Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (61 page)

Having said that, Hylâz turned around and walked out of the cave. Ramany was stumped. He thought he got himself out of trouble only to find that he was in deeper trouble. Frustrated by the whole affair, he walked toward the crowd and picked the first two men he saw. “You and you will be judges with us tonight to determine who the winner shall be. Follow me.” Frajil looked at Ramany with a dazed expression on his face. The short, fat man standing by his side looked at him and said, “Did he say we are judges now?” Frajil emitted a sound that mimicked the grunt of a gorilla. The short man took it for a “yes.” He straightened his posture and followed Ramany. Seeing that Frajil had not moved, he gestured impatiently. Frajil recognized the gesture and followed them while his brain struggled to make sense of what had just happened to him.

“Ah, my dear Ramany, I see that you have carried out your mission with alacrity and zeal. I am proud of you. Now, whom do we have here as judges of the Games of the Mines?”

“I am Birg Zamil, purveyor of pork,” answered the short, fat man.

“Well, my dear Birg Zamil, you will assist us in the important task of conferring the palm of victory to the winner. And who do we have here?” continued Hylâz after a slight hesitation. Somehow, he did not feel reassured in the presence of this giant.

“Frajil.”

“Well, my dear Frajil, you too are invited to participate in this august mission.” Hylâz took a step back when the same gorilla-like grunt came forth from Frajil.

“So, Master Hylâz, what are we supposed to do?” asked Birg Zamil, who took his mission to heart.

“Well, my dear friend, when a team comes out of these caves, we verify that it has in its possession each of the duly authorized and stamped artifacts: a pair of wings, a golden mask, a silver belt, and a pair of bronze shoes. Then, after careful and attentive examination of said artifacts, we convene, confabulate, and decree that the stamped artifacts are indeed authentic; and we have a winner. In the unlikely event that the artifacts are fraudulent, we shall solemnly declare said team disqualified and in a state of dissolution. Is this clear?”

“Amply so, Master Hylâz,” answered Birg, who was starting to feel comfortable in his role as judge. For once, he wasn’t talking about pork and the various ways to cook it, and this alone procured Birg happiness, even if the words of Hylâz sounded like gibberish to his ears.

Frajil had remained motionless. He was debating whether to hit someone or not. This was his habitual reaction to events he did not understand. Since most events were beyond his grasp, he was in the habit of hitting lots of folks, unless his brother, Soloron, was there to mediate between the world and his brother’s mind. Frajil felt at home mostly when dealing with chicken, in battles, and in one-on-one combat. Everything else seemed strange and complicated. Nevertheless, this case was different.

“Tiny man makes noise. Hit tiny man,” reasoned the giant. “But tiny man smiled, so no hit tiny man.” Given that no one provoked him, and no one shouted his name, Frajil had to admit, reluctantly, that Hylâz was not fighting him. Still, the situation was aggravating and he needed something to soothe his nerves. Frantically, he surveyed the area in search of someone to hit, but found no one besides Hylâz in close proximity. And so, Frajil remained in an unsteady state, oscillating between wanting to hit Hylâz and not wanting to hit him.

At last, a team surged from the mine. The crowd stood up like one man. It was Hiyam and her men. The expectant crowd hushed immediately, its spirit sinking like a shipwreck being swallowed by dark waters. One-by-one, the proud folks of Tanniin walked away. Hiyam wished she could shut her ears for their silence was dreadful. The sun slipped below the mountains, bloodying the sky, and beneath that fiery red of this late summer day, the crowd processed as if in a funeral. They passed her by with sullen, empty faces. She looked down and clenched her fists. Hylâz came forward and asked to see the complete set of artifacts, and received them from one of her teammates. Hiyam was so grieved she failed to notice the new judges.

“Gentlemen,” said Hylâz, exhibiting the artifacts to the three other judges, “I have examined each of these objects, and they all bear the stamp of this year’s Game. I am proud to declare that the team of Baal has won. What say you?”

“I agree,” answered Ramany. He did not like the crowd’s behavior and wanted the whole thing done and over with as quickly as possible.

“I agree,” echoed Birg, trying to imitate Ramany’s authoritarian tone.

The three men waited for Frajil, who seemed lost in deep thought.

“Well, my dear friend, what do you say? Do we have a winner?”

Now, “winner” is a word Frajil understood all too well, but it was never put to him in an interrogative mode. That threw him off and kept him undecided. He grunted prudently. Hylâz took it for a “yes.”

“We have a winner,” he declared.

He went back to the team of Baal and congratulated Hiyam, declaring her champion of the Games. Her teammates lifted her onto their shoulders despite her protests and carried her to the King’s castle. Shortly thereafter, the team from Quibanxe came out with a pair of wings, and Hylâz conferred upon them second place.

Ramany sighed. He was relieved. It was done. They could go back to the castle and forget about the entire matter. Tonight there would be rejoicing and much food, and tomorrow he would be able to return to his hometown and his peaceful life.

Long after everyone left, Frajil remained motionless in the deserted place. By not hitting anyone, he felt he had accomplished a great thing. Suddenly hungry, he went to the taverns in search of something to eat.

The plaza stood abandoned. Slowly, darkness overtook sky, moon and stars, and in this foreboding silence, a man walked out of the cave. He stopped and feverishly inspected the package he was carrying.

“I have it,” he whispered. “I
own
the libre. Those who will read the
Shimea
shall number by the thousands. They shall read and be cursed; they will die a horrible death. But no matter. Bit by bit, they will uncover the content of the
Shimea
for me, and I, I alone shall wield the power of the
Ithyl Shimea
to break asunder the bonds of Baal.”

He laughed a wiry, maddening laugh, then leaping forward, he sprinted away leaving behind him a thin trail of blood.

“Magic is complex. Young apprentices believe their magic to be self-contained and self-sufficient; its beginning and end under their control. Their elation would be amusing, and their joy bearable, if the truth was less tragic.

“A modicum of experience teaches them that magic is a thread in a complex web spun by the god they have entreated. Those foolish enough to believe in magic without the gods put others in mortal danger. Magic is a dialogue with the god who, ultimately, controls the magician.

“Sureï said: ‘Magic begets magic. To obtain what he seeks, a magician must play the gods against one another. If he fails, his magic will start a chain reaction that is almost always tragic.’
“A great magician uses magic reluctantly.”

–
Teaching of Oreg, High Priest of Baal

Ahiram fell headlong into the river. He felt his breath driven from him and nearly lost consciousness, but his training kicked in and stayed the initial panic. He avoided thrashing and focused on orientation. A short moment later, he burst through the surface gasping for air. The water was freezing, and he knew it would be even colder once it flowed underground. Behind him, the two men of Baal were doing all they could to keep their heads above the raging flow. He could see they were terrified. Soon, the water would swallow them all, drowning them in the Eye of Death, the underground pass through which the water surges before emerging in the open on its way to the northern forests of Tanniin.

Ahiram looked around, but there was little he could do. The strong current kept him away from the walls, and his fingers were numb. He could barely keep his head above water and was inexorably dragged toward the submerged passage. The current’s power grew, and he could feel the rushing waters around him gathering strength, ready to entomb him in the darkness of the pit. He tried frantically to do something to move away from the Eye of Death. He wanted to swim against the current but could barely move. He was getting closer and closer to the pit, and he was terrified. By now, the water’s pull was so great he could barely keep himself afloat. He looked ahead and saw the end of the flow. He took a deep breath and sunk beneath the surface.

The men of Baal who had seen Ahiram’s plunge were at the bar in the Shining Tavern, oblivious of their surroundings. The high priestess did not receive them when they came back to announce that the slave was dead. As far as they were concerned, killing a slave was nothing to fuss about, but the reward gladdened their hearts: three gold libna each, which was enough to purchase fifty young slaves. This was far beyond what they had expected. They drank to her health, their health, and the health of every dead slave they had ever known.

“Celebrations are in order,” yelled one of them.

They had been celebrating rather loudly for the past hour. Sitting alone at a dimly lit table was Frajil, eating a whole chicken. He was trying to think, and the noise these men were making was not helping. It reminded him of
The Ballad of the Tajéruun
, a song Soloron loved to hum. “Bom, bom, bom, the Tajéruun.” Frajil muttered the last part of the song’s chorus absent-mindedly, then shook his head. He needed to concentrate. Somehow, he was not sure that eating a chicken in a tavern was what Soloron meant when he said, “Tonight we roast the chicken.” It did not occur to him that he should rejoin his brother’s camp and ask him. Once Frajil focused on a problem, he did not know how to stop until it was resolved; whether the resolution made any sense was an altogether different matter.

So there he was, convinced he had roasted a chicken. The cook did the roasting, but this was not a detail that would stop Frajil, for he had no concept of cooking, or payment for that matter. Thankfully, Soloron arranged to pay Tika, a Togofalkian with a shady past and the owner of the Shining Tavern, for whatever Frajil ordered. To Tika’s relief, this giant of a man had been a well-behaved customer, who drank mostly water, ate whole chickens, and said “please” and “thank you.” Soloron had been true to his word, paying for Frajil’s meals regularly.