“Wake up, Torros. Torros, wake up.”
Ahiram opened his eyes and closed them immediately. A searing headache exploded and filled him with nausea.
“Wake up,” the voice insisted. “You must drink this or else you won’t heal.” Someone pinched his nose forcefully. He opened his mouth to protest and felt a liquid slide down his throat. “Swallow. All of it.”
He swallowed and instantly regretted it. The liquid tasted like an unremitting punishment for a hideous crime. He fell back asleep.
“Torros, wake up,” the tiresome voice repeated.
“Not yet, Jedarc,” he grumbled. “It’s not the first call of the Silent,” he added, thinking himself back in Taniir-The-Strong Castle. “I can sleep for at least another hour, maybe two.”
“Wake up,” the voice yelled.
This isn’t Jedarc, he thought. Ahiram opened his eyes and raised his head. Something tugged at his neck and choked him. Squinting under a harsh light he looked around and saw that he was lying on a headless bed, with his wrists and neck cuffed to chains bolted into the wall behind him, while his ankles were chained together the end of the bed. Jin sat next to him on the bed and was also chained.
“Where are we?” his voice sounded as harsh as Domnina’s. Domnina! What did I do? He could still see the young she-dwarf pinned to the tree by the knife he had launched. “Domnina,” he whispered, “Oh no, what did I do her? What was I thinking? Is she alright? Is she still alive?”
“Yes she is. I told you, you’ll regret what you’ve done,” Jin said flatly.
He swallowed hard. “Where are we, Jin?”
“Prison. I don’t know where, but were inside a house. See, that’s sunshine streaming in from the windows up there.”
Ahiram looked up, but his vision was still blurry. His headache had become a dull pounding. Four thick metal rings cuffed his wrists and legs and were tied to long chains secured to the walls. He lifted his hand to rub his neck, but Jin stopped him.
“Don’t. You’ll open your wound.”
“What wound?”
“The wound from the chin-seat.”
“I see, so that’s how Oriana poisoned me. With the powder she placed on the chin-seat.”
“The powder slowed the effect of the poison.”
“So she’s a former slave preying on slaves?”
Jin shrugged her shoulders. “She wants to save the ones she loves. What does it matter if another slave dies? Slaves die every day.”
“What about you, Jin? Why did you help me? Don’t you have someone you’d like to save?”
“I do. A friend.”
“So why did you save me?”
“Because she would hate me for it. She wouldn’t want me to sacrifice someone else for her.” She sighed. “With her, it’s hopeless.”
“Who was she?”
Jin shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Ahiram inspected the room. Twelve feet by eighteen. Ceiling is ten feet high with four columns to support it. Narrow slits to let in a bit of air. This room is too large for a prison cell. A carpet covered most of the floor, save for a rectangle by the large metallic door.
“It’s a magic carpet,” Jin said softly. “Don’t step on it. Very painful.”
Ahiram nodded. The floor is a stone slab. Jin is right. This is too well furnished for a jail. We’re in the basement of a well-to-do home.
“Tell me more about this poison.”
“Ebaan told us to use this poison on you and then administer the antidote in small dosage.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“He didn’t want to kill you. He said it would keep you sedated while we brought you over to him.”
“Why not give me a lighter dose then? Why the complication?”
“That was a light dose,” Jin protested.
“Where’s the poison from?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, but it’s not natural. It’s very powerful. I think it may be from the Arayat.”
“Who is this Ebaan?”
Jin shuddered. “They say he’s a raayiil. Part human, part vision.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean by part human, part vision?”
“The Arayat is where the Temple grows curses. Not all curses grow correctly. Those that don’t, die. But sometimes, a broken curse doesn’t die. It escapes the control of the shogols, the priests that grow the curses.”
“You mean they’re like gardeners of curses?” Ahiram was bewildered.
“Something like that. A broken curse wanders aimlessly in the Arayat. Most often it dies out on its own, but sometimes it finds another broken curse, and then another, and they sometimes combine and become a spellstorm— a massive curse that wants to destroy everything. Then, if someone touches it, or even sees or gets close to it, that storm of broken curses will possess him and he becomes a raayiil.”
“Then what happens?”
Jin shrugged her shoulders. “Ebaan, he gloated about being a raayiil but did not explain how he became one. No one dares to question him.”
“Why doesn’t the Temple deal with him?”
“Why should they? He’s in the forest, south of Endafos. It’s very difficult to access. Ancient magic lives there. Also, he exchanges healthy slaves for broken ones, so the Temple wins. It’s good business.”
The sound of a key sliding into a keyhole turned their attention to a thick metal door. They heard the key turn several times, then heard a number of bolts slide, and the door opened. A turbaned man with a narrow face framed by a thin white beard walked in. He wore tall black boots over gold silken pants and a wide purple belt over a white tunic. Three gold rings adorned his right hand, and light caught the silver scabbard of a long curved dagger he carried on his side. Ahiram could read a sharp mind, cruel and calculating, behind his metallic blue eyes.
Two servants with trays of food entered. They placed the trays on a bed next to the prisoners before silently leaving the room. Ahiram glanced at the door and noticed it was left open.
“Ah yes, the business of the door,” the man said. He clapped once and a creature, as tall as a giant, barred the passage. Jin stiffened. Ahiram placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Fuming blade. Unnatural. He redirected his attention to the man and waited silently.
“So as you can see, my dear Ahiram—that is your real name, is it not?” Ahiram nodded. “Assuming you somehow break free from the chains and manage to cross the carpet, which I have been told will pierce your feet, then my acolytes will gladly break your legs. They are not, how shall we say, able to control their strength. But please, eat,” added the man. “I would hate for you to eat another cold dinner.”
He knows me, thought the Silent. He knows I was a slave and ate cold food. He did not move but kept staring at the man. “Where are my belongings? What did you do with them?”
“Ah yes, your artifacts are stowed safely away. I will return them to you at an opportune moment. Now eat.” Ahiram’s eyes remained locked on the man. “Suit yourself,” said the stranger, shrugging his shoulders. “Let’s get down to business. I am Dariöm, a tajèr. My master, Galliöm, is keen on meeting you, and he asked me to arrange a meeting in the Arayat.”
“I’m surprised you’re willing to reveal so much.”
Dariöm smiled. “With your special abilities, you would have found out sooner than later. The Temple wants you dead, but you already know that, and we would like to offer you an alternative.”
“Why?”
“Ah, that is rather simple. Equalization. We’re in the business of wealth generation. Our sole focus is wealth. We protect it, care for it, nurture it, and make it grow. We think of our fortune, and that of the rest of the world, of course, as our collective child, and what parent does not care with great love and devotion for his own flesh and blood?”
“I’m no thief. I am not trying to steal from you.”
Dariöm brushed the argument off. “We do not mind if someone s
teals from us as long as the theft provides us with leverage. In your case, you’ve disrupted Tyleen’s business. You forced her to expend a significant amount of her magic to protect the herd from your attack, yesterday.”
Ahiram snorted derisively, “Are you expecting an apology?”
“Her magic is expensive. Without it she cannot properly protect the herd, and we have a significant investment in that herd—”
“And every other herd as well. So? Get to the point. I don’t have all day for this.”
Dariöm arched an eyebrow. “The poison is still coursing through your system. I suggest you eat to regain your strength. The Mycenean call this poison trélitrio, which means madness. It is made of a rare mushroom that grows in the northern part of Mycene, mixed with the honey of wasp bees that feed off moonflowers. Ordinarily, this poison causes fatigue and loss of energy. In rare cases, it can have the opposite effect, causing delirium and violent behavior. Keep in mind that Ebaan’s reserve of trélitrio is special: The moonflowers are cultivated in the Arayat, so their effects could be unpredictable. I would watch these bouts of anger, if I were you.”
“So why are we still here? Why haven’t you taken me to the Arayat?”
“A slight complication,” Dariöm said. “Ebaan has struck a deal with Tyleen. He wants you in exchange of two hundred slaves.”
“Two hundred slaves?” Ahiram was speechless. “Why?”
Dariöm shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Who cares? If Ebaan does not get what he asked for, he might destroy a few herds and kill their shepherds. Do you know how long it takes to create a profitable shepherd’s guild?
“Why did he pick me?”
Dariöm smiled. “That’s not the right question, and you know it. The real question is, how did he find out?”
Jin eyed Ahiram quizzically, but he ignored her. “What about your master? Aren’t you supposed to bring me to him in the Spell-World?”
“Ah, you see, this is the beauty of my little arrangement. I deliver you to Ebaan. He goes about his business swapping two hundred slaves for you and sends you to the Spell World. Once there,” he added with a dangerous glint, “my master has ways of finding you.” With his chin, he pointed at the food tray. “If I were you, I would eat. This may be your last good meal.” The tajèr looked at the door, then dangled a silver pentagonal medallion. Jin yelped and recoiled. “Your friend, it seems, is familiar with this restraining device. If I force you to wear it, you will do whatever I ask, but,” he added, sliding the medallion into his pocket, “Ebaan won’t like it. It spoils the merchandise, as he says, so I’ll leave it off for now. Try anything, rattle those chains, scream, or do anything else that provokes my ire, and I’ll turn you into a puppet. Understood?” The tajèr stepped out and locked the door behind him.
Ahiram yawned, stretched, and flopped onto his back.
Jin crept forward. “What are you doing?”
“Sleeping, and you should too.”
“We’re prisoners of this monster. He will sell us to Ebaan, and Ebaan will exchange us for slaves in the Arayat. The Temple will feed their curses with our blood and we will—”
“Hush, Jin. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“How?” she demanded. “Your legs, arms, and neck are chained to the wall, a monster is standing guard, and that man is terrible. The things he did to my friends—”
“Jin,” Ahiram interrupted. “I do want to listen to you, I really do, but right now, I need to rest. Wake me up when it’s dark.”
Ahiram closed his eyes and fell instantly into a deep sleep. Jin curled her legs and sat against the wall, observing him. She wondered how he could sleep in these conditions. In the room above, a woman laughed a clean, crystalline laughter. Jin started to yawn, then suddenly stopped, eyes wide open. She gripped her chains and opened her mouth to scream when she suddenly vanished and reappeared a split second later.
“Sleeping, I see,” she said quietly. “Well, the next few days should prove interesting.” She smiled and then made herself as comfortable as she could and closed her eyes.
“In some ways, the medallions of power are more versatile, more adaptable to every situation than orbs and concentrators. This should then help every priest in formation to understand the fundamental difference between the purpose of the tajéruun and that of the Temple. The tajéruun are the guardians of the world economy, whereas the Temple is the only power that keeps the Pit at bay, protecting the world from utter destruction.”
–Sayings of Jehdi, Great Priest of the Temple of Baal.
Outside the city of Ezoi, the port directly across from Tanniin, stood four tall, cloaked figures surrounding Aliolos, the Kerta priest. He was short in stature but weighed over five hundred pounds. The layered ripples of his flabby skin made him look like a molten candle. His shaved head shimmering under the lazy moon resembled a polished boiled egg under the frozen light of the Arayat. Like all Kerta priests, Aliolos smiled constantly. His smile, dead and meaningless, stuck to his face like a blotch of lifeless bugs. Its razor-sharp edges formed a rictus, shearing his face like an ugly wound. His dark watery eyes gleamed with a wicked malice.
The Shogols, those priests of Baal who cared for and herded curses in the Arayat, measured the power and experience of a Kerta priest by the width of his smile, and the one of Aliolos was broad, skinning his face from ear to ear. He was an accomplished Kerta priest who had used innumerable souls as fodder for the concentrators, the potent source of energy that powered the magical orbs of Baal. What drove a Kerta priest, what gave him the strength to endure the galling pain of his frequent magical acts, was the sheer ecstasy of beholding the souls of the innocent while their lives were about to be sucked into the concentrators. The mental vision of these souls, their beauty and innocence, provoked a prolonged rapture so intense that the Kerta priest would go on smiling for days. As these daily acts of magic took their toll on their bodies, the Kerta’s skin and muscles lost much of their elasticity until the face of the priest became a fixture, an unchanging smile that the Kerta could no longer relax. Priests outside of the Kerta order thought the Kerta did not keep count of their victims, but they were mistaken. The Kerta priests kept a meticulous count and the competition between them was vicious and deadly, for they preyed upon their kind continuously, which is why they preferred to live alone, away from everyone, especially from other Kerta priests. Their absolute faithfulness to Baal was second only to their insatiable thirst for cruelty. The training they underwent from an early age stripped them of any moral impediment, removed from their conscience any attachment to mortal men and replaced it with love of pain that bordered on insanity. In this regard, Aliolos was truly an accomplished Kerta priest.
His companions were the khoblyss, inhuman creatures of the Arayat. These four served Sarand the Soloist. As leader of the dreaded Adorants, Sarand was second to Sharr, High Priest of Babylon. Her exclusive female order controlled minds and hearts through magic-enhanced chants. Their power was used by the Temple to turn every High Rider into a faithful servant of Baal. Faithful unto death.
But the four spawns of the Arayat that stood motionless surrounding the Kerta priest now served a different purpose. “Capture the male Seer and give him to Aliolos, who will make him a willing servant of mine,” Sarand had told them, and she knew they would know no rest until they satisfied her request.
Adorants and Kerta priests seldom mixed. Indeed, Adorants were to Kerta priests what an enchanting garden was to a hidden spiderweb. Adorants attracted, enthralled, and slowly filled their victims with an unquenchable longing for their mistress. Effectively, the Adorants created willing slaves for Sarand.
A Kerta priest, on the other hand, fell on his victims like a spider on a powerless bug. The Kerta burrowed into the mind, inflicting bouts of pain that grew in intensity until their powerless victims would simply lose their sanity, falling into a state of stupor and complete madness. While their bodies were left in the real world, their minds were th
en dragged into the Arayat where the Kerta could complete their gruesome tasks.
Aliolos had tried his luck with Sarand one night during one of these unbridled celebrations Babylon was famous for. The Temple allowed priests and priestesses to attack one another, for it believed that if a strong priesthood could withstand internal strife and treason, it had a better chance to withstand the Pit. During that evening, Aliolos waited patiently in one corner of the large hall and began weaving a web of curses to ensnare Sarand. First, he assailed her with worry-wisps, fragments of disquieting thoughts to determine if there was a weakness he could exploit. He perceived her disdain and fear of Sharr and thought that this would be the opening he was looking for, but when he tried to implant a thought, a simple “Sharr is a sniveling coward” in her head, three Adorants approached him, and in the prevailing din of the celebration, they began to sweetly sing. So focused was he on Sarand that he did not hear them until it was too late, and the predator became the prey that the Adorants feasted on. In short order, Aliolos became Sarand’s slave.
“Do my bidding, obey me, and I will leave you free to conduct your business as usual,” she had told him. “Disobey me, or try in any way to rebel, and I will pin your mind to the Arayat and leave your body to rot so badly that not even the crows will want to touch it.”
Standing outside of Ezoi with the four khoblysses, he surveyed the land with a frozen, impavid smile. But beneath, deep within his heart, a raging anger threatened to unbuckle his reason and pull him in the abyss of madness. Sarand’s slave raged and willed to rise in fury against his mistress, but the voices of the Adorants rose steadily in his mind. “Aliolos, obey, listen to your mistress. You find joy in doing her will, Aliolos. Obey. Your reward shall be great. Aliolos, obey.” Slowly, steadily, they forced him back into rational submission. Once a soul became subject to the Adorants, their sultry hushed voices would take up residence within the mind and never leave it. He was Sarand’s prisoner and he would do her bidding. Like a metronome, he oscillated between two states; one of pleasure in serving her, and the other of self-hatred for being a slave. Violent, spasmic bouts would rack his body. But then, the voices of the Adorants would rise in his mind, soothing, controlling, appeasing, and pull him back into the servile contentment a dog might feel for a master … In time, he knew, his mind would shatter and he would become fodder for the Arayat. But today was not that day. Today he was going to feast on the minds of the innocents in Ezoi. Today was a good day.
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 19