Inari come to haunt me. But it isn’t her. It is the face of another.

  “Zahir are different.” Adnaán’s voice yanks me from my trance. “Zahir love fiercely. Wildly. That is the difference.”

  “If only you were there to explain it,” I murmur, watching the dwindling flames of fire at my feet. “Perhaps my friend would still live and rule.”

  He softly replies that, sadly, he would not. I cannot help but feel the same. Myel’s doom was sealed long before his “witch” seduced him. Even Cyril, who was vowed to grey, couldn’t save him from it.

  “And what of the black mystics of Al Sudan?” I ask. “The zahir who call the desert home? What can you tell me about them?”

  Adnaán groans and collapses backwards upon his carpet. “This is something you cannot understand. It is a secret only desert people can keep.” He lifts his head slightly to check for my reaction. Seeing none, he continues. “But since you must know, these zahir we call the Aswad Ryah. Dark Wind. They have mighty magiks and dance across the sand like black ghosts. All men who call the desert home know this. Maybe you see one soon? This I am thinking. But if you do, stay your distance. We respect the Aswad Ryah and they respect us in return. Only sometimes, they like showing their power to remind us of what they are. I saw a zahir spin a camel into a whirlwind because the rider came to close. When I was a boy, we watched a group of zahir do sparking magiks into the sky one night. Many colors. Very pretty.” He yawns drowsily and rolls onto his stomach. “You will tell me more on tomorrow’s ride. For now, we sleep a little. Wadi and the others watch for us.” Within a minute, he is snoring rhythmically. The earth draws me down like a magnet as my head finds rest. There are no dreams, no visions in my sleep. Only nothingness.

  When he wakes me, dawn is barely shouldering across the dunes. Quietly, we mount our rides and leave the sleeping oasis behind. Our companions, Faruk and Ansar, take the lead, plodding in unison along the cool sand. We veer in what I surmise to be a steady northeastern direction for almost half an hour, until we reach the wall of a massively long, high-pitched dune. Ansar quietly calls for us to dismount and we lead the camels, grunting and straining, up the sandy climb. Adnaán turns to me and whispers.

  “But tell me more of your story. You and your partner, the strong one. Is he mighty? Has he cut down many men with his axe?” His curious wonder amuses me and I fail to hide my smile.

  “Not so many. A man of his size has little need to do much.” Adnaán chuckles loudly enough to prompt Faruk to glance sternly over his shoulder at us.

  “We have some like this in the Al Kheméri. The Kabirhayit. Big and mighty, they keep the peace at market. They rarely draw a weapon because there is no need. They are so big, yes?” He stops and lifts his hands wide and high, sucking in air and puffing his cheeks out, trying not to laugh again. Exhaling deeply, he continues leading his camel onward. “Your friend did not come with you to the desert?”

  “He is somewhere very far away,” I reply. “I have not seen him for quite some time, Adnaán.” We plod tediously up the massive dune in silence, save for my labored breathing until he can no longer keep his tongue.

  “You wronged your friend, somehow?”

  Before I can answer, Ansar, near the crest of the dune, motions for us halt. Faruk drops to his knees and crawls slowly up the steep crest on his belly. He lies there motionless for a minute before sliding backwards in the same fashion and beckoning his tribesmen for discussion. I wait behind as Zero nuzzles me gently and a seemingly lost light breeze tugs at the loose hem of my head scarf then vaporizes into the growing warmth of the rising sun. Adnaán breaks from the others and slide-steps down to where I stand.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “What’s over there?” I ask, seeing his eyes wild with excitement.

  “Ha’tera. Old place long abandoned,” he says, breathless and hurried. “Al Mezzat are camped there now. Faruk and Ansar will take the western dune pass and wait for us at the Temple of Shaak. Over this dune is a stone ridge with a path going down. We go in together, you and I. We find their sha’amaat, their holy woman. She can tell us only the truth. No harm to us. You understand?” I step back and pull my scarf from my head, drinking in warm, stale air.

  “No, no I do not. This is crazy, Adnaán. How many are over there? You say these are your enemies? How do we just walk into their camp and speak to their holy woman?”

  As I speak, I notice the others are already astride their camels and making their way toward the pass. Adnaán snaps his fingers in front of my face, rousing my attention.

  “You must listen, O’rantz. We will fight. A little bit. Not too much. Al Mezzat are lazy and bad at killing. Al Kheméri . . . we are better.” I start to protest once more, but he cuts me off. “Listen. Only two guards on the path. We will enter through the eastern edge. Sha’amaat always rest in the east. The rest of the camp is still sleeping. No cookfires. A lazy people, I tell you. Moving in darkness. Not in the heat. Not in the day. I fight the taller guard. You will see. You may take the shorter one. This is good for you, yes?”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. He grabs a bladder of water from his camel and pours it onto the sand, darkening it into a shadowy blob. Dutifully, his camel collapses downward onto the coolness and grunts in mild approval. Zero lowers his head, sniffs the watery ground and looks at me expectantly. I rub his ears and reluctantly tell him to stay put. He nickers, shifts his weight and returns to sniffing the ground.

  Adnaán is already crawling near the top of the dune and waving an impatient hand. I drop to my stomach and slide alongside him. Over the edge, the dune slopes downward about seven feet to a worn, dusty path. Below, in a valley bowl, rimmed with stone outcroppings and high dune walls, lay a sprawling shamble of stone ruins. What a glorious city this must have once been, I think. In a clearing, near the farthest mass of stones, I spy two massive wells surrounded by at least ten small tents and three larger ones. Fifty yards further, I see a crumbling edifice with columns soaring up to open sky. The temple.

  “Look,” Adnaán whispers, pointing to the two guards below us. Two men, cloaked in shrouds of murky linen are sitting with their backs against the ridge. “See, I tell you. Lazy.” He winks and soundlessly pulls a dagger from his belt. “This is for you. No place for swords.”

  I push it away and retrieve my own dagger from my boot. He smiles. “Clever.” Swiftly, he swings his legs over the top of the dune and sits absolutely still for a moment, watching the inattentive guards. I follow suit. Slowly, we scoot down the slope on our backsides, digging for traction with our heels until we reach the firmer earth of the path.

  A sharp whoosh noise near my left ear, freezes us in our tracks. I look behind me to find an arrow sticking contemptuously from the sand.

  “Wa al feyot! Go!” He hisses as the two guards, one quite tall, rise, startled to see us. A shrill cry rises up from the encampment and I sense a stir of activity as another arrow misses its mark between me and Adnaán. He charges the tall guard and whips his dagger around in a flourish as he dodges the impact and gracefully turns to slit his throat in one artful movement.

  The shorter guard rushes him but Adnaán thrusts the tall guard’s dying body between them, knocking his enemy off balance. Instinctively, I lower my head and run full speed into the tottering guard to bring him down. As I raise my dagger to strike, I see Adnaán drop to the ground and grimace. An arrow juts hatefully from his outer thigh. My moment of observation offers just enough pause for the guard to land an angry blow to my chin and topple me backward. He pounces upon me as I hear arrows zipping crisply through the air all around us. I manage to grasp my opponent’s small, growling face in my hands and shove it forcefully upward, his hands clawing at my arms.

  Fwack! One of the arrows lands its target deep into the guard’s left eye socket. I quickly release him and frantically scoot backwards away from him. As he opens his mouth to scream, another pierces through his cheek silencing him for good.

  “A lousy shot!” I hear Adnaán cursing nearby. “Lazy dogs! You kill your own men!”

  Warily, I turn my head toward the encampment. A band of roughly ten men stand at the end of the path, bows raised and ready. In front of them lay two bodies. One of the bowmen steps forward and gestures to the bodies as he calls back to Adnaán. “We also kill yours, Adnaán of the Al Kheméri. Do you relent?”

  Adnaán leans back against the edge of the ridge and grunts as he crudely yanks the arrow from his leg. He casts it toward the men and spits on the ground. “No!”

  The bowman hands his weapon to one of his men and holds his arms outward as he replies. “You are wounded. We will treat you and send you back to your place of comfort. This is more than reasonable, yes? Do you relent?”

  “Adnaán,” I begin.

  “No, I will not!” He roars his words across the valley below. The bowman shrugs.

  “Then we will dispatch you as we did your tribesmen and take your friend instead.”

  “You dogs! He is nothing! Let him be on his way. You want Adnaán, not this, this flea! Let him be. I will relent.”

  “Adnaán,” I hiss to him. “They killed Faruk and Ansar. They’ll kill you as well.” He chuckles wearily and rolls his head toward me.

  “No man who walks upon this earth can kill me, O’rantz. This I am thinking.” He slowly stands on his good leg and raises his hands above his head. The bowman walks our way with four guards in tow.

  “Lazy dogs, eh? Tsk, tsk. That will not do, Adnaán of the Al Kheméri. You will be treated.” He eyes the blood oozing from Adan’s leg and adds, “In a manner that befits such an insult.” The guards surround Adnaán and roughly nudge him along as the bowman calls out from behind us. “And I will be paid handsomely, as befits one who secures the murderous traitor whom you call friend.”

  I try to hide my alarm as they hurriedly bind us and march us down into the encampment toward the temple ruins. A small crowd of onlookers gathers along the way staring at us with wild curiosity. Adnaán squares his shoulders and raises his head defiantly as he limps ahead of me. He turns his head and speaks to me in a strong, deep voice. “Do not worry, my friend! The desert is with us, not these fools!” Our captors shove us into the crumbling temple entrance and into a dark, musty, torch-lit hall. Angrily, they push us onto the floor and shackle our feet in heavy irons before leaving us alone in the gloomy corridor. I strain to hear any sounds above our own breath and the clatter of our chains against stone. It is to no avail.

  Across from me, Adnaán’s face grins grotesquely in the flickering fire light. “They will meet for hours to argue what to do. That is the way for all desert people. But this is not the end for us, O’rantz. This I am thinking. And now, you will tell me more of your story and your journey for your sad king. Do this for me, so I will not think of my pain.”