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Thread: {Tales} The Hakawati Speaks

  1. #11

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    --The Hakawati explains how Tariq Al-Ashem once taught the value of patience to a Zuagir raider--


    Tariq Al-Ashem, the revered Cadi once wanted to break in a camel he had just purchased. He told his wife he would be back the next morning and rode the camel into the desert. While roaming the sand, he wandered into a small oasis with a modest little well. Even though it was in the oasis the well was, as is tradition among we desert tribes, marked with white stones to make it easy to see in the day. Another man was there, drawing water from the well into an old trough to water three of his own camels. Caravan packs sat on the backs of the two larger camels. The smallest one bore only a riding saddle but on it were burned the signs of Yog which led Tariq to believe the other man was a Zuagir returning from a raid with his loot.

    Tariq approached the well and removed his camel's bridle so that it could drink from the trough. The other man hit Tariq’s camel across the nose with the bucket's rope. “Insolent,” shouted the angrered Zuagir. “How dare you insult me by letting your camel drink the water I labored to draw!”

    Zuagirs are not known for their hospitality so it did not surprise the Tariq the other man took offense at something so common as expecting courtesy from others. Tariq was, however, slightly offended at the Zuagir’s tone. "By Set, you are discourteous" Tariq said to the Zuagir. “My apologies if I offend you but your quick temper accomplishes nothing satisfying.”

    Tariq led his camel aside and waited for the other camels to finish drinking. Once the Zuagir finished watering his camels, Tariq drew more water so his own beast might drink. When Tariq climbed back onto his camel and was about to ride away, the Zuagir said to him, “Why do you say such a thing? That temper accomplishes nothing satisfying. It is my temper that cuts down my enemies which greatly satisfies Yog.”

    “Ah. Al-Zuagir,” Tariq said with a smile, “If you would know the answer you must come with me and in a fortnight I will show you what I mean.”

    The man agreed to join Tariq and together they rode back to Tariq’s encampment. During their journey, the two men came to know each other. The Zuagir learned that Tariq was a Cadi, or judge, and a man of respect among the Ashem. Tariq learned that his Zuagir travelling companion was a sheik and a swordsman of no small reknown among the Zuagir.

    The two men arrived at Tariq’s large tent a few hours before dawn. Tariq sat his guest in the tent’s Shiqq where men of the tribe often gather to converse and where Tariq held court. After settling his guest, Tariq went to the women's section of the tent to bring mattresses and quilts for he and his guest. In the women’s section of the tent Tariq saw a male slave lying next to his wife. Both were naked. A sheen of sweat on their bodies glistened like oil and the musk from their love making still lingered in the air. Tariq’s wife had a diaphanous blue silk shawl embroidered with an acacia tree and she would wear when laying with her husband. She wore it, too, when making love with the slave and it rested across her breasts and the slave’s chest.


    Tariq lifted the shawl, being careful not to wake the sleeping couple and stuffed it inside his scimitar scabbard. He then returned to the Shiqq to fetch his guest and show the Zuagir the evidence of his wife’s infidelity.

    “You should slit her throat and feed the slave’s testicles to the pigs,” said the Zuagir once they had returned to the Shiqq.

    “Justifiable punishment,” Tariq agreed. “But there is no satisfaction in such quick tempered acts. Stay and you will see.”

    They slept in the Shiqq and rose at dawn. Tariq knew his wife was not expecting him until later in the morning so he called out, “Wife! I have returned and have a guest!”

    The wife and the slave woke, startled, and the slave had only enough time to duck beneath the covers before Tariq entered the sleeping area.

    “What is that,” asked Tariq pointing to the slave hiding under the quilted sheets.

    “A sheep,” said the wife. “It was cold last night and it must have crawled under the covers with me for warmth.”

    “Very well,” said Tariq allowing his wife to think he believed the lie. “Make ready to move. I have found another site more suited to our needs. Get the slave and pack up the tent. You will travel with the rest of the camp. I have business to discuss with our Zuagir guest and we will join you later.” Tariq left and took the coffee pots from the Shiqq. He told the men of the camp that they were moving to another site and to make busy moving the camp.

    Tariq and the Zuagir rode toward a mountain overlooking the encampment. They dismounted, started a fire and shared the coffee. It was not long before the tribe began moving toward the new site. Tariq’s wife and the slave joined the line of tribesmen snaking across the desert to the next camp. However, the slave did not secure the camel's load properly so that every now and then the load would slip and they had to stop to tie it back down. This allowed the camel to lag behind the caravan so the wife and slave could make use of one another when they thought no one was looking.

    Tariq saw this and pointed it out to the Zuagir. The Zuagir took up his sword. “I’ll gut them where they stand for such betrayal of trust.!”

    “Put your sword away, friend Zuagir,” said Tariq. "Be patient and you will learn the lingering satisfaction of rationality. Be tempestuous and you will know only instant gratification.”

    The Zuagir grumbled but kept in check his boiling anger.


    He wife and the slave arrived at the camp much later than the others and began setting up the tent. Tariq and the Zuagir arrived soon after and went to enjoy the conversation in the Shiqq where other men of the tribe had begun to gather.

    For three days Tariq did not visit his wife's part of the tent. The woman began to suspect that something was wrong. She wanted to ask Tariq but wondered how she could do this while he shunned her and how to do it in front of the Zuagir without dishonoring her husband.

    On the fourth day Tariq sat in the Shiqq with the Zuagir. Tariq had spent the day as Cadi listening to and settling several disputes between tribe members. Once all the disputes had been resolved the wife came to serve coffee to Tariq and the Zuagir. She decided to approach Tariq about why he shunned her and did so in a manner she believed only she and her husband might understand.

    "Oh Cadi,” said the wife. “The lion does not sleep in the blue shade of the acacia tree.”

    “The lion does not sleep where hyenas mate,” said Tariq

    “Oh, Cadi. Do not believe the lies of crows. They gossip for the sake of hearing themselves squawk.”

    “The lion does not need crows when he has his own eyes,” said Tariq. He motioned across the Shiqq to the rack where everyone was obliged to leave their blades. “Fetch my scabbard from over there and tell me what you find.”

    The wife took her husband’s sword from the rack and out of the scabbard fell her silk shawl with the embroidered acacia tree on it. She then realized her husband knew of her dallying with the slave. “I have found death,” she cried and fell to her knees.

    “Not by my hand,” said Tariq. “Now that you admit your guilt you will hear my judgment as Cadi. You will put on your finest silk clothes. You will paint your hands with henna and adorn your eyes with khol. In the morning you will come to the Shiqq when the men gather. Before all present you will bare yourself and beg divorce. Now go.”

    After the wife hurried away, the Zuagir said with unhidden disdain, “This is not punishment.”

    “Patience, friend,” said Tariq sipping his coffee. “As I am sure it is with you Zuagir, only a dire circumstance would keep a man away from the Shiqq in the morning. All of the men will be here including a cousin of my wife who wished to marry her before she married me. He happens to have a sister with hair black as night that would make a suitable replacement for my wife.”

    “This is still not punishment,” mumbled the Zuagir but he held his tone out of respect for being a welcomed guest.

    The next morning after all the men had gathered, Tariq’s wife suddenly appeared. This caused a stir in the Shiqq as we Ashem do not allow women there in the morning. “What is this about,” demanded several of the men.

    The wife, bedecked in all her finery began undressing so all present could see in the ritual baring of her body that she was hiding nothing. “I beg a divorce,” she pleaded.

    Tariq shook his head slowly and pretended reluctance to grant the divorce. “Crawl,” he said to her. “Crawl to each man here. Kiss his feet and beg forgiveness for this intrusion.” His wife did as she was told and all the while Tariq watched his wife’s cousin. The cousin’s eyes never left the wife. They lingered on her as a man’s eyes do when they lust after naked flesh and this simple humiliation only served to enflame the cousin’s desire.

    Once the wife had begged forgiveness from all the men she crawled to Tariq and again asked for a divorce.

    "By Set and the Magi if someone would promise me a woman to replace you, I'll let you go!"

    The wife’s cousin took the opportunity and said without hesitation. "If your oath is true, divorce my cousin, give her to me and I will give you my sister for a wife!"

    “So it shall be,” proclaimed Tariq.

    It was a simple matter for Tariq, as Cadi, to grant the divorce. His wife asked for it and he swore an oath so no one had cause to question the decision. Tariq’s ex-wife married her cousin and Tariq married the cousin’s dark haired sister. Shortly after, Tariq offered his slave for sale. Tariq’s ex-wife heard of this and convinced her second husband to purchase the slave.

    “This is not righteous punishment.” the Zuagir said to Tariq. “Your ex-wife is now married to her cousin and there is nothing you can do to her for her infidelity.”

    “It is almost done, friend,” Tariq assured the Zuagir. “Tomorrow we will go hunting with my ex-wife’s cousin. Bring two days of water and before it runs out you will see the reward for patience.”

    The next day the three men prepared to go out hunting. Tariq wished his new dark haired wife well and told her he would be back in two days. The cousin did the same and off the three men went. Tariq told the Zuagir to let the cousin make the kills and at the end of the first day the cousin had so much game he was forced to return to camp.

    Tariq and the Zuagir returned a day later and were greeted by Tariq’s new wife. She told the two men that Tariq would need to perform his duty as Cadi. The cousin had returned a day early from hunting and murdered his new bride and the slave after finding them in bed together.

    The Zuagir smirked, realizing the great satisfaction a bit of patience can bring. Tariq was now rid of his cheating wife, and the slave, both of which thought they had played Tariq for a fool. Tariq had a new, dutiful and devoted wife and not once had to dirty his hands.

    “What did he do,” Tariq asked his new wife.

    “In a fit of rage he slit her throat and fed the slave’s balls to the pigs before gutting him like a sheep.”
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  2. #12

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    --The Hakawati relates the tale of Abjilan, the old wolf.”

    Once there was an old wolf named Abjilan. He had lived for many years, performed many brave deeds, fathered many pups and led many hunting parties. But as his life approached its end he found he could no longer do these things. All he could do was talk about them. Since he had out lived his peers and his children there were no wolves old enough to remember Abjilan doing any of the things he spoke of so the other wolves in the pack dismissed Abjilan as a useless old fool and cast him out.

    Abjilan dug himself a small den in a wadi and when he could, he left to hunt lone prey. But he was old and his legs could not run as they once did and his eyes could not see as they used to so he had to content himself with small lizards and other things he could easily catch. But they were not enough and he slowly began to starve.

    At night he could hear other wolves out hunting and as he slept Abjilan heard their calls in his dreams. Each night he dreamed of the past. In dreams he relived his glory days filled with companions, youth and strength. And each morning he woke to the reality of solitude, old age, and starvation.

    One day a shadow passed in front of his hole. “Who is there,” asked Abjilan.

    “A wolf,” came the reply, though to Abjilan’s ears it sounded like no wolf voice he had ever heard.

    “Why are you here?”

    “I have come seeking the wisdom of age,” said the shadow outside the Abjiban’s little den. “If you teach me how to hunt I will give you your share of the kill.”

    “I am nearly blind. Come closer so that I can see you,” said Abjilan. “What tribe are you from?”

    “Hyena tribe.” The shadow came closer and Abjilan saw that his visitor was a broad chested hyena.

    “I have never known Hyena tribe have ever hunted,” said Abjilan. “You make yourselves fat off of carrion and the left overs of other kills.”

    “We have changed, old wolf,” said the hyena. “You will see. Just show me how you hunt and I will give you your portion of the kill.”

    As hungry as Abjilan was, he had no choice and agreed to instruct the hyena on how to hunt like a wolf. They left Abjilan’s den and in a short time had come across a small herd of sheep. A shepherd watched over the flock along with several dogs. Abjilan explained to the hyena the best methods for taking a sheep without being detected. The hyena heard but did not listen and no sooner had it tried to grab a sheep than the dogs were rushing toward it.

    “Run,” shouted the hyena who fled without even looking back to Abjilan. The dogs fell upon Abjilan, biting and ripping at him, tearing out one of his eyes. The old wolf was lucky to have not been killed and only though great effort and will was he able to escape and limp back to his den.

    The next day a shadow passed across Abjilan’s little den. “Who is there,” asked the ancient wolf.

    “A wolf, “ was the reply though the voice was no wolf voice as far as Abjilan could tell.

    “Why are you bothering me,” asked Abjilan.

    “I hear you are a wise old hunter,” said the voice. “If you teach me, I will hunt and you can have your share of the kill.”

    “I have only one eye and am nearly blind. Come closer so that I can see you,” said Abjilan. “What tribe are you from?”

    “Jackal tribe.” The visitor came closer and Abjilan saw that it was a small jackal.

    “Your tribe does not hunt,” scoffed Abjilan. “All I have known your tribe to take is small rodents and lizards.”

    “Is that not all you take now, old wolf,” said the jackal, knowing it would wound Abjilan’s pride. “Teach me and you will see that we have changed. I will kill and you will have your share.”

    Abjilan was now so weak from hunger and wounds that he had no choice but to agree. Together Abjilan and the jackal went out and again found the flock of sheep guarded by the shepherd and his dogs. As Abjilan was explaining how best to take a sheep unnoticed the Jackal shouted, “These sheep are too big for me!” The dogs heard this and fell upon Abjilan and the Jackal. The little Jackal ran, leaving Abjilan to fend for himself. Again Abjilan managed to escape but not before the dogs ripped off one of Abjilan’s paws. When Abjilan crawled back into his den, he knew he was about to die.

    That night Abjilan dreamed, as always, of his youth. But this time he dreamed he was watching himself. Though it was another body he watched, he knew somehow that it was his. That his spirit was in that other body. Though the dream self he watched howled in another voice, he knew that it was his voice. Abjilan dreamed of deeds he had never performed and glories he had never attained. Yet he knew these acts were his as sure as the acts he remembered in his waking hours. And he knew in his heart the deeds of which he dreamed had not yet come to pass but he knew for certain that he had, or would, accomplished them.

    When Abjlan woke from the dream a shadow stood outside his den. “Go away,” growled Abjilan. “Let me die in peace.”

    “Esteemed Abjilan,” said the shadow, “I ask only your wisdom that I might be a better hunter. Do not let your knowledge die with you. Teach me and I will give you your share of the kill.”

    The voice was that of a wolf, deep and powerful. Abjilan knew he had heard the voice before but could not remember where so he bid the visitor, “Come closer that I can see you. Do I know you? What tribe are you from?”

    “I am called Sa’kan and I am from the Sahiyya Wolf tribe.” The visitor stepped closer and Abjilan saw that Sa’kan was the young wolf in his dream.

    “I know the Sahiyya,” said Abjilan. “I was a Sahiyya. They are the most courageous wolf tribe so I do not doubt your intentions are true but I fear I cannot help you. I tried to teach Hyena and Jackal but I was mauled by dogs when Hyena and Jackal abandoned me. I have lost a foot and an eye thanks to those two cowards. Crippled and blind, I would be useless on a hunt. Now I wait only to die.”

    “Then tell me what I must do,” said Sa’kan. “I will go hunting and bring back your share. You can at least die with a fully belly.”

    There was such a strong conviction in Sa’kan’s voice that Abjilan did not doubt Sa’kan’s would do as promised. So Abjilan told the young wolf all the secrets of hunting. Sa’kan listened to the old wolf’s wisdom and left for the hunt. Sa’kan returned at sundown with a fattest sheep in the herd.

    “Forgive me for taking so long,” said Sa’kan. “There were two other matters which required my attention. But as I promised, I have brought a kill.”

    “I had no doubt you would,” said Abjilan. “Now, bring it here that we might make a meal of this fine fat sheep.” The two wolves shared the kill and Abjilan told tales of his youth long into the night. He told of his glories, his truipmhs and tragedies of happiness and heartache. He told of his whole life from the time he could remember to the moment Sa’kan appeared at his den. Sa’kan listened intently, learning from the old wolf’s tales the value of courage, integrity and respect.

    Abjilan yawned when he finished his last tale. Outside the den the first hint of light at the horizon heralded the coming sun. He knew there would be no more shadows at his den asking for his wisdom for he had reached the end of his days. “Thank you for listening,” Abjilan said to Sa’kan with a deep sincerity. “I would invite you to stay but I have already stayed too long, myself. I feel death calling to me as a father to a lost child and I must answer the call before the sun rises.”

    “Before you go there is one more thing,” said Sa’kan. “Vengeance is as filling to the soul as a fat sheep is to the stomach so I have brought you these.” The young wolf placed the eye of the hyena and the paw of the jackal before Abjilan.

    Abjilan said nothing for many long moments. He just stared at the eye and the paw. Abjilan lay down with a full belly and a quiet soul. With his life waning, Abjilan remembered his youth and the dream in which he saw himself as Sa’kan. As the sun rose and Abjilan’s spirit left he said to Sa’Kan , “These are the first of many glories.”

    And they were, for Sa’kan came to be known as Sa’kan bin Abjilan Al-Sahiyya, the king of the wolves.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  3. #13

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    --The Hakawati explains presence of mind and deception through truth—

    Presence of mind is a trait highly valued by we nomads. To let one’s mind dull is to invite death in the desert. Always we must observe, watch, listen. The scorpion under foot. The asp in the tent. The efreet in the sand. The knife at the back. The vengeance in a heart. These are but a few things that kill swiftly and mercilessly in the great desert wastes. For a nomad, quick wit can both save and profit a man as well as a quick sword.

    Once, in the province Stygians call Khopshef, there was a thief. He made a passable living at this detestable occupation. Though he was known by the people and authority of the area to be a thief, he was allowed to ply his trade since he focused on those people travelling the caravan routes when they stopped in the village of Bubshur.

    Now, there is a difference between thieving and raiding. A thief seeks through guile and trickery to deprive another of valuables. There is no trickery in raiding caravans. Those claiming to be more civilized than we nomads say there is no difference. But they are almost always weak willed merchants bemoaning the fact they were not strong enough to protect their property. Property which they planned to sell to others for great profit and that in itself is a form of thievery.

    As it happened, the thief learned that one of the caravans was bringing a gilded phallus to the Priestess of Derketo in Bubshur. Being a short minded fellow he saw only that this golden rod would be of such value that he could live out his days as a wealthy man. He did not have the presence of mind to realize this was a sacred item to the temple of Derketo and used in some of their rituals. So it was that he managed to steal the phallus from the caravan. This of course drew the ire of the Priestess who sent agents of the temple after the thief.

    Being a known thief, there was nowhere in Bubshur the man could hide that the authorities did not know of so he decided to make for Caravanserai. Agents of the temple pursued the man from Bubshur to Caravanserai. While trying to elude the agents in Caravanserai, the thief came upon a nomad with three camels laden with supplies. The thief hid the stolen goods in his pants and approached the simple nomad.

    “Please hide me,” begged the thief. “I am being chased by the authorities.”

    The nomad looked over the thief and cut free a load of salt from one of his camels. “Quick, hide under these sacks of salt,” urged the nomad. The thief did so, drawing the last sack over him just as the agents of the temple rounded the corner.

    “You there, Nomad!,” called the captain of the guards. “Have you seen a thief running about? He has stolen something from a priestess.”

    “Why yes,” said the Nomad. “He is hiding under these bags of salt.” The guards snorted and rushed on, not bothering to check under the salt bags.

    Once the soldiers had left the thief emerged from the pile, angry and throwing the sacks of salt all about. “Why did you tell them where I was! They’ll cut my throat if they catch me, you idiot!”

    “I am just a simple nomad and I know everyone here believes we are liars and cheats. So, they expected me to lie about where you were. Thus in telling them the truth they thought I was telling a lie and did not check the bags where you were hiding.”

    “Well, at least I am safe now,” sighed the Thief.

    “No you are not.” The nomad indicated the street down which the guards had rushed. “That alley they went down is a dead end. They will be getting to it soon and realize you did not go that way. There is not enough time for you to hide under the sacks since you have tossed them all about. When they come back by they will see the impression of a man in the dirt where the pile of bags once was and realize I was telling the truth. They will then ask me which way you went.”

    The thief looked around like a gazelle harried by wolves. “I do not know this place,” he said. “Which way do I go?”

    “I could tell you which way to go and tell the soldiers you went a different way when they come back. But I will want the man-rod you have stolen from the Derketo Priestess.”

    “How did you know what I have stolen,” asked the thief.

    The nomad indicated the thief’s pants where the thief had hidden the golden phallus. “I doubt you are aroused by the prospect of having your throat cut. Since there are no derketo acolytes here, I know of only one other cockhandler in Caravanserai and he handles cocks of a different nature.”

    The thief reached into his pants and handed the sacred rod to the nomad. “Here, take it! Now hurry! which way do I go?”

    The nomad took the golden phallus, tucked it in his shirt and indicated a narrow alley. “That way is not a dead end and by Set I will tell the soldiers you went another way,” he said and the thief rushed off.

    When the temple agents came back they saw, as the nomad said they would, the disturbed pile of bags and the impression of a man in the dirt. They cursed themselves for not believing the nomad the first time. “Which way did the thief go,” demanded the captain of the guards.

    The nomad made himself busy repacking the salt on his camel. “He went to watch the sun set by the well,” said the nomad. The alley down which the nomad sent the thief was a crooked, cramped alley that led to the western well of Caravanserai. The nomad also knew there was a shorter way and that the soldiers would take that route and be there before the thief. Thus, the nomad made good his promise to not tell the soldiers down which alley the thief had gone.

    When the thief emerged from the alley the soldiers immediately seized him and bound him as one might a goat for sacrifice. They stripped him naked searching for the golden phallus but of course could not find it. The thief said he gave it to the nomad so the soldiers carried the thief back to the nomad.

    When asked by the soldiers if the thief had given him the golden phallus, the nomad said, “He gave me nothing. I have not taken a thing from this man that was not offered in trade.” And that was true since the thief exchanged the phallus for the nomad’s help which by nomad reckoning is a bartered trade and not a given gift.

    It seemed to the guard captain that the nomad had not once lied and the thief had done nothing but lie. “He must have sold it or lost it,” reasoned the captain. “Either way we know him to be the thief and there is only one punishment for stealing from Derketo.” With that the guard captain gelded the thief then slit the thief’s throat.

    On his way back to the desert, the nomad stopped to visit the priestess and he gave her the sacred phallus. So pleased was the priestess that she allowed the nomad to spend a week with her and in that time indulged all of his desires.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  4. #14

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    --The Hakawati explains why it is best to consider your advice before giving it--



    Once there was a Lion a Fox and a Hyena whose territories bordered one another. Each animal was an excellent hunter but often the prey they were chasing ran into the land of a neighbor. Being respectful neighbors they did not pursue the kill out of respect for each other’s territory. A large lake sat at the center of these three territories and the three neighbors treated it like an oasis. None claimed it as territory and each was entitled to take water from it whenever they wished.

    One day Lion went to the lake to get a drink of water and found Fox and Hyena there. They all sat down to talk and as it was the only thing they had in common, it was not long before they began to talk about hunting. Lion told how the zebras he loved to chase always seemed to run into the Hyena’s territory. Hyena complained that the gazelles he found sport with always seemed to run into Fox’s territory. Fox understood his neighbors’ frustration since the rabbits he liked to hunt always seemed to run right for the Lion’s territory.

    “I have an idea,” said Fox. “Since the things we all like to hunt run out of our hunting grounds, why don’t we all hunt together in each of our lands. That way we can hunt what we like in the territory of our neighbors without having to worry about trespassing.”

    Lion and Hyena agreed this was an excellent idea. The next day Lion, Fox and Hyena met at the lake and went out hunting. Together they caught a zebra in Hyena lands, a rabbit in Lion lands and a gazelle in Fox lands. Pleased with themselves, the Lion Fox and Hyena returned to the lake to divide up the kills. They drew lots to see who would divide the kills and Hyena won. Since he knew what each of them liked, Hyena gave the zebra to Lion, the rabbit to Fox and kept the gazelle for himself.

    Lion became angered at this division of the spoils so he attacked and killed Hyena. Then Lion looked to Fox and asked, “What distribution of the kills do you think is best.”

    After a moment of consideration the Fox said to the Lion, “The rabbit is for your breakfast, the gazelle for your lunch and the zebra for your dinner.”

    “You are a wise little fox,” said Lion. “How did you come by such wisdom?”

    “I learned it from a dead hyena,” said Fox.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  5. #15

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    --The Hakawati explains how even a generous man might be roused to anger--


    In the desert, hospitality is expected to be both given and accepted. It has always been our way and will always be. But one should not take advantage of another’s generous heart.

    Khalid Al-Ashem was renowned for his generosity. It is he that said a guest arrives as a prince and leaves as a poet. That is to say, treat a guest with such generosity that they will sing your praises to others ever after. No visitor was ever refused a place in his tent. Even during the “Knife Times” in late autumn when sheep are scarce Khalid would have one of his sheep slaughtered and prepared for honored guests. Frequent visitors would be offered whatever food happened to be available but even this food was of excellent quality.

    Khalid lived near the traditional borders between the tribe of Ashem and the tribe of Kubiyaa. Because of Khalid’s great generosity it was not surprising that visitors from the entire area would visit his tent. Many of Khalid’s visitors were Kubiyaa and his tent almost always had people in it talking and accepting the benefits of visiting such a generous host.

    Khalid was not a man to wander much but it happened that one time upon returning from the Black Necropolis he found that he could not make it to his tent without having to stop for the night. Even the bravest of men do not wish to spend the night alone on the desert for that is when demons roam about. Fate decreed that he should find an encampment of Kubiyaa. After making himself known he was taken to a large tent at the center of the camp. Gathered in the tent were many Al-Kubiyaa that Khalid recognized as visitors to his own tent. But their reception of Khalid was as cold as dead ash compared the bonfire of Khalid’s usual hospitality.

    Khalid was not offered a pillow on which to sit, as is traditional. He was shown to a rug. Among many tribes it is customary to brew fresh coffee for a guest but Khalid was offered drink from the pot that had been sitting by the fire for some time. Several groups of men played seegha but they did not invite Khalid to play. The tent was filled with men but none spoke to Khalid. They kept to themselves as if Khalid was invisible to them. Though greatly irritated at what he saw as begrudging hospitality, Khalid said nothing to upset his hosts. He did, though, wish he had not come into the camp. Now that he was here he could not suddenly leave without offending his hosts.

    After losing a game of seegha, a man called one of the young boys over to him. He whispered to the boy and nodded to Khalid then sent the boy running off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come, sit“ said the man motioning to the painted seegha stones.

    Khalid sat on the rug across the seegha board from the man. “Finally,” thought Khalid, “someone shows a bit of hospitality. Sending the boy to fetch some food no doubt.” Sometimes tribe members will compete for the honor of entertaining a guest as a means off showing their status. But Khalid saw that the man had just lost a game of seegha and wondered if in losing, the man was now forced to show the hospitality others would not.

    Khalid and the man started placing their stones on the seegha field and began playing. The boy returned a short time later with a plate of food for Khalid. Judging by the quality, Khalid then knew the man was forcing this meager hospitality because he had lost his previous game of seegha. However, Khalid saw this as a means by which he might leave. He ate two bites of the food, enough to be polite, then nodded his thanks to all and took his leave.

    In spite of it being night in the desert, a time when djiin roam the sand for lone travelers, Khalid left the Kubiyaa camp and set out for his own. Facing deep desert djiin would be preferable to enduring the insult of such little hospitality as Khalid was offered by the Kubiyaa. Khalid’s anger grew on the ride home. Those he had treated so generously had insulted him with the little effort they put into their own generosity. While Khalid did not assume others could be as generous as he, Khalid expected, as should any desert nomad, that his hosts would do their best given the circumstances of their own fortunes.

    It was on his ride home beneath the glimmering jewels of stars strewn across the sky that Khalid vowed his revenge.

    Days passed and a group of unexpected riders arrived at Khalid’s camp. Khalid saw by the brands on the riders’ saddles and horses that they were all from the Kubiyaa tribe that had treated him so unkindly. Nevertheless, Khalid welcomed them warmly into his tent and ordered one of his servants to feed and water the guests’ horses. He had the softest of his pillows brought for the visitors and began brewing a fresh pot of coffee for each man.

    “Friends,” he said to them, “it is near lunch and I would not be a generous host if I did not offer you a meal. If you pardon me, I will go have something made fresh.” Khalid excused himself and the visitors waited with great anticipation for they all knew of Khalid’s boundless generosity.

    Khalid went to his wife and told her to bake loaves of barley bread. Though there was plenty of wheat, Khalid knew the barley bread would be coarse and near inedible. His wife did as she was told since she was a dutiful and obedient wife and baked enough barley bread that there were three loaves of bread for each guest. Khalid then went to one of the camel tenders and bought from him a jug of sour milk the man was about to throw out.

    Khalid returned to the tent and had slaves place the trays of inedible bread and rancid milk before his surprised guests. His guests looked at one another, confused by this strange turn of events since they were expecting a festive meal. Khalid clapped his hands and the slaves drew wickedly curved kukri knives.

    “Now eat,” Khalid ordered his guests. “Or by the All Serpent I will have these slaves cut your throats and your bodies fed to the jackals! And even that is too good for those who take but do not offer hospitality.”

    The Kubiyaa realized then how much Khalid had been insulted by the lack of Kubiyaa hospitality. They ate enough of the coarse bread and drank enough of the sour milk to satisfy Khalid and were then allowed to leave with sickened stomachs. Their horses, though, had been treated to oats and apples since Khalid’s ill will extended to the riders and not the mounts which bore them. So embarrassed were the kubiyaa that never again did any of their tribe seek out Khalid’s boundless generosity.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  6. #16

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    --The Hakawati relates how Sadiin the Motwihamreed once embarrassed a braggart--

    Many generations ago Sadiin Motwihamreed Al-Ashem was returning from a long journey. The Magi, may they be forever revered, had sent him into the distant cities of the west. The reason for his journey is now lost to mortal memory but the occasion of his return is still told around desert campfires and whispered in the living shadows of the Necropolis.

    Sadiin had been away for the better part of two years dutifully carrying out the wishes of the ageless Magi. Upon his return he found himself without horse or camel and dressed in the meanest of clothes hardly befitting goatherd. Yet this did not discourage the Motwihamreed for he was returning home to the desert, the tribe of Ashem and the dark solace of the Necropolis.

    Though he walked alone among the wastes he was never without companions. The discorporate souls that wander the trackless sand would whisper to him. This in itself is not astounding given than some of our tribe hear whispers in the wind. However, the Motwihamreed through the teachings of the Magi may not only hear, but speak to, command and when necessary bind the lost souls to his will.

    One day on his return journey, a soul whispered to him of a nearby encampment. Since it was close to midday and the sun baked the desert, Sadiin decided to seek a brief respite at this encampment. The camp belonged to one of the minor vassal tribes of the Rubiyat and though Sadiin was dressed as a simple goatherd he was welcomed warmly enough to satisfy tradition and taken to the tent of the tribe’s Cadi.

    No one recognized him as the Motwihamreed and dressed as he was, they offered him a modest meal of cheese and bread from what they had on hand. This did not upset Sadiin as he was a quiet man and not in the habit of using his position as the voice of the Magi to gain preferential treatment. What he was offered suited his appearance as a simple goatherd and he knew this.

    The Cadi let Sadiin eat a few morsels and take a few drinks before addressing him. “So, traveler, might we know your name and where you are from to wander the desert afoot?”

    Sadiin nodded politely to the Cadi. “You may call me Sadiin. And where I am from is not as important as where I am now.”

    The Cadi grinned. “As you say, Sadiin the wanderer.” The Cadi did not press the matter with Sadiin for in the reply Sadiin had both politely refused to answer where he was from and complimented the Cadi on his hospitality. “I am honored that where you are is important.”

    Soon after this a commotion arose outside. Amid the greetings and salutations Sadiin heard the jangle of bells and the harrumph of a horse. A man appeared at the entrance to the tent, ushered in by several tribesmen. He was a tall man with the lighter complextion of those that tend to call the cities their home but Sadiin recognized the features of a Rubiyat in the man. Robes of fine silks and satins embroidered with silver thread draped the man and he wore boots of the softest doe brown calf hide. Two scimitars girded his waist, these just as much a symbol of his status as the man’s clothes.

    “Hammad Al-Rubiyat,” exclaimed the Cadi. “Welcome!” The Cadi offered Hammad a place of honor at his right which Hammad accepted without thanks, almost as if he expected such a thing. “We must have a sheep slaughtered and cooked for our honored guest,” said the Cadi and with a wave of his hand sent off two slaves to see that a proper meal was prepared.

    With Hammad now in the tent little attention was paid to Sadiin yet this did not upset the Motwihamreed. Pride, while useful, might cause one more harm than good if not restrained so Sadiin remained quiet and let Hammad have all the attention. Once the sheep had been cooked, more people came to the tent when word spread that Hammad was there. Sadiin, being seen as a lowly wandering goatherd was given the smallest portions of the sheep but even this did not bother him. Then talk turned to Hammads travels.

    “Where are you going, Hammad,” asked the Cadi.

    “I am returning home from the shrine of Sokenaten,” said Hammad. “I felt I should offer my thanks for such strength and courage as he has given me. Why these very clothes I took from an emir of Ashem. Even ten men guarding him were no match for the flash of my dancing steel. One by one their heads leaped from their shoulders until the emir was obliged to give me his robes and walk naked back to the tribe of Ashem.”

    Sadiin studied Hammad. The clothes Hammad wore bore none of the usual designs we Ashem weave into fine garments. The lambskin hilts of hs scimitars had no stains from the grip of a sweating hand and showed no other signs of use. Though well made the swords seemed more ceremonial than useful. Since Sadiin had not said he was Ashem, no one stopped Hammad in his lies. Such bragging untruths about killing ten Ashem infuriated Sadiin but he said nothing. Nor did his expression betray the fires of vengeance that grew in his heart.

    Sadiin drew his keffiyeh across his face. “If you will excuse me,” said Sadiin, “I must continue my own journey.” He stood and left, being offered only cursory well wishes on his travels. Everyone’s attention remained on Hammad.

    Having heard Hammad say he was returning home, Sadiin hurried along the path he was certain Hammad would take. The path led through a narrow ravine and Sadiin hid himself among the rocks overlooking the path. A few hours later he heard the jangling of bells. Peeking over the rocks he saw Hammad riding a broad chested horse with gilded bells on its reins. He waited for the horse to pass beneath him then leaped down and pulled Hammad off the horse.

    Hammad yelled but stopped when he felt the edge of a knife at his throat. “Silence,” demanded Sadiin, “or I will cut your tongue from your throat, kinslayer.”

    “Wh-What do you mean,” stammered Hammad. “I have killed no one.”

    Sadiin pressed the blade against Hammads’s neck. “You lie! You are Mahrim Al-Zuagir,” said Sadiin pretending he did not know Hammad’s real name. “You killed my brother. I have given blood to Yog and will exact revenge on you, jackal!”

    Sadiin’s face lay covered by his keffiyeh and Hammad looked into Sadiin’s eyes. In his complacency, Hammad had paid no attention to Sadiin earlier and could not recognize the simple garments of the unimportant goatherd that had sat quietly in the tent. “I swear by Set I am not Mahrim! I am Hammad Al-Ribyat and I have not killed your brother!”

    “If you are a Ribyat then there must be someone around here that will vouch for you.”

    Hammad pointed back up the path. “Yes, yes. There is a camp back there only an hour or two away. They will tell you who I am.”

    “Then we will see if you are telling the truth.” Sadiin snatched Hammad to his feet and disarmed the man. He ordered Hammad, under pain of death, to remove his robes, thus leaving Hammad as naked as he had claimed he left the Ashem emir. Sadiin then mounted the belled horse and made Hammad walk all the way back to camp.

    Once back at the camp, people began gathering, curious as to what was happening. They all recognized Hammad. One man tried to offer Hammad a simple cloak to cover himself but Sadiin stopped the man, saying, “Fetch the Cadi. His judgement is needed on this man accused of murder.”

    When the Cadi arrived, Sadiin asked him, “Cadi, as you are judge and by Set’s will an honest judge, I ask if you know this man.”

    “I do,” said the Cadi. “He is Hammad Al Ribyat and has spent many meals in my tent. What is the meaning of all this.”

    “The man thinks I murdered his brother,” said Hammad. “And questions who I am. But Now that you have vouched for me I demand his name for this insult!”

    Sadiin removed his keffiyeh. “I am Sadiin Motwihamreed Al-Ashem and the question is not who I am but whether I am one man… or ten.”

    Shamed by the revealing of his lies, Hammad fled naked into the desert and never again showed his face at the Cadi’s tent. Double was the man’s shame for though it was within Sadiin’s power, the Motwihamreed used guile rather than his ancient magics to reveal the braggart’s falsehoods.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  7. #17

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    --The Hakawati relates one of the many tales of Masiir Motwihamreed Al-Ashem, last of the Motwihamreeds to become Magi.--
    (Part 1 of 3)

    There was, some four hundred years ago, a Motwihamreed named Masiir. He wielded such power that even in his mortal life many considered him one of the Magi rather than their servant in the world of man. With but a few words or gestures Masiir could raise a meat puppet army from the corpses of men fallen on the battlefield. If he so chose, his slightest breath could rot the flesh from bone and his very look whither the soul.

    Masiir Motwihamreed Al-Ashem was the last Motwihamreed to become a Magi. In the four hundred years since then no other servant of the immortals has survived the ancient rights that place the Magi beyond death’s touch. When Masiir became Magi, he ceased being a man for no man exists beyond death and no living man can know the dark secrets of such elder beings as the Magi without going mad. Being the youngest of the ancient Magi, his life as a man still lives in mortal memory. In life, he was known to scholars in the distant east and decadent west as a sorcerer of such unmatched power and reputation that both the living and dead sought his aid.

    One night Masiir lay asleep with an acolyte of Derketo in the temple at Burbastis. The room opened out of the main hall in which lay a tangle of naked, sleeping revelers having exhausted themselves in the orgiastic rites common to the Feast of the Ascendant Whhore. Darkness settled like a thick blanket over the temple and the only sounds were the occasional rustle of sleepers writhing in dream against one another.

    It was in one of these dreaming turns, reaching for acolyte at his side, that Masiir happened to open his eyes. There stood in the doorway gazing upon Masiir and the Acolyte, a man. Though not tall, the man’s stature spoke of nobility. He carried himself as one accustomed to ruling and expecting the obeisance of lesser men. A circlet common to the rulers of western Shemite city-states ringed his head, and the single emerald set in the front seemed to glimmer even in the heavy darkness.

    Masiir’s hand rested on the acolyte’s belly. Even in sleep she responded to the touch with a serpentine twist of her hips toward the Motwihamreed “This one is mine,” Masiir said drowsily. “Find another pair of legs to push apart.”

    “I have no interest in the woman,” said the man.

    Masiir more felt the man’s voice in his head than heard it. He knew then that his dreary eyes peered beyond the living world into the shadows of death where lost spirits lingered. “I have not summoned you, shade,” said Masiir. “Leave or I will consign your soul to the belly of Set.”

    “By Set I would accept that fate and worse for even that would be a lesser torment than I now endure.”

    Masiir studied the spirit more closely. Black veins like diseased tree roots twisted through the shade’s translucent form. Jaundiced, unblinking eyes stared from deep sockets. This was a soul trapped between worlds, unable to pass beyond the veil of death into the shadow realms yet it still felt the pains and hungers of life as might a living man.

    This was no common spirit that often pulled at the Masiir’s mind for attention. Such a tortured soul, Masiir knew, could be a source of power if it were bound to his will. Masiir sat up and decided to hear what the lost soul had to say. “Be careful of the oaths you make. The price of my aid might very well be worse than an eternity in Set’s belly. Make your plea and if it interests me, perhaps I might help.”






    "I was once the living ruler of Tel A’Fataar,” said the apparition. “With sword and fire I hacked and burned my enemies to seize kingship of the city and surrounding pasturage. I took as my wife the sister of the former king and she bore me a son. My son and my kingdom grew strong. For many years I was happy and the people of Tel A’Fataar remained steadfast in their allegiance to me. I never dreamed of the disasters which gathered like desert raiders casting their rapacious eyes on my jewel of a city.

    "Ten years ago an unnatural drought descended upon my kingdom. Rain no longer fell. The clear streams which used to roll form the mountains to irrigate the plains dried up. Wells lost the fountainheads which used to keep them filled with the clearest pure water in all of Shem. Everywhere our crops failed and the grass on which our cattle grazed withered beneath the unrelenting sun.

    "The common people suffered the lack of food so much that it seemed I ruled a city of skeletons rather than of people. Countless numbers died of starvation and were left in the streets. But such was the hunger among the peasantry that the bodies rarely had a chance to rot.

    “Every day through prayers I beseeched Derketo and Ishtar and all the other fertility goddesses to succor the blessings of the sky and send down rain upon the desiccated land. This calamity, I knew, was due to some wrong I had committed but none of my viziers or oracles could divine what it was.

    "One day, a man appeared at the palace seeking an audience with me. He said he had come to propose a plan for the deliverance of my country.

    "Not knowing what else to do, I had the man summoned immediately into my presence. I asked him if it were true that he had the power to bring rain and to return my kingdom to prosperity.

    "'Yes,' he replied, 'I have that power. But first, do you know the cause of such a curse?’

    “I told him that I did not and that the gods hid the reason even from my best viziers and oracles. The man pondered in silence for a few moments and I thought perhaps he was about to reveal the cause of the drought but instead he said, ‘Come with me to the balcony and I will show you that I have the power to restore your lands.'

    "We walked out to a balcony which overlooked the city and from which we could see the distant grey mountains. The stranger lifted his left hand toward sky and uttered words which I was unable to understand and could not repeat if given a hundred lifetimes to learn

    "A change crept through the air. A damp wind arose from the west. The sky darkened. Dense masses of storm clouds blossomed and blotted out the sun. Thunder rumbled like the distant sound of horse hooves beating the ground in a charge. Jagged flashes of angry lightning illuminated the sky and before two hours passed, rain fell in torrents to infuse the land and put an end the drought.

    "There was no favor which I would not bestow upon the man that had saved my kingdom and my people. I gave him the finest clothes. He had more gold and silver than might be imagined. I granted his every indulgence. I treated him as an equal. I held in my heart a true brotherly affection for the man that had delivered us from catastrophe and he seemed just as devoted to me.

    “Thus it was for three years, each of us like brothers to one another. Each day he would ask me if I knew why the gods would curse my kingdom with such a drought and each time I would answer, honestly, that I did not know. He would always enter into silent contemplation for a few moments and then say, ‘Perhaps in time.’ ”

    “One morning we were walking in the through the gardens at the Shrine of Astoreth. The peach blossoms were in full splendor and we were enjoying their perfume while wandering amongst the trees. Eventually we came upon a well which was hidden from sight by a cluster of Vendeyhan Myrtle trees. I had passed the trees with their royal purple flowers many times but never remembered seeing the well.

    “Curious as to this new discovery, we stayed for a moment to peer down the well and into the dark mirror-like water deep below. While I gazed into the well, my friend asked me if I could remember what I might have done to bring the drought curse upon my kingdom. When I answered that I did not know, my friend pushed me into the well. I tumbled head first into the black water.

    “With a strength no mortal man should have he lifted a broad stone slab and covered the mouth of the well. With a word and a gesture he caused the ground to rise up and cover the well. He cut a sprig from one of the myrtles and planted it in the mound of dirt. Influenced by his mystic powers, the sprig grew in a matter of moments into a grove of deep rooted myrtles. For seven years I have lain dead in the well. No one has stood to avenge me or deliver me from my torment."

    Suspicious of the story, Masiir asked, "What about your viziers and oracles? Have they not inquired about their missing king? And your wife and family? Are you so unloved they have no care that you disappeared? It seems to me unbelievable that a king of a city should vanish and no one would question his absence.”

    "My murderer, the man who was as a brother to me, is an Efreeti sorcerer," replied the spirit of the dead king. “He has taken my appearance as that of his own. The man who saved my kingdom has simply left, or so the imposter has told everyone. The demon rules in my stead and never was there any suspicion as to his true nature.”

    “Then appeal to the king of the Efreet,” dismissed Masiir

    “The demon was brought up from the infernal hells to punish me for some wrong I have committed. He has influence in the Efreeti royal court and the ear of the Efreet king himself so any entreaty to him would be dismissed. Worse, my soul has is still bound to my corpse. For seven years have I felt the well’s cold water in my lungs and the slow rotting of my body.

    "Today,” continued the king’s shadow self, “a spirit came into the well. It was the first thing to ever visit the dark water in the seven years I have been there. After hearing my tale it agreed to switch places with me for one day so that I might seek help. My viziers once told me of the Motwihamreed, a living man with the powers of the Magi. And so I have come to offer you whatever you desire to secure your aid.”

    Masiir gazed with the sight of the dead on the King’s shade. The shade of the dead king had become impatient, twisted and distracted by the pain of death it still suffered. And that, Masiir knew, could be a thing easily exploited. Seven years of torment, thought Masiir. What is that compared to seven hundred or seven thousand or seven eternities. “Do you swear by Set and the Immortal Magi that you will render to me whatever I desire?”

    “I do,” affirmed the king unable to conceal his desperation. “Whatever your desires, if they are within my power, I will grant them.”

    A grin crept across Masiir’s face. “Then I will aid you. But it will take a week or more to reach Tel A’Fataar. I will send one of my soul bound servants to you. You must do exactly as it says. Before the turn of the next moon your soul will no longer be bound to your body.”

    The acolyte beside Masiir stirred and pressed her body closer to him. She sat up and her sleepy eyes looked to the doorway but she could not see the King’s shadow or hear the King’s many thanks to Masiir. ”Who are you talking to,” asked the acolyte.

    Masiir tangled his fingers in the Acolytes braided hair and tugged her head back. “Not to you,” he sneered through grated teeth.

    The acolyte’s breath quickened in both fear and anticipation. The Motwihamreed was known to be a man of unpredictable moods and desires. She said nothing, seeing the flash of anger in Masiir’s pale eyes.

    “There are better things your tongue might do than speak out of turn, woman.” Masiir took a sudden, biting kiss from her lips and pushed her head down. “I suggest you see to it.” Masiir looked back to the doorway but the King’s shade had already faded back into the shadow realms.

    The Motwihamreed had about him many fetishes, some as simple as small stones carved with ancient runes or as dazzling as finely crafted ruby rings. Each had a bound soul locked within, confined there by Masiir’s power over the dead. The next morning Masiir summoned from a mummified finger one of the more ancient souls at his command. The soul was called Ini-saret and was so old it no longer remembered its mortal life or its mortal form.

    Masiir related to Ini-saret the story of the murdered king and told the spirit, “Go to the Shrine of Astoreth near Tel A’Fataar. Find this covered well. Go into it and speak with the soul of the king. Offer to trade places with him that his soul might wander about freely outside the well. But do this only for so long as the King’s spirit will yearn for freedom all the more. Learn what you can about the dead king, the Efreeti imposter and those in the royal court.”

    Ini-Saret did not bother disguising the insubordinate derision with which it replied, “Anything else… Master?”

    Masiir felt the disdain coursing through Ini-Saret. He felt the spirit’s rage at its impotence to resist the Motwihamreed . Masiir felt it in the back of his mind and through the fibrous, mystic bonds that held Ini-Saret’s soul in spiritual bondage. Yet Masiir said nothing to correct the spirit. Both master and slave knew the master could wipe the slave from existence with but a thought.

    “Yes,” said Masiir. “There is more. Visit the Astoreth priest and acolytes in their dreams. Whisper to them of the rotting king and the vengeance his soul seeks upon them for allowing his soul to be trapped.”

    “But the king’s spirit seeks no vengeance against the Astoreth shrine,” said Ini-Saret.

    “The priest and his acolytes do not know that,” said Masiir. “The fact that they do not know the king’s body is within a covered well in their shrine speaks to Astoreth having denied them deitific prophesy. Perhaps she has abandoned them altogether and they are acolytes in name only. Regardless, in one week I will be at the shrine of Ashtoreth and I will expect to hear all you have learned.”

    “As you command,” acknowledged Ini-Saret and off it went through the mists of the dead realms to do Masiir’s bidding. Over the course of the next week, Ini-Saret would several times trade places with the king so the king’s spirit might wander the world. As instructed Ini-Saret did this only for so long as to allow the king’s spirit to become accustomed to what it perceived as freedom.
    When not within the king’s moldering corpse, Ini-Saret skulked about the palace. The old spirit moved through shadows. It lingered in the dark places, sometimes even in the shadow of the imposter king. Ini-Saret knew that moving in shadow better hid itself from those that might be able to see into the world of the dead. And this is why we must be cautious of shadows. One never knows what spirits may be lurking in them.

    When Masiir arrived at the shrine he was met by the priest who, with three acolytes, stood at the base of the steps leading up to the shrine’s entrance. “We know who you are,” said the Priest. “Though the hospitality of the goddess is extended to all, we cannot abide the practice of the Magi’s arts within the shrine. Such things are a blasphemy against the boundless life and fertility Astoreth has given to the world.”

    “Yet you unknowingly allow a soul to be trapped within its rotting husk of a body,” said Masiir. “It poisons the ground consecrated to your goddess. What you call my blasphemy is the only thing that will render your shrine clean of the taint buried here.”

    “There are no bound souls within this shrine,” scoffed the priest.

    Masiir stared at the priest and his acolytes, his eyes meeting each of theirs. “It is within my power to look into a man’s eyes and see his dreams,” lied Masiir. “And I see things whispering to you of vengeance. Things with the voices of the dead howling for retribution. Turn me away and the voices will wail in your dreams until your minds wither like grapes in the sun or, through desperation, you take up a knife and try to carve the voices from your head.”

    The priest and his acolytes glanced nervously to one another. The Motwihamreed revealed to them a thing they had told no one. Not one of the men doubted Masiir’s power to see reflected in a man’s eyes all his dreams and nightmares. They avoided eye contact with Masiir for fear he would see their secret desires for one another. They muttered amongst themselves and after a few moments the Priest raised his hand to silence his acolytes. “Very well,” he said turning back to but not looking at Masiir. “Enter under the protection of Astoreth.”
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  8. #18

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    --The Hakawati relates one of the many tales of Masiir Motwihamreed Al-Ashem, last of the Motwihamreeds to become Magi.--
    (Part 2 of 3)


    Masiir made his way to the shrine’s gardens. The perfume of blooming plants hung heavy in the late spring air. So numerous and thick were the flowering plants that it seemed more like walking through a jeweled kaleidoscope than a garden. Astoreth may have abandoned her priests in the shrine but her aspect as the fertility goddess still blessed the garden.

    Masiir found the small grove of Vendeyhan Myrtles near the back of the garden. Seven years, the Efreeti sorcerer’s magic and the influence of the fertility goddess all conspired to make the grove impassable. The Motwihamreed gazed at the grove with the eyes of the Magi. He peered through the membrane that separates the living world from the dead; the barrier through which spirits must pass to manifest in the living world and through which a soul must pass to enter the land of the dead.

    The real and ethereal overlapped. The two worlds melded into a single vision like panes of painted glass stacked together and held to the sun. Each separate yet neither distinct. He heard distant whispers, smelled burning wood. Both lingered in the spirit world, unnoticed by mortal senses. Something happened in the past that centered on the myrtle grove. It was an event far older than the murder of the king seven years before and far more traumatic. Though the spiritual remnants of the event had faded, Masiir felt them as if they were the dying ripples from a pebble tossed into a calm lake.

    Sunlight fell like liquid gold through the bunches of small myrtle flowers and within the shadows of the knotted trees lurked something even darker.“You cannot hide from me,” Masiir said to Ini-Saret.

    “I do not hide, Master,” said Ini-Saret, nothing but a voice from the shadows. “I wait as instructed.”

    Masiir’s gaze roamed the small, impassable grove. Though he could not see through the grove he felt the presence of the King’s trapped soul, the weight of the water on his bones and the lonely darkness surrounding the King. “I can feel the King’s torment and despair. It swells painful as a plague boil in need of a hot lance. But there is something else in this grove. A spiritual weight far more powerful than regicide and far older than the king’s murder.”

    Ini-Saret coalesced into living shadow and oozed from the myrtle grove into the golden light infusing the spirit world. “I hear the voices of many dead, Master, but I cannot understand them. It is as if they call to me from deep under water or from a great distance. It is likely that whatever happened here was so long ago it is remembered only by the earth and stones.”

    “Or intentionally hidden. Though I see no obvious wards or other signs indicating such a thing. But that does not matter right now,” said Masiir dismissing for the time being any further discussion on the strange spiritual pressure in the garden. “Tell me what you have learned.”

    “The king’s body rests at the bottom of the well,” confirmed Ini-Saret. “Because his soul is still bound to it, the corpse has not yet decayed into bones. It slowly rots and the king endures this slow torture. A thing, no doubt, the imposter intended. There is, on a finger, a ring that has the seal of Tel A’Fataar. The seal worn by the imposter king is a copy forged after he threw the real king down the well. Dates engraved on the back of the seals will verify this.”

    Through the eyes of the magi Masiir saw the lingering traces of sorcerous magic used by the Efreeti imposter. It clung like lichen to the bases of the myrtles and dappled the earthen mound covering the well. Masiir harrumphed. “Typical Efreet. So arrogant it feels no need to conceal its magics. The people here are either blind or stupid to not have discovered his true nature by now. What of the royal court,” asked Masiir.

    “The imposter king had the queen exiled seven years ago and has not taken another wife. The imposter also misremembers events in the king’s life prior to the plague drought that ravaged the kingdom. The heir to the throne seems to be the only one to suspect the actions of his father as out of the ordinary.”

    Masiir returned his gaze to the indistinct shadow cloud that was Ini-Saret. “Then we should get the seal from the king’s corpse and give it to the prince. This should be evidence enough for the Prince to transform his suspicions into accusations. Or, if we are lucky, into action.”

    “But master how will we get the body from the well when the well is buried and covered by trees?”

    “I will see to that with the help of this shrine’s priest and his acolytes. You will see that the Prince comes to the shrine.”

    “The prince intends to go hunting in two days,” said the discorporate spirit. “If in that time you can get the seal from the King’s corpse, I will see to it that the Prince is led here.”

    “How?”

    ”In his dreams I will tell the prince of a white fox living at this Shrine. They are seen as spirit prophets by the people of Tel A’Fataar. With luck the Prince will consider it an omen.”

    “ See to it,” commanded Masiir who then dismissed Ini-Saret with a wave of his hand.

    That night Masiir visited the priest and his acolytes. Though the priest was loath to do so, traditional courtesy and the tenets of Astoreth required him to invite Masiir to share the evening meal. The priest served a meager supper of wheat porridge and yogurt hoping it would dissuade Masiir from lingering long.

    Most of the meal passed in silence until Masiir spoke. “I require the use of your bodies.”

    The acolytes glanced nervously to the priest who said to Masiir, “Should you wish to pay homage to Astoreth, Imaad, the youngest of my acolytes can accommodate you. He is the softest, most eager and most willing of my acolytes.” Imaad, a young boy Masiir took to be no more than fifteen, paled. The two older acolytes looked relieved.

    “Not as a quedesh,” snapped Masiir. “I have no desire for man ass. I require you to remove the myrtle grove and uncover the well it conceals.”

    “We cannot destroy part of Astoreth’s sacred garden,” protested the Priest. “The goddess-“

    “Will not care,” interrupted Masiir. “The myrtle grove is sustained more by sorcery than the fertility of Astoreth.”

    The priest shook his head. “No, we will not risk the wrath of the goddess by destroying any part of her garden.”

    Masiir said nothing in immediate reply. He looked to each of the men but only the priest met his gaze. “Do you think, Priest, Astoreth will offer you or your man harlots any divine protection knowing you were unaware of the dead king’s soul that has been trapped in her garden these past seven years? Or perhaps you do know but did nothing about it.”

    The priest’s voice rose, filled with divine authority. “We are the ordained of Astoreth and it is by her will and grace we maintain this shrine and the rites that keep it consecrated.”

    “The will of the gods is an unpredictable thing.” Masiir looked from the priest to Imaad and considered the young boy. “The youngest, most eager and most willing. Hmm. Though I see you take pleasure in all your acolytes, Priest, Imaad must be your favorite little ass. How you must enjoy bending him over the altar.” Masiir mumbled a few words none of the other men understood and spit at Imaad.

    Startled, Imaad swiped the spittle from his cheek with his hand. A scaly rash spread from the palm of the boy’s hand into his fingers and up his arm. His fingers withered, curling back into nubs. Pustules and lesions spread across the boy’s cheek and lips, forcing their way into his mouth and down his throat. Imaad convulsed. Wet gurgles bubbled up from his constricting throat. Within a few breaths Imaad fell dead, his young body twisted and ravaged by an unearthly leprosy. The boy’s eyes, like wet emeralds, stared at the priest. The Priest and the remaining acolytes shrunk away, so horrified they found themselves mute.

    With the sight of the dead Masiir watched Imaad’s agonized soul leaving the body. He reached toward it, gasped the helpless boy’s soul and squeezed the spiritual energies from it like water from a sponge. Imaad’s soul withered to nothing. Masiir closed his eyes and spoke a brief prayer. “All praise to Set and his Magi, eternal lords of the Black Necropolis. Accept this small sacrifice and bestow upon your humble servant such ageless wisdom and power as you deem worthy.”

    Masiir stood and stepped over Imad’s disease ravaged body. “Astoreth no longer protects you or your man whhores, Priest. I will expect the rest of you in the gardens at sunrise.”

    Cowered into submission, the priest and his acolytes bent their backs to Masiir’s will. For two days they labored with axe and shovel to clear away the myrtles and expose the covered well. It took all of them with Masiir’s help to lever off the heavy stone slab covering the well. A stench rolled up from the depths of the well so putrid that the priest and his servants recoiled from the well, retching and emptying their stomachs.

    Masiir breathed in the rot. Much like a khitai mystic reading tea leaves or a dafari shaman reading bones cast on the ground, Massir used the stench for divination. He detected a single minded yearning for freedom and the blind hope the king’s spirit had placed in him. He also smelled in the miasma of decay seven years of torment, the anger, lonliness and betrayal endured by the King’s soul. A muted feminine presence seemed to be buried within the storm of emotions. Masiir could not tell whether it was hiding or suppressed but discounted it as a trivial thing and most likely just an extension of Astoreth’s fertility aspect which pervaded the entire garden.

    Massir pushed away from the well. “Give the King’s corpse some company,” Masiir said to the Priest. “Throw in the boy’s body.”

    The Priest started to protest that this was not a proper burial but he remained silent. He did as ordered, hoping that the Motwihamreed would soon finish his macabre business and be on his way.

    At the palace in Tel A’Fataar Ini-Saret whispered in the Prince’s dreams of a white fox near the Astoreth shrine. In the land around Tel A’Fataar the white fox is revered as a spirit oracle that if caught will reveal the answer to any question its captor might have. The Prince determined to hunt this fox but told no one of his plans. He did not wish the imposter king to guess the Prince wanted the fox to reveal the imposter’s true nature. When the time came, the Prince gathered his two best hunting dogs and set out for the Astoreth shrine.

    The Motwihamreed’s nights usually passed in dreamless death-like sleep but that night he also dreamed. He heard the calls and clamor of slaughter. He heard people begging for mercy only to be answered by the sheathing of steel into wet meat. He heard defiant oaths cut short by knives across throats. He heard the curses of women, the wailing of children and the devouring growl of fire.

    Masiir walked through the shrine, the floor sticky with blood seeping from the bodies of soldiers. Most of the dead lay in doorways and arches, their corpses still locked in the struggle to either defend or breach the shrine. Shouts of spirits locked in eternal battle, doomed to forever replay their deaths, echoed through the shrine.

    No stars glimmered in the heavens above the sacred garden. Smoke billowing from the shrine’s roofs hid the sky. Throughout the trampled garden small fires snapped and popped. The leafless remains of flowering shrubs, once meticulously pruned, lay about like the charred skeletons of broken winged birds.

    Masiir approached a group of soldiers standing in a circle near the back of the gardens. None looked to Masiir when he walked through their ranks. Their eyes, set in faces smeared with the grime of battle, remained on the spectacle.

    Two of the shrine’s acolytes knelt in the center of the ring, their wrists bound behind their back. Behind them stood a man in sanguine spattered scale armor. Before them on the blood blackened ground laid two other acolytes and a dozen children from toddler to adolescent. With heads twisted at impossible angles their throats gaped like hellish second mouths and their unblinking eyes stared into the distance.

    The armored man grabbed the first acolyte by the chin and pulled his head back to expose the trembling man’s neck. He set the edge of a dripping knife against the man’s throat. “Where is she,” demanded the soldier. Masiir knew the voice and when he looked to the bloody handed man he saw the younger face of the dead king. “Where is the whhore priestess hiding her?”

    The acolyte spoke, voice wavering. “I.. I don’t-”

    The young king did not wait for the acolyte to finish. He opened the man’s throat and shoved the body disdainfully away. “I grow weary of this! Can no one find two women in a shrine of whhores!” The ring of soldiers looked away from the young king. None wished to meet his gaze lest they draw his ire. The young king snatched the last acolyte by the hair and set the point of his knife in the man’s ear. Masiir saw then that the young acolyte’s face was that of the shrine’s current Priest, but two decades younger. “Do my words fall on deaf ears, acolyte?”

    Blood dripped from the knife into the man’s ear, warm and viscous. He swallowed and fought the tremolo in his voice. “No, my lord,” he said.

    “Then where are the priestess and the queen.”

    “The altar, my lord,” stammered the future priest. “There is a hidden place under the altar.”

    The young king’s eyes snapped up to his soldiers. “Go,” he ordered. “Fetch them and bring them here.”

    In dreams where hours or years pass without thought, Masiir watched a group of soldiers drag two women into the garden. They held one, dressed as a priestess of Astoreth by the arms, the other, a pregnant woman, they shoved to her knees before the future king. A thin silver circlet ringed her head. It glimmered in the firelight as did her agonized tears upon seeing the ripped open throats of the children.

    The future king paced in front of the women, a short infantry spear in his bloody hand. “Your husband has fallen in battle. I am now king of Tel A’Fataar.,” he said to the pregnant woman who still wailed over the bodies of her children so callously displayed before her. “I have plucked from the earth any seed he has planted, any fruit you have born for him. Save one.”

    “You have taken them all from me! I beg you, be merciful! Allow me this one,” pleaded the queen. “I swear by Astoreth and all the Gods of Shem to serve you as will this child.”

    “A living child of a dead king is like an asp under a rock. If I rule, it will be without the threat of vengeance from the shadows.” The king thrust the leaf-bladed spear into the queen’s belly and with a savage twist cut from the queen her life and that of her unborn child.

    The priestess struggled against the grip of soldiers on each arm. “Monster!” she shouted. “You desecrate this sacred shrine with blood and fire! Astoreth’s curse on you! May your balls shrivel and your seed be as dust for-“

    The king buried the point of his spear in the priestess’ throat. “Kings do not suffer whhores to speak to them in that manner.” He watched the light leave her eyes and when her body fell limp in the arms of his soldiers, the king turned to the future priest. The women’s mixed blood dripped from the end of the king’s spear. “I trust I have support from the new priest of Astoreth.”

    The new priest bowed his head. “Whatever the lord of Tel A’Fataar desires.”

    The ring of soldiers faded and blossoming myrtles grew where they stood. In the center where lay the dead priestess rose a stone ringed well. Masiir looked up and the sky became as crystal blue glass only to darken as quickly to a ceiling of polished obsidian. The ground became polished black marble with blood red striations weaving through it. The myrtles, now silken purple curtains, enclosed a large bed where the well once stood. The goddess Astoreth stood at the foot of the bed, naked before the king of the efreet.

    “I have made the land barren,” said the goddess. “But the people suffer because their king has not sought forgiveness for what he has done. It pains me that in my anger I have doomed innocents to death by starvation because of their king’s arrogance. I will interfere no more. I will kill no more. I beg you, relieve their suffering. Be the hand of my vengeance upon the king of Tel A’Fataar and you will have all of me you desire.”

    The Efreeti king gripped the goddess’ breast in his large, red scaled hand. His claws dimpled the soft, inviting flesh. “Yes,” said the Efreeti king. “I will send one of my people for your revenge.”

    Masiir fell out of the dream with a voice in his head. “The Prince rides for the shrine, Master.”

    Masiir did not look with the eyes of the dead for Ini-Saret yet he knew the old spirit hovered in the shadows. “Go to the King,” Masiir said. “Tell him his son will be here. Trade places with his soul that it might wander the shrine and see his son. There is another body in the well. Use what parts of it you must in order to animate the King’s corpse. I will expect the meat puppet in the garden when the prince arrives.”
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  9. #19

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    --The Hakawati relates one of the many tales of Masiir Motwihamreed Al-Ashem, last of the Motwihamreeds to become Magi.--
    (Part 3 of 3)



    As Ini-Saret predicted, the Prince arrived later in the day. The Prince, a devoted follower of Astoreth, entered the shrine where he lit incense before the altar. He asked the forgiveness of the goddess since he fully expected to capture the white fox in or near the shrine and make it reveal his father’s true nature. As he finished his devotions the prince grew perturbed that the priest had not appeared to aid with the prayers and secure the blessings of the goddess. “Probably off buggering that boy, Imaad,” grumbled the prince.

    “Unlikely.”

    The two hunting dogs growled and the prince turned to the voice. Masiir stepped from the shadow of one of the many arches that funneled worshippers to the altar. “Who are you,” demanded the prince. “Where are the priest and his acolytes.”

    Masiir offered the prince a deep waisted bow. “I am Masiir Motwihamreed Al-Ashem, servant of the immortal magi who are the hand of Set and lords of the Black Necopolis. The priest as well as answers await you in the sacred garden, your majesty.”

    “Royal highness,” corrected the prince. “I am not king. My father is.”

    Masiir nodded in deference to the prince. “As you say. But your father is not the man others think he is. You suspect this. Otherwise you would not be here looking for a white fox.”

    “How do you know I seek the prophet fox?”

    “I know many things, Prince.” Masiir motioned to one of the archways leading from the shrine’s small nave. “If you come with me to the garden I will share what I know and give you proof enough your father is dead and the man everyone believes to be your father is an imposter.”

    Eager to have his suspicions validated, the Prince went with Masiir to the garden. The dogs followed but kept a wary distance from their master and the Motwihamreed. Though the dogs could not see or hear the dead king’s spirit they felt its presence near the Prince. Such things as a soul’s hate and desire for revenge leak easily through the membrane into the living world. Most animals sense these emotions and instinctively avoid wandering souls. Especially one that has been tortured and confined as had the King’s.

    Once in the garden, Masiir led the Prince to the hewn myrtles. The trees lay in irregular piles, like bodies haphazardly heaped together after a battle. The Priest stood within the ring of felled myrtles casting furtive glances to the exposed well. The stench of death hovered about the well and the prince thought he heard deep within it the occasional splash of rock and dirt falling into the unseen waters.

    “Before you were born,” began Masiir, “your father seized Tel A’Fataar. He killed the previous king and took as his wife the sister of the defeated king.”

    “My mother,” affirmed the Prince. “I have heard the story many times.”

    “And there was peace. Until drought blasted the land. And none of the oracles or advisors could tell your father why Tel A’Fataar had been cursed.”

    “Then a man came and brought the rains with him,” said the Prince. “My father heaped more praises and riches upon the man than could have lasted three lifetimes. Yet the man could not tell us why the drought came. Then one day he just left and soon after my father began to act different.”

    “That is because this man, the rain maker, killed your father and took his place. He is no man but an Efreet sent to exact vengeance for wrongs your father committed against Tel A’Fataar’s patron goddess, Astoreth.”

    “What wrongs?”

    “Perhaps we should ask your father.” Masiir’s eyes darkened and his perception extended into the shadow world where walk disembodied spirits and demons. Seeing the king’s spirit standing by the prince, Masiir reached toward the prince with his left hand. Shadows gathered around the hand, clinging to it, elongating Masiirs fingers into jagged black claws. The Prince recoiled, his hand going to his sword. The dogs brayed and backed away. Teeth gnashing, Masiir grasped the King’s spirit and through sheer force of will, yanked it through the membrane to manifest in the living world.

    His hand still on the hilt of his sword, the Prince cast a wary eye over Masiir and his father’s ghost. “What sorcerous trickery is this.”

    “He speaks the truth,” the king said to his son. “For seven years my soul has lain in this well, trapped and tortured within a rotting body.”

    Masiir breathed heavily, recovering from the effort of pull a shade forcibly into the living world. “And why did he kill you? Why did the gods curse your kingdom with drought?”

    The King’s ghost hung its head. “I do not know.”

    “And that is why you are punished. Is it not enough that you slew a priestess of Astoreth in her shrine,” prodded Masiir. “That you made a priest of the acolyte who betrayed her location to you? Or that you slaughtered like sacrificial goats the old king’s children, his wife and her unborn child on this very spot? What worse sacrilege can there be against Astoreth than to destroy that with which she has blessed a fertile woman. You are punished because you are unrepentant and never sought the forgiveness of the goddess.”

    “I am King,” bellowed the spirit. “I do not need to beg forgiveness.”

    “You were King,” corrected Masiir. “Now you are nothing but rotting meat.”

    A rock from the well’s low wall fell in. It tumbled into the darkness, bouncing off the walls of the deep shaft. An emaciated hand grasped for a more stable handhold on the well. Animated by Ini-Saret, the king’s corpse pulled itself from the well. Bone poked from the fingertips, the skin having been peeled away by the meat puppet clawing and dragging itself up the well.

    The Priest met the corpse’s gaze. He recognized the vibrant green eyes staring out from the king’s rotting grey face. Imaad’s eyes. The priest took an involuntary step back, cowered by the accusing eyes. “Astoreth protect! The thing has stolen the boy’s eyes.”

    “Like you, it needs eyes to see,” snapped Masiir. So few people understood the patchwork practicality of animating dead flesh. Fresh bodies of course worked best but were not always available. If a puppet needs eyes, you take them from a fresher corpse or a living person. If it needs a foot, you stitch on one from another corpse’s severed leg. The Magi’s arts are like those of any sculptor. But instead of clay or stone, the Magi and their servant work in putrid flesh and viscera. Annoyed by the fear in the priest’s voice, Masiir told the man, “Keep silent, priest, or I will give the thing leave to rip out your tongue that it might have a voice as well as sight.”

    The walking corpse gurgled and dark well water glurped from a hole in its throat. It took an ungainly, lumbering step toward the priest.

    Masiir snapped at the corpse. Annoyance and admonition colored his tone. “Enough, Ini-Saret! I did not have you trade places with the king’s spirit so you could indulge your penchant for trivial acts of torture. Give me the seal.”

    The corpse turned away from the priest and shambled to Masiir. It extended the hand with the seal of Tel A’Fataar to Masiir. The index finger was missing and the others were twisted and bent as if having been repeatedly broken and improperly healed. Masiir grasped the seal and pulled it from the ring finger. Skin and meat sloughed from the bone leaving the twisted digit dangling by a few string-like tendons.

    Masiir wiped most of the clinging, waterlogged flesh from the ring and gave it to the prince. “Here,” said Masiir. “If the sight of your father’s ghost and corpse is not enough to convince you there is an imposter on the throne, this is the true seal of Tel A’Fataar. Do with it what you will.”

    The king’s ghost looked with hope to the prince. “Let my soul find rest. Kill the imposter and avenge the wrongs against me.”

    The prince slipped on the ring and flexed his fingers, becoming accustomed to the weight. Its weight was not just that of the metal from which it was forged but also the weight of power, of kingship and of responsibility. The prince lifted his eyes to his father’s walking corpse then looked to his father’s ghost. “No. You deserve your fate for staining this sacred ground with blood and for such arrogance as to believe you did not need the forgiveness of the goddess. I will not risk Astoreth’s anger. I will kill the imposter and I will be king. But not for you. May your soul rot.”

    “I have upheld my promise,” Masiir said to the ghost. “Now you must uphold yours.”

    The black root-like veins twisting through the king’s ghost pulsed, a sign Masiir knew to be rage and anger further consuming the spirit. “This is not justice,” bellowed ghost.

    “I did not promise you justice. I promised your soul freedom from its decaying body. And here you stand, a soul apart from its husk of a body.” Living shadows gathered about Masiir’s hand. They flowed over his hand and arm like rivulets of red-black blood, following the valleys defined by the muscles in his forearm. The shadows crawled over Masiir’s shoulder, up his neck and across his face, entangling themselves in the Motwihamreed as invasively as the spiritual veins had grown through the king’s soul. “I promised your spirit freedom from your rotting corpse but I did not promise how long your freedom would last.”

    Masiir thrust his hand into the chest of the ghost. The ghost wailed in torment. The shadow flowed from Masiir into the king’s spirit. A black cancer grew, consuming the spirit, withering it to a pulsing shadow heart in Masiir’s hand. Masiir mumbled the words of a language dead to the world. Words only the immortal Magi knew. Words they used in their ancient rights to bind souls to their will. He snarled out the last of the spell and shoved the black shadow heart into the walking corpse’s mouth.

    Ini-Saret left the body and without the old spirit to animate it, the cadaver collapsed and crumbled to a pile of bones and mouldering robes. Masiir lifted the now blackened skull as the last of the shadows retreated into it. He brushed off flakes of the remaining parchment-like skin and gazed into the vacant sockets with the eyes of the Magi to see the king’s rage twisted soul bound within the darkness.

    History does not record if the prince slew the imposter and became king. Nor does it say whether the prince exacted revenge on the apostate priest on behalf of Astoreth. It is reasonable to believe such, for Tel A’Fataar is to this day blessed with dark, fertile soil, gentle rains and women whose hips are built for child bearing.

    The king, however, still serves Masiir. Those who walk the Necropolis tell tales of the Black Skull where rests the immortal Magi Masiir. Set in stone above the entrance to the tomb, the king’s skull keeps eternal watch. Any who wander too near are overcome by the rage and pain of the kings tortured soul. Maddened by the guardian spirit, they claw out their own eyes and are left blind prey for the ghouls and other abominations that stalk the unlit halls.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  10. #20

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    --The Hakawati explains justice in the tribe of Ashem—


    We are Ashem, favored of Set, keepers of the Black Necropolis and wanderers of the endless sand. All glory to Set and ruin to those that oppose Him. Our laws are the laws of the Slithering Coil that wraps the world and makes the land tremble.

    We do not have the curse of book mausoleums where scholars debate over written laws. Relying on the interpretation of written words to determine justice is a weakness of men calling themselves civilized. Any fool that might read words might twist them for his own purpose so we do not trust or recognize the law of the cities. We trust in the wisdom of our elders and leaders.

    It is understood that tribal leaders will make the wisest decisions they can. Once their minds have settled, their judgment is rarely questioned. However, there are times when perhaps those deciding a matter might not fully understand the dispute or make judgments based on their personal feelings rather than wisdom. In these rare circumstances one may appeal to a higher authority. However if the higher authority upholds the judgment then the petitioner will suffer whatever punishment the higher authority deems appropriate for questioning the wisdom of the original decision.

    Imprisoning a man is a thing done in cities. We wander where we will and have no need for the criminal libraries known as prisons. Our punishments vary but in the end there are only three types of sentences for crimes. Humiliation, restitution or death. What use is an imprisoned man? A burden and unproductive is he. Better to either sell the criminal into slavery or leave him impaled for the vultures to eat and the desert sun to desiccate.

    Through Set, the Pasha holds the ultimate mortal authority in our tribe. Only the Magi or the Omnipotent Set may overturn his decisions and only the Motwihamreed may stand before the Magi to ask they give attention to the matters of mundane men.

    But the All Serpent and his Magi do not bother with the lives of common men. If a common man draws the attention of Set and the Magi, he is like a black fly at the evening meal. His life lasts only so long as it takes for him to sufficiently annoy his betters.

    The Motwihamreed may pass judgment in circumstances when no others of authority are present. One cannot appeal to the Motwihamreed to reverse the judgments of others. However, the Motwihamreed’s decisions may be overridden by the Pasha. As a servant of the Magi, the Motwihamreed’s words carry the weight of the Immortals and rarely will the Pasha reverse any decision of the Motwihamreed.

    The Pasha may reverse the ruling of any subject emir, sheik or elder. He may reverse his own rulings but that is not to be taken as the Pasha having made an unwise judgement.

    An Emir, as a prince of Ashem, may only be overruled by the Pasha.

    A tribal Sheik may be overruled by an Emir.

    An elder may be overruled by a Sheik. However, in most cases, the decision of a family elder regarding a female member of their family will not be reversed. It falls upon the family to ensure their women, being naturally weak creatures, do not bring dishonor to the family or tribe.

    The wisest of men are the Cadi. They are men respected for their wisdom in settling disputes and may be from any level of society though they are most often Sheiks. A Cadi of any rank may only be overruled by the Pasha. Any decisions except those of the Pasha may be taken to a Cadi for appeal.


    Traditional punishments exist for many crimes. These are accepted by we nomads and may be lessened or enhanced at the discretion of the elder hearing the evidence.


    To lay with the spouse of another is a crime.
    A man may not lay with the wife of another man. A married woman may not lay with any man save her husband. The guilty, woman or man will be flogged one hundred times. Do not let compassion sway you in the execution of the punishment.

    To accuse another of adultery, there must be three witnesses. If a woman accuses a man and does not have witnesses, her sex shall be sewn for no less than the turning of one full moon. If man accuses a woman and does not bring three witnesses he shall receive 80 stripes of the lash and never more may his words be taken as evidence.


    To give false evidence is a crime.
    If one bears false witness before the elders or any leader they shall be punished with forty stripes of the lash and have the tip of their tongue cut off. Instead of removing the tip of her tongue, a woman may have her ears or nose notched. If it can be proven that one unknowingly lied to the elders, the punishment may be waived but his words will not be taken into evidence for a period of no less than two years.



    Thievery.
    In most cases, the thief is to return the stolen items or otherwise make restitution for them. Returning the stolen goods or rendering equal value of the items is to be expected but this does not restore the thief’s honor. Only restitution of three or seven times the value of stolen goods may serve to lessen the penalty of shame the thief brings upon his family and tribe. Sometimes the thief may be made the slave of his victim. This is at the discretion of the Cadi, Sheik or other elder presiding over hearing of evidence.

    Stealing from a kinsman is more harshly punished than stealing from a person of another tribe. Banditry against the foreign caravans is not punishable unless harm was done to a tribesman travelling with the caravan.

    Foreigners and thieves not from our tribe may also be marked by the severing of one hand and one foot. To so punish a member of our own tribe would only burden our tribe with their care and is thus forbidden.



    Murder
    There can be only one punishment for murder. Death. The means of execution may be as swift or slow, as excrutiating or painless as deemed just by the elders. If the murderer is not found, a member of his family will suffer the punishment. If his family cannot be found then a member of his clan will suffer punishment. Thus are blood feuds sanctioned and the act of murder punished.


    Laziness
    If a man is found to be lazy he shall be cast out into the desert with one skin of water and a wedge of cheese for no less than one week. It is forbidden that any offer him aid lest they too suffer his punishment. The length of punishment is then doubled for the offender and any helping him

    If a woman is found to be lazy she shall have her nostrils pierced if they are not already. Each end of a braided camel hair necklace will be attached to her nostrils and passed over her head in the manner of a camel’s reins. This shall be the sign to all that the woman may be called upon to perform any manual labor at any time. Her punishment shall last no less than one week.

    Cowardice
    Exile is the punishment for cowardice. The offender shall be immediately cast into the desert without clothes, provisions or weapons. To not defend the tribe, our property or our women is inexcusable.

    Crimes against women
    We Ashem do not tolerate crimes against our women. In most cases a crime against a woman shall be punished three times as harshly as the same crime against a man. This is not so for foreign women and those not of our tribe. A crime against the Al-Zahar, shining star of Derketo, shall be punished seven times again as harshly as a crime against a woman.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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