Hiyam shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I did not have much time to think about it.”
Ahiram switched tactics. “So, if you chose not to be a high priestess, would there be consequences? Would the Temple punish you?”
“Not strictly speaking, but I would be ostracized. I would not be able to live in the Temple and the Temple officials would be barred from speaking to me.”
“Does this include the military as well?”
She nodded. “Officers of the High Riders would be flogged if they were caught speaking with me.”
“And you would have gone to such extremes? You would lose contact with your mother.”
Hiyam shuddered. “I know,” she added softly, “but my mind is made up. I will not return to Baalbek no matter the consequences.”
Almost there, thought Ahiram. “Could you join the High Riders?”
Hiyam laughed a bitter laugh. “I could work in the stables, or assist in the purification ritual, but I would never be a High Rider.”
Ahiram smiled. “Therefore, before being captured by the desert people, you knew you were no longer a High Rider, right?”
“Yes.” Hiyam frowned, realizing that Ahiram had been stringing her along. Forgetting that she was supposed to be acting like a slave, she gazed at him, and saw him smile. “I don’t …” The logic of the argument struck her. “So I am no longer bound by the High Riders’ code of honor!”
“Glad to know we understand each other, Hoda … Hiyam. You’re no longer bound by their code, therefore, you are not my slave. You’re a free woman. Obviously,” he added quickly, “you’ve got to go back with us and report to the commander and your mother.”
Hiyam recovered quickly. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Stop it now, all right. Enough thanking me.” He sighed. “Did you speak with Jedarc?”
She nodded.
“You know he’s in love with you?”
She blushed. “He hasn’t told me.”
“Well, I’m telling you. And I’m also telling you that if you hurt a hair on his head—”
“You’re yelling.”
Ahiram tightened his fist and clenched his teeth. “If you hurt a hair of his head, I’ll … I’ll …”
“You’ll kill me.”
Her words hit him like a fist. She stated the truth matter-of-factly with a tone that shattered his anger and turned it to grief.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I don’t think I would be able to control myself if something happened to Jedarc. Most likely, I would kill you. It’s horrible to say, but it’s the truth. What have I become? A monster?”
“I don’t know, but if I cared about him as much as you do, I would do the same. I would kill anyone who would try to hurt him. But you do not have to worry about me hurting Jedarc.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the monster that spoke to me makes the béghôm look like an inoffensive child. Before long, we will be counting our dead and hoping against hope that someone, anyone, will be able to stop him. We’re moving into a storm the like of which we have never seen and I am not certain any of us is going to survive long enough for love to blossom.” She got up and bowed. “You have my gratitude for saving my life and giving me back my freedom. My blade is yours.”
Ahiram waited for her to leave before leaning his head against the tree and closing his eyes. Unexpectedly he saw, or imagined he saw Noraldeen’s face smiling tenderly at him. Involuntarily he smiled. As long as the sun rises on a world where Noraldeen walks, there will always be a tomorrow to look forward to. There will always be hope.
Resolutely, he got up, stretched, and the man who dragged a storm wherever he went set his eyes to the north where darkness gathered under the banner of the urkuun.
“I am a traveler. Traveling is what I do. I travel. That is what I do. This is what the Temple has commissioned me to do: To sojourn the world in search of strange sights or unnatural events, like springs of golden water or pits that spew back anything you throw in them. One unforgettable site is the breathtakingly beautiful city of Wrok-Atul. Its name is harsh in the common tongue, but it is a hidden gem, a heavenly oasis, a place of abiding wonder and peace.”
–Memoir of Alkiniöm, the Traveler.
Eighteen hundred miles southeast of Tanniin, deep within the swamps of Kirk in the Kingdom of Mitani, Ashod sat cross-legged behind a low table where an Orb of Seeing shimmered gently. He was a former high priest of Baal who had defected to the Black Robes, a clandestine organization that rescued fugitives from the massacres committed by the High Riders of the Temple. He was deeply perturbed by what he had just heard, and so absorbed was he with the news that he allowed his cup of black tea to grow cold.
He peered into the shimmering orb and tried to decipher the placid expression of his interlocutor. “Are you sure about this, Perit? Are you absolutely sure?”
“If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Perit replied serenely. His features, elongated by the orb’s spherical surface were the color of silver. “Like I said, about twenty days ago, the superintendent of the royal kitchen at Taniir-The-Strong Castle told me the butcher in charge of the local specialty, praniti bowls, had fallen ill the week before the Games. She hired me to replace him, so I kept a close watch during the Games and have seen the slave up close.”
“And it was him you saw again?” asked Ashod.
Perit nodded. “Also, I managed to speak with the delegation from Ophir. They told me their deal with Lord Orgond has fallen by the wayside. Apparently, the Ophirian who was supposed to marry Orgond’s daughter has reneged on the deal at the last moment.”
“I am well aware of these details, Perit. Thankfully, you managed to speak with the Ophirian delegation on my behalf and they have agreed to continue the negotiations with Orgond in the Fortress of Amsheet. So, go back to the lad.”
“Yeah, well, after the Games, I went back to the dwarfs like you asked me to. I was in the kitchen minding my own business when Orwutt came in and asked for food for a visitor.”
“Remind me, who is Orwutt again?”
“Orwutt and Zurwott are twin dwarf brothers, and they are Master Kwadil’s nephews.”
“Ah yes, Zurwott,” Ashod said. “So, they are the crafty twins who always manage to get in trouble. What are they up to?”
“You’re not going to like it, boss,” whispered Perit.
Ashod gave him a tired look.
“Seriously, boss. It’s a xarg-ulum.” Ashod’s eyes turned into dangerous slits. “I kid you not, boss. The beast is raving mad.”
“The béghôm has been in these caves for some time now, and she doesn’t get roused unless her quarry is in sight.”
“Boss, really strange things are happening all over these caves.”
“Strange, how strange?” Ashod was not surprised. He had joined the Temple when he was eighteen. Thirty-five years of priesthood had taught him to expect erratic ripple effects after each act of high magic.
“Well, the walls around these caves … they are, well, how shall I say it … turning into wet mush. I mean they are decaying. In one spot Orwutt showed me, you could stick your finger into flint as if the rock has turned into soggy, moldy bread. Disgusting.”
Ashod shivered as if a cold wind were blowing, but the air around him was sultry. “Continue,” he said quietly.
“So, yes, I brought the food like Orwutt asked, and that slave boy was there. He looked worn out, but otherwise in good health. Here’s why I’ve decided to use the orb to contact you: He has with him a sword the likes of which I have never seen before.”
“You have experience with swords?”
“My father was a blacksmith in the court of Tanniin. I grew up around swords, but this one …” Perit’s voice shivered. “I’ll tell you this, if a Kerta priest would threaten to curse my children unless I tell him what this sword is made of, then I would say that—”
Ashod gestured impatiently. “Spar
e me the drama, Perit, and get to the point. You think this sword is made of meyroon?”
Perit inhaled sharply and then slowly nodded.
“I need you to find out if he has a birthmark at the base of his neck.”
Perit laughed. “Funny you should ask. I did notice one when serving him. It looks like three circles forming a triangle.”
“Excellent work, Perit.” Just then, someone knocked at Ashod’s door. “Now, I need you to find out if he is in love.”
“Seriously boss? Are we getting into the love business?”
“Listen Perit, of all the things I have asked you to do, this is the most, I repeat, the most important task. I need to find out quickly if he is in love with someone or if someone is in love with him. Understood?”
“Yes, boss.”
“And, Perit …”
“Yes, boss?”
“Be very careful.”
“Got it, boss. I’ve got to go now. The dwarfs want me to cook three boars and I …”
Ashod waved his hand and the orb turned black. He wrapped it with a thick black cover and dropped it inside a wooden box. Not only is Ahiram unharmed, but he has acquired the sword of El-Windiir. This news troubled Ashod. The Temple knew the sarcophagus was close to a Letter of Power that Sureï had cursed. How did he retrieve the Letter and survive? He must have evaded the curse … But, how?
The door opened. “You have asked to see me?”
Ashod did not look up. This will have to wait.
“Yes, yes, indeed. I was waiting for you. Please do come in, Hayat.” Ahiram’s mother entered. “Sit down, Hayat, if you please. I have a sensitive mission for you.”
A few hundred yards away from Ashod’s hut, the main barracks of the Black Robe’s clandestine camp were abuzz with activity. Refugees from Wrok-Atul, Spring-Flower, a city from the neighboring Kingdom of Uratu, were now streaming in under the watchful gaze of their masked guides, all members of the Black Robes. Three hundred and sixty survivors were all that was left of a once proud and prosperous city that had harbored well over seven thousand souls. Men, women, and children filed in silently, wearing dirty gray rags that only a few weeks ago had been bright and colorful linen clothing. The survivors had crossed over two hundred miles on foot through the thick Uratuan forest and the deep canyons at the western border of the Kingdom of Uratu. Exhausted from the harrowing three-week-long journey, they were relieved to walk inside a solid building with a smooth wooden floor. Black Robe guards stood along the perimeter of the hall, while another twenty served the famished refugees a hearty bowl of chicken soup and two slices of bread.
Hayat stepped out of Ashod’s hut, which was hidden from the main camp by a dense cluster of oak trees. She fitted a black mask on her face and tied it behind her head. Made of a thin, spherical metallic mesh, it cleverly hid her features without obstructing her visibility or restricting the free flow of air.
As if on cue, thousands of crickets in the pine forest drowned her footsteps with their loud chorus. Not to be outdone, a large colony of frogs from the nearby swamps responded with cheerful, collective croaks. The wind, damp and hot, clung to her like a needy child. Hayat wished she could wipe her sweaty forehead, but it could not be helped. She looked forward to the summer storm the distant rumble of thunder promised to bring in, as if the thunder were a tamer able to subdue the damp wind into submission.
She glanced back at the hut wondering if Ashod would come after her and apologize—just this once. The day frogs will stop catching flies is the day Ashod will say he is sorry. She could still hear her voice, shocked and angry, and Ashod’s measured, soothing voice detailing her next mission.
“Hayat, I need someone to carry a critical message to a dear friend of mine in the Kingdom of Marada.”
Hayat felt the usual frustration mounting. Ashod’s utterances were cryptic and very difficult to decipher. She knew the former priest of Baal did this on purpose to protect her and the Black Robes from an eventual capture by Baal. Still, she wished he could explain to her what was going on. She did not bother to ask for his answer: she knew it would be as evasive as the request he had just made.
“You want me to leave my husband behind for a full year, and cross the great desert to deliver a message to a dear friend? Ashod, do I look like a zakiir to you?”
Ashod’s hut was small and bare, for the former high priest of Baal preferred traveling light and had little need for material possessions. A bed, two chairs, and a small table occupied the hut, and a small lantern hung from the ceiling.
“I need you to deliver a message to Lord Lonthi,” repeated Ashod, “But Jabbar will not leave camp, so what do you propose?”
“Find someone else,” Hayat snapped, “I am not the only trustworthy Black Robe around here, and I am not in the mood to go without my husband and entertain a bunch of vain giants.”
Ashod furrowed his brow and scowled. “Lord Lonthi is not vain,” he admonished. “The Kingdom of Marada will stand or fall by his word.” He relaxed his stance somewhat and cracked a smile. “Besides, I would love to watch you tell a twelve-foot giant princess in the royal court of Marada that she is vain.”
“There are female giants?” blurted Hayat absentmindedly. Ashod gave her a tired look. “See what you’re making me say? I am telling you, I am not the right person for this mission.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You could send Hoda and Karadon.”
“I have sent them on an equally sensitive mission,” replied Ashod in his usual calm, unflustered tone. He was unfazed by her hot temper.
“You could—”
“Hayat, I do not think we have any alternative.”
“I will not go without Jabbar,” she insisted.
“He won’t leave camp. You know that.”
“Let me speak to him again.”
“You have already done that.”
“Then the answer is no. I don’t care how important this mission of yours is, I will not leave my husband behind.”
“Hayat …”
She had walked out not wanting to hear the rest. Admit it, Hayat, she thought to herself, you’re scared of this mission because you wouldn’t mind going away alone. You wouldn’t mind leaving Jabbar behind. The flickering light from the large hall surprised her. I have walked all this distance already? Resolutely, she chased away her thoughts and stepped into the hall. Bracing herself, she tightened her fists, ready to face the shouts of anger, cries of despair, sobs of orphaned children, and wailing of women who had lost their families.
Ashod remained alone, deep in thought. All along, the Seer had been in Tanniin. How poetic. Only Kwadil could have spirited him away so quickly. Now that is one shrewd dwarf. He did it silently and did not tell me. Good for him. Ashod pondered his reluctance to share this news with Hayat. She is his mother, he chided himself. I should tell her. He sipped his hot tea slowly and enjoyed the scalding flavor. Outside, the deafening song of crickets muffled every other sound. What would happen if I told her? She would rush alongside her husband to Tanniin, right in time to watch their son fall prey to the urkuun. No, our best hope lies with the Marada. By relaying my message to Lord Lonthi, Hayat will be saving her son.
The old man sighed and closed his eyes. He knew what he had to do; yet wished it could be otherwise. Things are about to get messy and complicated very fast.
Hayat stepped inside the main hall. It was as silent as the ruins where the Black Robes’ camp was hidden. The soles of her leather boots made an irritating squeak as she crossed the large room toward the platform set against the back wall. In the still hall, the squeaking was deafening.
She stepped onto the platform, surveyed the room, and made eye contact with the few who cared to look up. Her motherly heart constricted; Hayat remembered vividly, how six years ago, Jabbar, Hoda, and she had walked into a hall just like this one. Unlike today, the hall had been empty. They thought they were the only survivors until a few hours later, when the Sherabys arrived. Seemingly, they ha
d all gone fishing in the wee hours of the morning and had fled the scene when they saw the burning homes. Hayat had been elated to see them. Then, her elation turned into despair when no one else came. No one else, it seemed, had survived the brutal massacre of Baher-Ghafé.
Hayat would never forget the horror of that night when the High Riders attacked. Her daughter joined them in their hideout near Baher-Ghafé where they had been waiting for her. Her heart exploded with pain when she realized that her son, Ahiram, was missing. Hoda explained that she had left him in her boat, but couldn’t say why. Her daughter had tried to run back and get him, but Hayat had held her tightly, refusing to let go for she knew the forces of the Temple would be waiting for them. When a few weeks later, after the High Riders had left the area, a search party had gone to Baher-Ghafé and returned without Ahiram, Hayat refused to believe she had lost him forever. Two years later, Karadon told her that the Temple was compelled to destroy entire villages in order to prevent a greater calamity.
“The priests are sorry for the loss of Baher-Ghafé, but they believe destroying it prevented a cataclysm.”
What disaster that could be, she did not know. Hayat had thought the explanation far-fetched. Instead, she believed Baal was a tyrannical, capricious god who toyed with them the way angry waves toss a fishing boat over a dark sea. Slowly, silently, Hayat lost her faith in the gods and believed only in the good and evil men procure one another when living bountifully, or when under duress.
The soft sob of a young girl with frizzy hair and striking blue eyes brought her back to the present. “Friends, I welcome you,” Hayat said with a warm and inviting tone. “You are from Wrok-Atul, a village perched atop a lush, green hill, which until last week was a beautiful place to live. You had a bountiful vineyard, and made a rich wine, which the Temple of Baal in Sarg bought from you. The Temple was good to you and you were all faithful citizens of Baal. Your village is now a smoldering heap. This blessed place has become a pile of charred stones. The deadly curses the Temple leaves behind will prevent you from ever going back. Your village is no more. You cannot return. You cannot rebuild; not if you want to survive.”
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 18