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

  “Keep ‘em arrows notched; I wouldn’t want ’em rabbits tak’n us by any sort of surprise.”

  Across the main road the mob had remained motionless while its tail continued to swell.

  The soldiers muttered among themselves.

  “What are they waiting for?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Who cares? Let ‘em come and die.”

  “What’s that?” their leader snapped.

  The rain had slightly abated. Across the wet road, a flat block of wood was fast approaching.

  “Archers at the ready. Aim. Release!”

  One hundred arrows flew straight and true. They thudded into the wood plank in a perfect staccato, tac-tac-tac-tac, but if the archers’ lead hoped to slow, stop, or pulverize the shield, he had been disappointed. The plank continued its approach, no more hindered by the arrows than a horse by flies. Then, when it was one hundred yards from the castle’s gate, the plank sped into a full sprint.

  “Who could carry a wood plank this thick and run this fast?”

  “Nah, there’s a few of ‘em behind it. I’ll say their shield is sturdy, I’ll give ‘em as much, but they’re stupid dead once they reach the wall. Once they drop that shield, we’ll nail ‘em like sparrows on a skewer.”

  The archer who had asked this question saw the logic in his leader’s words and relaxed. The walls were thirty-two feet high. No group of men could climb them fast enough and escape Baal’s arrows. Further, assuming one or two did succeed in setting foot on the wall, what could they do against one hundred High Riders?

  Still, the mysterious wood blank had continued its advance, and being forced to wait, the archers shuffled their feet. When the plank had been within fifteen feet of the wall, it was catapulted toward the far right archers. Grazing the edge of the wall, it smashed into three soldiers and threw them over the side as it fell with them into the inner court.

  Reflexively, the archers had followed the fall of the screaming soldiers and failed to notice a man dressed in black sprint up the wall—thanks to the rope which the falling plank pulled. Reaching the top, he had let go of the rope and landed nimbly on his feet. Not waiting, he set his shoulder against a sturdy shield he had with him and screamed “For the chicken!” as he rammed into the closest archer.

  Had his strength just been that of a normal man, he might have managed to push two, three, or maybe four archers out of the way, but Frajil’s strength was anything but normal. Frajil was the offspring of a giant father and a human mother. Normally, such a union would produce a stillborn child; but not Frajil. He was a fighter from the womb, and though his mother had not survived, he had been born strong and healthy, though dim-witted. His father had brought him to his wife’s sister, Soloron’s mother, who adopted the cute and cuddly baby and raised him as her own.

  As an adult, Frajil had the mental capacity of a young child and required supervision in most circumstances; in most circumstances perhaps, but never in battle. Whatever intelligence Frajil’s brain had managed to collect, it had channeled it into the art of survival, and by extension, into the art of fighting. Though a little over nine feet tall and weighing close to four hundred and fifty pounds, Frajil could carry a horse—something he had done once when he confused Soloron’s order: “Carry on with the horse.” Instead of saddling up, he lifted the steed to the confusion and astonishment of both Soloron and the horse.

  Despite his size and weight, Frajil was frighteningly fast. He moved with the speed of a lion after its prey, and there was no stopping him. Thus, when Frajil’s shield had crashed into the first archer, it threw him back like a human projectile, tearing through the line. The giant had pushed his shield into the opening and mowed half of the soldiers down before anyone reacted.

  By the time the archers and the soldiers within the castle’s precinct focused on him, he had cleared half the wall. Archers from within the walls had their arrows aimed at him, but they hesitated for fear of killing their fellow soldiers.

  “I don’t care who dies,” shouted their leader. “Kill him!”

  Just then, the men of Tanniin had launched their attack. With one bellow that filled the valley, they surged forward. Some of the archers had turned their attention to stave off the incoming wave, while the rest tried to stop Frajil, but to no avail. He moved quickly, unpredictably, while he stayed behind his shield. With its remarkably long reach, his blade was precise and deadly. Confusion had reigned on the wall, and then the mob surged like a dragon trampling everything on its path.

  The leader of Baal’s guard had sounded the retreat and the soldiers reached the second floor expecting to see the mob on their tail. Instead, the devil of a man that led the mob ordered his troop to overtake the kitchen, where they had been holed up for the past hour.

  “Why the kitchen?” repeated their leader for the third time.

  As if on cue, Frajil’s voice boomed, “Tonight, we roast the chicken!”

  A roar answered him. His men surrounded him as he sat grinning on a chair, happy as a rooster in a coop, convinced he had done something grand for his brother. What that was, he had not the faintest idea.

  One of his followers unclipped his oudal, a crossover between a mandolin and a banjo, and improvised a song in honor of their hero:

  “Frajil the mighty, stand undefeated,

  In the royal kitchen where he is now seated.

  Let all gray owls in fear contort:

  Frajil has come with his cohort.

  Tonight, tonight we roast the chicken;

  Tomorrow morning Baal will be stricken.

  Frajil the warrior conquered the wall,

  Where he stood proud, strong, and tall.

  Let all gray owls fear and tremble:

  Frajil’s cohorts will now assemble.

  Tonight, tonight we roast the chicken.

  Tomorrow morning Baal shall be stricken.

  Frajil the mighty roars like a lion,

  A beast of old, a mighty dragon.

  Let all gray owls weep in defeat;

  Frajil’s cohorts shall never retreat.

  Tonight, tonight we roast the chicken.

  Tomorrow morning Baal shall be stricken.

  Frajil the great has opened the path,

  He has unleashed Tannin’s fiery wrath.

  Let all gray owls cower and tremble.

  Frajil’s cohorts arise and assemble.

  Tonight, tonight we roast the chicken.

  Tomorrow morning Baal shall be stricken.”

  The tune was lively and easy to follow, so when the bard had reached the last verse, the walls of the castle shook with Frajil’s name. The giant of a man sat still as a statue, a smile affixed on his face like a crescent moon in the dark night. Normally, Frajil would have hit anyone brandishing a weapon—or a ladle—in his face, but the men around him were content to clap and sing his name. Unsure of what to do next, he remained motionless and hoped Soloron would join him soon.

  Obeying the King’s command to secure safe passage for Bahiya and her retinue on a vessel sailing for Baalbek, Tanios and his Silent led the high priestess, her daughter Hiyam, and their companions down the path for slaves that ran parallel to Royal Road until it rejoined the road south of Taniir-the-Strong Castle.

  Situated at the southern tip of the Karian Chain, the commercial port of Beit-Windeer was one hundred and fifty miles away. Its citizens led an indolent life and had not a care in the world, so long as goods-laden ships flowed in and out of their protected bay. By the master of the Silent’s estimate, they would reach Beit-Windeer in five or six days, and with any luck, find a moored ship flying Baal’s colors. Otherwise, they would have to cross another seventy-five miles to reach Mitreel, the southernmost port of Tanniin, which housed Baal’s main camp. Unfortunately, the main road from Beit-Windeer to Mitreel went through the city of Aramin, and the Araminites were no friends of Baal. It had taken the better part of Jamiir’s reign to avoid bloodshed between Aramin and Mitreel. Tanios knew he could not cross
this rowdy city with a high priestess in tow. Also, asking Bahiya to wear a disguise was an affront to the Temple. No, if forced to reach Mitreel, he would have to take a detour through the eastern marshes, populated by shady characters, where neither Baal nor any sane person ventured. This was less than ideal but he would have time to prepare.

  The rain beat on the group and their beasts like the stubborn tears of Astarte refusing to be consoled after Adonis, her beloved, had passed away. After several hours, the horses had not managed a single canter, let alone a gallop, and were nervous and restless. Tanios waited until they reached the mouth of the Great Pass before stopping. There they took shelter under the trees.

  The Silent, an elite royal corps protecting the king and the castle, was his to command. The thirty-five members of the corps were trained diplomats, accomplished guardians, stealth fighters; all ready to take on the most dangerous undercover missions for the kingdom. Their favorite weapon was a furtive dart they threw using specialized crossbows.

  “We will give the horses a short rest before proceeding forward.”

  Immediately, the Silent set up a wide perimeter, and standing still, they blended with their surroundings. Moments later, a vanishing dart streaked the night and smeared a trunk nearby.

  “Nobody moves,” said Tanios quietly. “Keep the horses quiet.”

  Hiyam, who happened to be near him, wanted to know why, but seeing him shake his head, she kept her peace. They waited in a tense silence, and after a while, a second vanishing dart hit the same tree. Tanios relaxed his stance. Hiyam was about to speak when a Silent appeared before them. She nearly jumped. Tanios smiled.

  “Commander, a large group of men are heading north.”

  “High Riders?” asked Bahiya who had just joined them.

  “No,” replied the Silent who kept his eyes fixed on his commander. “Folks from Tanniin. Some of them carry swords.”

  “Very well,” said Tanios. “Let us be on our way.”

  “When do we reach Mitreel?” asked Bahiya.

  “I will not take us to Mitreel if I can spare it,” corrected Tanios. “We aim for Beit-Windeer. Weather permitting, we should be there in just about two weeks.”

  Bahiya nodded.

  They cinched the horses and Tanios ordered everyone to walk. “We are about to cross the Great Pass,” he explained. “It is encased between two mountainsides and therefore hemmed in by towering walls that are, in some places, over three hundred feet high. Everything is louder in there, especially thunder. Walk slowly and keep your horses calm.”

  As they rejoined the road, Bahiya gave a start.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  “Over there,” said Jedarc, pointing toward the Great Pass. “She is just a little bit ahead of us.”

  After the Game of Meyroon, Hiyam heard that Ahiram perished in the mines. she could not accept the role the Temple had played in the fall of the Silent. The young woman was beginning to question her loyalty to Baal. In need of space and solitude, she ventured ahead on the road.

  Tanios and Bahiya saw her faint outline vanish inside the pass.

  “No!” yelled Bahiya. “She must not be there …” Bahiya regained control. “Not on her own.”

  A deafening roar filled the air, terrifying the horses.

  “Everyone off the road,” shouted the commander.

  An avalanche of mud carrying rocks and trees slid from the right slope and closed the mouth of the pass. It filled the road with sludge and debris. The rain redoubled and become a torrent.

  The pile of mountain rubble was at least sixty feet high. Bahiya groaned. “What is wrong with that girl?” she cried out. “Why can’t she do as she’s told?”

  Tanios was not surprised by Bahiya’s apparent lack of concern. He knew the priestess of Baal could summon her magic to protect her daughter. Hiyam must be safe.

  A freezing gust of wind smashed into the massive landslide and careened inside the pass, howling like a giant wounded beast.

  “I must … I cannot leave Hiyam,” shouted Bahiya over the din of wind and rain. “I must go to her.”

  Tanios shook his head.

  “The mountain is not stable and more angry men are headed to Taniir-the-Strong. You are not safe here.”

  “In this storm? Are you serious?”

  “The folks of Tanniin are used to downpours. This rain will not keep them in. If they see you, it would complicate our mission. I cannot risk it.”

  “I will not abandon my daughter.”

  “That is not my intention. A shadow of Silent will cross over and rescue her. They will bring Hiyam back to you.”

  One of Hiyam’s teammates stepped forward.

  “Your Honor, command us to search for her—”

  “I will not allow it,” said Tanios. “You are a danger to yourselves here. You do not know the terrain, and you are not welcome by the people. No one will help you. You stay with me.”

  “Why would the Silent risk their lives for my daughter? Why should I trust them?”

  “They follow my orders.”

  Blast that girl, thought the high priestess. Bringing this avalanche down took all my strength, and I am exhausted. I cannot reach her. Can she not do as she is told?

  High above, lightning struck a giant pine tree that burned brightly despite the downpour. Their eyes locked. Her eyes implored: This is my daughter. His eyes were even: The Silent obey me.

  “If I may say,” intervened Master Habael, “the Silent standing behind me would be delighted to rescue your daughter.”

  Bahiya glanced back and saw Jedarc’s honest face.

  “Fine,” she told the commander. “I will follow your lead, but I will hold you personally responsible for her safety.”

  Tanios smiled a slow bitter smile, then turned around and signaled to Jedarc. The young man bounded forward.

  “Jedarc, form a Shadow, find and retrieve the priestess’ daughter, and meet us at the southeastern limit of Magdala.”

  Jedarc’s face brightened instantly. “Yes, Commander.”

  “Magdala?” asked Bahiya. “That is north. It is the wrong direction.”

  Tanios shook his head. “We cannot wait here. It is too dangerous. We will head for a northern port from where you will be able to sail to Byblos. It is longer but safer.”

  She nodded and said nothing.

  “If we must press forward to Hardeen,” the commander instructed, “I will leave you a sign on a tree by the edge of the road at the southern limit of Magdala. You will then proceed immediately to the fortress.”

  “Yes, Commander,” replied Jedarc.

  “Silent, assemble.”

  Instantly, thirty-four Silent stood before their commander. “We will descend Shepherd's Path into the valley, follow the Renlow to the north, bypass Tanniin-the-Strong, cross the marshes, and then go into the forest until we reach the edge of Magdala. Any questions?”

  “Where do we go from there?” Bahiya spoke so softly Habael was the only one who heard her.

  “I suspect the commander will want to take us across the hidden river and along the forest until we reach the northeastern port of Hardeen. There you will be able to take a boat that will bring you safely to Baalbek. It is a six day journey and a long detour, but given the circumstances, it is the only safe way out of Tanniin.”

  “Six only? Then why go down to Beit-Windeer on a three-week journey?” asked the priestess.

  “Beit-Windeer is more tolerant of Baal than the north,” replied Habael tactfully.

  Bahiya nodded.

  “And Hardeen is where Lord Orgond resides?”

  “Yes.”

  Good. Things are proceeding as planned. Sharr will be satisfied.

  “Silent, to your positions. Onward. Go.”

  “Please, bring my daughter back to me,” said Bahiya.

  “We will do our best, ma’am.” Jedarc replied, a twinkle in his eyes.

  A moment later, the Silent Corps and the priestess disappeared from view. The r
ain turned suddenly into hail, forcing Jedarc and his three companions to take shelter before the mission even started.

  Hiyam woke up in pain. Her head throbbed and she could barely keep her eyes open. She struggled to remember where she was and what happened. She tried to clear her mind and take stock of her situation.

  Where am I? What has happened to me?

  Drops of water splashed on her face. She jerked her head and felt a warm and furry surface. Who is taking me away? Forcing her eyes to open, she lifted her head and saw up ahead two other creatures pulling her dead horse. Droplets of rain fell intermittently and Hiyam wanted to scream. Instead, she only managed a feeble moan.

  Best to bide my time and wait for an opening.

  The creature carrying her moved into a thick cluster of trees.

  Hiyam saw hail fall, glittering in the dark. Lightning flashed like a dagger that tore the night apart. Thunder boomed angrily, and the downpour that followed buried every other sound—as if the world were about to drown under a storm that would last a lifetime.

  Wearily, she closed her eyes and slipped out of consciousness.

  “Who needs friends? Who needs help, support, or a comforting word? Kings? Queens and their cohorts of noble men and women entrenched in costly attire and royal jewelry? No, they are too rich for friends; only the poor need friends.”

  –Soliloquy of Zuzu the Hip, Jester of the Royal Court of Tanniin.

  “I hope Hiyam found shelter from the hail,” muttered Jedarc.

  “I hope she’s still alive,” replied Sondra.

  “I’m sure she is,” Sheheluth said. They looked at her. “Her mother is the high priestess of Baal. No need to worry; she knows how to protect her own daughter.”

  “You’ve got a point there,” said Sondra.

  “So you called the high priestess ma’am? Really, Jedarc?” derided Banimelek, “Why, while you’re at it, you may just as well call her Mother.”