The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Auroch was bigger than a normal big man. His father had been a giant. It made him half-Nephilim, with broad shoulders and the erect bearing of a lion. Several weeks ago, he had still been a pirate of Shamgar. But Auroch had thrown in his lot with Lod and other pirates, and challenged Gog’s power in Shamgar. He had lost. So Auroch had fled Shamgar in a small boat, with Irad the Arkite. He had brought Irad to Gandvik Rock.

  Auroch leaned his thick arms on the table. There was an aura of sudden, brutal violence about him. He clenched his sword hand into a fist, cracking knuckles. “If you’ve an accusation to make, fat man, say it to my face.”

  Nar Naccara raised plucked eyebrows. “A shout, no more than a shout, and League mariners will break down that door and skewer you with pikes.”

  Auroch sneered. “Dogs to pull down a lion, aye, I understand. But before you accuse me, Admiral, check your own blubbery lips. See if they have flapped Lord Uriah’s secrets.”

  Zillith spoke in a soothing voice. “Gog and Tarag would delight in your squabble. Neither of you needed to speak. The rulers of Carthalo own many spies. That is enough.”

  “You cannot equate me with the pirate,” Nar Naccara said.

  “I never said—” Zillith began to say.

  “As a master of treachery and deceit,” Auroch boomed, “none are your equal.”

  Nar Naccara’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Please, Admiral, and you, Lord Auroch, let there be peace among us,” Zillith said. “This isn’t a matter of argued fishing rights, or the percentage of taxes per hundred pounds of wax. Tarag races for Eden to change the balance in the world, or bring its destruction. An admiral and a pirate can join hands against that, just as a dog and cat will cease fighting in the presence of a bear.”

  Auroch grunted, and he nodded. There was a fierce gleam in his yellow eyes.

  “Please accept my apology, Nar Naccara,” Auroch said. “I spoke in haste, and in anger.”

  The Admiral’s nostrils flared, and several times, it seemed he would spew words. Finally, he nodded curtly and mumbled something similar.

  “Good,” Zillith said. “Now tell us about the meeting.”

  Nar Naccara blotted his lips, before stuffing the handkerchief back into his sleeve. He opened his mouth, seemed to check himself from glancing at Auroch again, and then finally began to speak.

  “The council members knew about your expedition to Jotunheim. Their information was most explicit. However, they wished most to speak about the murderous losses that Lord Uriah had sustained in the adventure. The gathering of giants and a First Born who can summon sabertooths had little interest for them. Rather, they harped and prodded on why Lord Uriah had lost so many of his fine young warriors on the Kragehul Steppes.”

  “That’s the point,” Zillith said. “We faced giants, and Tarag of the Sabertooths.”

  “Yes,” Nar Naccara said. “But you must understand that these council members do not care about that. They wish to safeguard their investments. They are cautious. And they fear Gog. Yes, that is uppermost in their minds. Gog has finally crushed all opposition in his pirate den of a city. Now they worry about a victorious pirate fleet descending upon them. Now they worry lest Nidhogg comes and smashes their cargo vessels, or that Gog send Nebo raiders to burn the fields in the hinterland.”

  “You hinted that they mocked my brother,” Zillith said.

  “No, no, Lady, not mocked,” Nar Naccara said. “They were not such fools. Too many Elonites serve in our army and in the private houses. But they questioned most sharply, most unjustly. They asked why such losses had occurred. They asked why the Tiras and the Gisgo had been lost.”

  “Preposterous!” Zillith said. “The Nidhogg they fear appeared before us. Shadows frighten them. We faced the real monster.”

  Nar Naccara shrugged. “You must understand, my Lady, the council members fear, above all, giving Gog a reason to attack. Nebo fill the hinterland, primitives eager for plunder. Pildash is Shamgar’s ally. Dishon is fast on the way to becoming so. Therefore, Carthalo would endure the first attacks, perhaps alone. The merchant-princes also fear that Bomilcar, and maybe even Further Tarsh, would enjoy seeing Carthalo ships destroyed. The carrying of trade is very competitive. The merchants of Carthalo suspect everyone.”

  “Madness,” Zillith said.

  “No,” Auroch said. “I smell the influence of Gog in this.”

  “Hmmm,” said Nar Naccara. “Yes, I think the pirate is right.”

  “Did they dare forbid the Patriarch of Elon from recruiting?” Zillith asked.

  “No,” Nar Naccara said, “nothing as bold as that. They spoke of the city defenses. They said they could afford no lessening of them in such a dangerous time. They spoke too of the provocation of sending armed vessels toward Pildash. Maybe Gog would use that as an excuse for war. ‘We need time to ready ourselves,’ they said. ‘Nor can we allow another disaster to occur, and thereby encourage the terrible Gog.’ They argued the First Born will have heard of Nephilim success in Jotunheim, and know about the loss of the Tiras and the Gisgo through Nidhogg. The members argued that a third victory would whet Gog’s greed like a rabid beast. In the end, they said more good men must not die without good reasons.”

  Lord Mikloth banged a fist on the table. “That is an insult! Lord Patriarch,” he said, “we must wipe away this slur. Let us gather the hosts of Elon. We will teach these merchants and farmers what it means to say such things to Elon’s Patriarch.”

  Lord Uriah set aside his mug. “No,” he said quietly.

  “But Lord—”

  “No!” Lord Uriah said. He made as if to reach for the flagon, but let his arm drop onto the table. “The hand of Gog was in their speeches. Either the First Born has duped them, or terrorized them into passivity. They told me I could no longer recruit good Elonites from their army, or out of the estate hosts. The men I have, only those may I take. Some muttered that maybe I should not even be allowed those.”

  “We barely have enough to form a proper retinue for a man of rank,” Zillith said. “This means the victory of Tarag.”

  “Or the destruction of the Tree of Life,” Adah said softly. “Surely it’s folly to believe that Tarag can defeat the guardian Cherub.”

  “Would Tarag attempt such a bold feat if he didn’t have a chance?” Auroch asked. “He is a First Born, and will have deeply considered the odds. There is more here we do not know. You can depend on that. We must consider the possibility that Tarag will succeed.”

  “Who can survive the flaming sword?” Adah asked.

  “I have no answer,” Auroch said. “But these are First Born. They may have planned this for centuries. For every question you can ask they have asked three, and answered them to their satisfaction. Since Tarag attempts the feat, I think he will win. I believe he knows that.”

  “Then we’re doomed,” said Lord Uriah. “Because once he or any of the First Born eats from the Tree of Life, then they will never die. They will be immortals, gods.”

  Nar Naccara paled. “We must pray for the guardian’s victory.”

  Adah said, “There is another danger.”

  The Admiral raised his plucked eyebrows.

  “If Tarag has such great power as Auroch suggests,” Adah said, “the guardian Cherub might unleash the full fury of his flaming sword. He might burn the Tree of Life to the ground. The terrible prophecy of Asvarn will be fulfilled then. He warned that if the Tree of Life is destroyed, a great cataclysm will destroy the world.”

  “The doom of all we know is at hand,” whispered Nar Naccara.

  “The end of everything,” Zillith somberly agreed.

  “Which is why we will not wait,” Lord Uriah said sternly. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face flushed, but there was an iron hardness and determination to him.

  “With so few men, Patriarch?” asked Lord Mikloth. “Surely, we cannot face giants and Gibborim with so few.”

  “On the contrary,” Lord Uriah said.

  “But�
��”

  Lord Uriah raised his hand. “Fifty years ago, a host of Shurites boiled out of the hills and onto the plains of Elon. Our host had departed south to drive a horde of Huri back into their gloomy forests. A handful remained with me to defend Kenan Holding. If we remained at the holding, the Shurites would easily butcher us. Yet, I couldn’t allow the holding to fall. Many sick men, women and children were there. So, I bade the handful of warriors to take down all the banners and hide them, and to find hiding places of their own. Then I opened the main gate. Dressed in a white robe and playing a flute, I sat above the gate and awaited the host. Soon, Shur’s son, Erech, approached. Erech led them that day.

  “I bid the Shurites to enter our holding. It was empty, I told them, free for them to plunder. Cunning Erech was certain I would never say such a thing unless I planned a hideous trap. So he marched back to the hills, fearing that the host of Elon was almost upon him.”

  “That’s a fine warrior’s tale,” Auroch said slowly. “But what does that have to do with us?”

  “If I had not been at Kenan Holding,” Lord Uriah said, “then Erech would have sacked it. Because I was there, I was able to do something. We must march to the Snow Leopard Country of the Arkites. From there, we will search for Eden. Maybe we’re only a few, but at least we’ll be able to do something. That is a thousand times better than sitting here and doing nothing.”

  “Hmmm,” said Nar Naccara, blotting his shiny forehead.

  Lord Mikloth paled considerably. “Everyone loves a courageous man, but recklessly pitting a few warriors against giants and sabertooths is suicide. The guardian Cherub has the power of a bene elohim. Who ever heard a story of a First Born beating a bene elohim in a quarrel? To throw away our lives—”

  “Think of it as this, if it will make you feel better,” Lord Uriah said. “We’re pitching ourselves before a runaway wagon, hoping our combined bodies will stop the wagon before it falls over a cliff with our loved ones. Of course, when the wheels roll over our bodies, we’ll likely die. But that’s better than watching our loved ones fall to their deaths.”

  “Hmmm,” said Nar Naccara again.

  Adah thoughtfully pinched her lower lip. Maybe there was more than one way to recruit warriors. She had the glimmer of an idea. Yes. She would do anything to hurt Nephilim and First Born. Poseidonis had taught her that.

  “We cannot put all our hope in one hold,” Lord Uriah told his sister. “Soon, no matter what happens in Eden, the First Born will march against the nations of men. Elon must be ready for the coming assaults.”

  Zillith nodded, albeit reluctantly.

  “When will we begin our march for Eden?” Auroch asked.

  “In three days,” Lord Uriah said.

  “With only those we already possess?” Lord Mikloth asked.

  “No,” said Nar Naccara.

  All eyes turned to him.

  The Admiral grinned sickly. “I will loan you a company of mariners, the most I can dare. I’ll ship you near Pildash, and set you on those shores. The overland route from Carthalo to Arkite Land is too long.”

  Auroch slapped the table. “I’ve witnessed something new. An admiral willingly sends League mariners to their doom.”

  “You are wrong, as usual” Nar Naccara said, “I will send no one to his doom, but lead them there myself.”

  Adah wondered how fat Nar Naccara would manage that through dense forests and over rocky highlands.

  “This is madness,” Lord Mikloth said, looking from face to face. “The Nebo gather. Unless we’re a mighty host, we’ll be destroyed.”

  Lord Uriah said, “Not with so many brave hearts.”

  “You wished for five thousand or more,” Lord Mikloth protested. “You said that after a core of Elonites was gathered, that surely the lords of Carthalo would add to your host. Instead, they’ve done worse. They refuse us any sort of host at all.”

  “A thousand, or a hundred, we must do what we can,” Lord Uriah said.

  Adah, who well recalled the giants, the sabertooths and the Gibborim from long ago, knew that a hundred warriors were as chaff before them. Maybe even a thousand were chaff. Lord Uriah plucked at straws. The Nebo themselves would swarm and slaughter them. Still, they must try. They must at least attempt to sting the Nephilim, to make them suffer in some small way before they gained immortality.

  “...And I will give the Mother Protectress two biremes to escort her back to Elon,” Nar Naccara was saying.

  Zillith nodded thoughtfully.

  “What of the city lords?” Lord Mikloth asked, “Won’t they try to stop you?” he asked Nar Naccara.

  The Admiral shrugged his thick shoulders, with a sinister smile on his glistening face.

  “Any more questions?” asked Lord Uriah.

  There were many, or so Adah saw in the other faces. However, no one else spoke, so Lord Uriah adjourned the meeting.

  Chapter Six

  Prince Ishmael

  He will be a wild donkey of a man.

  -- Genesis 16:12

  The spies were easy to spot. They stayed in the lobby of the Siga, and followed them whenever they went out into the city. Adah was sure the old woman who soaked her feet in the heated pool was one, too.

  “Who’s the spy, and who’s the assassin?” Auroch asked a day ago. “You must trust me in this: Gog’s assassins are here. Either they’ve been loaned to certain city lords, or they’re here on their own account. I’ll no longer go into the city, unless in the company of mariners. I ask each of you to consider a similar plan.”

  Adah disagreed. She’d seen Zillith off at the wharves, as the Mother Protectress boarded her bireme for Elon. Then Adah had gone to the taverns. After a day of searching, she found her prize, but she kept going to other taverns to confuse the spies. Then she spent several hours in her room, where she composed a song and refined her plan. Lord Uriah would not approve, she was certain. He would not approve for more than one reason. But from whatever angle she considered this, it was a good idea. So she’d informed Gens of her plan and his role in it.

  Adah dabbed on more rouge. Sometimes beguilement worked. It wasn’t her entire plan, no, just enough to gain their attention. Tarag. Giants. Gibborim. Sliths. Sabertooths. Maybe even fiends and Gog-fearing Nebo. And Lord Uriah hoped to pit their few against them. It was insanity.

  “Yes,” she told the image in the polished bronze, “but it is oh, so brave and unyielding.” Just as Joash had been brave and unyielding. She pushed the thought aside lest she wept and spoiled her appearance. She forced a smile, adjusted a lock of her dark hair, picked up her lyre and hurried outside.

  Gens waited and he whistled. “You’re beautiful.”

  She touched his cheek. He wore rough garments, a sword and some daggers. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Gens gave a faint nod.

  They left the Siga, picking up their usual contingent of spies: three long haired ruffians, with knives strapped to their leather-wrapped forearms. Behind the ruffians, Adah picked out a small fat man with pink cheeks. The small fat man was discreet, but she’d played hide and seek with the Gibborim in the swamps of Poseidonis. She knew the fervent glance, the secret smile and the sly step. The man knocked a pathetic beggar-girl out of his way. He was cruel. He would be lethal. He also fondled a leather purse, and kept a surreptitious watch on the ruffians.

  Adah was sure he was an assassin. For assassins were like that: rabbit-like until they killed you by nefarious means.

  After two turns, Gens and she were on the broad merchant street. It bustled with people, and exploded with smells, sounds and commotion. Mules carts loaded with melons creaked by. A chariot with a city messenger on it tried to clatter past. Children screamed with glee.

  Adah felt fingers pluck at her garments.

  Gens rapped the thief’s knuckles.

  One of the trailing long haired ruffians laughed, as the thief put his hand into his mouth and hurried away.

  They passed somber, yellow-robed game pl
ayers, with their expensive marble boards and carefully carved pieces. Jugglers, clowns and acrobats abounded in the crowds, as did pickpockets who preyed on the unwary. Mercenaries, sailors, orators, harlots, farmers, merchants, fishmongers, slaves, sages, priests, drudges, draymen, one and all used the broad avenue.

  “How can the city lords possibly begrudge us a few warriors?” Gens asked.

  “The city teems with people,” Adah said. “Obviously, Gog has done his work. The rot has set in.”

  “I’ve always hated cities,” Gens grumbled. “There’s no room to race a chariot.”

  “Just as Gog strikes at the rulers first, so I’ll do likewise.”

  “The crowds press against your soul,” Gens muttered. “They choke my spirit.”

  “I’ll dare the spies to stop me,” Adah said.

  Gens blinked, as if hearing her words for the first time. He tugged his mustache. “They won’t dare stop you.” He touched his sword hilt.

  “You would try to stop all four of them?” she asked.

  “Four city filth,” Gens said.

  “You and Herrek are always so brave,” she said.

  “I’m better than this rabble, no doubt there,” Gens said. “But few from Elon were like Herrek.”

  “More from Elon are like him than you realize,” she said.

  Gens’s chest expanded. “You’re gracious, Singer, but let us deal in truths.”

  They turned onto a smaller street, turned again, and then again. The stone buildings here bulked shoulder to shoulder, and Adah and Gens walked in deep shadows. The smells were stronger and garbage littered the street. Cats, dogs and filthy urchins prowled everywhere. A salty tang blew away some of the stench when they left the squalid tenements. The docks were near, and beside the docks were many rough taverns. Sailors, dockworkers, and merchants abounded, and a lower class of whore.

  “You don’t belong here,” Gens said.