“West of the road is Magdala, the Forbidden Forest. The curse would have no effect on it,” explained Banimelek. “But why not the road?”
“Ancient and powerful spells protect this road,” clarified Hiyam. “Something only Sureï the Sorcerer could have done.”
“That makes sense, I suppose.”
“What should we do now?” asked Sondra.
“How do we cross?” added Banimelek. “We cannot step inside Magdala, so we would have to cross through Laymiir.”
Hiyam shook her head. “The curses extend far into the forest of Laymiir. We cannot pass.”
“We would have to travel back to Taniir-The-Strong, down into Renlow Valley, and follow the river upstream to the edge of Magdala,” explained Sondra. “I see no alternative.”
“That’s a ten-day detour, at least,” objected Banimelek.
“What choice do we have?”
“This is a reasonable reasoning and a reasoning of the most reasonable reason,” commented Zurwott. “When facing a stubborn stubbornness, the wisdom of the wise demandingly demand a properly proper retreating retreat.” He was out of breath for having spoken so quickly.
“My brother agrees. We should retreat.”
“Zurwott and Sondra are right,” sighed Ahiram. “Let’s rest now until the sun is high before we go back. Jedarc, take the first shift.”
Ahiram sat cross-legged, and waited for the sun to crawl up the sky. The ten-day detour angered him, but he knew this was the right thing to do. He heard a quiet rustle and saw Sheheluth walk swiftly on the branch to come sit next to him. She gave him a thoughtful gaze. Why is she not upset with me? thought Ahiram.
“I am not upset with you, you know?” she said, with a quiet sweet voice. “I was afraid for you. Hatred is not the way of the Silent.”
Ahiram heaved a sigh. “I’ve been so busy with my own loss, I never stopped to think about anyone else. How strange. I’m becoming like the people who took me away. I don’t know what I can promise to whom, but now that I know I’m a sormoss, I will do everything I can to fix it. This I can promise.”
She smiled. “For a sormoss, you learn fast.”
“I always do. Don’t forget that.”
Their eyes met, and she could see the deep, burning fire, the iron-fisted will and something else; something she had seen before.
“It’s théléos, your ability to channel energy from a remote source to a proximate target.”
“It’s what?”
“What you call your temper is a powerful energy you’re tapping into; and you’ve used it to defeat the monster.”
“It’s not just temper?” asked Ahiram, bewildered.
“Of course not,” laughed Sheheluth. “A temper, at least a bad one, leads you to raise your hand to strike a defenseless woman. Your temper couldn’t defeat this monster, not with the thirty-two rings of spells protecting it. Come on, Ahiram! You should know that by now.”
“Thirty-two rings of what?”
“Of …” She looked at him wide-eyed. “You didn’t see them?”
“See what? Listen Sheheluth, I’ve got the part of being a sormoss. You showed me that and I can see it clearly now. Got that. I’ll work on it. But energy? And thirty-two rings of what? I recall seeing a beast in front of me. Was there something else I was supposed to see?”
He cut through the protective curse rings without seeing them? She was astonished. How is this possible? Who is he? “This explains why you nearly killed yourself,” she added. “But how could we know if you’re telling the truth?” she said in a hushed distant voice, as if speaking to someone else. “You could be lying.”
“What are you talking about, and how do you know these things?”
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “You attacked the béghôm without seeing the curse rings around her? What were you thinking?” Her voice was harsh once more, demanding, imperious.
“What else was I supposed to do?” His anger was mounting. “The monster chased us. I had to face her. What else could I do?”
She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was in control once more and smiled gently.
“Sheheluth, one minute you’re cold and the next you’re about to blow up. Make up your mind. These mood swings are hard to put up with.”
She laughed. “I know, I’m so sorry about … my behavior,” she added sheepishly. “But never mind that. Listen, when you throw a dart, it moves in the air because of the energy in your arm, right?”
“Yes.” Ahiram sighed.
“Magic works in similar ways. In the end, magic is a different way to throw a dart. Instead of using your own strength, you use someone else’s strength, or something else.”
“So, you mean to say I was using magic?”
She looked at him aghast. He knows nothing. How could this be? “I believe so.” She could sense how lost he was and avoided chiding him. “How else did you manage to kill this monster?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. I mean I didn’t stop to think about it. When I found the sword—”
“El-Windiir’s sword?”
He glanced at her. “You knew?”
She smiled and refrained from rolling her eyes. “We know, Ahiram. What other sword could it be?”
He sighed and closed his eyes. “That’s the thing, Sheheluth. That’s the thing. I don’t want this sword. I didn’t want to be the one to kill the beast. I don’t want to be in charge here. I —”
“You just want to go home.”
“Yes, and I want to take Noraldeen with me.”
“Do you love her?”
He laughed a bitter laugh. “Can you imagine Noraldeen as the wife of a shark fisherman?”
“No, but I can imagine you as a prince.” Sheheluth’s voice was tender.
“I don’t want to be a prince. I want to go home. I want to see my sister and my parents. That’s what I want.”
“So, you chose not to speak to us about the sword, because if you told us you had found the sword of El-Windiir, we would do everything we could to keep you in Tanniin, right?”
He nodded. “I should have been gone by now, Sheheluth. I should have been free by now and on my way home. What am I doing here?”
Gently, she placed a hand on his arm. “Théléos is the energy you must use to defeat the monster behind this mound. Think of it as a … a spigot. You know, you turn it, water flows, you turn it in the opposite direction, and water stops flowing.”
“But I don’t recall doing any such thing.”
“Listen, if you want to stop the flow of water, you build a dam, right?”
“You mean across the river?”
“That’s right. The béghôm was like a castle protected by thirty-two walls. When you attacked her with your sword, you managed to cut through all thirty-two walls at once.”
“That’s impossible,” scoffed Ahiram. “I did no such thing.”
“You beat the monster. It’s gone.”
“I didn’t see any dams or walls or anything.”
“I saw them,” said the young girl.
He glanced at her and smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, Sheheluth, I believe in what I see. You’ll have to show me if you want me to believe you. That’s just how it works with me.”
“Does it now?” she replied. Her voice had slightly changed once more, it was sarcastic. “Haven’t you ever seen something no one else could see?”
He was about to scoff at her when he remembered Jedarc’s reaction when he showed him the gold tile. Jedarc did not see it. Ahiram pulled it from his pocket, laid it in his open palm, and presented it to Sheheluth. “Do you see something?”
She glanced at his hand and shook her head. “Do you see something?”
“I do,” he replied, embarrassed.
“Very well, now hold whatever you see with both hands, close your eyes, and tell me what you see.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“Just do it, Ahiram.”
Ahiram shrugged his shoulders, held the tile in both hands, and closed his eyes. At first, he saw nothing, that is, nothing more than the usual. He felt the cool hand of Sheheluth on top of his.
“Keep looking,” she whispered.
“I see blackness, like the sky at night and …” he hesitated, “yes, there are stars, so many stars.”
“Stars?” she asked shaken. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. They’re getting closer. It’s like I’m in the abode of the gods.”
“Are you scared?”
“No, it’s exhilarating. The stars are moving in my direction and there are so many of them. They are clumped into clusters, like sand in the air.”
“Ahiram,” interjected Sheheluth, “grapes are in clusters. Throw sand in the air, and it disperses. Don’t be poetic; just tell me what you see.”
“I’m not being poetic. I’m telling you they look like … like a bunch of bright grains of sand frozen in the air.”
“That’s poetic, but I get the idea. Now what?”
“ They are so white … bright white. Wait, one of them is getting closer. It is now the size of the sun and is growing larger. It’s huge. It stopped in front of me. It’s so big … I don’t see anything else, its …”
Sheheluth pulled her hand and the vision was gone.
Ahiram opened his eyes and blinked. “That was amazing, Sheheluth, amazing. I didn’t know stars could be that big.” He looked at her. In the dim light, she was white as a sheet. “What?” he said. “What did I do?”
“You’re théléolyss,” she said shaken, “the god-crusher.”
“I’m the what now?”
“Your source of energy is from the gods. The stars are the sign of their presence, and you are harnessing the stars to do your magic. Only a god could do such a thing, or a Malikuun, a Lord of Light.”
“Hey, I’m a sormoss okay? I am not a god, nor am I a Lord of Light.”
“No, you are much more,” she said, “and I have yet to decide if you are friend or foe.”
Before Ahiram could say anything, she vanished.
When the sun rose over the eastern Karian Chain, the town of Amsheet was abuzz with activity. Preparations were well under way for the Carnival of Jaguar-Night. News that the famed statue of the god was already in town heightened everyone’s expectations. The sick and the lame poured into town. Healings and cures were ascribed to these processions. Tourists and souvenir vendors with hoards of trinkets filled the streets. One could always buy a plate of tamril or rumanil, the local desserts that made Amsheet famous. Tamril consisted of fresh dates stuffed with roasted walnuts, pine nuts, and sweet blackberries. Rumanil was the famous golden pomegranate treat. Orange blossom water mixed with honey was injected into four small incisions made close to the stem of the fruit to add fragrance and sweetness. The incisions were then sealed with wax and the pomegranate was dipped in ice.
“Give me one of each,” said a tall man with a slight tone of impatience in his voice. The young lad manning the booth placed the tamril and rumanil into a small wicker basket and handed it to the man. He was relieved to see the tall customer leave.
Despite its name, the Tavern of the Hot Potato and Three Turnips was not a tourist spot. Located deep within the city’s bowels in a shady neighborhood that had seen better days, the tavern served exclusively Togofalkian gangs. Admittance was by invitation only. Wanderers were summarily ejected and warned never to come back. The tavern was comfortable and quiet; small rooms dimly lit by fireplaces had all the intimacy needed for plotting and scheming. The tavern served as a neutral zone for representatives of warring gangs to meet and resolve their differences or form alliances against other gangs. As local tentacles of the Togofalkian hydra that operated in most kingdoms, these gangs plagued the trade road that linked Hardeen to Amsheet.
Ibromaliöm threw the wicker basket away before knocking on the iron door of the tavern. A bald waiter with a hydra tattoo on his scalp—and enough arm muscles to wring water out of a log—ushered him into a cozy room where a fire, already lit, was waiting for him. He took a sip of cherry wine and clapped his tongue with satisfaction. The tavern made a point to serve the best wine in town. The price of reserving a small discussion room was exorbitant, but if his plan went as expected, it would be well worth it. He finally saw the two men he had been waiting for. Ibromaliöm closed his eyes. A slave carefully added two logs to the fire, then closed the door and left the three men alone. The newcomers sat on two chairs opposite Ibromaliöm. The pair was striking; they were from Togofalk and belonged to a major gang. Orag was frail, weak, and sickly. The other, Tophun Makack, was tall and muscular, with a nonexistent neck, and a head shaped like an anvil. In the Togofalkian language, Orag meant the planner and Tophun Makack meant fists of stone and ice.
“So?” asked Ibromaliöm without opening his eyes.
“It can be done,” replied Orag in a hushed, elegant tone.
“When?” snapped the former judge.
“During the procession.”
“The procession? Daring. I like it. How?”
“We bribed the organizers to slightly adjust the itinerary for the procession. They will take the statue under the widest bridge in Amsheet. Our men will be waiting to take the relay and carry the statue away. While under the bridge, they will replace the true eyelids with fake ones. They will then pass the statue to another group of carriers before leaving. Simple, really.”
“Are you certain the fake eyelids will fool the examiners?”
“Per your request, dwarfs from Poytal, in Thermodon, have forged them. They charge an arm and a leg for a rushed job, but no one will ask questions this far north. They may not fool the examiners, but they will fool everyone else. By the time the examiners inspect those eyelids, we will be long gone.”
The plan was simple, but it did not satisfy Ibromaliöm. “The tourists will hear of the change and will flood that bridge to be close to the statue. Anything can go wrong then. How should we handle it?”
“Good question as usual, Master Ibromaliöm. To protect the statue, the organizers will restrict access to the bridge. Only members of the procession will be allowed on it.”
“And those members will be our own men,” concluded Ibromaliöm. “Be sure to add me to the list. I want to oversee the entire operation.”
“Sure boss, consider it done.”
“Very well. I shall see you in three days, on the bridge.”
“Four days, Master Ibromaliöm, the carnival is in four days.”
“Is it, now? Four days then. Succeed and you will be handsomely rewarded.” He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the men were gone. He sipped some more of the cherry wine and stretched out by the fire. Ever since he had the book in his possession, his hunger for its secrets had known no bounds. It consumed him and gnawed at him until he surrendered to its demands. He knew the book was under an unimaginable curse, but he would not be deterred. Whenever other readers looked at the open book, they would trigger the curse upon themselves, affording him a safe window to hear a voice read to him just a few words. Who was behind that voice, he did not know; but for the sake of the secrets held inside the Ithyl Shimea—the book which was a maleficent key created by a dwarfish sorcerer and his Empyrean consort to open the Pit—he was willing to listen to it. The reading window is short, thought the former judge while sipping his wine, but long enough for a dying man to breathe his last. Oh well, there is no dearth of fools around here. For the past few days, he had slept by day and haunted the shady parts of town by night, waiting for drunkards to stumble out of taverns. He would stop them and ask if they wanted a drink then shove the open book before their faces. Initially, the effect of the curse had overwhelmed him, reminding him of Ramel. But after his tenth victim, the feeling of guilt dissipated and each victim became a safe, five-second reading window into the book.
He had already deciphered the first page. It told him of three ways to alter the curse. The eyelids of Jaguar-Night would
afford him a longer period of reading time, perhaps a full minute. The Cup of Eleeje, hidden somewhere in the Kingdom of Marada, might break the curse, giving him unimpeded access to the book’s content. The third way was a spell that could turn cripples into mediums who could suffer the full brunt of the curse without dying. Eventually, the curse would consume them, turning them into something he did not understand, a raayiil. He had a vague memory of the fat judge—what was his name again, Rabu? Blubu? He could no longer remember, but that judge had once mentioned a raayiil.
Raayiil, jmaayiil, what do I care? I’ll grab the eyelids and then the cup. If I can’t lay my hands on that cup, I’ll open a hospice for cripples and use them for my book. Wait, why wait? I’ll open one anyway, for cripples, orphans, unwanted babies, the elderly, I’ll be the city cleaner. I’ll be a good citizen. The gentry will love me. A murderous smile slit Ibromaliöm's face that caused the hair of the tattooed waiter, who had just entered, to stand on end. He retreated and refused to go back inside the room.
Four days, that’s time enough for Galliöm to act. Ibromaliöm needed wealth. Being a former tajèr, he knew the location of the tajéruun’s vault in Amsheet, and had stolen enough gold to last him three lifetimes. In his wake was a pile of cursed, dead bodies. It won’t take the tajéruun long. They’ll find out I did this and will come after me.
“My dear Ibromaliöm,” a soothing voice whispered, “soon the book will yield its secrets. You will become the high priest and combine the secrets of the Temple with the secrets of this book. No one will stand in your way.” He felt inebriated by a glory that just a few weeks ago he did not know existed. And now he was about to walk with the gods.
“What about the slave?” whispered a second voice.
Ibromaliöm threw his glass violently into the fire. The fire flared for a brief moment. “He is dead,” he shouted. “Dead, I tell you.”
“Maybe,” replied the second voice. “And maybe not.”
Ibromaliöm sprung from his chair and paced. While listening to the first page of the Ithyl Shimea, he had seen, in a vision, the slave from the mines rise with great power against him.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 37