Jedarc ignored the jibe.
“What’s this all about?” asked Sondra.
“Jedarc is in looove,” cooed Banimelek.
“Tinantel? You fell for a gray owl?” Sondra whacked him on the head.
“Stop it. This is serious business.”
“Looove is a serious business,” chirped Banimelek.
“I mean rescuing her,” said Jedarc.
“Why do you call him Tinantel?” asked Sheheluth. Her eyes darted from left to right, and she jumped when she heard something roll down a nearby tree. It was an acorn.
Sondra gave her a wide grin that lit her ordinarily stoic, dark-skinned face.“In my language, Tinantel means Light Foot. Most Silent call Jedarc His Highness or Prince Jedarc, but I call him Tinantel because he is quick on his feet.”
“Stop giving me this prince title, all right?” He leaned forward and exposed his hand to the hail but retracted it quickly. “That hurts.”
“Hail the size of pigeon eggs.” said Sondra, “It can seriously hurt you.” She placed a protective arm around Sheheluth’s shoulders and smiled again. Sheheluth relaxed.
“I know this is your first mission. Tinantel may be as dull as a porcupine when it comes to choosing a mate, but he’s not stupid when choosing teammates.”
“So, why did he pick two girls to be on the team?”
Sondra raised her left eyebrow but managed to keep her smile in place. She could tell the young girl was nervous and worried. “Well, we’re going to rescue Hiyam, and she is the priestess’ daughter. How would you like it if a bunch of smelly guys rescued you?”
“Hey, I’m not smelly, okay?” complained Jedarc. “I am as fresh as the breeze. Now Banimelek …”
Banimelek did not reply. He was used to his friend’s banter and could immediately tell when the lanky blond Silent was serious or facetious.
Sheheluth pursed her lips and managed a timid grin.
“Smelly guys. That makes sense.”
“I was joking,” explained Sondra.
“Oh, I see. I noticed the three of you joke a lot. It’s childish. That’s surprising for an elite corps. I thought you would be more serious.”
Sondra chuckled. “That’s because you’ve never been in mortal danger. ‘A Silent who cannot make light of his enemy has lost the battle. A somber Silent is a dead Silent.’ The Book of Lamentation, chapter twelve, verse one,” she replied. “The Corps takes humor seriously. It’s one of our hidden weapons.”
Sheheluth blushed. “Do the boys care as much about cleanliness?”
Sondra chuckled. “Tinantel and Faernor are not too bad.”
“Tinantel is Jedarc, so Faernor is Banimelek, right?”
“You catch on quickly. That’s right. Faernor means Wolf-bear.”
“Suits him well,” said Sheheluth. “So tell me Sondra, do they really care about cleanliness?”
“They’re decent all right. Now, Ahiram, well he’s something else. He’s a stickler for cleanliness. When he washes a dish, he first scrubs it as if he were sanding it down. Next, he runs his fingers on its surface to make sure there are no particles still stuck to it. If the poor dish passes these two tests, he smells it like a dog hounding a squirrel, and if it smells fresh, he dries it. Then, he runs his fingers again over its surface and it must squeak. Believe it or not, if it does not squeak he goes through the whole operation again.”
“Oh, and does he do the dishes often?”
“No!” exclaimed all three Silent.
“Categorically, no,” added Jedarc. “When he does the dishes we don’t get to eat, the servants don’t get to eat, and the slaves don’t get to sleep. It takes him ten times longer to do the dishes. We don’t let him do it.”
“We work around him,” Banimelek explained. “If he ends up with the kitchen chore, then we take it away from him.”
“Who? The Silent?”
“Yes,” confirmed Sondra, “and the servants, and the slaves, and Master Habael. You don’t want Ahiram doing the dishes. Everyone in the castle from the King on down will hear about it. It’s dreadful.”
The three older Silent shared a chuckle at the thought of Ahiram complaining loudly about dirty dishes.
Sheheluth smiled. “You said when he does the dishes, not when he did the dishes, which means you believe he is still alive.”
Sondra nodded.
“He doesn’t die easily.”
“Still, I’m just a beginner, I don’t know much, and—”
“So begin then,” said Sondra. “That’s a good place as any to start, besides, you’ve got nothing to fear. Faernor is with us.”
“That’s … Banimelek, right?”
“That’s right. Wolf-bear.”
“He is very strong. He scares me.”
“You’d do well to feel that way. He’s quiet as a reed when the sun shines but quick to anger when darts fly.”
Sheheluth smiled.“I like how you speak of them, Sondra. I think I am going to come up with a good name for you.” Sondra grinned and shrugged her shoulders. Encouraged, Sheheluth prodded further. “So, do you have a name for Ahiram?”
Sondra stayed silent for a long time, then fixed her big black eyes on Sheheluth. “Alendiir,” she said finally. “Blazing Fire.”
Ahiram woke up shivering and confused. He saw high walls that vanished into darkness above, and a pair of glittering wings rotating overhead.The wings of Tanniin.
He sat and rubbed his arms. During the preceding commotion and excitement, he had not noticed how cold the cave was. He gave his legs a vigorous rub, got up and stretched, then went over to the sarcophagus just as a bright flash lit the cave. He heard a faint rumble. Thunder. This room must be closer to the mountainside than I thought. The dwarfs must have designed hidden shafts to allow light into this cave. All right, no more nonsense, no more questions. I’ve got to reach the surface.
Resolutely, he climbed back up to the tomb. Quickly, but respectfully, he removed the mask of gold, the belt of silver, and the shoes of bronze, and laid them neatly at the base of the tomb near the sword. His search for a sheath proved to be in vain. Gently, he slid the cover back in place and bowed three times to honor the dead hero. He went back down and began a careful examination of the artifacts when he felt a light touch against his shoulder. He jerked his elbow back and turned around, expecting to see the men of Baal, but there was no one. Someone touched me. He stood abruptly, his nerves on edge. Who just touched me?
He eyed the sarcophagus’ cover, wondering if somehow the hero of legends had managed to come back to life. Stop it, Ahiram, stop it. The dead do not come back to life.
Once more, he felt something brush his shoulders lightly and his hand moved swiftly, trying to catch the perpetrator, but caught nothing. He whirled around, and once more, saw no one.
Is it magic? Is someone using a cloak to hide himself from me? He went back to his breathing exercises, forcing himself to calm down and clear his head. Think Ahiram, review the facts. I felt someone touch me twice in the same spot. This sounded odd. Why would someone try to touch my shoulders? This makes no sense. He smiled wryly. Well, let’s see what they will do now. Quickly, he backed into the wall. Unless they can reach through walls, I will be able to see them.
He did not have long to wait. Something fluttered down from the ceiling, something dark with a brilliant blue halo and rested on his right shoulder. Ahiram laughed, chiding himself. The wings, how silly of me. I guess removing artifacts from a dead body would make anyone nervous. He barely touched the strange object when it fell limply on his shoulder. Gently, he held them to the dim light. Each wing was one foot long and made of two impossibly thin, seamless sheets of blue steel that were joined by three golden scarabs.
This is meyroon, then. He ran his hand over their surface. They felt as soft and smooth as velvet and were warm to the touch. And although they were as light as feathers and pliable like reeds, he knew they were harder than Damascus steel.
“No wonder meyroon is pri
zed in all the kingdoms,” he whispered. “Now, how do I use these wings?” There were no straps, no threads, nothing to tie or clasp them. Carefully, he returned them to his shoulders where they had landed. Slowly he moved away from the wall and looked up. Instantly, the wings settled between his shoulder blades. He felt a lightning bolt jolt down his spine. The experience was jarring but not painful. Reinvigorated, he willed to go up, but nothing happened.
“Up,” he whispered.
Nothing happened.
“Up!” he commanded.
Still, nothing happened.
“Ah, I bet I need the belt and the shoes. Time to try the power of El-Windiir.” He grabbed the shoes and felt them, amazed by their suppleness. They resembled leather more so than metal.
“These are no ordinary shoes,” he whispered. Their surface was as smooth as bronze beaten by a master smith; and being open-toed, they were more like sandals than boots.Hum … they’re wide, made for big feet, unless … He went back to the sarcophagus, slid the cover open once more, and glanced inside the tomb. Judging by El-Windiir’s skeleton, these bronze shoes were too big for him … I wonder … He closed the sarcophagus, bowed three times, stepped back down, and slid the shoes of bronze over his own leather boots. They fit snugly. Makes sense.
He buckled the belt of silver onto his waist and strapped the mask around his head—he did not set it on his face, perhaps because it was hard to see anything in the cave as it was. Ahiram willed to go up. He felt a wave of heat radiate from the shoes and felt a slight tightening of the belt. Suddenly, he was airborne, and moved slowly upward.
“I’m flying!” he shouted.
Elated, he arched his back in an attempt to execute a flip, but only managed to complete three-quarters of a rotation. He ended up flying face down with his arms and legs dangling beneath him.
Not dignified. He still moved upward. He tried to stand in the air but ended up on his back with arms and legs flailing widely.
“Stop!” he said.
He nearly fell to his death.
“Fly, fly!”
He immediately shot back toward the roof of the massive cave.
“Slow down!” he ordered as the artifacts pinned him to the ceiling. Ahiram strained to move away from the cold surface. This is not easy.
“Down. Slowly,” he commanded, and he began to slide downward, still on his back and suspended in the air. He tried again to stand, but flipped forward and ended up once more in a horizontal position, his arms and legs beneath him. He raised his arms trying to mimic the wings of a bird, but instead, performed another flip and landed once more on his back in the dirt.
“This hurts,” he said as he turned around and got up. Splintered wood and chunks of rock littered the ground, and a large pile of debris filled the back of the cave. This was the remnant of the hallway where he had found the tile after having survived the plunge into the Eye of Death at the end of the Game of Meyroon. He shuddered at the thought of landing on the jagged mass. A jolt along his spine told him the wings had separated. They came and rested together on his right shoulder.
“I could have impaled myself. This is not going to be easy.”
Seeing the sword he left leaning against the sarcophagus’ base, he remembered the part of the story of El-Windiir that had fascinated him the most when he had first heard it. Allegedly, El-Windiir had given his sword the name of his wife, Layaleen. According to the legend of El-Windiir, he had but to extend his hand, call to the sword, and the weapon would answer his command and come to him.
I need to try this, he thought, and better to try it here where no one can see me. After all, it must look a bit strange, a man extending his hand and calling to a sword.
Solemnly, he raised his left hand and called out the name of the sword with a loud voice, “Layaleen.”
The sword leaped, tip first, and so fast it nearly skewered him. Ahiram managed to jump aside just in time. The sword reached the opposite wall and its blade dove into the rock with a loud thud. It remained there, vibrating. Shocked, Ahiram went over, grabbed the handle and pulled. The blade came free without any difficulty.
“Wow. Amazing.” He cut the air with the sword. “This blade is truly incredible. Still,” he added, grumbling, “I better learn to use it before I kill myself,” he sighed. “All right. I’m being naïve,” he said to himself in a chuckle. “I mean, it took me four years to master the throw of a dart, and now I expect to gain mastery over magical artifacts in an instant.”
He leaned the blade against the wall, stepped back thirty feet and pictured the sword flying in his direction, pommel first.
“Layaleen.”
In the blink of an eye, the sword leaped, pommel first and point down. Ahiram tried to grab the handle but missed. The pommel hit him in the chest and sent him tumbling. The sword swiveled, its blade plunging into the opposite wall like a knife through butter. A cloud of shrapnel ricocheted against the walls and the sarcophagus in a loud staccato.
Ahiram got up and moaned with pain. He rubbed his chest and knew he had another bruise to add to his present collection. “So much for framing the moon like a dragon,” he grumbled. “This is one wild sword I must tame.” Wearily, he approached the sword and half expected it to leap toward him like a crouching tiger waiting for its victim to come closer. He grabbed the hilt and yanked. The blade came free, as if the stone had been liquefied. He inspected it carefully and saw no dents or scratches. It was as sharp as when El-Windiir first forged it. Forgetting his throbbing bruises, he sliced the air with the weapon; the blade sang a joyful, conquering song, and commanded the enemy—whomever that was—to surrender. The blade was exquisitely balanced and its handle fit perfectly into his hand. Elated, he lifted the sword and danced with it, calling its name until he noticed a ledge high above the opposite end of the vast cave from which a faint light seeped in.
He stood on his toes and arched his head back to see what was beyond the ledge but could see nothing more.
“Let’s go take a closer look,” he said grinning.
He pointed the sword toward the ledge and said, “Fly.”
Instantly, the wings slithered down his back. The jolt was stronger this time. He felt it course down his legs and up his neck and into his ears where it produced a ringing sound. He was about to give the order again when the sword drew him up, nearly yanking his arm from its socket. Ahiram raced toward the ceiling faster than before. He screamed “Slow. Stop!” and came to a screeching halt, midair. He dropped, and unable to control his fall, slammed against the wall on the way down.
“Ouch,” he moaned as he got up. This is much more difficult than I thought. Well, I may have to reach the ledge like everyone else and get to the castle by foot. If I manage to leap from the garden to the third floor without killing myself, it would still be impressive.
He inspected the wings and wondered if he had broken them, but they were just as supple as when he had found them. He willed for the wings to detach and they ended up on his left shoulder. He felt for the mask, thinking he may have lost it, but it was still on his head.
I can barely feel it. Amazing.
He removed El-Windiir’s artifacts, took off his shirt, wrapped the mask, shoes, belt, and wings in it and tied them firmly around his waist. With a piece of rope he made a makeshift sheath able to hold the sword to his side. He went for his crossbow and saw it was broken. He checked the second one and found it intact. He tied his last rope to his last hook dart, nocked and drew his crossbow, aimed at the ceiling over the ledge and released. The dart flew straight and true. He tugged on the rope a few times, then used the special clamps to quickly climb up the wall. The platform formed a small alcove, and in his excitement he saw—or imagined he saw—in the deep shadows, a beautiful young woman holding a torn flag, her eyes fixed on the sarcophagus.
“Layaleen?” he whispered. He had goose bumps. The image faded gently away. He shook his head. What’s wrong with me?
He looked ahead and saw a round opening from wh
ich light was seeping. He peered into the narrow hallway. The left side was dark and the right side illuminated.
Hoda, Noraldeen, Prince Olothe, King Jamiir, freedom, home … Ahiram closed his eyes and regained his focus. No matter what, I must find a way out. That’s all that matters right now. He opened his eyes and breathed deeply. “Now then, let’s find out where this light is coming from.”
His heart raced as he descended the corridor. He hoped ardently to make it to the castle in time to be declared the winner.
As soon as the hail stopped, the four Silent stepped out from under the trees and rejoined the road. Jedarc went straightaway to the fallen rocks, wanting to cross over them as fast as possible, but Banimelek stood in his way and forced him to rethink his plan.
“I don’t care how quickly you think we can climb this mess, Jedarc. These are unstable rocks covered in slippery mud, and more of them could come tumbling down any moment now.”
“How do you propose we cross over?”
Banimelek turned to Sondra. “You’re the better climber.”
“Sheheluth goes first. She’s the lightest.”
Banimelek nodded and turned to Jedarc who gave Sheheluth a friendly wink. “Go ahead, show us what you can do.”
The young Silent was grateful that the twilight hid her crimson blush. Nimbly, she stepped onto the first rock and placed her right foot on a second, carefully shifting her weight to test its stability. She was halfway up when they all heard a loud snap followed by a mix of rumbles and thuds. The ground began to roll.
“Down, now!” yelled Banimelek. “Jump!”
Sheheluth whirled around and leaped with precision from rock to rock and hit the ground running just as the earth behind them shook violently causing a powerful burst of air that slammed their backs and threw them off the road. Banimelek crashed into a tree, Sheheluth managed to stop herself before she collided against a boulder. Sondra scrapped both knees as she fell into a tumble and landed flat on her face, while Jedarc ended up standing beside a tree.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 3
