Free Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) by Michael Joseph Murano

corner behind him, “the red light, that’s the Shandirak , the sign that Sureï’s curse is about to be unleashed. It will level the entire island. Everyone who lives on Libra will die. The children,” he pleaded, “the innocent children…”
    The wave of pain receded. Rahaak, a member of the Inner Circle, was all too familiar with the rhythm of suffering that every act of magic begets. He straightened his posture and breathed deeply to clear his throbbing head.
    “Shut your mouth, Jethro,” he barked. Bending forward, he twisted his arms almost to the breaking point and spoke quickly in an abrasive, foreign tongue. He looked like a withered, bony tree about to snap. Slowly, the dangerous, reddish glow vanished, and the recalcitrant orb steadied its flight. It rose into the air to join the other eleven orbs already circling the priest, each along its own orbit.
    “There,” said the man of the Temple, breathless. He relaxed his stance, “There is nothing to worry about.” He wiped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve hem of his priestly garment and eyed the old man angrily. “I know what I am doing, warden of the office of the Librarian.” Jethro did not reply.
    “And the next time you dare call the Light of Desolation by its Arayatian name, I will drag your miserable self into the Arayat and let the Nephral take you.” Jethro recoiled and began crying like a child. Ignoring the whimpering man, Rahaak gazed at the medallion hanging above the empty Seat of the Librarian. He grinned with anticipation.
    “There is enough power in these twelve orbs to break any of Sureï’s curses. Jethro, you shall witness my greatest victory: I will free the medallion, sit on the Seat, and the Library shall yield its secrets to me.”
    Furtively, Jethro glanced at a leather-bound book gently floating a few feet below the high, glittering ceiling of the Library. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry he thought Sureï’s curse had been unleashed and had turned his tongue into a pile of ashes and dust.
    “My tongue, my tongue…” he stammered. “The curse, it’s… it’s upon us,” and having realized what he had said, he nearly died of fright. His legs gave out, and he fell on his face, his jaw clattering so quickly a woodpecker would have been jealous.
    “What are we doing?” he muttered, “No one has ever dared defy Sureï the Sorcerer before. Fool!” he yelled, unable to contain himself. “This is sheer madness. I command you to stop.”
    Ignoring the warden, Rahaak focused on the twelve orbs circling around him.
    “Twelve orbs, Jethro,” he said with glee. “No other priest of Baal, not even the great Sureï has done this.” He glanced back at the warden curled behind a twisted column of the strange building, and laughed a wiry, maniacal laughter.
    “Tonight, the medallion is mine,” he roared. Not waiting any longer, he summoned Baal’s power. Immediately, the twelve orbs formed a line from the priest to the medallion.
    Jethro whimpered, covered his ears and shut his eyes.
    The wave of pain came back with a vengeance. This time, Rahaak thought his veins had been filled with razor sharp nails. Still, his training prevailed, and slowly, carefully, he snapped open the cover of a small, silvery tube hanging by a thick chain around his neck. Two small blue spheres shot up and began circling the aligned orbs. Each time they passed by him, the priest shut his eyes and held his breath, for the stench of the concentrators was unbearable. Gradually, the fast moving objects drew closer to the orbs until their orbit brought them mere inches from the orb farthest from Rahaak.
    “A little closer,” croaked Rahaak.
    Jethro wished the ground would open and swallow him, but he knew the Library was indestructible. No, there would be no hole to swallow him up. He would have to see this madness through.
    “Steady now,” said Rahaak, “steady…”
    The concentrators were about to graze the farthest orb. Jethro