Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Read online

  Ahiram looked at the old man, waiting for the rest. He wondered once more how Habael managed to have such thick, white hair and eyes as blue as the bluest sky. The gardener was six feet two inches tall, but at times, he could appear even taller in his oversized, light gray sweater and pants. He had wrapped a dark-blue, wool scarf around his neck. His sturdy, leather sandals were a source of mystery, for the Silent had never seen them dirty despite Habael’s long hours in the garden.

  Habael seemed lost in his thoughts. Ahiram realized that what the old man told him must have been a disguised warning. He glanced at the servants, but no one was eavesdropping. Still, the Temple had spies everywhere. He wanted to ask questions, but refrained from disturbing the old man. If Habael had more to say, he would have said it. The food was delicious, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than eating a good breakfast in silence. Habael stirred and smiled.

  “Well now, you are done eating, I see. Too fast. You always eat too fast. Take this,” he said handing him a leather pouch. “In case you are injured, rub some of this ointment on the wound. It will sting, but you will feel better.”

  “Thank you, Master Habael,” replied Ahiram as he inserted the small pouch into one of his belt pockets.

  “Off you go now. I shall expect a full report when you come back.”

  Ahiram stood up and bowed before the old man, who took his head in his hands and kissed him. Master Habael then lifted Ahiram’s face, looked into his eyes and said, “Never cease to hope.” He smiled, then let him go. Ahiram was doubly grateful to the old man, first for the wonderful breakfast, but more importantly for the warning he had just given him under the guise of a senseless story: Beware of what looks good at first sight. Inspect, but do not touch.

  He stepped outside to the servants’ garden. The court smelled of sheep and chicken. At the far end, steam billowed from the blacksmith’s shop while a rhythmic thud shook the mason’s shop. The shepherds’ keep was empty—the shepherds preferring to stay up in the surrounding hills this time of year. The two soldiers manning the narrow gate—the only other way out of the castle besides the royal gate—nodded and let him pass. Ahiram buttoned his long, white coat while walking briskly along a dirt path. He walked across the narrow bridge over the Adulaan River and quickly crossed Royal Road which, as a slave, he could not use. Instead, he walked—hidden in the canyon—on the dirt path running parallel to the road. The Mines of Bronze, Silver, and Gold were half a mile away, south of Taniir-The-Strong, in a maze of mountains and hills known as the Doral Highlands. The mines had been in use for centuries, until the constant excavation depleted them. Mining then moved farther south a century ago to Dabâr, the southern end of the Karian Chain, near the fortified city of Beit-Windiir.

  In Doral, El-Windiir, Tannin’s founder, slaved for the Lords of the Deep. On Nissan 1, 2756, of the Age of the Second Covenant—when the Wars of Meyroon broke out—the Lords of the Deep opened Hawâl, the Heart of the Pit, or the “Pit of the Abyss,” as the Babylonians called it. They unleashed bestial hordes in three waves, each more powerful than the last. No forces on earth could stop their advance until the Malikuun stooped down from their high reaches in heaven and waged a relentless war against the Lords of the Deep. El-Windiir rebelled against his masters and cut their supplies of meyroon for four days, depriving them from their most powerful weapon. His action tipped the balance in favor of the Lords of Light, who defeated the Lords of the Deep and locked them in the Pit of the Abyss. As a reward, the Malikuun gave the Land of Tanniin to El-Windiir before departing to their heavenly abode.

  Not long after, the servants of Baal rose against El-Windiir. He forged weapons: a sword and wings of the most pure meyroon, a fiery mask of pure gold in the image of the great dragon Tanniin, and a belt of silver, which he endowed with navigational power. Finally, he took shoes made of silk and dipped them in clarified bronze, a formula the great magician Inshetaar invented that yielded a light metal stronger than iron. El-Windiir called this pair of shoes Giril Sarisil (Swift Ones). He then raised a great army and laid siege to Sokhor Dur, Baal’s fortress, and destroyed it during the famous Battle of Shanganar. In their desperation, the guardians of the Temple committed a terrible sin. They invoked the power of the Pit, and devised a terrible weapon that they used during the Battle of Monsabe in order to defeat El-Windiir and exile him to a remote island. So it was, on Chesbân 21, 3098, of the Age of the Second Covenant, El-Windiir left Tanniin. After his death, his grandson, El-Windiir II, brought his body back for burial, but no one ever found his weapons.

  Yet, Tanniin knew peace during the last period of the Age of the Second Covenant. The kingdom managed to weather the Age of Chaos, then the Age of the Temple began and Baal started expanding his dominion. Initially, Tanniin repelled the forces of the Temple, but Baal was relentless, and eventually the kingdom fell. El-Windiir’s story became a folkloric play, The Song of El-Windiir, which in time, gave birth to the Games of the Mines.

  There were four Games, one per day, each aptly called by its matching metal in honor of the artifacts of El-Windiir: bronze, silver, gold, and meyroon. All four Games took place in their corresponding mines, with each team required to find all of El-Windiir’s replicated weapons. The first team to leave the mine of bronze with shoes of bronze, would win the first round, the Game of Bronze. The first team out of the mine of silver with the shoes and belt of silver would win the Game of Silver. The third day, the team that reached the mine of gold’s exit first with a mask of gold, along with the belt and shoes, would win the Game of Gold. However, qualified teams still in the race were eligible to win the final Game, provided they could produce the proper artifacts at the end of each round. Finally, the first team to leave the Mine of Meyroon with the wings and the three other artifacts would win the Games of the Mines.

  Four judges oversaw the Games, but the disqualifications began with the Game of Silver on the second day. They disqualified teams that did not possess all the required artifacts. Teams could steal from other teams, leading to stunning reversals of fortune during the final game. Victory remained elusive until the end.

  There was one exception: a slave could have no teammates. To win the Games, he had to come out first, all four times, and prevent the others from stealing his artifacts—an impossible feat which Ahiram set out to do.

  The Game of Bronze was a warm-up to prepare the teams for the three remaining Games. The number of metal artifacts matched the number of teams. As a slave, Ahiram was not entitled to a pair of shoes, so he would have to find and steal one. The rules also provided the teams with a half-hour head start ahead of him. Since the pairs of shoes were typically easy to spot, his chance at winning this first game was slim.

  Most players want me out as soon as possible, but I have plans of my own. Ahiram smiled to himself and began whistling "O Flag of My Heart", a popular song allegedly sung by Layaleen, the widow of El-Windiir, when his body was brought back to Tanniin, wrapped in a torn Tanniinite flag. Supposedly, Queen Layaleen prophesied that “liberation from Baal will come when a slave rings the bell, and raises the flag of Tanniin”. Ahiram had no clue why he was whistling this song. Perhaps the song’s vibrant theme of freedom called to him.

  He reached the wide circular plaza, where the Game of Bronze would start momentarily. Shaped like a bowl two hundred feet in diameter, it could easily hold a crowd eight thousand strong. The flat face of the Doral Hills flanked its southern end where the entrance to the mines lay. The slaves had erected stands on the northern side over a grassy area that ran half a mile back to the edge of the woods surrounding Taniir-The-Strong. The King had not yet arrived. The stands were filling rapidly. Hungry men and women lined up to buy a bowl of hot praniti, a local specialty with beans, bacon, chicken wings, spicy lamb or other sweet chunks of meat, and topped with seasoned bread crumbs. The man and woman staffing the praniti stand liked to cook it with a generous portion of paprika and curcuma. Children waited patiently for the sellers of roasted chestnuts to open their st
ands. Still others haggled with jewelers and clothing and carpet merchants. There was even an itinerant butcher who set up shop behind the stands. He was a tall, burly man with a beard to make even the hairiest dwarf jealous. He sharpened his knives while a long line of local farmers stood in a row, ready to sell him their geese, pigs, ducks, lambs, and calves. Visitors from nearby villages were indignant that the butcher conducted his dirty trade during this noble occasion. Their indignation quickly faded when he pointed to the animals outside his shop, then pointed at the delicious praniti bowls they were holding.

  To the east of the plaza, a gently sloped canyon led to the narrow neck of the Sandoraal. This luxuriant valley started at the foothills of Taniir-The-Strong and ran southward in an ever-widening span, until it reached from sea to sea a few hundred miles south. The western side of the plaza led to a ravine, which abruptly fell several hundred feet into the Renlow River, snaking its way up north through mud swamps that were still freezing cold despite the heat of the summer. A narrow, rocky road linked the plaza to the western reaches of the Doral. Sandwiched between the cliff walls and the ravine, it followed a wide right bend, then disappeared from view. It reappeared across the ravine, rising rapidly to a flat plateau a mile and a half away.

  Twelve posts stood, six on either side of the large doorway leading into the mine. All but one post carried colorful oriflammes bearing the teams’ insignias. The flags flapped joyfully in the morning breeze. Ahiram knew that the last post, the one without a flag, was his, and he started walking in its direction.

  The other teams were already present, chatting in small groups. The smallest team hailed from the Kingdom of Oronoque and consisted of three members recognizable by their long, black hair worn like a turban. Hiyam’s team was the largest, with ten participants. Prince Olothe was also there with his team of seven. Everyone knew that the prince cared nothing for the Games. He was courting Hiyam, and it was anyone’s guess whether her beauty or her status was foremost on his mind.

  Hiyam was smiling at Prince Olothe, yet her gaze caught Ahiram entering the plaza, and she gave a start. Prince Olothe caught sight of the Silent, tightened his fists and strode toward him. Ahiram stopped. This time he was ready. The prince stopped a few feet away and clapped, commanding attention.

  “Fellow athletes, I adjure you to refuse to take part in these Games as long as this slave’s presence sullies this noble competition. O men and women of noble birth, faithful subjects of the great Temple of Baal, let us ask the judges to order him off these premises.”

  A trumpet sounded, imperious and impatient. Two trumpeters walked gracefully side-by-side. They wore dark green, knee-high velvet tunics over light gray tights and green and gray striped boots. The royal dragon was stitched in gold on their shoulders and on their hennin, which partially covered their blond hair. Next came the standard-bearer, dressed in like fashion, but with a white, silk tricorne instead of the conical hennin. The large, white standard showcased four stylized eyes looking in the four directions—a symbol of the far-reaching wisdom of the four judges presiding over the Games.

  A fourth man, of shorter stature and wider girth, walked behind the standard-bearer. He wore a long, flowing golden and open tunic over a white, silk shirt and a pair of white, linen trousers, with a red, silk scarf around his neck. A black bicorne—with a pair of wings engraved on both sides—sat awkwardly on his nearly bald head. It matched the odd looking pair of black and gold gaiters he wore as the head judge.

  “Master Garu,” said the prince addressing him, “I command you to remove this slave from the premises at once.”

  “Prince Olothe,” replied Master Garu, speaking like a tired grandfather, “may I remind you, these are the Games of El-Windiir? The prevailing rules allow any able man or woman to compete.”

  “Well, then change the rules. The presence of this slave disgraces the Games and disgraces us.”

  “May I recommend that you submit your wise and worthy thoughts to the members of the jury? I am certain they will consider them with utmost care before next year’s Games. Presently, the rules stand and are not subject to change. Slaves are permitted to participate. If you would do me the honor of rejoining your team, we are about to begin.” Having said this, Master Garu turned around and joined the other judges.

  Olothe turned toward Ahiram. The prince was so close that Ahiram could almost feel Olothe’s breath on his face.

  “You get to go in,” he whispered, “but don’t count on getting out alive.” He punched Ahiram in the stomach before returning to his team.

  Ahiram fell on the ground, gasping for air. The crowd roared with laughter and applauded the prince, who bowed with a gloat. No one guessed that Ahiram concealed strength and feigned weakness, for a Silent is not so easily taken down. He pretended to stand up with difficulty and wobbled to his post. He unfolded the banner he had specially sewn for this day, tied it to the rope, and hoisted it up. It boasted a shark beneath a boat. The crowd booed him, but he ignored them.

  He did not lift the banner for them, but for his father, his mother, and for Hoda. Mostly for Hoda.

  The trumpets sounded three times, and the crowd sprang to attention. The King and the Queen made their entrance into the plaza and sat in the royal enclave. The King wore a yellow, satin shirt over a pair of red, leather trousers, a brown, sleeveless surcoat extending to mid-calf with a thick band of fur running along the edges, and matching hat. Queen Ramel stood next to him, clasping the edge of her long, fur coat that was firmly wound around her. High Priestess Bahiya of the Temple of Baalbeck, stood to the left of King Jamiir, dressed in the traditional gray, priestly justacorps with its twelve gold thunderbolt buttons. The coat was fitted to the waist and flared below. Knee-length, it revealed a long, flowing, linen robe reserved for the priesthood. The emerald eyes of the large, crystal skull pendant she wore blazed in the sun—a clear symbol of her power and authority.

  Of all the kings that had reigned in Tanniin, King Jamiir III was the most despised by his people. Even though the priests of Baal effectively ruled Tanniin, they did not dare build a temple. Under Jamiir’s reign, this changed. The Queen was the main instigator and at her behest, builders from the nearby Kingdom of Mycene erected the first temple to Baal in Taniir-The Strong, but what the people begrudged their King for was marrying a Babylonian woman.

  Yet, the reality of governance was altogether different. Jamiir saw himself as a defender of the kingdom. To resist the Temple meant deposition and exile. Baal would end El-Windiir’s dynasty and install a governor. By comparison, a temple in honor of Baal was a benign act. Besides, it was unavoidable. Better to preserve the dynasty in the hope that one day, one of his descendants would lead his people into freedom from Baal.

  The skeptics—who were far more numerous than the King had imagined—retorted that since the King had never set foot in the temple of Tanniin, he preferred Baal. Moreover, he was childless, and as such, had no dynasty to speak of.

  Rising to his feet, the King turned to the high priestess and bowed. “Dear Bahiya, my dear friends and dignitaries of noble kingdoms: Master Garu, head judge, Masters Ibromaliöm, Hylâz, and Ramany, judges of the Games, and my dear people; united, we commemorate my illustrious ancestor, El-Windiir, who, at the dawn of time, withstood the might of the Lords of the Deep and won the Day of Light that brightens our hearts. We have with us the finest of the friendly kingdoms that live under the banner of Baal. These young men and women have come to take this test of endurance, courage, and strength. They entered the Games to win the coveted sword of El-Windiir.”

  That last name drew warm applause from the audience.

  “The most honorable and worthy of all acclaims, high priestess of the famed Temple of Baal in the city of Baalbeck, Lady Bahiya, gifted us with this year’s prize, which bears witness to her lavish generosity.” Two arbitrators carried the decorative weapon on a red, silk cushion and showed it to the crowd. “As you can see, it is made of pure gold with twelve rubies adorning the hand
le, symbolizing Tannin’s twelve virtues.”

  The public applauded politely and the applause was sustained—an expression of the admiration and fear surrounding the priestess like an aura. She bowed with a natural grace and bestowed her enchanting smile on the crowd.

  “And now, my dear people, let us salute the athletes who are prepared to take part in these Games.”

  The trumpets and drums attracted the attention of the audience. Each team stood beneath its banner. Everyone focused on the competitors. Master Garu stood to introduce the teams.

  “First, I should like to present the favored team hailing from the famed city of Baalbeck, the famed team of the Temple of Baal. It is led by none other than High Priestess Bahiya’s daughter, Lady Hiyam.”

  Dressed in red and black—the colors of Baal—the Junior High Riders received a standing ovation. Baal’s line-up was an all-time favorite year after year, for they always managed to overcome—with great ease—every obstacle they faced during the Games.

  “Next, we have the team of the Kingdom of Lurca, who finished second last year. This year, the team’s leader is new to the Games, and we salute him warmly: Prince Olothe.”

  Prince Olothe and his team of seven saluted. They wore crimson and light blue vestments to honor Astarte, the goddess of love.

  Master Garu introduced the remaining teams in succession: the team from the Kingdom of Oronoque, two teams from the farthest land of Lickmerick, two teams from the Isles of Quibanxe, one team from the southern Kingdom of Mitani-Nahariim, two teams from the neighboring Kingdom of Togofalk, and one team from Babylon in the Land of Aram, a new participant this year.

  Master Garu stood before Ahiram. An awkward silence fell over the crowd. The Silent lifted his head, listening to his banner flapping joyously in the air.