Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  The shadow was gone. He looked again and there it was. Ahiram waited, wondering if a beast haunted this wretched place, but no; there was no one else. Cautiously, he inched along and felt the passage turning left. Emerging from the turn, he saw the shadow again, but it was not a shadow. It was an area that, although dark, was a shade lighter than his immediate surroundings. I am getting closer to a source of light.

  This thought galvanized him, and he moved forward with renewed energy. He dragged himself through the narrow passage and continued without interruption. He could see something ahead; he must have been nearing the exit. Now he could see his left hand gripping the rock ahead of him. The difference between shadow and light sharpened further, and the contour of the exit appeared: a ragged circle beyond which light flickered. He drew closer and finally managed to push through, landing on a smooth, flat surface.

  To his left he saw a wall whose wide door had been condemned by rocks, standing precariously. He looked to his right and would have jumped from fright if he could, for a dragon, jaws wide-open, was inches away from him. Ahiram retreated inside the hole so quickly that he scraped his elbows against the rocks. He expected the mighty beast to roar and scorch him to death, but nothing happened.

  What is it doing? he wondered, as he waited for the fiery breath. Why is Tanniin not…then a thought hit him. What is Tanniin doing here in the first place? Have I reached the abode of the god?

  This thought struck him as incongruous, for the rocks around him looked and felt like ordinary rocks. Cautiously, he moved forward and glanced at the face of the beast. It had not moved. A statue. It’s a statue of Tanniin. Relieved, Ahiram chuckled silently and derided his own gullibility.

  He wiggled out of the underground passage one more time. He tried to stand, but his aching muscles would not obey. He lay on his back not knowing who to thank for his incredible fortune. He could not shake the feeling that someone was watching over him.

  The dragon’s face belonged to a statue of bronze. The dragon was crouching on the marble face of a plinth, while his elongated neck dove down, curling completely around the pedestal so that the head lay on the ground. Oddly, the extended wings were too short for the huge body.

  I have not been in this part of the mines before, thought Ahiram.

  He felt something poking him in the back, touched it, and smiled. Master Habael, he thought unbuckling his belt, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me. Wearily, Ahiram managed to sit down and examined his belt. The pockets had weathered the water rather well. He remembered dropping the pouch of flour and salt Master Habael had given him during the Game of Meyroon, but the two vials were still with him, and they were intact.

  So that’s what was pushing against my back, he thought as he pulled them out of the snug pocket. He drank the content of the first one, and the special mixture of assin and timrand rejuvenated him. The second contained a dark, thick liquid. He took some and rubbed it on his aching shoulder. Soon, he felt his strength come back. He rose and forced himself to pace. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of a monumental door left ajar. A flickering light was seeping through.

  There are burning torches here, he thought as his mind cleared. I must not be alone.

  Quickly, Ahiram locked his belt in place, and staying in the shadow of the wall, moved forward. As he examined the cave with renewed attention, he realized that he was standing in an underground temple dedicated to Tanniin. The statue he had seen faced an identical statue across what must have been the main body of the sanctuary. As he walked toward the massive door, he reached a second set of statues, much bigger than the first two, and he saw a side altar with a basket and an open jar.

  Someone worships here, he thought, shocked. He realized then that the Temple of Baal had not managed to eradicate the worship of other gods, and he wondered if this was something unique to Tanniin, or widespread across the land.

  As he drew closer to the door, he saw four red blotches on the four corners of the door and he knew it was blood. Someone performed a blood offering here? he thought, dumbfounded. Who, and for what purpose?

  As he crossed between the statues, he saw a smaller open door. He peered inside, but saw only the beginning of a path slanting upward. He inspected the ground and noticed that the door had rapped against the tiles, pushing back the dust.

  This door has been opened very recently. So, whoever made this offering must have come through this passage, and since this door is still open, they have not left.

  Silently, Ahiram reached the large door. The handle was shaped in the form of a dragon with two bullhorns sticking out of its tail. Something throbbed inside the room; something that made his heart beat a little faster. He peeked inside, and seeing no one, walked into a hallway hewn out of the rock and left unfinished. Six burning torches lit the narrow passage. The walls were jagged and coarse, and the floor was partially covered with slabs. Otherwise, the hallway was bare. Seeing footsteps, he knelt to examine them.

  Two men, one with a heavy gait were here, and a woman. These imprints could only have been made by shoes worn by a member of the royal court. She fell, and I can’t make out what else happened here. He backtracked, chiding himself for walking over the footsteps. Still, he figured out that one of them left in a hurry, and the other carried the woman away. He stepped back out and examined the ground around the smaller door. They left the way they came. Wait, what are those? Bending a knee, he examined a fourth set of imprints he had noticed before. Judging from their position, this fourth person did not come with the group. I don’t recognize this pattern, but they belong to either a woman or a small man.

  Ahiram stood up and surveyed the large, empty temple. Is it plain coincidence that all of this is happening on the fourth day of the Game? What are all these people doing here and what’s behind that door, anyway?

  Only the oppressive silence answered. Deep within the earth, nothing lived, and nothing moved. The two statues of Tanniin glittered in the dim light as if they were trying to come alive. I need to get out of here, he thought. A loud popping noise coming from the two statues shattered the silence and startled him. Instinctively, he jumped back inside the hallway just when an arc of dark light shot up from the temple’s ground and hit the spot where he had been standing a moment ago. A powerful gust of air hit him like a mighty fist and sent him tumbling inside the room. The door slammed shut and the light went out. Laying on the ground in the darkness, Ahiram heard a high-pitched screech drowned by a stronger roar as if two warriors, tall as mountains, had just been awakened. Afraid and confused, he crawled backward until he slammed into the back wall. The raging screams outside had turned into a verbal duel. Words of power were being spoken in a language he did not know, nor did he care to learn: the words were like blades meant to subdue and kill. Something slammed against the door. Ahiram felt the ground shake and rose to his feet. The deafening roar reached a new pitch. Ahiram covered his ears just as a blinding light flashed in the temple outside. It lit the outline of the door and in that brief moment Ahiram saw that the door was smoldering. Suddenly, the light went out and with it the uproar, as if the eternal silence of the mountains, patient like a spider, had once more swallowed the living.

  What is happening? wondered the shaken Silent, There is some high magic at work here. He recalled the words he had heard during the Game of Silver, “I am the Urkuun of the Ninth Order. Soon, you will know me as your master.” If this Urkuun fired that bolt, then who is he fighting with? Tanniin? Standing motionless, he waited, wondering if the door would shatter under a renewed attack. Time went by and the silence became once more oppressive. Ahiram closed his eyes, and relaxing his stance, he leaned his back against the wall and let his hands run softly against the cool surface of the rock. When he opened his eyes, he jumped away from the wall: the room was now illuminated by a soft, yellowish glow streaming from a spot high above the wall he had been leaning against. Fearing an attack inside the small room, he tried to open the door, but it would not b
udge. Turning slowly, the Silent expected another blast, but instead, the gentle light began to throb like a star shining in the dark. There are no stars beneath the surface of the Earth. The shining object hovered high above him. Ahiram squinted but could not make out the contour of the mysterious artifact. Tired of looking up, he lowered his gaze, then closed his eyes to rub them. In that moment, an image formed in his mind: the clear image of a symbol. He knew he had to call to it, even though he did not know why. Seeing the symbol, he knew its name as if it had been a long forgotten word he should have known all along. Extending his arm, he said, “Taw.”

  A blinding flash, a wave of heat. The light went out. Then nothing.

  He felt something cold in his open palm. Immediately, the object glowed softly, and Ahiram saw that he was holding a gold tile. It was an inch wide by three inches long and could not have been more than a quarter of an inch thick. The symbol T was etched on it. The back of the tile was smooth with no markings.

  Is this a taw? he wondered. What’s a taw anyway? Dazed and in shock, as if in a dream, Ahiram looked at the symbol intently, and he saw himself back at the beach with Hoda on that fateful day when Yem took him away from home. There had been a flash, and then…I have seen this symbol before, he thought. But when exactly? He had forgotten what had happened on the beach that day, and had forgotten that Hoda had been with him.

  “What are you?” he asked the object, “and why did you come to me?” A long, mournful, creaking sound responded just as the entire back wall came crashing down, taking with it most of the hall and leaving only a thin ledge where Ahiram stood, mere inches from the main door which was still very hot. He waited in silence, half expecting the Urkuun, or some other unnamed creature, to leap forward, but nothing happened. The ledge where he stood was now over sixty feet above the ground of a large cave.

  “Master Sharr, Master Sharr!”

  Kalibaal was running. The Inner Circle had not seen a priest run for as long as the Temple of Baal Majaar had stood.

  “I have seen it, Kalibaal,” said Sharr, opening his eyes. He stepped away from the swirling pool. “The Seer has found the first Letter of Power.”

  “Is this the end, master?” asked Kalibaal, wide-eyed. “Can he defeat the Urkuun?”

  “If he knows how to use the Letter, he might,” replied Sharr. “The Letters are powerful, but they are useless if he does not know how to handle them. Now that he has the first Letter in his possession, the Béghôm will find him in short order, and no man can withstand the crushing power of this beast. But even if he does, the Urkuun will kill him. The Seer is most likely inexperienced. He will not survive.”

  “What if he does?” asked Kalibaal. “What then?”

  “Then, may Baal help us, for we would have to unleash the unthinkable.”

  Kalibaal bowed down and quickly left the icy Inner Room. He needed time to think, to reflect. He stepped outside and found a quiet spot between two palm trees behind the temple. The moon was now rising, casting a pale light on the suspended gardens of Babylon.

  “All of this,” he said, speaking haltingly, “all of this doomed to…”

  He did not finish his sentence. Despite Sharr’s forceful words, he felt he was living in the last days: that soon, the heavens would be rolled back, and the Seer would scorch the earth, turning it into a land of unbearable desolation.

  Jethro could not believe his eyes. He did not want to believe what he was seeing. His back against the cold, smooth wall of the Library, the warden could not tear his gaze away from the medallion. Like a thief in a treasure-filled cave who was caught by a guardian spirit, he stood mesmerized by the Merilian that had just turned bright red, as if it were the eye of an invisible beast about to devour him. The color intensified and turned to bright white. Jethro moaned, recalling the fate of Rahaak, the high priest, who six years ago, nearly to the day, dared to defy Sureï’s curse and was killed by a white beam from the medallion.

  “The gods be cursed,” spat the frail, old man, “I am not going to die here, I will not die here.”

  Slowly, carefully, his back to the wall like a slug before a frog, he slid along the wall, keeping his eye on the bright source of light, he inched his way toward the exit and just as he was about to leave, the white light died down. Startled, Jethro stopped and watched breathlessly, dreading the moment when a high-pitched scream and beam of light would fill the Library, as it had done before.

  Unable to move, he glanced quickly at the open door, a mere three feet away. Fear pinned him to the wall like an insect to a spider’s web, and he could not get his legs to obey him. Time passed and the face of the Merilian had assumed once more its unremarkable, dull and dark appearance. Like a dragon who just closed his eyes, thought the warden of the Office of the Librarian, but who is ready to pounce without notice.

  “Jethro,” called a woman, “are you alright?”

  The warden swallowed with great difficulty and whispered, “Help me, please.” As the woman helped him leave the library, Jethro knew he would live to see another day, and for this, he was grateful.

  About the same time, five thousand miles northeast of the Library, a small, plain wooden box began shaking and rattling as if it were a miniaturized earthquake. Ashod quickly looked up from his study and watched it with great attention.

  The Merilian Hoda brought with her is awakening. So, the Seer is alive, and he has managed to find a Letter of Power. Did he survive Sureï’s curse? Could he have found one of the few letters which were not cursed?

  The box stopped abruptly. Ashod kept looking at it, trying to make sense of what had just taken place. Is he dead? Or was the Merilian trying to send a signal we do not know how to interpret? He sighed. It all begins now. Everything is about to change. May the gods have pity on us.

  What now? wondered Ahiram, “Is there an end to this?” His voice echoed in the cave.

  An awful noise answered him; the smashing, grinding, breaking cacophony that rock and wood make just before a collapse, and Ahiram knew that the door behind him was about to shatter. He jumped over the ledge, landing on a small platform below where he found a series of uneven stairs. He bounded down the steps, reached the bottom, and hid behind a large boulder when the keystone holding the hallway’s roof shattered. The noise was deafening, and the avalanche of rocks that followed filled the cave with dust and debris.

  Coughing and sneezing in the cloud of dust, he stumbled forward, feeling his way in the ambient darkness, for he could see very little. He knew the hallway was gone and wondered if the temple survived or whether the entire structure had been flattened. He thought about the narrow passage he had climbed through and shuddered. This avalanche may have slammed it shut, he thought.

  Slowly, he began to recognize various shapes. For a faint light suffused the entire cave, seeping from somewhere high above. After a while, the dust settled and the air cleared. The bare cave was circular with a thirty-foot-wide wrought iron gate that closed a side alcove, which alone was bathed in light. On a bronze platform, four silver dragons carried a gold sarcophagus. Ahiram gasped. Here, before him, in this lost corner of the mines, was El-Windiir’s resting place, the place where the founder of the kingdom slept, undisturbed for close to three thousand years.

  “If the legend is true,” whispered Ahiram, still unable to believe what he was seeing, “then his weapons may still be there…inside the sarcophagus.” Ahiram forgot his weariness, his fear, and his anguish. With renewed hope, he approached the tomb.

  “All along,” he said as if speaking to the dead king, “for all this time, your shoes of bronze, the real shoes, and your belt of silver, the gold mask, and the wings of meyroon have been here, under the city. And here I am, a slave, like you were, El-Windiir, and I found them. It’s as if you wanted me to find them.” He spoke softly as he slid the gold tile into his pocket. Slowly, he climbed a short flight of stairs, seven steps in total, and stood before the massive gate. Fortunately, it had no locks and despite its antiquity, it pivot
ed on its hinges with a grating sound. He entered the alcove and drew closer to the sarcophagus. The long side facing him depicted an army fighting a tall monster which Ahiram did not recognize. The leader of the army stood next to a slain standard bearer, while arrows flew overhead. A gleaming sword in hand, he was pointing to the monster as he looked back at his men. Ahiram walked around with deliberate slowness. On the shorter side, he saw a gold mask whose features vaguely resembled that of a dragon. On the second long panel, Ahiram saw the leader, who faced the monster, kneeling before a woman holding a cup. Behind them, a group of women stood holding the man’s sword.

  The last panel had three pairs of wings on it.

  Ahiram lay a trembling hand on its cold surface and recollected himself. Resolutely and aware of what he was about to do, he climbed onto the bronze platform between two of the silver statues. He leaned on the sarcophagus’ lid and pushed strenuously, expecting it to resist. To his surprise, it moved along hidden rails, producing a screeching sound. He pushed once more, revealing its contents.

  He peered inside and saw the skeletal remains of the mighty warrior in full military attire. His sword had slid and fallen to his side. The skull was covered with a mask of gold, the waist had a belt made of silver, and the feet still wore shoes of bronze.

  “The tomb of El-Windiir,” he whispered. “Could it be true?” He wished his friends were with him to share in the excitement. They must think I am dead by now, he thought. Well, they’re in for a surprise.

  Deeply moved by the remains of the man who had been an anchor of hope for him, he leaned over, and careful not to disturb the peace of the legendary hero, brought the sword out of the tomb. Something shot up swiftly in a trail of dazzling colors. Ahiram looked up and beheld a pair of wings floating gently in the air. They were made of the darkest material he had ever seen, and radiated a blue light, clear as the day.