Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2)

by Murano, Michael Joseph

“I’ve got mud on my pants,” he scoffed. “Scandalous. Hey Banimelek, how’s that tree doing?”

  “Thanks,” grumbled Banimelek. “Sheheluth, are you all right?”

  Sheheluth nodded. She ran over to Sondra and examined her exposed knees. “You need to clean those wounds,” she said. “They’re full of mud.”

  Sondra smiled, dropped to her knees and walked on them in the grass. “There,” she said. “All clean.”

  “They’re bloodied,” said Sheheluth.

  “They’ll dry. Tinantel, look behind you, we’ve got a looker.”

  A rock sixty feet high blocked the way. It had flattened the previous pile of rocks and stood like a foreboding door closing the pass along its entire width.

  “How did this monster manage to fall so neatly into the pass? You would think it would have hit the other wall and gotten stuck between them, forming a bridge or something.”

  “Bridge, bridge,” grumbled Banimelek, “who cares? It’s there and we’ve got to deal with it.”

  “I’ll go first this time,” said Sondra.

  “Shouldn’t we make certain this rock is stable?” ventured Sheheluth. “After all, pebbles may be the only thing preventing it from falling more.”

  “Not this one,” explained Sondra. “Just follow the outline of its edges to see that it won’t budge. It’s snug between the two mountainsides.”

  “You can see that in the dark?”

  “Standard Silent training,” offered Sondra. “Nothing special.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Sheheluth,” interjected Jedarc. “Sondra has a keen eye. She can see better than most. That’s why I wanted her on our little expedition.”

  “I see,” muttered Sheheluth. “So why did you ask me to come?”

  “Because you’re lithe like a reed and nimble like a monkey,” said Jedarc with a wide grin.

  Sheheluth stopped in her tracks, Banimelek slapped his forehead and Sondra heaved a deep sigh. “To think I was starting to worry about you getting Hiyam all tangled up with your boyish smile. ‘Nimble like a monkey’, really?”

  “Where I come from, we hold monkeys in high esteem.”

  “No you don’t,” Sondra said.

  “What do you know about where I come from?”

  “They’ve shipped you here, haven’t they?”

  “Huh? What do you … hey, are you saying I'm a monkey?”

  “Lithe like a reed and all that sort of thing,” retorted Sondra.

  “Fine,” grumbled Jedarc. “Back to our problem. How shall we cross?”

  “Well, since I’m a monkey,” Sheheluth said, “I may as well be the first one to climb.”

  “Sheheluth, come on, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Oh yes, you did,” chorused Sondra and Banimelek.

  “Sondra, could you shoot a hook dart?” asked Sheheluth.

  “Why don’t you … oh, that’s right, you’re a first year recruit, you don’t have a dart crossbow yet.”

  A few moments later, all four Silent stood atop the boulder and overlooked a much larger pile of rocks. Apparently, the boulder had fallen on the edge of the pile, leaving most of it intact.

  “Do you want me to go down first?” asked Sheheluth.

  Jedarc shook his head. “Not without a rope. These rocks may look sturdy, but cave-ins are still possible and if you step wrong, they’re much worse than quicksand; they’ll suck you in instantly.”

  “A three-to-one?” asked Banimelek.

  Sondra nodded. “We’ve got to do it right. No margin for error here.”

  Jedarc stretched as each of the three older Silent produced a hook dart and rope. Banimelek secured all three ropes to his dart, while Sondra and Jedarc each secured the end of their own rope to their darts. Banimelek tied the other end of his rope to a rock and stepped on it with both feet. He then directed Sondra and Jedarc to stand a few feet away, one to his left and the other to his right. He guided them until they stood precisely where he wanted them to be.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  They locked their crossbows and aimed at opposite sides of the road.

  “Release.”

  They heard a single twang, which indicated both Silent had discharged their darts at the exact moment. The darts vanished into the surrounding darkness, and they heard a soft thud just as Banimelek’s rope became taut.

  “Looks like we pulled an Ahiram,” hooted Jedarc.

  “What did you do?” inquired Sheheluth.

  “Jedarc and Sondra anchored their ropes to the opposite sides of the road, and I bridged the two ropes by tying them to my dart. Get it?” explained Banimelek.

  “And Banimelek’s rope is in the middle of that bridge,” continued Jedarc. “He attached it to this rock to make sure he does not lose it. Now we’re going to tie it to your waist and we’ll follow you down. If you fall we’ll pull you right back out.”

  “Why did you have to time it?” asked the fascinated girl.

  “If we overshot, Banimelek’s rope would have either snapped, gotten lost, or not be sufficiently taut.”

  “I see, but what if his rope breaks while I’m falling?”

  “Not with your weight, it won’t. These ropes are made to carry two fat Silent the size of Banimelek.”

  They progressed at a snail's pace, careful not to disturb the rocks beneath their feet. On several occasions, they were forced to backtrack when the rocks gave in. Eventually, they made it back down to the road and began in earnest to search for Hiyam.

  “It stopped raining,” remarked Jedarc.

  “It stopped while we were on that boulder,” corrected Sondra.

  “She’s not here,” said Jedarc, the slightest quiver in his voice, “do you think she may be under—”

  “Over here,” called Sheheluth. “Come and see.”

  They joined her. She was crouching by the roadside. “Here, there is a trail of a horse lying on its side. It’s been dragged back onto the road. It must be dead.” Pointing to a smaller, fainter puddle, she continued, “Look, the outline of a person. See these footprints? There are at least four people. The footprints over there are a bit heavier, so it looks like they must have carried someone away.”

  “Well done, Sheheluth,” exclaimed Jedarc. He tousled her hair. “I’ll be sure to let the commander know. You’re a born Silent scout.”

  “Does this mean I am not a monkey anymore?”

  “Sure you are. The best of them,” retorted Jedarc. “Once we’re in Hardeen, the commander will award you with a banana.”

  “What’s a banana?” she asked with a frown.

  “Some fictional fruit Jedarc keeps raving about,” grumbled Banimelek while he scanned the ground. “It doesn’t exist.”

  “It does, believe you me, I’ve had it on several occasions while in—”

  “Look here,” Sondra said as she rubbed an object between her fingers. “Look what I found.”

  “A thunderbolt,” whispered Jedarc. “The insignia of Baal given to High Riders. Praise the gods, she is still alive.”

  “Shall we follow the trail?”

  Jedarc, Sondra and Banimelek exchanged glances. The mission had suddenly become more complicated, and now possibly dangerous. Jedarc had selected Sheheluth to exonerate himself from the punishment he had brought upon her with his misplaced wit back at the castle, during the Games. He knew her light frame would help them navigate the avalanche. He had assumed they would cross over, find Hiyam and rescue her. They did not expect a third party to have already rescued or to have possibly abducted her. This meant they might have to extract Hiyam from a hostile party and a fight could possibly result. Sheheluth was simply not combat ready.

  Sondra sighed. “We have no choice, we continue as planned.”

  “I can defend myself,” objected Sheheluth.

  “Sure you can,” replied Jedarc grinning. “And for that achievement, you’ll get two bananas.”

  Like the spine of a giant dragon, Royal Road ran the length of the Kingdom o
f Tanniin from Mitreel in the south to the fortress of Amsheet in the north. Past Taniir-The-Strong Castle on the way to Amsheet, Royal Road separated Royal Forest and Magdala on the right from the Forest of Laymiir on the left.

  Despite the prevailing bad weather and downpour of rain, Ibromaliöm strolled up the road like a tourist by the seashore, whistling a toneless tune.

  Lightning whipped the road with blinding white strobes that revealed a large group of people swarming within Laymiir. They stood in the shadows eying the lonely traveler with murderous eyes and grins to chill hardened killers.

  Ibromaliöm stopped, a crazed smile splitting his face from ear to ear. “So many, of them,” he whispered. His eyes darted from one being to another like a famished toad lusting after a swarm of flies.

  The attackers crept on the road, and Ibromaliöm saw they were no longer fully human. Their skin was now ashen, their eyes had lost their pupils, and their lips were gone. Their breathing was labored and sounded as if they were constantly repeating the same word: “Sylveeds. Sylveeds. Sylveeds.” Ibromaliöm opened his arms wide, as if to welcome them. His laughter was that of a deranged madman.

  “Welcome my children,” he boomed. “Come to me, all of you, and drink from my light.” He grabbed the Ithyl Shimea and flipped it open to the first page. The falling rain parted, leaving the book dry. He held it with both hands against his chest and displayed it for all to see.

  The creatures crept forward until they were able to see what the man was holding.

  Their shrieks of agony rang loudly, echoing like a bad dream along the road. Ibromaliöm’s laughter rang louder still.

  “The Temple knows no bounds, no borders, no limits. It is not defined by its structure, however magnificent, by its order, however efficient, or by its army, however powerful. It is not held together by its priesthood, or even by its magic. No, the Temple of Baal is defined by a negation, an interdiction, or a rejection: Never the Pit. Everything else, no matter its importance or beauty, is irrelevant before the Pit.”

  –Sayings of Jehdi, Great Priest of the Temple of Baal.

  “The kitchen? Why the kitchen?” asked King Jamiir, bemused.

  “We don’t know, sir, but the attackers have holed themselves up in the kitchen. Reinforcements from Baal are on their way, sir.”

  King Jamiir stood in full armor in Silent Training Area 1, which had been transformed into a central command for the forces of Baal. They had defended the castle while the guests were confined to the Royal Hall. Jamiir could not understand why the attackers had gone to the kitchen rather than storming the upper levels of the castle. “Have you sent for reinforcements?”

  “Yes, sir, two contingents of Baal should be joining us soon. With the additional force we will be able to overtake the enemy.”

  “Enemy, enemy? These are my people, and they remain so even if they have lost their senses. Remember this, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The King sighed. “Let them have their way inside the kitchen and wait for reinforcements. Hopefully, when they see they are outnumbered, they may come back to their senses and we may avoid bloodshed.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Have you been able to locate the Queen?”

  “No, Your Highness. As soon as the castle has been pacified we will continue the search.”

  “You do realize what it would mean for all of us if the slightest misfortune were to have inconvenienced my wife?”

  The King had invited him to attend Hiyam’s victory that evening, and to keep a low profile, the man of Baal had the good sense to show up in civilian attire. The captain’s vague look of concern told King Jamiir that he did not know whom Ramel was related to.

  “My wife, the Queen, is the High Priest Sharr’s niece …” The King watched with cynical amusement as the captain’s expression changed from professional flaccidity, to slight annoyance, to vague disquietude. The name of the priest was familiar, but the captain could not place it.

  “The High Priest of the Temple of Babylon,” whispered the King.

  Instantly, the captain’s placid checks caved in as if sucked by an interior void. Anguish became distress, and distress wrung his face as it burst into utter despair the way pus, when left untreated, bursts from an infected wound. Sweat trickled down his large forehead, ran around his bulging eyes, and moistened the tip of his well-kept mustache. The King’s smile broadened into a sickening rictus. Feeling already guilty, even though he was innocent of the Queen’s disappearance, the captain’s eyes darted from left to right in search of an unsuspecting victim to lay the blame on, someone who could shield him from the wrath to come. He feared the torture chambers of Baal in the depths of the temples. He feared the Arayat, the Spell World, where death never comes as a merciful end to unbearable pain. He gazed at the King as if he were seeing him for the first time, the way a famished toad eyes a nearby fly. Inwardly, the captain pleaded with the gods to use Jamiir as his shield, his scapegoat. As if he were able to read the man’s mind, the King’s frame shook under a silent chuckle, for he knew that Sharr would have neither the time, nor the patience, to triage the guilty from the innocent. Sharr would send the whole lot of them, everyone still alive in this castle, to the Kerta priest, and once their minds had been turned inside out, once their every thought and feeling had been made known to Baal, they would be condemned to an eternity of suffering in the Spell World.

  The King was certain the captain did not know half of what he himself knew about the ways of Baal, but it did not matter. The man had enough knowledge of the Temple to know they were now no better off than a pair of walking dead, unless, and until, they were able to locate Her Majesty and present her safe and sound to her uncle.

  “Your Majesty, in this case, there is not a moment to lose. I will give orders to my men to mount a counter-attack and regain control of the castle, then we should—”

  “This will not be necessary, my good man,” interrupted Hylâz as he entered. “I would rather avoid senseless bloodshed, if we could.”

  “My dear Hylâz, do you have news of my wife?”

  “Your Majesty, news is a lofty word a lowly zakiir such as myself does not have the luxury to use. Nevertheless, I would say that any search for Her Majesty within the castle’s precinct will, I am afraid, prove futile.”

  The King’s eyes narrowed to a slit. The captain felt what scores of people had felt over the years: the strong urge to pry open a zakiir’s mind by any means possible and force him to reveal his secrets. However, he knew the attempt would be futile, resulting in the zakiir’s death and the onset of a terrible curse on him. To his knowledge, no one had ever succeeded in forcing a zakiir to reveal his secrets. Those learned in the ways of the Arayat were painfully aware of the curses that would render a zakiir mute and deaf, while his attackers would be quickly found and delivered in the hands of a Kerta priest. Blackmailing a zakiir was suicide.

  “Is Her Majesty well?” asked the King.

  “I cannot tell,” replied Hylâz.

  “Should we search for her?”

  “I would advise His Majesty to do what is on His Majesty’s heart, all else would be in vain at the present moment.” Hylâz bowed. “I bid His Majesty goodbye. Duty takes me northward.”

  The King and the captain watched with jealousy as the zakiir left the Royal Hall completely unconcerned by the crisis at hand.

  “So it is true,” said the captain at last, “A zakiir’s freedom is greater than that of the King’s.”

  “You may return to your task, Captain.”

  After the captain’s departure, the King stood motionless.

  “I would advise His Majesty to do what is on His Majesty’s heart, all else would be in vain at the present moment.” The words of Hylâz rang in his ears like a mental scream. Ramel was twenty years his junior and there was no love lost between them. She was beautiful and haughty, beyond his reach, and their marriage was one of convenience. Had she borne an heir, she would have assumed t
he reins of power and he would have been a mere figure, until the return of his son or daughter from Babylon.

  Still, I was not entirely without resources. Knowledge of medicinal plants can be readily available to a king, and she never suspected that she ingested a slow-acting poison every day that kept her barren.

  He had bargained that once Babylon realized she was unable to carry an heir, they would consider her to be cursed by the gods and not even Sharr would be able to protect her. Then, a different poison would have delivered him from her cruelty. All these years, his head had been filled with thoughts of Ramel, but not his heart. He could not stand her pompous, arrogant, impatient attitude filled with an air of Babylonian superiority that nothing seemed to satisfy; just as she could not understand his willingness to bow to Baal and play the diplomatic game. Their union had been one of mutual contempt, and in that, they had been faithful to each other. He had never been unfaithful to her out of fear, and she had never been unfaithful to him out of contempt, for no man in Tanniin could be worthy of her attention. In the end, they were made for one another, so alike, and yet, so different.

  “At the very least, my dear Ramel,” whispered the King, “I can take consolation in the fact that you will not be able to witness my disgrace this time around.”

  How long had he been pulling this cart with his bare hands? Rain fell gently through the forest’s high canopy and mingled with his tears. Disheveled, haggard, lost and afraid, Garu plowed on, and hauled the peasant’s cart he had purchased for one gold coin. It was an open cart cobbled together from rough wood planks, with a left wheel slightly wider than the right, enough to jerk the cart with every rotation and cause Ramel to moan with pain.

  He could not recall how he had managed to carry her from the depth of the earth back to the surface. A remnant of reason in his tormented mind told him not to go back to the castle, that it would be her death, and his execution. When a peasant, with his cart and pony, had passed by the entrance to the Mine of Bronze, Garu entreated him, promising him a coin if he would take him and his “sick sister” back north.