“I am sorry, Father.”
“In any event, I sense a great battle is forthcoming, one that will require forces beyond our limited strength.” We will not survive a double assault from the mysterious power in Hardeen and the combined armies of Thermodon and Bar-Tanic. He forced himself to smile. “If your friend takes part in this battle and distinguishes himself by his courage and deeds, I will set him free.”
“Is that true?” asked Noraldeen, barely able to contain herself. “You would set him free?”
“Yes. Go back to sleep now. We have a long day ahead of us.”
Noraldeen kissed her father and returned to her room, followed by the tender gaze of her father. She slipped under the covers and smiled as she fell asleep, a sleep that was long in coming.
Three hundred miles south of Amsheet, at the southernmost edge of Magdala—also known as the Forbidden Forest—a group of riders stood still. They waited for Master Habael’s signal. When it finally came, they dismounted with a sigh of relief, and spoke with hushed voices.
“Care for the horses,” ordered Commander Tanios. “Form camp. I want six Silent on the first watch. Protect the Priestess.”
The rain finally stopped. The Silent set up camp quickly at the edge of the valley facing Magdala. They huddled in small groups around pit fires to keep warm. Commander Tanios did a mental review of the remaining portion of their journey. They were near Middle Road, which ran the length of Tanniin from its northern plain to its southern ports. It was scrupulously maintained against the constant encroaching of Laymiir and Magdala, the two forests that hemmed it from the east and the west. Once on the road, they would head toward Iliand, the great northern plain, until they reach a three-way fork: west to Amsheet, east to Hardeen, and north to Thermodon. They would continue east to the seat of Lord Orgond where Tanios hoped to find a boat for Bahiya that would be sailing to Byblos. He sighed. It was a long and dangerous detour for the high priestess. Without this avalanche, we might have reached Mitreel, and she could have been sailing to Byblos by now. But the avalanche blocked the access to the south, forcing them to seek the port of Amsheet. This detour from Tanniin-The-Strong to Amsheet was supposed to last two weeks, but it took us twenty-one days just to reach the edge of Magdala. I did not expect the castle to fall so quickly or for the new ruler to mount a search operation to locate Bahiya. He glanced at her as she sat by a small fire at the foot of a tree. Ever since they lost contact with Hiyam, the priestess had hardly said a word. Her face was as hard as flint and while a different mother would have been filled with angst and guilt, Bahiya’s face was expressionless—the result of years of priestly training. What do they do to them in their training? Do they wrench their hearts and replace it with a piece of coal? He clenched his jaw. The quicker we reach Amsheet, the better. I hope Jedarc and his team have managed to find the priestess’ daughter.
Tanios heard a rustle. He looked back and saw nothing. He gazed forward at Magdala, wondering why the forest was forbidden. Hardly anyone else, including the King, had ever set foot inside this forest. Legends surrounded it like a dense fog, and it was difficult to weed out fact from fiction. One thing was certain: no one entered Magdala and came back to tell. No one, except Master Habael, the commander thought. I wonder, why did he ask if we could rest here? Why here?
He got up and joined Master Habael by a small fire that crackled despite the ambient humidity—an incidental tribute to the Silent’s mastery over chemistry. He threw a log on the fire and watched thick steam rise as the damp wood hissed and popped. Unwittingly, he glanced up to seek the approval of the nearby trees. He shrugged his shoulders, unable to shake the feeling that they were being closely followed. His trained eyes searched through the semi-obscurity for watchers, but found none. Perhaps those surveilling them tolerated their presence and did not necessarily mean harm. Habael started whistling and chanting in a foreign language. Tanios looked at the old man and beheld an expression of pure joy. Habael’s face was like that of child. He seemed to embrace the trees with his gaze and want to dance for joy. Tanios knew these trees were not the cause of his joy, for the gardener had often seen zalinty trees, the noblest of Tanniinite trees that did not grow in Magdala. Even though the sight of these trees was breathtaking, Habael’s reaction had remained even. No, something else in Magdala was provoking the joy of the old man; something or someone Tanios could not see but secretly wished he could.
The trees around them stood watchful, and in the silence that followed the long storm, one could hear the last droplets of water cascade down the dense cover. Tanios looked up and could barely see the clouds above the canopy. It was dark, unnaturally dark, but dawn was near, and he hoped the sun would dispel the gloom. After three consecutive days of unusually heavy rain, the rays of the sun would be a welcome respite for the weary travelers.
Once more, Tanios glanced at Bahiya. Her eyes glittered in the dark as she sat alone by the small fire. In the dancing flames, he saw once more the young, impetuous girl he had loved long ago.
Images of the two of them in the distant past came to mind: Bahiya and him riding white steeds from Arvalaad. Never had they ridden such noble horses, swift as the wind of Aribona—the great lake between the Kingdom of Milengu and that of Marada, the land of giants.
She had ridden ahead of him, her long, red hair flowing. As she looked back at him she would laugh, and her laughter thrilled him. He shunned these memories away and refused to think about that small cottage on the outskirts of Merieb, which overlooked the lake and where, nearly twenty years ago, he had shared with her the happiest days of his life. Reaching Amsheet safely is what matters now, he thought. If the high priestess were hurt, Baal would be merciless. He could still remember how the Temple reacted to the murder of a Baalite ambassador. Farmers had found the man dead on the road to Taniir-the-Strong. The High Riders hanged thousands of men, women, and children in response. Tanios shook his head. Time was against them.
A strident shriek interrupted his train of thought. He jumped up, sword drawn, and looked around. He glanced at Bahiya and was relieved to see her surrounded by Silent with their crossbows also drawn.
“Commander Tanios, no need for weapons here,” whispered Habael.
“Whatever produced that shriek may not be so easily convinced,” replied Tanios.
“The shriek is far from here. We are safe.”
Tanios looked at his friend with bemusement. Here they stood in hostile ground before the Forbidden Forest that had swallowed untold numbers of adventurers. Surrounded by darkness and lurking danger, Habael smiled. Had he gone mad?
“I assure you, Commander Tanios, I have good reason to say that swords are not needed here. We are well protected, better than you think.” Habael placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I suggest you try to sleep. We are all tired and in need of rest.”
“Very well then,” said Tanios as he sheathed his weapon. “The Silent will keep watch over the camp. They will alert us in case of danger.”
“Your stubbornness is legendary, my friend,” replied Habael.
“As long as I do not become part of a legend tonight, I do not mind.”
Habael stood in the circle of light, a vast opening deep within the forest of Magdala that very few men had ever seen. His face was resplendent with joy, shining and youthful. His clothes, usually drab and old, shimmered under the light with dazzling color. Across from him, a young man wore a bright white tunic with twelve stars surrounding a moon emblazoned on it. He wore a crown of meyroon studded with pearls of the purest white and held a scepter in his right hand. Habael knew him as Sabael, one of the twelve guardians of the covenant. To his right stood a second young man, in a shimmering purple tunic. Whenever his hem touched the grass, vibrant flowers would spring up; and when the wind swayed, the flowers would leave a fleeting, golden imprint on the fabric. There was a braided rope around his waist, and two strands of meyroon held a translucent crystal over his forehead. He was Lorian, guardian of Magdala and master o
f sky and wind.
To the left of Sabael stood a third young man with a deep, vibrant green sash. It reflected the starry night, or rather, the sky seemed like a dim reflection of the living stars on its surface. On his forehead, he carried a large topaz held also by thin threads of meyroon. He was Ariond, keeper of the heavens.
Master Habael bowed low.
“Where have you been and wither have you come, O lover of El?” asked Lorian. His purple tunic flashed like lightning, his voice a whisper seeping from the forest—as if the forest itself had spoken, and not he.
“Since the days of Silbarâd, you have wandered the land, O lover of El,” said Ariond. His eyes flashed as if a star had come to existence in their depths. “Why have you come here? What seek you now?”
“You have called to us, and we have answered,” said Sabael, with a voice of command and power seldom heard among mortals.
“The time is upon us,” said Master Habael. “The time long expected has come at last. The prophecy will be fulfilled.”
“Twice, the prophecy was fulfilled, and twice it failed,” said Lorian. A deep sigh rustled the leaves, as if the forest were mourning a loved one.
“Men’s hearts grow dark. They have sundered the covenant, broken the living bridge that bound us in friendship. We stand and watch, unable to aid,” added the young Ariond.
“Still,” said Sabael, “mercy is granted to the merciful.”
“But will mercy be shown?” asked Lorian. “Will there be an act of love of such depths to move the heavens? Is man capable of greatness?”
“What do you think, O Habael?” asked Sabael.
“Hope is still with us. Much remains to be done, and much is still hidden, but hope is before us. As we speak, unrequited mercy is being shown across this hallowed place.”
“Your prayer shall be granted, O lover of El,” said the one in command. “As for hope, the Seer will be given a measure through strength, a second measure will be added through grief, and a half measure he will be asked to supply. This, you shall witness later. When you return to camp, the man of courage will tell you that someone had been sobbing nearby. Find him and bring him here. Go in peace now.”
“Commander Tanios.”
“What is it?”
Tanios looked at Alviad. Slowly, he stood up. The young man’s bearing told him the matter was important, though not urgent.
“Something in the valley is moving.”
“Show me.”
Alviad led them silently. Tanios looked up and saw the night passing away before the rising of the sun. Dark clouds hovered overhead, although at a higher altitude than the previous day. It will not rain today. The young man knelt next to two other Silent. The commander recognized Allelia and Corialynn.
“The bush, over there,” whispered Corialynn who was almost as tall as the commander. She was a consummate archer who excelled at hand-to-hand combat.
“What do you think it is?” asked Tanios.
“Not sure, Commander,” replied Allelia, the youngest of the three. She was short, but wiry and fast. “Alviad thought it may be a large animal rummaging for food.
“Could be,” muttered Alviad. He was nearly as large and strong as Banimelek.
“The forest in the valley is not forbidden ground, is it Master?” inquired Corialynn.
“No. Still, the silence in the valley is deafening. No crickets, no birds, no movement. A stillness covers this land.”
“So you don’t think we are dealing with an animal?” confirmed Allelia. “I didn’t think so.”
The Silent waited for the commander to decide on the next course of action. “Where is Master Habael?” he asked.
“We do not know,” replied Alviad.
“Explain yourself. I was not aware that he had left the company.”
“He told us he had to visit a place dear to him. He said he would not be gone long.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Difficult to say, but I would guess no more than one hour.”
Suddenly, a whimpering noise came from the bushes, as if someone was softly crying, and between the sobs, one could faintly hear a cry for help. Instinctively, the three Silent leaped forward.
“Stop.”
They froze. Tanios’ voice acted as a powerful restraint. “Where do you think you are going?”
“Someone is calling for help, Commander,” protested Corialynn. “Should we not lend a hand?”
“We have heard a voice, and we do not know what lurks in this valley,” replied Tanios in a whisper. “Appearances can be deceiving. There are powers we do not command. We will wait for Master Habael before we move.”
“But what if someone needs our help?” persisted Corialynn. “Behind us is a forest from which no one has returned. Ahead, a valley covered by an unnatural stillness. I will not allow my Silent to venture in without some assurance that they will come back alive.” He raised a hand to stay Allelia’s rebuttal. “We have a mission to complete, and I intend to fulfill it and return to the castle. Help or no help, I forbid any one of you to move outside this camp under any condition. Have I made myself clear?” They nodded. “Very well. Now fan out and keep an eye on these bushes. Alert me as soon as Habael returns.”
“Once, a Thermodonian noblewoman—if there is such a thing—fell in love with me while visiting the Royal Court of Tanniin. I, on the other hand, fell off my seat. She asked the King for my hand, and I asked him if he wanted my head on a platter instead. She wanted to take me back to Thermodon, and I wanted to take my own life. She was afflicted with love for me, and I was simply afflicted. When the King explained my function, he told her, “He is a jester,” but she heard, “He is a tester,” and since all testers take a vow of chastity, she relented, and we both cried; she of sadness, and me of onions.”
–Soliloquy of Zuzu the Hip, Jester of the Royal Court of Tanniin.
While Commander Tanios waited for Master Habael to return, five hundred miles north of the Silent’s camp, thick smoke rose from the center of Orlan, the capital of Thermodon, a city built entirely from wood and surrounded by a thick forty-foot stonewall. Built as a lowly hamlet centuries ago, Orlan had grown into a sprawling city, home to seventeen thousand souls who built their homes on the banks of the mighty Valan. Rivers were as important to the Thermodonians as the Great Sea was to the Finikians. The homes were one or two stories high, built with oak beams from the nearby forest. Their windows were small round holes set high next to the ceiling. At night a heavy beam locked each main door. Short, flat wood slats of different colors and grains covered the facade of every dwelling in Orlan. So bewildering was the arrangement that each home looked like the next, yet each home was unique. To further confuse a would-be invader, the streets of Orlan formed a chaotic maze that seemed to lead at once everywhere and nowhere.
The city hall—the only three-story building in Orland—proudly stood in the square. Oddly, the first two floors were storage units for an assortment of weaponry such as swords, axes, saddles, helmets, and shoes as well as household goods like bearskins, pots, pans, and a large collection of ladles; there were also nonessentials like wooden toy soldiers and knickknacks of all kinds. Only the third floor had usable space consisting of a large circular room with an open hearth at its center. Fur-covered square blocks were set around the fire in a wide circle. Rows of axes decorated the back walls and between each pair hung stuffed heads of bear, elk, and moose.
Despite the late hour, twenty-two chieftains sat on the fur-covered blocks. Some smoked pipes, others stared blankly at the fire, still others used the tip of their blades to clean their nails. They were the Thermodonian chieftains, whom Archchieftain Yanneen Gothney Ravind had summoned to a late meeting.
Time went by as silent as the eternal northern ice. No one complained or even spoke. Thermodonians were patient folks, used to the long hours of a hunt before closing in on prey. Their archchieftain had asked them to wait, and so they did. If it turned out that her ask was unwarranted,
a quarrel could follow. The quarrel would turn into a brawl, and the brawl into a tribal battle that could spawn a fresh batch of vendettas, enough to last a century. Thermodonians were, therefore, a stern lot that took everything seriously. They would never joke lest it led to an unwarranted quarrel that could turn into a brawl and the brawl into …
“The archchieftain says someone from Bar-Tanic is visiting,” announced one of the chiefs.
Grunts and chuckles answered him. Thermodonians were very familiar with Bar-Tanic. Amused smirks lit their faces for a moment before the cold dullness of the wait wiped them away.
Located in the far northwestern ranges, Bar-Tanic was a land of incessant rain, where a sunny day was always a bad omen; a sign that it would rain tomorrow. Thermodon and Bar-Tanic had a long and tumultuous relation, much like an ill-conceived marriage between an Empyrean and a sailor—the Empyrean refusing to leave her beloved forest and the sailor unable to relinquish the Great Sea. Bartanickians were as phlegmatic as the Thermodonians were choleric. Nothing ever surprised Bartanickians or bothered them, but a Thermodonian’s temper could be roused instantly. Some within the Temple ascribed this difference to the lifestyle these two kingdoms led. Bartanickians were anglers, while Thermodonians were hunters. Bartanickians’ emotions were buttoned up like a closed infected wound that grew fatter every day until it burst. Thermodonians were given to singing and cheering, and they could shed tears of joy or sorrow easily. Every Bartanickian learned proper etiquette and civil participation in the life of the community. “Clean as a Bartanickian tavern” was an insult hurled at someone who was perceived to be hiding a dirty secret while pretending to be innocent. “Jolly as a Thermodonian” was a sarcastic snide thrown at drunkards who had a propensity to switch from joyful exhilaration to depressing gloom.
Bartanickian society was well ordered, and their cities were tidy and clean. Their roads were well maintained, their children well dressed and were never seen running in the streets barefoot. The boots of every Bartanickian soldier had a special shine not found elsewhere.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 30