Ahiram was Tanios’ star pupil, the best he had ever seen, and tomorrow, by all accounts, he would be dead.
Tanios sighed once more. If only I could take his place, he thought. His affection for the lad was so deep he was willing to lay down his life for him. But this was not to be. Ahiram would enter the mines, perhaps for the last time, not to be seen again.
“Restless, Commander Tanios?” Habael stepped onto the balcony and stood by his friend.
“I am not the only one, I see.”
“A man of my age needs little sleep,” replied Habael, with a smile.
The two men stood there leaning quietly on the stone railing and peered into the night. They seemed to comfort each other without words, as men do sometimes when sharing a burden uncharacteristically heavy. That stubborn lad was taking part in the Games tomorrow, and there was nothing to stop him, except death.
“I have done everything I could to make sure he will be rested and strong for tomorrow. He is sleeping soundly.”
“Thank you, Master Habael.” These words alone brought comfort to Tanios’ soul, yet he could barely restrain a sob. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Do you think he will make it tomorrow?”
Habael looked at Tanios. He then placed his arm on the tall man’s shoulder. “I have never been as hopeful as I am tonight.”
“Why?” vehemently replied Tanios. “Tell me, my friend, how could you be so bold in the face of such a bleak prospect? Surely, you are not ignorant of the threats to his life? The Temple has decided his fate and neither you nor I nor anyone else can stop them.”
“I am all too aware of the Temple’s intent, Commander.” Habael looked up at a sky resplendent with stars. He pointed at one of them, “Amalein, Lantern of Hope. Did you ever wonder why these stars shine so vividly? Night after night, they stand at their appointed places shining brightly, as they ought. There is in this heavenly order, a harmony that gladdens the heart and gives peace to my old age. For beyond these stars, in the confines of the heavens, Amalseer, Undying Hope, shines. It sustains us, even in the face of the most gruesome death. I believe Ahiram will overtake his enemies and come out victorious.”
“Forgive me if I do not share your hope, Master Habael. I am a man of action who has learned to measure risks and determine their outcome. My hope rests on measurable facts. I pay my tribute to the gods, but I do not ask from them what I cannot do myself.”
“Any progress in the case at hand?” asked Master Habael, mostly to give his friend something else to focus on.
The commander grunted. “No woman in the castle is a redhead, so this is rather frustrating.”
“You mean apart from the high priestess?”
“Indeed, and it would be absurd to think that she would be killing her own, just as it would be absurd to think that I would be willing to kill a Silent. So, yes, apart from her there are no other redheads in the castle.”
“Could this woman be someone exterior to the castle?”
“Yes, but I cannot question every redhead in the city. This investigation needs all of my attention, and I confess, I am distracted right now.”
“I understand,” said Habael.
A rooster crowed in the distance. The moon was cresting. Its cold, silver rays splashed the valley beneath with a ghostly glow. A jaybird took its flight, and below in a garden of the King’s castle, a dog barked. Tanios caught himself wishing he had been stuck in a prolonged nightmare that would soon melt away at the rising of the sun, taking with it the Games, Baal and these bloody murders. Yet he knew better. Indeed, he knew better.
Soloron surveyed his men training for battle. The sun had not yet crested the high peaks and a freezing cold wind whipped the soldiers like an impatient taskmaster stirring his slaves into action.
Soloron had relocated the Undergrounders from the mines to this hard-to-access canyon, south of Taniir-The-Strong Castle. Away from prying eyes, he gave his soldiers a proper training, modeled after that of the High Riders but with slight, yet important, modifications.
Being a well-traveled man who had fought under different skies and rulers, he had synthesized what he learned into a unique fighting style that became the Undergrounders’ hallmark.
In the sky, a large vulture was gliding in circles. Probably some beast dying of thirst, thought Soloron, and he imagined the King running away to die of thirst in the scorching heat of the desert. This thought brought a broad smile to his tanned face, where two dark eyes glittered like the deadly gems of Haradoon. His gaze turned back down toward his men. They were ready. His company now numbered in the thousands—a small army that would surprise the King and the Baalites. Suddenly, the imposing frame of Frajil materialized beside him. Soloron, at six feet ten inches was by no means short, but he was dwarfed by his younger brother’s height; at nearly nine feet, he towered over everyone else. Frajil’s shoulders were broader than two strong men standing side-by-side. Still, this giant was quiet like a tiger ready to pounce on its prey.
“Soloron, we ready for chicken.” Seemingly, Frajil had finally understood the hidden meaning of this expression.
“Yes, my dear Frajil, tonight we roast the chicken.”
“No, Soloron. Cook says chicken ready now. I hungry.”
“You want to eat chicken for breakfast?”
“No,” replied Frajil, offended. “I no eat chicken for breakfast. I eat chicken for strength.”
He paused a moment, as though vaguely sensing that, perhaps, “breakfast” had a different meaning than what he had thought. “What is breakfast?” he asked cautiously.
Soloron sighed. “Never mind. Let the men rest and eat.”
“And tonight chicken, too?”
“Yes, Frajil, chicken tonight, too. Now, here is what I want you to do for me. Listen carefully. This is a hard one. I want you to go to the kitchen right now and see if I’m there, and if I’m not, I want you to stay there until you find me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Soloron. I go.”
Frajil nodded energetically before taking off on his new mission. He always liked new and challenging missions, and finding Soloron in the kitchen seemed challenging enough. Soloron sighed, Keeping him busy is getting more and more difficult.
Once Soloron had tricked simple-minded Frajil one way, he could not repeat the trick a second time. Frajil had an incredible memory for these things and would only respond to new challenges, even if they were minute variations of old ones. What this boy needs is some real action, and he will soon get it aplenty. Below, the men were preparing for the seemingly impossible task of storming the castle, dethroning the King, and declaring Soloron the new King of Tanniin. If the Baalites only knew of the little surprise we are preparing for them, thought Soloron with a grin on his face.
Soloron walked back down to the training ground and stepped inside a large cabin where a dozen smiths were at work under the direction of Kerk, the dwarf. They had been working day and night to forge the swords, spears, and arrowheads his men would need. Soloron picked up a finished sword and checked the angle of the blade; he gripped the finely fashioned hilt and felt the weight and balance of the sword by cutting the air with it. He smiled. Kerk was a master at forging and honing swords known for their strength and flexibility.
“Is the artful art of the artistic artists,” asked Kerk, pointing to the blacksmiths, “to the satisfying satisfaction of the commanding commander? I am of the opinionated opinion that she is a most suitably suitable and suitable most suitably for your enterprising enterprise.”
Soloron expressed his agreement with a grin and a bow. He understood the general meaning of the dwarf’s words and did not want to offend him by saying the wrong thing; and with the dwarfs, the wrong thing is usually the part of the sentence he would consider safe. “Master Kerk, you are the best blacksmith I have ever known,” he said cautiously.
Kerk bowed. “Thank you, Commander,” and returned to his work.
Soloron left the smiths and stood outside contemplating
the desert
“Tonight, the throne shall be mine.”
The three previous Games had started from the plaza south of Taniir-The-Strong, but the Game of Meyroon was launched north of the castle, from a square plaza overlooking a narrow and steep canyon. Ramany, expecting a much larger crowd for the fourth and last day, had tasked the slave master in charge of the seating arrangements to speed up the transportation of the benches from the first to the second plaza. The slaves had worked tirelessly through the night to dismantle, carry, and rebuild the benches along the perimeter of the plaza that faced the starting location of the Game. By the time the sun lit the tip of the Lone Tower and even before the last nail had been hammered, the benches were filled to capacity by an eager mass.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, the slaves had raised a smaller platform for the King, high priestess, judges, and the King’s retinue, in the center of the plaza. Twenty feet away, they were putting the finishing touches on a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot wooden ramp which jutted over the edge of the canyon.
To reach the ingress to the Mine of Meyroon, each contender would run along the ramp, picking up speed as they went, and jump into the canyon to catch a rope dangling from an arch thirty feet away. The ramp was gently sloped to direct the athlete’s sight away from the bottom of the canyon which lay some two thousand feet below. A contestant who missed the rope would tumble to his death.
Having caught the rope, they would swing to the other side where they would have to land on a four-foot-wide ledge without slamming into the opposite cliff. Then, they would have to use two more ropes to reach the entrance of the Mine at the opposite end of the Canyon.
The canyon was known as Terim Tanniin—Dragon’s Flight—and anyone who walked along its rims would be struck by the serpentine shape ∿ of its walls. From the spectators’ vantage point, the ledge was located close to the left end-point of the snake-like canyon ∿. Running along this ledge—and not falling into the canyon—the athlete would “take flight” by catching a second rope with which he would cross the first bend. Midway through, he would let go of the second rope, catch a third that would carry him through the second bend and to the right end-point of the canyon where the entrance to the Mine of Meyroon was located. Three ropes were chosen for this Game in honor of El-Windiir, who “flew thrice”, as the locals would say.
Food merchants and sellers of souvenirs walked among the crowd shouting their wares. Some had even managed to create small, wooden figurines of Ahiram. But in the prevailing stillness, their shouts sounded out-of-place as if this was a funeral and they the unwelcome intruders.
The royal procession sat on the raised platform surrounded by the Silent. The athletes stood in a single line facing the King. Jamiir nodded, and eight trumpeters facing each other—four on either side of the royal platform—let out a vibrant shout that cut through the foreboding quietude, signaling the beginning of the Game of Meyroon. Incredibly, the crowd did not applaud, but remained still, and the stillness was so thick that one could distinctly hear the cry of a babe in his mother’s arms high up in the benches. Ahiram lifted his eyes and saw her trying desperately to calm her child. An image flashed back from his memory: his mother sitting under the great tree, consoling him. He looked away, surveying the crowd for friendly faces. Father, if I do not see you alive, may you receive my bones and know that your son fought bravely.
Hiyam glanced at Ahiram, but seeing that he caught her glance, she looked away quickly and regretted it. She glanced at him again and saw that he was staring at her with his annoyingly defiant smile. She tried to sustain his look but could not. Her conscience pricked her. She wanted to believe her mother’s arguments, to be convinced they were noble and good. “Better that a slave dies than Tanniin be crushed,” Bahiya had told her. “The life of a slave is not worth an empire,” she explained, matter-of-factly.
Still, Hiyam could not accept that Ahiram had to pay the price for their peace with his blood. But he is a slave, a thing. He is not even a person. She repeated these words to herself, trying to subdue her conscience, forcing it to accept the Temple’s logic, but like a wild horse, it stubbornly refused. If you were to kill a horse half as good as Ahiram, you would be severely punished, she told herself. You would treat a dog better than they are treating him, and he is the most amazing athlete you have ever seen. Admit it, Hiyam. He is the only one who bested you despite the odds and Baal’s magic.
At long last, the slaves had completed their tasks. The slave master walked the length of the ramp for a final inspection and when he nodded his approval, the trumpets sounded for the second time, and again, only silence answered. The King looked back wondering if the benches were empty or if the people had forgotten about the Games. But no, the benches overflowed with men, women and children staring at him. The King, who had never been close to his people, believed their soundless stance stemmed from a childish disappointment. These people must have heard that the Games are about to be cancelled, he thought, Still, better the Temple cancels the Games than overtake the Kingdom. Had he perceived the years of pent-up frustration, anger, and pain simmering beneath their muted silence, he might have been scared and perhaps would have taken the appropriate corrective actions, for Jamiir was not an ill-intentioned king, but rather a king who expected people to bring their problems to his attention instead of being attentive to the unspoken problems of his subjects. But beyond sorrow and suffering the hush of the crowd carried hope forward like a silent wave about to crash on the Kingdom and overtake it.
The King composed himself and glanced at Bahiya sitting beside him. She was cooling herself with her small, gold-trimmed, ivory fan, one of his many gifts for the high priestess. He wondered if the crowd was offended by the Queen’s absence. Earlier, Ramel had met with Bahiya. “I do not like these Games,” she had explained, “and I would greatly appreciate it if you could do me the honor of standing by the King’s side today.”
King Jamiir looked at Ahiram and breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it would end today. The slave would not come out of the mines alive. The people’s dream would be buried with him, the crowd would disperse, and life under Baal’s shadow would go on. He would have to reassure the Temple of Tannin’s faithfulness, but with Bahiya at his side, it should be a relatively simple procedure.
Then we will all be able to sleep soundly, thought King Jamiir, forgetting the murders still haunting the castle.
The third trumpet blast sounded and did not fare any better than the first two. Only this time, tension filled the air, and the contestants bowed low before the King. There were three teams left in the race: Ahiram, Hiyam and her men, and one team from Quibanxe. The banners of Ahiram were lifted high and all present, except for the King, the high priestess, and the royal retinue, stood up to salute the flag. Then Garu stood, walked to the King and gave him a white silk handkerchief. Jamiir’s hand rose, the athletes parted, and Ahiram stood facing the ramp, readying himself for the final race. Jamiir kept the handkerchief in his hand for a little while longer, enjoying his ability to hold everyone in suspense, and then let it go. It whirled, buoyed by a sudden waft that twirled it rapidly before dropping it abruptly on the crowd.
The trumpets sounded, imperious and commanding. Ahiram leaped forward. A roar of joy answered back. Suddenly, the fervor of the Games was back. The crowd was cheering their champion. Ahiram sped up along the ramp and without hesitation, jumped along an upward arc, and as if to defy the gods, the King, or the Temple, he swung around facing the crowd as he caught the rope single-handedly, and let it carry him backward to the other side.
The crowd rose like a mighty wave and chanted his name. He reached the end of his flight and landed softly on the ledge, bowed and waved. A thunderous clap answered him. He bowed once more, and then looked down.
The view was breathtaking. Deep below, the valley glimmered like a thousand jewels beneath the sun. Straight ahead, the canyon’s vertical walls shone, and above him the limitless sky was calling.
“Oh, how I wish I could fly,” he sang in a low voice. “To taste the free skies before I die, I would shine like snow in the cold winter air and fly, fly away with not a care…I would soar in the empty space away from the golden fields of summer and would know the heavenly grace hidden within the evanescent flower”…He remembered once more that he did not know the rest of the song and had often wanted to ask Jedarc for it. The song was attributed to El-Windiir, and it felt right to give him the credit, even if the Kingdom’s founder had never sung it.
I would have wished to know which flower this was…he thought as he prepared to run. Oddly, the thought that this may be his last time to sing did not scare him. His folks fished sharks, and sometimes the fisherman became the quarry, taken to the depths of the sea by the fearsome beast. He knew he was going against a much more dangerous foe. A shark was not cruel—he was not a monster. No, he thought, sharks are beautiful. Baal is a monster.
An eagle’s screech startled him. He looked up and saw the majestic bird soar lazily above him. A brisk, cold air blew through the canyon, and in that moment, standing alone on the cliff between heaven and earth, Ahiram felt an exhilaration that he had never experienced before. Suddenly, he understood the thrill El-Windiir had felt when, according to the legend, he flew for the first time from the stone slab where Ahiram was now standing.
The Silent backed into the corner where the two sides of the canyon met. It smelled of moss and jasmine. Ahead and above him, an arbitrator stood holding a line tied to the second rope Ahiram would use to cross the first bend of the canyon. The other end of the rope was tied to a pivoting platform set midway through the first arc and as soon as the Silent grabs the rope, a mechanism would be released that would slingshot the rope—and him with it—at dizzying speed into the air.
The Silent closed his eyes and concentrated. The rope swayed gently, eagerly awaiting his embrace. Run like a lion sprinting toward its prey, he thought. He waited until he felt relaxed and ready and then sprinted toward his target. He ignored the walls, the narrow ledge, and the canyon below. As he reached the end of the slab, he jumped straight ahead. The arbitrator let go of the strand just as Ahiram firmly grabbed the rope and began his flight into the curved canyon. As he disappeared from view, the crowd cheered and their cheers filled the valley with a mighty echo. Then, the mechanism holding the other end of the rope was released, and the Silent felt as though his arms were being ripped from his body. The canyon sides became a blur as he was pulled forward with his body in a position nearly parallel to the valley floor.
Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Page 33