Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (62 page)

The men from Baal laughed loudly, and one of them threw his goblet overhead. It bounced off a table where two farmers sat and crashed to the floor. No one complained or much less glanced at them. If they did, a swift death would be their lot.

Some wine had splashed Frajil and jolted him, breaking his concentration. He was nowhere near solving the riddle of the roasted chicken. He wiped his face and tried one more time.
Tonight we roast the chicken. What chicken? There are many chickens
, thought Frajil. He gazed at the pile of bones left from his poultry.
Frajil eating roasted chicken but there are more, so
… An idea, vague and wordless, began to form when another goblet came crashing down, splashing Frajil in the eye. This was more than the giant could bear. He yelled at the men. “Little ones, stop talking. Frajil trying to think about roasted chicken.”

The entire tavern froze. Tika hid his face with his hands and cowered under the counter. Frajil smiled blissfully, for the tavern was now completely quiet. He could think now. “If there are many chickens,” he said for all to hear, “then which one Frajil goes after?”

The men of Baal drew near his table.

“What is it that you said?” asked the one closest to the table. Had he been sober he may have kept his distance from the giant, but tonight he felt he could conquer the world. Frajil was so busy concentrating that he did not hear what the man said, nor did he see him standing next to him. This strenuous effort gave him a headache; something Frajil rarely had.

The man of Baal took Frajil’s goblet, poured its contents onto the giant’s head, and laughed loudly. His companions laughed with him. Frajil felt the cool liquid go down his face and looked up to see three men laughing. He thought the situation funny and started laughing as well. They thought he was laughing at them and did not think the situation funny anymore; instead, they felt insulted.

The man closest to Frajil drew a dagger.

Now this was a gesture Frajil fully understood. He was relieved because he did not have to worry about the roasted chicken anymore. He had only to act. In a matter of seconds, the three trained High Riders lay on the floor amid shards of broken wood, smashed goblets, and strewn chicken bones.

“Tika, another table, please. Frajil need to think again.”

The customers could scarcely believe their eyes. Most of them had been following the Games and knew of the slave trying to win his freedom. The news of Ahiram’s death dealt a crushing blow to their dreams of freedom. Unwittingly, Frajil, by his action, had rekindled their dying hope.

“This Tanniinite,” whispered one of them, “he wasn’t afraid of the white owls.”

“He’s a giant,” explained a second.

“Yeah, but they’re three,” chimed in a third.

“He’d done ’em in all by himself,” said a fourth. “He did.”

The giant gazed at the scattered mess on the floor. This reminded him of something…Yes, a conversation here with Soloron…He could see himself pointing at a smashed goblet and yelling, “The King.” The chicken, the King…the chicken, the King…In a flash, Frajil concluded, “roasting the chicken” meant storming the castle. He was not supposed to eat the chicken here but be at the castle with Soloron and his men.

“King has best chicken,” he concluded with a wide grin. “Soloron deserves best chicken.” Oblivious of his surroundings and the men watching his every move, he stood up and yelled, mostly to rouse himself, “To the castle!”

His war cry ignited a fire. It crystallized the repressed anger and resentment of those who had hoped the slave would win the Games. True, his victory would not have changed their daily lives—Baal would still tax them, and his High Riders would steal and murder unfettered—but it would have let the world know that hope endured in their hearts. These soldiers mercilessly had dashed that hope when they killed Ahiram. But now, the murderers lay on the floor, and this giant man gave them a goal to reach, an action to channel their pent-up frustrations. The King was a traitor; he should not be allowed to live.

“To the castle,” they shouted back.

Their voices startled Frajil. He looked at them and yelled “Tonight we roast the chicken.”

“We roast the chicken,” they shouted back.

Frajil smiled, trying to mimic Soloron when he gave orders. Even though the giant was not sure why he was giving orders, these men looked like they were waiting for one, so he gave it to them.

“To the castle,” he shouted louder, unsheathing his two double-blade swords as he stormed through the door. “We roast the chicken.”

The men ran after him shouting, “To the castle.” The war rally fanned like wildfire throughout the city of Taniir-The-Strong, igniting the hearts of its citizens and propelling them into action. Without any warning, the peaceful city of Taniir-The-Strong saw this small group turn into a mob. Frajil reached the castle’s perimeter with an armed multitude rushing behind him. The insurrection had begun.

The servants were making ready for the ceremony of the Games. The Royal Hall was being festooned with the colors of Baal. Clusters of slaves busily moved through the open doors carrying all the necessities for the feast. The musicians were rehearsing in a corner, and the banquet tables were readied.

King Jamiir III was in a mixed mood. He was relieved that the Games had ended and satisfied that the slave has been disposed of quietly and swiftly. Nonetheless, his wife’s absence annoyed him, and the commander, who had searched for her discreetly, had not found her. To make matters worse, the master of the Silent Corps had asked to be excused from the ball tonight, as did Master Habael, Garu, and Ibromaliöm. To top it off, the high priestess, who should be celebrating the victory of Baal, sent word informing the King she would not attend due to a sudden illness.

If I did not know better, I would think I am facing a mutiny
, thought the King. He looked around him and saw the sullen face of Hiyam, who was slumped in her chair.
What is the matter with her?
he wondered, irritated.
After all we have gone through to assure her victory, the least she could do is be grateful.
He closed his eyes trying to think of something pleasant, but could not.

The Silent were devastated, though none were more crushed than Banimelek and Jedarc. After disposing of the men of Baal with the help of Elio and Thurun, they searched for Ahiram in vain. They could not bring themselves to say what they were both thinking. Ahiram may not have survived. The sequestering of the Silent in their quarters while the King feasted with Baal did not help matters. The High Riders were now in charge of the castle.

Banimelek’s thoughts went back to his friend. He imagined Ahiram dying alone in the mines, killed treacherously by Baal. He lifted his eyes and looked at Jedarc, almost pleading for an answer. His friend looked at him with eyes filled with sadness. He had nothing to say. Banimelek spoke out loud what they were thinking in their hearts: “We should have protected him. We could have saved him.”

Ahiram was tossed and turned in utter darkness by the furious maelstrom. His head hit the ceiling of the siphon he was rushed through. The water jerked him closer to the ceiling. Instinctively, he raised his left arm and felt his wrist rap against something spongy, yet so sharp it seemed to draw blood. He yanked his hand away and slammed it against the rough edge of an opening. Frantically, he searched for something to hold on to, and somehow, his fingers landed on a hard surface. He gripped and pulled. The object did not budge. His right hand found the other end of the opening, and he managed to haul himself up. To his surprise, he broke through the water. There was air. He could breathe. His right hand slid and he nearly fell into the raging current once more, but he steadied himself with his legs and rolled onto a wet, flat rock, panting in the dark. He nearly drowned again when a gush of water filled the space for a short moment before receding. He coughed, spitting water out, as he thought of the two men of Baal dying in the dark. This was a death he would not wish on his worst enemy.

Ahiram tried to stand but hit his head against a low ceiling. He crawled on all fours in the dark, trying to find his way, not knowing where to go. He placed one hand on the walls searching for a path, but there was none. Eventually, he reached a dead end and went back to the hole he had climbed through. The roar of the powerful rush beneath him was deafening. He continued moving forward, feeling the wet, cold walls around him, searching for another exit, but it was in vain. He reached a second dead end and panicked.
What if there is no exit? What if the water is the only exit?

Walls surrounded him on all sides, and the water filled the cave regularly before receding. He sat down, leaning his back against the wall, not knowing what to do. The darkness was so complete that he could not even see his hands. He was drenched and began to shiver in the cold draft. The habits gained from years of training took over, staying his fears. Ahiram quoted from the
Book of Siril
, chapter 4, verse 12: ‘
Trials renew the Silent. He never gives up.
’ He heard a loud popping sound and the cold draft suddenly became even colder.
Not now,
he thought,
I could do without the cold air.
He jolted up but remembered the low ceiling in time to avert bruising his skull yet again.

His heart was pounding.

“A draft.”
If there is a draft, then there must be a passage somewhere. Drafts do not occur in enclosed spaces.
He tried to follow it back to its source, moving at a snail’s pace and forcing his hands to examine every nook, however small. His persistence paid off and he found it, right above the water; a hole, barely large enough to let him through.

No wonder I had a difficult time finding it
, thought the Silent.
It’s directly above the hole through which the water comes in
.

Ahiram felt the borders of the opening to create a mental image. The water filled the hole once more, and he waited until it receded. When the water came back, he started counting slowly until it receded again, doing his best to ignore the mind-numbing cold jabbing at him. He repeated this little exercise until he was certain that he knew when the water came, and when it left. He squatted at the edge of the hole, and just when the water came rushing in, Ahiram stepped forward and let it carry him. He clasped the ragged edge of the gap and pushed up. His upper body was now inside the hole and he managed to hold on by the tips of his fingers. He waited for the water to come back, and when it did, he kicked his legs and thrust himself up. When the third surge came, he managed to slide completely inside the narrow passage. He rested precariously against the walls and then inched his way up, not knowing whether this gap would lead him to freedom, or to another dead end.