The rules required a slower contender to step aside onto one of the resting slabs jutting from the circular wall, but impatient and faster climbers never waited for a sluggish competitor to reach the wedge of stone and would simply climb over him. Sometimes, the unfortunate player fell, taking others with him.
Ahiram focused with the intensity that was second nature to a Silent. He ran hard and jumped, grabbing the rope with both hands. It swayed under his weight. Pain exploded from his wounded shoulder. A moan slipped through his tight lips, and he released his left arm to ease the throbbing a little. Once the rope settled, he managed to grip it with both arms and legs. He quickly rubbed his shoulder with some of the pungent ointment Habael had given him, dulling the pain to a bearable level. He looked down and saw the quiet surface of the lake calling to him, urging him to let go, to allow himself to fall into the cold embrace of the water and be carried away. He looked up and could barely see the top of the Pit. Resolutely, Ahiram started the arduous climb.
Initially, the dwarfs had used the Pit to move provender down, and precious metal up. They had found a small crack through which water seeped, and they dug into the rock with the determination of termites until it became this gigantic pit, wide enough for a vertical cableway used to hoist miners and goods up and down with relative ease. After the miners left, the cableway fell into desuetude and was altogether removed when the Games were introduced.
To the athletes in the Game, it was a singular challenge requiring strength, stamina, and a focused mind. They had to manage their speed and the time they took to rest on the slabs located every three hundred feet. Once out of the Pit, they had to sprint to the Hall of Statues to locate a mask of gold. Therefore, they could not afford to reach the top exhausted. Ahiram knew that many athletes were climbing the rope below him. He wondered if the rope could hold all the contenders without breaking.
Feverishly, he went on, forcing himself to rest as needed. He was one hundred and fifty feet high in the Pit, and twelve climbers had come after him already. This is it, he thought. By now, every athlete still in the Games must be climbing. He looked up and saw a bright, white spot far away, and felt like a snail inching his way on a dandelion’s stem. Why he thought of a dandelion, he did not know, but the image popped in his head when suddenly he saw the face of a young boy before him—a face he had seen before, six years ago. The young boy looked concerned.
“He found you. To defeat him, you will need El-Windiir’s sword.”
Ahiram was slowly becoming incensed by these impromptu visions of people he had never met, who blurted mysterious sayings about swords needed to defeat a creature whom he had never seen—without bothering to introduce themselves, or explaining how they knew him in the first place—or why they thought he was connected to all of this. He wished he could sit with the young boy around a warm plate of chicken. He even felt like asking the mysterious, young man if he liked chicken, but then the image of Jedarc popped in his head. Now, that’s too much, even for me. Ahiram breathed deeply and shook his head, trying to regain a semblance of control.
“Who are you? Who found me? What is all this about?”
“No time for questions now,” replied the young boy. “Find the sword, you must find the sword.”
The boy’s image disappeared. Just then, he heard a strong rumbling from the lake beneath. Ahiram froze. He did not recall the arbitrators saying anything about a rumbling. Better move, he thought. He gripped the rope and climbed as quickly as prudence allowed. The next few minutes were soundless—except for the quick shuffle of his hands and feet on the rough rope—and just when he began to wonder if he had imagined it, the rumbling was back, and it was now louder. Ahiram felt a knot in his stomach. He was no longer climbing to win; he was climbing for his life. He reached the first slab and took a forced rest to ease the pain in his shoulder when a thunderous explosion filled the pit. The Pit of Thunder, he thought as he started climbing again.
Then it happened. He heard the screams of the players down below, which were silenced abruptly right when a powerful surge of water reached him. For a split second he lost his grip on the rope as the water slammed him against the wall. A geyser? He thought, stunned. I did not know there were geysers in the lake. The mass of liquid passed him by, continued its ascension for a little longer, slowed down and stopped. It then fell on him with a powerful rush. He gripped the rope and gritted his teeth and waited for the water to recede. Once in the clear, he resumed his ascent, hoping that all the players had survived the ordeal.
The rope was soaked now, making his grip precarious. He inched his way up, knowing that if there were still others below, they were doing the same. The rumbling started again. This infuriated him and boosted his strength. He moved up the rope, determined to get out of the next geyser’s reach, but he heard the thunderclap, and screams from below told him the water was coming. He gripped the rope tighter and the water hit him like a furious bull. This geyser was more powerful, toying with him like a child toys with a doll. It flung him against the wall, and he lost all sense of direction. The returning water pounded his shoulders, renewing his pain.
After a short moment of rest, he resumed his climb, his grip slipping now and then. Halfway to the next ledge, he heard a third rumbling.
Hold it. The water is cold. A geyser needs heat, he thought, This is not natural. Then it struck him. Magic. This must be magical. Does the high priestess want me dead so badly that she is willing to risk her daughter’s life? Then again, this boy—whoever he is—told me “He found you.” If he meant the priestess, he would have said she. But if it is not the priestess, then who is after me and why?
The geyser shot up, exploding like a booming thunder. The rushing water swallowed the screams of pain from below. Frantic, Ahiram climbed the rope, bracing for the incoming jet, but it only managed to lick the heels of his boots. Encouraged, he moved quickly up the rope, which was now dry, and reached the next ledge, where he rested.
I have two thousand four hundred feet to go, he thought, looking up and wondering what insanity pushed the dwarfs to dig this bottomless hole. One has to be driven mad by gold to be willing to dig so deep, he thought. He resumed his climb just when the thunderclap resonated through the Pit. He glanced down and saw the water rushing toward him faster than an arrow. He stopped climbing, brought up his knees, and when the geyser reached him, he let it carry him, loosely holding the rope, then gripping it fiercely when the turbulent waters threatened to slam him into the walls.
At last, the water receded. Ahiram again tightened his grip on the rope and was amazed to see how far he had traveled. I must be two-thirds of the way up. He climbed another hundred feet to the next ledge.
Feeling confident, he let out a shout: “Let Baal bring forth this geyser again. I will show them the strength of the Silent.”
“It is I, not Baal, who is moving the waters. Know this, slave: if it were not for me, you would be dead by now.”
The Urkuun. Ahiram nearly lost his grip. The raspy voice had sounded near and far in his ear, strong and weak, the way a voice form the past would sound in his memory.
“What do you want from me?” He stammered.
“My quarrel is not with you at this moment, but with the assassins the Temple has dispatched to kill you.”
“You are helping me?”
The laughter, or whatever that screechy, high-pitched sound was, hit him like a fist. He felt weak.
“You are far more valuable alive than dead. I will teach you all that you need to learn and you will serve me in this age and the age to come.”
Abruptly, the imperious voice—and the threatening presence—vanished. Ahiram sighed. I am not looking forward to meeting this being, he thought, But first, I need to get out of here.
A scream of rage chilled the air. Ahiram fought to control his fear. A deafening explosion filled the Pit, and judging from the strength of the tremors shaking the walls, he knew this was the strongest geyser yet. Driven by instinct, he began to c
limb, fearing once more for his life. This is far more powerful than anything I’ve seen, he thought. It’s as if the lake is rushing up the Pit.
He looked down and saw the water moving with a fury he could not have imagined. It’s too strong, he thought. I won’t be able to ride this wave, but he continued his frantic climb.
Two blinding bolts of light appeared out of thin air and hit the incoming water before it reached him. The bolts slithered down the raging mass, breaking its momentum. The surge slowed down and crested ten feet below, having lost its strength and deadly purpose. A gargling moan bubbled through its surface as it receded.
What was that? he thought, breathless. Where did this come from? What does it mean?
Not waiting to find out, he resumed his climb. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the top. He crawled out, moved away from the Pit, and lay breathless on his back. He waited for his breathing to return to normal and for the waves of pain to recede before sitting up and opening his kit. Fortunately, the contents of his belt were still dry. He took a vial containing two murky liquids, one yellow and the other brown. Ahiram shook the vial vigorously before quickly opening it and gulping down its contents.
“And this is assin,” Master Habael had told him. “It is a Togofalkian mixture of usmask and timrand: two potent herbs that grow deep in the forest. Use it to regain strength.”
Ahiram felt as if fire surged through his aching muscles. He followed Habael’s advice and fought the urge to throw up, then in order to help the medicine course through his weary body, he got up and paced until the pain receded.
“Start walking slowly after the pain recedes, and soon you will feel much better,” Habael had advised him, “because by walking, you help the medicine move quickly through your body.”
Ahiram heard the rumble one more time and turned back to look. Should he stop and help those who were still below? But how could he? He could not hope to pull all the climbers out of the Pit.
The arbitrators, he thought. They must be in the Hall of Statues. I must warn them.
Hiyam clutched the wet rope and braced herself for the next geyser. She had already lost one of her men in the rush of water, and the two below her were moaning in pain. She was exhausted and involuntarily did what she always did when faced with extreme danger: she receded into her mind, to a place of safety. As unlikely as it may seem, the gurgling sound of the receding geyser reminded her of the water font which graced the inner courtyard of the temple where she played when she was little. The fount would bubble and water ebbed gracefully, like a crown of pearls in the blue sky. She remembered vividly the day when she fell into the fountain and nearly drowned. Her mother had pulled her out and scolded her. The salty taste of her tears—now running down her cheeks—brought her back to the present.
Irritated with her momentary weakness, she pushed the memory away, wiped her tears, and regained her focus. The rumble started again, and she was barely able to contain her tears. She was frightened; none of her magical incantations were working. She felt powerless, as if someone was toying with her and she was incapable of stopping it. At that moment, Hiyam finally understood what it meant to be a slave. If I survive this, she thought fiercely, I will never own a slave for as long as I live. Gingerly, she began to climb, relying on the strength of her arms and legs to move her upward.
The water pummeled her back with mighty blows. She whirled uncontrollably round and round and bounced into the walls of the Pit, nearly suffocating under the flow. She closed her eyes, and using the magical lore she had learned from the Temple, she tried one more time to reach her mother, but without success. She opened her eyes and looked around her. Her last two men were still holding on. Suddenly, the image of her mother crystallized in her mind. “Hold on, I am intervening.” Her mother gave her a reassuring smile and Hiyam burst into tears, surprised and confused by the love shining in Bahiya’s eyes.
The rumbling started again. Hiyam opened her mouth to scream, but could not. Down below, a dark storm tore the lake. Lightning pounded the cave and thunder boomed repeatedly. The water churned so fast that it became a blur until suddenly, it disappeared from view and she saw the ragged bottom of the lake far below. Then, a terrifying tornado assaulted the Pit, tearing her and her companions from the rope, slamming them against the walls—nearly breaking her back—and lifting her at breakneck speed. She lost all sense of direction and thought she was about to die when she saw two lightning bolts zap through the water, breaking the tornado’s power. Suddenly, Hiyam found herself underwater in a quiet pool. Swimming briskly, she broke through the surface and frantically reached for the rope. Slowly, the water receded below her. Up ahead, the Quibanxians were gingerly climbing, but she dared not look down for fear of seeing no one. Instead, she resumed climbing, pulling herself up the rope, holding back tears.
At last, Hiyam reached the top and with the help of the Quibanxian, she crawled on all fours and lay shivering from exhaustion. Waves of nausea washed over her and she retched. As the last member of the Togofalkian team came out of the Pit, they heard another strong rumble. Fear brought them to their feet and they backed away, half-expecting a sudden gush of water to surge from the Pit and pummel the roof; but instead, the ground shook violently. “An earthquake,” yelled someone. A chunk of earth fell from the ceiling and crashed mere inches from Hiyam, who fell down. As she rolled over, she felt as if the power lurking below had lashed vengefully at them one last time.
Ahiram had been staring at the statue of a dragon when the earthquake struck. He was in the chamber of Tanniin, otherwise known as the Hall of Masks. This chamber was a circular cave hewn into the rock and contained three circles of thirty-three gold statues each. The outer circle honored Tanniin, who, according to ancient lore, belonged to the outer ring and possessed only three pairs of wings. The middle circle honored his ancestor, Lamatanniin, who lived during the Wars of Riharon and served the Masters of the Dark. Lamatanniin belonged to the second ring and had five pairs of wings. The innermost circle honored Lamatanniin’s ancestor, the greatest of all dragons, Tanniin Ashod, known as “Daron Ashod” among the dwarfs, and as “Black Dragon” by the Empyreans. With nine pairs of wings, the mighty Tanniin Ashod was without compare in all the kingdoms–except for Baal. Tanniin rebelled against the Masters of the Dark and helped El-Windiir resist them. The people of the kingdom revered him as the god of light.
Originally, there were 101 statues in this hall that, according to popular belief, had been protected by powerful spells. Anyone who attempted to steal them would be plagued by terrible curses, die a horrible death, and suffer the eternal pains of hell. So strong was this belief, that even if these statues were exposed in the lowliest parts of town, no one would dare touch them. But in the center of the innermost circle, two pedestals were missing their statues. In the common lore of Tanniin, Sureï, the great sorcerer, fell in love with the two innermost statues, and waving his hands, broke the curse and took them with him to Babylon where he hid them. Thus, the empty pedestals became a stubborn reminder of Baal’s oppression. Despite the Temple’s repeated attempts to clear Sureï’s name, this belief perdured, for the people reasoned, who, but Sureï, had the wherewithal to break powerful spells such as these?
The statues were of pure, white gold with rose gold masks on their faces. This made them the perfect hiding place for the golden masks that the participants had to retrieve. The arbitrators would layer the fake masks on a statue’s face, and the teams would have to find and remove them; all this, without falling under the curse by inadvertently touching the statues.
Standing in the innermost circle, Ahiram was scrutinizing the face of one of the statues, carefully examining the double rim along the edge of its mask. That’s the only statue with a double rim, he thought. This is it. The top rim is the edge of the arbitrators’ mask, and the bottom one is the edge of the original mask, the one that’s cursed.
He climbed onto the pedestal and was about to touch the mask when the earthq
uake occurred. Ahiram lost his balance and fell back, barely managing to shift his weight to avoid hurting his shoulder. All around him, the statues shook as though suddenly endowed with inner life. Whichever way he looked, statues were moving. It was as though Tanniin was coming back to life. The statue with the double gold rim he was looking at had moved past the pedestal’s edge, when suddenly, the earthquake stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
Slowly, Ahiram moved back, then got up, surveyed the damage, and was amazed that all ninety-nine statues were still standing. A glimmering object on the ground attracted his gaze. He drew closer and smiled: it was a golden mask that undoubtedly had fallen from the statue during the earthquake. Ahiram scrutinized it carefully, looking for the judge’s stamp, a circle containing four small squares. He breathed a sigh of relief—seeing it on the lower, left corner—and picked it up quickly. He looked at the statue of Tanniin watching him from its pedestal above and saw an identical mask over its eyes.
How clever of the arbitrators to hide the two masks on the same statue, he thought. He suddenly froze: had he touched the other statue, he would have fallen under the curse. He shuddered at the thought and was glad the earthquake had happened. Ahiram slid the mask inside his leather bag, adding it to the shoes of bronze and the wings of silver, then took off running. The exit was thirty miles away.
Hiyam and her team must have recovered, and they are coming after me, he thought. There is no time to waste.
“Priests of Baal who read these, my words, consider that Alissaar’s curses never harmed innocent passersby. Reflect on their stability and longevity through the centuries, and you will realize the debt of gratitude we owe Alissaar. His curses are the pillars sustaining civilization. His curses are our high wall against the madness of the Pit.
Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Page 24