The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  Naturally, the tunnels were not used in summer because the temperature was still warm at night. Traveling through the tunnels, Ahiram moved unseen from preying eyes. He did not want Tawr to know about his nocturnal expedition. He walked, crouched down, but did not have far to go; after a short while, he emerged from the tunnel close to the seashore behind the Temple to the Unknown God. The street was deserted. He climbed out of the tunnel and went to the standing ruins of the temple where he hid in the shadows and listened intently. The ruins were as quiet as a tomb. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the ambient darkness, he knew he was alone. Using the stones given to him by the dwarfs of Master Xurgon, he lit a tiny candle and quickly inspected the ground about him. Six or seven men were here yesterday. He followed the footprints to a wall. He inspected the ground carefully and saw that dust had been swept away in a circular motion. There’s a door that rotates, concluded Ahiram, but how do you activate it? As if on cue, the door pivoted silently. In a fluid motion, the Silent stifled the small flame, pulled himself atop the wall, and lay there in the darkness.

  Outside, a cloaked figure moved silently along the sidewalk. Ahiram surmised it must be a woman. She stopped and looked in his direction. Six figures clad in black came out of a small opening. Hoods covered their heads and they spoke in a foreign language. They formed a circle in front of the opening and engaged in a hushed but spirited conversation. The woman moved on. Who is she, I wonder, and why is she trailing me?

  Abruptly, the conversation died when a seventh acolyte stepped out of the low stone door. Ahiram recognized the newcomer immediately for he walked with his head uncovered: he was the gentleman who had asked him to lift the crate. He’s the leader. The man spoke and when the others acquiesced with short grunts and nods, Ahiram understood that they had received marching orders. The group disbanded quickly, each of the six men leaving by a different way. Alone, the leader stood in the shadows for a little longer, then he pulled a thick hood over his head and walked to the temple’s threshold. He turned and looked intently at the spot where Ahiram was hiding. The Silent held his breath, wondering if he was caught, but the mystery man went out and was soon gone.

  Remaining still, Ahiram waited. He hoped that one of the men would come back and open the secret door, but his wait was in vain. As the night wore on, he knew the men were not coming back. He climbed down and examined the wall, pushing and prodding its stones without success. Reluctantly, he gave up. The lever that controls this secret entrance must have been designed by dwarfs, he thought. I had better go back before someone detects my absence. He returned to the inn the way he came. His thread was still in place. Using the homemade handles he climbed back up to the rooftop and went down to his room. He fell on his bed and went to sleep.

  Ahiram was rudely awakened by High Riders who stormed his room and arrested him. To avoid blowing his cover, he reacted like a port worker, unskilled in the art of hand-to-hand combat. The men of Baal forced him to climb inside an iron cage and chained his hands and feet. After a four-hour ride, they reached the Temple of Baalbek, where the soldiers escorted him down a dark staircase and chained his wrists to a wall inside a cold cell before locking the door and departing without uttering a word.

  Ahiram pulled on his chains, but the bolts in the wall were fastened securely. The cell was cold and damp, its dirty walls suffused with a rancid smell that reminded him of a repulsive mixture of sweat, blood, and something else, something cruel and unflinching, something more wicked than death. Magic, no doubt, he thought. He was beginning to sense the presence of magic, and perhaps that rancid smell was simply how the magic of Baal smelled.

  A sliver of the pre-dawn night was visible through a loophole close to the ceiling. It would have brought him back to Tanniin, to those nights he spent on the rooftops of Taniir-the-Strong training alone, if it were not for the monotonous drip, drip, drip of water seeping from the ceiling and lightly tapping the large red tile close by. He focused on the dark sky outside and he snickered softly, recognizing the irony of his situation. Now that he was supposedly free, he was beginning to regret his blissful days as a slave in Tanniin. I wonder what they are all up to now? He was not quite ready to think fondly of the years spent as a slave in the castle of Tanniin. The death of Noraldeen hung over him like a thick fog blanketing his past with a deep sense of loss. A song Shamal had been singing repeatedly over the past few weeks came to mind, unbidden. The porter had sung it with a voice as light as a feather, as strong as a stream.

  Yesterday, you walked

  By my side.

  Holding hands,

  We went on.

  You squeezed my hand,

  Such a simple gesture,

  A sign of life.

  Our footsteps echoed

  On worn-out cobblestones

  Of old streets,

  In beautiful Byblos,

  By the sea,

  Where the sun still shines.

  Where the faces of summer

  Homes

  Are warm.

  Like the faces of children,

  In the early morning

  Breeze.

  Silently,

  We walked,

  Content to be

  Together,

  Aware of every passing minute,

  Every gentle wave

  Beneath that summer sky.

  I don’t know if we said

  What should have been said.

  I don’t know if I told you

  What I have always wanted

  To tell you.

  Perhaps the day slipped by

  Before your hand slipped away.

  Perhaps a passing shadow distracted me.

  When I stopped in the plaza,

  On the warm

  Cobblestones,

  At the tolling of the bells,

  You were already

  Gone.

  I walked back

  At dusk,

  toward the deserted

  Beach

  On still warm

  Sand.

  Then, I felt

  In the palm of my hand

  The gentle squeeze

  Of your hand,

  Soothing the silent pain

  Of my heart,

  Reminding me of

  The days to come

  When

  We shall meet at last,

  And be together

  In the quiet of our hearts.

  Drip, drip, drip, the stubborn leak forced him back to the reality of his cell. He leaned his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes. The first time he heard it, the song had caught him off guard, and he had listened, entranced, with a lump in his throat. He had to admit that he was still far more affected by Noraldeen’s death than he had thought. He chided himself, refusing to submit to the powerful surge of emotions, to the sense of loss and loneliness that once again threatened to engulf him into a dark abyss. Clenching his teeth, he firmly pushed his feelings back and waited patiently for the events to unfold.

  Somehow, what happened at the temple of the unknown god and my arrest must be related, but how? He wished he had his Silent belt with him, for he could have used some of the acid darts to break free, but he had left the belt tucked away inside an abandoned jug on the rooftop of the inn, alongside his sword and El-Windiir’s magical artifacts. Nothing to do but wait, and unless I find a way to escape, something tells me I won’t live to see another day.

  “Master Galliöm, General Nebo arrested the Seer.”

  The head of the League of the Tajéruun observed the young man who had just walked in. “I know what you are thinking, my dear Silvaniöm: if we do not rescue him, Nebo will execute him, or worse, send him to a Kerta priest. We will lose our chance to bring the Seer under our control, is that not so?” Silvaniöm nodded. Galliöm watched the younger man standing before him and chuckled dryly. “As we speak, my dear Silvaniöm, our agents in Baalbek are drawing up plans to free the Seer.”

  Silvaniöm stared at his ma
ster as if he were a ghost. Galliöm, who was inspecting a collection of medallions, looked up and glared at the tajèr. “Did you wish to discuss another matter with me, Silvaniöm?”

  The young moneyman snapped out of his puzzlement and bowed down. “No, Master Galliöm. My apologies for my importunity.”

  After Silvaniöm left, Galliöm heard the familiar rasping sound against his door. “Come in,” he said as he dropped the medallion he had been examining, reclined back on his seat, and grabbed a handful of roasted pistachios. He turned around and grinned.

  “As you had foreseen it, Master,” said Dariöm walking in, “That traitor, Silvaniöm, is hurrying to inform Sharr that you are planning to free the slave.”

  “Let it be a lesson to you, my dear Dariöm,” replied Galliöm. “Never recruit a man that has not seen the sun set forty times. They fall prey all too easily to the deceiving charms of the Adorants. The Nephral take these wily snakes of Baal.”

  “What do you propose to do now?”

  “Nothing,” replied Galliöm. “Sharr has a spy in our midst just as we have spies in the Temple. Soon, he will realize that Silvaniöm can no longer be trusted, and he will order the Adorant who bewitched this wretch to drive him insane. The fool will commit suicide and we will be rid of Silvaniöm, once and for all. In the meantime, he will be a useful double-agent and that little lie I just fed him will force Sharr’s hand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sit down, Dariöm, have some pistachios, they are excellent for a good digestion. The strength of the Temple is its loose structure. The military wing of Baal is fairly autonomous. So are the Adorants and the Kerta priests, and this autonomy means that you cannot crush Baal by killing Sharr. The order to arrest the slave came from Nebo, not the priests.”

  “But I thought the military blindly obeyed the priests.”

  “They do. When given an order, they rarely refuse to execute it, but this does not mean that the military acts only when the priestly function says so. A subtle but important difference.”

  “I see,” replied Dariöm, who wondered how this difference had escaped him, “So the military captured the slave, but Silvaniöm serves Sharr. Do you think the High Priest will order the slave’s release?”

  “Who knows what Sharr will do? His plan concerning the slave is already in motion, that we can be certain of. Besides, Sharr rarely orders anyone. Petty tyrants flex their muscles by ordering people around. Powerful tyrants, the ones that matter, never order anyone to do anything. They merely suggest or influence. Sharr never orders the military. He moves others to act.”

  “But how is this different from the behavior of a wise and kind leader? It would seem to me both are acting in the same way.”

  “The difference? A tyrant fears everyone and trusts only himself. A true leader trusts wisely and fears only himself.”

  “Well said, Master. I suppose we would not be here had I managed to capture the slave.”

  Galliöm chuckled softly. “We’ve learned much from this failure. First and foremost, we’ve learned that no matter what, we will most likely continue to underestimate this young man.” Dariöm was about to protest but Galliöm stopped him. “The Silent and the Adorant share the art of deception,” he said flatly. “We’re moneymen and think only of profit and loss. We think differently. That’s our weakness. Knowing this is strength. We also learned that Sarand is afraid, which is extraordinary. Afraid of something or someone. We also found out about the Sowasian assassins Nebo had dispatched after the Seer and managed to stop them while on their way to Byblos. Had you managed to catch the slave, chances are the Sowasian assassins would have intercepted you and killed him, or had you brought him with you in the Arayat, we would have been exposed to a surprise attack by Sarand inside the Spell World, and that is one confrontation we want to avoid at all cost.”

  “How do you propose to catch the slave now?”

  “Not catch him. Help him escape the Temple. Most folks underestimate Sharr. He looks meek and feeble, but when roused, he is far more dangerous than the urkuun he released. Understand this, Dariöm: now that Sharr has set his sights on the slave, he will do everything in his power to win him over to the Temple. Sharr will force the slave to keep a frenetic pace. He will keep him on the run, he will hunt him like a wild creature. He will go after his loved ones, his friends, his allies, and he will destroy them without mercy. Sharr will unleash creatures from the Arayat that will make the urkuun sound like child’s play. He will tighten the noose until he breaks the slave’s will, until despair replaces resolve, until that slave becomes unable to think, plan, or decide. Once this happens, he will take him into the Temple, subject him to the Adorants, and turn him into a great priest of Baal, a wonderful sorcerer.”

  “Like Sureï?”

  “Exactly like Sureï.”

  Dariöm frowned then opened his eyes wide. “You mean Sureï was …”

  Galliöm nodded. “A failed Seer. A Seer broken by the Temple, indeed, and if the great and talented Sureï could not resist the Temple, how could this simpleton who knows nothing about the Letters of Power or magic resist the Temple?”

  “He should not be able to,” Dariöm said. “I see your point.”

  “We cannot afford to lose this time,” Galliöm continued. “In the secret war of domination that we have been waging with the Temple, the Seer is the key: They have magic, we have gold; they control the hearts and minds of the populace, we control their wealth; they spread the goodness of Baal, and we spread the goodness of money. They have their magic, we have ours; they have their secrets, we have ours. A protracted war between the Temple and the Tajéruun would be disastrous to all parties concerned. We need a swift and complete victory over the Temple. By bringing the Seer under our control, we will turn him into the next high priest of Baal, our high priest, and the Temple will become another source of wealth for us, nothing more, nothing else. Until this happens, we will always be at the mercy of Sharr and his ilk.”

  “We should capture him now. Why should he seek the cup unaided?”

  “Too risky. The Temple has spies. If Sharr finds out about our little game, he will move swiftly against us. Better to stick to the shadows.”

  Dariöm nodded. “Our spies will keep us informed of the Temple’s next move, and we will stay one step ahead of them. But what happens if the Seer becomes too powerful to control?”

  “Perhaps, but we cannot allow Sharr to control him.” Dariöm nodded. “Give orders to leave the crate beneath the temple to the unknown god.”

  Dariöm hesitated. “Not every tajèr agrees with your approach, Master Galliöm. The candelabrum cost us a fortune. Many will strongly resist you. They question your intent. They don’t understand why you want to give the slave such a priceless gift.”

  “They know about our little test with the crate, yes? Do they understand he is the wielder of the Seriathörist Candelabrum? That his power, once awakened, shall be greater than the Temple’s?” Galliöm scoffed. “Have they forgotten the basic tenet of return on your investment? Do not worry yourself with such trifles; I will deal with them when the time comes. Once the slave escapes from Baalbek, he will want to retrieve his artifacts, which he has left at the inn. To avoid the High Riders, he will most likely use the coastal tunnels that a start a few leagues east of Byblos. You will arrange things so that he will take the tunnels lead him under the temple of the unknown god, where he will accidentally find the candelabrum. Busy yourself with these preparations.”

  “A little explanation could go a long way to win them over.”

  “The Seriathörist Candelabrum and the Cup of Eleeje are mysteriously related to the Seer. No one knows why, but he cannot get the cup without the candelabrum, and without the cup, he cannot fight Sharr. The Letters would make him unstoppable, but that’s the last thing we want him to find, so the next best thing is the cup.”

  “Some of our members think you ought to pay more attention to Ibromaliöm. They think he’s the greatest
danger.”

  Galliöm sighed and then ground his teeth. “Ibromaliöm has become a thorn in everyone’s side. The Ithyl Shimea he’s after is very dangerous, and he will most likely seek to acquire the Cup of Eleeje to unlock the contents of that libre. Another reason why we want the slave to get to the cup first. The cup must not fall into Ibromaliöm’s hands, and we must ensure that when the slave retrieves it, he will hand it over to us.”

  “Sharr, Ibromaliöm, Sarand, and us,” reflected Dariöm. “We are fighting a four-way battle here. Shouldn’t we be united against the seer?”

  “We are, in a way. We’re simply jockeying for the lead position, that’s all. Whoever controls the slave controls all. We will move swiftly once he has the cup in his possession. Until then, we stay in the shadows.”

  At long last, the door of his cell opened, giving way to a group of soldiers bearing torches. They stood in a semi-circle around him and a man with three gold chariot signets on each shoulder faced him.

  “So, this is the traitor?” the man jeered.

  A High Rider general, Ahiram thought. That’s bad. He has the authority to execute me. Better be careful. “Traitor?” he retorted with a shocked expression. “Me?”

  “Do you know whom you are speaking to?” the general asked.

  Ahiram shook his head. The man standing in front of him was of average height with a powerful build and a face that had seen too many battles. Two scars, one on the right cheek and the other under the left ear, marred his otherwise handsome face. The general tried to smile but could only get the right side of his lips to move, forming a rictus, and as the trembling light flickered on his contorted face, his jeer gave him the appearance of a crazed madman.

  “I am General Nebo,” he snapped. “I am the newly elected general of the forces of Baal for the western region.” Nebo drew close. “Frankly, I don’t know why General Fevt did not behead you. My predecessor must have grown lax in his old age. Now that I am in charge, I will enforce the law of Baal and the world will taste the might of the High Riders.”