The collector of faces

Legend says that long ago, in the midst of the Arabian desert, there was once a man who had the misfortune of straying away from the companionship of his fellow travellers and as a result lost his way amongst the sands. He began preying on lonely travellers and eating their flesh for survival. The more he devoured, the more his hunger grew and soon he found himself possessing a constant, unquenchable thirst for human flesh. He started to look different, strong, heinous and barely human. The people say that over time, he acquired great magical powers and began taking on human forms to befriend and lure people to their deaths.

Bright orange flames flickered beneath the clay pot as Sakhr watched the slimy,viscous liquid bubbling and frothing. He filtered out the mixture, being careful to avoid breathing in the fumes that arose from it. Retrieving the dagger hidden in the folds of his cloak, its metal glinting in the dimly lit room, Sakhr proceeded to dip the tip of it into the venomous concoction gurgling before him. When used skilfully, the poisoned dagger was lethal, capable of inflicting enemies with the most agonising of pains. Far more formidable, however, was Sakhr himself. Broad shouldered and sturdy of limb, he was a man of imposing stature. His superhuman strength and agility seemed to be accompanied by a deep-seated darkness, as if they were stolen from the devil himself. Briefly pausing to admire the ornamental etching on the daggers hilt, Sakhr slid the knife into its sheath. It was time.

Outside, crouched on the narrow cobblestone street were Zadig and Amet, impatiently surveying the air as Sakhr joined them. On their right hand, all three men possessed a cross shaped burn that indicated their mastery over the black crafts.

Squinting his eyes in the dark, Zadig supposed, "I'd say we slit his throat while he sleeps".

"There's no way we can get close enough. Haven't you heard the stories? They say he's not even human" quipped Amet.

Sakhr motioned Amet to stay quiet as he mentally mapped out the route that would take them to the old man's bedchamber. As head of the brotherhood, it was the old man who sent them on their kills. It was a well-known fact that he did not take kindly to assassins who failed their missions. They would be summoned to his fortress hidden in the mountain ranges, never to return. Often, the brotherhood planned on ambushing the unsuspecting old man while he slept, but they'd waited far too long. Zadig, Amet and Sakhr had watched as their brothers had begun to disappear one at a time and now they were all that was left of their organisation. Tonight, however, they would soon be free men.

Three lithe bodies inconspicuously dashed across the town to begin their steep ascent into the mountains. On reaching the fortress, they sprang cheetah like unto its grounds, quickly spotting an open window on the first floor. Racing ahead of his peers, Zadig scaled up the wall, faced the window and peered within. Halfway across the chamber, the old man's contours were visible, he was seemingly fast asleep. Pulling out a poisoned dagger, Zadig took careful aim, striking the target's exposed throat. For a human, that would be fatal, but the old man made neither sound nor struggle. Three seconds passed. Unsure of what to do next, Zadig signalled his peers to join him. The three of them, alert and wary leapt into the chamber, keeping their eyes locked on the old man as they circled around him to ascertain his death.

Zadig and Amet noticed the pool of blood around the old man's midriff as it dawned on them that he was long dead even before they got there. A foul stench of rotting corpses filled the room as they turned around to face a Sakhr they no longer recognised. In the hazy moonlit chamber, their eyes widened as they witnessed their friend's sizable frame morph into the faces of a thousand deceased men.