Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2)

by Murano, Michael Joseph

  They had ridden for most of the evening and into the night, but the peasant, now closer to home, refused to go any further. After Garu had convinced the man to sell him the cart, the elated peasant continued his journey home with his pony and one gold coin to gladden the heart of his wife and children.

  Like a muted beast, Garu had plowed forward, pulling the cart through sheer determination, ignoring the pain that racked his body and ignoring his hunger and exhaustion. He kept moving forward, guided by an old memory from that happy time in his life when he did not know Ramel, when he did not love her. He had left the main road and followed a path in the dark, a path that seemed all at once foreign and familiar; one he must have trodden hundreds of times before. As he drew closer to a cluster of giant pine trees, he knew he had reached his destination. His mind cleared and he understood why he had brought Ramel here. He stood beneath a particular tree, and his hands shook as he felt the wide trunk. Garu sighed with relief when his fingers found what he had been looking for: the start of a ladder that had been hammered into the living wood. Up there you will be safe, my love. No one will harm you again. I will search the forest for medicinal plants and I will heal you.

  Resolutely, Garu grabbed the third rung of the ladder and pulled himself up. Ramel, sensing his disappearance, moaned louder for she could no longer speak.

  “I am here, Your Majesty,” he said softly. “I am by your side.”

  He forced himself to ignore her pitiful moans and climbed as quickly as his strength allowed. Panting, he reached a platform that he had built during his youth, a sturdy surface wide enough to hold a small house, and strong enough to perdure as long as the tree stood. Quickly, Garu unlatched the simple lock, pushed the door, and peered inside. The room smelled of resin and dust. He stepped in and rummaged in the dark for the lantern he had stowed away. Quickly, he lit it, hung it on the ceiling, then went back outside and found the loading cart he had used in the past to haul pots and plants; it still hung against one of the walls of his room. Water had rotted the edges of two of the four planks, but for the most part, it was still as sturdy as when he had made it. More importantly, the rough net that had prevented the cart’s contents from spilling was intact.

  Did I leave the pulley and the rope inside, or did I take them with me the last time I was here? He could not remember. Feverishly, he went back inside and forced himself to calm down. No sense to panic now, they must be here. He opened several trunks, rummaged through their dusty contents, and let go a quick shout of victory when he found what he had been looking for. Garu went back outside and hung the pulley on the hook protruding from a nearby branch, nearly falling to his death in the process. He then tied one end of the rope to a ring that held the net together and quickly lowered the cart to the forest floor. Finally, he tied the other end of the rope to a ring located on the outer wall of his small room; his hands worked efficiently, as if he had never left the forest.

  He heaved a sigh and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He knew he had to go back down and transfer Ramel from the cart and haul her up to the safety of his treehouse. As he began his descent, he bitterly wished that for once, the Silent were there with him to lend him a hand.

  Soloron raised his sword in the pouring rain. Lightning, thunder and a great shout answered him. The undergrounders had won a decisive battle. Before them, scattered along Royal Road were the dead bodies of the men of Baal. They were close to two thousand. When he heard Frajil had stormed the castle, Soloron wagered that the soldiers manning the castle would send for reinforcements. He had moved his forces, three thousand strong, from their hideout and managed to reach the last bend in Royal Road, south of the plaza and facing the Mine of Bronze. This bend was at a near right angle with a steep incline. He had positioned his archers on the eastern hills overlooking the bend, while his infantry lay in wait below the road along the western side.

  The High Riders processed up, four by four. They marched confidently, in expectation of a swift victory against a ragtag band of ill-equipped peasants. When the first hail of black arrows found their mark, the High Riders did not react as swiftly as usual, and it was only after a second deadly volley that they regrouped into their defensive formation: a series of rectangular blocks covered on all sides by their iron shields.

  Under normal circumstances, one or two Kerta priests would have been present among the soldiers to sow fear in the heart of the enemy and provide an additional ring of defense for the men of Baal. But there were no Kerta priests stationed within the barracks of Tanniin-the-Strong—a concession the King had won on behalf of the kingdom. Even if a priest had been on hand, he would not have joined a contingent of soldiers about to invade the royal castle.

  Still, a fully formed contingent of High Riders was deadly in action, but Soloron was a former High Rider, and he, therefore, was ready.

  He nodded to the archer standing beside him, and a lone fiery arrow streaked the night. Immediately, his infantry went into action. They adopted an identical formation to the men of Baal, but the forward face of their block consisted of a single piece of sturdy wood from which six light-iron rams jutted. These rams were carried by the soldiers, who instead of walking, took to running. Soloron had forced his men to go through this drill hundreds of times until they had perfected their synchronized attack. Their attack was similar to Frajil’s, but with more thrust and strength.

  The High Riders of the forward block, seeing a dark mass approach, had stood their ground behind a barrage of spears, but the rams had a longer reach than the spears, and when they crashed into the forward shields of Baal, the formation exploded.

  The undergrounders backed away and their archers went about their deadly business. Within minutes, the first block of Baal was decimated, leaving the second block exposed. A second fiery arrow streaked the sky and four more fortified blocks of undergrounders, with rams at the ready, rose from the western side and slammed laterally into the High Riders before retreating rapidly to avoid the incoming black arrows. Deprived of a counter-coverage to stem the flow of arrows, and maimed by the iron rams, the High Riders were defeated in short order.

  Soloron knew all too well that had the men of Baal been prepared, the battle would have been uncertain at best. But the bad weather, the surprise effect, and the lack of a full contingent of archers to defend them had made the High Riders vulnerable. Still, this was a great victory for his men, for they now knew that the army of Baal was not invincible; it could be defeated.

  “Despoil the Baalites. Take their armors, swords, and banners,” he shouted. “We will disguise ourselves and overtake the castle. Death to the men of Baal, but the King is mine. Bring him to me alive.”

  His men shouted in response, and then a great crowd surged from the neighboring hills. Having watched the battle and witnessed its outcome, they were eager to walk under Soloron’s banner. He positioned them at the rear, behind his trained men, so that no harm would come to them, and having disguised his troops as High Riders, he marched on the castle after dispatching a dozen scouts southward.

  “Spread the word as you go, tell our people the flag of Tanniin flies anew. Let them know the days of Baal are numbered. Then keep watch on the enemy camps at Mitreel and Yaneer, and send news as soon as you see them preparing to move our way.”

  As he walked at the head of his small army, he looked with great satisfaction at the peasants that swelled his ranks. Soon he would raise a mighty army and march on the main southern encampments of Baal. Once the two southern ports were under his banner, Baal would have effectively lost control over the land. The kingdom would be his to rule.

  Frajil had a puzzled look on his face. His men had inspected the kitchen meticulously and did not find a smidgen of roasted chicken anywhere. This was disturbing news to the giant because Soloron had told him, “Tonight we roast the chicken.” How can you roast a chicken when there was no chicken? He sat on the kitchen table, trying to unravel the riddle, oblivious of the men who had taken him for their leader, and o
f the slaves who had joined them alongside some of the kitchen servants.

  “Master, what should we do?” asked one of the men.

  Frajil took no notice of the question. He was processing the situation. If Frajil has chicken, Frajil roasts chicken, but no chicken, so … He grinned, raised himself up and declared triumphantly: “Soloron brings chicken.” He looked at the man who had spoken and said, “We wait for chicken here. Soloron brings chicken.”

  The men around him nodded approvingly. They were convinced that these mysterious sayings had a deep strategic meaning. As far as they were concerned, Frajil was a hero. His fighting skills were matched only by his boldness and courage. Baal had been forced to concede the castle’s lower level to the insurrection.

  Up one level, the men of Baal were on edge. The reinforcements should have arrived by now. They were beginning to wonder if there had been a change of plans when their sentinels that manned the large balcony cheered. Their forces were finally there.

  “Should we press the enemy?” asked a soldier.

  Their leader shook his head. “They’ll deal with ‘em soon enough. You just wait and see.”

  There were loud shouts outside the castle, then a contingent of High Riders charged the main door. “This is the 6th and 22nd contingent of Baal, open the door by order of the King.”

  Loud cheers erupted from the second floor while consternation, fear and dismay dissolved the insurgents’ courage.

  “Open the door, in the name of Baal.”

  Frajil bolted from his chair and ran to the door. His men, awed by such courage, were determined to fight to the last, but the giant threw the door open, grabbed the captain of the High Riders and … hugged him hard, nearly choking him.

  “Look, he’s not even using his weapons,” whispered some of the men. “He is smothering the captain of the gray owls.”

  “He is filled with Tanniin’s wrath,” answered others.

  “Frajil,” croaked Soloron, “put me down!”

  The giant ignored his brother’s command and instead gave him two sonorous kisses, one on each cheek.

  “This must be the kiss of death,” whispered another of Frajil’s followers. “Incredible.”

  “Frajil happy to see Soloron. Frajil wants chicken.”

  “Put me down, now!”

  At last, Frajil relented and let go of his brother. He turned around and was about to loudly proclaim that his brother had come, when Soloron signaled for him to wait.

  “Everyone,” he said with a hushed voice, “I am Soloron, leader of the undergrounders. My men have ambushed the High Riders and defeated them as you can see by the shields and helmets we bear. Fear not, victory shall soon be ours. To avoid further bloodshed, I will need a few of you to go up ahead of us with your hands over your heads. The men of Baal holed-up on the second floor will think you are defeated and will lower their guard. We will then quickly subdue them.”

  “High Riders of Baal, do you hear me?”

  The call was from the second floor.

  “Loud and clear,” replied Soloron. “We are nearly done down here. We are rounding up the few survivors and we will be up shortly.”

  “It’s too quiet down there.”

  “They have all run away. Now shut up and let us do our job.”

  Soloron looked expectantly at Frajil’s men, but they did not seem ready to lower their weapons. They don’t trust me, he thought.

  “Frajil, drop your weapons, put your hands on your head, and walk in front of me.” Immediately, Frajil did as his brother asked. He tried to stop himself from laughing but ended-up with his hand on his mouth, his huge frame shaking as if he were about to play a good practical joke. “Do not spoil the surprise,” grumbled Soloron. “By the way, what were you doing in the kitchen?”

  Frajil became dead serious. The change was disconcerting. “Soloron told Frajil, ‘tonight we roast chicken.’ Frajil loves chicken.”

  Soloron’s anger flared, but he managed to contain it. His dimwitted brother had stormed the castle because he, Soloron, had used a metaphor that involved a stupid, two-legged bird. This could have ended in utter disaster, but somehow, he had managed to rally these men and storm the castle by himself. Soloron realized this and smiled broadly.

  “Frajil, the King is eating the chicken right now.”

  “Where?” asked the giant, alarmed.

  “Upstairs.” Soloron addressed Frajil’s followers. “Yes, my friends, the chicken of which my brother, Frajil, spoke so poetically is your wealth, your wages, your work, all eaten by that despot who despoils you to fatten Baal. The chicken is your freedom and the freedom of Tanniin. Will you put up with this tyrant?” Before anyone could respond, Soloron placed a finger on his lips. “Are you ready to free the chicken?” They shook their heads vehemently. “Then, let’s do this.”

  The High Riders leaped to their feet when they heard men climb the stairs and relaxed their stance immediately when they saw the prisoners being pushed forward by men of Baal.

  “About time,” said the man in charge. “What took you so long?”

  “It’s better to negotiate than to spill blood,” replied Soloron evenly. “These are the King’s subjects, and it would not go very well with him if we were to kill his people needlessly. A bit of persuasion and here we are.”

  “How did you manage to subdue this one?” he said, pointing at Frajil.

  “He is not all put together, if you follow my meaning. All you had to do was promise him a dish of chicken and that would have been that.”

  “You mean to say he stormed the castle for—”

  “Frajil roast chicken,” exclaimed Frajil as if on cue.

  “See what I mean?” added Soloron. “You could have saved yourself a a bundle of trouble if you had you paid more attention.”

  The man was stricken. Negligence was punishable by fifteen lashes, and that meant a bloodied back and a demotion.

  “Listen, Captain, why don’t we—”

  “Why don’t you and your men go back to the barracks? This is neither the place nor the time to discuss such things. I’ll deal with the King.”

  Vanquished and dejected, the men of Baal obtemperated. As the last of them left the second floor, Soloron grinned widely. “If you’ll hand over your weapons, I’ll speak to the Kerta priest,” he added for good measure. Soldiers were waiting to collect their weapons at the bottom of the stairs, when their leader suddenly realized what the captain had just said.

  “Wait,” he yelled. “There are no Kerta priests at the barracks.”

  A shout of victory answered him as the men of Tanniin streamed into the hallway.

  “Drop your weapons!” said one of Soloron’s men. The men of Baal understood they had been completely defeated.

  “Your Majesty, it is over,” said the commander of the forces of Baal. “The enemy will be here soon. We must abandon the castle.”

  “Abandon Taniir-the-Strong? Never!”

  “Your Majesty, we must leave or else I cannot guarantee your safety. We will regroup at Mitreel and subdue our enemies. We have no alternative but to abandon the castle, and quickly.”

  “But what about the Queen? Where is she?”

  “Despite our best efforts, she is nowhere to be found. She must have been captured somewhere and forced to leave the castle, Baal be praised. I am certain that by now she is safely away from these savages. I beg Your Majesty to follow me. We have no time to waste.”

  King Jamiir followed the commander of Baal. He was abandoning his guests, but it could not be helped. He acknowledged his defeat. The remnant of the contingent of Baal went quickly toward the secret stairs by the High Tower. They descended the narrow slippery steps casting off trembling shadows from the uncertain light of the torches. They opened the narrow door that gave way to the inner garden and from there followed the same path that Tanios had taken several hours ago. They opened the hidden gate and walked in the pouring rain toward the stables. They entered quickly to mount their horses, on
ly to find that the stable sheltered no horses. Suddenly the door to the stable was flung open and Abiil, followed by armed men, streamed in. One torch was lit, then another and another. In the progressive light, the King and the men of Baal could see that the stable was full of men in arms. They were outnumbered and more were pouring in.

  “Men of Baal,” said Abiil, “drop your swords and you shall live.”

  “Who are you?” asked the King.

  Abiil looked at him and spat on the ground. The King knew what that meant: no mercy would be shown to him. He was a dead man. Abiil looked at the men in arms and repeated his call. “You are outnumbered and without hope. We have overtaken the two contingents that came to help you and none of them survived. If you want to avoid their fate, drop your arms and you shall live. You have my word.”

  Jamiir heard the thud of a sword falling to the ground, followed by another and another. The men of Baal in whom he had trusted deserted him. He was left standing alone with the commander.

  “You may go, my friend, they are after me,” said the King.

  The commander looked at the King, who pushed him gently toward Abiil. The commander laid his sword on the ground.

  “Take the traitor to Soloron. He wants to dispose of him personally,” said Abiil. He added nonchalantly, “As for the men of Baal, kill them all.”

  “But you gave your word,” shouted the King.

  “True,” said Abiil with a smile. “I gave my word that they would live, and they did. Now it is time for them to die. I must avenge the blood of my brother. As for you, traitor, your death shall restore to this kingdom its flag and its wings.”

  “Do not speak of the wings of Tanniin,” retorted the King. “Your despicable murder has cast a shadow upon this kingdom, its honor, and its fate. If you must speak of wings, then speak of wings of shame, your shame and mine, for we have failed this great kingdom.”

  Soloron smugly sat on the throne as he looked down at the King who stood before him. He felt heady with his new power. Soon he would be crowned king. Soon he would free the kingdom from Baal.