–Sayings of Jehdi, Great Priest of the Temple of Baal.
The four Silent had finished their breakfast in the forest and were following the trail of the dead horse; while a short distance away, north of their camp, Ahiram woke up. Fully rested and hungry, he yawned and stretched. He closed his eyes, wanting to take in the fresh scent of clean linen, and enjoyed the comfortable mattress he slept on. His stomach grumbled, shattering the quiet of the room like an importunate zakiir in the middle of night.
Reluctantly, he pushed off the covers. He realized the nightgown Orwutt had given him reached only to his knees and was striped vertically in red and pink. I look like a rooster.
To his relief, someone had left a set of clean clothes on a chair: new leather pants, a deep green shirt with streaks of white and pink, and white and purple wool socks.
I guess, when you spend most of your life underground, you use color wherever you can.
He got up from bed and inspected the clothes carefully. Look at these pants. They’re worn at the hem, but there are no stains. He sniffed the garment. Smells clean. I’ve got to find out what they do to remove the stains. Next, he turned the shirt inside out, looked closely at the cuffs, the neckline, and sniffed the armpits. No sweat stains and smells clean, like traces of lavender, lemon, and something else I don’t recognize.
Reassured that the clothes were clean, he went about his morning exercise routine—in the stripped nightgown. He showered in cold water and got dressed. His new pants were knee-high, the shirt’s sleeves barely covered his elbows, and the vestments fit him snuggly.
Dwarfs’ garments are certainly colorful but way too short for this Silent.
He slipped into a pair of sturdy sandals, which actually fit, but the helmet was too small, so he left it on the chair. He stepped out feeling awkward in the colorful, clothing, but when several dwarfs greeted him without a hint of irony, he relaxed and went in search of something to eat.
Imagine what Jedarc would say if he saw me now. No, I don’t want to imagine. I better grab a Silent uniform from the castle before he sees me.
He sat alone at the main table. The chairs were lower than he would have liked and the kitchen felt cramped and smaller than normal, as if his perception of reality was somehow off. He knew he had missed the King’s celebration and the chance of a lifetime, however he was not just a Silent, but a Solitary—the elite of the Corps—trained to serve and defend. And he could not leave another slave at the mercy of a monster. Besides, he thought as he gulped down his second serving of hot porridge with honey and roasted almonds, this is what Hoda would have me do.
Ahiram served himself a glass of goat’s milk, grabbed a chunk of sweet bread and sunk his teeth into a delicious piece of cheese.
He poured a cup of hot tea and realized he could go train with his new weapons now. He went back to his room and fetched his sword and Silent belt. I can’t go walking around with the sword unsheathed like this. He took his bed sheet, rolled the sword in it, and tied it around his shoulder. I don’t like to dirty such a clean sheet, but I’ll wash it before the day is over. He went back to the dining area, snatched another piece of bread, and feeling like a thief, hurried out of the kitchen He found his way to the lower caves where a group of dwarfs were fixing a steel foundry. He bowed down and addressed the most senior member.
“Is there a secluded area where I could go through my training routine? I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
Another dwarf got up, wiped his hands with a dirty apron and motioned for the Silent to follow him. They went into an adjoining storehouse filled with torches, shields, swords, helmets, ropes, picks, axes, and a whole host of shovels.
“I have never seen so many different types of shovels before,” commented Ahiram. Some of the shovel blades were as wide as a man’s shoulders and others as thin as a child’s hand.
A roar reverberated in the storeroom, though fainter than before.
These caves must be farther away from the beast’s location. Good. I hope I won’t have to fight this monster, but if I have to, I want to know how to use the sword well. Something tells me I’m going to need it.
“What is your needy need and need most needy?” asked the dwarf.
“Two torches and something to light them.”
The dwarf handed him four torches and a sword.
“Thank you,” said Ahiram as he took the torches. “These are all I need. I have my own weapons.”
“To light the torching torches, use these,” said the dwarf as he handed him a pair of black stones. “Be carefully careful and careful with the utmost care. These are xirixs sikirril, lighting stones.”
“Are you certain you can give them to me?”
“Master Xurgon’s has given instructing instructions.”
Ahiram bowed. “Where may I train?”
The dwarf motioned for him to follow, and he led him through a set of spiraling stairs to a large cave below. The dwarf held a torch and walked to a small alcove recessed in the wall. He took two stones similar to the ones he had given Ahiram and struck them together over the wick. From the light of the torch, Ahiram could tell that the cave was vast.
“Will she fittingly fit?” he asked.
“She most certainly will.”
“Who?” asked the confused dwarf.
“The cave.”
“Ah, her.”
“Yes. Did I not say that?” asked Ahiram.
“You said ‘she’, when you should have said sheee, see?”
“There’s a difference?”
The dwarf smiled. “More of a different difference than between this cave and a shovel. Dwarfish intoning intonation is critically critical.”
“So what did I say?”
“You said ‘she’ as if you meant your mother-in-law.”
“You mean there’s a different way to speak of the cave and your mother-in-law?”
“Wider than the dividing divide between the earthly earth and the heavenly heavens. Speaking of your own mother, you say ‘sheee’ with levitating levity and joyful joy. Speaking of your mother-in-law, you say ‘she’ with respectful respect and diffident diffidence. When speaking of a cave, you say she with power and awe. No respectable respecting dwarf would confusedly confuse his mother-in-law with a cave.”
“I see.” Ahiram bowed, carefully avoiding saying “she”. “I am mortified beyond any mortification.”
The dwarf laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “This, you would say to your wife.”
Dwarfish grammar is a lot tougher than the commander taught us. It’s enough to leave you dumbstruck.
The dwarf left the cave, and Ahiram grabbed the lit torch and took a second one. He saw a passage at the other end, followed it and entered a second cave similarly equipped with torches. He continued until he found another cave that was not only bare, but wide enough for his exercises and as far from the dwarfs’ quarters as security allowed. He wedged his burning torch between two rocks at the foot of a wall, walked thirty feet and secured the second torch in a similar fashion. The lighting rocks were practical. A quick scrape was enough to ignite the wick. He laid his sword on the ground and went back to the wall.
It’s time I learned to use this blade the way it’s supposed to be used. It can’t be much harder than learning a proper dart throw.
“Layaleen!” he commanded raising his hand. The sword shot up and the Silent ducked. The pommel smashed into the wall behind him sending shards everywhere. It fell to the ground in a cloud of dust. Ahiram got up, grabbed the sword and laid it next to the torch; then he went back to the wall and called it again.
A few hours later, Ahiram lay panting on the cold stone ground. The wall behind him—smooth and even at the beginning of his practice—now looked battered like the face of a battle siege.
I can’t manage to catch this sword. How did El-Windiir do it? Did he use magic? I don’t get it.
He heaved a sigh and got up. During his last attempt, the weapon nearly skewered him. Th
ere must be a way to do this right. I can’t give up.
His belt dangled from his right side, so he adjusted it, but it fell again. Realizing the clip was damaged, he fidgeted with it until it opened.
I can’t forget my belt here. Best to set it by the second torch so I won’t stumble over it when evading the blade. After pulling the sword from the wall, he dropped his belt by the torch and laid the weapon on the ground. He went back to the wall, took a deep breath and said, “Layaleen.”
The sword lifted gracefully and moved toward him. If the sword were a hawk, it would have been gliding now, whereas before, it dove at top speed. With a quick flick of his wrist, he grabbed the handle. The sword was in his hand.
He stood mesmerized, eyeing the blade as if he were seeing it for the first time; unable to believe he was holding it firmly in his hand.
What just happened?
He repeated the experiment with the same success.
What changed? What’s different? Is the urkuun behind this?
Uneasiness settled in like a thick blanket in the heat of summer. He moved to another cave and repeated the experiment with the same result: The sword flew at a manageable speed and he caught it.
Maybe it’s the dwarfish clothing? Maybe the cleaning product they use has a special property that sets in when someone begins to sweat? He shook his head. That’s stupid. Come on, Ahiram, what’s changed? What is diff—
“Young silently Silent, are you healthily healthy?”
Zurwott’s voice surprised him, and out of habit his hand went to his dart belt. My belt, I left it in the other cave.
“Yes, I am fine, Zurwott.”
There was much clearing of the throat—the preferred way of a proper grammarian to properly express his displeasure.
“The counseling council is in progressive progression, which is why my brotherly brother and I would like to have a comfortably comfortable conversational conversation about cheesy cheese and meaty meat.”
“Sure thing, I’ll be there in a short while.”
More clearing of the throat, and Zurwott left the cave.
My belt.
He ran back to retrieve it, and midway, stopped abruptly. “Why didn’t I think of it? The golden tile! The sword’s behavior changed when I removed my belt.”
Excited, he continued to run and found his belt where he had left it. His torch now sputtered. No time to waste. He laid the sword next to the farthest torch and returned to his position in front of the wall.
Again, he called to the sword, and once more, it flew straight and swiftly into his hand. Quickly, he placed the sword back in place by the wall, but this time he grabbed the tile from his belt, held it in his left hand and called to the sword.
“Layaleen.”
The sword moved with frightening speed, much faster than before, faster than the fury of a storm or the strongest arrows. The Silent knew he did not have enough time to react. His hand, wrist, and forearm would shatter on impact.
But it did not break his arm. The sword pommel connected firmly with his fingers. He felt a powerful heat wave irradiate from the tile that was still in his hand. Instinctively, he gripped the hilt and gasped. The sword, firmly in his grasp, was submerged in a brilliant blue halo that left a visible trail when he moved it. He opened his hand and inhaled sharply. The grip had become translucent. He could see the tile floating inside of it in a thick, clear liquid filled with sparkling gold specks.
“Wow,” he whispered. “That’s incredible.”
“Silently, Silent? Are you coming?” called out Zurwott once more.
Ahiram whispered the name of the Letter, “Taw.” Instantly, the tile appeared back in his hand, the halo snuffed out, and the sword became heavier again. He dropped the tile inside his pocket and ran out to meet Zurwott. I need to train more. This is incredible.
Twice the rock had been rolled back to let the desert people bring them food. It was not meat, but a thick soup of greens, carrots, potatoes, and a kind of white flat beans they did not recognize. It was hearty and satisfying. Jedarc had tried to strike up a conversation, but his smile confused their jailers who quickly retreated. Banimelek surprised his friends when he spoke in a guttural tongue and the desert folks reacted positively. Soon after, a tall male walked in and sat cross-legged facing Banimelek. A halted conversation followed, punctuated by grunts. There were no hand or head movements. The two of them sat still, barely batting an eye, and spoke tonelessly.
“Well, well, well,” chuckled Jedarc, after the desert people had gone. “We have now discovered Banimelek’s secret. He just had a long heart-to-heart exchange with his father-in-law.”
“Sheheluth, could you hold this torch for me?” asked Banimelek.
He struck flint stones and a moment later their strained eyes were relieved when light flooded the cave. Banimelek looked up.
“There’s ventilation in here. We won’t suffocate.”
“Why did you light it now?”
“Because Xendorac said I could.”
“Faernor, you speak their language?” said Sondra.
“Their fighting skills reminded me of dwarfish combat style, so I thought this tribe may be linked to the dwarfs and …”
“You speak dwarfish, of course,” added Jedarc.
“I paid attention during class,” retorted Banimelek. “Anyway, they will sacrifice a slave to receive their god’s blessing. Their god will visit the cave tomorrow.”
“So, that’s why they grabbed Hiyam,” whispered Jedarc. Frantically, he got up and inspected the cave.
“It’s no use, Jedarc. This cave has no other exit. Besides, they’ll catch you before you can move.”
“What do they plan on doing with us?” asked Sondra.
“Since we managed to discover the captors, they are afraid someone else may offer a sacrifice before them. They’re going to do it tomorrow instead of in two days like originally planned. They want us to sit with them so they can watch us. If we try anything, he’ll kill Sheheluth.”
“Why me?”
“Because they’re convinced we came here to sacrifice you. If we move, he’ll take you away from us. Permanently.”
“Ah, cheese,” sighed Orwutt as he brought a full platter into the main room. “It is like a pearl. It grows best in dark places and must not be awakened before its time.”
“A dwarfish proverb?” Famished again, Ahiram stuffed himself with a humongous chunk of cheese and bread.
“Not in the leasting least,” replied the dwarf, offended, “Chapter 2, verse 2 of the Book of Siril.”
Ahiram frowned thinking it through, then burst out in laughter. “That’s not what the Book of Siril says.”
Zurwott leaned over and watched Ahiram closely. “Are you positively positive and certainly certain in the utmost certitude of this negatively negative assertion?”
Orwutt’s eyes darted from Ahiram to his twin brother.
“Absolutely,” confirmed Ahiram. “Here’s the actual saying, ‘The Silent’s courage is like a pearl. It grows best in dark places and must be awakened at the appropriate time.’ See, it’s about courage,” he added with a grin. “Who told you it was about cheese?”
Orwutt eyed Zurwott, who felt an urge to inspect his buttons. “Then I would sayingly say,” lectured Zurwott, “that courage is like cheese. When it is ripe, its aroma is contagious. Let it sit unused and it stinks.” Not waiting, he turned to Ahiram. “Are you haltingly halted in your active activities while the counseling counsel and the counsel most counseling reflect reflectively on your propositional proposition and proposition most propositional?”
“Can you talk while the council is meeting?” translated his brother.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well then, this is the perfectly perfect moment for friends to fittingly fit and fit most fittingly, a karak en larx, in this availably available time.”
Orwutt saw the question in Ahiram’s eyes and quickly interjected, “A friendly and free exchange of information
. You tell us something we want to know, we tell you something in return, and we do it for free.”
“Usually, you pay for information?”
“Of course, larx em korok seynne. Utilitarian information is worth a few precious stones.”
“I see,” said Ahiram. “So what do you want to know?”
“No, no, no,” complained Zurwott, “this is unbecoming of properly proper dwarfish traditional tradition. We must go through kin xerk aruk. The seven steps of politely polite commercially commercial commerce: disgust, distrust, mistrust, adjust, readjust, trust, and entrust. Then, and only then, can an informatively informed exchange of informational information take place.”
“What my brotherly brother means to say is that before we can relay what information we are ready to exchange, we first act as if you and we, the two parties in this exchange, are disgusted, really.”
“Disgusted? What’s the cause of our disgust?”
“No causing causality,” explained Zurwott patiently. “Rather a stately state of mind when we engagingly engage in commercial commerce. Disgust is the startling starting point of any fruitfully fruitful commerce.”
“Then,” chained Orwutt, “after well-intended innuendos about the weathering weather, the beauty of rocks, and the lasting loss of Andaxil, we progress from disgust to mistrust.”
“What happened to distrust?” asked Ahiram.
“Ah yes,” lectured Zurwott, “We reminisce reminiscently about the weathering weather, our ancestral ancestors, and the beauty of stones, in that order, for a few hourly hours to adjust our impressive impressions of one another. At which point we move from distrust to mere mistrust.”
“A few hourly hours?” confirmed Ahiram.
“No, no, no,” protested Zurwott “Not a ‘phewh owerly owers, a feeeewwww haaaouuurly haaours.’”
“But, to test our resolve,” interjected Orwutt, “we attempt to insult one another, avoiding any allusive allusion to mother-in-laws or beards.”
Ahiram was overwhelmed. I have never been frightened in a Silent battle, but this dwarfish grammar is downright scary.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 10
