The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  “Is the pattern specific to every curse?”

  The Sheik nodded.

  “So what’s the pattern for Anethtee’s tomb?”

  Khawand shrugged his shoulders. “I acquired the diffusers at a great cost, I might add. I shall want them back when you are finished. It it is up to you to figure out how to use them.”

  “What do you want from Anethtee’s tomb? The tiara?”

  Khawand burst out laughing, “You humor me, Slued, and I like you. We both know the tiara is cursed beyond remedy, by a curse beyond the power and knowledge of Baal, and I dare say that Oreg himself would not know how to break that curse.” Khawand drew closer and whispered, “All I want from the tomb is a small waterskin, an insignificant pouch holding a little bit of water. It’s under the tiara. That’s all I want.”

  Slippery Slued frowned slightly and smirked. “A small pouch containing water?”

  “Yes,” said Khawand in a jovial tone that reminded Slued of a serpent ready to snap. “Let’s just say that it has a great sentimental value, and I would like to offer it as a gift to someone I care very much about.”

  “But of course,” replied Slued, “of course, O Sheik, you are so great a sentimentalist that if the moon did not exist, poets would write about your face instead.”

  Khawand smiled and bowed while gritting his teeth. He could not fail to admire Slued’s response, spoken in the authentic fashion of the people of the desert, for it was not clear whether Slued had complimented him or insulted him. Probably both, concluded the sheik, and he made a mental note to hire a killer that would leave Slued lying in a dark alley with a knife stuck between his shoulders. The vivid image pleased him. He threw a second pouch at Slued who caught it, felt it, and smiled.

  “The Lord of the Desert Legions is generous, as usual.”

  Khawand made an almost imperceptible bow with his head. “Do we have a deal, then?” he asked.

  “You’ll have a deal if we come back alive and not cursed,” Slued replied.

  “There’s a fair amount of gold in that small bag I’m giving you. Tell me why you wouldn’t run away with it and never come back?”

  Slippery Slued smiled. “Two reasons, Sheik. If I run, then my reputation is finished. No one will ever hire me again, and I had better hide in a hole because everyone will find it more expedient to get the bounty from Baal than to deal with a cheat.” The Sheik nodded with satisfaction. “The second reason is that I want everyone to know that it was Slippery Slued who broke into the unbreakable tomb of Anethtee the Cursed. Call it vanity, or call it what you want, but I’ve got my legend to protect.”

  “Your honesty honors you, my friend.”

  “Then we will take our leave and set out at once.”

  “And your prudence covers you with glory.”

  So long as it covers me with gold, I’m a happy man, Slippery Slued thought. He gave the sheik the proper bow by bending low enough to expose the nape of his neck, a sign of vulnerability and respect. Stepping outside, he tossed the pouch of gold to Surata. The band of treasure hunters left the tent and headed toward the cluster of date trees where the rest of their companions waited. They all mounted their horses and were about to leave when a soldier hollered to them from a short distance.

  “A final word from the sheik,” the man said. “Don’t take the westerly trek through Marduc, even if that route is the shortest way to Anat. Instead, go down south to Sarugan, and if the High Riders are tightly watching the ships there, continue to Anzelig. The Sheik has made arrangements for you in both ports. Look for a boat bearing the image of an oasis. Approach the captain and request from him four stale pouches of coriander and two of sumac. That’s his cue to lead you across the Sea of Quibe to the port of Angolam in the Kingdom of Edfu. From there, you’ll find a camel ride into Anat. Be careful; Baal maintains a strong presence in all those cities.”

  “Thank you,” Slippery Slued said. “We’ll put this advice to good use.”

  “When shall we expect you back here?”

  “No later than three full moons. If we’re not back, then tell the sheik’s poet to write a dirge in my name.”

  The morning of the duel, Ahiram rode his stallion toward the sheik’s camp. An improvised arena had already been set up and a ring of spectators surrounded it. Tea was being served according to the custom of the desert: boiling hot and in small glasses. Ahiram spotted Balid walking in the crowd, singing the praises of his carpets. Other merchants were doing the same. Many of the tribesmen came and admired Ahiram’s stallion. Issam Ben Jureish, the representative of Sheik Khawand, came forward and asked Ahiram for the honor of guarding the horse during the duel. The Silent grabbed the wooden staff he brought with him and reluctantly, let go of the reins.

  “Go easy on the poor man,” Sheheluth said. “Don’t humiliate him.”

  “I win battles, Sheheluth,” Ahiram grumbled. “Humiliation is someone else’s business,” he added with a glare.

  Sheheluth chuckled.

  He stepped into the arena and stood, leaning on his staff. He had his sword strapped on his shoulder but was intent on not using it unless absolutely necessary. He scanned the crowd, looking for the champion.

  The Sheik’s tent opened to a seven-foot-tall man. He was built like a horse. His head was shaved and his black, frizzy beard was oiled and shined, while his eyes—cruel and cold— hungered for the kill. The crowd cheered. He trudged in the arena and stood opposite Ahiram, arms folded, the smile of victory lacing his face. The Silent did not fail to notice the handles of two swords jutting from behind the man’s broad shoulders. Sheik Khawand Al Elam came out next, and this was the first time that Ahiram saw him. He was a small chubby man with a jovial face and a thin trimmed beard. He wore a white turban as large as a watermelon, and long curved yellow silky shoes, which the Silent found ridiculous. All stood and bowed. Khawand nodded left and right, and saluted with both hands, which reminded Ahiram of a dawdling duck. The sheik ascended his seat and silence fell. Khawand looked at his champion’s opponent and saluted him. Ahiram bowed in return. The sheik pulled out a white handkerchief, but before he could let go of it to signal the start of the battle, Ahiram took out a black cloth from his sleeve and blindfolded himself. I might as well make it really interesting.

  He heard rapid footsteps that stopped near him. “Excuse me, what are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You blindfolded yourself.”

  “Is it forbidden?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t be an honorable victory for the sheik’s champion.”

  “Who says he’s going to win? Go back and tell the sheik he can have my horse if his oaf lays a single finger on me.”

  “But sir …”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts. These are my conditions and they are final.”

  Excitement swelled like a mighty wave. Ahiram smiled. Now, if Darwiish does his part, everything will go according to plan, he thought. He knew the spectators were making bets. A crash of cymbals caused the commotion to die. The Silent knew that the sheik must have raised the handkerchief. He tightened his grip on his staff and concentrated.

  He heard a faint rustle of shoes on the sand and understood that his opponent was almost in front of him. As he heard the whoosh of an incoming blade, Ahiram struck the ground with his staff and blocked the blow. The sheik’s champion unsheathed his second sword and rained blows on the Silent, which Ahiram blocked swiftly. Thanks to the extensive training he underwent with Tanios, his uncanny ability to counter the blows was not as impossible as it seemed.

  This fella is a lot slower and more predictable than Orpheli, Ahiram thought. He remembered what Banimelek had said about the blind Silent after she had beaten them soundly during a memorable training session: “If it’s any consolation, Orpheli is a Silent. She’s on our side.”

  They were in their third year of training in the Silent Corps when the commander introduced Orpheli, a tall, thin girl with straight black hair and an e
xpressionless face. She was blind since birth and the stigma had led her parents to abandon her. She was a thirteen-year-old orphan who lived in the streets of Hardeen, so the young members of the Silent Corps wondered why the commander had brought her in their midst.

  Ahiram remembered vividly how Alviad had snickered, then leaned over to whisper something in Sondra’s ear. She had whacked him hard and called him an idiot.

  “Serves him well,” Noraldeen whispered.

  “Why, what did he say?” Ahiram asked.

  “That the commander wants to use her as a training bag.”

  Ahiram had nodded but did not reply. Something about the girl warned him not to underestimate her.

  The commander had then given every silent a tagging dart, a dart with a safety suction head.

  “You each get a shot,” he said. “The first one to tag her gets a double ration of chicken tonight. We’re going to go counter-clockwise.”

  “Is the chicken hot, Commander?” Jedarc asked. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and was about to intone O My Chicken, his favorite song, when Banimelek placated him.

  “At my signal,” the commander said, “you’ll each release your dart. And I don’t want any delay between the throws. Let it rain, Silent!”

  Despite their best efforts, no darts landed on the girl. Orpheli’s movements were uncanny and fluid like water. She knew how to use every muscle of her body and moved with the power of fire when carried by a racing wind. It was amazing to watch.

  The commander placed her in charge of teaching the Silent how to fight with their ears only. Eventually, Ahiram managed to hold his own against her, but only when she was not angry. Whenever she snapped in a bout of anger, no blindfolded Silent could stand a chance against her. She was simply too fast and above all, unpredictable.

  Ahiram sidestepped another attack by the sheik’s champion. This is too boring, he thought, as he blocked another thrust with the staff. It eventually broke, leaving the young man with two clubs. The champion roared, thinking his moment of victory had come, but Ahiram went on the offensive, reigning blows on his opponent faster than the man could parry with his heavy swords. The clubs hit the man on his wrists and the swords fell. They pounded his legs just above and below the knees and the man tumbled. Two more blows on the skull and the champion collapsed, unconscious. Ahiram took off his blindfold and bowed. The crowd stood speechless, then, instead of applause, they booed him. They had all lost their bets. Ahiram strode toward the sheik and saluted him.

  “I see, young man, that you are versed in the fighting skills of the famed Silent,” said Khawand with an introspective smile.

  Surprised, Ahiram kept his composure. “Yes, indeed, I was well taught, sir.”

  “And who might be the happy teacher who had such a worthy pupil?”

  “Commander Tanios, sir.”

  “It’s a name to remember. You shall be my guest tonight. We shall celebrate your victory.”

  Issam Ben Jureish, the master of the sheik’s guards, came forth and bowed. “What does my master wish me to do with his former champion?”

  The sheik looked at Ahiram. “What does our young friend think? Should we have his head cut off? Should we bury him in the sand and only leave his head out so that he can die slowly from thirst, or would you like to finish him off with your sword?”

  “Commander Tanios would say that to be defeated by a Silent is never a dishonor.”

  “But by blindfolding yourself, you’ve made a fool of him,” the sheik replied. He had lost his affable smile. “And some tongues that like to wag would say that you have made a fool of me.”

  “I am the highest ranking Silent alive today. Ten of your men would not be enough to stop me. I did not —”

  The sheik stopped him with a flick of the wrist. “No excuses, please. No one will remember who bested my champion. They will only remember that you made a fool of him and me.”

  “I don’t want him to die.”

  “That is an honorable sentiment that can be satisfied only if my honor is upheld. So tell me, what do you have that is worthy of my honor?”

  Ahiram looked at the small fat man and forced the words out. “I will give you the black stallion if you spare the life of this man.”

  The sheik was taken aback. “You would give me the best horse there is to spare a worthless man from a just death?”

  “No death is just and no man’s life is worthless,” Ahiram replied. “Now, if your Excellency permits, I will excuse myself from dinner. The horse far outweighs any honor I could bestow upon you by my presence tonight.” Ahiram gave a short bow and left the arena.

  As he walked back, Sheheluth came up to him. “You won,” she said in her usual quiet voice. “Are you satisfied?” Ahiram did not answer. Sheheluth wanted to say something, but seeing that he was in a somber mood, she waited. After a short while, she asked, “What happened?” Ahiram told her what happened and she fell silent as well.

  “Ah, here’s the hero of the day,” exclaimed Balid as they approached the tent. “You have fought splendidly and I am proud of you.” Ahiram ignored him and walked straight to his room and closed the door.

  That’s what you get for being cocky, he thought to himself. I should have considered the sheik’s inflated sense of honor and acted accordingly. Someone knocked on his door. Thinking it was Sheheluth, he got up quickly and yanked the door open. “Sheheluth, if you’ve come to lecture me, you can keep your words to yourself.”

  “I don’t want to lecture you,” Foosh replied. “Can we talk? Please?”

  He frowned at her, and then moved away to let her in. She eased herself on a cushion. “I promise I won’t be long.”

  He closed the door and sat facing her.

  “First of all, let’s deal with this business of the horse. Once we are ten days away from the oasis, use this.” She handed him a small, odd shaped whistle. It boasted a silver, stylized ornament of a horse’s head. The jade eyes gave the stallion an imperious air, as if the horse was about to speak and ask for …

  “Apples,” Ahiram said. “This horse is Your Highness and about to ask for apples.” He looked at Foosh. “What’s the whistle for?”

  “To call your horse. Do it ten days after we’ve left the oasis.”

  “In ten days, even at snail’s pace, we’ll be miles away. How’s my horse going to hear this?”

  Startled, she looked at him. “Don’t you know what kind of horse it is?”

  “A stubborn steed who likes fresh apples. I don’t know. The question didn’t cross my mind. Why?”

  “Because,” she said in a whisper, “your horse is an Entalor.”

  “What’s an Entalor?”

  “The noblest race of horses. When the Battle of Durandhil took place, Marjum, the leader of the Annuna-Kal, unleashed his destructive cohorts on the face of the Earth. Only Lord Alunar and his valiant riders faced the incoming onslaught. But Marjum struck terror in their horses, debilitating Lord Alunar’s army. The Malikuun then interceded on Alunar’s behalf and El created a horse with exceptional qualities. It was swift like the wind, resilient like a rock, strong like a bear, powerful like a tiger, and courageous like Alunar’s men. Alunar named this horse ‘Entalor’ which means ‘El heard me.’ Since the fall of Silbarâd the Fair, no Entalor has been seen roaming the Earth.”

  Ahiram gave a start and gazed at the whistle. “Silbarâd fell thousands of years ago. If no Entalor had been seen as you say, how come you have this whistle? And where did the horse come from?”

  Foosh smiled. “You’re a smart young man, aren’t you? I’ll let you figure out the answer yourself.”

  Ahiram held Foosh’s gaze. “This whistle,” he said holding it up, “is new. This is no ancient artifact. I doubt you happened to have it laying around in your tent, which means you somehow managed to create it recently. For a wealthy merchant such as yourself to risk your life for a whistle, you must be an enemy of the Temple.”

  Foosh smiled evenly. “Why don’t I co
ntinue with my tale, then? It is said in the Annals of the Marada that the Lady of Eleeje took the Entalors with her into the realm beyond this realm to protect them from the urkuuns. In their annals, the giants claimed a herd of Entalors lived at the foot of Mathinar Maro, the great tower of unity. Even if it were true, it would have been almost 1,500 years ago. Since then, it is said that the Entalors have helped men in exceptional circumstances, but few have been seen in these parts.” She looked at him with eyes full of wonder. “Your horse is a magnificent Entalor.”

  “It isn’t my horse,” Ahiram replied in a somber tone. “Not any longer.”

  “Don’t be so certain. Entalors are not owned. They assist us in our missions and then go away. I’m convinced that as soon as you blow this whistle, you will see it coming to you, and when an Entalor runs, it is unstoppable.”

  “How do you know all this?” he asked gruffly. “I wasn’t aware that knowledge of the mythical past was needed to sell carpets.”

  “I travel often with my husband. I hear things.”

  “Why are you trying to help me? Why give it to me when you could have used it yourself?”

  Foosh chuckled dryly. “And what would I do with an Entalor? I’m too short to ride a horse comfortably.”

  “You could sell it for a lot of carpets.”

  “If Balid stopped selling carpets today, we could live the rest of our lives without financial worry.”

  Ahiram was confused. “So why do it? Why cross the desert and risk your lives to sell carpets when you don’t need to?”

  “Let’s just say that carpets are his passion,” she said softly. “He wouldn’t know what to do with himself without a carpet on his shoulder.”

  Ahiram looked at her. He had to admit that Foosh had pulled a Silent trick on him. She was so unassuming, so self-effaced, that he had under-estimated her. If she wanted me dead, chances are, I’d be dead by now, he thought. I’ve been seriously negligent. The commander would have me on bread and water for a month.