The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  Copyright © The Wretched Race Michael J. Murano.

  Published in the United States by Candle Bright Books in The Wretched Race.

  All rights reserved.

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  Printed in the United States of America.

  Text set in Adobe Jenson.

  Book cover by Maria Bowman

  Murano, Michael (Michael Joseph) The Wretched Race/ Michael J. Murano. – 1st American ed.

  p. cm. – (The Epic of Ahiram; bk. 3)

  ISBN: 978-0-9913200-4-2

  0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34

  The Wretched Race

  To the early fans of the Epic

  To Sydni, William, Maddie, Peter, Melissa, and Owen

  To Megan, Rich, Connie, Robert, Dominic, and Andrea

  And to all the others

  Whose enthusiasm and passion keeps me going,

  Thank you

  Acknowledgment

  I wish to thank, first and foremost, my wife, Anouk, for the long and patient hours she lovingly spent turning my written thoughts into a readable text. Her passion for clarity, precision of thought, and her unrelenting grammatical drive shines through and through in this manuscript.

  I would like to thank Maria Bowman, our graphic artist, for the eye-catching and professional cover gracing the front of the book, and Rich Evert for his unwavering and constant support in the management of the editing and marketing of this book.

  I would like to thank the rest of the members of Team Ahiram for their constant dedication, hard work, and determination that saw this book through. I am indebted to Mariam, Hannan, Sydni, Robert, Rich, Connie, and Carol for their willingness to canvas the manuscript and hunt those pesky typos and confusing thoughts. Your effort has made this manuscript what it is today.

  My sincere gratitude to Melanie Gambrell for her assistance in the editing process, and to Emily Paarman and Jean Karam for their willingness to turn challenging ideas into art. Your work paved the way to the final design of the cover.

  Finally, my heartfelt thanks to Clara, Julia, and Hannan for all the work they do in social media on behalf of the Epic.

  Twenty-two uncreated Letters of supernal power

  To free from the Bottomless Pit the Lords of Darkness.

  Their sleepless malice stirs beneath the mighty fallen tower,

  Yearning to fill the hearts of men with madness.

  In the raging Pit of Fire and everlasting darkness.

  Standing before the dawn of the second Age of Blood,

  Facing the terror of the Pit at the final hour,

  A Seer alone will rise to stem the raging flood,

  Commanding the twenty-two Letters of supernal power.

  In the raging Pit of Fire and everlasting darkness

  1. A Brief Overview of the World of Ahiram

  2. The World of the Wretched Race

  3. Finikia, the Land of Ahiram

  4. The Kingdom of Tanniin

  5. The Kingdom of Mycene

  6. The Kingdom of Naharein

  7. The Kingdom of the Marada

  Finikia – Land of Ahiram

  The Kingdom of Tanniin

  The Kingdom of Mycene

  Naharein – The Desert Kingdom

  The Kingdom of the Marada

  “Fourteen hundred years before the founding of the Temple of Baal, Amrafel the Powerful and Nimrod the Proud conceived Babel-Ashod, which means Gate of Heaven. ‘A tower,’ they said, ‘whose pinnacle would overshadow the highest mountains of the land.’

  “As the tower soared, the sons and daughters of Babylon could no longer assuage its hunger for skilled workers. Foreigners flocked from the four corners of the world seeking fortune and glory from Babel-Ashod’s ascending walls.

  “One day, four women walked through the gates of Babylon: Thujeen, a builder from the fertile plains of Edfu by the Sea; Helea, a cook from ice-covered Varkun; Luminal, the healer from the Isle of Libra; and lastly, Sheraz Elihaz—Sheraz Voice of Spring—a singer, hailing from the nameless plains bordering the Vanishing Land.

  “Each of them had fled their homelands. Each carried a dark secret. What those secrets were, no one recalls. They came to Babylon hoping to find solace and fortune. They spoke only the basic rudiments of the Babylonian tongue—which in our days is called the common tongue. But the work on the rising walls of Babel-Ashod was fraught with dangers and required all workers to speak plainly and quickly. Thus, their poor mastery of the language hindered their gainful employ.

  “Rejected by the tower’s administrators, they sought Amrafel, who out of pity, condescended to speak with them. They begged him to teach them the common tongue in one week. When Amrafel the Powerful spoke, the women understood him, each in her native tongue. ‘A curse already shackles your feet to the Pit due to your past misdeeds. I see death’s carrion birds gathering over your heads,’ he said. ‘An expiation is demanded for your sins. Atone, or into the Pit you shall fall. Go back and face your victims. They will exact punishment, but it will lead to life. If you stay in Babylon, you shall surely suffer, and your pain will span untold generations. Heed my words and return home.’

  “What Amrafel told them was not what their hearts desired. The women took counsel amongst themselves. The prospect of gold poisoned their minds and hearts, for they thought to pay for their past sins with their future fortune.

  “They did not heed Amrafel’s warning, but chose to cling to Babylon like bad weeds to rich soil. One day, when they had depleted their meager resources and despair began to covet their hearts with its icy-cold wings, they chanced on an odd couple; a dwarf and an Empyrean. How these four wretched souls managed to speak to Kertal the Damned and his Empyrean consort, Evanéya the Bloodthirsty, legends do not tell, but speak they did, and the demonic pair deceived them.

  “’Cunning and duplicitous’, Evanéya prodded them. ‘You do not have to pay us up front. Instead, give us your first gold coin after you become gainfully employed, and we shall consider ourselves satisfied.’

  “Kertal then told them what they wanted to hear. ‘Give us a lock of your hair and four drops of blood, and you shall speak the common tongue in one week’s time.’

  “Elated by this unexpected help, the four women greedily agreed. They thought no harm could come from providing their benefactors with a hair lock and a drop of blood each. Back then, the Temple of Baal had not yet been founded, so there was no one to protect them from magic.

  “The four women fell under a terrible spell and woke up the following day old and decrepit. Their youth had been stolen from them, their dreams, hopes, and desire to make amends had become a dark torment. You see, my dear children, Kertal and Evanéya preyed on the innocent and gullible, for they were preparing to create the Ithyl Shimea, the dark key to unlock the Pit, and free the Lord of Chaos from their prison.

  “Thujeen, Helea, Sheraz, and Luminal were indeed now able to speak the common tongue, but with their vitality sapped, they could no longer work. Worse, each began to forget her native tongue and village. All
that remained in their scalded memories was the terrible sin they had committed, and the bitter knowledge that they would not know death until the Ithyl Shimea had been destroyed. As Amrafel prophesied, they were now condemned to a long life of pain and sorrow.

  “No one knows what became of them. Some say Amrafel locked them in the Arayat. Others say they went into the Vanishing Land. Still others contend that they are roaming the earth, atoning for their sins.

  “Heed, children, the tale of the four lost women, and do not trade the fruits of your effort and toil for the bitter fruit of a quick magical fix.”

  –Teachings of Oreg, High Priest of Baal

  “Tirkalanzibar is a world apart, a city lost in time, or rather, a city that does not want time to interfere with her business. She is a place of refuge or of madness, where you can find salvation from your woes, or a quick death at the hands of cutthroats. She is a city without rest, where the shouts of joyful reunions with transiting travelers and the cry of agony from victims of murder are drowned by the braying of camels and the howling of men, which the perpetual coming and going of caravans turns into an indifferent chaos.”

  –Memoirs of Alkiniöm the Traveler.

  Corintus lay awake, hands behind his head, eyes following the brown hem of the tent he shared with his wife, Amaréya. Dawn had just broken over Tirkalanzibar, but the city of caravans remained peaceful a moment longer—a nightly respite that curtailed the loud clamors of the city for seven short hours to keep the soldiers and the transiting caravaners sane. He let out a sigh of relief, enjoying the city’s stillness while dreading the infernal din of human shouts and braying of camels that would soon begin. Like a hungry dragon, Tirka—the shortened form of the city’s name—would rise early to devour the careless and the hopeless.

  “Morning of peace,” Amaréya greeted him, using one of many Finikian salutations that Hoda, the Black Robe guide, had taught her over the past sixty days while they traveled from Gordion to Tirka. Gordion had been Corintus and Amaréya’s home for the past fifteen years. One week ago, Amaréya was to be crowned queen of the Kingdom of Teshub.

  “Morning of roses,” Corintus replied, following the same custom.

  They were no longer Layaléa Amaréya, heiress to the throne of Gordion, and Corintus, her husband, but were now Amar and Coran from Tanooreen of Finikia, with their two daughters, Alina and Elly. Alina was a shortened form for Aquilina, and Elly was a Finikian variation for Vily. Vily was an orphan Aquilina had rescued, and the two girls became inseparable, so, naturally they took Vily with them when they left Gordion. They were traveling disguised as blade merchants with the finest swords and knives any caravan had to offer.

  “You are still thinking about the coronation, yes?” Amaréya said.

  “Are you not?”

  “Yes. Very clever of Father.”

  “Unbelievable, you mean.” He turned to face her. “I had wondered how King Domin would take the sudden disappearance of his daughter. I was afraid he might go mad, kill himself, or, I don’t know, declare war on the Temple. But this? Never in my wildest imagination would I have thought he would pull such a stunt.” His wife smiled. He knew she was relieved that the coronation had gone well, but he felt cheated.

  Ashod, the renegade high priest of Baal, had urged them to leave Gordion. “If the Temple catches wind of your daughter’s powers, they will raze kingdoms to kill her. Her supernal abilities are the bane of the Temple. If you value her life, your life, and the safety of your kingdom, take your wife and your daughter and go to Salem. When you reach the island, you will understand why I am sending you there.”

  Seventy days earlier, after careful preparations, they left the Palace of Gordion with a small party of faithful servants. Hoda and her husband Karadon had led them safely to the town of Rastoopa where they joined a caravan belonging to Master Kwadil, the rich dwarf merchant, and crossed the remaining fifty miles to Tirkalanzibar. Hoda and Karadon were members of the Black Robes, the clandestine organization Ashod headed. They worked in the shadows to save lives from the brutal raids the High Riders—the military organization of the Temple—conducted in villages that might harbor the Seer of Power. According to the Temple, the Seer would open the Pit of Fire and unleash the Lords of Darkness.

  The small group of fugitives had crossed the six hundred miles separating Gordion from Tirkalanzibar in a little over two months. Disguised as Finikian merchants, they had made the trek without incident and had reached Tirkalanzibar just one week ago.

  Already Corintus was growing impatient. He disliked the City of Caravans and wanted them to be on their way to the Island of Salem as soon as possible, but Master Kwadil’s caravan, slated to take them through the desert and into the Kingdom of the Marada, had not yet arrived. Kwadil was a wealthy dwarf who owned many commercial caravans that continuously roamed large swaths of land across the sixty-two kingdoms. Tirkalanzibar was the greatest hub for travelers among the northern kingdoms, and it was here that two of Kwadil’s caravans were scheduled to meet and swap members and goods before returning from where they had come.

  Within Tirka’s walls there was a constant coming and going of caravans, an unceasing pitching and packing of tents, and in that continuous movement, an amorphous black market thrived under the watchful gaze of the High Riders. True, the Temple levied a fee from every caravan when they both entered and left Tirka, but the significant wealth Baal exacted every year was a mere pittance compared to the worth of that black market. In the belly of the city, goods and slaves were traded, deals were struck, murders were commissioned and rewarded, curses and spells were bought and sold, and smuggled goods—the kind the Temple didn’t approve of—quietly exchanged hands. No High Riders in their right mind would venture into the city alone, for as caravaners set up and tore down their tents, the dirt roads of the city changed constantly, therefore, a soldier of the Temple who witnessed illegal dealings within the city would become a target for the cutthroats and other professional assassins that moved from caravan to caravan.

  Aside from the High Riders’ barracks inside the northern wall and the large water basins for the camels, there were no firm structures in the city, and consequently, no other reference point to use when crossing it.

  Having finished their morning routine, Corintus and Amaréya stood by the opening of their tent, observing their surroundings. Corintus was a Solitary, the highest rank a Silent of Tanniin could achieve. Being half Empyrean, Amaréya was a trained warrior whose double blades were tucked safely beneath her flowing cape. Their eyes patiently scanned the surroundings, looking for any sign of trouble.

  “Who would have thought,” said Corintus in a chuckle, “that your father would pull such a stunt?”

  She smiled proudly. “You underestimate Father, Avinilé,” she said, utilizing his Empyrean nickname.

  “Still,” he retorted, “he did not have to proclaim me dead.”

  “But he did not. Last week, I was crowned queen of Gordion in a lavish ceremony. We overheard travelers from Gordion, and they said nothing about your untimely death.”

  “So where was my look-alike when your look-alike managed to fool everyone into thinking she was you? How come my look-alike was not standing by your look-alike?”

  “You are not thinking this through, Avinilé. If you had been there, you would have insisted on protecting me and you would have been—”

  “Standing in the shadows,” they said together.

  “That is true,” he conceded. “Still, how did he do it so quickly?”

  “Are you jealous of my father, Avinilé?”

  Corintus let out a nervous laugh. “As much as I hate to admit it, yes, I am jealous. I should have thought of it myself instead of agonizing over our departure. Brilliant, simply brilliant. An Empyrean look-alike standing in for his daughter.”

  “The kingdom is safe, for now,” she added. “We might reach Salem and return before anyone discovers the hoax.”

  “You are still hoping to return home?”
>
  She shrugged her shoulders. “It is an eventuality which may become a reality once we are in Salem. We do not know what the future holds.”

  “Yes, indeed. I wonder if we will see Master Kwadil’s caravan today.”

  “Perhaps. The matter is out of our hands. We must wait. This dwarf is as resourceful as an entire kingdom. I am unconcerned with his delay.”

  He looked into her eyes. For an Empyrean, even a half Empyrean, to use the word unconcerned was unusual, except when she used it to conceal her worry about that other matter which he did not wish to discuss.

  Directly across their encampment stood a dozen tents bearing a cobra symbol. They belonged to a wealthy merchant from Teshub specializing in all things snakes. Live snakes, snake blood and skin, snake fangs to ward off curses, snake poison to heal—or to poison. Snake traps, gold and ivory snake cages, mini portable snake gardens, and snakeskin clothing and shoes. The cobra tents were closed, indicating the members of the caravan were still sleeping.

  Yesterday, behind Amaréya and Corintus’ caravan, a very large Mycenean herd of sheep had settled in, yet they would be gone in two or three days. Mycenean sheep were renowned the world over, and the shepherds would have no trouble unloading their entire herd for a good price. Corintus glanced to his right toward a caravan of Teshubian vendors, a collective where everyone shared in the common wealth. They specialized in the sale of mummies. Apparently, Corintus had learned, mummies were some of the most powerful countercurses or curse absorbers, after leprosy. Even a small piece of a mummy, say a finger or a tongue, was worth a fortune. That group of tents was ringed with Kemetian mercenaries, recognizable by their large turbans, their broad scimitars, and curved lethal Janbia—poisoned daggers. Mostly, they were recognizable for their lidless eyes. What wicked magic protected their eyes from drying, he did not know, but these for-hire mercenaries slept with their eyes wide open.