Masker Xurgon’s roaring laughter filled the cave. “I told Tanios to hire a proper dwarfish grammarian to teach his Silent, but being the miser that he is, he preferred to teach you himself. Well, my young one, you should stick to the common tongue until someone teaches you proper dwarfish speech.”
“About that sacrifice then …” asked Ahiram, mortified.
“An unpleasant unpleasantness I would rather not deal with,” replied Xurgon behind a cloud of smoke. “A tribe living in the southwestern side of Taniir-On-High worships the béghôm.”
“How?” asked Ahiram, confused. “The beast showed up two years ago. Is that when they started worshiping her?”
Xurgon shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? They may remember her like we do and think their godly god is back. They believe the wrath of the béghôm must be assuaged or their crops will fail and their women of child-bearing age will not bring forth offspring for the next seven years.” Xurgon heaved a deep sigh. “To calm her wrathful wrath, they want to present her with a peace offering. We have tried to dissuade them from this unpalatable practice, but they adamantly insist that the god of thunder, as they call her, will not be appeased unless a sacrifice is offered.”
“Why does it bother you if they sacrifice to the béghôm?”
Xurgon winced. “They do not offer an animal. They offer a slave.” Xurgon fell silent. Orwutt and Zurwott suddenly felt a great urge to inspect their nails, which every self-respecting dwarf must keep clean.
Ahiram sat motionless, then calmly asked, “When is the sacrifice?”
“Seven days from now,” answered Orwutt.
“How far is this cave?”
“Why?” asked Xurgon with a worried expression on his face.
“I will rescue this slave.”
“You cannot,” Xurgon said. “To reach that cave, you must follow a slippery passage close to the béghôm’s lair.”
“What about reaching it from the outside?”
“Impossible, these people guard it possessively during the sacrificial sacrifice and they will not give us peaceful permission to enter. Our exchange degenerates into impolite recriminations with the tearing of beards and hair. This is undignified,” he said, caressing his beard. “She is a difficult tribe to deal with.”
Ahiram fell silent for a moment. A plan formed rapidly in his mind. Zurwott and Orwutt followed the conversation with great interest.
“You said the béghôm is trying to break through the great wall, did you not?” asked Ahiram.
“Yes, I did.”
“Let her.”
“What?” Xurgon almost lost his temper.
“Commander Tanios taught us that sometimes the worst thing we can do to an opponent is to give him what he wants.”
“Commander Tanios is wise, but this precept is strange to my ears.”
“Well, your béghôm—”
“Not my béghôm.” Xurgon shot the Silent an accusing glare.
“Fair. The béghôm, this béghôm, wants to break the wall and you are determined to stop her. What would happen if you weaken the wall at a specific spot?”
“She would break through and attack.”
“Perfect,” Ahiram continued, “Then she would not expect to find a large, gaping hole under her feet, would she now? Instead of protecting the wall, lay a trap for her. Dig a hole so deep not even a béghôm can escape. Give her what she wants, only give it your way.”
“Commander Tanios taught you well I see,” said Xurgon.
“The béghôm will instinctively pound in a repetitive manner against the walls of the pit to the point of annoyance,” objected Orwutt. “She will then perseveringly fill the hole with rocks and climb out.”
“How long would that take?”
“If we spend four days to dig a pit deep enough and wide enough to contain her,” asserted Orwutt, “she would escape in two or three days.”
“Thirty feet deep and twenty feet wide,” confirmed Xurgon. “We can do no more.”
“Fine. Then after her capture, use these two or three days to rebuild the great wall around the hole and strengthen it. In the meantime, we can mount a rescue operation to free the slave,” said Ahiram.
“This is a dangerously dangerous operation containing a great operational danger,” whispered Zurwott.
“I will attempt to rescue this slave whether you help me or not,” Ahiram affirmed.
“Negatively negative, and negative to the extreme point of negativity. We love it lovingly and lovingly love it,” replied Zurwott.
“We dwarfs thrive on well thought out dangers.” Interjected Orwutt, “and she is most deliciously dangerous.”
“Let a counseling council assemble. We will hear what she will have to say,” said Xurgon.
“Who?” asked Ahiram, confused, “the béghôm?”
“The council of course,” replied Xurgon. He added, “She will not convene before dawn of the morrow when the head of the three companies shall be present.”
“Meanwhile, let’s find you a place to rest,” invited Orwutt.
Ahiram shook his head. “I must go the castle.”
It was Master Xurgon’s turn to shake his head. “In broad daylight, it would take you a day and a half to reach Taniir-the-Strong Castle. At night, with a powerful storm raging, you will need three days to reach your destination, and in optimal conditions, two days to return. You will have no leeway to deal with unexpected events.
Ahiram bit his lower lip and contained his anger. He had hoped the King could declare him a free man just in time to rescue the slave.
I’ve got to rescue this slave. I have missed the closing ceremony for the Games. Still, when I do show up with the sword of El-Windiir, the King will set me free. I have waited six years, I can wait a little longer.
The roar of the béghôm followed by savage pounding answered him. He shuddered, wondering if he had not acted irresponsibly.
Leaving the slave with this monster is reckless.
He shrugged his shoulders and decided that the best thing he could do until the council meeting was to rest, form a plan of attack, and train with his newly found weapons. I have four days to learn how to use them.
“Fine,” he said. “Time to rest.”
A little while later, after a long-awaited bath, he donned clean clothes and finally lay on a comfortable mattress.
He yawned and closed his eyes. “Béghôm or not,” he muttered, “no one will lay his hand on this slave for as long as I live.”
Five days hence, he would bitterly regret these words.
“To sacrifice is to perform a sacred ritual through which blood is spilled to appease and please the gods. With every sacrifice, with every drop of blood, man is bound ever more tightly to the gods. Across the land, there is one high priest, who alone does not sacrifice flesh and blood, but bread and wine. This is Melkizedek of Salem. In my youth, I despised Melkizedek and his sacrifice. Now that I am nearing the gate of death, I have come to understand the meaning of his offering, and I must say that I take great comfort in it.”
–Teaching of Oreg, High Priest of Baal.
While Ahiram was speaking with Master Xurgon, the Shadow of Silent headed by Jedarc had ventured deep into the forest west of Royal Road. They had followed the dead horse’s tracks out of the Great Pass and along a dirt path that ran parallel to the road for three miles then abruptly veered west into the forest. Thunder rumbled in the distance threatening more rain. A cold wind blew through the underwood and the growing darkness hampered their progress until they could barely see their own boots. Banimelek called a halt.
“No use continuing. We stop here.”
“They may still be close,” objected Jedarc.
“We don’t know what they want. Sheheluth is not combat-ready. We stop for the night.”
“But, Banimelek—”
“Tinantel, Faernor is right,” said Sondra.
Jedarc was about to give up. “We don’t know what they will do to her.”
> “Why would they drag her this far into the forest? Much easier to kill her somewhere closer to the road and be done with it. No. They are going somewhere specific.”
“Faernor is right, Tinantel. We cannot risk it.”
“I can manage in the dark,” protested Sheheluth. “You go ahead, I don’t want to slow you down.”
“They don’t know we’re following them, so they’ll stop for the night too,” Sondra reasoned.
“Sheheluth,” added Banimelek, “We are the Silent. We stick together. We’ll spend the night in those trees.”
“You guys climb up,” Jedarc said. “I’ll … ouch. Sondra, no more whacking me on the head.”
Sondra ignored his protest. “Tinantel, a word.”
“Sheheluth, show me your climbing skills,” prodded Banimelek.
“Faernor, I can climb trees just fine, but I’m no monkey.”
“That’s not what I mean,” replied Banimelek.
Sondra waited until she could no longer hear them move up the tree. Jedarc saw her stare at him sternly and laughed. “Hey, you’re not going to pull a grumpy-lumpy on me now, are you?” The Silent had nicknamed Commander Tanios grumpy-lumpy for he was prone to lump the innocent with the guilty when dispensing punishments.
Sondra was not amused. Quick as a snake she whacked him on the head again.
“Ouch! Stop it. That hurts.”
“How many Silent rules are you proposing we break? You’re no Solitary. We stick together and that’s an order.”
“Fine,” grumbled Jedarc, “but at the first light we—”
“Snap out of your romance or so help me, Tinantel, I’ll tie you to this tree and leave you here till we get back.”
“Sondra, I—”
“What? You’re in love? You’re willing to risk your life for a girl who tried to kill Ahiram?” Her voice was now hard, unflinching. “Either you’ll act as a Silent of the Silent Corps, or I will take the lead. Understood?”
Jedarc smirked. “You’re not in love with me, are you? This isn’t a case of jealousy is it?”
Sondra threw her hands in the air. “You’re impossible. I’m in love with the commander.”
“You’re what?” Jedarc’s expression was comical. “Honestly?”
Sondra sighed and began to climb the tree as she grumbled about gullible youth and romantic fools. “Get up that tree and stay there until daylight. That’s an order.”
Jedarc heaved a sigh and nimbly climbed the old oak as he muttered something about strong-willed women and the bitter lack of bananas.
Moments later, Sondra leaned her back against the thick trunk and sat cross-legged on a massive branch. Holding her crossbow, she assumed the first watch. Assigned by seniority, Jedarc came second, and Banimelek third. Sheheluth would take her turn at dawn.
“Sondra, a word.”
“Yes, Faernor?” The Silent did not flinch, but she had to admit that Banimelek’s movements were uncanny. Lithe as a leopard, he settled next to her on the branch.
“You want to know how long I’m willing to search for Hiyam?”
He nodded.
“Three days and three nights, then we seek help.”
“Sheheluth’s safety over Hiyam’s?”
“The Silent take care of their own. She’s not ready for this.”
“Agreed. Will you deal with Jedarc, or will I have to?”
She nodded. “Tinantel can be stubborn when he wants to, Faernor. You deal with him.”
He nodded and scaled back up the tree.
Sondra sighed. I hate leading missions.
Among the Silent, mission leaders were never imposed. Instead, team members selected their leaders based on trust and merit, in that order. When on a mission, the Silent must be able to blindly trust their leader, which is why Jedarc, with his quick wit, concern for others, and clear-minded vision, was their best leader. Ahiram was too intense for leadership—he was far more suited for the work of a Solitary. As the highest rank of the Silent Corps, a Solitary takes on dangerous missions unaided and alone. Banimelek was taciturn, while Sondra had a tendency for strict formality. Allelia, Alviad and Corialynn were almost as affective as Jedarc and she wished Alviad—with whom she shared more than a passing friendship—was with her now.
She chided herself for this selfish thought and called to mind one of the teachings on friendship from the Book of Siril 11:1. The Silent shall strive to share his friends with new members and turn new members into friends. “All right then, time to befriend Sheheluth.”
“This is amazing,” whispered Sheheluth. She stood on the topmost branch of the tall oak, arms wide open, eyes closed, her face wet from the rain. “The wind, the rain, the smells. So amazing.”
“I take it you don’t have much of this where you come from?” asked Banimelek. He was lying on a sturdy branch just below her.
Quick as a cat, she dropped down, sat beside him and dangled her feet. “Where I come from there’s not much of anything,” she whispered.
He smiled.
“Faernor, do you like being a Silent?”
“Banimelek is just fine,” he said softly.
“I think Faernor suits you. So do you like being a Silent?”
“Love it.”
“Why?”
“Cause witty young girls like you get to ask me impossible questions in the middle of the night.”
“I’m not a young girl.”
He snorted. “Young means you’re new, that’s all. It says nothing about who you are. Remember that. It may sound like a curse, because when you’re young, you’re no better than a slave, but it’ll pass. You’ve got the mettle; you’ve got the nerves. You’re smart and you can handle yourself. The commander is the greatest leader you could wish for. He’s got an eye for what’s good for you. If he didn’t think you could do this, he would not have let you come.”
“I didn’t think about that.”
He grunted.
After a quiet moment she began to sing in a foreign tongue:
Halen raho malan rajeen,
Lama bahro alam lateen.
Neina meto kenna natreen,
Sorna shadwoh baraa jayeen.
Her voice was beautiful and carried the strength of proud flags fluttering in the morning breeze. To Banimelek, the song evoked the vastness of the sea, still meadows in the early spring, and dawn by the snow-covered Tangorian peaks. Sheheluth switched to another language but kept the melody.
Jérimal é réro dal si loronond,
Enté leux sanmiral avion omond.
Dukelmage aven tu dal si courou onde,
Majical serein su leuréte en golonde.
Images filled Banimelek’s heart with a deep longing for a city he knew was vast beyond comprehension; a city he had never seen. Images of couples strolling lazily on cobblestone riversides as swift ships flowed silently down clear waters.
Zamein yadal agar çafa karini,
Beyi biliy uzak lara gidkin.
Benor mandagi bendagit delmini,
Benar seuden uzal algidkin.
Sheheluth changed languages yet again. Now, tired men sat in a hookah parlor surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Across the room, on a small stage, a man danced alone, twirling round and round, eyes closed, smiling contentedly. This image surprised Banimelek and stirred memories he did not know he had.
Maa manta uyol gan lahaba,
Manahon araw sa buka dalaba.
Gusk o pumuun mhon ala sahaba,
Kunin pu umunta sa pama kagu haba.
Sheheluth sang the last verse twice and then grew silent. A bamboo pyramid stood on a promontory overlooking a raging sea where a giant ship, massive beyond reason, was sailing away. Standing by the pyramid a lonely figure waved goodbye. The viewpoint drew progressively closer until Banimelek clearly saw the person’s face. He opened his eyes, inhaled sharply and sat erect.
Sheheluth looked at him wide-eyed. “Did I do something wrong?”
Banimelek laughed and rubbed his head. “No, you d
idn’t. That song was beautiful. What is it about?”
“It’s known as Styrol Piatrov, Song of Four Friends.”
“Sounds like the title of a good story.”
“Yes, it’s a wonderful tale. A wonderful and terrible tale. It’s too long to tell in one night, but as the story goes, a cook, a builder, a warrior, and a teacher came from four different kingdoms to Babylon, seeking their fortune. No one would hire them because they did not understand or speak the common tongue.”
“Why did they leave their homes?”
“Like I said, it’s a long and complicated tale, filled with the sorrow of those who are forced to leave and those who wished they could go but are forced to stay. Anyway, these four asked Sureï the Sorcerer to teach them how to speak in the common tongue in one week, but he refused and told them to go back home. ‘Babylon is not for you,’ he told them. ‘You will only find misery here.’ But they couldn’t not return home because they had each made a promise.”
“And you won’t tell me what that promise is because it is part of the long story?”
Sheheluth nodded.
“I didn’t know Sureï spoke so many languages,” observed Banimelek.
She gazed at him wide-eyed, and he smiled. Her big blue eyes in her small face gave him the impression that she still carried her childhood on her sleeve, as if she had never stopped being a child.
“Where I’m from, we call him Sureï Arkama, Sureï the Arch-mage, master of languages.”
“I see,” said Banimelek. “Please continue.”
“The four friends ignored Sureï’s warning, pooled what little money they had, and bought a powerful spell that taught them the common tongue like that.” Sheheluth snapped her fingers.
“So what happened?”
“They learned to speak it after only a few hours.”
“That’s it?”
Sheheluth gazed at Banimelek. “They had to pay a price, of course. They forgot their own language and couldn’t remember where they had come from. Before they could forget everything, they composed that song and memorized it even though they could no longer tell which language belonged to whom.”
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 8
