“Why not hire a zakiir? He could remember all that.”
“A zakiir on every ship? Are you mad?”
“No, not on every ship, but in every port.”
“Hum, I see your point. Well anyway, back then the League of Zakiruun did not exist. Wealthy merchants from Byblos commissioned Hemilco, the greatest mariner ever to cross the seas. ‘Travel to the end of the earth and find us the best bookkeeping system there is,’ they said. When Hemilco returned, he told them of the aleph-bet, twenty-two Letters with which they could reshape the world.” Ibromaliöm stopped and looked at Ahiram pitiably. “Of course, you do not know what a letter is.” He sighed, then continued. “To ordinary folks, a letter would be a symbol to represent a sound.”
“Huh?” Ahiram wanted to prolong the conversation in order to extract as much information from the former judge as the tall man was willing to give. “What do you mean a symbol to represent a sound? That makes no sense.”
“That’s because the Temple forbade writing,” snarled his foe. “It’s a brilliant idea that will make sense shortly when I’ll get you to read this book,” he added with a murderous grin. “In any case, Hemilco explained to the League of Merchants that by stringing these letters together, they could form words and the words would carry thoughts in a compact object such as this libre. Although the merchants saw merit in his approach, they simply could not wait for someone to conceive of such a system and make it sufficiently precise to serve their mercantile needs. But they were wrong, for long before their time, books had been written using these letters, exactly as Hemilco planned to use them.”
Ibromaliöm threw a few logs in the fireplace and faced Ahiram. The reflection of the amber fiery light in the tall man’s eyes turned the dancing flames of the hearth into a swirling mad intelligence, a boundless ambition to consume the world and then consume itself into a dark abyss, a pit of lifeless flames to last an eternity. Ahiram shuddered.
“What these merchants missed,” continued the former judge in a low, tense tone, “and what Hemilco may not have known is that the aleph-bet—these seemingly, simple, innocuous twenty-two Letters—could become a doorway to twenty-two storehouses of unbelievable power, if they are in the right hands. The Letters of Power,” he said raising his fist and his voice, “Letters so powerful they could reshape the world and give their master complete dominion over the land.”
Stubborn knots, thought Ahiram, the judge knows his business. “If so, why didn’t Hemilco use them to further his ambition?”
His kidnapper slapped him. “Pay attention now,” he snarled. “I hate repeating myself.” He sighed and shook his head like a tired teacher. “Youth these days, what do they teach you? I said if in the right hands, haven’t I? I believe that at one point in time, anyone could draw into this storehouse of power, but for some reasons, this knowledge was forgotten. Only a Seer of Power can still see the Letters in this way and use them.”
So the tile is a Letter of Power then, and that star I saw is the storehouse of power? thought the Silent. God-crusher, that’s what Sheheluth called me. Is this what she meant? He reeled at the thought of so much power.
The former judge drew closer to Ahiram and smiled like a friend about to share a good news. “But there is another way, a sneaky way to tap into the same storehouse of powers, without relying on the Letters.” Languidly, he caressed the cover of the book, “And I have it. I, Ibromaliöm, am the recipient of this amazing gift. This book, here, the Ithyl Shimea, written long ago by the dwarf Kertal with Evanéya, his Empyrean companion, will tell me how to tap into this power.”
Ahiram blanched. “The Ithyl Shimea? But that’s a key to open the Pit!”
“Precisely,” said Ibromaliöm, his eyes flaring. “It is a key, and a key can have many uses. To open the Pit, you need power, power that the storehouse of the Letters will provide. And once I have access to that power, what would compel me to share it with the Lords of Chaos?” He smiled and his smile sent chills down Ahiram’s spine.
He is mad, thought the Silent, forcing himself to stay calm. “So you can read this book?” asked Ahiram.
Ibromaliöm shrugged his shoulders. “Not really. It is written with the Letters of power but …” Ibromaliöm glared at Ahiram, then smiled. “Oh well, I might as well tell you because in a little while, it won’t matter. I can’t see the Letters, which is frustrating, but this book is powerful. There’s a voice with it, or in it. The voice whispers the words to me when I look into it. Convenient, don’t you think?”
“And you’re not bothered that there’s a voice reading the words to you? How do you know you’re not deceived?”
Ibromaliöm shrugged his shoulders. “I know this voice wants to use me. I am well aware of that. But who is to say that I am not using it? Besides, my lot is better than the Seer’s. The Temple of Baal, aware of the enormous power of these Letters and unable to control them, sent Sureï the Sorcerer to curse them.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Ahiram, “The Temple sent Sureï where?”
Ibromaliöm slapped him again, harder. “Do I look like your teacher? Who knows where? Apparently, these Letters, in their true form, are hidden all over the world. Sureï couldn’t destroy them so he cursed them to keep people away from them and the curses are triggered if the Seer merely draws near to the Letters.”
That make sense: After all, I found the Letter hidden in the mines, pondered Ahiram. I have it and I don’t feel anything. Could I still be curse? “So, to use these Letters,” said Ibromaliöm standing up, “the Seer would have to go past Sureï’s curses, survive the wrath of the Temple, and then find the hidden zakiir, the one zakiir, who according to the legend, has memorized a book that describes how to use these Letters. As you can see, it is a much harder route than mine.”
“So, why can’t this voice read this book to you? What is it waiting for?”
“Another excellent question,” replied Ibromaliöm who forced the young man to look up by grabbing his hair and jerking his head up. “Excellent question indeed. Unfortunately, I cannot read the book, not directly, no. Like all libres, this one is cursed. If I open it and look at its pages, I will be cursed. When I found this book with Ramel and that idiot Garu, an earthquake shook the ground so fiercely, we all fell. The book landed under the Queen’s nose and she saw its pages.” Ibromaliöm slapped his thighs as he burst into a cynical laughter. “Imagine that, under her nose. She looks at it thinking to find a treasure, instead she is cursed. Cursed! The irony of it all. Oh …” he snickered, wiping his tears, “she must have turned into an ugly thing, a real mess.” He continued with a glint of pure malice. “After the curse fell on her, I glanced in the book by accident and instead of being cursed as well, I heard a voice whisper in my ear the first few words. Later, I understood what happened. After someone is cursed, there is a small window of time when one can read the book safely, or, in my case, hear the words. I will need to curse ten thousand worthless lives to get through the whole thing. It is an expensive way of reading, but then, life is cheap.”
“And you want me to look at the book?” asked Ahiram. He thought of the gold tile, and suddenly felt it in the palm of his hand.
“Precisely,” replied Ibromaliöm.
“The curse is deadly?” asked Ahiram.
“Yes indeed,” gloated Ibromaliöm. “Did you really think I was sharing all of this for your instruction? It was merely for my enjoyment. Now, young man, do not annoy me with these trifles, and look inside the book.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Oh, in that case I will kill you with my sword.”
Ahiram bolted to his feet and head-butted his tormentor in the stomach. Ibromaliöm fell back hard. With his hands now free, Ahiram jumped up and pounded his opponent with his fists. Ibromaliöm’s eyes flared and he uttered an incantation. The fire lashed out with a sudden intensity and spewed burning coals that singed the Silent. Ibromaliöm grabbed the young man’s right foot and yanked. Ahiram suddenly dropped and h
it his forehead. His head swelled with pain. The judge got up and quickly opened the book before Ahiram, who unwittingly gazed upon it. When Ahiram realized what Ibromaliöm was doing, he felt his hair stand on end. I am cursed, he thought. A wave of intense heat irradiated from the tile in his hand, nearly scalding him. The pages he was looking at were mostly white with the symbol on it, the same symbol that was on his strange tile. It was written multiple times in a seemingly random pattern on the page.
Ibromaliöm’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?” he yelled.
The flames in the hearth became black with a blue hue as a voice, steely and without pity, whispered, “He is the Seer. Whatever Letter of power he has in his possession, he can read on these pages.” As the flames returned to their normal form, Ibromaliöm howled, slammed the book shut and went for his weapon. He was about to bring his sword down on Ahiram when the wall behind him exploded under Banimelek’s weight. The door shot open and Jedarc ran in. The window over the fireplace shattered and Noraldeen jumped in followed by Hiyam. Ibromaliöm ran toward the hearth, grabbed a hot coal, muttered words in a foreign tongue, and threw the coal on the ground. Thick smoke filled the hut. When the smoke scattered, Ibromaliöm had vanished.
“What took you so long?” asked Ahiram with a tired smile.
“Are you all right?” asked Noraldeen.
“I’m fine,” he said. He grabbed her hand and tried to stand, but was suddenly too weak.
“Not so fine, I see,” said Jedarc with a smile. “You’re just tired.”
“I could have been dead tired,” replied Ahiram. “Let’s get going.”
He tried again to get up, but could not. Hiyam took out a small pouch and sprinkled a pinch of a red powder over Ahiram. It turned instantly to gray before dissipating. She gasped.
“Impossible, how are you still alive?”
“What do you mean?” said Noraldeen.
Hiyam skirted the question. “He can’t walk. We need to take him to a healer as soon as possible.”
“Your mother?” inquired Jedarc.
“Most likely she left with Lord Orgond,” Banimelek reminded them.
“What’s wrong with me?” wondered Ahiram.
“I … I cannot explain,” replied Hiyam. She was shaken. “We should leave,” she added and glanced at Noraldeen.
“We will bring you in a cart as you need to rest,” said Banimelek.
“But what if the urkuun attacks?” asked Ahiram.
“So be it,” replied Jedarc. “From what we have heard, you are the only one who can stop him. You had better be in shape.”
“Do you have your sword?” asked Banimelek.
Ahiram glanced around the room. “Over there, bring me my sword and my bag,” he asked. He looked in the bag and was relieved to see the rest of his treasure, including the eyelids he had caught earlier. “It looks like Ibromaliöm had every intention of taking my bag with him but didn’t have the chance.”
“Should we go after him?” asked Hiyam.
“No,” replied Ahiram. “He is far more dangerous than we thought and besides, we need to deal with the urkuun. Let the judge go hang himself somewhere.”
Banimelek picked up his friend’s bag and walked out. Jedarc and Hiyam followed. Noraldeen helped Ahiram stand up. “It is so good to see you,” she said with a tender smile.
“Sorry about earlier, Nora. I was rude. I should have—”
She placed a finger on his lips. “I know. No need to say anything more.”
He held her hand. “Thanks,” he said softly. “Thanks for not giving up on me.” She smiled and squeezed his hand. He felt unusually dizzy and weak. Suddenly, he slumped, unconscious. She gasped and tried to wake him, but without success. She touched his forehead. It burned with fever.
“What happened?” asked Banimelek as he walked back in.
“He has a high fever and lost consciousness,” she said frantically. “What should we do?”
“We move,” Banimelek picked up Ahiram in his arms. “We need to find someone who can take care of him and quickly.”
“What is going to happen to him?” said Noraldeen.
“What will happen to all of us if we don’t find someone to help us,” replied Banimelek.
They placed Ahiram on a hastily made stretcher and left for Tanniin. They couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead and how things were holding at the Fortress of Hardeen. Jedarc gazed up at the distant stars and whistled the song of El-Windiir, and his whistling surrounded them like wisps of hope in the cold of the night.
“Hardeen, like its sister fortress, Amsheet, was built to withstand the greatest Empyrean assault. It is not a fortress in the usual sense, but a mountain transformed into a formidable wall to stem the staunchest attack and defeat the greatest siege.”
–Diplomatic Notes, Uziguzi, First Adviser to Her Majesty Aylul Meir Pen, Empress of the Empyreans.
“Amsheet—Hardeen—Amsheet—Hardeen, my head is bobbing. Which to choose? Where to die? Where to die? What choices we have in time of war. Die here, die over there, die everywhere!”
-Soliloquy, Zuzu the Hip, Jester at the Royal Court of Tanniin.
Two days later, in the late afternoon, Lord Orgond and his company reached the army’s main camp. Six hundred riders and four thousand footmen were already camped in the foothills of the Mayorian Chain. Immediately, Lord Orgond checked in on his soldiers. His calm presence and assured tone lifted their morale. He spoke to them about family and friends, and enjoined them to eat and rest. After the meal, he instructed them on the battle to come.
For his part, Master Xurgon regrouped with his dwarfs and started the forge fire. He told the dwarfs that Master Kwadil had sent his nephews, Orwutt and Zurwott, on an important mission. It would be a nonsensical sense to alarmingly alarm this commune of dwarfs about the twins’ absence. Time, well timed, will tellingly tell what fate they have met.
Tanios, Bahiya, and the Silent left camp the following morning at sunrise. They followed a deep ravine into the Empyrean territories through a seldom used path that climbed up steadily along a zigzagging incline until they reached the highlands. There the path became a treacherous, stony ridge along the mountain’s spine. They faced howling winds and endured slick and smooth stones covered with invisible ice. Wearily, the small company forged ahead until they reached the Pass of Oranil. Known as The Howling Wind Pass, this narrow canyon, two hundred feet long, cut through the mountain from side to side.
“We will cross quickly,” the commander ordered. “Cover your face, neck, and hands if you don’t want frostbite.”
The icy-cold wind howled like an angry monster as they inched their way through the pass. They were frozen to the bones by the time they reached the Empyrean side of the mountain. Even though they would have welcomed a break, the commander ordered everyone to keep moving. Several hours later, the snow-covered terrain made way to dry land, but the air remained bitterly cold. Evening caught them midway through their descent from the peak. Tanios led them to a ridge that overlooked a vast forest.
“We will spend the night here. No fires. I want four watchers at all times. Empyreans and sylveeds will be patrolling this area. Stay vigilant.”
Tired, Bahiya closed her eyes. She tried to rest despite the biting cold, knowing tomorrow would be even harder. Wearily, she dozed off, and then fell into a fitful sleep. In her dream, she stood on a beach before a small, unadorned hut. The sand was bright yellow like the surface of the sun, and the water was a thick green slush. Someone summoned me to the Arayat, she realized. She went through the door of the hut and found herself standing inside a multi-storied maze wider than the Temple of Babylon. A Maze Spell, she thought, and a mighty one. Anyone could walk inside the maze but the only way out was through a locked door that could only be opened with a Spell Key—a special spell created at the same time as the maze. Bahiya closed her eyes and moved her hands slowly in front of her until she felt a draft of damp air. She extended her right index finger and moved it slow
ly until the draft began to flow around it. She then bent her finger and pulled her hand up and the draft followed. Good. I hooked the spell.
Minutes later, each of her right fingers had hooked a different spell. Forming a fist, she pulled all five spells to her ear and listened to the spell song—the distinct sound spells produced when combined. It was familiar. She smiled and whispered, “Urakuun alamayn allalm,” which loosely means “Above us, the powers of the world.” This was an obscure reference to a map kept in Babylon and one of Ashod’s favorite sayings.
The maze vanished and the building shrunk down, turning back into the hut she had first seen. In the center of the empty space stood a tall, bony-looking plant. Its head was green, vaguely resembling an apple. Ashod’s avatar, she thought. He called me to the Arayat.
“Hello pretty daisy,” said Ashod’s avatar, taking the precaution of not pronouncing actual names in the Spell World.
“Hello bobbing apple,” she replied, smiling. “I wish I could see what I look like,” she added. No one looked at one’s reflection in the Arayat, for a reflection was an unpredictable spell, and mirrors, a destructive portal.
“I don’t,” grumbled Ashod. “Wish to see my reflection, that is. I don’t want to know what I look like.”
“Why are we here?”
“Take this,” he said, and handed her a curious object resembling a dark blue worm oozing a slimy orange substance. “You’re going to need it.”
Ashod’s avatar dropped it in her open palm. It felt warm and fuzzy.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 48