The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  He rumbled, “Let me forget the past, forget what I was. Let me be the trolock once more.”

  The answer came then. He must flee this otherworldly power. He must march quickly from its influence. Only then, would he be the life-bane. Only then, would the painful memories fade.

  As he turned away from the Valley of Dry Bones, he made a vow. As he now suffered, so would the First Born suffer. For the first time since his quickening, he was no longer just the trolock of his Master. He felt like a damned soul, trapped in an abomination of stone. He cursed his fate. He cursed the bene elohim. He had been Lord Skarpaler, a proud warrior, a determined noble of the North.

  “I will yet have my vengeance,” he promised.

  ***

  Joash unwrapped the bandage. A blister covered his palm. The bones had been hot. He wished someone had told him that before he’d braved the edge of the bone-field.

  The sabertooths stayed away. The giants muttered and sharpened weapons. The Gibborim hid in their tents during the day. At night, the bone yard glowed. The Gibborim kept their eyes averted from the glow.

  Despite all this, Joash was excited. He yearned to gaze upon the fiery stone. He hoped his blistered hand wouldn’t keep him from the search.

  ***

  Mimir and Lersi stood before Tarag. It was night. A mile distant was the Valley of Dry Bones.

  Tarag spoke. “Then you refuse?” he asked Lersi.

  “Great One,” whispered Lersi, her bewitching beauty covered by a cowl, “it isn’t that we refuse. Something has changed.”

  “I feel it too, High One,” Mimir said.

  “Yes. The bones have grown hotter,” Tarag said.

  “It is strange,” whispered Lersi.

  “And inexplicable,” Mimir said.

  “It can be explained,” Tarag said.

  Mimir and Lersi waited in respectful silence.

  “The fiery stone has burned off the last of Azel’s touch,” Tarag said. “The stone burns as it once did on the Holy Mount.”

  Lersi shuddered.

  Mimir glanced slyly at Lersi. He asked, “You say that none of Yorgash’s Chosen can endure the bone yard?”

  She hissed at him.

  Mimir smiled. “I have a theory, High One.”

  “Speak!”

  “You, Great One, are able to go near the bone yard.”

  Tarag shifted, his adamant armor making sounds like hanging glass shards tinkling in the breeze. The armor had also become brighter.

  “I, too, am able to endure the bone yard,” Mimir said. “But not Ygg. The only similarity between Ygg and the Chosen of Yorgash is that both practice necromancy.”

  “Ah,” Tarag purred.

  Mimir asked, “High One, can I assume that you’ve never practiced necromancy?”

  “I never have,” Tarag said.

  “What does this mean?” Lersi asked.

  Mimir shrugged. His Bolverk-forged armor clinked.

  “No games, giant,” Tarag warned. “Tell us what you think.”

  Mimir said, “High One, for whatever reason, the practice of necromancy changes the user. He or she cannot endure the properties of the fiery stone.”

  “Why should this be so?” Lersi hissed. “Azel practiced necromancy. He was able to handle the fiery stones.”

  “Yes,” Tarag said slowly. “Azel was a bene elohim. Once, he had been a Cherub. His nature was different from ours. Even I, though filled with bene elohim blood, also have an equal measure of earthly blood. Mine is sabertooth blood, however, not human like both of you. I, therefore, am unlike any other First Born. Necromancy has never appealed to me. I have no aptitude in its use. You, Lersi, have even less divine blood in you than I. Your mortal heritage is larger than mine is. However, I suspect that the taint of necromancy stains you, so you are unable to endure the holiness of the fiery stone.”

  “I agree, High One,” Mimir said. “From my understanding, no First Born or Nephilim has been to the bone yard for over three hundred years. In that short time, the fiery stone has burned hotter. Perhaps....” Mimir hesitated.

  “Speak!”

  “High One, perhaps the fiery stone is now beyond us.”

  “Have you lost your courage?” Tarag sneered.

  “No, High One.”

  “Neither have I,” Lersi said.

  Tarag said, “If we aspire to godhood, to immortality, then we must dare greatly. If you fear the Overlord...”

  “He is very powerful,” Mimir said.

  “He also chains himself by his own dictates,” Tarag said. “Therein is his weakness. The guardian Cherub will be at least as radiant as the fiery stone. Unless we can accustom ourselves to divine glory, we’re doomed to failure.”

  Mimir was worried.

  “We must trick the Seraph,” Tarag said. “He is the key to gaining the fiery stone.”

  “Yes,” Mimir agreed.

  “You,” Tarag told Lersi, “must desist for now from any necromancy. Maybe the taint will lessen, and you’ll be able to endure the fiery stone.”

  Lersi nodded her cowled head.

  “Go,” Tarag told her. “Instruct your brethren likewise.”

  Lersi left like a wraith in the night.

  “Tomorrow,” Tarag told Mimir, “you’ll take your bravest warriors and wrap their hands in leather. You’ll take the Seraph as a water-carrier. Your task will be to watch him. He’ll be able to tell more at a glance than you.”

  “Yes, High One.”

  “If we fail in this, then we cannot defeat the Cherub.”

  Mimir had come to the same conclusion. It was with an uneasy heart that he took up his axe and trod back to camp.

  ***

  Joash was weighed down with water-skins. The straps crisscrossed his torso, and the water sloshed whenever he took a step. Like the giants, he wore gloves. The arms of his jacket had been wrapped. He was hot. Sweat trickled down his collar.

  “You must endure the heat as best as you can,” Mimir said.

  Joash was excited. And now that he’d been ordered to go into the valley, now he feared. This was a holy place. Only because he served Elohim, did he dare this.

  “Are you ready?” Mimir asked Motsognir Stone Hands.

  “I am.”

  “And you, Hrungir?”

  “Let us begin,” said the youthful-looking Hrungir. He had no beard, but a cleft chin and a small mustache. Battle-axe earrings hung from his earlobes. He winked at Joash.

  Conspicuous by his color, Tarag prowled in the distance. He shifted huge bones and peered into the crevices. His adamant armor gleamed like the sun shining off mirrors. Tarag looked up, waved and then roared. Joash couldn’t make out the words.

  Mimir put his hand onto the nearest bone and stiffened. He dragged his foot forward and pushed himself into the bone yard. One by one, the other giants followed.

  Joash put his hands on a bone. Through his thick leather glove, he felt the heat. He wasn’t going to let the giants better him. He was going to find the fiery stone before Tarag did.

  “Careful,” Mimir shouted at him.

  Joash almost stepped off a huge femur bone. He pulled his foot back, looked around, then balanced on the thighbone he stood on. He went from it, stepped on a skull and walked along a broken rib cage. Sweat dripped from his face. He found it difficult to breathe.

  The giants fanned out. Sweat dripped off their faces. The sweat slid down the bones, as if they’d been waxed.

  “Seraph!” Mimir called.

  Joash looked up. He noticed that he’d strayed from the giants. They were to his left.

  “Where are you going?” shouted Mimir.

  “I...”

  “I’m thirsty!” Hrungir shouted. “Bring the water here.”

  Mimir scowled at Hrungir.

  Joash didn’t know why Mimir scowled, but he obeyed Hrungir. With a pained smile, Hrungir took one of the water-skins and half drained it.

  “That’s better,” the giant said.

  Joash re-sl
ung the water-skin, but his balance was skewed now.

  “This will take time,” Hrungir said.

  “The valley is huge,” Joash agreed.

  Hrungir looked around. “Over there, I think, that’s where we’ll find the fiery stone.”

  Joash looked where the giant pointed, shrugged.

  “You don’t think the fiery stone is there?”

  Joash pursed his lips. He shook his head.

  Hrungir snorted. “What? You think you know where it is?”

  Now that he thought about it.... “I do,” Joash said.

  “What?” asked Hrungir. “Nonsense!”

  “No it isn’t. I would never dare to lie here.”

  That troubled Hrungir.

  “You don’t believe me?” Joash asked.

  Hrungir wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  Joash looked out at Tarag. The First Born was in the right area. But these giants didn’t have the first notion of where to look. The glow, the supernatural radiance was strongest out by Tarag. The First Born would first find the fiery stone.

  “No he won’t,” Joash told himself.

  “What was that?” Hrungir asked.

  Joash looked up. “I’m going to find the fiery stone. Do you dare stop me?”

  “Not I,” Hrungir whispered.

  Joash gave him a smug smile, then turned and inched his way over hot bones. His sweat increased as he looked down into dark crevices and hopped onto different sets of bones. It was difficult balancing on the smooth, rounded surfaces. His legs began to ache and salty sweat stung his eyes. The need for constant alertness wearied him. Once, he jumped onto a new mound of bones and they shifted under him. He grunted and fought for balance, swinging his arms. At the last second, he righted himself and kept from falling into the mass of scalding bones. He asked Elohim for strength. Soon thereafter, images appeared. Joash stopped and concentrated on a wavering warrior gesturing sharply at him. Was the ghostly warrior sent from Elohim? Joash shivered with awe, and he inched nearer the warrior. The bones underfoot creaked ominously. He hopped back as bones rattled downward. After winning another balancing bout, Joash looked around. The ghostly warrior had vanished.

  Joash uncorked a skin and drank warm water. The bones had transferred some of their heat into his water-skins. Pushing the stopper into the skin’s throat, Joash drew hot air into his lungs. He crouched and massaged his calves. Then his gaze tightened and he rose up and threaded his way to Tarag.

  The huge First Born panted, and his eyes were glazed.

  “The fiery stone is near,” Joash told him.

  “I know,” whispered Tarag.

  “I will be the first to find it,” Joash said, not realizing how bold he’d become.

  Tarag tried to mouth words. Nothing came.

  Joash said, “You said before that you would be first. Do you still think so?”

  Tarag couldn’t speak, although he managed to look away.

  Joash inched past the First Born. As he neared the glow, his sense of time became skewed. It felt as if he’d been balancing on these bones forever. Using his sleeve, he wiped his forehead. Then the ghostly warrior he’d seen earlier appeared again. The warrior opened his mouth as if shouting. With a start, Joash realized there were others behind the warrior. They came forward, almost as if by noticing them he gave the ghosts courage. A big warrior with a spiked club raised it as if to strike. Joash hunched his shoulders as he continued toward the intensifying glow. There were faint noises like those created by a soft breeze. Joash listened for a moment, but he couldn’t hear any words. A woman appeared beside him. Joash glanced at her. She reached for him as if pleading, and her wavering fingers seemed to pluck at his garment as if to hold him back. Joash scowled, pushing forward. Nothing was going to halt him. More ghosts came—

  “No!” Joash cried. He rushed across a set of bones. The warriors, the woman and others pressed after him. Then Joash reached the spot where the fiery stone surely must lie. He looked around. All the ghosts, the wavering people, had vanished. With a tight grin, he reached for the shining stone.

  ***

  Mimir and Hrungir stood together. They’d worked their way to the edge of the valley. Together, neither saying a word, they watched Joash disappear.

  “I can’t understand his strength,” Hrungir said.

  “He is a Seraph,” Mimir said wearily.

  “Are all Seraphs like him?”

  “I think he’s the strongest.”

  “We’re lucky to have captured him then,” Hrungir said.

  “The Overlord sends his mightiest against us.”

  Hrungir nodded, troubled.

  Then, far out in the bone yard, out beyond where Tarag stood, a fearful glow occurred. The brightness increased, and so did the hurtful glare reflected by Tarag’s adamant armor.

  “Joash has found the fiery stone,” Mimir whispered in awe. “After two thousand years, the stone has finally been found.”

  Hrungir shielded his eyes. “How can he stand it?”

  Out of the bone-pile, shone a fiery glory. Mimir slit his eyes and tried to peer into the light. It hurt, and he felt so small, so weak, so wicked before it. To his amazement, he saw that the manling held the fiery stone. The manling lifted the stone toward Tarag. For the first time since coming to the Valley of Dry Bones, Mimir felt that victory was within their grasp. If they could adjust themselves to the fiery stone, they could face the guardian Cherub on equal terms.

  He laughed. It was an ugly, brutal sound. Because of it, he was forced to look away from the stone. When he turned back, he found it easier to do than before. Yes, victory and godhood were almost within their grasp.

  Chapter Eleven

  The March

  “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on.”

  -- Exodus 14:15

  Like alert hounds, five League biremes guarded the coastal traders, the Falan among them. Their cargo was warriors, weaponry, supplies and several chariots with trained horses.

  Lord Uriah still marveled at Adah’s diplomacy, and hardly believed that a great grandson of Shur’s would march with him. It deeply touched the Patriarch, although Auroch warned him about evil-hearted treachery and knives in the dark.

  The flotilla sailed from Carthalo, the shore soon changing from neat villages surrounded by garden-like fields, to rocky barrens and tall sentinel trees. Occasionally, sunlight flashed from the leafy foliage, indicating a coast watcher high on a platform. Fortunately, no signal horns blared. No longboats splashed the sea to give desperate chase. The five sleek biremes each wore a fresh coat of green paint. Their double banks of oars churned in perfect unity. Gleaming spear-points of prowling mariners on deck added to the daunting spectacle. No hidden pirate dared to face them.

  Lord Uriah and Admiral Nar Naccara, from his sturdy curule chair on the stern deck, debated their next move. The obese Admiral fanned himself, and suggested they swing wide around Dishon.

  “We go straight through,” Lord Uriah said, “like an arrow to its mark.”

  Nar Naccara snapped his fan shut and tapped his chins. “Hm. Sometimes the shortest route is the longest.”

  “Your golden tongue will untangle any difficulties we face.”

  Dishon was a sprawling city nestled between two hills. Houses clustered like mushrooms in a gloomy valley. It was like a growth of buildings, some tall and others squat, most brown, with a few bright yellow temples with golden domes. Some of those sprouted a silver spire. The twin hills spread land arms into the sea, creating a glassy bay. A bell pealed from a fortress at the end of the nearest arm.

  “Straight through,” said Lord Uriah.

  Nar Naccara chewed his lips, anxiously watching the city harbor. Through flags and trumpets, he ordered the five biremes to interpose themselves between the harbor and their coastal traders.

  The five galleys barely completed the maneuver, when a red-painted Dishon galley raced across the glassy bay. It was like a water spider, lower to the waves t
han the biremes. With its sixty oars to a side, it fairly skittered across the sea, with war-drums beating.

  “I’d love nothing more than to sink it,” the Admiral said. “But that would be like kicking an ant colony.” He heaved his bulk from his curule chair and accepted a speaking horn from a mariner. “I must use my golden tongue and prevent any tangling,” Nar Naccara muttered.

  After he shouted ship-to-ship with the Dishon captain, Nar Naccara and Adah entered a longboat. They made the short journey between the vessels and climbed aboard the Dishon galley. The Admiral spoke at length with a burly man with two gold teeth. Adah witnessed the exchange of silver coins. Soon, the flotilla sailed with a purple-inked writ of passage, stamped with a crimson seal and bound by pink ribbons.

  The shores became rockier, with more trees. Gradually scattered trees became forests, and the forests grew thicker. Sometimes, naked Nebo tribesmen in dugout canoes hugged the shoreline and cast nets. Whenever the flotilla appeared, however, the Nebo rowed for shore or disappeared into some hidden inlet. One group dropped their nets, leaving them in the sea, in their haste to flee.

  Adah pointed at a whale corpse the next morning. Flocks of screeching, swooping seagulls feasted on the floating island of meat. Underwater, monstrous white sharks tore off impressive chunks. Harpoons stuck from the carcass. The whalers of Pildash hunted the magnificent creatures for oil. They must have wounded the poor beast and left it to die.

  The crews grew tense, calling the corpse bad luck. Nar Naccara ordered a doubling of lookouts, worried lest they find Pildash warships.

  “Hm,” Nar Naccara told Lord Uriah, “Pildash vessels wallow like cows. Pildash galleys are the opposite of the Dishon racing shells. They are more like floating castles, with towers, boarding bridges and far-ranging catapults.”

  At night, the forested shores looked menacing. That evening they stayed aboard ship, hidden in a deep-water cove. As the stars appeared, drums spoke from the interior. Torchlight appeared among the trees and disappeared. In the darkest hour, Auroch clutched the rail, studying the forested shore. His feet drummed on deck-wood, and he shook Lord Uriah awake. Auroch claimed to have seen heavily bearded men on shore, with the silvery sheen of swords.