Mimir wondered if Tarag toyed with him, as cats sometimes do with captured prey. The idea made him uneasy. Tonight, Tarag had dropped his normal impatience. Tarag desperately wanted the fiery stone.
For centuries, First Born, Nephilim and human necromancers had searched the Valley of Dry Bones for the last fiery stone. Its origin was otherworldly. Mimir had learned from his father that Azel, along with stealing the Rod of Creation, had also taken other precious things. In the Celestial Realm, on the Holy Mount of Elohim, (no, merely the Overlord, Mimir tried to convince himself for the millionth time) was the Garden of Fiery Stones. Morningstar had once been allowed to walk through the garden, and Azel had desired the precious stones for eons. Before the Great Rebellion, when Azel stole the Rod of Creation, he also climbed the Holy Mount, and purloined several fiery stones. These he kept when he invaded Earth. And these, when he ruled on the Earth, he had fashioned into a crown of supernatural glory. In the Last Battle, Azel had dared wear the crown. He’d been mighty in the battle, but he’d taken many blows. It was said, in the old lore, that in the midst of battle, one of the fiery stones had fallen from the crown. The Shining Ones, who had cleaned up and taken much from the battlefield, had left the lost fiery stone behind. So had claimed Surtur, a Nephilim giant who’d stood apart from the battle. During it, he’d witnessed many strange sights. Why the Shining Ones had left the fiery stone none ever knew, just as none of the First Born could ever understand why Draugr Trolock-Maker’s lich had been left sealed in the crypt. However, the reason was unimportant. The fact of the fiery stone and the adamant armor, shield and sword was the thing. Strange powers flowed from the fiery stone. Perhaps its most powerful use would be the aura of the Celestial Realm that flowed out of it. The fiery stone would inure Tarag to the Celestial aura. Thus, the guardian Cherub would not be able to blind the First Born with his unveiled radiance.
Alas, the fiery stone, although searched for many a dreary century, had never been found. Yet the essence of it had turned the Valley of Dry Bones into an awesome place. It had also made the cyclopean gray stone road that led to the valley a place to fear. Strange, unearthly powers lingered there because of the stone’s nature.
“The young man is filled with Seraph power,” Tarag said slowly. “He will be better tuned to the fiery stone than any of us.”
“Has anyone ever used Seraphs before, High One?”
“I think not.”
“Did Yorgash think of this scheme, High One?”
Tarag sneered. “Yorgash is a creature of necromancy. He would never think of such a thing. He is too far-gone in his love of death and putrefaction. No, it was I, Tarag, a being of the field, of the stream and of the open sky, who reasoned it out. Just as I knew the Overlord would send waves of Seraphs upon us as we approached the Lair of Draugr Trolock-Maker. I’ve studied the Overlord’s ways. The young man will yet try to trick us. That’s why I disapprove of your treatment. He’s far more dangerous than I think even you, schemer, can realize. Breaking his spirit might be wiser. And yet....” Tarag shook his monstrous head.
Mimir was surprised at this statement and at Tarag’s uneasiness. The young man was human and a fool with inflated passions. Tricking him was simpler and faster than breaking his spirit. And time, that was the important thing. They had to move fast, before armies blocked the avenues into Eden, or before other First Born and their minions learned the truth of what they attempted.
“The Overlord is cunning,” Tarag was saying. “He turns well laid plans into traps. I’ve seen that happen many times. I saw it happen to my father, Moloch the Hammer. It’s why I left his presence. For even then I saw the coming of the end. I knew the Shining Ones would win. Yet, I knew also that my chance would come far in the future. Now is that time. I do not plan on being thwarted.”
“What if we cannot find the fiery stone, High One?”
“It will be found.”
“May I ask how you know, High One?”
Tarag laughed. “I’ve studied the enemy. I know his ways. It will be found. The trick will be in acquiring it after that, and in keeping it.”
Mimir frowned, not understanding Tarag’s words. The First Born had taken to brooding again, staring at the fire. “By your leave, High One?”
Tarag grunted.
Mimir returned to his bed. Tomorrow they would enter the Valley of Dry Bones. Tomorrow the search would begin. He tried to sleep. It was a long time coming. When it finally did, strange dreams came.
***
Joash was troubled. His dreams last night had been strange. Even the sabertooths looked wary, as if they too sensed the oddity of this place. Joash bolted the rest of his meat because he saw the others were ready.
They returned to the gray stone road. They passed stone pedestals, but of towering obelisks there were no more. The pines trees had fled, the grasses grew thicker. Surprisingly, there were few large animals. Instead, there was an abundance of rabbits, marmots, ground squirrels and birds. The animals didn’t approach the gray stone road, although a few snakes slithered off it.
The road rose, while all around the mountains that made this valley, rose to the right and left. Snow crowned the peaks, and until the sun had been up for an hour or so, Joash saw his breath. A great golden eagle cried at them, as if challenging the band. Tarag roared at the Gibborim. A flapping slith chased away the eagle.
Flowers opened. Purple, red, orange and yellow fields radiated their glory. It was a beautiful sight. Colorful butterflies swarmed the flowers. Soon after them came hugely fat bumblebees, who buzzed with indignant volume.
An hour later, the sabertooths roared as their manes stiffened. Tarag went to his cats. They roared again, as if frightened. Joash was fascinated. Soon, Tarag nodded. The sabertooths retreated.
“What happened?” Joash asked.
“I don’t know,” Mimir said. They stood apart from the white-haired men and from the other giants. Mimir’s eyes were red-rimmed. Maybe he hadn’t slept well. He’d been strangely quiet today.
“The Valley of Dry Bones is near,” Mimir said.
“Is it really filled with bones?”
“Yes.”
“The bones of defeated bene elohim?” asked Joash.
“And Shining Ones.” Mimir looked down. “There was a great war here once, a mighty battle. So great were the losses, that a pit was dug and the dead thrown into it. The dirt was uncovered later, and the bones exposed.”
“What about Babel the Mighty?” Joash asked.
“It was sacked, I’m afraid.”
Joash grinned.
“You may smile, thinking the Shining Ones won a great battle. In truth, the razing of Babel cost the Shining Ones more than it did the bene elohim. The slain Shining Ones were one of the reasons why they agreed to the treaty. They came in arrogance, razed Babel, but wept over their losses.”
From the van, Tarag motioned they continue moving.
“You’re not telling me the entire truth,” Joash said.
“Oh?”
“The Shining Ones won such a great victory that it was the last great battle of the Thousand Years War.”
Mimir snorted.
“Maybe I shouldn’t speak with such authority,” Joash said. “But I dreamed about the battle last night.” He concentrated, and then his eyes opened in surprise. “I remember a strange poem. It came from the dream.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Joash closed his eyes. Then he smiled.
“Woe, woe, O great city,
“O Babel, city of power.
“In one hour your doom has come!”
Joash looked up. The giant stood mute, pale and began to blink. “Impossible,” Mimir whispered.
“I saw a vision,” Joash said. “Lighting fell from heaven. Huge walls exploded. Masonry rained everywhere. There was a mighty shout, and the armies of Elohim closed in for the final butchery. Blood ran red. It was the blood of bene elohim, First Born and Nephilim.”
Mimir made an odd sound de
ep in his throat and a haunted look filled his eyes. He worked his features until a grin spread. “You had a dreamweaving.” The grin hardened. “Yes,” he said, his voice firming. “You had a dreamweaving. It’s a gift. I know a giant who has it. He claims he can tell what happened in the past through his dreams.”
“That wasn’t a gift,” Joash said. “At least, not how giants consider such things.”
“Then you weren’t dreamweaving?”
“It was a vision, maybe from Elohim.”
Mimir shrugged, but he couldn’t hide his anxiety.
The hilly terrain rose. A mile later, it dipped sharply.
A giddy feeling began to work through Joash. Maybe it was the dream, the possible vision. The air was different. He felt expectant.
“What’s the fiery stone?” Joash soon asked.
“Didn’t you dream about it?” Mimir sneered. He chuckled then, as if embarrassed or surprised by his reaction. “The stone was an artifact fashioned by Azel.”
“Why does it lie in this valley?”
Mimir nodded sagely. “The fiery stones have a long and noble history. Azel decided not to search for his lost stone that had fallen from his crown as he’d warred. He left it as a testament to the might of bene elohim and Shining Ones. Now, however, a great need is upon us.”
“Maybe it is wrong for me to help you search for it,” Joash said.
“Help or not,” Mimir said lightly. “We know its whereabouts. I was thinking about you, actually. It will be boring in the valley. And the ghosts always haunt the vicinity.”
Joash became thoughtful. Ghosts, fiery stones, the strange obelisk behind—the objects from the Thousand Years War were frightening. Living back then would have been frightening. Armies of Nephilim, First Born captains and bene elohim champions, would there have been any room for men? Why did the giants want the fiery stone? It would obviously aid them. He had given his word to help find it, but if it helped Tarag against the guardian of Eden, he would have to break his word. To help Tarag would mean helping to subject the world to greater supernatural occurrences and greater evil.
The way grew steeper, and Joash found himself puffing. The way wasn’t that steep, he told himself. He glanced at the sturdy Gorts. Sweat dripped from their faces, which was strange. It was cool in the mountains. No, Joash decided, it wasn’t cool anymore. It had been cool several hundred paces back, but not now. He wondered why. He glanced at Mimir. Sweat dripped down the gaunt features and into the giant’s shaggy beard.
“Is it hotter?” Joash asked.
“The Valley of Dry Bones is a strange place. It has to do with all the high-powered death.” Mimir gave him a sickly grin. “One can’t shed the life-forces of Shining Ones and bene elohim without altering what the place is like.”
“I thought it might have something to do with the fiery stone.”
“The stone might have some influence,” Mimir admitted.
“It is called the fiery stone,” Joash said.
“The name refers to its shine, not its heat.”
Joash’s step slowed. He had to force himself to keep moving. There was a glow in the distance. It wasn’t a physical glow, but had presence, power and an intimidating force. Then he saw a mighty wall. Boulders smashed against it and ladders rose up. Boiling oil hissed. Men curled in the heat like burning bugs. A crack appeared from a ram, a breach in the wall. Shining Ones attacked. Swords rang. Beings screamed.
The wall and battle faded from view, and all Joash saw was shimmering air.
“What is it?” Mimir asked quietly.
“Nothing,” Joash said, massaging his forehead.
“This is a strange place,” Mimir said. “Don’t be surprised if you see things.”
“What sort of things?” Joash asked.
“It depends on the person.”
Joash digested that. “Where did Babel the Mighty stand?”
“Several miles away.”
The giant was lying. Babel the Mighty had stood where he’d seen the vision. It stood where the Valley of Dry Bones was. The road dipped ahead. Joash’s heart raced with excitement, but also with fear and uneasiness. This was a strange, frightening place. He wondered if the ghosts, if that’s what they really were, could harm them.
“Have you ever been to this valley before?” Joash asked.
“The first time I came, I wanted to witness the greatness of my ancestors. The second time… it was nearly four hundred years ago.”
Joash was no longer interested in Mimir’s words. He panted, sweating, wanting to see the awesome sight. He trudged past the other giants, who had slowed so they might as well have been crawling. Joash hurried toward Tarag, who led the way. It almost seemed that the Nephilim, both giants and Gibborim, feared this place. It was as if they didn’t really want to come, that Tarag led them as if to a grim battle. Soon, Joash walked beside the hulking First Born.
The adamant mail shone with brilliance. It clinked musically. The First Born’s fur bristled and his eyes were slits. His lips twitched, exposing saber-like fangs.
Joash didn’t speak, although he matched the First Born pace for pace. This was the nearest he’d been to Tarag since the crypt. He was in awe of the First Born, and he realized Tarag’s iron will drove the others.
“Seraph,” Tarag whispered in way of greeting.
“First Born.”
Tarag eyes glittered with malice. “I will find the fiery stone before you do.”
“No,” Joash dared say, “I’ll find it first.” He meant it, too. He longed to find the stone. He yearned to hold it, to stare into it, to let its shine flood over him. He wondered if the reason had something to do with the dreams that he couldn’t fully remember.
The titanic First Born lengthened his stride, so he first saw the Valley of Dry Bones.
Seconds later, Joash came up even with the First Born. Tarag panted at the sight. Joash gaped. He was awed, terrified, sickened.
Bones. He saw a sea of bones, both huge and small. Some bones were monstrous. There were rib cages, femurs, anklebones, legs, arms, necks, skulls, a veritable host of broken skeletons piled layer upon layer on each other. Heat radiated from them, and dryness seemed to fill the valley with a desert’s bleakness. Bones! Everywhere Joash looked, he saw piled high bones. Skulls grinned at him from beneath mounds of thighbones. To walk across the bones would be difficult. His feet would slip on them. Joash shivered as supernatural fear seeped into him.
“The bone-yard of the Mighty,” Tarag whispered.
Joash moistened his mouth. No flowers grew in the valley, nor did moss or lichen cling to any of the bones. Nothing grew here. Now that he thought about it, Joash didn’t hear any crickets, any birds, any squirrels, any sort of life at all. There was only his and Tarag’s labored breathing.
“This is a sacred place,” Joash whispered.
“It is the bone-yard of the Mighty,” Tarag repeated, louder than before.
“We should not be here,” Joash whispered.
Tarag glanced down at him.
Joash regarded the First Born. He held a hand before his eyes lest Tarag’s armor blind him with its greater brightness.
“It begins,” said the First Born.
Joash took off his sandals and bowed his head.
“What are you doing?” asked Tarag.
“This is sacred ground. We should not be here.”
“I go where I will,” Tarag said.
“I want to go home,” Joash whispered, an ache filling him to see the familiarity of Elon. “I don’t belong here.”
“You are merely a human.”
“I know, High One.”
“Serve me, and I shall treat you kindly,” Tarag said, laying a huge, furry hand on Joash’s shoulder.
“Let me go home,” Joash pleaded.
“Not yet,” said Tarag. “First, you must do me a service.”
“What service?” Joash whispered.
“After we find the fiery stone, and leave this place, then I will
tell you.”
“Do you vow this?” Joash asked.
“I vow it upon my valor in battle.”
“Then let us find this fiery stone and be gone from here,” Joash said. “For this is sacred ground, not meant for the likes of us.”
Tarag grunted, which could have meant anything.
Chapter Ten
The Fiery Stone
You were on the holy mount of God; you walked among the fiery stones. You were blameless in your ways from the day you were created till wickedness was found in you. ...So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of God, and I expelled you, O guardian cherub, from among the fiery stones.
-- Ezekiel 28:14-16
The trolock marched on the sunken cyclopean stones of the gray road. Pines swayed in the chilly darkness. For the past several hours, he’d trod beside shackled slaves, arrogant bene elohim, Shining Ones and Seraphs arrayed in armor. They were apparitions, for he felt no heat from them, no life force. Awe filled him. It was not a grand awe of wonder, excitement and pleasure. It was a grim awe of fear, trepidation and unworthiness. He neared something that wasn’t part of this world. The thing came from the Celestial Realm. That terrified him and slowed his stony tread. It made him think the unthinkable.
Should he wait to slay the desecrator? Wait until Tarag went away from this place? He didn’t like the idea. He had a duty to the Master. But painful memories now intruded on him.
Once, he had been Lord Skarpaler, of the Jomsbory Heights. His keep had been fashioned out of black granite, his barred gate from brass. Twenty villages had sent him their produce, while the herders of aurochs, yaks and mammoths had sent him their finest offspring. In his keep, the Black Fortress, he’d quartered a hundred stalwarts, each skilled in the use of javelin, spear and axe. Lords Irminsul, Askr and Iving had paid him homage. The Nameless One, the feared ruler of the Far North, had sent an emissary every year.
He remembered more, however, than just his former martial glory. He’d had three wives: red-haired Goni, with the laughing eyes, proud Kari—she’d given him fine children—and small, dark-haired Sharsti. She’d been his favorite. Her small, yearning body, her eagerness and passion.... He groaned for a lost love, a lost passion and a lost wife. Her tender lips would never again press against his. Never again would he feel the pressure of her warm skin. Never again would she whisper the promises that had stirred him so. She was lost, gone, vanished, forever beyond his reach.
The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) Page 10
