Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  By the gods, what sort of creature have we awakened in the caves?

  “Whoever has committed this act is as vile as a scorpion and deserves no pity,” muttered Tanios, standing up after examining the corpse. Habael had seldom seen him so angry. They looked at the body of the young man lying before them.

  “What do you make of this, Master Habael?” asked the Commander.

  “It would appear that the murderer has tried to confuse us. He would have us believe that this poor man had been strangled first then slashed with the same type of dart.”

  “I am not so sure. Blood does not flow like this from a wound after death,” explained Tanios, “No, the rope must have served a different purpose.”

  “Perhaps,” offered Jedarc, “the murderer tried strangulation first and when his attempt failed, he used the dart?” Seeing neither men respond he continued, “But why here?” asked Jedarc. “Why in Banimelek’s room? Is someone trying to attack the Silent’s reputation?”

  “Possibly, young man,” replied Habael evasively. “Now, Commander Tanios, is it a murderer, or murderers?”

  Tanios surveyed the room looking for clues, but he could not see what may have led Habael to suggest that there was more than one murderer. Having found none, he asked his friend.

  “It is too well organized to be carried out by one man alone. Someone had to give him the red ribbon and make him believe that a woman wanted to see him. Then, there is the secret meeting. It may be that these two meetings are related. Who knows how many individuals are involved in this operation?”

  “But,” interjected Jedarc, “If those involved in the secret meeting wanted him dead, why this complication? Why murder him in a castle garden? Why drag the body and dump it here?”

  “What do you make of it?” asked Tanios. He knew he had to follow this line of reasoning to the end, for he did not want to share what he believed to be the real motive for the killing with anyone, save Master Habael. A hidden room, a curse, human sacrifices, all of it made sense when listening to the Queen, but now, standing before the body of a dead man, the whole thing sounded foolish.

  “Perhaps,” replied Jedarc, “because whoever was at the initial secret meeting discovered later that the young man was about to betray them and wanted him dead. To cover their trail, they murdered him in the same way they had murdered the first two victims.”

  “So, this murder may have been politically motivated?” asked the commander.

  “It may well be the case,” continued Jedarc. “The victims may be involved in a conspiracy of sorts, and Baal found out and decided to take care of the matter swiftly and discreetly.”

  “And in the process, discredit the Silent Corps and get the soldiers from the nearby garrison of Baal to take over the castle,” continued the commander grimly. “It makes sense.”

  “Perhaps it is as you have said, my dear Jedarc,” said Master Habael, kneeling by the body. “Commander, look at the neck of this unfortunate young man. Perfectly clean, is it not? No bruises other than those occasioned by the rope.” Habael stood up. “Now, if someone attacks a Junior High Riders, we would assume that he would defend himself. He would try to take that rope off his neck, but there are no signs of struggle.”

  The commander nodded. “Like the two other victims,” he said thoughtfully. “If this is the young man who took a horse ride this morning to meet with two other riders, then perhaps the two events are unrelated. I had assumed the assassin lured him outside the castle, but I am beginning to think that he left this morning for a secret meeting, then upon his return met with the murderer who then killed him. This accords better with the evidence. Still, I fail to see why this requires more than one murderer.”

  The two men considered the facts in silence. His hands behind his back, Master Habael paced back and forth before the dead man lying face down. By now, the blood had started to dry up. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and went back toward the body.

  “Can we turn him over?”

  Tanios acquiesced, and with the help of Jedarc, turned the body over. Habael took a cloth from his pocket and rubbed it gently on the lips of the dead man. He looked at it and shook his head.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Lipstick,” answered Habael. “If a woman is involved in this crime, she may have distracted her victim with a kiss. If so, she would have done everything in her power to look attractive and would have worn lipstick. It would have left a stain on his lips, but my cloth is clean, so I do not believe the murderer is a woman.”

  Tanios did not answer. Habael looked at him and saw that he was looking at the dead man.

  “What is it?”

  “Look at his right hand.”

  “It’s hair, is it not?”

  “Help me open his hand,” answered Tanios.

  Carefully, the two men pried open the rigid fist. Tanios removed the strands of hair and stood. He held it close to the light.

  “It’s impossible to tell if it is that of a man or a woman.”

  “So, when the attacker threw his rope around this poor young man, his hand must have grasped the assassin’s hair and pulled.”

  “He pulled,” repeated Tanios pensively. “Jedarc, fetch me a small towel. Banimelek must keep a pile somewhere.”

  “It’s by his bed,” replied Jedarc. “There you go, Commander,” said the young man as he held the towel open before his superior. Tanios laid the strands on it and picked as many as he could from the pool of blood.

  “Master Habael, Jedarc, come look at this hair. Tell me what you see?”

  “Red,” said Jedarc. “The woman is a redhead.”

  “Good,” said Master Habael, “we are making progress.”

  “Indeed,” replied Tanios fiercely. “Indeed. Jedarc, fetch a team of Silent to remove the body. Until further notice, I want you to station two Silent in our quarters at all times.”

  “Yes, sir, but, sir, what about Master Ibromaliöm?” asked Jedarc.

  “What about him?” said Tanios.

  Jedarc relayed to him what had happened that morning.

  “Once the body is removed and you have secured our quarters, go and wait for Master Ibromaliöm. Tell him not to leave his room until I have spoken with him.”

  Abiil, the Undergrounders’ collaborator, paced feverishly in his tiny cell, located in the servants’ sleeping quarters. “My spy has been killed,” he muttered. “My spy has been killed. Maybe someone is aware of what is going on and is on my trail. Maybe they figured out by now what I am up to. This is not good.” The servant had always known the risk he was taking in working with the Undergrounders. He had managed to enlist Simer in return for money and other less seemly favors. Simer was ambitious, young, and gullible enough to believe Abiil when he told him that he was preparing a feast in honor of the high priestess. Thanks to the young man’s help, Abiil knew that Baal was preparing to overtake the castle the night of the fourth Game. But now, someone had killed Simer. Anguish filled his heart, and he looked at the door expecting a High Riders’ patrol to slam it open and drive half a dozen spears through him. “I had better inform the master,” continued the servant in a hushed voice. “I should let the master know right away.”

  Cautiously, he opened the door, and seeing no one, pulled his cowl over his head and walked briskly until he reached the door leading to the outside court. He waited for the court to empty before darting toward the stairs leading to the kitchen’s garden. Moments later, he was gone.

  “The caves beneath the earth number like the stars of heaven. They groan in their great solitude, yearning to join hands and form Xirik Andaxil, the one undivided mine—a realm greater than the greatest empire of men. Beware of the mysteries hidden within, whose beauty will burn your eyes as surely as a thousand suns.”

  –Philology of the Dwarfs, Anonymous

  Caves, arches, stairs, passages, and bridges followed one another in a seemingly endless succession, as if a giant mountain swallowed sun, moon, and stars, turning the w
orld into an endless labyrinthine mine, empty and desolate. Boulders, stalactites, and stalagmites, became, in the dim light of distant torches, High Riders, giants, and monsters.

  Alone, he ran. The thud of his feet was the only audible sound he heard, save for the faint echo of water dripping in dark corners, or the dim sound of rushing rivers like the clamor of armies in battle.

  Swiftly, like a fleeting shadow, Ahiram moved from cavern to cavern, following the less trodden path to conceal his presence from arbitrators all too eager to help the team of Baal. Holding a torch to light his way, the Silent passed through giant halls that had never seen the light of day. Like a beacon of hope in unrequited darkness, he ran over bridges long abandoned by their makers—following deserted pathways, where long ago dwarfs and men toiled side-by-side to pry the precious metal from the stony clutch of the mountain. The miners were gone, swept by the tides of time and the passing seasons. Nothing remained of their toil other than the meandering caves and a few rusted picks and shovels he glimpsed in the trembling light of his torch.

  He stopped in secluded corners of massive halls, where he knew fresh water flowed from the walls into dark pools. He drank and chewed on the dry pieces of meat and cheese he had brought with him. He had tucked them inside an empty pocket of his waterproof dart belt before he dove into the lake. Despite the monstrous geyser in the Pit of Thunder, the contents of his belt were still dry. Once more, he felt gratitude toward the dwarfs who created this little marvel of ingenuity that they commonly called a dart belt.

  Having finished his meal, he crossed the large cave and as he was about to enter a narrow corridor, he heard muffled voices from the other end of the cave.

  He snuffed his torch and crouched inside the corridor just when a High Rider patrol entered the cave. Silently, he followed the corridor, until he reached a rectangular cave with a low ceiling. I’m back on the main exit route, he thought, seeing the torches stringing the wall. Glancing behind him, he saw no one, so he used a lit torch hanging from the wall to relight his own and continued running.

  Time seemed to stand still as Ahiram progressed from hallway to hallway. Once more, he had drifted away from the main route to follow the less trodden path. Shafts of light shone intermittently in the distance, shattering the ambient darkness that hemmed his torch’s halo. The lack of light made consecutive caves resemble one another, and he began to wonder if he was not running in circles.

  He fought the urge to leave markings on the walls, firmly trusting his training and the days he spent scouting the mines.

  I know I am getting closer to the exit, he asserted silently. In a short while, I will rejoin the main path again. Up ahead, there’s the Hangman’s Hall, and then, a little further away, the Cave of Bats. Then, I’ll go up the spiraling stairs to the Red Hall, and from there, I’ll follow a wide curve to the Merry Dwarfs Bridge. Then there is just the one hour sprint to the Shipping Hallway which leads to the exit.

  Ahiram reasserted these thoughts several times during the next two hours until he finally reached the Hangman’s Hall, so called because of a massive stalactite that had been carved into the shape of a man hanging from the ceiling. The statue was grotesque with bulging eyes and a tongue dangling from the man’s mouth. The man grinned madly, as if enjoying the torture. Miner’s humor, thought Ahiram, averting his eyes from the intolerable scene. Beneath the statue’s feet, the anonymous artist had carved an overturned hat where an abandoned spider web fluttered gently.

  The Silent was about to exit when he heard footsteps behind him. He took a quick look and saw a High Rider patrol coming fast after him. These men are rested, he thought, and I am not. I won’t be able to outrun them.” Quickly, he reached into his belt, grabbed two pellets, and without stopping, whirled around and threw them between his pursuers’ feet. He dodged the two spears thrown at him, whirled back around, and sprinted off. He heard them cough and sneeze as he leaped out of the hall and into a narrow corridor, which he recognized from his past visits to the mines. He took a quick peek behind him and saw the soldiers’ shapes profiled against the corridor’s entrance; he sped forward until he reached the fork. Holding high his torch, he followed the left corridor, threw his torch as far as it could go, ran back and sprinted down the right passage. As expected, the soldiers went after the light.

  Presently, the passage inclined gently downward, easing the strain. He sped along, remembering where this path led. No one who took this path even once, would ever forget it, he thought.

  “In the name of Baal,” said a strong voice behind him, “Stop.”

  A third patrol was on his heels. They were carrying three torches shining brightly in the corridor. They don’t know, he thought, and I have no time to warn them. He sprinted forward in the dark as two spears whizzed past. The ground leveled beneath his feet, and he felt the warm draft from the wide opening ahead. He ran into a large cave, made an immediate left turn, felt the big boulder he was looking for, and crouched in the small space between the boulder and the wall.

  Less than a minute later, the High Riders ran into the cave with their torches shining brightly. The cave was vast, with a ragged ceiling extending far above their heads. Ahiram overhead someone speak.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  Ahiram peeked from behind the boulder, crossbow in hand. Hiyam and her team were right behind the patrol.

  Despite the shortcut I took, she managed to catch up, he thought. She is using magic again, no doubt.

  “We are looking for the slave,” replied one of the men.

  “Under whose orders?” snapped Hiyam. “I gave strict orders to the captain of the High Riders. I want him to be left alone.”

  What? thought Ahiram, confused. She gave that order? What is she up to now?”

  “My apologies, Lady Hiyam, your order has been superseded by a higher ranked officer.”

  “Who superseded my order?”

  “Lady Hiyam, I am barred from disclosing his identity.”

  So Babylon trusts the priestess no more, thought Ahiram. Looks like she couldn’t kill me fast enough. Well, no matter, I need to get out of here.

  “Hiyam,” said one of her men, “if the slave is here, let the High Riders slow him down.”

  “No,” she nearly screamed. “Enough is enough. Let him compete. I will not have his blood on my hands.”

  “And you will not, my lady,” said the officer. “His blood will be on me and my men.“

  Not if I can help it, thought Ahiram, as he released the trigger. The bulky dart’s flight was flawless. Silently, it arced over their heads and exploded in a dazzling bouquet of colors. Not bad, Jedarc, he thought. This silly fireworks dart you requested might just save me.

  Hiyam, her men, and the High Rider patrol jumped. The bright light blinded them momentarily.

  “Another one of the slave’s silly tricks,” jeered one of the High Riders.

  A deafening shriek answered him. Ahiram’s dart had disturbed thousands of bats hanging from the ceiling. They descended on the men of Baal like a dark storm.

  They don’t call this cave the Cave of Bats for nothing, thought Ahiram as he ran along the edge of the cave dodging the occasional bat. He reached the exit and saw that it was partially blocked by a boulder.

  The earthquake, he thought. He glanced back toward the men of Baal. They were flailing their torches at the bats, which only made them angrier. The best thing to do when in the presence of bats is to stand still in the dark, he thought, amused.

  He managed to squeeze through the narrow opening and then noticed a cluster of small rocks at the base of a boulder. That’s why it did not block the way, he thought. But I can fix this.

  He took a few explosive pellets from his belt and wedged them between the rocks. He ran a short distance, loaded his crossbow with an escape dart, aimed and shot, then sprinted away.

  A muffled explosion snuffed the neighboring torches, and smoke filled the passage. Ahiram grinned: the boulder had blocked the exit.r />
  Let them use magic against this, he thought, grabbing one of the extinguished torches from the wall which he lit from the first burning torch he came across a few hundred yards away.

  He ran nonstop for a good hour and reached the spiraling stairs, which he climbed two-by-two. They lead him to the Red Hall, a wide room cut into a brown rock. The torches the arbitrators had strung to two opposite walls cast a red-tinged light, the color of blood. In this vast space where thousands of miners had taken their meals on rows upon rows of stone tables and benches, many a man and dwarf had died, either from sickness or strife. As he ran across the hall, Ahiram’s gaze trailed on the pots, mugs, plates, and cutlery the miners had left behind after their last meal. Rats had long ago licked the plates clean and a thick sheet of white dust blanketed everything. The Silent heaved a sigh of relief as he crossed the threshold of the exit. He felt uncomfortable in the presence of these ancient, yet familiar objects, as if the dust that covered them had swallowed up the living, and no one was left to tell the tale.

  Ahiram followed a narrow, winding passage that veered abruptly on a ten-foot-wide path. He smothered his torch, turned left, and settled into a comfortable jog, for he had a ways to go before reaching the Shipping Hall. The path hugged a series of underground hills within a colossal space that the miners refused to call a cave. Instead, they called it Tanniin Sirind (Dragon’s Hollow) for they thought that only the god himself could have dug such a lair beneath the earth. They refused to mine it, and holding it sacred, they stuck to the path. Arbitrators were convinced that the Undergrounders had hid in the Dragon’s Hollow, but these claims remained unsubstantiated.