“If both partying parties are not insultingly insulted, we correctly readjust our misconceived misconceptions,” continued Zurwott.
“Yes,” boomed Orwutt, “We learn to truthfully trust our mutual family lineage. Now that we know who you are, and you know who we are, we can entrust each other with the bit of information we wish to exchange for free.”
“I see. So, how long does this … ahem … prologue last?”
“Oh, from eight days to three months, give or take a week.”
Ahiram gave the two brothers a stern look. “You want me to sit here with you for at least eight days before we can say anything useful?”
“Dwarfs live by the quietly quiet heartbeat of the rocks,” reproached Zurwott. “Eight days is a momentary moment’s breath.”
Ahiram stared at them as if they had turned into two donkeys wearing iron helmets. No wonder Sureï turned two dwarfs into statues.
“Goat’s milk?” Ahiram offered, with a twinkle in his eye.
They accepted. He served each of them a full glass. “There, you see? I offered you a glass of milk and you gladly accepted. We made it past disgust, distrust, mistrust, and went straight to entrust. Next, I handed you the glass of milk and you took it from my hand, which means we are now past adjust, trust, and entrust. In short and in fine, I say sayingly let us exchangingly exchange some informational information.”
Orwutt guffawed, and Zurwott rubbed both ears. “Your dwarfish is approximately approximate.”
“Where I come from,” continued Ahiram, “we have similar traditions. There are things I won’t tell anyone unless they are family, and other things I won’t tell someone unless I’ve known them for a long time. And then, there are other things I’m willing to exchange for something else, regardless of who I’m exchanging with. It seems that in your case, you’re treating everyone as if they are either family, or your worst enemy.”
Orwutt chuckled. “Wrong image. To dwarfs, clans are more importantly important than family, and what’s more important than clans are rocks. We believe we came from rocks, and while dwarfs are precious gems that need chiseling, men are mystery stones that must be handled carefully.
“Unfortunately, you don’t have time to carefully handle this human,” he said as he pointed to his chest. “As soon as the slave is safe, I will return to the castle. Either you ask away, or we can talk about cheese.”
Zurwott sighed a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Your hastily hasty ways will lead you in great haste to an anxious anxiety and an anxiety that is anxiously anxious.”
“That may be so,” said Ahiram with a smile, “but even rocks tumble in haste when pulled by a river.”
“Wise wisdom,” admitted Zurwott. “Very well then. We have been wonderingly wondering concerning the originating origins and the most original origins of the Silent. What can you tellingly tell us about it?”
“Well, the Silent were founded by Prince Siril of Voltocomb, an Ophirian who came to Tanniin in the year 542 of the Temple.”
“So, 1,197... take away 542,” said Orwutt, who like most dwarfs preferred to count backward, “is 655, which would be the 7,096th year according to the Tablets of Cosmological Enumerations.”
“What are the Tablets of Cosmological Enumerations?” Ahiram asked intrigued, for he had only heard of time being counted since the foundation of the Temple of Baal. That was the origin of the world, and before that, there was only darkness.
“That will be our remunerating remuneration for your telling tale,” said Zurwott with a satisfied smile.
“My brother would like to exchange our knowledge of the tablets for your knowledge of the Silent.”
“Sounds good,” said Ahiram. “Well, Siril was a vain and pretentious prince, and one day, to impress a woman he was fond of—the book does not mention her by name—he revealed to her a closely kept secret of a friend of his in whom she had shown interest. The secret was something shameful, but the young woman carelessly shared it with a friend or two, and soon the entire court knew the secret. A few days later, Siril found his friend hanging from a tree; he had taken his own life to avoid shame and humiliation. As punishment, the king ordered the tongue of the young woman to be cut out and the prince to be sent into exile. Siril left voluntarily and came to Tanniin where he lived as a hermit until he mastered his tongue. He vowed never to speak again unless necessary in order to aid someone or to protect life. So the Silent were born, and over many years they have become an elite troupe defending the kingdom.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Orwutt, “how did Siril go from living as a hermit to being the founding founder of an elite military corps? We want to know more, more.”
“It’s a long story,” replied Ahiram, “a story for another day.”
“How informatively informative,” said Zurwott, delighted. “We shall be promptly prompted to prompt promptly the overseer of Karangalatad to justly adjust and adjust justly the historically historical knowledgeable knowledge of the dwarfs.”
“What is a book, by the way?” asked Orwutt.
“I’ll tell you in a moment, but first, what is this Kara … thing?”
“The Karan-gala-tad,” repeated Orwutt. “It is the historical records of the dwarfs. It is our living memory of all things past.”
“I see. So you’re going to tell me more about it?”
“Yes, but first,” replied Orwutt smiling, “what is a book?”
“I don’t really know, other than it’s what we call the collection of Siril’s sayings we are told to memorize. There are 244 of them. They are divided into twelve chapters: Obedience, Courage, Discipline, Endurance, Patience, Justice, Prudence, Temperance, Understanding, Hope, Friendship, and Love. We call the entire collection a book, so I’ve always thought a book to be nothing more than a collection of sayings.”
“Do you knowingly know all 244 of them?”
“Of course. Every Silent does. They govern our conduct. We live by them and train by them. There’s a second book called the Book of Lamentation, that—”
“One bookish book in its timely time,” interrupted Zurwott.
“Was he the greatest amongst the Silent?” asked Orwutt who could not believe his luck; he was getting answers to three questions for the price of one. Like most dwarfs of the southern realm, he was fascinated by the greatest, the fastest, and the strongest.
“According to Commander Tanios, the greatest of the Silent—in our time—is a man named Corintus.”
“Corintus?” asked Orwutt and Zurwott in unison.
“You know him?” It was Ahiram’s turn to be delighted. “Frankly, I asked the commander to tell me something about Corintus, but he never said much about him.”
“Well,” replied Orwutt cautiously, “We know of him. A certain acquaintance of ours met him in Alep some years back. We know not where his current whereabouts may be. He may be tied to a prophecy.”
To stop his brother, Zurwott stomped his foot, but it was too late.
“A prophecy?” Ahiram, who did not mind a bit of competition, glanced quickly at Zurwott. The dwarf was unhappy. It looks like I’m getting more questions answered than he is. Not bad. “What prophecy?”
“A prophecy of a child who would see what cannot be seen,” replied Orwutt. “We do not believe a word of it. What we do know is that Corintus has everything to fear from a certain Nebo, a general in the army of Baal, on account of Corintus’ wife.”
Ahiram looked at them, confused.
“Nebo wanted Corintus’ wife for his own,” continued Orwutt to Zurwott’s discomfiture. “But her parents refused and instead gave her in marriage to Corintus. Nebo is not the forgiving type.”
“He holds a grudging grudge for an eternal eternity and is cruelly cruel beyond any unreasonably reasonable cruelty,” added Zurwott. “You must be familiarly familiar and familiar most familiarly with Nebo’s brother most brotherly and brotherly brother, for he took a parting part in the gaming Games.”
“Why did you say ‘brother most bro
therly and brotherly brother?’ Usually, you say it the other way around. Wait, really? His brother was in the Games of the Mines?”
“No, no,” explained Zurwott. “This is the properly proper order since Olothe is Nebo’s younger brother. I would have said it the way you did, if it were the other way around, and not as it presently is.”
Ahiram did not flinch. “Nebo is Olothe’s older brother?” Would this explain why the men of Baal tried to kill me? He decided to change topics. “So, what are the Tablets of Cosmological Enumeration?”
“A series of sayings that records the history of time or the timely history as we know it,” replied Zurwott. This was as good a dwarfish deal as any. He had answered the questions accurately without providing any useful information, which is what every dwarf was supposed to do in these types of exchanges. But his smile quickly turned to discomfiture when Orwutt began to speak.
“That is a long telling tale my friend. From the Tree of Life to this age, the land saw manifold wonders and tragedies. First came the Age of the First Covenant, which led to the rise of Keinuun, the mighty iron city of the Sheituun—rulers of earth and sea—that subdued the land and all races to its will. The Malikuun—Lords of Light—stooped down from their high ranges and fought the rulers of earth and see. The battle was swift and decisive, for unlike us, the Malikuun and Sheituun use silent words of power, which they can use to reshape the world. Had the battle lasted longer, all races would have been wiped from the face of the earth.”
“Not so, my brotherly brother and brother most brotherly. Andaxil, the great cave, tenderly cradled and cradled very tenderly her dwarfish offspring and protected him protectively from the wrathful wrath and the mighty might of the Lords of lightning Light.”
Orwutt smiled. “As my brother indicates, there are some among the dwarfs who believe we, dwarfs, would have survived the ordeal. Anyway, when the Malikuun spoke the seven words of power, Keinuun, the iron city, was sucked into the belly of the earth,” Orwutt removed his right sock, and held it from the toe. “The city was pulled down like so,” he inserted his hand inside his sock and pulled it inside out. “The city’s inside became its outside, and this transformed, inverted city is what we call today, the Pit of Darkness. Keinuun’s foundation became the mouth of the Pit, and the peak of its highest tower, its very depth. In that awful abyss, a mighty fire locks the Lords of Darkness to their thrones of meyroon. The Lords of Light used a rock not of this earth to seal the mouth of the Pit.”
“Where is this Pit,” asked Ahiram. “Do you know?”
Zurwott shook his head. “The Karangalatad does not revealingly reveal nor reveal revealingly the locating location of this pitiless pit and pit most pitiless. This, the Karangalatad did as a preventing prevention and a prevention of the most preventing kind against foolish and woolly dwarfs who have a constantly constant itch and an itch of the most constantly constant form to deeply dig and dig deeply wherever there is an exploratory hole worthy of any exploration.”
“I see, so it was not told for your protection.”
Orwutt nodded. “After the Pit was formed, the Malikuun punished all races for dabbling in the deep things of the Pit with the long winter of the Flaming Sword. A bitter cold covered the earth for twenty-two years during which Eden-Elil, the first City of Light, fell. Eden-Elil, the first and oldest of all cities was built by the Malikuun as a gift of friendship for all races. There we were taught the rudiments of the words of power, which we should have used to govern the earth. Alas, our ancestors used these words to subdue one another and that gave rise to the city of Keinuun. So in that terrible winter, Eden-Elil fell.
“Its fall brought the Age of Tears and Sorrow and the Long Wandering that lasted 205 years. The races separated and mistrust grew. The Age of Blood was upon us. It saw the rise of the Fortress of Enoch, Tessarah, the Unseen Tower of the Lady of Eleeje, and Silbarâd the Fairest. ‘O shining city, most beautiful amongst the cities of man, our hearts pine at your loss’.
“But alas, an Empyrean sorceress and her dwarf consort—may their names be blotted from our memory—by a terrible act of magic made a key, a horrific key, with which to open the Pit. We call it Parixis Morinméa—”
“Not a dwarfish name,” Ahiram noted.
“Very observantly observed,” retorted Zurwott, “and observed most observantly. Parixis Morinméa is Xargin, an intermediate language between pure dwarfish and the Empyrean tongue. It meaningfully means, and means most meaningfully—”
“A meaningful meaning and meaning most meaningful that must remain unutterably unuttered, my brotherly brother.”
Ahiram glanced at Orwutt. The dwarf was visibly shaken.
“I regret regretfully and regretfully regret my impetuous impetuosity and impetuosity most impetuously irresponsible irresponsibility,” Zurwott blurted as he bowed low.
“No harming harm has been done,” said Ahiram. The twins chuckled, and the tension dropped. “I take it, this is a powerful name.”
“A name of tears,” explained Orwutt. “May it never be uttered.”
“Please continue,” prodded Ahiram. He took another chunk of cheese and nibbled at it.
“This magical key which we call ‘Parixis Morinméa’ is known by many names,” explained Orwutt. “I say this so that if you do come across any of these names, you know better than to ask its meaning. It is known as Mofta Qahor among the Desert Legion. To the Temple it is called Baal’s Bane. Among the Empyrean it is the Ithyl Shimea, and to the giants, it is Onthialamur, the deadly doorway of sorrow.
“But let us not speak of it any longer. The Karangalatad tells us that when Keinuun was re-opened by the Ithyl Shimea, its hordes brought the First War of Knowledge, which lasted for one hundred and thirty-five long years, and after a short lull, the Wars of Riharon, then the Wars of the Wind, which lasted for six hundred years.”
“Why is it called the Wars of the Wind?”
“Because,” explained Zurwott, who was eager to take part in the conversation in order to have something to barter with later, “these warring wars saw the coming of the dragons.”
“There are tales of glory and power. To tell them all would keep us here for a lifetime,” continued Orwutt. “Silbarâd the Fair fell, but Tessarah, the Tower of the Lady, was never conquered.
“The Age of the Second Covenant started. Man lived in relatively relative peace for eight hundred years, but he forgot the malice lurking in the Pit. And so, on 1 Teshriin 3333, in the year of the Tablets of Cosmological Enumerations, the Wars of Destruction began—”
“Wait, you didn’t tell me who used the Ithyl Shimea to open the Pit. How did they do it and why?”
“It would take longer to explain than we have time for,” said Orwutt as he glanced at the door where the council was deliberating. “The Pit was closed by the Malikuun, and tragically was opened again.”
“So what does the Karangalatad say then?”
“After the Wars of Destruction came the Wars of Fire and the Wars of Meyroon. Somewhere in that span of time that lasted for a thousand years, the Malikuun sealed the Pit once more.”
“I wonder,” said Ahiram, “are the Lords of the Deep stupid? I mean, you’d think that after being beaten twice, they’d change their ways and make peace. That’s why I find it hard to believe in the Pit. Power requires understanding, so if the Lords of the Deep are truly powerful, they can’t be stupid. Or if they are stupid enough to be locked up twice, then they can’t be as dangerous as we make them out to be. Also, why lock them up again? Why not get rid of them once and for all? I don’t know who I should blame more, the Lords of the Pit for being so stupid, or the Lords of Light for being so cruel to leave this Pit to tempt us.”
Orwutt and Zurwott faced each other, palms open. To Ahiram’s surprise they slapped each other’s hand following a complex configuration, which delighted him, for it was beautiful and elegant like a well-executed dance. They faced him and bowed deeply.
“Xarang kalatad mteinx,” said Orwut
t. “Whenever the retelling of the Karangalatad opens wide the doors of the mind to wonderment and questioning, the retelling is deemed successful.”
“So what was that slapping all about?”
“A congratulatory congratulation and a congratulation most congratulatory for a performance well performed and a most excellently excellent performing performance,” explained Zurwott.
“I am a good storyteller,” translated Orwutt.
“Got it, so will you answer my questions then?”
“Not all gems are uncovered with picks and axes,” replied Orwutt.
“What picking picks and axing axes cannot bring to a lighting light,” corrected Zurwott, “a differently different laboring labor of love will be made known to your beating heart.”
“I see,” understood Ahiram. “Please continue.”
“Then,” resumed Orwutt, “in 5694, the great Babylonian tower was erected, and with it, the glory of man and his pride rose to the heavens. Then there is a gap in our account of the cosmological tablets, and in the year 6,554, the Temple of Baal rose to prominence. What happened in the intervening years is muddled and confused.”
The three fell silent. Ahiram focused on his open palms.
“Zurwott, can I try that slapping sequence with you?”
“The xarang kalatad mteinx?” asked Orwutt. “Do you wish to congratulate us on our ways of eating bread and cheese?”
“No,” laughed Ahiram, “I just want to try it.”
Zurwott shrugged his shoulders, got up and faced Ahiram. “I shall begin from the beginning with the slow slowness and the slowness of the slowest slow slug.”
Ahiram shook his head. “No, no. Do it like you did it with Orwutt.”
“But it takes yearly years of painstakingly painstaking preparing preparations,” protested the dwarf.
“Hey, no need to bring in the King and Queen. We’re friends doing the trust, entrust thing. If I fail, I fail, that’s all.”
“But—”
“Come on Zurwott, you’re not going to lose your beard over this, or your sleep for that matter.”
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 11