Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (59 page)

They crossed over and drew closer to the altar. A mosaic depicted Tanniin in mid-flight, raining the fire of life on grassy lands below. Those who worshiped him believed his fire to be sacred, rejuvenating, and a source of life.

“Look,” Garu pointed at two candleholders. “These candles are new. There is no dust on them, and they have barely been used.”

“The priestly order of Tanniin has survived?” asked the Queen incredulously. “Did you two know about it and not tell me?”

The two men shook their heads: Ibromaliöm condescendingly and Garu vehemently.

“You may wish to ask the commander,” said Ibromaliöm, amused. “He might have an answer for you.”

“This may or may not be a priest of Tanniin,” said Garu, examining the offerings closely. “This is not a votive offering,” he said after a short while. “Look at the fruit. They are partially spoiled. See the discoloration on the figs? And the apricots are no longer ripe. And—”

“Spare us your erudition, Garu,” said Ibromaliöm, sharply, “and get to the point.”

“The point, my dear friend,” replied Garu, “is that this basket is much older than this jar over here, and if I am not mistaken…” Carefully, Garu removed the oil-soaked rag stuffed into the neck of the jar, which was customarily used as a sealant for short periods. He smelled the content and backed away quickly.

“As I suspected, this is not honey. It’s blood.”

“Blood?” exclaimed his companions.

“Yes, blood. The fruit is an older offering. The blood is a recent offering.” He looked furtively around, trying to discern if someone else was present.

“I think the murderer has been here.”

“The murderer?” asked Ramel, disbelieving her ears, “but how could he have found this place before you? Unless of course—”

“Oh please, Your Majesty,” cut in Ibromaliöm, “Garu may be many things, but he is not a murderer. The fat fool does not have it in him to kill a fly.”

Ramel’s tremulous laughter cut Garu like a knife. She was relieved, knowing the murderer was not in their company. “Perhaps, my dear Ibromaliöm. But you, on the other hand, could and may kill.”

Ibromaliöm held her gaze, smiling. “Indeed, Your Majesty, I would but for the right price or the right cause. What profit is there for me in these murders? Come now, let us not speculate, but tend to the business at hand.”

“But if the murderer is neither one of us,” asked Garu, “how did he manage to find this place before us?”

“We will have time to delve into this mystery once we have collected what we have come for,” replied Ibromaliöm, exasperated. “Hylâz and Ramany must be wondering about us. A word from them to that pesky commander and—”

“Your Majesty, are you certain you want to do this?” asked Garu.

“Do you question my motives, Garu?” snapped the Queen.

“Fine then,” he replied with shoulders sagging. “Let’s do it.”

Garu strolled ahead as they followed. In the dim light of the torches, the Queen could not make out the details of the ceiling. Still, she could see that the wide, blue marble tiles ended abruptly right before the two statues. Beyond, the ragged dome of the cave shone faintly in the light. Several of the slabs had fallen, and their shards littered the ground.

“You could almost feel El-Windiir’s desperation as Baal drew closer,” whispered Ramel. “This was to be a major temple, but he was forced to abandon it.”

One of Ibromaliöm’s steely boots screeched ominously, dragging a pebble with it. The tall man kicked it irritably.

“Let’s get on with it, Garu,” he snapped. “This place is filled with dead things. Dead things we should not have seen or touched.”

Garu did not pay heed to Ibromaliöm’s comment. His sense of foreboding was growing heavier by the minute. He wished he could take Ramel far away from this place to a small cottage deep in the forest, but he knew she would never agree to it. His shoulders sagged as they approached the massive panel. In comparison, the door they had come through felt like a mouse hole.

“At long last,” said Ramel, breathing a sigh of relief in front of the wide panel. “We have found you.”

The door was fifteen feet high and ten feet wide. Encased in a triple silver frame, its two panels were made of burnished bronze and were held in place by six massive, gold hinges. Its handle was of gold as well and shaped like a dragon with a missing tail. A pair of black wings in a ten-foot ellipse was the only carving on its surface. The chiseling was exquisite, for they could see the contour and relief of each scale. Four crystal spheres, cast into the door, framed the ellipse.

“If these wings are made of meyroon,” said the Queen in a dreamy voice, “their worth would exceed that of the kingdom.”

“What do we do now?” asked the ever-practical Ibromaliöm.

Garu raised the handle from the Lone Tower and pointed to the door’s handle. “These two are but one handle. I need to break the spell that keeps them apart. Once the handle is whole, the door will open.”

“I am growing impatient,” snapped the Queen. “Open the door.”

He looked at her and smiled. What Ibromaliöm saw as greed and intemperance, Garu saw as joy and innocence. “Your Majesty,” he said, soothingly, “this is not a simple soldering job. I cannot melt these two handles and create a new one. This is magic, so please be patient and have no fear; this door will open for you.”

“And to think we are the first ones to see El-Windiir’s tomb,” said Ramel, clasping her hands. Unable to resist anymore, as if entranced by what lay behind the door, Ramel tried to touch it. She staggered, screaming in pain.

“Your Majesty,” pleaded Garu, straining under the effort of his magical spell, “the door is protected by a powerful spell. Please do not touch it again.”

“Then open the door,” she snapped, unable to contain her excitement. “I can hardly wait.”

Evidently, the door was ancient dwarfish handiwork and could only be opened with its handle. After several failed attempts, Garu sighed and wiped his forehead.

“I am not having much success in getting the two pieces to fuse together.”

“You told us,” said Ibromaliöm, his voice barely a whisper, “the black sun weakens the power of the Pit. You said on a day such as this, Tanniin loses his power, Baal is restrained, and the curse of El-Windiir can be broken. You said the curse of Alissaar Ben Nadam could then be avoided. So why is it—”

“I don’t know,” interrupted Garu, exasperated. “I am doing the best I can. Would you like to try?” he growled, brandishing the handle, but Ibromaliöm backed away. “Afraid, I see?” snickered Garu. Clenching his teeth, he strained once more to fuse the pieces together.

“Open the—” repeated Ramel, but was cut off by the impatient gesturing of Garu.

Holding the small handle firmly against the larger one, he muttered a few words and waited, half expecting a flash of light to bind them together. He released the small handle. To his dismay, it fell duly to the ground. Her Majesty was barely able to control her anger.

Garu squatted, closed his eyes, and paid no heed to the Queen or his companion. Ibromaliöm took to pacing, and the Queen, her hands behind her back, tried to distract herself by admiring the ceiling. She was about to tell Garu to open the door one more time when he sprang to his feet, picked up the small handle, and looked at it intently, as if he were seeing it for the first time. He took a couple of steps back, breathed deeply, and holding the handle, he stretched his arm forward and spoke in a loud voice:

“Indili Amiralim Ilil Aftal Tanniin!” The handle flew from his hand, nearly breaking his fingers. It snapped to the back of the larger handle while, simultaneously, a bright, green light flashed, fusing them together. When they opened their eyes, the handle was whole.

“How did you do it?” exclaimed Ramel, who was genuinely impressed for once. She looked like a child before a great present.

Garu blushed. “I looked at the handle and I saw these horns. They had bothered me all along. Why should a dragon’s tail have two horns? I remembered then the ancient poem—”

“The one about the bull and the dragon?” asked Ramel, who understood where this was going.

“Exactly, Your Majesty,” replied Garu affably. “The bull, it is said, is the only animal to ride on the back of Tanniin.”

“Because,” continued Ramel, “by working the soil, it distributes Tannin’s fertility to all. So, as a reward, Tanniin gave the lowly bull a heavenly vision.”

Garu nodded. “So, I simply said the refrain of the poem, ‘Let the bull ride Tanniin.’”

She looked at him, and he saw admiration in her eyes. He thought how lovely her eyes were.

Ibromaliöm was showing signs of impatience. “Your Majesty, we should enter now.”

“Garu, open the door,” commanded the Queen.

Garu obeyed. He grabbed the handle and pushed. The two panels pivoted silently on their hinges, revealing a rectangular room, save for one corner that was cut by a wall of the Lone Tower.

“Garu,” ordered Ramel, handing him her torch, “light up this room.”

Garu obeyed, and moments later, six burning torches hung on golden sconces.

“The walls…” said Ramel, “they are covered with gold. The floor, the ceiling as well, and here… this silver altar,” said the Queen, clasping her hands. “Could it be?”

“Yes,” replied Ibromaliöm, running his hand on the altar’s gleaming surface. “El-Windiir’s altar of sacrifice. Powerful magic must have been performed on its surface.”

“Do not touch it!” shouted Garu. “This room reeks of magic. Do not touch anything. We should leave now.”

They ignored him.

“Look, Your Majesty,” whispered Ibromaliöm, “the back wall, there’s a second door.”

“Ibromaliöm,” said Garu with an altered voice. “Your hand, the one that touched the altar; it’s bleeding.”

The tall judge watched as drops of blood fell from his hand onto the altar. “It’s nothing,” he said in a casual, dreamy voice. “Nothing at all.”

Horrified, Garu watched the drops of blood seep through the surface of the altar, disappearing entirely. He was beginning to understand why Sureï had cursed this place, and he wished he had never set foot in int.
El, help us
, he prayed silently.
El, please help us
.

The second door was shorter and narrower than the one they had come through. It was richly decorated with gold, silver, and bronze. Atop the door sat the sculpted head of a dragon in gold. Its eyes were of the darkest metal they had ever seen, yet the strange, dark pupils sparkled like midnight-blue crystal.

“I cannot believe what I am seeing,” whispered Ramel. “Look at those eyes,” she continued, her voice rising in excitement. “It’s meyroon!”

They stood staring at the two pairs of eyes. Even Garu was mesmerized by the meyroon. Overwhelmed by what they had managed to do, they remained speechless, gazing at the extraordinary eyes, knowing they were standing where no one had stood in centuries. They were certain that beyond the second door lay the tomb of El-Windiir.

Suddenly and without warning, a gray jet of light shot up from the altar. Garu felt the walls liquefy and lose their consistency. The altar’s surface boiled, and gray thorns grew from it. One of the thorns shot out, hit Ibromaliöm in the forehead, sinking deep inside his skull. Garu screamed and covered his eyes, and when he opened them, the room’s appearance was as before: gold walls, the silver altar, the Queen, and Ibromaliöm standing in front of the door.

“Garu,” snapped Ramel. “You fool, get up. This is not the time to be scared. Open this door, now.”

Garu was disoriented. He felt lost and powerless. “What just happened?”

“You slipped, my friend,” said Ibromaliöm, in a sleepy voice that sent a chill up Garu’s spine.

“Open the door, Garu. I am certain the tomb of El-Windiir is there.”

“It is,” said Ibromaliöm, who stood mesmerized by an object lying on a cloth in the center of the altar.

“What is this?” asked Garu, gripped by a sickening feeling. “Where did this libre come from? It wasn’t there before.”

“This is true,” said Ramel, with an altered voice. “It wasn’t here.”

“Ramel, please listen to me,” Garu said. “I implore you; we should leave now before something terrible happens. This place reeks of magic. Look, no dust anywhere. Only magic can do that.”

Indeed, the room was immaculate with not a wisp of dust or cobwebs, as if all living things, as well as wind and dust, stayed away.

“How could that be?” asked the Queen.

“I am not certain,” replied Garu, “but I think,” he said, trying to control his fear, “we are not seeing this room as it exists in the real world—we are seeing it in the spell world.”

“The spell world?” replied the Queen aghast. “Are you certain?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” replied Garu, his teeth chattering, “but we must get out of here as quickly as possible. We should not be here.”

“How are you not yet dead?” complained Ibromaliöm, without taking his eyes from the book. “The absorbers should have shielded you from the curse of breaking into this sanctuary for a few short minutes only. We are long past that time, so how come you are still alive?”

“The absorbers,” gasped Garu. He fumbled in his pockets, and his face grew deathly pale. “I don’t have them. I forgot them. How could I have done such a thing?”

“More importantly,” cut in Ibromaliöm, “how are you still alive and well enough to complain?”

Ramel clapped her hands with irritation. “Who cares? The curse is broken. Maybe he broke it when he opened the door. Open this door, Garu. I want El-Windiir’s shoes and belt. I want to fly like him.”

“Forget El-Windiir and his artifacts,” replied Ibromaliöm with a low voice. “They are childish pranks compared to the libre on this table. This is the Shimea. A libre of power so great it can…” Ibromaliöm did not complete his sentence. Garu, who was still trembling with fear, lifted his gaze and barely contained a scream.

“The Ith…” he could not continue. “It’s not… It’s not…” He wanted to say that it was not supposed to be here. This was far worse than his worst nightmare, as if the Pit had wormed its malice past the lid that was supposed to lock it in the depth of the earth. This malice was now here, or rather, they were in it.