Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (12 page)

“He knows of the Letters?” Bahiya was aghast. “This is terrible.”

“I share your dismay, my dear Bahiya; the people of Baher-Ghafé are hardworking and loyal to the Temple, and their shark meat is exquisite, not to mention that ruby wine of theirs that graces the Temple’s table. But yes, the Letters were seen by him. We must strike before he can put them to use. Kill everyone. Do not have pity. The Seer must not be allowed to open the Pit, or else…”

“An age of a darkness, the like of which we have never seen, will overtake us all,” completed Bahiya. She was all too well aware of the risk the Seer of the Letters of Power brought with him. She bowed before the high priest, “Have no fear, my Lord. It will be done.”

“I would expect nothing less of you, dear child.”

“And now, it is over,” she whispered. “They are all dead.”

With a supreme effort, she regained her composure, wiped her tears, rose, and walked to the golden altar at the northern end of the hall. She unbuckled the emerald straps of her short, velvet cape and hung it on a gold hook at the base of the altar, and exchanged it for the shawl of the ritual. She pulled back her flowing, yellow sleeves, and using the silk brush, she collected the ashes and coals from the previous offering into a silver pail to the right side of the altar. Then she poured a fresh batch of coals, sprinkled them with a black powder from a green, velvet pouch, and brushed them with the flame of a nearby candle. At once the coals began to burn, crackling under the intense heat.

Mechanically, Bahiya scooped some amber incense with a tiny, golden spoon from the first of three gold cups hanging over the altar by silk threads. She dropped the amber into the palm of her hand and added a larger scoop of myrrh from the second cup. The third cup contained a bright, red resin from a plant called, strangely, dragon’s blood. She took a generous amount, combined the three substances, and sprinkled the mixture concentrically over the coals. She took two steps back and bowed to the twelve-foot gold statue of the god Baal standing behind the altar, holding a stylized thunderbolt in his raised right hand. Staring into the statue’s dull eyes, she silently recited the three parts of the Beynitar Ketoret, the customary prayer of purification to ward off the evil of bloodshed.

“Today, your yoke is heavy, my Lord. Innocent blood has been shed from souls so dear that it is tearing me to pieces. Was it worth it, my Lord?” The statue did not answer. “Yes, I know,” continued Bahiya, “I have heard it before: we cannot afford the horrors the Seer would unleash on us, but why Baher-Ghafé? Why?”

A discreet knock on the side door reminded her that her assistant, Zarifa, the first priestess, was awaiting her orders. She removed the shawl of ritual, took her cape, lifted the golden hem of her long, flowing purple priestly garment, and entered the antechamber where Zarifa was waiting. The first priestess had a fair complexion with curly, gold locks framing her pretty face, where a pair of emerald-green eyes glittered over strawberry-red lips. Bahiya, in contrast, had a darker complexion, jet-black eyes, and wavy, red hair. Her smile could ravish any man’s heart, while the high priestess’ austere countenance exuded strength and authority. She raised her thin eyebrows and pursed her lips upon seeing her first priestess in a sleeveless scruffy, white gown with hanging green ribbons. A purple chlamys was casually tied to her neck by a gold scarab, which the young woman used as a substitute for the cape of authority that she was supposed to wear. Normally, Bahiya would have chided her apprentice for her levity, but not today. Bahiya’s jaw tightened as she gripped the icy side of the altar. She willed herself to calm down and turned to face the young woman, who flinched.

“Let the High Riders proclaim a message to the citizens of Baalbeck condemning the shedding of innocent blood and the destruction of Baher-Ghafé. They are to blame the rebels known as the Black Robes.”

“Is there anything else you would like them to say, my lady?” Zarifa asked, choosing her words carefully. She was confused and scared. Never before had she felt the power of Baal—cold and mesmerizing—flow so freely from her mistress.

What is wrong with her?
she wondered with a tinge of disdain.
High Riders routinely cleanse entire villages to prevent greater destruction of life, but she is reacting as if someone plucked her eye
. She bit her lip and lowered her gaze, for she knew better than to question the high priestess.

“Let them say the Black Robes attacked the town of Baher-Ghafé and massacred everyone,” replied Bahiya evenly.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Command the High Riders to enforce the Curfew of the Dead for the night.”

“Only one night, Your Honor?”

“Yes, just this one night. Let the festival resume as usual tomorrow.”

Zarifa bowed to the ground, walked backward toward the door with a sigh of relief, and was about to leave when Bahiya called her back.

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Command the men of the Lightning Division to do their ablutions and… Zarifa, give me one more disdainful look and I will let the Kerta priest teach you the full meaning of pain for three days. Do we understand each other?” Zarifa nodded frantically. “Now go. I do not wish to be disturbed until the morning ritual.”

The curfew was already in full force when the famed caravan of Master Kwadil reached Byblos, a city he loved, for it was as cosmopolitan as Baalbeck was austere. Shady sailors of Quibanxe filled the coastal taverns in the southern part of the city, while delicate noblewomen of Atlant strolled the fashionable northern quarters over air-heated sidewalks. Byblos was comfortable for the gritty and the cultivated, the tawdry and the princely.

The High Riders manning the main gate of the city were familiar with Kwadil’s caravan. They let the convoy enter the city for the customary bribe. “Every bribed soldier is a future customer,” would say the shrewd dwarf, who was an expert at getting back every piece of silver he gave out.

Master Kwadil liked to camp in the southern part of the city, even though his customers were in the wealthy northern side. “Cheaper rent,” he would say unapologetically, “is the root of good profit.”

Kwadil hopped out of his richly decorated carriage and spoke with his second-in-command following the peculiar manner of the dwarf’s speech.

“Azerowut, I must tend to an urgently urgent business and a business that is urgent most urgently. Watch over my tent with extreme care and care that is caring in the extreme, and do not, under any circumstantial circumstance, allow anyone and his brother to be within an uncomfortably uncomfortable distance of her door.”

“But Master,” replied the stocky, bearded dwarf, “the curfew is imposed imposingly and imposingly imposed. The patrolling patrols will not be inclined to any kindly kindness. You could be dead in the most deadly manner and deadly dead, to say the least and the most of this unsavory business.”

“It cannot be helped, Azerowut. This business must be conclusively concluded and concluded most conclusively before dawn. Now, do as I say and say as I do: if the soldiering soldiers come to my tent, cover them with bribing bribery but do not open her door.”

“As you wish, Master Kwadil. May Kerishal protect you protectively and may Xanthor grant you victorious victory in your warring war.”

“Thank you thankfully, Azerowut. Now, use some of these fiery fireworks to create a diverting diversion so I may be on my unnoticeably unnoticed way.”

He climbed back inside his spacious carriage and took a peek at the young boy sound asleep in the midst of silk pillows—fourteen of them—featherstitched with strands of white gold and laced with
erjwan,
the famous purple substance prized in all the land of Baal. Each pillow was worth one camel or two fast steeds. Fondly, he recalled how he had acquired these pillows far away in the kingdom of the mighty Marada. They were the fruit of a gamble he had won in the Race of Kyril, known as the Wretched Race, where one could just as easily win a fortune, fall into slavery, or lose his life.

“Kwadil, Kwadil,” muttered the dwarf, “this is neither the timely time nor the appropriately appropriate occasional occasion to reminisce reminiscently about willowy pillows.” He watched the young boy for a moment longer.

“Goodly goodness,” whispered Kwadil, satisfied. “The young lad is sleepily sleeping with a sound soundness.” He opened the door and asked a nearby crew member to fetch the doctor.

“Have you brought the lad back from the land of dreamy dreams?” he asked the doctor as soon as he had stepped inside the carriage.

“Yes, I have,” replied Jendhi, the doctor. He was an Ophirian by birth who travelled the world. The two had met during the Wretched Race ten years ago and had been traveling together ever since.

To Kwadil’s chagrin, Jendhi never managed to master the dwarfish speech, so he switched back to the Common Tongue. “Why is he still sleeping so?”

“He was, shall we say, very agitated and took to screaming.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Mostly his sister’s name, Hoda. He kept repeating it, and nothing I said would make him stop.”

“What flawlessly flawless and flawless flawlessly clue, revealed to you in the most revealing of ways that Hoda is the boy’s sister?”

“He said it himself: ‘I want my sister, Hoda. Where is Hoda? She said she would come back,’ and so on and so forth.”

“I see,” said Kwadil, smiling, “so you administered a mild sedative?”

“Yes. I figured you did not want to attract the High Riders’ attention, seeing how you took this boy from his boat that had ended up on a deserted beach. They’re bound to ask questions.”

Kwadil grinned. “And did you instructively instruct the men not to say anything about the double-finned shark swimmingly swimming nearby?”

“I promised them an extra bonus.”

Kwadil winced, then shrugged his shoulders. Jendhi was right. If this boy was a survivor from Baher-Ghafé, then the crew’s silence was worth an extra bonus. “Very well, this will be all, but it would please me pleasingly and in the most pleasing of ways for you to be ready for anything and mostly for everything.”

Jendhi smiled, bowed, and left. The Kingdom of Ophir was free from the Temple’s meddling, and even though Jendhi was not a revolutionary, he was always glad to help in the silent and secret war Kwadil was waging against the Temple of Baal.
Freedom is worth a few sacrifices, especially when “sacrifices” mean pleasant travels and warm meals
, he thought, grinning.

Even though Master Kwadil was extremely wealthy, he dressed as a commoner with his sturdy, leather boots, white shirt, wool sweater, and a leather vest with silver buttons. His stocking, leather cap hung nearby beneath his cowl. His beard was trimmed short, and he wore his black, curly hair shoulder length, which was the minimum acceptable length by dwarfish standards. At five-foot-two, he was tall for a southerner dwarf.

The one hundred and twenty crew members were busy setting up camp when one air bomb barrage was curiously set on fire. Strident spirals of silvery flames streaked the night. The High Riders stationed near the camp came running, swords drawn. Azerowut met them and explained the situation.

“A horribly horrible mistaken mistake,” he said, bowing to the ground. “This is an accidental accident, and I apologetically apologize and apologize in the most apologetically fashionable fashion.”

“Fine,” grumbled Essam, the light guard leader. “We’ll let it go this time, but I want your camp set up and the lot of you in your tents in fifteen minutes. Is this clear?”

“Clearly clear and clear with utmost clarity,” replied Azerowut, bowing again. “It shall be done immediately in the immediate, and not a moment later.”

Essam grunted. This was the first time, ever, that the caravan of Master Kwadil had caused a serious incident. Besides, he was looking for an exotic gift to impress Syreen, the second maid of Zarifa, the first priestess, and Master Kwadil had the best exotic products, bar none.

Taking advantage of the commotion, Master Kwadil slipped through the night. At first, he walked down a wide street leading to the center square of the city and quickly went into a dark alleyway, where he knocked at a narrow door that the casual passerby would have missed. Syreen opened the door and greeted him.

“Master Kwadil,” she said, quickly closing the door behind him, “I thought you would never come.”

“I have been delayed, child,” replied the dwarf, following her down a set of steep stairs that led to a damp passage.

In the dim light of the candle, Syreen’s eyes shone brightly.

“Syreen, you are crying. What’s the matter?”

She looked at him and smiled sadly. “My friend, Hoda, she’s from Baher-Ghafé,” she said quietly.

“Oh, I see,” he said with a grief-filled voice. “I am so sorrowfully sorry and sorry in the most sorrowful way.”

“Karadon and three other companions were keeping watch over her and her family, so there is still a chance she may have survived.”

“And why were the Black Robes keeping a watchful watch over a simple fishermen’s daughter?”

“It’s her brother. He has had a Merilian since birth. Judging by Ashod’s reaction, this boy is very important. Ashod has all the Black Robes searching for him.”