“To groom or not to groom is the heart of the argument,” Ashod had advised one day, “the one aspect that would determine if Xirix Zilal was a hero or a fool.” Zurwott had never forgotten these words because he was still unable to tell if Ashod had spoken seriously; an answer as ambiguous as Xirix Zilal’s predicament.
“By the mighty Xirik!”
His brother’s exclamation brought him back to the present. He realized they had reached their quarters. Every room was in shambles. The wounded were many. The béghôm had gone berserk and managed to break through their defenses in under two hours. Despite their fierce resistance, the beast had escaped in a trail of blood.
The following day a frazzled Xurgon convoked a council. Zurwott and Orwutt gave an account of their adventure and concluded by telling the assembly that Ahiram had slain the béghôm. After much questioning, the council disagreed with their conclusion and were of the opinion that the two dwarfs had been hasty.
“That the beastly beast has been dealt a wound is clear to this council,” summarized Xurgon. “Whether the Silent definitively defeated the Xarg-Ulum remains to be seemingly seen. I believe a magical trick has spirited the beast away at the last instant to avoid her deathly demise. More I cannot say as an absolute saying in this moment.” At this news, silence fell. Master Xurgon stood up, “Let us raise our rising voices to sing the brave, deadly death of our young Silent hero who died a great dwarfish death today and—”
“Ahiram sustained bruising bruises but is breathing breezily.” Zurwott stood rather unceremoniously to reassure his master.
“Why have you not brought him with you so we may tenderly tend to his wounding wounds?”
Orwutt explained how Banimelek refused to bring Ahiram back to the dwarfs because of his injuries.
“The desert people have extensive healing knowledge. He will be well taken care of there.”
“So the Silent defeated the mighty xarg-ulum,” mused Master Xurgon. “He broke the spell-binding spells. This is a mighty deed. Who knew the young man had knowledge of ancient lore to accomplish this feat? Has the venerable Korx Terix Tal seen the swording sword?”
They asked the old dwarf who had examined Ahiram’s sword earlier to come forward. After an animated conversation with him, Xurgon fell into deep thought. He emptied the content of his pipe into the chimney and filled it with fresh tobacco; then, forgetting to light it up, he tried to smoke it. After a few frustrating inhalations, he realized his mistake, and after lighting his pipe, rose to his feet in a cloud of smoke.
Why would any respectable respecting dwarfish dwarf wish to take on the imaging image of a chimney is beyond my mentally mental capacities to understand, thought Zurwott. He was viscerally opposed to smoking, but he was not about to confront Xurgon on the subject, at least not now.
“Mighty dwarfs, rejoice,” said Xurgon with a voice that roused the dwarfs to their feet. “Behold, the bearer of Layaleen is in our midst.”
A stunned silence overtook the dwarfs and carried them into the midst of legends, as if El-Windiir were about to walk into the room with their forefathers who had fought by his side. Suddenly, their lives, so humdrum and ordinary, glowed with a brilliance surpassing that of their wildest dreams: El-Windiir’s blade had returned. It meant a harbinger of new stories to be told and future glories to be hailed, and generations would sing of them. Still, dwarfs were first and foremost a practical lot, and as Master Xurgon’s pipe smoke faded away, it took with it the wonder and elation of the moment.
“Now, onto more mundane tasking tasks,” said Xurgon as he left the room. “Rebuild these quarters to decency.”
Kalibaal, priest of the Temple of Babylon, assistant to the High Priest Sharr, and member of the Inner Circle was perplexed. Never before had he seen such devastation in the Arayat. He floated gently over the evergreen oozing substance that covered the Spell World. His appearance was that of a two-headed bull with hands instead of hooves; hardly anyone controlled how he appeared in the Spell World. The color of his skin was a dark blue, repeatedly crisscrossed by translucent blue streaks of lightning. The right head was fully formed, while the left head flickered in and out of existence. This Arayatian behavior annoyed Kalibaal, which is why he ventured to the Spell World only when necessary, and the unexpected return of the béghôm from the mines required his full attention.
“I had forgotten how loud the Arayat is,” he commented.
“It is alive, you know,” replied Shermas. “It creaks and moans like an old ship, and the wind that blows continuously sounds like a deranged windpipe. Every planted curse burbles and gurgles with a metallic sound, and the slaves whose blood nourishes these fields moan unceasingly.”
“You seem fond of the place,” remarked Kalibaal.
Shermas would have shrugged his shoulders if he had had shoulders to shrug. His Arayatian form was a headless scarab body with four hyena hind legs and a badger’s tail with a face on it. The face being close to the ground was practical for this shogol, spell herder, who spent most of his life in the care and feeding of fields of curses. “I am not fond of it. I am familiar with its rhythm, and Baal be blessed, I am not affected by the eerie sounds which drive many a priest crazy.”
Kalibaal’s right head nodded approvingly; his left head fluttered. He had trained for four long years before he could manage an extended stay in the Spell World. He surveyed the field ahead of him. “What a mess,” he sighed. “What a mess.”
Outside the Spell World, he would have let loose a series of expletives to shame the most hardened of sailors, but an assertion made here could become a curse in the real world. Every member of the Inner Circle knew the true origin of the gnat infestation that had killed thousands of Babylonians seventy years prior—the high priest of the day had a sister who was an Adorant, and he had called her a “pest,” while in the Arayat. The gnats were so numerous, they had moved like a black liquid that drowned every living creature on their path.
“It will take years to heal this field,” Shermas pointed out. He was the shogol in charge of these grounds that nourished the now broken béghôm. “The destruction is extensive.”
Kalibaal willed to rise up, and he hovered over the devastation. Shermas followed. The area they inspected was shaped like a bowl, half-a-mile wide and half-a-mile deep. In the center stood the béghôm, or what was left of her. Here, she looked like a gray, ragged thorn bush, withered and ashen.
“Do you think she will survive?”
“Hard to say,” sighed Shermas. “If the supporting curses were not so extensively damaged, she would regenerate quickly, but look at the extent of the disaster.”
All around the béghôm, along thirty-two concentric circles, stood hundreds of odd-looking plants. They resembled lavender bushes and oozed a whitish substance that trickled down well-designed trenches for the béghôm to feed on. Their tips were translucent and they shone with an ominous purple glow. At least that is how the few remaining healthy curse-bushes looked. Most of these Arayatian plants were charred and blackened as if a dragon’s breath had snuffed them out.
“Nearly all of these curses are now dead or dying,” commented Shermas. “Each took five to seven years to grow and cost the blood of at least five curse providers.”
Kalibaal waved dismissively. “You can get all the slaves you need.”
“You mean curse providers,” corrected Shermas. These were the souls that Baal had exiled to the Arayat to fuel the production of curses. Shermas glanced at the seven hundred and sixty cocoons lining the rim of the bowl. Each cocoon encased one victim whose blood trickled out at the rate of one drop a week. The shogols then mixed the blood with several other ingredients to feed the curses. Shermas eyed the cocoons with great pride. Before his involvement, it took three drops of blood to raise the same quantity of curses that he could now raise with just one. He did it to reduce the number Arayatian prisoners, but instead, Sharr tripled the production of curses and added to everyone’s load.
Sharr deserves
what is coming his way, thought the Shogol.
“Incredible,” whispered Kalibaal. “I know this curse,” he said pointing at the béghôm. “This is not the real beast, but a replica you created from the bones of a dead béghôm. Still, the thirty-two rings of protection surrounding it have been snuffed in one blow. Shermas, if you were to create a countercurse to destroy this field, what would it look like?”
Shermas shook his head, which led the scarab to buzz quickly. “It’s not possible. I hardly doubt that even Sureï could have created such a countercurse. When you look at this field you see the bushes, but I see the complex web of roots my Shogols have woven to help these curses protect each other. See that curse over there on the outer circle? That’s a paralysis curse. It is defensive in nature. Near the bottom, there’s a curse just out of view that triggers and amplifies the anger of an attacker in order to blind his reason. Since their roots are mingled, a threat to one triggers the other. This holds true for the hundreds of curses you see here. To create a countercurse that could rip through this field in a second … the mind staggers …that’s impossible. It cannot be done.”
“So you don’t believe the attacker used a countercurse?”
The scarab buzzed. “It’s something else. Something else entirely.”
Master Kwadil reclined contentedly on his silk cushions. His famed Caravan from Beyond was stationed outside Gordion, the capital of the Kingdom of Teshub, two thousand miles southeast of Tanniin. He was in a good mood, having received three momentous updates that meant he was now a lot closer to realizing his ultimate goal.
Master Xurgon had just informed Kwadil that the young Finikian boy, who had come to them six years ago, had recently destroyed a béghôm with El-Windiir’s sword. At last, this confirmed his hunch about the child’s importance. He congratulated himself on his costly investment; for he was the one who had covered the travel fares of Ahiram and his guardians. He had asked Commander Tanios to take the child as a slave for nine years, and had said that if he did not ask for him again, Tanios would be free to do with the boy as he wished. Master Kwadil smiled broadly for he was pleased with his own sagacity.
Now that Ahiram had found El-Windiir’s sword, Kwadil knew he could no longer treat him as a slave. Still, there were other ways to get someone to do your bidding. Ashod had just asked him to facilitate the departure of Hayat and Jabbar to the Kingdom of Marada, the Land of Giants. Six years ago, Syreen had freely told Kwadil that Hoda was Ahiram’s sister, and since he knew every member of the covert Black Robes, he quickly deduced she was Hayat and Jabbar’s daughter. Therefore, he knew the location of the slave’s parents; information the slave would be willing to barter against services rendered.
Then, he received the third piece of news—the most important of all. For twenty years now, a secret team of dwarfs had been searching for Andaxil, the dwarfs’ mother cave. Their stubbornness, financed by his wealth, had finally paid off, for they had stumbled upon a hole inside a narrow canyon deep within the mountain range of Adiker.
The hole was no bigger than a man’s fist; an inexperienced explorer would have missed it, but not Kazak Kerin, the greatest explorer of this dwarfish generation. His scouts had noted the gap but did not think much of it, so he asked them if they had checked the hole’s edges.
“An edgy edge, raggedly ragged, would tellingly tell of an erosive erosion, but a smooth slippery edge may tell of an unnaturally unnatural originating origin. When conducting a hunting hunt for the greatest of comely caves, a rounded round should not be ignorantly ignored or ignored in the most ignorant manner.”
Kazak’s iron discipline had paid off. Upon closer examination, the dwarfs had realized that the hole was in fact a cylindrical passage cut into the mountain to the depth of twenty feet. Its edges were smooth, waterproof, and seared as if it had been formed by a flow of lava. Encouraged, the dwarfs had poured a thin stream of oil down the opening and set it on fire. Kazak’s expert eye identified a metallic object at the bottom of the hole. Excited, the dwarfs carved a ten-foot-deep tunnel into the mountainside until they were stopped by an invisible barrier. No pix, axe, or shovel could get through that barrier, however, they could slide an iron cable into the remaining ten feet of the small space without hindrance.
Kazak then instructed them to tie a small flare to the end of the cable and push it into the hole as far as it would go. The flare reached the end and pushed against the metallic barrier, which lifted up without much difficulty. They then shoved the flare through, and the barrier fell back down. Using a second rod, the dwarfs succeeded in lifting the mysterious object, and then lit the flare.
In the bright, burning light, Kazak beheld a river of precious stones. As the flare waned, he recognized the object that blocked the hole: the Merilian medallion, the one his forefathers had borrowed from the giants and that had been hanging inside Andaxil for 642 years. The clever dwarf figured that a Merilian blast had created the very hole he was peering into. Their initial joy knew no bounds, but it was quickly dampened when they realized they could not break through the invisible barrier to retrieve the Merilian medallion.
“Kwadil, there is a cursing curse that keeps Andaxil enclosed and closed despite all our continuously continuous effort.”
Kwadil had thanked his friend and senior of his clan for the information. The orb had gone dark and his great mind had carefully considered the evidence.
“This cursing curse is the working work of Sureï,” he muttered.
A power greater than the sorcerer’s magic was required to break the protective curse. No dwarfish cave held such power, but perhaps El-Windiir’s blade and its bearer, would be powerful enough to break through the béghôm’s protective rings.
Kwadil rubbed his hands and slapped his thighs.
An opportune opportunity will present herself no earlier than is needed and no later than is required, he thought, and my shrewdly shrewd nephews will be of an impeccably impeccable helping help.
There was a discrete knock at the door.
“May the highest heavenly heavens protectively protect us from the tormenting torment of importunate opportunists,” grumbled the dwarf. Sighing, he clapped twice. “May your inquisitive inquiry be laid to a restful rest.” This was the standard dwarfish salutation equivalent to a “come in” in the common tongue.
A bespectacled dwarf leaned forward and squinted. “Your attentive attention is immediately required and required immediately. A zakiir has comely come with a messaging message from a trustfully trustworthy friendly friend.”
Kwadil grinned widely. Ashod has an urgent, requesting request. What a charmingly charming coincidental coincidence.
“Let him in,” he said curtly in the common tongue.
Ahiram opened his eyes and was assailed by a deep darkness. He closed them, and breathed deeply; opening them once more, he realized he was back in the cave but was not laying on a dwarfish mat. Taking in the vibrant eucalyptus scent, he thought, This mat is made of fresh leaves. And it’s clean. He raised his head and saw a flicker in the far corner of the cave. He grunted as he pulled himself into a sitting position and was startled when he saw a young girl holding a cup. She prodded him to take it and he recognized Sheheluth. He drank half of it, then gave it back to her.
“I’m not thirsty,” he said. His voice sounded coarse.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, on edge.
He gave her a dazed look. “No, thank you, I’m fine, but where are we?”
Sheheluth bolted from the room and he heard her say his name to someone. Dizziness assailed him and he slid back onto the mat. Placing his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. He did not know why, but the darkness was soothing.
“Hey,” said Jedarc as he walked in followed by Banimelek, Sondra, and Sheheluth. “How are you feeling?”
“Close that door,” grumbled Ahiram squinting. “What is this? Slave’s visitation day? What are you doing in my room?”
“You don’t remember?” asked Ba
nimelek.
“Remember what?”
“The béghôm, Alendiir,” replied Sondra. “You do not remember?”
The name resonated like an ominous threat. A blurry image took shape: a dark mass, a powerful shriek, two red eyes. The image came into focus and he saw a pair of hateful eyes, in want of his destruction. The image faded and he saw himself facing the beast. He remembered jumping … Ahiram sat up so suddenly, he startled his friends.
“Where is she?” said Ahiram, hands in frantic search of his sword.
“The béghôm is a she?” Sondra was astounded.
Banimelek steadied Ahiram. “The beast is gone. You beat him.”
“Her,” corrected Sondra. “It’s a she …”
“I did?” asked Ahiram. His memory was still hazy. “Are you sure?”
Banimelek nodded. “We saw it disappear in a red cloud.”
“Her,” Sondra corrected again. She was still shocked that the beast was female. “She disappeared.”
“What happened then?”
Sondra eyed Banimelek. He nodded.
“You coughed up blood,” continued Sondra, “then you collapsed.”
“I vaguely remember,” he said softly, then looked at them in turn. His gaze settled on Jedarc. He looked at his friend, frowned, then jumped up overjoyed and would have fallen back down had Jedarc not steadied him.
“Jedarc,” he said squeezing his friend’s shoulders. “You’re not dead! You’re alive! This is wonderful.”
“Aren’t I supposed to say that?”
“You’re not dead, you’re not dead,” replied Ahiram, relieved. “I’m so happy.” Jedarc smiled and helped his friend sit back down. “So, what are you all doing here?” asked Ahiram.
“You don’t remember?” asked Banimelek.
“What? What is it that I don’t remember?”
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 15
