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

had sufficient knowledge of Baal’s magic to know that orbs were channels of power requiring energy to function: energy provided by the concentrators through the intermediary of the priest. It was the duty of the priest to release the lethal power locked within a concentrator and make it available to an orb by flowing it through his body. The pain he felt was excruciating, compounded by the number of orbs he was willing to use. The energy transfer must happen quickly, before the priest exhausts himself, loses control, and dies in sheer agony. Many did die. Worse still, if during this transfer, the priest allows a concentrator to touch an orb, reality would shatter and Arayatian creatures would materialize.
    By now, Jethro realized that his strategy had turned Rahaak into an ambitious fool, a madman, willing to stand twelve revolving orbs in a straight line—the most potent formation for these objects—and let them be fed by not one, but two, concentrators.
    “ I am the fool,” muttered Jethro, “an utter fool. What fit of madness led me to believe I could be the master of the Libre Aharof? What have I done? What have I done?” Jethro glanced at Rahaak and bit his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.
    Rahaak willed for Sureï’s formidable curse to be broken. Feverishly, Jethro entreated Baal to let him live through the night.
    “Now,” roared the priest.
    The two concentrators stopped their flight in front of the farthest orb and sparked a thin, blue arc of intense heat that sizzled and crackled between them. Quickly, the arc broke into a multitude of tendrils resembling a miniature thunderstorm. One of the otherworldly stems licked the surface of the orb. The priest stammered as if hit in the stomach. He bent forward, cried out in a loud voice, and pushed against an invisible barrier.
    Like an unstoppable wave, the blue light covered the surface of the orb and moved toward Rahaak in a straight line, turning the twelve orbs into an eerie, iridescent chain. When the strange light engulfed the orb closest to Rahaak, the priest flung his head back and screamed words that curdled Jethro’s blood and made him wish he had never been born.
    The concentrators shattered and the orb in front of the priest burst into a bubble of magma, nearly scalding him. The hot liquid seeped along the blue ray of light without harming it and swallowed the second orb, turning it into magma; it continued until it reached the farthest sphere. Slowly, the spheres of magma began to shrink while the eerie blue and red magma ray thickened until the spheres disappeared.
    Rahaak, triumphant, let out a shout of joy. He had summoned the Okod—Baal’s Staff of Power—a feat no other priest of the Inner Circle would have attempted alone. Filled with pride, Rahaak gazed upon the Okod like a mother over her newborn child. “Do you see this, Jethro,” he cooed. “Now that I have the Okod, I am ready to launch a frontal attack on Sureï’s curse.”
    Jethro watched with a sick fascination as Rahaak twisted his hands, weaving the red and blue rays into one thick strand. The priest’s veins bulged under the strain, and Jethro thought he was about to explode. But with a fluid motion, he shaped the strand into a foot-wide, hollow circle, fused the two ends together and shrunk the circle into a blue and red, flat ornament. Arching his back and greeting his teeth, Rahaak moaned as he pushed the eerie, circular object forward.
    The strange, object reached the medallion, their sizes matching perfectly. Without stopping, it sunk beneath the dark surface. The two men held their breath. The Okod reemerged a few seconds later, turning the ordinarily dull object into a dazzling display of brilliant light.
    “Is it done?” asked Jethro.
    Rahaak motioned for him to remain silent. “If the colors dissolve, the curse will be broken.”
    “Is it working?” asked Jethro, suddenly hopeful.
    “I think… no. The medallion, it’s—”
    “What? What?” asked