“You told me that you were not a beast.”
“Yes, High One, I’m not.”
The giant squinted. “Are you attempting to make a fool out of me?”
“No, High One.”
The white-haired men already marched onto the path under the pines. Behind them, walked giants. A sabertooth snarled from somewhere up ahead.
“Why are you carrying a burden?” Mimir asked.
“I’m a groom, High One. I don’t want to become unaccustomed to doing my chores.”
Mimir studied him. “If you carry a burden, you proclaim yourself to be a beast.”
“You carry your axe, High One.”
“An axe is not camp supplies.”
“If a predator attacks, my bedding will act as a shield, High One.”
“Make your choice quickly, manling.”
“Yes, High One.” Joash waited, as his stomach began to twist. He knew he played a dangerous game.
“Beware,” said Mimir, “for if you proclaim by your actions to be a beast, then you’ll be treated accordingly.”
Joash said nothing. He wished to harden himself with work, and he wished to show the Gorts that just because they carried burdens, didn’t make them beasts.
“You have chosen,” Mimir said ominously. “Therefore, you are no longer permitted to speak. Nod your head if you understand.”
Joash willed himself to speak. It took two tries before he said, “I understand.”
Mimir reached down and twisted Joash’s ear, until he cried out. “You are a beast of burden,” Mimir warned, “therefore, you will not speak.”
“No,” Joash whispered, trying to ignore his throbbing ear. “I refuse to accept your belief that men are beasts. The reason I’ll not speak is because you’ll punish me if I do.”
“You’re begging me for another beating.”
As calmly as he could, even with a tremor in his knees, Joash stared up at Mimir. He swallowed hard, as the giant’s hand sped toward him. Then, it hit. Joash grunted, and flew against the pine needles. He bit his tongue instead of groaning, and stayed where he lay, not attempting to rise. Because one hand lay under his chest, he grabbed a fistful of needles, squeezing them because the need to do something filled him.
“Ah, taming the wild one, Mimir?” asked a passing giant. Joash recognized the voice. It was Hrungir.
“The manling is stubborn,” Mimir said. “But that will change.”
“Oh, of that I’m certain,” said Hrungir. He continued on his way.
Soon, Mimir and Joash were alone again.
“Come now, manling. Quit this foolishness. It will only bring you pain.”
Joash pushed up, untangled himself from the straps and began to straighten his bedding.
“Leave it,” Mimir said.
“What will I sleep with then?”
“Perhaps for your disobedience, you will sleep on the dirt.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“High One,” Mimir said. “You must continue to call me High One.”
Joash looked up. His shoulder still hurt from where Mimir had hit him. As he’d lain on the pine needles, he’d been rehearsing the words.
“I’ve been considered your customs. I don’t approve of them, nor am I any longer cowed enough to use them. You’re not High Ones. You’re Nephilim. If you wish, I’ll address you as Nephilim Mimir or Nephilim. However, I’ll no longer call you High One.”
“What game is this?”
“No game, Nephilim. I simply refuse to accept your ways as my ways.”
“You will be beaten.”
Joash steeled himself, and despite his resolve, he took a step back. “You have more strength than me, that’s true.”
“You might be beaten to death,” Mimir warned.
Elohim watches me. Joash cleared his throat. “I might. But then you lose my abilities.”
Mimir nodded slowly. “I understand. You work under an illusion. You think, for some reason, that you’re important to us.”
“You had a reason for taking me from the Gibborim. My only real ability in your eyes is that I’m a Seraph, a nullifier of magic. That must be your reason. Whether or not I call you High One, is therefore, unimportant.”
“You’re wrong.”
“What I meant, is that you want me to call you High One, so I’ll become accustomed to obeying you. But I’m your enemy. I do not plan to help you. Therefore, I will not become accustomed to obeying you.”
“I might as well kill you then.”
“Yes,” Joash said, feeling lightheaded. “You might as well, but you won’t.”
Mimir’s bushy eyebrows shot up.
“I recalled last night,” said Joash, “that Lersi said she’d captured me because Tarag had ordered it. Therefore, I’m of the opinion that you’ll have to ask your master before you’re allowed to kill me.”
Mimir stepped away, squatted so his leathers creaked and picked up a pine needle. “You’re different today. You’re working hard to appear calm. Oh, you’re frightened, but you have more confidence.”
“You are Mimir the Wise. I decided that trying to fool you would be a waste of time. Therefore, honesty will be my way.”
“And what will you honestly tell me?”
“What I already have.”
“Why won’t Tarag slay you?”
“I don’t think this band works like that. Each of you plots, each of you schemes. You each think yourselves to be greatly superior to a mere man.”
“We not only think it, we are.”
“Maybe superficially,” Joash said.
“How can you think otherwise?”
“You war against Elohim. Only fools dare that.”
“You’ve become uncommonly brave, manling. It’ll bring about your death.”
Joash shrugged. “All men die.”
“Not if they eat from the Tree of Life,” Mimir said.
Joash lips felt numb as he stretched them in a ghastly smile. “First, they must eat the fruit. No mortal has ever been able to do that.”
Mimir scratched his cheek with the pine needle. “You wish to thwart us, yes?”
“You know I do.”
“You’re a Seraph. You’re one of the Overlord’s chosen ones.”
Joash nodded.
“You begin to remind me of Lod. He was ever as arrogant as you are today.”
“Thank you.”
Mimir grinned, but there was nothing friendly about it. “You’ve reached the stubborn side of Seraph-hood. You’ve become drunk upon what you think as your Elohim-given duty. That’s unfortunate. It might no longer be possible for us to use you.”
Joash tried to hide his fear. He hadn’t thought of that. Slowly, he calmed himself. Mimir tried to manipulate him through fear.
“You cannot outfox us,” Mimir said.
“Nor am I trying to.”
“It appears not.” Mimir crumpled the pine needle. “You are mistaken if you think you can survive in our band if you refuse to say High One, or continue to say Elohim.”
“Nephilim Mimir,” Joash said gravely. “You keep thinking I’m a man, a young man. But I’m not. I’m Elohim’s Seraph. You can frighten me, you can overpower me, you may even be able to kill me, but you cannot sway me to your ways.”
“You may be surprised, manling.”
“You, in turn, may be in for surprises, giant.”
Mimir ruefully shook his head. “I admire your heroics. Believe me I do. But, it will all be for naught. If I cannot tame you, then Tarag will take over. He will either kill you, or give you to the Gibborim. Think well, therefore, on your next words.”
“I already have, Nephilim Mimir. You desire something concrete from me. Of what exactly I’m not yet certain. I, too, however, wish for something from you. Maybe we can work out a trade.”
Mimir laughed.
Joash shrugged and bent down to pick up his bedding.
Mimir reached out, and held the bedding in place. He no longer laughed o
r smiled. “The Gibborim can break you. As you’ve seen, I don’t like them. I’m not willing to give you to them so they can gain your ability. It would be wise for me to slay you now.”
Joash stepped away from Mimir, leveling his walking stick, switching it to use the knobby end as a mace. “I’ve no wish to die. But if you’re determined to slay me, then let’s fight.”
Mimir snorted, rising to his full height. “I rejoiced when I heard Lod had been slain. Now, I see he has returned. You’re a madman.”
“No, I’m a Seraph.”
Mimir shook his head. “I wonder what joy the Overlord gains in raising such fools as you.” The giant tugged his beard, and said at last, “You must act submissively in camp and around other Nephilim. Or, at least obey my commands and keep silent. Can you do that?”
“Maybe,” Joash said.
The giant sighed. “What would you want in return?”
“I want to speak with you as equals. I wish to learn Tarag’s goals, and your own as well.”
Mimir laughed. “You already know our goals.
“Maybe,” Joash said.
“Hm. You wish to probe our weaknesses, is that it?”
“Yes,” Joash said. “But why should you fear that? I’m in your clutches, and I’m just a man.”
“Ah,” Mimir said. “We both know you’re a Seraph.”
Joash felt lightheaded again, because he knew the first step of his plan was going to work.
“I agree to the trade,” Mimir said. “Here is the condition. We’ll soon search for something. If you’re the first to find what we search for, then you must bring it to me. Agreed?”
“What will we be searching for?”
“No,” Mimir said, “I not ready to tell you. Let me assure you, on my word of valor, that there is much you can learn from me that will be of use to you—if you should ever free yourself.”
Joash knew that giants held valor as the supreme virtue. The word of valor was like a man’s word of honor.
“Why are you willing to make this trade?” Joash asked.
Mimir smiled slyly. “I’m a Nephilim. Since we’re being honest, my honest reason is that I’m cleverer than you are, and have vastly more experience in these sorts of trades. I have more to gain than you do. Your folly is in thinking otherwise.”
“Then I may carry my bedding?”
Mimir shrugged.
Joash worked the bedding onto his back.
“We’ll march fast in order to catch up with the others,” Mimir said. “Remember, you must act submissively when we are in the company of the others.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a man of my word.”
“Yes,” Mimir whispered, so softly that Joash didn’t hear. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
Chapter Five
Ultimatum
Then Caleb silenced the people before Moses and said, “We should go up and take possession of the land, for we can certainly do it.”
But the men who had gone up with him said, “We can’t attack those people; they are stronger than we are.”
-- Numbers 13:30, 31
Adah sat before a mirror in her room, one she shared with Amery and Zillith. Fortunately, they had gone to market to buy fresh potatoes. It was a small room, with three beds shoved together, a clothes stand, water basin and a presently open window. Market sounds drifted through, a loud-voiced woman’s shrill cry about her sweet onions.
The mirror was propped against a tiny table. It wasn’t a true mirror as they made in Poseidonis, but a highly polished piece of bronze. It worked, that was the point.
Adah applied rouge to her lips. She had already combed her hair, adding pins to a piled style. She pressed her lips together, studying the polished sheet of bronze, the makeshift mirror.
It would have been best if they could have sailed to a port and traveled inland to Elon. There, Lord Uriah could have snapped his fingers and gained the needed warriors. Sailing time, however, had dictated otherwise. Lord Uriah and Zillith were certain they’d only need two weeks to recruit a band in Carthalo. Adah was dubious. First, one needed criers. Then one needed willing warriors searching for a captain to serve. In just two weeks, they were supposed to build a band of warriors hardy enough to march for Eden. The fabled Garden was somewhere near Arkite Land, or near the Snow Leopard Tribe there. In a song or story, the swift recruitment would work, but in the real world….
The recruitment so far had not proven out Lord Uriah’s faith. During these last few days, Adah had come to understand better Lord Uriah’s plan. The Patriarch hoped to hire Elonite nobles and their retinues, warriors presently under hire to Carthalo or under hire to the city’s rich. Lord Uriah had spoken with several highly ranked Elonites, and only one had joined him. The rest said they must honor their mercenary contracts or forfeit their dignity.
Adah rubbed her cheek, checked the result and began to wriggle into a yellow skirt. She had chosen a red silk blouse from Ir and supple black boots, which reached to the hemline near her knees. Except for the few Kushite warriors from the Far South, she was the darkest-skinned person in Carthalo. That had created an attraction. During the past week, several bravos had requested her to accompany them to a formal dance. Two estate families and one of the merchant-princes had asked if she would sing at their parties.
She’d refused all invitations. Rest from that awful ordeal on the sea, baths in a privately heated pool and the composition of a special song, had taken all her time. Otherwise she was with Lord Uriah as he tried to recruit Elonite nobles or at times, lone Elonite warriors.
Adah adjusted her blouse. Lord Uriah had taken a hefty loan from a merchant-prince. It had paid for their rooms, these clothes and the bounty Lord Uriah had shown each Elonite. It was “the war chest,” as Lord Uriah liked calling it.
Adah picked up her lyre and strummed as she practiced singing a mournful song about trolocks awakening in the crypt. She worked through the battle with Tarag, when the door banged open. Amery stood there, breathlessly.
“Lord Uriah is back. He wants everyone in his room.”
“Immediately?” asked Adah.
Amery rushed away without answering. Maybe she needed to tell Auroch and Gens.
Adah strummed her lyre for luck. The City Council had requested Lord Uriah’s presence this morning. Nar Naccara had accompanied him, and had forewarned them to expect bad news.
Adah wrapped soft leather around the lyre and carefully set it on the table. She hesitated and then went to her bed. She reached under the pillow. She removed the slender dagger and slid it into the hidden sheathe in her left boot. Now, she was triply ready. There was a throwing knife strapped to each cloth-covered wrist. Nar Naccara had warned them about Gog-paid assassins. Adah locked the door and soon knocked on Lord Uriah’s richly paneled wood.
“Enter.”
His room was larger, and he didn’t share it with anyone. It was gloomy and stuffy as she walked in. Unsurprisingly, it smelled like a brewery.
Lord Uriah regarded a painting by Serbis of Iddo. The Siga proprietor had placed the painting in the room at Lord Uriah’s request. A small collection hung in the Siga’s main gallery. The painting showed a red-haired giant battling a kingly charioteer.
“What happened at the meeting?” Adah asked.
Lord Uriah sipped ale, as he studied the charioteer.
Adah sat at the massive table. There was bread, almonds, ale and a scroll. Huge Auroch entered. He wore chainmail, a heavy sword and a frown. City guards paced him whenever he left the inn.
“Well,” Auroch asked, “what’s the news?”
Lord Uriah drained his mug, and continued to study the painting.
Gens, Zillith and Amery entered in the company of a tall Elonite named Lord Mikloth.
Lord Mikloth had a beak of a nose, so he resembled a thin hawk. His sunken cheeks added to the image. He was of the Clan of Nahath, of the Tribe of Onam. He’d joined them, adding his band of hard-bitten warriors. The reason he had proven willing
was that Lord Mikloth had been on a hunting expedition to capture orns. Orns inhabited the interior mountain ranges. They were predatory birds, twice to three times the bulk of an ostrich, and they were considerably more dangerous. Lord Mikloth had a contract for twenty adult birds. Merchants wished to ship the orns to Iddo for the city entertainment there. Unfortunately, when Lord Mikloth had marched into the interior, he’d stumbled into a Nebo ambush. Many of his Elonites had died under a hail of spears and thudding stone axes. After driving off the forest warriors, hidden drums had called more of the primitives. Lord Mikloth and his few surviving men had beaten a hasty retreat to the coast.
A few words with Mikloth’s warriors throughout the days had convinced Adah that the Elonite noble was more interested in capturing orns and gaining revenge than in stopping giants. Adah had also learned that Mikloth hadn’t yet gotten around to telling his men of the possibility of meeting giants. Still, the noble gave his Patriarch the proper respect, and he treated the Mother Protectress with a reverence bordering on awe.
“We are all here, Lord Uriah,” Zillith said, closing the door.
Lord Uriah approached the table. He wore a fine, white cloak and emeralds around his neck. His face was stately and patriarchal.
“Ill news,” he said.
Auroch scowled.
Lord Uriah set the mug on the table. His eyes were red-rimmed from drink. “The fools,” he said, pouring ale.
“Enough with your laconic phrases,” Zillith said.
“Ah, they were indeed fools,” said Admiral Nar Naccara, who had opened the door. He shut it behind him, threw the bolt and waddled to a chair. His gross weight made it difficult for him to walk. He wore the same rich garments that he had aboard ship, and he used a stout walking stick. When he sat on the last chair, it groaned. He took a handkerchief and mopped his glistening forehead. “They came near to sullying the name of Elon.”
“Is there any chance someone will tell us what the council said?” Zillith asked.
Nar Naccara stuffed the handkerchief into his sleeve. His fat-enfolded eyes slid wanly toward the big supposedly ex-pirate of Shamgar, Auroch. “The rulers of Carthalo are wise, my Lady. They employ many spies, and grease a hundred palms with cool silver. Yet even I who know their ways was surprised at the depth of their knowledge concerning your harrowing ordeals. It smacked of treachery, my Lady.” Again, Nar Naccara gave a darting glance at Auroch.
The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) Page 5
