Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © Wrath of the Urkuun Michael J. Murano.

  Published in the United States by Candle Bright Books in Wrath of the Urkuun.

  All rights reserved.

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  Printed in the United States of America.

  Text set in Adobe Jenson.

  Book cover by Maria Bowman

  Murano, Michael (Michael Joseph) Wrath of the Urkuun/ Michael J. Murano. – 1st American ed.

  p. cm. – (The Epic of Ahiram; bk. 2)

  ISBN: 978-0-9913200-3-5

  0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34

  Wrath of the Urkuun

  To Team Ahiram

  To your unwavering generosity

  perseverance and dedication

  Thank you

  Acknowledgment

  I wish to thank, first and foremost, my editors, Melanie Gambrell and Anouk Mouawad for their dedication and love of the written word. Their unwavering and relentless effort has turned my initial manuscript into this published book.

  I would like to thank Maria Bowman, our graphic artist, for the eye-catching and professional cover gracing the front of the book, and Rich Evert for so graciously lending his talent and voice for the audible version of Wrath of the Urkuun.

  I would like to thank the rest of the members of Team Ahiram for their constant dedication, hard work, and determination that saw this book through.

  Finally, to the members of our beta-team, to all those who read the book and provided feedback, thank you.

  Twenty-two uncreated Letters of supernal power

  To free from the Bottomless Pit the Lords of Darkness.

  Their sleepless malice stirs beneath the mighty fallen tower,

  Yearning to fill the hearts of men with madness.

  In the raging Pit of Fire and everlasting darkness.

  Standing before the dawn of the second Age of Blood,

  Facing the terror of the Pit at the final hour,

  A Seer alone will rise to stem the raging flood,

  Commanding the twenty-two Letters of supernal power.

  In the raging Pit of Fire and everlasting darkness

  1. A Brief Overview of the World of Ahiram

  2. Finikia, the Land of Ahiram

  3. The Kingdom of Tanniin

  4. From Bar-Tanic to Thermodon

  5. From Gordion to Tirkalanzibar

  From Bar-Tanic to …

  … Thermodon

  From Gordion to …

  … the caravan city of Tirkalanzibar

  “The master blacksmiths of old forged the most powerful swords ever known. Chiefly among these, we mention Terragold, the mighty sword of Muhaijar, twelfth king of Marada; Utal, the swift sword of Shahrab, seventh Lord of the Desert Legions; and Layaleen, the shining sword of El-Windiir.”

  –Philology of the Dwarfs, Anonymous.

  High above the mines of Tanniin, darkness swallowed the world. An unforgiving wind whipped tormented clouds into a maddening dance like a puppeteer punishing his puppets. They raged and thundered, flailed and lit the heavens with jagged screams of blinding light as if they wanted to scar the skies and leave behind an indelible mark of their suffering. At long last, exhausted and spent like a herd of slayed dragons, they poured out their bloody streams of icy-cold silver water onto the earth below.

  The rain slapped the ground the way a master slaps an obstinate slave. Forming rivulets, the water streamed down the back of ancient stones that took the beating with the resignation of orphans who have nowhere else to go. It flowed down into the dirt like a panicked scorpion seeking an escape route and slithered haphazardly as it sought a way down: down to the sea that called its name. It formed puddles and drowned in it. It careened down steep inclines and sniffed the roots of trees like a dog searching for who knows what. One stream, more agile than the others, found a hole that swallowed it hungrily. It gushed into the blackness, and its gurgle became a rallying cry that turned into a rapid stream. Leaving behind the raging storm, the water fell into cracks in the earth, into spaces so deep they had never seen the light of day; and still the stream continued its hellish descent, bouncing, splashing, crashing blindly into rocks that had been smoothed by a millennial wind. Refusing to become a pool of stagnant water, the rain forced its way through the depths of the mountain like a worm whose sole purpose was to burrow. At last, the water broke free from the embrace of the rock and fell into a large, open cave where a young man stood triumphantly holding a sword.

  Five days ago, Ahiram the slave, Ahiram the Silent, had disrupted the well-mandated order of the Games of the Mines. Against all odds, he chose to participate alone and unaided. In order to gain back his freedom he needed to win all four Games even as the competing teams had the right and the opportunity to kill him. Amazingly, he managed to win the first three Games and in doing so gained the attention of the powerful Temple of Baal who had ordained his death for political expediency. Hounded by the Temple’s High Riders, he had fallen into a subterranean river that carried him into the Eye of Death—a submerged tunnel where he should have drowned and his body would have washed out miles away into the Renlow River.

  Unexpectedly, he survived. He followed a narrow passage that led him to the hidden tomb of El-Windiir, founder of the Kingdom of Tanniin. Ahiram discovered El-Windiir’s legendary sword—named Layaleen for the hero’s wife—as well as his shoes of bronze, belt of silver, mask of gold, and wings of meyroon. These were the magical artifacts that had given flight to El-Windiir hundreds of years ago and helped him liberate the land from the Lords of the Pit. Along the way, Ahiram had taken possession of a small golden tile with a strange inscription on it. He knew to call it “taw,” but he did not know what it meant or what it represented.

  Ahiram held the sword high and smiled broadly as he imagined the scene when he would land on the third floor of Taniir-the-Strong Castle. He visualized a full moon lighting the majestic castle’s marble balcony. Hundreds of couples from all over the world would be strolling the wide esplanade while an orchestra played “O Flag of My Heart”. Ahiram envisioned King Jamiir standing to address the crowd: “My dear friends, we have gathered to bestow on the winner of the Games the golden sword which has so generously been offered by High Priestess Bahiya,” Ahiram thought. His imagination continued to play out the scene.

  Just then, a trembling finger points to the moon.

  “Look! Look at the moon!”

  They all look and their jaws drop. They are amazed because the moon frames something dark—a giant flying creature that stands over the castle, wings extended like a vengeful bat.

  A vengeful bat? That’s ridiculous, try something else … like a vengeful dragon. Much better.

  The Queen gasps. Everyone freezes as the creature suddenly descends on the castle.

  “It is El-Windiir come back from the dead!” Hiyam screams. She runs to her mother and bumps into a waiter carrying a bowl of soup. Jostled, he flings the bowl, whose contents cover the mother and daughter with chicken soup.

  No, make that c
od soup.

  … covers the mother and daughter with cod soup.

  The creature lands with a mighty thud on the balcony, a mighty sword in his left hand.

  “It is Ahiram, the slave,” exclaims the King. “He holds El-Windiir’s sword. I declare him a free man! I make him a prince! All bow down to Prince Ahiram!”

  “My adopted son!” exclaims the Queen.

  She would never say that.

  “My son,” exclaims the Queen.

  No, no, she won’t say any of it.

  Anyway, they all bow. Bahiya and Hiyam beg forgiveness for hours and hours. Everyone is so happy, they cry, and Jedarc wails with happiness. Everyone stands for hours in line to shake their hero’s hand. It would have lasted three days and three nights, but Jedarc starts singing. Everyone panics and runs. They take the chicken with them, before our hero has a chance to eat …

  Snap out of it, Ahiram.

  When Ahiram opened his eyes, he became aware of his ridiculous pose. He was standing in front of El-Windiir’s sarcophagus with his left hand raising the sword torch-like, his right hand on his heart, and a smug smile stuck on his face.

  Cod soup? Begging forgiveness? Jedarc’s singing causing a general panic?

  Weariness came down upon him like a crashing wave. His muscles ached, and the scrapes and cuts he had received while crawling from the Eye of Death to the secret Temple of Tannin stung like a vengeful beehive. Conflicting thoughts clamored for his attention: I can still make it to the castle in time to win. What is a taw? The King will free me. I found the tomb of El-Windiir. I will finally go home. What’s that golden tile for? I will see Hoda again. What shall I do next? I’m very hungry. I wish Nora were here to see all of this.

  Guilt seized him, sticky and stubborn like a leech. He had not thought of Noraldeen since that fateful evening when she had kissed him before slipping into the night. Even though it had been a mere five days since he had seen her, her absence opened an old festering wound. Noraldeen was to his heart what El-Windiir’s sarcophagus was to Tanniin: a perennial source of strength, resplendent in its light, yet regal and mysterious.

  I have been busy these five days. I hardly had a minute to myself. Olothe tried to kill me. Twice. I’ve been accused of murder and relentlessly pursued by Baal. I nearly fell to my death, and now, this, he gestured toward the sarcophagus. I will soon be free and then …

  Relief washed over him, pushing his guilt away. The six-year-long wait was over now. Soon he would be free. The muted tension that had shadowed him all these years had begun to dissolve. He was relieved and elated like a fisherman who had survived the darkest of storms. He started to smile when guilt rushed at him again like a prowling shark. I have maimed a man. I have turned him into a cripple for life. He vividly remembered pounding Prince Olothe with no mercy during the Game of Silver, after the reckless and haughty prince had taunted him beyond his breaking point. His hands could still feel the sickening crunch of the man’s crushed bones; broken ribs and limbs twisted beyond repair. He could still hear the screams of pain that quickly turned into a pitiful whimper: “Not the dogs, not the dogs.” Ahiram could still hear his voice echo in the caves when he had told Olothe: “You will not be able to make use of your arms or your legs for the rest of your miserable life. A slave will live a better life. If you ever call my father a slave again, wherever you may be, even in the depths of the earth, I will find you and inflict even greater pain upon you than now, then I will leave you to the dogs. Do you understand me? To the dogs!” He knew he would never forget what he had done to the prince for as long as he lived.

  You beat the prince senseless.

  Ahiram demurred, trying to ignore the mounting guilt, but his remorse hounded him like a feral dog searching for another bone to pick, another failure, another regret to prick Ahiram’s conscience. You forgot about Noraldeen. You did not think about visiting her before leaving.

  “Who cares what I thought or did not think?” he yelled. “What matters is what I do, not what I think.”

  You’ve beaten the prince, pounded his guilt, that’s what you did. And you did not think of Noraldeen. You were going to leave her behind, just like your sister left you behind.

  An image from his past flashed before his eyes: a shark tugging a fishing boat away, a young frightened boy aboard, and a voice screaming, “Hoda, Hoda.” Feeling his head about to explode, he raised a fist to the heavens to let out a powerful shout of anger, but he stopped abruptly when he glimpsed the wings of El-Windiir floating gently overhead.

  “What am I doing? What am I doing? I am going crazy, that’s what I am doing.” He paced quickly. In this moment of elation and relief, powerful emotions repressed since Kwadil took him away from his family, overwhelmed his will. He felt helpless, unable to contain the emotional rush or ascend to the hope it carried with it. He leaned the sword against the sarcophagus’ base, dropped to the ground and pumped out sixty rapid push-ups. He lay on his back, aching and panting. Go to the castle, win your freedom, say your good-byes to Noraldeen, and go home. Then what? What if the Queen refuses to let me go?

  “She can try,” he growled. “I’d like to see her try. I will be free. I will go home, and …”

  The accumulated weariness mixed with guilt, apprehension, and hope surged like a mighty tide. Then sleep snatched him away.

  Of the 288 soldiers of Baal who protected the castle, only 164 had retreated hurriedly to the second level. The rest were not so fortunate. Their leader sat by the barricade they had erected to stop the mob from reaching the Royal Hall. The bloodied bandage around one eye partially covered his mouth and muffled a string of curses against the ragtag horde holed up in the kitchen below.

  “Why the kitchen?” This question had tormented him for the past hour. With his good eye, he glanced at his men and saw what he had never seen before: a sense of looming defeat.

  Earlier that day, the King had commanded them to protect the castle, and Bahiya, the high priestess of the Temple of Baalbek, had given them stern and unyielding orders: “Protect the King. Impose the law.”

  In Temple jargon, she had given them complete latitude to deal with intruders as they saw fit, which invariably meant an expeditious end to their foes—swift and bloody.

  “Why in Baal’s name are they occupying the kitchen? What could they possibly be waiting for in that blasted kitchen?”

  “Reinforcements, perhaps?” suggested a soldier.

  “Why? As soon as the barracks catch wind of the uprising, our troops will wipe them out. Like I said, it’s senseless.”

  The High Riders of the Temple of Baal had seldom known fear. They were well trained, disciplined, and battle-hardened. Combat was an all-too-familiar pain with its grinding motions, moans of suffering from friends and foes, and its usual victorious outcome. The Adorant conditioned these men to fear nothing, save the Temple, to fight until the end, and to never give up. The unorganized mob outnumbered them ten to one, but it was composed—in the main—of peasants, shepherds, smiths, merchants, and young men who had yet to taste blood. Ordinarily, the High Riders would have mowed down the first ten or fifteen rows, sowing the fear of Baal into the hearts of the wannabe soldiers, which would be enough to break any insurrection. Ordinarily, a light guard consisting of 288 soldiers, would have been sufficient to subdue a force ten times its size. Ordinarily, they would not retreat.

  But this brief battle had not been ordinary. The moon still shone behind heavy clouds, and the wind had turned to the northeast signaling an imminent storm. The soldiers who manned the outer wall had gazed longingly at the brightly lit Royal Hall where the King and his retinue celebrated Hiyam’s victory. The Games of the Mines had ended with the predictable triumph of Baal’s team. Then, a clamor had reached them from the valley below. It started as a faint echo, that became a threatening rumble, and finally as it drew closer, turned into a chanted, full-fledged scream. Their leader had sent one hundred archers to the outer wall.

  Nothing like a well-aimed arro
w-hail to cool these hot heads, their leader thought. Once they see a few hundred bodies littering the ground, they will turn tail and run back to the hole from which they came.

  When the archers saw the attackers running up Royal Road, torches in hand, they had shaken their heads in disbelief. This wasn’t even an armed mob, rather, a motley crowd of townsfolk who chanted rhythmically.

  “What are they saying?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “We took the mitten,” offered another man of Baal.

  “No,” added a third man with a keener ear. “We cook the chicken.”

  “Huh?”

  “Must be a signal of sorts.”

  “Archers at the ready,” called their leader.

  Thunder answered and the downpour came. Lightning cut through the night like a lion’s claws through fallen prey, and the rain hit the cobblestones like a distracted drummer repeating a beat gone senseless. The night became a wet fluttering sheet, and the torches in the distance became the ragged grins of crazed lunatics.

  In one synchronized movement, the archers drew their arrows, fletched, aimed and pulled; but then the attackers stopped well outside of their range.

  “Huh, they have more brains than I was willing to give ’em credit for,” the lead archer commented, “mayhap they’ll turn tail and run.” He ordered his men to stand down. A long military career had turned the anxiety of his youth into an indolent discipline that had born many victories which he now summed up in three words: “Wait, break, and clean up.” Soon enough the crowd would grow impatient and charge, heedless of danger. The wait would be over, and his men would break the Tanniinites’ short-lived enthusiasm. Then would come the grinding, dirty business of breaking bones and skulls, while the survivors spread the fear of Baal like an infectious disease. The populace would submit to the Temple for a few dozen years until the passing of seasons washed away the memory of the bloodshed and another cycle would begin. In the end, he saw his job as a High Rider akin to a cleaning crew taking out the dirt to keep an assigned space tidy.