“Ah, but you see,” said Ahiram, pacing, his hands behind his back. “This dart is motion sensitive. One wrong move and you release the poison. I suggest that the daughter of the high priestess stay calm while the rest of you murderers send a message to Commander Tanios. With any luck, he might send a Silent to safely remove this dart. Also…” he added with a wry smile, “I have not yet fully tested this dart, so I wouldn’t wait too long if you wish to save her.” He looked at Hiyam with disdain, “But I am not certain there is anything worth saving here.” Ahiram spat on the ground. Hiyam’s men surrounded him. “Delay me and she will surely die. Let me go and she will live.”
“How do we know you are not lying?” asked one of her men.
Ahiram gave a curt bow. “You will have to trust the word of a slave.”
“Emotions are powerful steeds. The Silent shall neither stifle them nor allow them to run wild but will discipline them in conformity with right reason.”
–Book of Siril, chapter 8, verse 8
“The Silent must forego the instant gratification of his senses in favor of what is just and good, for the fruit of justice is peace and contentment, while the fruit of selfish desires is wrath and grievous regrets.”
–The Book of Lamentation, chapter 2, verse 4
Ahiram left the River of Ice and was happy to feel firm ground beneath his feet. The shortest path to the exit was over thirty miles long. The first twenty-five miles weaved their way through a maze of tunnels, caves, archways, and paths until they reached the Laughing Staircase—a spiraling staircase of one thousand steps with no safety rail, cut into the outer edge of a steep cliff. Ahiram would have to climb down as quickly as possible without falling to his death. Then, after a short distance, he would reach the Room of Echoes where the belts were usually hidden and from there, it would be a straight, five-mile uphill sprint to the exit.
The Silent took off running at a measured pace which was faster than what most of his opponents would be able to sustain. Still, he needed to conserve his strength, so he resisted the impulse to accelerate. Besides, the path kept on twisting, turning, and spawning side-paths in dizzying numbers. The slightest wrong turn and more miles would have to be traversed to reach the end. He knew the years of reconnoitering in the mines were paying off. Next is Jedarc’s tall chicken cave. Take second turn to the right…now it’s the cave that has a rock that resembles Banimelek’s future beard. Take fourth turn to the left. And so went Ahiram’s thoughts as he navigated the massive maze like a ship crossing the mist. Caves succeeded each other in an unrelenting blurred monotony of silent stone walls, torches burning brightly or sputtering their last fiery breath, dust that swallowed every sound and distant whizzing of bats in the belly of the mountain. Time had no meaning, space became a starry, subterranean night where the distant torches twinkled like the heavenly flames of night and life, a confusing path amid inconvenient and sometimes deadly choices. After a few hours, Ahiram thought he knew the meaning of eternity, and then toward the sixth hour of his run, he began to doubt he would ever leave the mines, as though the madness of the Pit had consumed the mountain and all that is in it to punish him for his past deeds, his bursts of anger, his betrayal of his sister Hoda.
Ahiram stopped in his tracks, and raising a fist to the high, dark ceiling, he began to scream, “I did not betray her. She did. She did not come for me. She left me alone. I waited for her like she asked. She promised. She promised.”
The anger and sense of betrayal he had bottled up all these years flowed freely, now that his angry outbursts were more frequent and more powerful. His temper was like hot lava ready to consume the world around him. His anger burned fiercely, ready to destroy anyone it found on its path. Thankfully, he was alone in the depths of mines too haughty to be concerned with the plight of man. Eventually, he calmed himself and noticed then that he had been crying. These mines, he thought, they would drive anyone insane. Better get out as soon as possible.
His injured shoulder was bothering him again. When Hiyam dragged him down the frozen river, his arm had sustained repeated blows. Despite the discomfort, he picked up his pace and kept to the true path. His mood worsened for he could feel now his anger closer to the surface, the raging darkness was ready to pounce if given the chance and woe to whom would stand in his way.
Two more hours went by during which Ahiram saw no one. His initial sense of loneliness had become oppressive. His initial desire to be set free had started eroding as if another voice, a different voice, was whispering words of comfort and repose.
“Who cares if you are free or not? What is the purpose behind all of it? You have a princess who’s pleading with you, she wants nothing else than to pamper you and treat you like a king. You could live better than most, so what are you fighting for?”
“Freedom is not a thing to take or receive. Freedom is who I am,” replied Ahiram out loud.
“Freedom is an illusion. Men choose comfort over freedom every time they can. Take your sister, for example. She ran and never looked back.”
Ahiram’s temper flared and curled on itself. He knew he was being played, and he was determined not to let the voice win him over. He came out of a cave and crossed a bridge over a vast, deep chasm. I am like this bridge, hanging over a darkness about to swallow me. He laughed a nervous laugh. What am I talking about? I must be losing my mind.
“No, you’re not,” answered the voice, this time sounding a little closer, right beneath his feet in the soundless, gaping hole below. “At least not yet, but I will make certain that you will be when we meet next.”
Ahiram stopped midway. “Who are you?” he yelled. “Show yourself.”
“Not yet,” snickered the voice. Ahiram’s hair stood on end. The voice was terrifying now. “But soon.”
The Silent’s anger flared and clashed with the incoming terror and stayed it. Fear without, rage within. Ahiram felt dizzy and breathless. “Who are you? What is your name?” he insisted.
“Soon, you will know me as your master. I am the Urkuun of the Ninth Order.” Ahiram felt a shadow creep up on him, heard a popping sound and then, suddenly, he knew he was alone.
He grabbed the railing—which was freezing—and rested a bit.
Urkuun of the Ninth Order, thought Ahiram, What’s an Urkuun? Why would such a creature living in the depths of the mines bother with a slave wanting his freedom? He sighed. There’s more to these Games than meets the eye. Well, no sense in worrying about it now. I’ll ask Master Habael later.
A strange wind rose from the deep and howled mournfully in the massive cave. Ahiram ignored it and resumed his run. He ran up a sandy path and after a wide bend, reached a narrow promontory overlooking the largest cave in all the mines. Two hundred feet below, a wide plateau was split midway by a steep canyon one thousand feet wide and five hundred feet deep. The roar of rushing water from below the canyon echoed like the laughter of a madman, as if the rocks were caught in an eternal shout of rage. Two thousand torches lit by the arbitrators failed to dispel the thick darkness. Ahiram could barely make out the Bridge of the Last Meeting over the river, which he would have to cross before reaching the Room of Echoes. Few had ever seen this bridge, for this cave was seldom open to tourists.
Nimbly, Ahiram grabbed the rope prepared by the arbitrators and slid down to the plateau. He crossed the length of the mesa with ease and stopped before a triple stone arch flanked by two statues of laughing dwarfs. One dwarf leaned on a pick, while the other pointed with his left hand to a bag he carried in his right. The original contents of the bag had been lost long ago, and spiders nested in its hollow for as long as anyone could remember. Some arbitrators believed that two miners had incurred the anger of Sureï the Sorcerer who had turned them into these two statues.
Ahiram walked through the archway and reached the entrance to the Laughing Staircase. Silently, he began the long descent.
“The only way to move up or down this staircase,” Master Habael had advised him, “is with eyes cl
osed. Trust your feet and your hands, and open your eyes every ten steps. If you do not, you will either get too dizzy to continue and lose precious time, or fall to your death.”
The dwarfs had carved a spiraling stairwell down to the canyon. Midway through, they had hit an impenetrable layer, and being the practical dwarfs that they were, continued the staircase in the softer, outer face of the cliff. One hundred steps spiraled in the open air, and although a handrail protected the original miners, it fell into disrepair when the dwarfs abandoned the mines—and no one had bothered to replace it. A few corroded metallic stumps remained, compounding the danger. Unwary participants of the Games, who were already dizzy when they reached that point, fell to their deaths, and this portion of the Laughing Stairs became known as “The Steps of Sudden Death.”
Either Master Habael will save my life or I am going crazy, Ahiram thought as he ran down the stairs at breakneck speed. I have gone down these stairs twice now, but never that quickly. I suppose I will find out sooner than later if the old man was right.
“Are you sure you saw the flag of Tanniin?”
“Yes, master. I saw it with my own eyes. I may be getting old, but my eyesight, the gods be praised, is as clear today as it ever was. It was the flag of Tanniin floating on high.”
“And, so, you believe the prophecy is about to be fulfilled?”
“If there was ever a time when I believed the prophecy would come true, it is today.”
The dimly lit table in the Tavern of the Last Meeting hosted a peculiar group of men. At one end there was Abiil, a servant of the castle. Facing him sat Soloron and his two lieutenants. Abiil hated the Temple of Baal. A year ago, a company of High Riders accidentally killed his brother, and he never forgave the Temple. Over the year, his hatred became acute, and he joined the Undergrounders—those who oppose the presence of Baal in Tanniin. Soloron was the head of the Undergrounders. They considered the King and his court as apostate and wanted to bring back the true Kingdom of Tanniin by ousting the Baalites from the land.
The Undergrounders initially began with a dozen men of dubious valor—ill-trained and poorly equipped. They stole from merchants traveling from Taniir-The-Strong to the southern ports of Mitriil or Tyra-Min. Things changed when Soloron assumed power. A former officer of the High Riders who fled the Temple for personal reasons, Soloron immediately relocated the Undergrounders’ headquarters from the exposed mines to remote caves abandoned by the “desert people”—tribes so reclusive that the Temple left them alone. Under his iron grip, the scattered band of revolutionaries became a small army, well trained and well equipped. How Soloron financed his operations, none of his men knew nor dared to ask.
“And what do you suggest we do, Abiil?”
“Well, master, if the slave wins the Games, there will be a celebration the likes of which has not been seen in Taniir-The-Strong. Mount a surprise attack during the ceremony, kill that apostate of a king, and hail the slave as El-Windiir reborn. The people will side with you and overwhelm the soldiers. You won’t have to fight, you wait and see.”
“The Temple will not approve,” objected Soloron.
“Baal will want to avoid a military confrontation. If we could find common terms, then of course everyone wins and you are the hero. If we go to war and the Temple wins, you give them the slave and negotiate terms of surrender. On the other hand, if the Baalites loose the war, well, it would not surprise me if the slave dies young due to ill health or accidents.”
Abiil smiled. Soloron and his men laughed buoyantly. Soloron leaned over the table to get closer to Abiil.
“And how do we get inside the royal castle without being noticed?”
“I found a secret way in.”
Soloron’s eyes narrowed to a slit, but his voice remained level. “How did you manage to do that?”
“By accident,” replied Abiil, unfazed. “One of the judges was on the second floor of the castle, and instead of using the main stairs in the hall to go down to the first floor, he used the staircase inside the Lone Tower. It is steep, narrow, and slippery. Only slaves use it nowadays. I followed him just in time to see him disappear through a hidden door.”
Abiil could tell that his boss was not buying it. “Yes, that’s what I am saying. I got there right when a portion of the wall closed behind the judge. I swear to Tanniin, I am telling the truth. This secret door is very well hidden. It took me a long time, but I found a hinge inside a tiny hole next to the ground. You press it hard and the door pivots.”
“So where do you end up in the mines?”
Seeing his boss listening intently, Abiil leaned over the table, scanned the tavern and continued in a whisper. “Into the Mine of Meyroon. Once the Games are over, I can take you there and show you.”
Abiil straightened up, glanced sideways at the tavern’s entrance, leaned over and whispered, “It’ll be easier than you think, master. You and your men can take the stairs, I’ll have men disguised as guards waiting for you. They will guide you to the Royal Hall. You depose the King and set the slave on the throne. Everyone will follow you. You’ll be the hero instead of that pampered slave.”
“Very well, my friend, but what if the troops of Baal prepare a little surprise of their own?”
“Do not worry, master,” continued Abiil, “I have spies among them: young, ambitious men who are easily blinded by a glimmer of gold. They keep me informed of Baal’s plans. I know when the Baalites come and when they go, when they sit and when they stand. I will alert you in case of danger.”
A moment went by when each of the men sipped their ale. The raucous ambience shielded them from eavesdroppers. Besides, the High Riders seldom ventured into this part of town. As an added security measure, Soloron had his men posted outside, ready to warn him in case of trouble. Abiil finished his beer and stood up.
“I had better go back before they notice my absence. The royal castle is full of men of Baal. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Very good, Abiil. You shall keep quiet, hmm?”
“Do not worry, master, I will be as quiet as a snake in the snow.” Abiil covered his head with his hood and left.
“This Abab-liil—” started Soloron’s brother. Frajil was also his assistant, a giant of a man whose stature alone was enough to open a passage for Soloron in the most crowded streets.
“Abiil,” corrected Soloron.
“… he sharpens the ax and hardens the wood.”
“You mean he is double-tongued?”
“Yeah, that too. I no like his head.”
“Do not worry, Frajil, after we make it to the top, his head will be so low that it will take a shovel to pick it up.”
The three men erupted in laughter and the massive frame of Frajil rocked the table so hard that the earthen goblet containing his beer crashed onto the floor. Frajil pointed his finger toward the smashed goblet and said, “The King.”
Down at last, thought Ahiram, as he made it safely off the deadly staircase. He panted from exertion and took a moment to catch his breath. The young man could not hear anything over the din of rushing water and could not tell if Hiyam’s men were trailing him. Seen from down below, the cave looked twice as large. In the eerie emptiness, he sensed an invisible presence following his every move. Is it the Urkuun following me or am I imagining things? It must be these caves. No wonder some of the miners went crazy down here, he thought, shrugging his shoulders.
He ran along a rocky path and reached the Bridge of the Last Meeting where allegedly, El-Windiir had met Layaleen for the last time before going to his demise. Some say that if one were to stand on this bridge, and remain still for a while, one could hear the echo of their voices trapped between the walls of the mine. Ahiram sprinted across the bridge. He had no time for such fairytales.
At the end of the bridge, he glanced back out of habit, just in time to see a rock crashing down from the spiraling stairs. In the dim light, he could barely glimpse a man dangling from the staircase several hundred feet above.
He heard Prince Olothe scream, “Idiot, be careful.”
“Be careful…careful…careful…” replied the echo.
So the priestess’ daughter sent her dogs after me, he thought. How very nice of her.
The stairs on this side of the mines were large, square slabs sloping gently up along a winding path. Ahiram ran up a dozen steps, looked back and was shocked to see Olothe and his men at the bottom of the cave. How did they do it? he thought. This is incredible. I am fast and well trained, yet it took me a lot longer to get down here. Ahiram nearly panicked. He threw himself behind a large boulder and watched them. Instead of running to the bridge, they leaped and crossed nearly twenty feet in a single jump. That’s impossible—it is almost magical. Suddenly, it dawned on him: These men are using magic. They are cheating. I bet the priestess is behind this. Raging anger bubbled up, but he stayed it. No use running away from them, but I can use their weapon against them. Looking up he saw a burning torch across from the large boulder. He crossed the path and inspected the two iron rings holding the torch, yanking them forcefully. They did not budge.
He produced a thin rope from his belt, tied it to the top ring and looped it around the second ring. He let it dangle to the ground and went back behind the boulder.
Olothe and his men will naturally look at the light, and with a little luck, they will miss the rope. Minutes later, he heard Olothe.
“Faster now, do not lose him. I want him dead before he reaches the Hall of Echoes.”
Ahiram’s temper flared like raging magma. Seeing the extended shadows of the three men profiled on the opposite wall, he gripped the rope tightly. By now, he was able to hear the bounce of the three men close by. He waited a little longer, then yanked the rope with both hands. Suddenly, the last torch before the rocks where Ahiram was hiding projected the shadow of the foremost runner, who ran into the rope and yelled as he fell back. Knocking his head on the slab, he lay unconscious. The second attacker was in mid-air when this happened. He managed to avoid his companion, landing next to him, but the mysterious power that he relied on to move so quickly, propelled him forty feet in the air with a frightening force. He screamed, lost control, smashed against the boulder, then fell to the ground where he lay in an awkward position, blood coursing from his mouth and nose.
Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Page 18