The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  His hair was dirty, twig-ridden and longer than before. His dirt-stained face bristled with a beard and mustache, and a large boil on his cheek gave him constant grief. His skin hung loosely. Too little food and lack of sleep had made his eyes bloodshot. He was going to die. He knew it, he couldn’t change it and he was almost on the verge of accepting it.

  “Hurry,” the trolock growled.

  The only thing new about Herrek, was the grass thong that bound his wrists and the rope tied snugly around his neck.

  This trolock was different from those in the crypt. Those had been sluggish, dim-witted. This one moved like a man and was swift of thought.

  “You’ve the stare of a beast of the field. What is wrong with you?”

  A croak was all Herrek could manage.

  The trolock studied the sun. “We’ve only been marching two hours. We will not rest for another three. Come.”

  Herrek worked his mouth. Another croak came and then the word, “Wait.”

  The trolock considered. “Why should I wait?”

  “M-My feet,” Herrek whispered.

  “Yes?”

  Herrek leaned on a rock and showed the trolock his right sole. It was cut and bloody.

  The trolock bent minutely forward. “Where are your sandals?”

  “They’ve worn away.”

  “Ah,” the trolock said in his strange stony way. “Yes, I remember. Things wear away.”

  “I need new ones.”

  From its eight-foot height, the trolock stared down at him. Who knew what thoughts tumbled in that granite head? At last, the trolock nodded. “Yes, you are fortunate.” The trolock lifted a huge stone, put Herrek’s leash-end under it and set the stone in place. He turned the way they’d come, and he strode away.

  Herrek collapsed and was almost instantly asleep. His dreams were torture.

  A voice said, “You are Herrek, son of Teman, son of Amalek, son of Elon, son of Lord Uriah. You are a warrior of Elon. You are a charioteer of Elon. To you belongs glory and feats of arms. To you belongs the right to carve your name gloriously into history. You must fight on, and endure the unendurable. Never give up. Only thus will you prove your worth.”

  Herrek moaned. He was a wreck, a wretch and a plaything for an abomination of spirit and stone. He was flesh, blood and beaten will. What more must he endure before the final rest?

  Glory!

  No, give me rest and eternal peace.

  Fight on!

  No, let me give up and die.

  Endure until the end!

  No, let me accept my unhappy fate.

  The trolock shook him awake as he had countless times before. Sweat drenched Herrek. He felt weak and utterly tired.

  “Eat,” the trolock said, as he dropped a bag and untied his wrists.

  Herrek waited for his fingers to come to life, and then he tore into the bag. He caressed carrots, cabbage, dried venison. He shoved the cabbage into his mouth. Next, he devoured the meat. It was salty. He craved water. The trolock gave him a water-skin. Herrek drained it. After he wiped his mouth, he considered the carrots. No, he was full. He’d save them. The idea seemed startling.

  A new thought came. Herrek studied the bag. It was made out of woven fibers. His bloodshot eyes widened. Someone had salted and dried the venison. Herrek looked at the waiting trolock. The trolock handed him a pair of sandals.

  Gingerly, Herrek accepted them. They were thick-soled, the straps made out of deerskin. He saw fresh blood-spots on the soles. He groaned with guilt.

  “What troubles you now?”

  “You...” Herrek couldn’t face the obsidian eyes. “You slew someone for these?”

  “You were in need.”

  Herrek wanted to hurl the sandals away. Oh, but how wonderful his stomach felt. With it, and the sandals, he might survive a little longer.

  “Put on the sandals,” the trolock said.

  Herrek obeyed.

  “I’ve pondered your words.”

  Herrek said nothing. At times, the trolock liked to talk about the strangest things. It was as if the trolock tried to remember what it had been like to be a man. The greatest aspect about the talks was that they weren’t walking during them.

  “Do you still adhere to the belief that glory is all?”

  “I do,” Herrek said, even though he didn’t know if he did any more.

  “No,” the trolock said, “duty is first. I do not track the desecrator in order to win fleeting fame, but to give my Master what he would enjoy.”

  “You win glory for your Master then.”

  The trolock considered this. “What glory do you gain by marching with me?”

  Herrek’s mind went blank.

  “You march out of duty,” the trolock said.

  “What duty?” Herrek croaked.

  “This I don’t know. But I would like to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve come to believe that you truly wish for the same event I do.”

  “That’s true,” Herrek said.

  “Why do you wish this?”

  Herrek’s old reason was now ashes in his mouth. Once, he had been enraged at Tarag’s easy handling of him. Why didn’t he wish to destroy the trolock then? He did, but only to end his agony, not out of outrage.

  “Tell me, human. Why do you wish to defeat the desecrator?”

  Was the reason to avenge the deaths of so many of his friends? Or was the reason to win everlasting fame? Herrek sneered at himself. He was not the noble he’d once been.

  “You must have a reason,” the trolock said.

  Herrek nodded.

  “Tell me the reason, and I’ll let you sleep another hour.”

  Herrek looked upon the trolock in wonder. “Why do you desire my answer so?”

  “Once, I was a man like you, a leader of warriors. I was born in the North, and the Nameless One was my ally. We were taught glory above all else. Then Draugr Trolock-Maker came. He taught us about duty to the Masters. One day, he called me to do my duty. That day, I become who I am now. I am a soldier in my Master’s army. Glory is fool’s gold. Duty is all. By trickery, by stealth, by boldness, by patience, the ways matter not as long as the end is achieved. Glory demands the way be pure, untarnished and bold. I will kill the desecrator any way I can. What of you?”

  Herrek licked cracked lips.

  The trolock leaned forward.

  “I wish to save my people from destruction,” Herrek whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Herrek frowned, looking at his sandals. A man had died so he could wear these. Would he have slain the man for his sandals?

  “No,” he said aloud.

  The trolock grunted angrily.

  Startled, Herrek looked up.

  “We will continue to track.” The trolock lashed Herrek’s wrists and tugged the leash. Herrek stumbled, but he stayed upright. If it were all duty, he thought before returning to the apathy of the trail, he would have killed the man in order to stay alive. If some of the reason for wishing to slay Tarag was still Elonite glory, the path of the charioteer-noble, he could not have slain an innocent for sandals.

  Herrek smiled grimly, thinking that some of him remained as shreds of his soul.

  ***

  They marched on a road made with cyclopean blocks of gray stones. The trolock made a heavy clacking sound as he marched on those sunken blocks. He muttered at times as if he saw things.

  “This is an ancient road,” the trolock finally rumbled.

  Herrek reeled. The trolock had not stopped for a long time. Fortunately, the creature had allowed him to drink at a stream and fill the water-skin with icy liquid. The strap dug at his shoulder, and the sloshing sound drove him mad with thirst.

  “Do you feel the ghosts?” the trolock asked.

  “Yes,” Herrek croaked, hoping his lie would cause the trolock to pause.

  “I knew you would. You are different from the primitives. You are made of sterner stuff.”


  Herrek reeled, making certain not to trip and fall.

  “There is iron in your spirit,” the trolock rumbled softly. “Thus, you must feel the ancient power.”

  “It awes me,” Herrek lied. “I wish I had time to soak it up.”

  The trolock stopped. “What most do the ghosts tell you?”

  Herrek could only gape.

  “Sit,” the trolock said.

  Herrek crashed down. He wasn’t sure that he could rise again. The trolock untied his thongs and allowed him to drink the water and eat the carrots.

  “The ghosts march on,” the trolock said.

  “Yes,” Herrek whispered, wondering if the trolock was insane.

  “Sleep. Talk with the ghosts.”

  Herrek closed his eyes. He slept. To his dismay, he saw ghosts. He saw thousands of defeated warriors shackled neck to neck. They marched on naked feet, their eyes haunted, their backs scarred by whips. They marched to the capital of the bene elohim. It was a place called Babel the Mighty. Grotesque First Born cracked the whips. They made Tarag seem human. Herrek wanted to free these wretched warriors. They would die on bloodstained altars, their souls powering cruel spells. Then Herrek saw a different sight. He saw tall, gleaming warriors. Shining Ones. They marched in strength. With them drove bright-armored charioteers. Behind the charioteers, followed aurochs pulling catapults, battering rams and wood for siege towers.

  “Babel the Mighty will fall!” the throng sang. “Its doom is at hand!”

  Herrek cheered the warriors, cheered the glorious Shining Ones. “Yes,” he heard himself saying. “The terrible abode of the bene elohim will be wiped from the face of the Earth.”

  A warrior paused. The warrior was tall and fair-haired. He stood in his chariot. The horses were magnificent.

  “Babel the Mighty is fallen,” the warrior said.

  “That is good,” Herrek said. In his dream, he stood in rags beside the grim road of cyclopean gray stones.

  “Now there is nothing left but the Valley of Dry Bones.”

  “I salute you,” Herrek said.

  “In the valley is the young man. You will help him, yes?”

  “Yes!” Herrek cried. “I will do my part.”

  The bright-armored warrior nodded. He turned back into the armored throng, and marched to do battle with the bene elohim of yore.

  Herrek awoke with a start. He felt old. He looked around. The trolock stood nearby, gazing down the gray stone road. What had his dream meant? Herrek groaned as he sat up.

  The trolock turned in surprise. “You are awake?”

  Herrek nodded.

  “What—”

  “Babel the Mighty has fallen,” Herrek said.

  “Alas, but I think you are right.”

  “It was razed to the ground.”

  “The ghosts told you this?” the trolock asked.

  “Yes.”

  The trolock nodded somberly.

  “A warrior of the Shining Ones told me this,” Herrek added.

  “Ah...”

  “I will try to defeat Tarag,” Herrek said, “but I am not allied with you.”

  “That is true.”

  “Why then, do you drag me with you?”

  The trolock smiled in a sinister way, showing darker, granite teeth. “At first, I desired knowledge. This I’ve gained. Then I wished to speak with you. For a few concepts troubled me. I’ve now resolved them. Now, I wish to see how strong is your resolve, how intense your will for glory.”

  Anger and rage washed through Herrek. Maybe the dream still infected him. He worked his way to his feet. Then he saw something that startled him beyond understanding. Harn trotted behind the trolock. Maybe the trolock sensed something, for the stony monster turned.

  “A dog?” the trolock said in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “You recognize it?” the trolock asked.

  “I do.”

  “It is yours?”

  “No, Harn is the young man’s,” Herrek said.

  “That is strange.”

  “The dog is you,” Herrek suddenly said.

  “In what way?” the trolock asked.

  “It searches for its Master, as you search for yours.”

  The trolock grunted, and asked, “Why does he have a black arrow tied in his collar?”

  Herrek peered at Harn, who sat ten feet away from the trolock. It was true. A black arrow was fixed to the collar. But....

  “What does the arrow signify?” the trolock asked.

  Herrek had no idea.

  “Ah, surely it signifies the gnat,” the trolock said.

  “How can fleas trouble stone?”

  “You fool. The gnat tracks me. He is near,” the trolock said, alert, wary, ready.

  Herrek noticed the trolock no longer held the leash. With a tripping heart, Herrek asked softly, “How long has this person tracked you?”

  “Since the steppes.” The trolock eyed the forest, searching, measuring.

  Harn still hadn’t moved.

  “The steppes,” Herrek whispered to himself. He remembered the Huri, Sungara, who was also a Seraph. No man could have marched that far in so short a time. Only Nephilim could have done so, and a trolock.

  Someone whistled from down the road.

  Herrek looked back, but saw no one. The whistle came again, an Elonite song. Herrek didn’t think, but grasped at this lone chance. He turned and ran, his leash trailing behind him. The trolock laughed. In moments, the heavy clack of stone on stone told Herrek of a running, chasing monster. He looked over his shoulder. The trolock, although not swift, was also not slow. And he was tireless. He was catching up. Herrek bent his head and ran. His heart raced and his legs ached. He ran around the bend.

  Like a crashing millstone, the trolock smashed behind, always closing the gap.

  Herrek jumped over a heavy rope stretched across the way. Moments later, he heard a loud noise. He looked back. The rope was tight, stretched between pines on either side of the road. The trolock sprawled full length, the rope behind him.

  The trolock began to heave itself to its knees.

  In that moment the squat, powerfully built Huri, that Herrek had last seen on the steppes—the giant dwarf with stocky, almost misshapen, gnarled oak-like shoulders and limbs—leaped from behind a pine and dashed toward him. In the Huri’s tangled black hair waved his cluster of eagle feathers. His bare feet slapped on the stone road.

  “What?” was all Herrek could mutter.

  Sungara didn’t pause. He bent, and used his hands to propel Herrek onto his broad back. Sungara grunted, but he was powerful, and perhaps filled with fear of the rising trolock.

  Harn barked, and raced after them. Sungara bore Herrek’s heavy weight and ran away from the Valley of Dry Bones. Behind them followed the trolock, but he was not as fast as Sungara. Bit by bit, they pulled away.

  “How long can you run like this?” Herrek whispered.

  “We see,” was all Sungara grunted.

  Chapter Nine

  The Valley of Dry Bones

  I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry.

  -- Ezekiel 37:2

  “I am not convinced of your methods,” Tarag snarled.

  “High One,” Mimir said, as he bent on one knee, “he’s a stubborn man. And I was under the impression time was critical.”

  A fire crackled. Sabertooths licked the last bits of meat off wild goat-bones. The air was sharp, the stars cold and clear.

  “The Seraph does not suspect the truth?”

  “I think not, High One.”

  Tarag’s great, glowing cat-eyes showed worry, concern. “I must have the fiery stone,” he rumbled.

  Mimir nodded, waiting to ask his question.

  “The guardian Cherub will be strong with the presence of the Celestial Realm,” Tarag said. “I must become accustomed to that.”

  Here was the chance. Mimir cleared his throat.

  “What?”

  “H
igh One, does not the adamant armor, shield and sword confer some of that presence?”

  Tarag’s eyes flashed. “Thou cunning schemer, giant. You probe and pry, even as you play the faithful servant. Well did thy father choose his ambassador. Rather than calling you ‘the Wise,’ I will call you ‘the Cunning.’ It suits you better.”

  Mimir knew when to say nothing more.

  “Did you think I would rely solely upon the young man?”

  “I do not know your inner plans, High One.”

  Tarag laughed. It was a cruel and mirthless sound. “Talker with the tongue of honey, counselor who keeps his own thoughts hidden, I hope I’ve not yet revealed myself to you. Your death would cause me problems.”

  “Yes, High One.”

  “Ah, yes. You know that well, don’t you, talker? You hold your giants in check, for how they hate the Gibborim. And bewitching Lersi, do you think the reasons the Gibborim have not yet rained dreadful spells on you or your giants is because of fear of you?”

  “No, High One.”

  “No?”

  “The Chosen of Yorgash are Nephilim, High One. While giants pride themselves upon their valor, not all of us have lost the understanding that other Nephilim don’t take to insults.”

  “Lersi yet rages,” Tarag said, watching Mimir.

  “I suspected as much, High One.”

  “She, too, holds her brethren at bay. She, too, waits for the plunder before the bloodshed. On this point, Nephilim are superior to humans.”

  “Yes, High One.”

  Tarag brooded, although he stirred and caused his adamant armor to clink in a musical way. “The adamant does confer unto me Celestial presence,” Tarag said at last. “It’s why I’ll diligently search for the fiery stone. It’s why, after hundreds of years, I’ll truly have a chance at discovering it.”

  “Yes, High One.”

  “In the end, however, the Seraph, he’ll find the stone, not any of us.”

  Mimir kept his curiosity in check.

  “Gog did not foresee that, by the way,” Tarag said, “the young man finding the stone.”