Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (49 page)

Ahiram inched up, silent as a shadow, and peered inside the cave. It was barely large enough for one man to crouch. Relieved, he climbed in and sat on the sandy ground.
Hiyam and her men will be here soon
. He got up.
Let them come. Three or four more killers will make no difference.

He turned around and walked briskly along a very narrow path with sharp-edged rocks jutting from either side. Sooner or later, Hiyam and her men would reach the entrance, and the men of Baal would surround him from all directions.

The narrow passage widened and turned onto a broad, flat-walled corridor where no ambush could be mounted. His walk became a jog and then a vigilant sprint. He knew Hiyam had to bring her team to the entrance of the cave, but once they were all there, they would come after him at full speed.

The corridor widened again, and he sped up, maintaining a comfortable rhythm until he reached a three-pronged fork where the right path sloped down and the left turned sharply to the right. The torches lining the middle path indicated this was the one the arbitrators wanted the players to follow. Unhesitatingly, Ahiram followed the left path. Beyond the bend, three flights of stairs led him to a walkway that ran over the main path. Presumably, the miners used the lower path to move carts in one direction and the upper path to move them in the other. Thankfully, enough light from the torches below seeped through vents cut into the wall which allowed him to resume his fast run.

Several hours later, Ahiram reached the Cave of Many Ropes. Standing on a ridge four feet wide, he could hear the river gushing through the deep canyon six hundred feet below. The cave was a huge echo chamber that amplified the rush of the water into a roar that prevented two people standing side-by-side from hearing each other.

Above him, a series of nets and ropes, which the miners had used in the past to cross the abyss dangled from the high ceiling. Supposedly, men and dwarfs stood on these nets to mine the meyroon from the ceiling. No one had ever seen meyroon, much less mined it. However, the story handed down through the ages affirmed that men mighty and strong, alongside gifted dwarfs, were able to stand on these nets and mine above the abyss. They were called Meyroon Abaliim On-Nayiir, which meant “the flying miners of meyroon.” Some fell into the rushing water that carried them to the Eye of Death, a gaping hole through which the river went underground before emerging in the open, several miles down at the edge of the forest. Only one miner was known to have survived this fall. Maril, an exceptionally gifted man who fell into the river, survived the Eye of Death, reached the forest, and founded the Kingdom of Sencher-Mendal, northwest of Tanniin which eventually was broken into the two neighboring kingdoms of Oronoque and Togofalk.

Like the miners of yore, the players were required to move from one net to another in order to cross the gaping hole splitting the large cave in two. Ahiram inspected these nets with a critical eye.

“If I were a High Rider,” he muttered, “I would loosen one of these nets and make it look like an accident.”

He reached into his belt, selected a grappling dart, attached a rope to it, and held it in his hand. He crossed the length of the ledge and leaped onto the first net, which swayed under his weight but held firm. Swiftly, the Silent began hopping easily from one net to the other. Midway through, a net tore along its full length, and Ahiram fell headlong. Instantly, he threw the dart. It caught the next net. As he suspected, the High Riders had not tampered with the next net, thinking one would do the trick.
Good thing they don’t know what Silent are trained to do,
he thought as he climbed quickly. He freed his dart and resumed his halting progression from one net to another, moving as swiftly as prudence allowed. He did not want to confront Hiyam and her team while hanging from a net.

Thankfully, the rest of the crossing was uneventful. Ahiram reached the opposite side of the river, where one of the most difficult segments of this Game began. Facing him was a second abyss. Here, a quieter tributary of the main river flowed two thousand feet below. The cliff was steep, and the ceiling, as high as in the previous part, sloped down gently. Thirty-two consecutive ropes ran the distance from these heights to the river below. Both ends of each rope were bolted to the ceiling with iron pegs. Known as the Flying Stairs, they were used to carry or transfer buckets down from these heights, but how the contents were transferred from the end of one rope to the start of the next was a mystery.

Near the first rope, a cluster of handles hung from a hook. Each handle was shaped like two bull horns joined with an iron coupling. The coupling doubled as the axis of a grooved, wooden wheel, made to roll on the ropes.

The competitors were required to use these rolling handles to descend the flying stairs by placing the wheel on the rope and gliding down as they held the handles. At the end of each rope, the participants had to grab the next rope, transfer the handle over, and glide down again until they reached the ground.

“You will be tempted to forego the handles and use your hands and feet to go down. Do not do it.” Tanios’ voice rang clearly in Ahiram’s mind. “Due to the constant humidity in these caves, the ropes are very slippery. Every player who tried this strategy ended up either burning his hands or falling into the river. Use the handles. Imagine you are running away from a fire. Do not think, and do not hesitate. This is one situation where concentrating solely on the act, and not worrying about anything else, will get you through. Nothing else will.”

“It is a dance, Ahiram,” he could almost imagine his sister now speaking to him as if he was still a child in Baher-Ghafé and she was consoling him: “Dance with the wind, dance on the ropes, dance joyfully. Your movement must be beautiful. Dance for Hoda.” Ahiram smiled as the face of Hoda faded away. Ahiram climbed up, took a handle, and secured it to the rope. He opened the little pouch that Habael had given him, sprinkled the white powder on his hands, and rubbed them.

“What is it?” he had asked the old man. “A magical concoction?” Habael had gazed at him with eyes that burned with an ancient fire. It nearly scared him. “Do not speak of magic so lightly, young man,” Habael had said with a voice he barely recognized. The old man’s features had quickly softened, and he was once more his usual self. “Flour and salt,” he had said evenly. “It keeps your hands dry for a firmer grip.”

Ahiram held the horns and jumped. The speed surprised him, and he nearly knocked his head against the stalactites as he whizzed by. He reached the end of the first rope abruptly and was almost thrown down, but before the handle slid back, Ahiram managed to grab the next rope and transfer the handle over. This time, the speed of the descent was even greater than before. Ahiram braced himself for the jarring stop, which came all too quickly. He gripped the handle hard as he swayed forward and barely managed to avoid slamming into the ceiling. The handle rolled back a few feet before stopping and putting the next rope out of his reach. He was beginning to understand the real challenge of this crossing.
There are thirty remaining ropes to go through,
he thought. He wiggled forward, held the rope with one hand, swung ahead, and caught the next rope. Quickly, he placed the wheel on the rope and sped along.

The strain on his arms and legs increased with every crossing. His grip started to slip with the sweat and humidity, and he locked his legs even harder. Midway through, he reached for the pouch of flour and salt, and rubbed his hands again with the powder, hanging by his feet. When he tried to put the pouch back in place, he let go of it a little too soon and it dropped from his grasp. Ahiram winced as he saw the precious powder dissipate in the air.
I’ll have to finish without it.

Still hanging from his feet, he swung back up, caught the rope with his left hand without letting go of his feet, and laid on top of it. He inspected the next rope. Water seeped from the ceiling above and it was soaked with icy-cold water.
My hands are dry now and I’d like to keep them that way.

His shoulder began to throb, for it had not yet fully healed from the injury sustained in the Game of Bronze. He slithered forward as far as the rope would allow, reached with his right arm, and placed the wheel on the next rope without touching it or the ceiling. He tried to grab the second handle with his left hand, but it was out of reach.

I could gain a few inches if my back was not stuck against the ceiling,
he thought. Quickly, he switched around and hung beneath the rope, facing the ceiling. The next rope was now behind him, so he moved back as far as the rope would allow. He reached out, placed the handle on the wet rope, and managed to grab it with both hands. He let go of his feet and zipped down backward.

“Not good,” he said arching his neck trying to see behind him. In the blink of an eye, he let go of the handles, turned around, and caught them before they escaped out of reach. Just then, the ceiling became flat. The wheel’s speed decreased until it stopped moving.

“This rope is a lot longer than I thought
,”
mumbled Ahiram.

He was one hundred feet high and could see that the remaining seven ropes did not lead to the ground, as he had originally thought, but to a platform accessible by stairs. He swayed forward and backward to move the wheel, until he reached the end of the rope where he resumed his descent.

Ahiram reached the end of the twenty-ninth rope and had only three more to cross when he heard a terrified scream behind him. He looked back and saw nothing, but he knew that one of the participants had not made it. He turned around as an arrow grazed his left cheek and hit the ceiling, drawing a spark from the rock before falling down. The archer stood up on the platform. He leaned on his long bow, a murderous grin on his face. He watched Ahiram hanging from the rope.

“Zat wos a worning shot,” he said with the thick accent of the northern land of Bar Tan, famed for its archers, “but I lioke ployin with my torget foirst.” He grinned once more as he slowly pulled an arrow from his quiver, clearly savoring the moment. But before he notched the arrow, Ahiram let go of the handle, held the rope, and lay on top of it without losing his balance.

“Troyin to hoide I see,” said the archer amused. “No proiblem. I’ll kill you slowly.”

In the few seconds it took the archer to speak, Ahiram took one of his crossbows and clipped the end of his longest rope to its shaft. He positioned the dart, drew the bow and released.

The archer shot his arrow. Ahiram fell.

The archer moved to the edge of the platform and looked down. He frowned.

“Where did he go?” he asked. “He should be floating in the woiter, I shot him. Nobody told me the Soilent use moigic.”

“We don’t,” said a voice behind him.

He turned around and faced Ahiram’s soles rushing at him. A wave of pain hit him like a brick, then all went black. The Silent held the man by his arm to prevent him from falling to his death. He took the archer’s tunic and helmet and snatched his crossbow and quiver.
This is not the best disguise, but it will help,
he thought. He descended the stairs, and after some effort, managed to pry the dart free from the wood beam behind the platform.

He stowed the dart and the rope back in his belt, then continued down the stairs, silent as a cat, and landed on the dry spot of a stone slab that was mostly submerged beneath cascading streams of fresh water. He had entered the
Meipoor
(the waters of purification). There, in a basin of pure gold, rocks were purified, and supposedly, the meyroon extracted.

The basin of pure gold was a short distance away. Ahiram opened his eyes wide. In the basin, a pair of crystalline-blue wings, the presumed color of meyroon, floated. He had managed to locate one of the two pairs of wings, and it was his for the taking.

The men of Baal manning the Lone Tower were getting bored. These mercenaries came from the north, the dreaded Kingdom of Bar Tan, the western steps of Thermodon, and the icy mountains of Varkun. They were paid by the Temple to maintain a threatening presence in Tanniin. Used to action, these rough and uncomplicated men were uncomfortable in confined spaces such as these.

In a surprise move, the King had asked their garrison to guard the castle. The idea seemed pleasant at first, but to the dozen soldiers stuck in the staircase of the Lone Tower, it quickly became unbearable. The staircase was hot and stifling, and there was nothing to do other than count each other’s nose hairs. Only strict discipline and the fear of the high priestess kept them in check.

One of them, Obyj the Varkunian, saw someone come up the stairs. He whistled, and all the men stood to attention. Seeing that it was Bahiya, he felt his throat constrict and began to sweat. These were hardened criminals who could kill anyone without pity when ordered to do so, but none of them wanted to be in a room alone with High Priestess Bahiya. As soldiers of the Temple, they had seen some of their companions suddenly disappear and knew they were the victims of the dreaded Kerta Priests of Baal.

Bahiya belonged to a different order of Baal known as the Methodicals. Whereas the Kerta priests focused on the human mind and sought to subdue the will of man to the whiles of the priests. The Methodicals mastered the magical arts of sowing and evading curses. The Kerta priests penetrated the minds of their victims and worked from within. A Methodical’s curse was second to none, and there were no walls strong enough to keep them out.