Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  Ahiram relaxed his muscles in preparation for what he was about to do. The deadly circle of men was closing in on him. Their swords were raised. He knew he had only one chance to act.

  Before he moved, four Silent materialized behind the men at the top of the stairs. Banimelek, Jedarc, Elio, and Thurun attacked. They were all Ahiram’s classmates, and they were not about to let their friend die at the hands of the High Riders.

  Although taken by surprise, the High Riders reacted quickly. “Run, Ahiram, run!” screamed Banimelek. Ahiram threw an escape dart at the feet of the four men who had been tracking him up the stairs. The dart exploded, forcing the soldiers to a hasty retreat. He threw a second one and burst through the four startled soldiers waiting for him, then sped ahead into a corridor. Seeing no one in pursuit, Ahiram wanted to continue looking for the wings, but just then another group of High Riders raced after him, springing from the shadows. He ran faster, leading his pursuers into a section of the mine that he was not familiar with. Pathways followed one another in a blur, and he knew he was lost.

  Ahiram did not know where he was going, but he had no time to think. Running was all he could do. At the end of one turn, he ended up on a narrow ledge overlooking the river sixty feet below. The waters rushed furiously toward the Eye of Death. Ten High Riders were blocking the exit. This time there was no way out and no tricks. Death in front, death behind, and nowhere to go.

  The men looked at him, grinning. He was now standing at the edge of the cliff. One more move and he would fall.

  “Come on, slave, drop the mask, the belt, and the shoes,” said their leader. “If you do, I’ll kill you swiftly. I promise you won’t suffer.”

  Ahiram removed the shoes, belt, and mask from behind him. They would slow him down during a fight. “Come and get them,” said the Silent in low, tense growl that should have alerted the men of Baal, but they were too proud to fear him.

  The leader sighed, “Your choice, your pain.”

  The High Riders attacked. The first man to reach Ahiram did not see the Silent’s fist but felt as if a battering ram had hit him in the chest. He was thrown back, hit two other soldiers and the force of the impact was so great, the three men fell unconscious. A blade whizzed by. Ahiram caught it between his open palms, clasped it, and twisted so violently that he broke his attacker’s wrist, who fell on his knees holding his injured arm. Then, with a back-kick he threw another High Rider against the wall of the cave. The man crumbled to the floor.

  “Five down, five still standing,” growled Ahiram, his eyes burning with a strange fire. He pointed at his artifacts and smiled at the leader. “Like I said, High Rider, come and get them.”

  Just then, the earth shook violently and the ledge where the Silent stood broke off and fell into the void, taking the slave with him. The man with the injured wrist and another soldier followed him screaming. The remaining four scrambled to safety and managed to hold onto the wall long enough for the earthquake to subside. Carefully, they peered over the ledge but could see only the glimmer of the cold water raging through the bottom of the ravine.

  “He’s gone,” said one of them in jubilation, for the high priestess had promised a hefty prize for whomever killed the slave; and fewer men to report back meant a heftier portion of the reward for the survivors.

  “How convenient,” said another, pointing at the shoes, the belt, and the mask. “He left them right here for us to pick up.”

  “But what if he is not dead?” asked their leader. “We did not see him die. He could come back.”

  “Come back from this?” asked the first man, pointing to the sixty-foot plummet into rushing waters. “Come back alive from the Eye of Death? Are you out of your mind? No man who has fallen into these waters has ever been found again.”

  “Except one,” muttered their leader.

  “So, what would you have us do? Go down and search for him?”

  Their leader scratched his head once more. “I suppose not.”

  “What do we do with them?” asked a soldier, pointing at their four unconscious companions.

  His leader smiled. “Do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. After all, why split a prize among seven when you can split it between four?” The other three men laughed. “Pick up the artifacts,” he ordered as he walked to the tattered edge and peered down. Black, swift waters glittered far below. “Let’s go. Lady Hiyam is waiting for us. She needs the mask to win.” They left, patting one another on the back, their mission accomplished.

  “Come on, Hiyam. We need to move.”

  Hiyam looked at her team members, who were waiting for her. She was standing in front of a large boulder in the waters of purification. Her heart was heavy, and she had lost all interest in the Games. Notwithstanding, what her mother had told her, she could not bring herself to believe that Ahiram’s assassination was carried out for the common good. The boulder seemed light as a feather compared to the weight on her conscience. Her men were not aware of the slave’s fate, or if they were, they did not let it worry them. They were still in the Games wanting to win and understandably so. Honor and rewards awaited them, both here and back home.

  Hiyam moved away from the boulder toward the staircase. As she climbed, she heard her teammates speaking softly. She knew all too well what they were saying; how she had deliberately slowed their progress when they were trying to enter the cave. How she trailed last and forced them to move at a snail’s pace.

  None of this matters anymore. I am no longer a High Rider. Ahiram, you won. I will quit and leave Baalbeck.

  She dreaded being present when the men of Baal were accomplishing their dark deed. As she moved up the stairs, she hoped to catch up to Ahiram. She hoped to see him in front of her, but it did not happen. Predictably, her team was able to find a pair of wings judiciously placed. Her heart sank low when she saw the mask of gold waiting for her nearby. Her team members picked it up; they knew where it came from.

  The day-long crossing of the mine was uneventful. Nothing seemed to stop their impending victory. As they were about to reach the exit, their voices rose and they relaxed. They were already appreciating the sweet taste of victory. Too much sweet is bitter, thought Hiyam, as she approached the exit. She braced herself for the hardest part of this Game: the compliments. She wondered if she would be able to listen to them without screaming as they enumerated all her accomplishments.

  “So?” asked Hylâz.

  “So, what?” replied Ramany, with a tone of voice that attempted to be patient but failed. He knew all too well what was coming.

  “What are we to do? We are positively in violation of the rules.”

  “Which rule?” asked Ramany, hoping against all hope that Hylâz would profess his ignorance.

  “Rule 64, first part, second subpart, which states that no winner can be declared without the four judges being present to witness the victory,” Hylâz was offended that Ramany would show such lack of appreciation of the crisis at hand. “Neither Garu nor Ibromaliöm have been seen since this morning, and they are nowhere to be found. Hence, it is reasonable to surmise that they will not come any time soon. So, we are in violation of the rule, and I would venture to say that the situation is now serious. I would in fact say that the situation is very, very grave.”

  “What must we do?”

  “The rule on this point is clear: four judges must preside for the declaration of a winner. We are two. Which means we are lacking two.”

  “Does the rule explicitly mention four distinct judges? Is it possible for two judges to act as four?”

  “The rule is not explicit, but if your argument applies, then we could, as a corollary, deduce that one man could act as four judges, and if this be so, then a further reduction would mean that no man can act as four judges. Since this logical conclusion is logically ridiculous, it must follow that the presupposition is ridiculous, logically speaking, that is.”

  “Why are you speaking in dwarfish?”

  “Pardon?”

&n
bsp; Ramany sighed. “Never mind. So what do you suggest?”

  “This is what I have asked you. You are the senior member now, thus I must defer to you,” said Hylâz.

  “I know what to do,” replied Ramany with a loud voice. He caught himself and continued more quietly. “We shall declare you, my dear Hylâz, the lead judge and defer to you to solve this difficult and important matter.” Ramany smiled and stood tall. He was proud of himself for finding such an easy way out.

  “I accept the honor,” replied Hylâz. A moment of silence followed. Hylâz raised his hand before continuing. “As lead judge, I decree the following in conformance with the rules and regulations of the Games. Given that four judges are requisite for passing a proper judgment, and given that no proper extraneous conditions were set in the choosing of said judges; I solemnly decree that you, Ramany, shall go forth and choose two men worthy of this high office who would replace the deserters in this most important and noble task. Go, henceforth, my dear Judge, and complete this task worthily.”

  Having said that, Hylâz turned around and walked out of the cave. Ramany was stumped. He thought he got himself out of trouble only to find that he was in deeper trouble. Frustrated by the whole affair, he walked toward the crowd and picked the first two men he saw. “You and you will be judges with us tonight to determine who the winner shall be. Follow me.” Frajil looked at Ramany with a dazed expression on his face. The short, fat man standing by his side looked at him and said, “Did he say we are judges now?” Frajil emitted a sound that mimicked the grunt of a gorilla. The short man took it for a “yes.” He straightened his posture and followed Ramany. Seeing that Frajil had not moved, he gestured impatiently. Frajil recognized the gesture and followed them while his brain struggled to make sense of what had just happened to him.

  “Ah, my dear Ramany, I see that you have carried out your mission with alacrity and zeal. I am proud of you. Now, whom do we have here as judges of the Games of the Mines?”

  “I am Birg Zamil, purveyor of pork,” answered the short, fat man.

  “Well, my dear Birg Zamil, you will assist us in the important task of conferring the palm of victory to the winner. And who do we have here?” continued Hylâz after a slight hesitation. Somehow, he did not feel reassured in the presence of this giant.

  “Frajil.”

  “Well, my dear Frajil, you too are invited to participate in this august mission.” Hylâz took a step back when the same gorilla-like grunt came forth from Frajil.

  “So, Master Hylâz, what are we supposed to do?” asked Birg Zamil, who took his mission to heart.

  “Well, my dear friend, when a team comes out of these caves, we verify that it has in its possession each of the duly authorized and stamped artifacts: a pair of wings, a golden mask, a silver belt, and a pair of bronze shoes. Then, after careful and attentive examination of said artifacts, we convene, confabulate, and decree that the stamped artifacts are indeed authentic; and we have a winner. In the unlikely event that the artifacts are fraudulent, we shall solemnly declare said team disqualified and in a state of dissolution. Is this clear?”

  “Amply so, Master Hylâz,” answered Birg, who was starting to feel comfortable in his role as judge. For once, he wasn’t talking about pork and the various ways to cook it, and this alone procured Birg happiness, even if the words of Hylâz sounded like gibberish to his ears.

  Frajil had remained motionless. He was debating whether to hit someone or not. This was his habitual reaction to events he did not understand. Since most events were beyond his grasp, he was in the habit of hitting lots of folks, unless his brother, Soloron, was there to mediate between the world and his brother’s mind. Frajil felt at home mostly when dealing with chicken, in battles, and in one-on-one combat. Everything else seemed strange and complicated. Nevertheless, this case was different.

  “Tiny man makes noise. Hit tiny man,” reasoned the giant. “But tiny man smiled, so no hit tiny man.” Given that no one provoked him, and no one shouted his name, Frajil had to admit, reluctantly, that Hylâz was not fighting him. Still, the situation was aggravating and he needed something to soothe his nerves. Frantically, he surveyed the area in search of someone to hit, but found no one besides Hylâz in close proximity. And so, Frajil remained in an unsteady state, oscillating between wanting to hit Hylâz and not wanting to hit him.

  At last, a team surged from the mine. The crowd stood up like one man. It was Hiyam and her men. The expectant crowd hushed immediately, its spirit sinking like a shipwreck being swallowed by dark waters. One-by-one, the proud folks of Tanniin walked away. Hiyam wished she could shut her ears for their silence was dreadful. The sun slipped below the mountains, bloodying the sky, and beneath that fiery red of this late summer day, the crowd processed as if in a funeral. They passed her by with sullen, empty faces. She looked down and clenched her fists. Hylâz came forward and asked to see the complete set of artifacts, and received them from one of her teammates. Hiyam was so grieved she failed to notice the new judges.

  “Gentlemen,” said Hylâz, exhibiting the artifacts to the three other judges, “I have examined each of these objects, and they all bear the stamp of this year’s Game. I am proud to declare that the team of Baal has won. What say you?”

  “I agree,” answered Ramany. He did not like the crowd’s behavior and wanted the whole thing done and over with as quickly as possible.

  “I agree,” echoed Birg, trying to imitate Ramany’s authoritarian tone.

  The three men waited for Frajil, who seemed lost in deep thought.

  “Well, my dear friend, what do you say? Do we have a winner?”

  Now, “winner” is a word Frajil understood all too well, but it was never put to him in an interrogative mode. That threw him off and kept him undecided. He grunted prudently. Hylâz took it for a “yes.”

  “We have a winner,” he declared.

  He went back to the team of Baal and congratulated Hiyam, declaring her champion of the Games. Her teammates lifted her onto their shoulders despite her protests and carried her to the King’s castle. Shortly thereafter, the team from Quibanxe came out with a pair of wings, and Hylâz conferred upon them second place.

  Ramany sighed. He was relieved. It was done. They could go back to the castle and forget about the entire matter. Tonight there would be rejoicing and much food, and tomorrow he would be able to return to his hometown and his peaceful life.

  Long after everyone left, Frajil remained motionless in the deserted place. By not hitting anyone, he felt he had accomplished a great thing. Suddenly hungry, he went to the taverns in search of something to eat.

  The plaza stood abandoned. Slowly, darkness overtook sky, moon and stars, and in this foreboding silence, a man walked out of the cave. He stopped and feverishly inspected the package he was carrying.

  “I have it,” he whispered. “I own the libre. Those who will read the Shimea shall number by the thousands. They shall read and be cursed; they will die a horrible death. But no matter. Bit by bit, they will uncover the content of the Shimea for me, and I, I alone shall wield the power of the Ithyl Shimea to break asunder the bonds of Baal.”

  He laughed a wiry, maddening laugh, then leaping forward, he sprinted away leaving behind him a thin trail of blood.

  “Magic is complex. Young apprentices believe their magic to be self-contained and self-sufficient; its beginning and end under their control. Their elation would be amusing, and their joy bearable, if the truth was less tragic.

  “A modicum of experience teaches them that magic is a thread in a complex web spun by the god they have entreated. Those foolish enough to believe in magic without the gods put others in mortal danger. Magic is a dialogue with the god who, ultimately, controls the magician.

  “Sureï said: ‘Magic begets magic. To obtain what he seeks, a magician must play the gods against one another. If he fails, his magic will start a chain reaction that is almost always tragic.’

  “A great magician uses magic reluctant
ly.”

  –Teaching of Oreg, High Priest of Baal

  Ahiram fell headlong into the river. He felt his breath driven from him and nearly lost consciousness, but his training kicked in and stayed the initial panic. He avoided thrashing and focused on orientation. A short moment later, he burst through the surface gasping for air. The water was freezing, and he knew it would be even colder once it flowed underground. Behind him, the two men of Baal were doing all they could to keep their heads above the raging flow. He could see they were terrified. Soon, the water would swallow them all, drowning them in the Eye of Death, the underground pass through which the water surges before emerging in the open on its way to the northern forests of Tanniin.

  Ahiram looked around, but there was little he could do. The strong current kept him away from the walls, and his fingers were numb. He could barely keep his head above water and was inexorably dragged toward the submerged passage. The current’s power grew, and he could feel the rushing waters around him gathering strength, ready to entomb him in the darkness of the pit. He tried frantically to do something to move away from the Eye of Death. He wanted to swim against the current but could barely move. He was getting closer and closer to the pit, and he was terrified. By now, the water’s pull was so great he could barely keep himself afloat. He looked ahead and saw the end of the flow. He took a deep breath and sunk beneath the surface.

  The men of Baal who had seen Ahiram’s plunge were at the bar in the Shining Tavern, oblivious of their surroundings. The high priestess did not receive them when they came back to announce that the slave was dead. As far as they were concerned, killing a slave was nothing to fuss about, but the reward gladdened their hearts: three gold libna each, which was enough to purchase fifty young slaves. This was far beyond what they had expected. They drank to her health, their health, and the health of every dead slave they had ever known.