The room emptied, save for Tanios and Bahiya.
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” he asked. “A ship will sail to Byblos tomorrow morning.”
Bahiya shook her head. “I will see this through. I am staying.”
Tanios kneaded his forehead. “Why?” he asked. “We both know this beast rampaged through Tanniin with the Temple’s consent.” He stepped closer to her. “Did you release it?”
Bahiya sustained his intense gaze. “I did not. Babylon did so without consulting me.”
“Then your fight against the urkuun is treason. Frankly, I do not understand your motives, Bahiya.”
“That may be so,” she replied softly but firmly. “Still, I have made up my mind. I will see this through.”
“Fine,” he said after a short moment.
“Will we be traveling with the army, or on our own?” she inquired.
“With the army until we reach the main camp north of Hardeen. An Empyrean scout will help us cross into their kingdom. We will enter Hardeen through a hidden door high up the mountain. It is a steep climb. Will you be up to it? You have not climbed mountains in a long time.”
She smiled briefly. “I will be fine.”
Ahiram opened his eyes, then closed them quickly. The ground beneath him was dancing frantically and his head throbbed in pain. He tried to move his hand but could not. Where am I? he wondered. He forced himself to open his eyes again and lifted his head. He was surprised to find he was on the back of a horse. A rope ran under the animal’s belly and was tied to his hands to his feet. He could barely see the rider’s back but tried hard to recognize him. He was standing on the bridge when I fell. What does he want with me? Ahiram closed his eyes, exhausted and in pain. He returned to his jostled slump and let the horse carry him.
Briskly, Ibromaliöm crossed the border bridge between Tanniin and Togofalk. Due to the festivities, the bridge was unmanned and the border wide open. Ibromaliöm had counted on this. Tomorrow evening, I will reach Prat. There will be multiple ships headed south to Gilgal and not a few captains willing to take a fugitive for gold. In Gilgal or any other Zemorian city, I will find at least one corrupt zakiir willing to remember a fake identity on my behalf. That will grant me safe passage into the Kingdom of Marada. Once the Cup of Eleeje is mine, Babylon will mine as well. Ibromaliöm grinned madly and laughed into the wind like a wolf on the hunt. He goaded his horse up the deserted main road of Togofalk, across the tail end of the Somarian Chain, the northern mountain range between Togofalk and Tanniin. The road snaked upward and into barren hills. Ibromaliöm was so pleased with his plan that he felt the urge to stop and rid himself of Ahiram. He will look into the book and die.
Dawn was about to break. He had been riding for a good part of the night and decided to stop and rest soon. There is a shepherd’s shelter close by. It will be a great place for a reading lesson. Ibromaliöm burst out in a malevolent laughter that echoed like ice shards slicing through the hills.
“He went into Togofalk,” said Banimelek as he sprang back on his horse. “He is an hour ahead of us, no more.”
“We must hurry, the extra weight is slowing him down,” replied Jedarc.
The four riders now crossed the bridge and followed Ibromaliöm into the hills. After leaving the bridge where Ahiram had fallen, they followed Noraldeen to a stable where they found only four horses. Sondra, Alviad, Allelia, Corialynn, and Sheheluth had agreed to return to the fortress and leave the pursuit to Noraldeen, Jedarc, Hiyam, and Banimelek. They rode through the night. Every time they reached a fork, Banimelek inspected it carefully. He was thorough, whereas Jedarc was impulsive.
“Come on, Banimelek,” he said after the third fork, “Ibromaliöm is still on the run, and there’s nothing to run to in those barren hills.”
“Do I have to remind you what the Book of Siril has to say about impatience?” asked his friend.
“‘Better a mindless parrot than an impatient Silent.’ At least the parrot is pretty,” quipped Jedarc.
“The Book of Siril, chapter five, verse six,” added Noraldeen. “Banimelek is right to be prudent. One mistake and Ahiram is lost.”
Hiyam smiled when she heard Jedarc mutter about pretty parrots and stubborn friends. Surprisingly, it was Banimelek who had asked her to accompany them. “Togofalk is on friendly terms with the Temple,” he had explained. “We might meet High Riders and you can help.”
“Keep your eyes open,” said Banimelek. “We’re catching up.”
“I can’t believe the commander did not want us to help save Ahiram,” grumbled Alviad while picking hay from his pants. “Ahiram needs us.”
“Cut your complaining,” replied Allelia. “I can’t sleep.”
“You are traveling comfortably inside a covered chariot with three charming young women,” Corialynn quipped. “What more do you need?”
“What? Now, wait a minute, I—”
“You are a handsome Mitanian Lord with three female servants from the elegant city of Rastoopa. You should-ah, speak-ah like-ah them-ah.”
“Firstly,” protested Alviad, “the commander came up with this crazy plan because you didn’t offer him a better way to infiltrate Orlan.”
“We came up with several ideas,” protested Corialynn, “the commander did not like any of them.”
“That’s because they all required that I shave my head,” replied Alviad.
“That’s not the reason, Alvy,” added Allelia. “Togofalkian ladies travel with a well-supplied wardrobe and nothing was available in Amsheet.”
Alviad looked at Sondra, “Did she just call me Alvy?”
“Why are you asking me? She’s right in front of you.”
He looked at Corialynn, “Did she just call me—”
“She did Alvoovoo,” replied Corialynn with a wide grin.
“Would you—”
“Alviad,” Sondra cut in, “You’re a Rastoopian Lord with three female servants. What’s your problem?”
“I didn’t want to travel with three female servants.”
“You mean-ah, you do not-ah enjoy-ah our company?” said Corialynn with an offended tone.
“What, well, no that’s not what I—”
“Ah,” added Allelia, joining the fun. “The young-ah master-ah is not-ah happy-ah with—?”
“Stop it,” Allelia cut off a blushing Alviad. “We do not have to pretend to be who we are not,”
“Oh, but I think we should,” replied Corialynn. “Very much so. What is ah Your-ah Lordship-ah’s command-ah?”
Alviad glanced at Sondra with pleading eyes. Get me out of this one.
Sondra, who sat next to him in the cart, smiled. “You will do just fine, Alviad. You can play the part.” She closed her eyes and thought about the commander’s order.
“Bar-Tanic is creating an alliance with Thermodon. They plan to attack Tanniin. Go to Orlan, learn about their command structure, the size of their army, their supply lines, and their plan of attack. Report as quickly as you can. If you can disrupt them, or slow them down, do so.”
“Hey Sondra,” called Corialynn. “Do you like Alviad’s nose? Doesn’t he have a lord-looking nose?”
“Hey,” interjected Alviad feeling his nose. “Leave my nose alone.”
Allelia moved closer to the young man who pushed against the side of the chariot as if he were trying to squeeze his large frame between its panels. Corialynn joined her and together they inspected his nose.
“He’s got hair coming out of his ears in bushels,” observed Allelia.
Instinctively, Alviad felt his ears. “No, I don’t. Stop it you two.”
“And a receding hairline,” added Corialynn.
He looked at Sondra. “I have a receding hairline?”
“It’s a sign,” signed Allelia. “No doubt about it.”
“Indeed, a sign,” confirmed Corialynn. Sondra tried not to laugh.
“A sign of what?” huffed Alviad. “What?”
“That your servants are
about to die of …” replied Allelia, solemn.
“You’re going to what? Are you out of your mind?”
“Of laughter,” said finished Corialynn. “Die of laughter.”
The three girls looked at each other and burst into giggles. Alviad rolled his eyes and smiled. He knew the young women were hiding their own anxieties and concerns for their friends behind sarcasm directed at him. He closed his eyes. Why do I feel guilty? Then he knew. We’re leaving the worst of it behind. Whatever awaits us in Thermodon is not as bad as facing the monster here.
Orwutt and Zurwott were not used to paralyzing fear; fear so powerful it wrenched their guts and turned them to mush. Fear so strong it paralyzed their legs and sapped their strength. But they were dwarfs, sons of the deepest caves, and every rock was their friend, and every cave their home. They refused to bow down and relent to this fear or let it pin them like a spider pinning two miserable bugs, so they crawled slowly, so slowly that life came to a stony halt. They felt they had been in this tunnel for as long as time itself. The inclined space was just wide enough for them to maneuver side-by-side but not high enough for them to walk upright. They crawled silently, inching their way up. After many twists and turns, the corridor straightened, widened, and opened into a small cave. Exhausted, the two brothers sat with their backs against the wall and fell into a restless slumber.
They jumped and nearly died of fright when the most alarming shrieks snapped them out of their slumber. Compared to this terrifying sound, the béghôm’s shriek now seemed like baby babble. The wail created a sense of helplessness and irremediable defeat. It paralyzed the mind and deprived all who heard it of strength and courage.
“What is that?” asked Orwutt, as he tried to stop his jaw from rattling.
“I do not knowingly know,” replied Zurwott.
Orwutt breathed deeply and crawled forward. The shriek came from somewhere below. At first, his body refused to obey, as if he were paralyzed. He lay inert and unable to make the slightest movement. It was not until much later that he managed to move slowly. Zurwott, not wanting to stay behind, followed him. Luckily, whatever produced that shriek did not repeat it. The path veered left and led them through a narrow entrance to a huge cave twenty feet below. They realized they were on a wide ledge circling the igneous cavity. They crept forward to the edge and peeked. The cave beneath them was expansive.
“A temple,” muttered Orwutt.
In the center of the cave, nine burning candles surrounded nine circular holes. Three rectangular holes stood in the middle. A dim light hid most of the cave. Evidently, the cause of their terror had left. Massive beams carved into the rock sustained the imposing ceiling that was just a few feet above their heads. The beams stood along the walls, and glowed under the bright light of candles at their feet. Orwutt looked up and noticed the ceiling. Large marble slabs with delicate carvings formed a sealed, smooth cover. The beams lent support to the slabs, but they did not seem strong enough to keep these massive marble segments from falling. Orwutt did not need to crawl between the marble ceiling and the roof of the cave to know how this structure stayed in placed. Dwarfs had drilled large iron rings into the slabs and the cavern’s ceiling, and secured them with a single chain. This had been standard dwarf architecture in times past, but was subsequently abandoned in favor of better designs.
Someone spoke in the cave below. The two dwarfs moved back quickly. The voices were harsh and piercing, and difficult to understand.
“Temple must be ready. Master expects visitors.” rasped the sylveed.
“Temple ready.” replied another.
“Not ready, must be with accursed, bright candles. Hate light.”
“Why bright?”
“Master expects visitors,” screamed the sylveed.
“But door not open,”
“Not dwarfs. He expects others. Also, he is unhappy, door not open.”
“Water killed all. Door closed. Dwarfs dead.”
“Door must be open. Army ready to invade.”
“Master powerful. Master can use magic. Master break door.”
“Walls weak. Walls sick. Magic breaks door and walls. No magic. Door must open with no magic. Dwarfs open door.”
“Why walls sick? Master powerful, master cure walls.”
Orwutt and Zurwott heard a thud, then a moan. Carefully, they crawled forward and peeked. Dwarfs had excellent vision even in dim light. Below them, one sylveed stood rubbing his hand. Next to him, the other lay on the ground rubbing his head.
“Walls sick, because of pool that Master built. Pool gives life to Sylveeds but makes wall weak,” whispered the one who was standing.
“Walls sick elsewhere too,” whispered the one who was on the ground.
“Pit makes walls sick elsewhere.”
“What to do?”
“Wait. Master knows ugly ones attack soon. Ugly ones have priestess from Baal. Master makes her servant, then attack with her and conquers all. Master strong. No one resists Master.”
“How can master capture her?”
“Master does not capture. She will come to master. Master knows all.”
The dwarf twins covered their ears as strident shrieks filled the cavern. The screams slowly faded as the sylveeds left the temple. This master of theirs, thought Orwutt, is of the unpalatable kind, and I hope we will not have the displeasure of becoming one of his acquaintances. Orwutt guessed the so-called master was the author of that terrible shriek they had heard earlier. He was aware that the high priestess would come, and that the master planned to make her one of his servants. The sylveeds started preparing a reception in her honor. The dwarf knew this monster had to be stopped. He formed a plan and signaled for his brother to follow him back into the small cavern.
Ibromaliöm tied his horse to a tree. He had stopped by the shepherd’s refuge in the mountains to give his stead a rest. He drew his sword and forced Ahiram to come down, and pointed to the door.
“Walk slowly and keep your hands in front of you. Disobey and your head will be a lot closer to the ground than you would like it to be.”
Ahiram was in no condition to argue. He was dizzy and weak and staggered like a drunkard toward the door. Despite his feeble condition, he managed to reach the door without falling and leaned on it heavily. It gave way under his weight with a sinister creak. Ibromaliöm pushed him unceremoniously and he stumbled in, falling against the wall. He heard a loud ruffle followed by piercing shrieks. Bats came flying out and whizzed by his ears. Ibromaliöm kicked him in the stomach, which took his breath away and shot waves of pain through his body. He made Ahiram sit against the wooden wall and tied his wrists before going to the fireplace. Ahiram felt warm, thick liquid trickle down his face. The fall had reopened his wound. Ibromaliöm looked back and sneered.
“It must hurt,” he said over the crackle of the wood. The former judge tied a piece of cloth tightly around Ahiram’s head.
“Thank you,” said Ahiram. He watched Ibromaliöm return to the fire and asked calmly, “Where are we going?”
Ibromaliöm erupted in laughter. “You don’t know what I am about to do to you?” Ahiram did not answer, but he stared at Ibromaliöm and tried to read his next move. He needed to find a way to free himself. “A fine Silent you are,” continued Ibromaliöm grinning while he warmed himself by the fire. “Let me show you something interesting.” Ibromaliöm opened a bag and took out the book he had snatched from the hidden Temple of Tanniin deep below Taniir-The-Strong Castle. “Do you know what this is?” he asked as he waved the thick book in one hand before Ahiram.
I’ll have one chance to get out of these ropes, Ahiram thought. His hands quietly started to work on the knots.
“You do not wish to answer?” continued Ibromaliöm. “I am so chagrined by your silence. I am showing you one of the greatest treasures that exists, a treasure to unlock powers beyond your imagination, and you look at it as if it were a piece of dirt.”
“What is it?” asked Ahiram who wanted
Ibromaliöm to keep talking.
“It is a libre, a book,” replied Ibromaliöm triumphantly. “The ancient called it Byblos, like the ancient city in Finikia. Those eyelids you tried to steal are magical. I can use them to read this libre more efficiently.”
“What do you mean by ‘read’ and what is the libre for?” asked Ahiram.
“You’ll have to thank the Temple of Baal for your ignorance,” spat Ibromaliöm. “A book is a device that records information for later use.”
“You mean like a zakiir?”
Ibromaliöm scoffed. “A zakiir is a poor man’s book. I’d much rather deal with objects than with men. But since the Temple has banned the written word, we invented the zakiruun. A book is compact, simple to carry, and sturdy. A book is a storehouse of power.”
“I thought a book was a collection of sayings one memorizes like the Book of Siril or Lamentation,” said Ahiram. “Why go through the trouble of recording information when memorization is so easy? I can get twenty Silent to memorize the Book of Siril in half the time it will take you to record a single book. That’s silly.”
“Because,” replied Ibromaliöm all wound up, “people die, kingdoms can be destroyed, and memories fade away like the leaves of summer under the ice of winter. Knowledge is too precious to entrust to the fading memory of men.”
“Knowledge changes with situations,” replied Ahiram. These knots are real tight. “You will have to record your information over and over. A zakiir can replace one thought with another.”
“A book is far more potent,” countered Ibromaliöm. “It sits in darkness, waiting for someone to find it, to open and read it. Now … I have heard,” continued Ibromaliöm in a friendlier tone, “there is a book which is key to the Letters of Power.” He said these words with rapture.
This last statement pricked Ahiram’s interest, but he gave Ibromaliöm an innocent and confused look. “I may have heard about these Letters of Power before but—”
“Pah! You are a Silent, are you not? You’re supposed to know everything about power and there is no greater power than the Letters. Listen well, because I will not repeat what I am about to tell you. After the Wars of Meyroon, which pitted the Lords of the Deep against the Malikuun, there was peace, ‘troubled peace’, the Temple calls it. When ships began to ferry goods across the sea, they used a cumbersome recordkeeping system. The merchants wanted a better method, more compact and efficient, to keep track of their goods, their letters of credit, and other financial notes.”
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 47