The members of the company kept running as fast as they could until they burst inside the cave. They dashed through the entryway and seeing the cave deserted, Ahiram realized they had not met with the tribesmen on their way. A glance at the exit and he knew why. They stood there, blocking the way.
“Banimelek, any other exit?”
“I can’t see one. If we try to force our way, it will be a bloodbath.”
“Everyone against the wall. Draw swords. Silent, to your crossbows.”
Jedarc was dying to ask Ahiram why he was disguised as a dwarf but thought it best to wait. Feverishly, Ahiram reached inside his pockets and realized he had left the tile in his broken belt in his room.
“I don’t have the tile. I forgot the taw,” he muttered. Instantly, the tile appeared in his hand. He gasped in surprise.
“Ahiram,” Jedarc rasped, “what’s wrong with your hand?”
Ahiram grinned and showed his friend the tile. “It just appeared in the palm of my hand,” he explained.
“What appeared?” asked Jedarc. “What are you talking about?”
“The tile,” protested Ahiram. “Don’t you …?” It dawned on him. He doesn’t see it. He failed to notice the look of dismay and horror on Sheheluth’s face, or if he did, he ascribed it to the béghôm. No one else sees it but me. Why? How did it get here so quickly? The béghôm roared. No time to figure this out now. I’m about to fight this creature.
He placed the tile on the sword’s handle and it sunk inside of it like a rock being sucked into quick sand. A streak of bright blue light flashed from the blade as waves of shining colors ran its length.
“Amazing,” Sondra whispered. “What kind of sword is that?”
“A sword of meyroon,” whispered Banimelek. “Meyroon.”
The béghôm burst into the cave and Sheheluth felt her heart skip a beat. Ahiram was instantly covered with sweat. “This is as powerful a foe as I have ever seen,” he muttered, teeth clenched. His fear flared and for one second, one quick second, he saw himself in the small boat being taken away from the beach, while a bearded man he did not recognize stood in a second boat laughing at him. Instantly, power surged from deep within him; an anger dark and powerful that he had tried repress with the iron-fisted training of the past six years. It had exploded in a violent fury when Prince Olothe had belittled his father, and Ahiram had beaten him senseless because of it.
Ahiram felt it well up again. He swallowed hard. Not now. This is not the time to lose my temper. I need to stay focused and in control of my actions. But his anger flared, and this time it was stronger. He could feel his self-control slipping away. I am losing my mind. Why am I so angry? What is going on? Unable to control it any longer, he screamed.
The béghôm roared.
The dwarfs covered their faces with their hands, and the victim, who was now awake, shrieked.
Good, she’s alive, thought Jedarc, teeth clenched. The crossbow in his hand looked ridiculously small, like a child’s toy compared to the size of the beast, but he knew better. He waited for Ahiram’s signal.
Ahiram sliced the air before him with his blade. The sword’s song was jubilant and strong, which ebbed his fear and steadied his hands. He could see his friends and the dwarfs stand a little taller. The béghôm moaned as if in pain. Ahiram glanced at the sword and eyed the beast who now looked sheepish.He waved his sword and the beast moaned again.
This might explain why she did not attack right away. She is afraid of the sword. He noticed then that the béghôm was covered in blood. Master Xurgon and his dwarfs must have put up a decent fight to keep her in the Pit. This gave him courage, and he did the unthinkable. He attacked.
He lunged at the monster’s heart, but the béghôm sidestepped him and delivered a furious blow, which Ahiram had anticipated. He dropped low when he felt the swift movement of air rush toward him, but the beast had a longer reach. She struck him on the shoulder and sent him rolling on the ground. Fortunately, the shield he wore protected him. He sprang back up to his feet and faced his nemesis. The béghôm roared once more, but this time Ahiram felt galvanized. Somehow, he was confident that the creature was more afraid of him because of his mysterious sword, than he was of her. She edged closer to one of the dwarfs who stabbed her right calf. The beast moaned with pain and delivered a blow to the dwarf, who rolled unconscious against the wall. Ahiram lunged and thrust his sword, but his foe evaded the attack and pounded the ground, hurling fragments of rocks sharp as steel.
She seems a bit slower. The blow from the dwarf was effective.
The beast’s tiny red eyes locked on him. He could see deep-seated fear and hatred; a great evil that wanted his destruction.
The Silent shifted his position slightly to the right, and as the beast’s head followed his movement, he flicked his left thumb and index finger. Two darts flew from Sondra’s and Banimelek’s crossbows. One hit its mark and injured the béghôm’s left eye, and the other sank right above the right eye, drawing blood. The beast raged, her left fist pummeled the wall just a hair above Jedarc’s head, who then dropped to the ground. Seeing blood smeared on the wall where his friend had stood, Ahiram thought him dead.
“Jedarc, no!”
Ahiram had always considered Jedarc and Noraldeen as two beacons of light in a world of darkness. He delighted in their ability to rejoice in a beautiful day, a serene sky, or in a shared meal with friends. True, he sat with them, ate with them, and walked with them, but more so like a shadow visiting the day, or a creature of the night discovering the sun. He did not know how to enjoy what they enjoyed, and was content to warm his heart in the sunshine of their smiles for they enjoyed life to its fullness. They were hope incarnate, hope that one day, someday, he too may step into the light. Noraldeen and Jedarc were his guiding stars, and without them he felt blind and cold. Jedarc and Noraldeen’s death would mean the end of a world, an iron door slamming shut on mines too deep to see the snow covered mountains. Jedarc and Noraldeen lived in a world like Hoda’s, the world before he was taken away. He was now a wanderer, guided by their voices, back to his sister, back to the days he had danced with her on the beach.
Finally, snickered the voice within, finally you’re ready to let me be free.
His dark temper rose like a fury. The sword’s halo grew brighter, crackling as it shot blinding bolts of light. The beast roared her rage. Ahiram spoke words he did not understand. The halo streaming from the sword flared brightly and engulfed him. Sheheluth covered her ears and screamed but her voice was lost in the beast’s bellowing shout. The Silent came down on the béghôm like lightning on a tree, but the creature stepped deftly aside and delivered a blow that should have broken Ahiram’s back. Instead, her fists hit and rebounded against the strange halo. Ahiram yelled and turned to face the beast. Fire flared in his eyes, and his voiced filled the cave just as the halo turned into dark clouds hiding him from view. The storm filled the cave with lightning. Everyone covered their ears and dropped to the ground. The béghôm raised her fists to strike once more just as Layaleen tore through the dark cloud and a thin sheath of deadly light slashed through the beast’s side. The béghôm screamed in pain, and as the blade retracted, she exploded in a flurry of red flakes. A green oozing hole opened in the ground where the monster stood, sucked the unearthly flakes away, and vanished.
Immediately, the dark storm dispersed and the roaring noise subsided. Ahiram stood breathless for a moment, then staggered forward and dropped his blade. He fell to his knees coughing up blood. Convinced the blade had destroyed their enemy, the dwarfs cheered. Banimelek was the first to reach Ahiram who looked disoriented and confused. He steadied him and helped him up.
“Where am I? What just happened?” He coughed up more blood. “Is the slave alive?”
“Yes, she’s alive,” replied Jedarc.
“A girl? Good, let me see her.”
“You’re not in a good shape, Ahiram. You’ll scare her. She’s been through a lot.”
“Fine, but she is alive?”
Sondra went over and uncovered the victim’s head. Hiyam’s hair came cascading down. Her eyes darted from Sondra to Sheheluth, and lingered on Jedarc when she saw his beaming smile. She relaxed and managed to get up. Jedarc signaled to Sondra to quickly get her out of the cave.
“You don’t need to carry me,” snapped Hiyam. She was still groggy from the effects of the drugs. “I can walk on my own.”
This voice, he thought, I recognize this voice. He turned around sharply. Hiyam saw his eyes filled with a raging fury and she recoiled.
“You?” he snapped, coughing more blood, “I risked my life to save you?” He gathered his strength and got up. Jedarc tried to stop him, but Ahiram elbowed his friend, pushed Sondra out of his way, and raised a hand to slap Hiyam.
“Silently Silent,” cried out Zurwott. “Remember the remembrance of your promising promise.”
Ahiram remembered: No one shall touch a hair of the slave as long as I live. He had made that promise just five days ago. He moved away and leaned on Banimelek, the only one who did not try to stop him. “Never let me see her face again,” he muttered, his voice raspy and hard. He fell to his knees and collapsed in Sondra’s arms.
“Ahiram, Ahiram,” she called, trying to wake him up.
“He must be wounded,” observed Jedarc. “He will need help.”
“The desert people will help,” retorted Banimelek, lifting Ahiram up. “They will know what to do.”
“Do you trust them?” asked Sondra.
“They will know what to do,” grunted Banimelek carrying Ahiram outside the cave. “Let’s go.”
Hiyam pushed every one away, stormed out of the cave and faced the desert people. “Once the Temple finds out what you have done to me,” she snapped, “you will wish you were all dead at the hand of this beast.”
“The Temple of Baal has always straddled two realms: the sunlit world of men, and the Spell World. One is resplendent with life, the other hidden, secret and terrifying. This dual view is dangerous, for the Order of Baal is always tempted to reduce our world to a mere illusion, and to believe that the Spell World is the ultimate reality.”
–Teaching of Oreg, High Priest of Baal.
When the béghôm vanished, the recluse tribe concluded that a greater force had defeated their god, which meant the beast was no longer able to threaten their crops. The sacrifice had become unnecessary, and they were happy to release Hiyam into the care of the Silent.
“How dare they release me into your care?” snapped Hiyam. “I will have them flogged and flayed for what they have done to me.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” replied Sondra.
“How dare you order me around? I am the daughter of High Priestess Bahiya—”
“And I am a Silent! And I don’t care if you are the daughter of Baal himself. You are under the Silent’s jurisdiction and you will follow Jedarc’s orders. Is that understood?”
The two young women glared at each other, both unwilling to relent.
“Stay like that,” said Jedarc jovially, “and bees will be able to grow entire hives on your heads.”
Sondra scowled and Hiyam quietly averted her eyes. She did not want to look at Jedarc.
“High Rider, a word. Please.”
Hiyam eyed Banimelek, her hands creeping to where her blade should have been. If his intentions were hostile, he hid them behind an impassible mask.
“This way, please,” he added, speaking affably.
She followed him and they walked a short distance away. Sondra and Jedarc observed them. Banimelek spoke a few short sentences and then they saw Hiyam’s eyes widen and her expression fall. Banimelek came back, leaving her and visibly shaken.
“What did you tell her?” asked Jedarc. “You didn’t ask for her hand in marriage, now did you?”
Banimelek cracked a thin smile and shrugged his shoulders. “I reminded her of the High Riders’ code of honor.”
Sondra frowned, digesting what Banimelek had just said. Then her features brightened and she slapped the tall Silent on his shoulder. “Brilliant,” she said. “Absolutely brilliant. Banimelek you are a genius.”
Jedarc slipped his hands in his pockets and began shuffling tiny pebbles with his boots. He had to admit that Sondra was right. Banimelek had found a glaring weakness in Hiyam’s defenses, one the proud daughter of the high priestess could not refute, a weakness at the heart of the High Riders’ code of honor.
“If a High Rider falls into slavery,” he recited somberly, “and is rescued, then that High Rider will become the slave of his rescuer to whom he owes his life. His indenture shall be for one year or until a ransom is paid on his behalf.”
Banimelek nodded.
“So Hiyam is now a slave … and her master is …?”
Banimelek chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious? Hiyam is now Ahiram’s slave.”
Sheheluth sat at Ahiram’s bedside. He lay motionless, his breathing shallow and ragged. An older woman walked in, examined the Silent and signaled to Sheheluth to get Banimelek. A moment later three Silent stood in the cave with the older woman.
“The healer,” explained Banimelek, “says Ahiram is too weak and that is why he is not waking up. She will take care of him.”
“Can we trust them, Faernor?” urged Sondra. “This is Alendiir we’re talking about.”
“I know, Sondra. Her knowledge of medicinal herbs is greater than that of the dwarfs. I don’t think there’s anyone better to heal Ahiram than her. I trust her.”
One hour later, they carried Ahiram to an adjoining cave where a hot bath had been prepared in a pit dug into the ground. It was filled with aromatic herbs and looked like a thick yellow slush. The old woman asked them to take his belt and shoes off but not his clothing just yet.
“His clothes may be stuck to his wounds,” explained Banimelek. They immersed their unconscious friend in the warm water. A moan escaped his lips. The old woman beamed. “She says that’s a great sign. She thinks he will recover in a few days.”
Later on, as the day waned and night began to settle on the rim of the mountains, they carried Ahiram to a clean bed and sat watch over him. Hiyam confined herself to a nearby cave and refused to speak with anyone. After a hearty meal, the dwarfs and the Silent were all relieved to slide into a warm bed, and they slept well knowing they did not have to worry about the béghôm any longer.
The following day, Zurwott sealed a cooperative agreement with Xendorac; the desert people would ship the bricks the dwarfs produced. In return, the dwarfs would provide Xendorac and his people with clean-burning torches. Furthermore, the dwarfs would provide the necessary equipment to properly patch drafty caves and teach the desert people how to use them. A mutually mutual agreeable agreement, thought Zurwott as he stepped into the tunnel that led back to their quarters. This was the primary reason why he had accepted to stay the night. He sealed the agreement without a zakiir, which meant that he himself would pocket five percent of the profit from the sales of the brick—half of the memory man’s commission.
“We will be freely free and free to freely roam these caves,” repeated Zurwott. He saw them in a new light. Without the constant fear of the beast, these caves would revert to a comfortable, friendly space. While the beast roamed free, these caves had felt like a forlorn uncle who refused visits, but now, with the monster gone, the caves had invited them for a grand tour.
“Xirix Zilal loved his gemstone.
In treasure-caves, he stood alone.
With precious stones and piles of gold,
He danced and dined, or so I’m told.”
Zurwott intoned the first verse of Xirix Zilal’s famous eulogy and the rest of the band joined in.
“Rich, tall, and proud, Xirix stands alone.
Rich, tall, and proud, he stands so, forlorn.
In ancient caves so deep and dank,
Where no one lived, nor ate, nor drank;
Amid the gold he had accrued,
; He stood alone in a cheerful mood.
Rich, tall, and proud, Xirix stands alone.
Rich, tall, and proud, he stands so, forlorn.
No dwarf ever came to visit,
No songs were sung to lift his spirit,
No beer to share with scrumptious geese,
No one would dare disturb his peace.
Rich, tall, and proud, Xirix stands alone.
Rich tall, and proud, he stands so, forlorn.
So went the years beneath the earth,
He stood content, no joy, no mirth.
Until one night he turned to stone,
And still today, he stands alone.
Stiff as a stone, Xirix stands alone,
No more flesh or bone, he stands so, forlorn.”
“It is a goodly good death to die between piling piles of glowing gold,” sighed Arax, contentedly. “Blessed Xirix Zilal is a truly true dwarf and a dwarfish dwarf of the purely pure lineage.”
Orwutt bit his tongue. Aside from Andaxil and the fratricidal wars of Salsipetri and Alijuun, nothing was more contentious than the eulogy of Xirix Zilal. The northern dwarfs, such as Arax, celebrated Xirix Zilal as a hero, but the southerners considered him a buffoon well deserving of his fate. Two hundred years ago, in an effort to avoid a fratricidal war, the two realms had established a joint commission to determine Xirix Zilal’s status of hero or buffoon. This still ongoing commission had just asked its twenty-two current members two questions: How long could Xirix have lived alone without losing his mind? Secondly, a dwarf who did not care for his physical well-being would be called a buffoon. The commission wanted to know the number of monthly grooming a dwarf had to perform to stay in good standing. Once that number was defined, the commission would deliberate on Xirix’s ability to meet this requirement, especially as he advanced in age.
Zurwott was a member of this commission. Now that the monster was gone, he hoped to present his answer for the second question. He had concluded, after intense study, that every dwarf required a minimum of a weekly trim; a task an old dwarf could not carry out unaided.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 14
