Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2)

by Murano, Michael Joseph

  “What Faernor is trying to say,” said Sondra carefully, “is that you, Alendiir, saved the life of … the high priestess’ daughter.”

  Instantly, Ahiram’s face hardened, but before he could say a word, he met Sheheluth’s gaze. He was surprised to see how angry she was. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

  “Stop it, Ahiram,” she said firmly, her voice quivering. Sheheluth’s voice had a sharp edge that was different from her usually soft tone. “I watched over you for six days. I saw you wake up, eat like four men, and drink enough water to drown a desert. While all along you looked at me and yelled, ‘I hate you, Hiyam, I hate you.’ You said it over and over again. I cannot take this anymore. Stop it.”

  Ahiram swallowed hard. He gazed at Jedarc. “Did I do that?” Jedarc gave him a sad smile and simply nodded. Ahiram sighed and covered his face with his hands.

  “Leave me, please. All of you.”

  They filed out in silence. He sat looking at the small candle flicker and sputter in the dark, and nearly jumped with fright when he saw a creature that vaguely resembled the béghôm peer into the cave. It was the distorted shadow of a woman, one of the desert people, coming into the room. She spoke in a high guttural tongue. Ahiram noticed then that Banimelek was standing behind her. His eyes widened like saucepans when he heard his friend answer in a halting manner. He spoke this strange language fluently. The woman drew closer and touched Ahiram’s forehead. Her hand was soft and warm. She asked him to open his mouth, then pulled on his tongue. She examined under his arms, his chest, and the soles of his feet. She looked at Banimelek and smiled.

  “You’re doing much better,” explained the Silent. “You should be fully recovered in a few days.”

  They went out together and left him alone. I hate you Hiyam, Hiyam I hate you. He did not like the image of himself, raving mad, yelling at Sheheluth. He closed his eyes and saw her face seared with pain and sorrow. He sighed deeply and slumped back on his mat. He slept fitfully until at last, exhaustion caught up with him, and he fell into a deep sleep.

  Master Xurgon walked into the common room. The dwarfs had been hard at work cleaning and repairing their living quarters. Progress was steady and he felt confident the dwarfs would remove all traces of the béghôm’s rampage within the next two to three weeks. He was however, troubled by a bit of news that he had not paid much attention to until now. On the day that Ahiram had arrived, he chided Orwutt and Zurwott when they warned him that a passage had been elongated. He thought the twins were being facetious, but when other passages began to undergo dramatic changes, he had to admit, the news perturbed him.

  “Master Xurgon, she is no more,” said Orwutt as he walked in. Speaking to an elder before bowing and receiving permission to do so was rude—unless a sizeable enemy were at the door.

  Xurgon saw fear on Orwutt’s face. “The lowly or the haughty?”

  “Neither the lowly low corridor nor the haughty high passage, but the skinny hallway is no more,” explained Zurwott, walking in.

  “I see. What of the fat one? Is she still there?”

  “She is indeed, but she has lost much fatness,” said Orwutt.

  “What she has lost in fatness, she gained in length,” added Zurwott.

  Master Xurgon tapped his pipe with a growing sense of irritation.

  “Barely have we begun to enjoy the enjoyment of freedom from the béghôm, when we are careened and marooned on an outlandish isle of sorrow. Of all the godly gods of the dwarfish pantheon, which one is expressing his temper by tampering with the resistance of our walls? The skinny hallway and the fat hallway are no more, you say?”

  The twins nodded.

  “That would be four more hallways we have lost, and lost everlastingly. This must come to a stopping stop.”

  “If Master Xurgon would be kindly kind and not discount cheaply the unerring utterance of my brotherly brother, Orwutt,” interjected Zurwott, “that would increasingly increase and increase increasingly the numbers of lost hallways to five.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” replied Xurgon rather impatiently. He did not like being reminded that he had previously chided the two young dwarfs when he had not believed their report on the day he had seen them with Ahiram. “I am left bereaved and with dryness of thought. Could it be that these events are not natural in the most natural sense?”

  “Your obscurely obscure thoughts and your thoughts, obscurely obscure, pervade the opaque opacity of my mind. I am gripped by a confusedly confused processing process and a processing process so confusedly confused that I am about to fall into obscurantism. An obscurantist obscurantism of such a degree that no obscurantist obscurantism could ever be its equalizing equal in depth, breadth and height,” said Zurwott in perfect dwarfish, where a man may have simply said, “I don’t get it.”

  “Rocks are familiarly familiar,” explained Xurgon. “They are of good cheer and of good company. We know them knowingly and are acutely acquainted with their comportment since time is time, and there is someone to count. A falling rock, a slide-in, a cave-in, a slip, a crevice, a tremor, a displacement of terrain, a shudder, a tremor, a crack, a crumbling … these are all well-known eventful events whose eventuality is dear to every family. We can predictably predict most of these things and understand their effective effects. This, however, is of an entirely different nature. So different that most dwarfs who have seen the state of these hallways have lost their appetizing appetite.”

  “And how would you describe them?” asked Orwutt, provoking frowns from Master Xurgon and Zurwott by his nonchalant use of the Common Tongue.

  “If this mountainous mountain was a manly man, I would perfunctorily say the man is a cadaveric cadaver in state of decomposing decomposition.”

  “Ghastly descriptive description,” said Zurwott, who did not fail to appreciate the “cadaveric cadaver,” which had a lively staccato to it, and a rhythm to which the dwarfs could dance.

  Xurgon starred at the twin brothers. Despite their youth, they were masters of rocks and caves, having spent most of their young adult years searching for Andaxil with their uncle. He trusted their judgment. “What is the curative cure?”

  “Can we curatively cure a deadly dead man?” replied Orwutt.

  “Have you ceased to believe in hope?” asked their grizzled master.

  “In naturally natural lore and knowledgeable knowledge of the dwarfs, yes,” replied Zurwott.

  “Something else is required,” added Orwutt.

  The twins echoed the old dwarf’s own sentiment: An unnatural force was eroding the rocks, causing them to decay like a flesh-eating disease attacking a sick dog. If this forcing force is ably able to decay the stony stone, what could it do to living flesh of men and dwarfs? Suddenly, their troubles with the béghôm felt like a pleasant distraction. A deathly death is spreading its wings, and to oppose it, we have an inexperienced boyish boy. He knew his greatest challenge was ahead of him and he wondered if he would survive to tell the tale.

  “The realm of magic is an illusion, a mere fabrication of the mind, an attempt on the part of mortal men, to control a matter far more fluid than water, to harness a power greater than fire, and to bring order from a dark chaos. What mortal man forgets is this simple truth: With every act of magic performed, the realm expands, changes, and grows ever stronger.”

  –Teaching of Oreg, High Priest of Baal.

  “Ahiram, Ahiram.”

  Ahiram opened his eyes and saw Sheheluth. She handed him a mug. “Here, drink this.”

  “Not thirsty.” He yawned and closed his eyes.

  She shook him. “Wake up now. You must drink or else you won’t heal. You’re still feverish. Drink.”

  “What day is it?”

  “The twentieth of Tébêt, why do you ask?”

  “Thirteen days since the end of the Games of the Mines. So it’s Hused, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The last day of the week. Less than thirty days till fall.” He sighed. “Where has
time gone I wonder?” He closed his eyes.

  “Don’t fall asleep.” Sheheluth shook him harder. “Sit up and drink.”

  Ahiram pulled himself into a sitting position, took a sip from the mug and grimaced. “This is as bitter as a lonely death,” he moaned. “What is it?” he asked. Sheheluth just shrugged her shoulders.

  “What is it?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know,” she said irritably.

  “I mean what’s wrong with you?”

  She looked at him for a while. “It’s you. That’s what’s wrong with me.” Her voice was soft, almost tender.

  “Me?” He took another sip and winced. “Why?”

  “You are a sormoss.”

  Ahiram sipped some more of the bitter drink. He wished he could swallow it in one gulp, but the concoction was too hot. “What?”

  “A sormoss, you punish anyone who causes you pain. Prince Olothe insulted your father and you crippled him for life. Hiyam tried to kill you, and now that she is in your grasp, you want to hurt her. That’s a sormoss.”

  “If that’s true, then a lot of people are a sormoss. She would still kill me if given the chance.”

  “No, she wouldn’t, but you can’t see it.”

  “Sheheluth, what are you saying? I’m not—”

  “Most sormossians—at least the ones I have met—are like you, charming and strong. They are leaders, but when they lose their temper and injure someone, they would have you believe they are victim.”

  “She tried to kill me. I’m the victim here.” The hot liquid splashed on his fingers and he bit his lower lip. Calm down. There’s no point in getting angry. “Is that how you see me?” How old is she anyway?

  “Did she try to kill you this time around?”

  “She hasn’t had the chance yet.”

  “Is that the Silent speaking, or is it the slave?”

  “What?”

  “Either you rise like the hero you are born to be, or you will die like the slave you think you are.”

  Ahiram swallowed with great difficulty. He was halfway through the contents of the mug and held back a strong urge to throw it down, or to force Sheheluth to drink it. What am I thinking? He could imagine himself holding Sheheluth down, forcing her to drink the contents of the mug. What’s wrong with me?

  “Look who’s finally up,” said Jedarc as he walked in with Sondra and Banimelek. “How are you feeling?”

  Ahiram sighed. “Better.” He glanced at Sheheluth.

  “So tell us, Alendiir,” asked Sondra, “we’re dying to know, where did you find this blade?”

  “Is that blade … what happened in the mines?” added Jedarc.

  Ahiram thought about the remaining artifacts. “After I left you in the mines, I was chased by ten High Riders to a ledge overlooking the rapids. I don’t remember clearly what happened, but I think there must have been an earthquake. Three of us fell in the river and we ended up in the Eye of Death.” Ahiram told the rest of the story with an even, quiet voice. He omitted how he found the gold tile, the sarcophagus, and the artifacts, and instead, told his friends he had found the sword laying on an ancient altar. “The temple was huge, and I believe some folks are secretly worshiping Tanniin there, because I found a fresh jar of blood.”

  “Blood?”

  “Yes, blood,” asserted Ahiram, happy to stir the conversation away from El-Windiir’s tomb. “I can’t explain the sword’s behavior, but I’m happy it did what it did. We are all alive.” This was a half-truth. After all, he did not understand how the tile merged with the sword and why that caused such a transformation.

  “Ahiram,” pressed Jedarc. “There must be more to your adventure.”

  “He has to brief the commander first,” Banimelek reminded him.

  “We know that, Faernor,” replied Sondra. “Alendiir, what you did was really incredible.”

  “What I did nearly killed me,” Ahiram corrected.

  “Yes, we’ll let you rest now,” said Sondra. “Sheheluth, make sure he eats something and takes all of the medicine, all of it. He’ll need it.”

  “Hey, I got this.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” ordered Banimelek. “Stay and watch him.”

  Jedarc stood up. “Once you’re recovered, I expect a full report.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  They shared a chuckle, then the three friends left. Ahiram slowly finished the drink and handed the empty mug to Sheheluth. She took it and stood up.

  “Ahiram, I want to like you.” Her voice had changed once more. It was lighter and sonorous. “I don’t want to fear you. I wish you could promise someone you care about that you will never ever strike someone when you’re angry.” Not waiting for an answer, she left.

  I’m sick. I just killed a beast, a monster. What’s wrong with her? She wakes me to lecture me. I’m her senior, a Solitary. Who does she think she is? He resented her questioning. Could I promise Nora or Jedarc that I wouldn’t strike them if they angered me? He slid into bed and closed his eyes.

  He wasn’t sure.

  The following morning, Ahiram awoke tired and dizzy. Grunting, he pulled himself up and shivered under the cool draft just as Jedarc walked in with his morning breakfast.

  “Hey, hey, Nora’s sweetheart is awake.”

  “I need a bath,” grumbled Ahiram. “I’m covered in sweat.”

  “Cheer up then, My Lord, that’s good news.” Jedarc placed a bowl of porridge and a glass of milk on a nearby tree trunk. “It means the fever is leaving you and soon you’ll be able to stand on your own two feet.”

  Ahiram grunted. “Where can I wash up?” He clutched Jedarc’s arm and sniffed his sleeve. “I knew it, you’ve managed to clean up. Smells like hibiscus, silver-lemon, and olive oil, or something close to it.”

  “What?” asked Jedarc.

  “The cleaning product they used. Not bad. Come on now, give me a hand and get me to a place where I can wash up. I could use a set of clean clothes too.” Ahiram stopped, wide-eyed. “Do they have clothes to loan me? They don’t wear much clothing, do they?”

  “Don’t you worry, My Lord, one of their caves has a spring. You can bathe, wash your clothes, and relax while they dry.” Reassured, Ahiram nodded, forced himself up, and began walking. “Where are you going?”

  “To that cave with the bath.”

  Jedarc smiled. “How long do you think your clothes will take to dry?”

  “If washed in boiling water, it would take no more than four hours to dry, assuming the sun is out.”

  “And you’re prepared to sit in that imaginary bath for four hours?”

  “I’d sit in it for twenty hours if necessary … wait, what? Aaah, another one of your silly jokes. I should have known.”

  Four men walked in carrying a wooden bathtub and another four filled it with hot water. Ahiram heard a pleasant, refreshing fizz, and he smelled an earthy-lemon scent. “You knew I needed a bath?”

  “Needed is debatable. That you wanted, nay, demanded one, yes. The only salve I know who demands to take a bath.”

  “Commander Tanios is a stickler when it comes to cleanliness.”

  “And this is why eight desert people are preparing you a bath?”

  Ahiram shrugged his shoulders.

  “Go ahead, get in, I’ll watch the door and make sure no one other than a Silent walks in.”

  “Fine,” said Ahiram as he undressed. “And that’s not funny.”

  Jedarc chuckled. “Don’t worry, Sondra and Sheheluth are hunting.”

  Ahiram slid into the warm, soapy bath, closed his eyes and relaxed.

  “So, are you feeling better?” asked Jedarc who came and sat on the tree trunk. “You should eat your breakfast; it’s getting cold.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Last call. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Jedarc who dug in with a great appetite, “this porridge is excellent.”

  Ahiram sighed. He knew he cou
ld enjoy a few minutes of silence, for Jedarc preferred to eat without talking, although, he was a fast eater.

  “That was good,” said Jedarc slapping his belly. “Now, I’ll take your dirty clothes and give them to Hiyam to wash. Since she’s your slave now, she may as well—”

  “What?” Ahiram nearly jumped out of his bath. “If that’s a joke it’s—”

  “Ah, you don’t know?” asked Jedarc innocently. “It’s not a joke. You saved her life even though she is your enemy. According to the Temple’s code of conduct, you now own her until the Temple either redeems her or keeps her in your ownership.”

  Ahiram set his eyes on his friend. “You’re serious?” he whispered. “Dear El, this is worse than a joke. You’re serious.”

  “Dead serious. You’re her master, and she’s you’re slave. So how would you like your clothes washed?”

  “Sheheluth said I’m a sormoss.”

  “A what?”

  A sormoss. Someone who hurts others when he’s angry.”

  “She called you a sormoss? Are you certain?” asked Jedarc.

  “Yes. Do you know this word?”

  “Hmm … I didn’t know Sheheluth was from … but then why didn’t she know what a banana was?”

  “What are you mumbling about?”

  “That’s a word from back home. If she knew what it meant then she should have known what a banana was, but she acted as if she didn’t.”

  “Most Silent protect their past.”

  “Indeed,” confirmed Jedarc, still puzzled.

  “Well, am I a sormoss?”

  “She’s observant.”

  “So, I am?”

  “Are you?”

  Ahiram heaved a deep sigh. “So I am. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “With your focus on the Games would you have listened? Besides, you hadn’t sormossed anyone then, not on purpose anyway.”

  “Why does Noraldeen like me?”

  “You mean why does she love you?”

  “She’s not stupid. Why should she fall for a sormoss?”

  Jedarc came over and sat down facing Ahiram. “What are you going to do about it?”