The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) by Michael Joseph Murano

Author:Michael Joseph Murano [Murano, Michael Joseph]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Candle Bright Books
Published: 2016-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

“In matters of politics, a ruler should be continuously on the lookout for a hungry soul determined to reach its end and powered by an iron will. If he ignores such a one, he will in time become a mighty force that topples the imprudent ruler like the unassuming cloud that grows into a storm and topples haughty and powerful trees.”

–Diplomatic Notes of Uziguzi, First Adviser to Her Majesty, Aylul Meir Pen, Empress of the Empyreans.

The following morning, Ahiram’s team was assigned to a ship that must have docked late the previous afternoon, because Ahiram did not recall seeing it when he left the port. The day went by as usual. They finished unloading the goods and were about to leave when a man called to them from the ship.

Speaking with a foreign accent, he called out, “Porters, I need porters immediately. Porters, Porters!

Ahiram and Shamal, another worker, were closest. They turned around and climbed back on board.

“Yes, sir,” Shamal said. “How can we help you?”

“Follow me,” the man replied, ostensibly a foreigner. By the golden silk trousers, the cream cotton sweater and the flowing, light coat, Ahiram surmised the stranger to be Bar-Tanickian or possibly from Oronoque. He looks familiar, thought Ahiram. I’m certain I’ve seen him before, but where? The Royal Court of Tanniin, perhaps?

They entered a large cabin, where an older man welcomed them with effusive affability. He was dressed in similar attire but wore a large red turban carrying a diamond-shaped emerald pinned over his forehead. He pointed at a large pine crate that stood in a corner. “We need help to unload it,” he said in a soft and melodious voice. The plain box stood nine feet long and five deep and required at least four men to move it.

“Well, sir,” Shamal said, scratching his balding head as he did before every unloading, “this is a big crate. We’ll go get some help.”

“This … crate,” the turbaned man continued, “is, how shall I say, deceiving? Yes, that’s the word. I would appreciate it if you would try to lift it together. This would be very helpful for our purpose, and we are generous.” He pointed toward his purse.

Shamal looked at Ahiram as though asking, What do you think?

Ahiram shrugged his shoulders. What do we have to lose?

His companion dropped the cordage he was carrying and was about to fasten the box when the older man stopped him.

“Would you mind trying to carry it without ropes?”

Shamal looked at him in disbelief. Had the older man told him to jump overboard with the crate tied to his neck, he would not have been more surprised. “But sir, this is a crate. We can’t lift it without the ropes.”

“Please try,” the old man insisted, pointing once more to his purse.

Shamal looked at Ahiram, and without any further ado, they positioned themselves on each side of the large box and grabbed it, holding as best as they could to its smooth sides. They held their breath and with one movement tried to lift the box.

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