The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  Jinodus glared at him and wondered what sort of training equipped a young man with that kind of steely, nearly inhumane, determination.

  “Elder Jinodus,” whispered a fourth dwarf who had just joined them. “I come forthwith from Xeindor-Thal. We have prepared with the utmost preparedness, a suitably suitable potion for the presently present dire situation of the silently Silent.”

  “By the might of Xanthor, god of warring wars,” boomed Jinodus, “this is a gladly glad tiding of magnificent magnitude.” He took the small vial containing a thick dark liquid the scout handed him and presented it to Ahiram. “Here, my friend and friend most friendly, drink this.”

  Ahiram looked at the small vial with mounting suspicion. It reminded him of the Arayat. “What is this, Jinodus?”

  “The most potently potent assin known to dwarfs. This medicinal medicine will break your fever as surely as my feisty fist will knock sensible sense into your stubbornly stubborn brow if you refuse to drink what is goodly good for you.”

  Ahiram was familiar with the medicinal property of assin. Master Habael would grind the thick leaves of this small plant and mix them with other medicinal herbs. The pungent topical cream that the gardener prepared relieved severe muscle aches. Ahiram had used this salve during the Games of the Mines. He had not seen assin in liquid form before, so he extended a tentative hand, and took the vial from the dwarf.

  “Do I just drink it?” he asked.

  A forced, sweet smile formed on the dwarf’s large face as he clasped his hands together, and batted his eyes. “You serenely serenade it with sweet words of tenderly tender love,” he susurrated, as if talking to a toddler, “then you hold it with caring care against your heart and whisper lovingly love songs until it sprouts rutabaga and boisterous beans.”

  “Huh?”

  “Elder Jinodus,” interjected the scout who had brought the vial.

  “Of course you drink it!” Jinodus bellowed.

  “Elder Jinodus!” the dwarf repeated with greater urgency.

  “What else would you do with a liquefied liquid?” Jinodus lectured.

  “Fine,” Ahiram grumbled, popping the cork from the vial. “I wanted to be sure, that’s all.”

  “Elder Jinodus!” the dwarf shouted.

  “What is the mattering matter?” Jinodus shouted back.

  “He is supposed to drink two drops only,” the dwarf blurted in the common tongue.

  Too late.

  In one swig, Ahiram emptied the contents of the vial into his mouth and swallowed. He felt as if three volcanoes had erupted within him: one in his head, one in his throat, and the third in his abdomen. A blazing fire swept through his veins. It rose in intensity and swallowed his limbs, his muscles, and bore down into his bones. The pain was so powerful, Ahiram felt he was going blind; he could see nothing, hear no one, or not even feel his body. He dove into blackness and landed on the edge of a cliff above a wide canyon one mile below. Across, on the opposite cliff, he saw a bright flash. The flash repeated twice and the two cliffs began moving toward each other at a terrifying speed as all around him, a mighty earthquake swallowed forests, lush meadows, and rolling hills. The cliffs collided, sending shock waves hundreds of miles around, destroying everything in their wake. Gigantic twisters formed and consumed any remnant of life, turning the entire landscape into a hellish, molten desert. Ahiram stood alone in this madness. Then he noticed that the Letter of Power he was somehow holding in his hand was crackling with uncontrolled energy. He heard a voice pop in his head, I can’t hold you back any longer. The voice was young and vaguely familiar. Wake up, Snoring Man, you must wake up before you destroy everything!

  Ahiram opened his eyes and saw a large ball of energy around his left hand. He saw the looks of fear and awe on the dwarfs and did not know what to do. I need to send the Letter away, he thought. He could feel its power swelling within him, demanding to be released, and he knew that if he released it, everyone near him would die. I can’t throw this Letter far enough away. A thought came to him. When I lose the Letter, I know I can always recover it by calling it, even if I’m far away from it. What if I could do the opposite? What if I could send it far from me?

  He thought of some place safe he could send the letter. The pain in his wrist became unbearable. He was out of time. To the Kerta priest, he thought. Go to the Kerta priest.

  The power in his wrist went out. Ahiram fell back on the couch, panting, drenched in sweat. It worked, he thought before passing out.

  “What happened?” Jinodus was astounded. “What just happened?”

  “He was not supposedly supposed to drink the fully full contents of the medicinal medicine,” the scout shouted. “Three dropping drops would have sufficiently sufficed. This massively massive dose could kill twelve oxen ox and their cowing cows. It is a miraculously miracle that he survived.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. They watched Ahiram laying on the couch, eyes closed.

  “Why did you not tellingly tell me this vitally vital information?” Jinodus yelled.

  The scout yelled back, “How was I supposed to know that this sickly thick boneheaded head of yours lacked knowledgeable medical knowledge and knowledge of medicinal facts?”

  Ahiram stirred and moaned. The two dwarfs froze and glanced at him. Two other dwarfs crept forward, and the four of them watched Ahiram the way an anxious mother watches a sick child. The Silent opened his eyes, and licked his parched lips. “Water,” he croaked.

  The dwarfs helped him sit up, and he drank as if the destiny of the sixty-two kingdoms depended on it. Feeling fully restored, he sprang up. “I have a plan,” he exclaimed, a bit too loudly.

  “Wonderfully wonderful,” said the scout. “We are willingly willing to lend an earful ear. What is your cunningly cunning plan?”

  Ahiram spoke so quickly, they could barely make out the words. “I need three chickens, cooked of course, with some vegetables, and three loaves of bread. I will also need a basket of fruit, whatever you have will do, and four glasses of curdled goat’s milk. Bring me some piping hot tea to douse the whole thing in, and a bath, and after that, then I’ll eat again.”

  The dwarfs exchanged confused glances.

  “This planning plan is so cunningly cunning it has successfully succeeded in confusing me,” Jinodus whispered.

  “He must be hungry beyond hunger,” suggested another dwarf. “He may need sustaining sustenance.”

  The three other dwarfs nodded in unison. Unsure what to do, they watched Ahiram pace, unconcerned with anything else but the minutia of a bath. “And a fragrant soap smelling of pine and sandalwood, very important, the fragrance for a full bath …”

  The scout tapped the shoulders of the three others and they withdrew to a small adjoining cave.

  “This is the after affecting effect of this high dosage of potently potent medicine. He is now actively active and active in the most active manner.”

  “His mind is no longer functionally functional,” a second dwarf interjected.

  “How long does this misdemeanor demeanor last?” Jinodus asked.

  “How am I supposed to knowingly know?” the exasperated scout replied. “Under normal normality, anyone who swallows this much assin is deadly dead.”

  “… and don’t forget the chicken, with spices if you please,” Ahiram continued. “I will want that chicken to take a bath first, before I eat it. O my chicken, my fennel-stuffed chicken …” Ahiram had switched to singing. The five dwarfs moved a bit further away. The Silent, oblivious, continued pacing and giving culinary orders with a speed befitting a master chef running a royal kitchen.

  The side effect wore off.

  After six hours.

  During which time Ahiram drank and ate and talked nonstop. He talked mostly about the fennel-stuffed chicken, the chicken’s bath, and his own bath.

  Afraid of leaving him alone, not knowing whether he would harm himself, run away, or collapse, the dwarfs stayed within earshot. After three ho
urs, Jinodus wanted to ram his own head into the wall, and the four other dwarfs would have gladly lent an obliging hand.

  “… because a cooked chicken is like an ovation, it’s a beautiful thing to see and taste, but if you don’t prepare it well, you fail to appreciate the subtle things of life, and why am I babbling on about chicken? Ow, my jaw hurts.”

  Ahiram finally stopped pacing and stopped talking. He stood, dazed and confused. A wave of panic seized him and he glared at his arm where the medallion was encrusted and breathed a sigh of relief. The bracelet of curse-absorbing stones was still tied around his wrist. I didn’t lose it. “What happened to me?” he asked no one in particular. “The last thing I clearly remember is laying down on this mattress shivering from fever, and now I’m completely healed.”

  “Gladly glad to hear the wonderfully wonderful news,” Jinodus said as the dwarfs rushed back to his side.

  “It would please me, and please me in the most pleasing of ways, if you would indulge us by partaking of this humbly humble meal,” said one of the dwarfs, presenting Ahiram with some dried meat, cheese, a fistful of nuts, and some dates.

  “Oh, thank you,” said the Silent, “but I’m not hungry.” The dwarfs looked at him, stunned and somewhat frustrated. “Come now, my friends,” he grumbled, “this is not the time for you to talk me to death about food. We have work to do.”

  The city of Ezoi was in a state of siege. A light guard, 288 soldiers strong, controlled its port and the three gates that led in and out of the city, shutting Ezoi off from the rest of the world. A second light guard had gone inside the city, rounding up the citizens in controlled batches and bringing them to Aliolos. The Kerta priest in the employ of Sarand the Soloist had given them a single order: “Bring people to me in groups of hundreds until I tell you to stop.” It was an order the High Riders enforced with iron-fisted discipline.

  Inside Ezoi, at the edge of the port down by the docks, Aliolos sat behind a wall of crates. He rested before a small fire that was continuously fed by a group of terrorized men who had seen what the priest had done to their friends and neighbors. A second group of servants shuttled the dead to a remote corner of the large port and threw the bodies into several mass graves they had been forced to dig. Standing guard around Aliolos were the four khoblysses who dutifully amplified the power of his curses and spells. By now, the dead numbered close to three thousand souls. Aliolos was giddy. At last, I might be free of Sarand. He knew the citizens of Ezoi had no information to offer him, and he was not killing them to learn the whereabouts of Ahiram. He was killing them to fill twelve concentrators with which he hoped to break the Adorants’ shackles. Thanks to the amplifying power of the khoblysses, I have managed to fill nine concentrators in just three weeks, which would have taken me six months in the Arayat, but Sarand would have caught me long before I managed to fill two concentrators. Now, with the khoblysses, I will find the slave, bait her with him, and at last be free from her and these Pit-begotten voices. He let go of a dry chuckle as he savored the irony of the situation.

  No one had seen the slave he was seeking. No one had even heard of him. Some mentioned an explosion that had destroyed a quiet house on the outskirts of the city, but this he already knew. He had paid Dariöm a visit, only to be told the tajèr was out of town. This suited him just fine.

  Four more days and I will have twelve concentrators, he thought.

  Mentally, he went over the plan he had crafted as soon as the khoblysses showed up at the doorstep of his hut. Once the slave was in his clutch, he would negotiate with Dariöm; he would give Ahiram to the tajèr in exchange for a potent medallion he would use to wrestle control of the four khoblysses from Sarand. The beautiful part of the plan was that if it failed, there would be nothing to implicate him in Sarand’s eyes. But if it succeeded, then he would threaten Sarand with the combined power of the khoblysses and the twelve concentrators. He estimated that power to be equivalent to at least 1,200 concentrators. With this much sheer power, he could blow up Babylon. She would be compelled to release his mind from the control of her Adorants. Then, to pacify her, he would give her the answer to the question that had been tormenting her, and after that, he would release the slave to the tajéruun. By the time they discovered the dead bodies, he would be back in the safety of his lair. More likely than not, the tajéruun would leave him alone, preferring to shower the people of Ezoi with money to help the living forget the dead.

  Aliolos wiped his forehead and waited for the servants to finish dragging away the last of the dead. With great difficulty, he managed to lift his mass into a standing position. An uncharacteristically warm wind blew in from the mountains, dry and unpleasant. Aliolos wiped his forehead once more.

  “Master, we are done,” one of the servants whispered. “The last of the dead has been dropped into the mass grave.”

  The man who spoke to him was on all fours like a dog. He did not dare look at Aliolos, he did not dare breathe. Aliolos could taste the fear of the man, as if it were an elixir. His fingers tingled with the anticipated pleasure of torturing him and nearly succumbed, but at the last moment, he relented. He needed him to keep cleaning the hangar.

  “Go … tell … soldiers send next … batch,” he managed to say.

  The man gave the priest a furtive glance, retreated on all fours, then got up and ran toward the crates where Aliolos knew the soldiers were waiting with the next group of citizens. Feeling as powerful and impavid as the Lords of the Pit themselves, he sat and waited for the next victims, when a lone figure walked out from behind the crates. Aliolos craned his neck to see who it was. He recognized the dress code of the tajéruun.

  Standing at safe distance, the man let a shout. “Priest! Why are you here? What do you want?” His silver beard swayed in the warm wind.

  Aliolos “I capture slave…” Aliolos whispered. He glanced toward the alley through which the soldiers would be bringing the prisoners, and he needed the tajèr to leave before they showed up.

  The man paced for a while. “I see, so you capture the slave and bring him to me? I can capture him without your help. What is he to you? Why are you after him?”

  “Sarand has … question …” From the corner of his eyes, he saw the first soldiers enter the final stretch between two stacks of crates.

  “What question and why should I care? What is it to me?”

  “Wants to know if girl died before or after urkuun,” the Kerta priest whispered. He had to concentrate to form somewhat correct sentences and avoid the stuttering that would normally overtake him.

  “The girl? What girl? What are you talking about?”

  “Dead princess. Dead before or after urkuun?”

  The question seemed to surprise the man, who stopped his pacing and stroked his beard. “I see,” he said softly. “Is that it? Is this all you want?”

  Aliolos felt a streak of pleasure up his spine. This was easier than he had expected. Normally, the tajéruun did not ask Kerta priests what they wanted. They knew how dangerous it was to interrogate an experienced Kerta who could take advantage of their open minds and paralyze them the way a spider paralyzed a bug. Tajèr imprudent. Deal with him later.

  “Wants medallion. Wa… wants free from Sarand,” Aliolos croaked. His freedom felt so close. His excitement rose so suddenly it caused his muscles to spasm, making it almost impossible for him to speak.

  “I see.” The man smiled. “And in return?”

  Tajèr naïve. Should not smile before Kerta, he thought. “I let you take slave. Won’t kill him. Go away.” The soldiers and the prisoners were about to step out from between the crates.

  The man paced some more, seemingly lost in his thoughts. “Twenty miles along the northern road from Ezoi, you’ll find the remains of a burned home. Meet me there in three days. I’ll give you what you need and you will take your acolytes, and go.”

  The Kerta priest smiled and nodded.

  “Good doing business with you,” the tajèr said bowing. “Three day
s. Be there. I won’t be waiting for you.”

  The man left just as the soldiers walked in with the prisoners. Aliolos managed to relax his muscles, but he would have been alarmed had he seen the man he had mistaken for a tajèr carefully peel his fake beard away to reveal the youthful face of the very slave he wanted to catch.

  Two days later at sundown, Dariöm stood atop a small mound on the road from Ezoi to the northern coastal city of Hopp. The ruins of a large barn that had been used by shepherds as a winter shelter stood a few hundred yards east of the road, behind a cluster of pine trees. The sun was about to set, and he knew he was close to his prey. Three days ago, his strange companions, the Massrifuun, had seen a series of medallions hanging over their replica of Mycene suddenly light up. They revealed the path of someone carrying magical artifacts. Then the last medallion to light up remained lit, indicating the path had stopped. The Massrifuun reached this spot and their hunt led them to the ruin, where they found someone laying inside. Hearing the news, Dariöm initially feared Ahiram had escaped Ebaan’s clutch, but when the path stopped, the tajèr relaxed. He must be severely dehydrated, and my medallion must have bored into his flesh by now. He will be ripe for the picking. Dariöm knew the slave was no longer moving. No sense antagonizing him now. By tomorrow evening, he will do whatever I tell him. The Massrifuun will keep watch and will shield him from the Kerta priest.

  Dariöm had every reason to feel satisfied. Everything had gone better than expected. When Ebaan sent word that he was done with the slave and had released him, the tajèr’s left eye began to twitch uncontrollably. He hoped Ebaan would have tethered the slave in a conveniently deserted part of the Arayat for Galliöm to snatch him. Instead, the capricious master of Metranos had let him go. The daft must have forgotten about our little arrangement, the tajèr thought.