Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (11 page)

His hair stood up on end, and he quickly backed away. The shark was of monstrous proportions.

He took a second look, and his heart skipped a beat. Silver rays were on its back and it had a double fin. Ahiram immediately recognized the shark circling Hoda’s boat; it was Yem. No one knew how old this shark was, and every generation of fishermen had stories to tell of their chance encounters with the shark of legends.

“Yem. It’s Yem! I cannot believe it.” Forgetting his sister’s order to stay down, he peered at the shore and saw a small boat moving in his direction. Standing at the prow was the man who wanted to buy his medallion.
The medallion,
thought Ahiram,
I forgot it on the beach.

“I am here to help, my friend,” called the man across the water. “Hoda, your sister, sent me.”

“What? Hoda?” said Ahiram, confused. “That’s not possible. She said she would come for me.”

“She is a bit delayed,” answered the man. In the dim morning light, he had not noticed the foaming wavelets around the boy’s tiny vessel, but now that his boat was a mere twenty yards away, he could clearly see the furious movements beneath the water. “What are you doing? Why is your boat moving so?” he asked, confused.

Before Ahiram could answer, Yem moved swiftly underwater, cut loose the rope attached to the small anchor, and hauled the boat away at great speed. The men in the other boat shrieked; they had not seen the shark.

“No,” screamed Ahiram, “Hoda! Hoda!”

His scream was swallowed by the waves. The shark leaped forward faster than before, and Ahiram fell back, hit his head hard on the side of the small vessel, and lost consciousness. The shark pulled him rapidly away from home. Yem towed the boat for several miles until it reached a secluded, sandy area where the wooden vessel ran aground and came to an abrupt stop. Ahiram rolled over, hit the side of the boat, and ended up face down, motionless, and still unconscious.

The sun rose on Baher-Ghafé. On this Day of Light, the
Feast of Adonis
(
celebrating spring), the villagers enjoyed a good night of rest and slept late into the morning. None of them saw the High Riders surging through the forest, swords drawn, ready for the kill.

“The Malikuun are the guardians of light and servants of El. No mortal has ever seen them—not since the close of the Age of the Second Covenant—and lived. They are immortal.”

–
Lost discourse of Ramael, son of Shatumael, son of Hanayel, son of Zarubael, son of Lamatael and great-grandson of Habael the Wise

“Great are the deeds of the dwarfs and greater still, their heroes. Alone and unaided, Kwadil the Redeemed, shouldered the weight of the two realms when it was on the verge of collapse. He is the modern founder of the dwarfish nations, its unsung hero.”

–
Philology of the Dwarfs, Anonymous

Wearily, the sun reached its setting point, leaving behind a trail of bloodied clouds scattered in the sky like dead men across a battlefield. A sickly, white moon crawled across the heavens like a giant spider on an invisible web. The sentries manning the walls of the Temple of Baalbeck saw lightning flash atop Mount Sanniin, towering some eight thousand feet over the Temple. Thunder boomed angrily, and storm clouds poured ice-cold water with a vengeance on Baalbeck.

“Riders on approach,” said one of the sentries. “Archers at the ready.” Two hundred archers flexed their bows. After a tense moment, the sentry raised his hand. “Relax bows.” The archers complied. “High Riders of the Lightning Division are on approach. Open the gates.”

The order was relayed down to the porters. Three trumpet blasts shattered the quiet of the night. A gong answered deep within the complex, and the twenty-foot-tall iron gates opened to welcome Arfaad, captain of the Lightning Division of High Riders, returning with one light guard—two hundred and eighty-eight horsemen, one-tenth of the full division that had left at the break of dawn.

After putting the villagers to the sword, Arfaad had ordered half of his division to impose the curfew in Byblos. The rowdy metropolis was a stone’s throw away from Baher-Ghafé. Merchants were bound to protest the closure of their stores on the busiest day of the year, when tourists flocked from the world over to celebrate the Feast of Light and partake in the all-night carnival of Adonis.

Of the remaining half, one light guard had stayed at Baher-Ghafé to burn all that could be burned, leaving nothing but charred ruins of the once prosperous village. The other two light guards had been sent on a punitive mission to seek and destroy the renegade Black Robes, for the Temple found it expedient to blame any one of its many foes for these ghastly expeditions.

Arfaad dismounted and ordered his soldiers back to their quarters.

“Remain there until someone calls for you.”

He headed to the ablutions hall in the Temple precinct to perform the Rite of Purification. He took off his helmet, a conical cap with two jade horns bearing a thunderbolt—the mark of Baal—and carefully placed it on an adjoining table, undressed quickly, and went into the Pool of Purification where he washed three times as prescribed by the ritual. After drying himself with three different towels, he put on the robe of purification and clapped twice. The
lahi (
beard trimmer) in attendance hurried in to inspect Arfaad’s beard for impurities.

The hair of his beard was arranged in five tight braids that ran from ear to ear, the mark of captainship in Baal’s army. The lahi carefully inspected each braid with a specially made silver comb until he was certain it was not contaminated. His task completed, he bowed reverently and walked backward as required of one who was little more than a slave. On the way, he picked up the dirty towels and clothes, dropped them into a large, tin container for unclean linens, and left with the sullied boots. The ritual forbade the participants from talking for fear that the spirit of the dead may speak through the one who is unclean and thus contaminate the Temple.

Arfaad sat on a stool and waited. A servant brought him a clean uniform and a clean pair of boots, bowed, and left. The captain dressed but did not put on his jacket. He clapped twice. Two elderly maids walked in. They inspected the cuffs of his gray pants to ensure no impurity had transferred to his clean clothes. Then, dipping their fingers into an aromatic jar, they laced his neck with a soft gel that smelled of lemon and orange blossoms, and helped him put on his jacket. He straightened the black lapels and tied the green band around his neck, then he clasped the thick, red belt around his waist, snatched his helmet, and walked out.

On his way, he stopped by the barracks to inspect his men. They stood, each by his bunk, their silent faces filled with grief and anguish. “I know you are all ritually unclean, but rest assured, you will perform the Rite of Purification as soon as I have reported back to the high priestess.”

A wave of relief washed over their faces, confirming Arfaad’s hunch. “They must have thought I barred them from the ritual to deliver them into the hands of the Kerta priest,” he muttered as he walked toward the first inner gate of the Temple.

The experiments he had personally witnessed while in the sixth and deepest underground level of the Temple flooded his memory with images of simple folks going insane, others screaming in utter despair, and the silent chuckle—the sickening chuckle—of the priest filling up the concentrators. Willfully, Arfaad suppressed these memories and fervently wished that Baal could be rid of that cruel order. He inhaled deeply and began climbing the spiraling staircase that lead to the high priestess. As he moved up, he crossed five consecutive gates protected by vulture-like creatures with shining, green eyes. These were the
watchers,
guardians of the Temple. As he went under each gate, he felt their incisive gaze burrow deeply into his mind, assessing his intent, deciding whether he was a friend or foe, whether to let him pass or declare him fodder for the concentrators. Arfaad shuddered involuntarily; the watchers, created by the Kerta priests, were neither dead nor alive.

He found the high priestess sitting on her preaching chair, her hands gripping the silver, lion-shaped handles. Despite his inner turmoil, he held his right fist with his left hand behind his back and briefly nodded, then joined his hands next to his heart and bowed deeply.

I ordered you to kill the woman you wanted to marry, your Hoda, and still your military and religious salutes are flawless,
thought Bahiya, distraught.
What kind of a man are you?

“It is done,” he said evenly.

“Any survivors?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at her with eyes that did not conceal his sorrow. “Yes, Your Honor, every man, woman, and child of Baher-Ghafé is no more.”

“How many casualties?”

“Your Honor, the casualties are 1,283.”

This is the correct count
, thought Bahiya. “Have you given pursuit to the Black Robes?”

“Three light guards are camping in the foothills of the mountains northeast of Byblos as we speak.”

“The curfew in Byblos?”

“Half of the Lightning Division is enforcing it.”

“The Temple is proud of your services, Captain. You are to leave immediately for Byblos and report to Captain Sind aboard the Astarte. Once at sea, you will be told about your next assignment.”

“What is to be done with my men?” he ventured to ask. He owed them this much.

Bahiya waved her hand impatiently, “I will see to it that they perform their ablutions before sunrise. You have my word.”

Arfaad knelt, then kissed the floor. He stood back up and bowed. “The Temple prevails, Your Honor.”

Absent-mindedly, Bahiya gave the expected response to the traditional closure of Baal: “Always.”

The doorkeepers closed the heavy rosewood door behind the captain. The high priestess shut her eyes, heaved a deep sigh of relief, and whispered, “At last, I am alone.”

She stood up and started walking towards the altar of incense. Uncontrollable sobs shook her frame, forcing her to lean against the cold stony wall. Nausea and dizziness assaulted her with a savagery she had never felt before. She crumpled onto the giant mosaic of the god Baal in his heavenly chariot bringing bountiful rain over fields of wheat to the acclaim of a multitude of farmers waving at him with smiling faces. She laid face down, crying over the smiling face of a young boy. Regrets pierced her heart, and she wished she had never joined the Temple.

“I should have been stronger,” she whispered. “I should not have left him. We could be together, hiding somewhere, like Corintus and Layaléa did. If only he had listened to me.”

The order to eradicate Baher-Ghafé had reached her at the close of the first watch. The night was still young, and she was looking forward to her annual dinner with the dwarf merchant Kwadil and to the Festival of Light when the high priest of Babylon summoned her and told her that the Temple had, at last, located the Seer.

Bahiya was dumbfounded. “The Seer? The one the Temple has been dreading for twelve hundred years? He is here? In Baher-Ghafé?”

“In Baher-Ghafé,” confirmed the high priest, who did not mind Bahiya’s breach of protocol. He understood her surprise and dismay. “It is, indeed, hard to believe that the Seer of Chaos has risen in our own age, but there can be no doubt. The Letters of Power made themselves known to him in a burst of energy.”