Ahiram was troubled. How did they find me so quickly? Dariöm’s cloak shields my artifacts from the searching eyes of magicians.
There was only one sensible conclusion: the Sowasians, or their allies, had spies among the ship’s crew. They must have known I was on this ship even before it left. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Even though he knew that leaving Tanniin by himself was the only sane decision he could have taken after the death of Noraldeen, he was beginning to realize how well organized the Temple and its acolytes were, and he felt like a fly tumbling from one deadly web into another. Confusedly, he began to wonder how Ibromaliöm, Dariöm, the Kerta priest, the urkuun, the béghôm, and now these assassins were linked to the Temple. He chafed at his ignorance. If only I knew how to use this Letter of Power properly.
Reluctantly, he admitted that he had been very naive. He knew his enemy was in control, and unless he found a way to wrest that control from the Temple, he would never be safe, and neither would his friends nor his parents and sister.
A high-pitched scream shattered the night. Ahiram whirled around and saw a woman running down the stairs with two cloaked figures in pursuit. She too wore a long cloak with loose sleeves. “Help me, please,” she implored. “Please, they will kill me.”
What a great actress, he thought. I would have ran to her help had I not seen the tattoos.
Her pursuers drew curved blades and the Silent shifted his posture into a defensive stance. The woman drew closer and extended her arm forward. “In the name of Baal,” she pleaded, “help me.”
Just as her hand was about to grab him by the arm, the Silent sidestepped her. She reacted with the speed of a viper, slicing the air with a curved blade of her own. He bent his frame forward and the blade missed his belly by an inch. As it did, he felt a whiff of air so cold it would have frozen his skin had it been exposed.
Ahiram extended his arm over his head, and his sword—which had been quivering since he entered the inn—leapt from its sheath, the hilt landing in the Silent’s open palm. With the flat of his blade, Ahiram smacked the elbow of the Sowasian assassin as her arm moved away from him. He expected her to drop her knife, but the woman was an experienced fighter, and instead of losing her weapon, she tightened her grip, whirled around, and flung the blade at him. With a swing of his sword, Ahiram blocked the deadly knife. It bounced against his blade and vanished in the darkness. The two other assassins closed in. From the corner of his eye, he noticed two blades slide down the closest attacker’s forearms and land in her hands. She raised both arms for a throw but froze with a look of surprise when she felt the tip of Ahiram’s sword on her throat. She had not seen him move.
“Drop your weapons,” he ordered, “or she dies.”
The Sowasian who had attacked him first jerked. The cloak dropped back, revealing a second woman. Her eyes widened and her face contorted in extreme pain. She fell heavily to her knees, then crashed face down on the hard stone.
“No!” screamed the woman he was holding hostage. Ignoring the weapon pointed at her, she rushed to the side of the fallen Sowasian, who was now screaming in pure agony. “Sister, no, no, please no.”
Ahiram noticed a blade embedded in the woman’s chest. That’s the blade that I blocked with my sword; it must have hit her, he thought. Ebaan warned me that these blades are laced with the worst imaginable curses. Even though he knew these assassins would have killed him without mercy, he could not help but feel pity for the dying woman.
The first woman tried to hold her sister, but the lone man in the trio grabbed her. “Do not touch her,” he said. “The curses will eat you alive.”
“I must save her,” screamed the woman, “I …”
The wounded Sowasian lifted her head and gazed at her companions with a haunted look. She began writhing uncontrollably, then placed her hands on her throat, gasping for air, once … twice, and suddenly turned into a statue.
“No,” her companion screamed. She yanked herself free from the man’s hold. “Sister!” she screamed again, wanting to embrace the dead woman, but as soon as her fingers touched the strange statue, it broke into a wisp of ashes that a howling wind scattered. The woman cast her eyes on Ahiram, her face contorted by unadulterated hatred. “I will bring such suffering on you,” she growled. As she spoke, Ahiram distinctly heard a second voice over the woman’s, a much deeper, inhumane voice that sent shivers up his spine. “I will—”
“Halt! State your purpose for walking on the dock after curfew.”
High Rider patrol, thought Ahiram. The two Sowasian assassins glanced at the soldiers. When they turned back, Ahiram had already vanished, leaving behind him a cloud of smoke streaming from a hot pellet on the ground.
Ten days later, sometime before dusk, a young Finikian man strolled into the main plaza of Byblos and mingled with the sizable crowd of tourists. Many of them had come to the old city on a pilgrimage to worship Amarku, the moon-goddess of fate. Her standard, a white half-moon crescent on a black background over a second half-moon crescent painted black on a white background, fluttered over every rooftop. Amarku had no temples and no ceremonies. Her festival consisted of journeying by foot from Byblos to a spring deep in the eastern forest where priests of Baal would officiate a sacrifice to their own god. They would thank Baal for the protection he offered Amarku and her patrons. A festive meal would be shared and a donation collected for the benefit of the Temple and the city of Byblos. Overall, it was good business and a safe worship.
“Shark meat, come and get it, best shark meat in Byblos.”
These words struck Ahiram like a thunderbolt. He gazed at the stand where two young women stood calling out to tourists. It was the same stand at the same spot where Hoda, his sister, used to sell their father’s shark meat. He could almost see her in one of the young women. A salty whiff from the sea constricted his breathing, and he felt his heart explode. He gazed at the plaza with a haunted look.
It’s smaller than I remember, he thought. I’m back without being back. I’m home but I’m still so far away. I’m here but I haven’t returned. I’m a stranger in the land where I’ve left my heart and my soul. It’s noonday, but I stand like a shadow among my own. Hoda, Hoda what have we become? What happened to us? Why did you leave me?
When the High Riders interrupted his fight with the Sowasian assassins, he had dived into the waters. Using El-Windiir’s magical artifacts, he moved swiftly away from shore before the soldiers could catch him. He had reached in the pre-dawn light and had flown over the city, preferring to land in the forest-covered mountains east of the port, where he stayed hidden, watching and waiting. Once he became convinced that no one was in pursuit, he walked into town. To avoid notice, he carried his sword below his shoulder and under his cloak. But now, standing in the middle of the plaza he had known from childhood, he felt lost and confused.
“Shark meat, sir? It’s the best in town.”
Ahiram stared at the young woman and realized he had walked toward the stand. She repeated her question and he quickly shook his head before moving away. He went down the same old set of stairs that led to the port and began walking on the beach toward Baher-Ghafé. He recalled Noraldeen’s words and the bitter news that Commander Tanios had hidden from him: his village had been destroyed. He needed to see it with his own eyes in order to believe it. Everything else was exactly as he had imagined it to be: the sea, the mountain ranges to the east, even the blue of the sky. He had so longed for this walk on the beach, for the spots where he used to play, to sit where he used to hide, and eat the bread that his mother baked. As he approached his village, he knew something was wrong. The familiar landscape of houses huddled against each other was not there. Instead, he saw charred ruins of burnt homes. Yes, his village had been destroyed. Ahiram looked for the oak tree he used to climb and was shocked to see it still standing. It was shorter that he remembered. He sat in the shadow of the tree and stared at the sea, unable to speak or think. He gazed at the ruined homes and the destroyed vil
lage that was once a pleasant place to live under the sun.
Eventually, he got up and found the courage to walk toward the ruins of his family’s home. The western wall was still standing and half of the eastern wall was still there, but the southern and northern walls had crumbled under the force of the blaze. Still, he could recognize the general outline of his home, and he went and stood where his room used to be. He could almost hear his parents talking quietly in the kitchen, and could see the door open and his sister stepping into his bedroom to talk to him, to console him …
“Hey you, what are you doing here?”
Ahiram turned around slowly. High Riders. Instinctively, he knew that he was not supposed to be there, even though he did not know why.
“My apologies, captain, I was not aware that this is a restricted area.”
“Where are you from?”
“My great-grandfather used to live somewhere around here, long before he left for Togofalk. Now that my parents have passed away, I had decided to come back and live in Byblos. I wanted to visit my great-grandfather’s village, but it looks like I must have misunderstood the direction that Auntie Samra gave me. You know how it is; she’s quite old. This village seems burned up, what happened here?”
Ahiram could tell that the High Riders were not convinced. Still, he spoke with a slight foreign accent that made his story more believable.
“A fire destroyed the village,” replied one of them. “The first priestess has ordered the entire area off limits.”
Amazing! They’re still watching the village, he thought. Were they waiting for me to come back? “Then I must comply right away,” he said cheerfully. “What the first priestess orders must be done at once.”
He started walking toward Byblos, half-expecting the High Riders to arrest him. He kept walking briskly without looking back, knowing how fickle High Riders could be, capable of misinterpreting a single gaze for an avowal of guilt. The sea spray enveloped him and brought him several years back to those early wanderings on the beach in search of shiny shells. He left the road and sat in a secluded corner, lost in a sea of contradicting emotions. As the sky flared with the blood-red shades of the dying sun and thick purple clouds moved over the troubled waves with the rumbling of a thousand thundercracks, he clutched his chest, wishing that someone could sear the deep wounds in his heart. He realized now how he had associated Noraldeen’s beauty and cheery spirit with the shores of his past, with that peaceful childhood he had left behind. He realized her death was associated with the destruction of his home, the irrevocable shattering of those happy days long gone, for if Noraldeen, who was so strong, so vibrant and beautiful, could be killed by evil, how could he expect the fragile thread of hope that linked him to his past to survive? No, with his friend’s passing, his childhood now lay beyond inaccessible shores.
“All that is left is the wound,” he said softly, “and the will to step forward, to move, to live, not for my sake, but the sake of the promise I made.” As he walked on, his thoughts went to his friends, to Banimelek and Jedarc. He could picture the tall lanky Silent stand and smile. Ahiram’s mood lightened up and he moved with greater resolve. “No matter the past, no matter the wounds, I still have friends I can count on.” When at long last the red-coal remnant of the sun dissipated into a dark velvety blue, he rejoined the road and forged ahead toward Byblos. He reached the city just as the shadows of the night swallowed its ancient walls. He walked in through the southern gate. The old city was quiet now that the market was deserted and most people had gone home. He walked along the main pier, wondering what to do next. He sat on the old stones that had been laid by mariners when the earth was still young— some say even before the Great Flood that ended the Wars of Riharon. He sat there, his feet above the sea that ebbed and flowed softly, as though wanting to offer its condolences for his dead village. He sighed. Now what? What do I do? He felt lonely and abandoned; he felt betrayed. This was supposed to be his homecoming, the grand return to his family and friends. Instead, there was no one to welcome him, no one to offer him food and shelter. He placed his hand on his stomach and felt it rumbling. This is not as easy as I thought. I had better get organized. I need to learn about the Black Robes. I need to find who destroyed Baher-Ghafé and why. This is going to take time. I need food and shelter. I need a strategy.
He caught sight of a brightly lit building nearby. A delicious aroma of cooked meat taunted him. That’s the Golden Oar, he thought, and suddenly, he remembered what Sheheluth had told him when they had spoken last—or rather communicated—through that strange dog: When you reach Byblos, go to the Golden Oar. I’ll meet you there.
He got up, wiped the dust from his clothes and made his way toward the tavern. It was conveniently located a short distance from the waterfront and consisted of a large dining area with a low vaulted ceiling and an adjacent, rectangular building that served as sleeping quarters. The bedrooms on the first and second floors were for travelers, and the smaller rooms on the third floor were mainly for the port workers, who came in and out through a discreet side entrance accessible from the inner court of the inn. Their dining quarters were also segregated from the rest of the inn. Deep in his thoughts, Ahiram ventured through the side door thinking it was the main door. Workers were seated on benches in front of long rectangular tables, waiting for dinner to be served. They were talking loudly, sharing stories of their daily routine. Seated at the table in the middle of the room was their leader, Tawr, which meant bull. He was bald and massive, with eyes encased so deeply in his face that when he smiled, they seemed to disappear. Tawr was the leader of the League of Byblos, the league to which every port worker belonged in order to access the docks. Tawr ran the league with an iron grip. Every worker had his place assigned at supper, and his place spoke of his rank in the league. The workers were seated concentrically around him. Newcomers would sit on the periphery, and no one was permitted to alter the seating arrangement except him.
Tawr knew how to keep his men in check: plentiful food, good pay, and a total control over the operations of the port. The goods were loaded and unloaded on ships according to a schedule he set, and as long as he matched ship priorities with the influence their owners wielded, his operation ran smoothly. To those who knew him, Tawr was reclusive as a mollusk, but as amiable with his clients as a carpet merchant, provided no one brought up the disappearance of his two daughters, who vanished when the oldest was barely fifteen years old and the youngest no more than five. Speculations had it that the oldest ran away with one of the workers, taking her younger sister with her, but no one dared inquire or question. This topic was not open for discussion.
Ahiram looked around, saw an empty seat near the entry, and, being unaware that the dining room was reserved for the league, he sat down. Immediately, silence fell upon the room. Ahiram looked up and noticed all the men looking at him. He rose to his feet and every man in the room did the same, except for Tawr. Ahiram felt a streak of irritation climb up his spine. Control your temper, he thought.
“My apologies, if I have offended any one. I come from far away and thought to have a hot meal here. I will come back later.” He turned to leave but four men blocked the door. Wanting to avoid a fight at all cost, the Silent quickly surveyed the dining room and determined that his best line of escape would be through the chimney. He walked casually toward his escape route when someone cried out behind him.
“Da boy! What da ya doin’ o’er dhere? I told ya ta come from da back.”
He turned around and was dumbfounded to see Perit, the cook he had met in the quarters of Master Xurgon after he had escaped death in the Games of the Mines. He was bandying a ladle dripping with a thick sauce as he stood next to a massive cauldron. Perit dropped the ladle into the pot, lifted the container with both hands, and went toward the chimney where he hung it over a slow fire.
How careless, thought Ahiram. I didn’t see the embers in the chimney.
Perit stirred the pot and bent down to smell. Ahir
am waited to see what would happen. The cook walked back toward the kitchen and motioned to Ahiram to follow him. “Well are ya comin’ or are ya not comin’?” Then seeing that Ahiram was not following him, he went back and placing a large hand on the Silent’s shoulder, pushed him toward Tawr. “Let me da introduce you. Master Tawr, dhat’s my nephew who da come back home. He’s a bit slow of thinking, dhat’s why he was in dhere. I sure hope dhat Yar Excellency would take him as a porter. He is strong,” As he said so, the cook slapped Ahiram on the back and would have launched him several feet forward had Ahiram not bent down to diffuse the whack. “He can do lots and lots of work for Yar Excellency, being an esscellent stevedore and all.” The cook looked at Ahiram, “Ya could have told khalo Hondbrand dhat you were a comin’, I would’ve saved ya from embarrassing da league. No one is allowed entry into da inn while da league is a dinin’. No one,” He pinching Ahiram’s cheek.
Tawr looked at the Silent with an impassible face. He does not believe us, Ahiram thought. A hush fell once more over the room. Ahiram sustained the leader’s gaze and this seemed to please the powerful man. “Sit down,” he said with an abrupt motion of the chin. Hondbrand, still holding him by the arm, brought him to his place and got him to sit down.
“Come and see me after dinner,” he said, “I ‘ll be in da kitchen.”
The men kept glancing in his direction until Perit, or Hondbrand, as he called himself, returned and began serving them, calling each by their name and cracking jokes as he went. Soon the delicious aroma filled the air with a boisterous atmosphere, and everyone forgot about Ahiram, everyone but Tawr, who kept eyeing the Silent. Ahiram ignored him and ate, wondering if every diner would be as hard to get as this one.
The conversation with the man whom Ahiram had known as Perit while he was staying with the dwarfs in Tanniin yielded a few surprises.
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 34